#black flame candle next chapter

[steddiehands86]

So all of October I had an idea that wouldn’t leave my mind. This is the second fusion I’ve ever done, and Hocus Pocus is so dear to my that I had to immediately open a doc and pour out my idea. I hope you guys enjoy, I’m going to be as consistent as possible with this, so even though its a Wip, it will be updated because I’m going to see this through. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

[loveshotzz]

All I Really Want Is You

older!neighbor!widower! steve x fem!reader chap six/ten - a slow burn series of blurbs - updated every wednesday

I Don’t Know You, But I Want To

summary: Sometimes curiosity has consequences.

wc: 2.8k

warnings: 18+ series for future chapters, mentions of death, hints on how Steve’s wife died, bouts of self consciousnesses.

authors note: sorry guys, you knew this chapter had to happen. i promise i’ll make up for it! enjoy a few more easter eggs from @carolmunson ‘s orange colored sky in here. I’ve had so much fun talking about these two old men’s friendship with you!

🌇 <- chapter five -> chapter seven

The Masterlist / The Playlist / The Tune:

End of June

You didn’t realize when Steve asked you to water his plants, that he meant in just three short days after the almost kiss in his kitchen. The opposite schedules the two of you seem to always work made it so you hardly got a glimpse of him before he and Bandit disappeared to Starved Rock for what you learned was their annual camping trip.

The Good Morning Tough Girl texts started the next day after your number exchange, waking you up with a kaleidoscope of butterflies twisting and turning in your stomach and a smile so big it made your cheeks hurt. It helped you get over only getting to physically see him one time through your living room window before he left. Your phone had vibrated at your feet while you watered your now flourishing Ivy thanks to the new curtains you were proud to say were installed by yourself. You chanced a glance down at your lit up screen, his name flashing with a text that said: How’d I never realize how pretty my view is from the front yard?

The corners of your mouth twitched, flames licking underneath your cheeks when your eyes caught his out your window. The big dopey smile that took over his face made you giggle as he waved eagerly, dressed nice like he had been the morning you ran into him last week. You wiggled your fingers, biting your bottom lip at the way his dark navy button up looked tucked into the waist of his black slacks. The leather belt looked nicer than the last one, the silver of the buckle blinding in the setting sun. His hair was freshly done, free of any signs of those big hands of his. The stubble on his jaw was gone again, but you learned that was never for very long. 

Another buzz: Going to dinner with a client, wish it was fish tacos with you instead.

Steve feels like he won the lottery when he can see the way your face lights up from his spot in his front yard. Eddie’s voice rings loudly inside his head, sticking to every single one of his negative thoughts like glue telling him it’s okay and he finally starts to believe it, especially when he gets a text back from you.

Maybe next time 😉

It’s thunderstorming the day you go over, the key tucked away in a lockbox by his door. He gave you access by texting the code the night before with a promise to take you to dinner as a thank you when he got back. The nerves that dance inside you feel like they did the first time you came here when you stand in front of the stained glass of his front door even though he’s five hours away. 

It’s quiet, the lively energy from a few nights ago gone with the man. The cedar of his candle still lingers thick in the air and you can’t help but inhale deeply. It smells like him. You leave your shoes and umbrella on his front porch, closing the door gently like you were scared to wake someone up. The pattering of the rain on his windows fills the silence, your shoulders dropping in the serenity. Pulling your phone from your back pocket you look through your texts with the list of the rooms the plants were in. 

Only three — his office and living room on the first floor and his bedroom on the second.  

The coffee white oak floors creak under your socked feet as you take your first apprehensive steps past the entryway. He left the watering can on the kitchen island just like he said he would, your skin pebbles when you’re brought back to the last time you were in here. The sun fights to shine through the thick storm clouds outside, making the lighting that bleeds through his windows soften everything up. The water from the sink hits the metal of the can, mixing perfectly with the rain. 

You wish he was here.

The can is heavy in your hands when you stop at the doorway of the living room, the contents inside sloshing around and daring to spill onto his floor. You curse under your breath with a pause to take in the room you only got a glimpse of before. There’s an electric fireplace, tall black steel that takes up most of the wall next to the sliding glass door that leads to his small backyard. 

Two large beige area rugs cover most of the wood floors in here, a cream frayed trim lining them. Bandit’s bed sits big, fluffy and dark brown nestled by the fireplace, giving him a perfect view out the window. Strands of his lighter hairs leave behind evidence that this might be his favorite spot in the house. A woven basket filled with various chew toys that look freshly tossed in isn’t very far from it. The rain comes down harder but you can still see the spots of lime green littering the grass where the rambunctious German shepherd left his tennis balls. Spoiled.

The cognac color of his leather couch set is rich, and it shines even in the dim lighting like it was freshly lotioned. It looks like the kind of comfortable where the cushions mold against the weight of your body - soft, inviting, the one in the middle looking a little more worn in than the rest. This must be Steve’s favorite spot. 

Your eyes meet the 65” TV mounted to the wall in front of it and realize why. The coffee table matches the dark color of the floors. The candle that was the culprit for the smell of his house sitting in the middle next to three remotes lined perfectly next to each other.

There’s a long, taller companion table that sits at the other doorway that leads back out to the landing of his staircase. Framed pictures, bottles of various liquors of all shades and crystal cocktail glasses cover the top of it. 

What does he think of your place?

You try to push the intrusive thought down as you make your way to the lush Monstera plant that sits in a white pot on top of wooden legs next to the sliding glass door. Its leaves hang heavy, clearly taken care of. The deep emerald of it reminds you of what Steve’s eyes look like sometimes. The soil takes what you give it greedily, barely leaving enough for the few smaller plants that rest on shadow shelves along his gray walls. A few of them make you stand on your tiptoes to reach.

Curiosity wins on your way to refill the can, crossing the room to look at the framed pictures. You aren’t surprised when you see one of Eddie and Bandit as a puppy, it looks like the first day they brought him home. Eddie’s dimples show in a bright smile as he looks at the camera with Bandit’s big bubble gum pink tongue pressed sloppily against a clean shaven cheek.

The other is of Steve and a curly haired boy at a college graduation, they both look like they were caught in the middle of laughing at something. You can’t help your own smile when you look at it. Steve looks a little younger, a little less gray in his hair like it had only just started. He’s wearing wire rim glasses, and that crisp white dress shirt you like him in so much. He looks happy.

The last one is of Steve and Bandit. A selfie taken at sunrise, Bandits tongue sticks out and you swear he’s smiling just like his handsome owner that has him pulled against his side. A part of a tent peaks over his shoulder and you wonder if this is where they’re at right now.

You’re hit with the smell of his cologne when you open his office door, your thighs pressing together when you imagine him sitting in the big black leather chair behind an even bigger, matching colored desk. Glass cased baseball memorabilia takes space on one of his walls, along with plaques of achievements from his job. There’s framed pictures of him shaking hands of baseball players you couldn’t name, but you’re sure a normal person who liked sports could. There’s a tall bookshelf on the other side of the room. The spines all glossed, bright bold wording of sports memoir’s, marketing guides, and what looks like college course advertising books.

The floor of this room is carpeted with the same color as the area rugs in his living room. Your footsteps are a little more careful as you try not to spill any water on it as you make your way to the three hanging spider plants in the window that overlooks his front yard. 

Your nose catches a hint of the cigars you know he smokes as you get closer to his desk. He must keep them in here. A silver closed MacBook sits on top of it, another baseball — only this one is signed and kept safe in a glass case. There's a Polaroid of Bandit with a cubs hat on his head with a laughing Peach barely visible behind him. The obvious closeness of the three of them makes you realize how much he let you into his world the other night. 

A world where he wanted to kiss you.

You curse under your breath when you almost spill water on the carpet, too lost in realization of what this could be.

When you reach your final destination on the second floor, you stop at his closed door. Your hand hovers over the knob, heart hammering so hard in your chest like he was waiting for you on the other side. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you exhale through your lips - willing your nerves to give you mercy. There’s a soft click when you turn the knob and the quietest noise from the hinges when you push it open.

The crisp white of his fluffy duvet that covers his king size bed, mutes the gray of his walls. The olive green throw at the end of it that matches the area rug under the bed, the warmth of the color relaxes your senses. Your breathing evens out, your heart rate slows down. 

There’s another dog bed at the foot of his that matches the one downstairs and you wonder how often Bandit really sleeps in this one at night. The lack of hair on it compared to the other one tells you not very often. Your cheeks tingle fiercely when you see the mirror you got a glimpse of his bare chest through, your eyes quickly finding the bathroom he had come out of. 

“Jesus Christ,” you grumble to yourself, trying to push back the memory while standing alone in his bedroom. 

There’s another Monstera by his window that you can see your bedroom out of. The last one on the list. You have to pass by another large dresser on your way, even more pictures sit on top of it, taking up the space that was left next to a cherry wood watch box. Another cedar candle sits behind the framed pictures, the scent lingering in the air despite not being lit.

The plants take what’s left in the watering can, and you peek out the window just to see what he sees. The navy curtains you’d hung up are half open giving you a perfect glimpse into your room, the pile of dirty laundry you plan to do after this perfectly visible. You gulp audibly.

The can swings loosely in your hand when you walk to the dresser, a smirk already forming on your lips at the thought of what these ones will tell you about him. Your eyes land on one of him in between Eddie and Peach on what seems to be their wedding day, both of them placing sloppy kisses on either cheek. The big dopey grin face doesn’t hide the tear stains. The White Chapel sign behind them tells you it’s Vegas, and the way Steve is dressed as a much sexier Elvis only confirms your suspicions. 

Next to that one is a picture of Steve, only he looks really young- fresh out of high school young. Biting your lip into a smile at the volume of his hair, he’s leaning against a maroon BMW with pants so tight you're sure they made all the girls flustered. You shake your head with a roll of your eyes before taking in the brown curly haired girl sticking her head out of the back seat window. Another girl with honey waves pushing her head out in the small space next to her, you swear you can hear the giggles that are so evident on their faces.

Thunder cracks loudly outside, bringing you back with a jump. You’re dreading the short walk home. You glance out the window wearily before bringing your attention back to the little bit of Steve scattered over the top of his dresser. Then you see it. You see her.

The frame that holds the picture is silver, the words ‘always and forever’ etched across the bottom. It’s taken somewhere tropical and Steve looks like he’s your age in it, his jaw somehow sharper, his hair blonder. His smile is so big it shows all of his teeth, a bright yellow short sleeve button up that makes his skin look golden. The top two buttons undone revealing the chest hair you’d gotten a few glimpses of. He’s glowing. 

She’s just as beautiful, big bright green eyes and dark chestnut hair that falls in effortless curls down to her chest. They look natural, like she didn’t have to do it herself. She’s tucked into his side in what looks like seats in the back of a boat, the coral dress that flows over the curves of her body makes your stomach turn. The big rock on her hand rested purposefully on his chest tells you exactly what this picture is.  

Jealousy twists green in a tight knot inside of you, guilt you weren’t expecting makes you feel nauseous when you see what’s hanging off the corner of the frame. A dark teal rubber bracelet with the words Team ALS Chicago 2022 in white font.

Lightning flashes white hot, making something gleam and catch in the corner of your eye from his watch box. Taking a closer look, the tightening of your chest at what you find makes the air leave your lungs all at once when you see their wedding rings tucked in between the soft white cushions inside the box. 

The reality of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. Steve had a whole life before he met you. A life with someone beautiful, someone he didn’t fall out of love with, someone who didn’t break his heart, someone who, if things were different he’d still be with.

If you moved next door in that reality, you’d just be someone he’d maybe wave to from time to time, not paying any mind to the thirty year old girl already suffering through a midlife crisis next door. The girl who moved to the city with no friends and no plan. The college drop out. The opposite of the well put together woman that belonged hanging off his chest like that, with a ring on her finger that could pay off your credit card debt and then some.

How can you compete with a ghost? The nagging feeling that you’ll always be second best already stings and he hasn’t even picked you yet.

You try to blink away the tears that threaten to spill out, feeling stupid for being this upset over what started off as a silly crush, it really shouldn’t hurt this much. The cedar that comforted you feels like it's suffocating now. Like he’s here. The thought of bringing the watering can down doesn’t even cross your mind when you leave it on the dresser to make your escape.

The breath that comes out through trembling lips is shaky, still, you're proud of the fact that you haven’t cried yet. 

Tough girl. 

When you open the front door, it's windier than when you first got here, the sun starting its disappearing act for the moon. It makes the summer storm match the one brewing inside of you. You shove your feet into your shoes before pulling the door shut behind you. You lock the key back into the box, before grabbing your umbrella. Your vision goes blurry but you don’t give into it, telling yourself it’s stupid to be so upset. The buzz of your phone in your back pocket is what stops you from taking the first step off his porch. 

Steve

Found a spot with some service on our hike, just wanted to check in. Hope you got into the house okay. Bandit says he misses you.

The dam that you’d worked so hard to build breaks, tears falling down your face like the rain falling from the sky. You sniffle, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand before you reply to him for what you tell yourself is the last time. It’ll hurt less like this, it’s better for both of you this way. At least that’s what you try to tell yourself before you hit send.

Plants are watered 👍

beta’d by: @superblysubpar

dividers by @newlips

chapter seven

[enmi-land]

✶ৎ OUR UNIVERSE

──── 𝗐𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾

AU pairing. poly!ot7엔하 x fem!member oc cw. kms jokes, mentions of murder and violence, not completely lorea accurate (some changes made to og universes - don’t kill me) note. happy birthday to mila! 🎂 this chapter was inspired by ree’s connect, and the universes used in this fic belong to their creators respectively! 🤍 ❨ go back to LIBRARY ?! ❩

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY OUR MILA, happy birthday to you...”

Mila smiled as a cake was set before her, the flames of the candles flickering slightly with the movement of her members around the table, all watching her with adoration in their eyes. The sounds of their voice in harmony as they sang the birthday song slowly came to silence as they reached the end, and a hand found itself on the back of her head, patting it softly.

“Make a wish,” Kiara said gently, her hand on the phone to record the moment her dongsaeng would become another year older, another year away from the young girl she was when they first met.

Mila looked around the room, taking in the sight of her boyfriend's and their love-filled gazes. Just what did one wish for, when they already had everything they could possible want or need? She felt like there was nothing that could possibly make her happier.

Well, except for one.

Mila shut her eyes, her hands linked in front of her, as she wordlessly recited her wish inside her head.

I wish that— no matter where we are—we'll always find a way to be together.

#01. XO KITTY

“THERE’S NO SUN IN THE BUILDING, what’s with these?” Mila swiped the pair of Louis Vuitton sunglasses from Minho’s face using her superior height. She inspected them under the light of the corridor, raising an eyebrow with an impressed hum. “These are pretty cute.”

“Naturally,” Minho replied, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the lockers next to Mila’s. He watched with a smile as she tried the glasses on, looking in the mirror on the inside of her locker door, which was surrounded by Polaroids and cute stickers.

Sharpay Evans, much? were the first words he said about her. He saw her on the first day of KISS Academy, bedazzling her locker with an excessive amount of pink and whispered it under his breath in Korean as he passed by her, not expecting her reaction.

Mila simply turned to him, flipping her long (and enviably silky, though Minho would never admit to out loud) black hair over her shoulder, before giving him a distasteful look from head to toe. And in flawless Korean, she had retorted, Last season Vogue magazine cover, much?

Yeah, Minho had decided, right then and there, despite being stunned into shock. I like this girl.

He had even forgone his usual tradition of pretending not to speak English on the first meeting. (Although, that was because she had an unusual talent for his mother language, despite being from China and supposedly never setting foot on South Korean soil before. To this day, Minho considered her excellency at languages to be an eighth wonder of the world.)

Mila suddenly gasped before hiding behind her locker door, shoving her face so far into the locker one would think she was an ostrich trying to bury her head in sand. Minho raised an eyebrow at her sudden movement. “The police finally caught up to you, have they?” he drawled, ready to list all the felonies she had committed since moving to Korea.

This included, but was not limited to: being way too pretty, way too cute, and way too lovable for her own damn good– not that Minho was keeping track, or anything. That would be ridiculous. He was simply tired of hearing it all the time from his peers.

Mila looked at him with those same wide, doe eyes that had wrapped so many boys and girls around her finger without knowing it. “Worse,” Mila hissed. “It’s them.”

Minho looked up at the end of the hallway, his mouth parting in understanding when he spotted a group of seven familiar boys gathered in a group around the locker of his (self-proclaimed) rival. Minho eyed the Korean-American’s outfit, disdained when he noticed the boy wearing a new pair of shoes that were only just released recently in the new fall collection for Prada. “There’s no way Park Jeongseong is wearing the new shoes I’ve been waiting weeks to order! Oh my god, I’m going to lose it– I’m going to throw up– where’s the bin?”

Mila slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Now’s not the time, Minho! This is a matter of my pride at stake here– I can’t let them see me!”

Minho rubbed his arm, marvelling internally at the amount of strength the girl in front of him held in her body. “Why can’t they see you again?”

“Because they made a total fool of me? And I look like a mess right now– I can’t let them think they’re the reason I’ve been lacking beauty sleep these days.” Mila suddenly got right up to Minho’s face, pulling down his sunglasses from the bridge of her nose. “Have you seen my eyebags recently? They’re horrendous!”

Minho blinked, his face calm as he stared into the abyss known as Mila’s eyes. If he were completely honest, there was nothing in this world that would possibly make Mila unattractive– least of all towards the seven boys she was so scared of making eye contact with. But he didn’t blame her for being insecure. It wasn’t as if they gave her reason to believe that they could feel anything for her… Not when the reason they approached her in the first place and acted so sweetly toward her was because of a bet.

“Why did Kiara and Kitty have to be away today of all days?” Mila whispered under her breath with a pout. “I need girl power, I need validation, I need support– all the things you’re not giving me!”

Minho was affronted when Mila suddenly pointed a manicured finger (My Melody themed acrylics? Really?) at his face. “Hey, it’s not my fault you don’t know how to apply concealer over your dark circles properly.”

Mila shot him a watery glare. “Jerk.”

She aggressively grabbed a bunch of books from her locker, and– Wait, Is that Russian? Minho squinted at one of the titles of the ridiculously thick books in her arms, wondering when Mila had even learnt that language. The eighth wonder, this girl and her brain. I swear.

“If I don’t show up to economics later today, it’s because I buried myself out of humiliation and no longer wish to be on the face of the earth.”

Without another word, Mila scurried her way down the hall like a mouse fleeing before a cat. But she neglected to notice the seven pairs of remorseful eyes following her.

“She’s still avoiding us,” Jungwon noted with a frown, dimples all too prominent in his disappointment. A disappointment reflected across the faces of all seven members of his friend group.

There was an unspoken, lingering regret hanging over them like a guillotine. It had been a week since they were last able to see her smile directed at them, the way her eyes lit up like Seoul at night, galaxies and city lights reflected in the dark depths of her irises. But this was what they deserved. After the way they betrayed her trust, they knew better than to hope that they would be able to be with her like they did before.

To think all of this was because of a stupid bet they made to satisfy their own egos.

Did you hear? Sunoo looked up from his phone to look at the rest of his friends on that fateful night before the beginning of the new school year. They were gathered around a campfire lit in the backyard of Heeseung’s family’s holiday estate, which they spent their summer break in together. Apparently we’re getting a new transfer student this year. 

I heard that, Jake said, bringing a bottle of beer to his lips. The daughter of some supermodel from China. My mum keeps talking about how she wished she would model for our agency.

Won’t know until I see her face, Sunghoon replied. It was just like him: Jay always did give him grievances for his lack of awareness when it come to the fashion industry, despite his own stepmother being a designer herself.

To this, Jay turned his phone on before typing something into search. When he was done he held his phone out for his childhood best friend to see the images that appeared. Riki, who was beside Sunghoon, also leaned in to take a closer look. She’s been going viral ever since she went to the Versace anniversary event with her mum.

Riki smiled as he looked at the photo of the young girl, not much older than him. It was a candid shot that captured her delicate features in a soft smile as she observed the models on the runway with her mother whispering something into her ear. He couldn’t help but think she was the one who was most suited to be modelling the clothes, and yet she was simply a spectator.

Pretty, Riki said, before leaning back in his seat. And he wasn’t the only one to think it. I should get her number.

Too bad for you, she doesn’t go for younger guys, Heeseung said with a smirk. She did a Vogue interview, and she said she prefers older guys… So if you think about it, I’m the one with the highest chance of getting close.

That’s what you think, Sunghoon said, his inner competitiveness coming out to play. Wanna bet?

Looking back now, that was the single most foolish thing they’d ever done. To this girl, who treated them with nothing but kindness and genuine care since meeting them, did nothing to deserve being treated like a prize to be won. And yet, that was exactly what they did. 

You’re real pieces of work, Mila said, as she stormed into Heeseung’s dorm rooms— the one he had given her access to for less than pure intentions. She didn’t even look angry, nor was she sad: her face was stone cold, nothing at all like the warm girl they came to know her as. I hope you had fun playing me, but too bad for you, none of you are going to win the bet. I won’t be seeing any of you again.

And with that, Mila had thrown the necklace from her neck — the one the seven of them had bought together for her birthday — onto the floor before Sunghoon’s feet, before storming out before any of the boys could make a move to stop her.

“We should have told her sooner,” Riki said, his fist clenching by his side.

Sunoo shook his head. “No. We just shouldn’t have made that stupid bet in the first place.”

They had made the bet to win her heart, thinking it would be all fun and games. But little did they know that like the way, they would be the ones losing their hearts to her — and by the time they realised it, she had already gotten to far for them to reach, leaving them defeated and yearning for something out of reach.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive us?” Jake asked quietly.

The group fell silent.

“Well don’t you guys look positively miserable.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes at the familiar voice fork behind him. Minho always did annoy him— but he had to admit, he couldn’t help but be jealous of how close the other boy was to Mila. The fact that he could still tease the girl and see her cute reactions, the same way he used to before everything went south.

“What do you want?” Heeseung asked diplomatically. (He wasn’t fooling anyone, though— everyone could see the way his fist clenched at his side.) “It’s not as if we’re friends.”

Minho smirked. “You’re right. We’re not. But you know who is? Mila and I.”

Jay clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to walk past the cocky male and bump his shoulder, he couldn’t give the other satisfaction at knowing he got on his nerves.

“I can see you still haven’t changed,” Jungwon said, jumping to his friend’s defence.

He narrowed his feline-like eyes, trying to read Minho’s body language. But he genuinely seemed unintimidated by the seven of them, not caring for a second that he was outnumbered. (Because he knew there was nothing the seven of them could do to him, Jungwon’s inner voice reasoned, though he desperately tried to ignore it. Because he knew if they raised a hand against him, Mila would only hate them more.)

 “You always did try to one up Jay-hyung at everything,” Jungwon continued. “Too bad you never could.”

“Except when it comes to treating your girl right, you mean?” Minho taunted. At this, Riki lunged towards the male, all too ready to talk with his fists instead. But Sunoo was quick to intervene, holding the younger by the shoulder.

Minho put his hands up in surrender seeing the deadly look in the Japanese male’s eyes. “Hey. No need to get angry. I didn’t come to start a fight, believe it or not.” He fixed his blazer jacket before looking at the eldest of the boys. “Listen… I don’t like you guys, and frankly I don’t think I ever will— especially with that shit you pulled with Mila.”

Minho got closer to Heeseung, causing the latter to cross his arms and raise his chin in defiance. Minho narrowed his eyes.

“But here’s the thing… If you feel sorry at all for breaking her heart, you’re going to make it up to her properly like men instead of hiding like a bunch of cowards. She deserves that much.”

The group was silent as they witnessed the uncharacteristic seriousness of the usually nonchalant boy, and even more so at his words. But before they could say anything, Minho was already stepping away from Heeseung, before getting ready to leave. 

“There’s gonna be a party at Kiara’s place later this week for Mila before she flies back home—“

“Mila’s flying back home?!” Sunghoon said in shock, his cold facade melted in place of his heated desperation.

Minho hummed. “She’s going to be leaving for the summer break… But who knows if she’ll be back?” He shrugged. "Anyway, I've done my bit. Whatever you do with that information... Well, that's none of my business."

Minho turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his wrist.

“How do we get into the party?” Jake asked desperately. This would be their only chance to meet with Mila if they could pull it off— their last chance to make things right before she left on the plane to China. They couldn't leave things as they were. Not when there were so many thing they had to say.

At that moment, all seven boys were thinking the same thing: They needed to show her that despite the fraudulent circumstances that brought them together, the boys’ feelings for her were true.

#02. JUJUTSU KAISEN

THERE WAS NOTHING NORMAL about two teenagers swinging weapons at each other in the lawn of a high school. But Seoul Jujutsu Technical College was no ordinary institution; nor were their students any ordinary teenagers. For this was the trianing grounds for a generation of future Jujutsu Sorcerers – protectors of society against sentient manifestations of negative emotions known as Curses.

The sound of steel clashing with steel rang throughout the air as Riki and Sunghoon continued to swing at each other, the former wielding dual blades and the latter wielding one. They sparred like they were mirror reflections of a choreographed dance: attacking in time for one of them to deflect, and lunging when the other withdrew. Each blow came in the span of seconds — barely enough time for the average human to register.

But their spectators were anything but average.

“Did your parents mention it already?” Kiara asked her childhood best friend — and only other fourth year at the school — beside her, not once taking her eyes of her sparring juniors. Heeseung wordlessly quirked a brow in response to her question, prompting her to continue. “The main clans in China have been in a mess recently.”

“Ah, that,” Heeseung said, resting his chin on his palm. “The thing about the Bai Clan, right?”

It was a hot topic amongst Jujutsu Sorcerers in South-East Asia, where news between the different countries — especially Japan, China and South Korea, the so-called Big Three of the East for their production of top tier sorcerers — often travelled fast due to their close connections with one another, dating back to ancient wars fought between allied forces of Jujutsu Sorcerers from the respective countries against legendary Curses.

One of the strongest clans in China, the Bai Clan from Shanghai, had a history of powerful sorcerers since the Ming Dynasty. But lately, the Bai clan has been at the centre of controversy: their most dangerous and treasured artefact, the Emperor Jade, had recently gone missing — stolen right beneath their noses. 

“Apparently they suspect the Zenin clan… but it seems pretty far-fetched to me.” 

Kiara couldn’t care less about the matters of the Bai or Zenin clan. She hated them almost as much they hated each other, as the both of them harboured a tradition of misogynistic treatment of women born in their clans. But this was a matter of safety of innocent lives that could be harmed in the crossfire of their feud if the rumours were true, so she had no choice but to feel concerned.

“It is far-fetched.” Jake leaned forward from his seat on the stair above Heeseung and Kiara, intrigue laced in his voice. “Because I did some sneaking around and overheard my dad talking to someone yesterday… Apparently, it’s here in Korea right now.”

The two eldest students looked up to Jake with curious expressions. “Here?”

They knew they could trust any intel gathered from Jake and his family. Despite being based in Korea, they were also known for having roots planted all over the globe through intermarriage with foreign clans, making them a spider web catching all sorts of information.

Jay, who tuned into their conversation, nodded in agreement. “It makes sense. The Bai clan requested to send out some of their Sorcerers here for a ‘diplomatic’ event — but it seems a little suspicious, especially given the timing. Why would they send their best sorcerers away from their home, when they should be focusing on finding their lost Object first?”

“At any rate, I doubt the thief is gonna get far with it,” Sunoo chimed in from where he sat, on the stair closest to the lawn where Sunghoon and Riki were starting to reach the end of their battle — the younger being backed into a corner.

Heeseung hummed. “I’m more interested in how they stole it— and for what reason.”

“Everyone, gather around.”

The students all stood at attention hearing the sound of their teacher, Rain, who stood at the top of the staircase, overlooking the eight of them below. But what caught their attention wasn’t necessarily the man himself. It was the girl who stood beside him, one they’ve never met before, and who was wearing their uniform: a black military blazer with a pleated skirt and knee high stockings.

“Teach,” Riki greeted. He and the students gathered around the teacher, all curious about the sudden appearance of this stranger.

“Who’s this?” Sunoo asked, eyes scanning the girl up and down.

She was pretty, was the first observation he made. She had long blonde hair (dyed, he concluded) and looked like a princess out of a fairytale, with the way she stood with her hands folded neatly in front of her. The way she carried herself was too poised, too proper to match the average teenager. Sunoo couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about her just seemed… other.

“This is Mila,” Rain introduced, “your new classmate.”

“New classmate?” Jay asked with a quirked brow. 

It wasn’t as if he was opposed to the idea, but it was rather sudden. Still, he couldn’t say anything to question the choice before the girl bowed, as if on cue, smiling in a way that had her eyes crinkling endearingly. “Nice to meet you all,” she said. “Please take care of me.”

For as long as Mila survived, anyway.

Mila already knew she wouldn’t be able to last long before her clan finally found her. Running from them was the most reckless choice she could have made. But just once in her life, she wanted to rebel against them — to pay them back for all the times they belittled her, casted her aside simply for the fact that they couldn’t accept the sole heir to their clan after the passing of the previous head was a girl.

Just like the clan took away everything that was precious to her — her freedom, her autonomy, and most of all, her mother — she too had stolen the one thing most precious to them. The green jade ornament that hung from her neck like the yoke of an ox. The Emperor Jade.

She hadn’t expected to be spared by the Korean sorcerers who found her. Instead of releasing her from this mortal life which was both woeful and wonderful, they integrated her in their society and promised to hide her as best as they could from her clan. But she supposed it was only natural: She had a weapon that could be of great use to them, especially with their growing rates of suicide and declining mental health that attributed to their abnormally high levels of Curses on a global scale. It was better to keep her close than to give her away.

Whatever the reason, though, she fully intended on embracing this new chance at life she was given. 

“So…”

Jungwon glanced awkwardly at Mila. He was just absolutely adorable, his round face and dimpled cheeks making it nearly impossible for Mila not to reach over and pinch his cheek. His shyer personality only made him all the more endearing to her. And for once, she thought she might be smitten for a boy she just met. 

“You’re Rain-seonsangnim’s niece?” the redhead asked.

Mila resisted the urge to frown. It was true in a sense: her aunty, who had left the clan years ago with her older cousin, ended up remarrying, with Jung ‘Rain’ Jihoon as her husband. Still, the man was a stranger to Mila until yesterday. Calling him ‘uncle’ was more difficult than she would like to admit. But she had to, since it was part of her cover story on why she suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Yeah,” she said with a small smile. She changed the subject in case anyone asked any questions of why she didn’t go to their school until now. “Uncle Jihoon told me about how you were the new student before I joined… So I guess that makes you my senior.”

“Eyyyy, that can’t be right!” Sunoo denied with a laugh. Mila really liked the sound of it, and the way it wrapped her in a similar warmth to the sun that shone above them. “We’re the same age, so you can’t let the younger ones be casual with you, otherwise they might do the same to me.”

Mila giggled. “Really? Okay. But since I’m not really your senior…” Mila hummed before smiling at Jungwon. “Instead of ‘sunbaenim’, you can call me ‘noona,’ instead.”

Jungwon’s face burned, his face now the same shade of red as his strawberry-coloured hair. “O-okay.”

So cute! Mila internallly cooed.

“How good are you with weapons?” Riki, the youngest student at the school, asked curiously.

He was a cutie too, even if he towered over Mila with his insane height. One would usually use the word ‘cool’ to describe someone like him, but for some reason, Mila had the urge to pat his head — a very odd feeling for her, considering she wasn’t the affectionate type.

“I’m decent,” she said vaguely, not giving the younger the satisfaction of a straightforward answer. “I’m better without them, though.”

Jake, who had the looks and aura of a typical Hollywood heartthrob, flashed a captivating grin. From the moment they met, Mila could tell he was a flirt — and she wouldn’t be lying if she said he was a good one, at that. “Oh, so you’re good with your hands, are you?”

Mila almost choked on her spit. Both because of the comment, and the way the only other female student, Kiara, had slapped the boy on the back of his head with a resounding echo that made the other guys cringe in second-hand pain. (Or was it embarrassment? Judging from the side eye coming from Sunoo, it was probably the latter.)

“Well,” Riki cut in once again. “If you’re that confident, you wouldn’t mind giving us a demo, right?”

Jay sighed, bringing a hand up to massage his forehead. It was amusing that he had such a macho appearance, and yet he was the most well-mannered among the boys as far as Mila could tell. It was unfair how he was just her type: not only was he drop-dead gorgeous, he was a gentleman too. 

“She’s literally just started her first day, and you’re already trying to make her a training dummy.”

Mila pouted at the insinuation that she would be lose. “What makes you think he wouldn’t end being my training dummy?”

Beside Jay, Heeseung chuckled, his voice causing Mila to blush despite herself. “That’s not what Jay meant,” Heeseung assured the girl, a warm smile on his face that would melt any girl on the spot. “Riki just has a bad record of starting fights whenever he meets new people.”

Mila laughed when Riki looked affronted. “What? I’m just trying to get to know our new classmate better?” He turned to Sunghoon behind him, who had been standing a bit more distantly from them than the others. “What do you think, hyung?”

Sunghoon crossed his arms over his chest, Mila’s eyes drifting slightly to the way the black shirt he wore for training outlined his muscles perfectly. He cocked his head to the side, a glint in his eyes. “Riki’s right,” he said coolly.

“See!” Riki said with a smug smirk while Sunoo rolled his eyes. “Besides, we have the Goodwill Event coming up with the sister schools in Japan. We need to make sure everyone’s in shape, right?”

“Well you don’t need to worry about me,” Mila said, mirroring Sunghoon’s pose with his arms across his chest. “I’m perfectly in shape, thanks.”

“Definitely,” Jake muttered under his breath after giving her an appreciation once-over, earning yet another slap from Kiara.

Sunghoon smirked, sensing the challenge in Mila’s tone. The girl swallowed thickly, unable to deny his attractiveness. She almost didn’t catch the blade that was being tossed in her direction – but she had spent too much of her childhood learning to evade assassinations and attacks to have missed it.

“If that’s the case,” Sunghoon said, after tossing her the weapon with a cocky grin on his face. “Prove it.”

The air was silent as eight pairs of eyes fell on Mila. She bit back a laugh, the corners of her lips turning up in amusement.

She had a feeling she would like it here.

#03. AVENGERS

ALMOST A YEAR NOW. That was how long Mila spent wandering the globe with her head low, her guard up against any enemies who may one day attack her when she least expected it. Or so that was how she justified it.

Mila stopped before the television screens in the display window of the media store, her eyes trained on nine familiar figures being portrayed in the news. Her eyes traced over each and every one of them, blocking out the words of the news reporters. All she heard were the words: ‘Avengers,’ ‘missing,’ and the name she was given when she made her first appearance in public wrapped in the embrace of red magic. ‘Scarlet Witch.’

She missed them so much it physically hurt. But this was for them. The whole reason she ran from them in the first place, without so much as a word except a letter she wrote in a haste to get away.

It was selfish. She knew this. But she wasn’t a hero like they were – she was just a lab experiment who lost everything she ever loved, before they came into her life and gave her another chance at life. She wasn’t selfless, wasn’t humble, and she definitely wasn’t good. But if protecting the people she loved was a bad thing… then she would accept the role of a villain, if she had to.

“Long time no see.”

Mila gasped as she whipped around, long strands of hair whipping around in the wind. Her eyes widened at the familiar face staring back at her.

“Eonnie,” she breathed out in shock.

Black Widow smiled, that same maternal look in her eyes as when Mila last saw her. “It’s been a while.”

Mila gaped, her eyes blinked as she looked around the street. They were alone. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. At least it wasn’t one of the boys. Kiara, at least, could be reasoned with – but she knew she wouldn’t be so fortunate if it was anyone else who found her tonight.

“I thought we agreed to keep in contact,” Kiara said with a scolding tone as she pulled Mila into a nearby alleyway.

Mila sighed. The night she decided to run away, she coincidentally ran straight into Kiara, who immediately connected the dots seeing the bag on Mila’s shoulder and the cap covering her head. A single call to SHIELD would have had every agent on sight, ready to stop Mila from taking even one step out of their sight. But Kiara let her go. And Mila owed her for that.

“I know,” Mila said. “But I’ve been getting visions, and—!”

“Visions?” Kiara repeated incredulously. “That’s even more reason for you to keep in contact! You said the Mind Stone was fine the last time we spoke— which was a month ago.”

Mila lowered her head, looking like a wet puppy in the rain. “I know… And I’m sorry but I just— I just didn’t want to worry you…”

Kiara sighed before bringing a hand up to her head. “Well I am worried, okay? Worried because even though I agreed to let you do this, that doesn’t mean I like it. Every day I wonder if I did the right thing by letting you go that night…”

Mila gasped. A feeling of dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. “Eonnie… Please.”

Kiara shook her head. “I’m sorry Mila, but I can’t let you do this alone anymore.”

Shit.

Mila needed to get out of here. Fast.

Without letting Kiara say another word, she wrapped herself in a cocoon of crimson light, her eyes glowing the same shade of red as she took to the air, ready to flee the sight as soon as she could. But it was too late. Before she could turn — somewhere, anywhere — she was stopped by a wall of iron. A startled gasp left her lips as a familiar suit of armour rushed towards her in a flurry of red and gold.

In her shock, she didn’t even register that she had been swept right out of the air and into a pair of arms. 

“Jay?!” Mila blurted. She stared wide-eyed at his mask as if she could see his face through it — his angular features, contrasted by the soft look on his eyes. She wondered what expression he was wearing now, if he hated her for what she did to keep him and the others safe.

He carried bridal style as he flew through the air at the speed of a fighter jet plane, her hair whipping around in all directions as she grasped onto him for dear life. She could push him away, if she wanted to. She could overpower him easily with her powers and fly away to a corner of a world where no one could ever find her.

But she didn’t. She missed him too much — she missed them too much — to stay away when they were near. And they took full advantage of it to corner her and bring her right back, using Kiara as bait.

“Wait, where are you going?!” Mila asked, her voice muffled as a hand pressed her head closer to his neck, where her arms had wrapped around subconsciously. “Let’s talk about this, okay?! Just stop for a second—?”

“I can’t do that, Angel.” Mila froze at the familiar pet name, a warmth filling her stomach at the sound of his tone. Even though his mask, it held so much emotion in it, amplified only by the desperation with which he held her. “I’m not giving you another chance to get away. Never again.”

Mila’s breath caught in her chest. Damn it. They really were her weakness… For better or for worse.

Mila didn’t even register when she was on solid ground again. But before she knew it, she found herself on the landing platform of SHIELD base in the middle of the Yellow Sea, held to Jay’s chest as he landed in the middle of rows of airships.

Mila bit her lip as Iron Man’s mask retreated, allowing Mila to see the face she so missed seeing when she woke up in the morning. She swallowed thickly at the intense look in his eyes as they traced her every feature, so full of love she didn’t even know if she alone was enough to hold it all.

“You can put me down now,” Mila whispered weakly. 

“And if I don’t?” Jay asked, his voice low.

“Then I’ll make you.”

Mila and Jay both turned in the direction of the new voice. Mila’s lips parted as Sunoo came into view from the shadows, a quiver of bows strapped to his back and black uniform shrouding his figure like a phantom as he appeared before Mila. His hair was a new shade of wine red that she hadn’t seen on him before, making his foxy features even more harsh as he stared at her without emotion.

Mila felt cold as Jay reluctantly let her down from his hold, her legs weak as she stood on her own two feet.

“You have a lot of guts walking away with the Mind Stone like that,” Sunoo said with narrowed eyes. “If you were anyone else… I would have shot you down without a second thought.”

Mila pursed her lips. Of course. She knew as well as anyone that even if he didn’t have any powers, Sunoo was not one to be underestimated. His arrows could hit an apple from a mile away — least of all a 5’8 girl walking away without soaring a single look over her shoulder.

She deserved his coldness, she thought. She didn’t deserve the smiles he would share with her and they visited her favourite cafe, trying all the sweets to see which one was the best. She didn’t deserve his warmth, or his loving smiles. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“Cut it out, Sunoo.” Mila’s wide eyes turned to look behind her. His mechanic falcon wings were spread out behind him as he landed behind Jay. He spared a nod to the man before his eyes landed on Mila, a conflicted look on his face. He clenched his jaw, which Mila could remember tracing loving kisses along whenever he would fly up to her apartment window in the middle of the night. “So you’re back now…”

Mila swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”

Jake nodded, his eyes slowly trailing down her body, as if trying to figure out whether or not she was real. If it was actually her in front of him. “Yeah?” he asked uncertainly.

Mila nodded. And before she could say a word, she was being pulled away from Jay’s protective hand on her waist, and right into Jake’s chest, his head burying itself into her neck and his hands holding her lower back and her head to him, trying to feel her as closely as possible.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he whispered into her ear. She raised her hands to return his embrace, just in time to hear his next words, which burned themselves into her skin. “But you’re in so much trouble when we’re alone, you hear me?”

Mila didn’t even have time to register the Falcon’s words before she was pulling away by the hips. One second she was looking at Jake’s annoyed expression, and the next she was staring straight into Riki’s eyes before his lips crashed into hers.

“Brat,” Sunoo said from behind the tall boy, his foxy eyes narrowing on him.

But Mila barely heard a thing. She was shutting her eyes and letting herself fall into the familiar pattern of her lips moving against his, their chests pressed against each other. The feeling of her hands threading their way through his hair in a desperate act to keep his mouth on hers. Just like the first time they kissed, that day he thought he lost her for good when she fell from the top of the Tokyo tower.

“You better not do that ever again,” Riki said as he leaned her forehead against hers, his breath heavy as he stared into her eyes with a sense of desperation just like that day. And Mila felt guilt eat away again for making him relive that same fear again. “I’ll never forgive you.”

“And neither will I.”

There was a flash of green before Jungwon appeared before them, the Time Stone hanging around his neck and his sentient cape lifting a corner and giving a small wave at Mila’s direction. Mila smiled. It reminded her of all the times Mila would pretend to run from his kisses, only for his cape to chase her and pull her right back into his arms again.

The only time Mila escaped its grasp was the night she ran away…

“Jungwon.” Mila sighed as the younger looked down at her, his eyes firm in their disapproval. 

“I have a lot to say to you,” Jungown said. “But that can wait until later. We have more important things to do.” Mila cringed internally, but didn’t disagree. “Heeseung is probably waiting for you in his office… I trust you have the Mind Stone with you?”

Mila lowered her head. “I do.”

“Good.” Jungwon turned on his heels without another word. The corner of his cape lifting to look back and forth between Jungwon’s leaving figure and Mila’s crestfallen expression, before expressing a sigh. 

A flash of lighting appeared in the night sky, and Mila shivered. She looked up towards the sky. “Where’s Sunghoon?”

“Don’t know.” Sunoo shrugged. “He hasn’t been here for a while.”

Mila sighed. Riki lay a hand on Mila’s back. “Come on,” he said. “You can’t delay it any longer.”

Like that, Mila walked into Heeseung’s office to see him leaning against his desk with hands in his pockets. The space felt crowded as Mila and her men (were they still hers, though?) gathered in the room.

“It’s been a while,” Heeseung lulled, his expression not betraying a single thought. His eyes scanned her in a similar way to Jake. “You look well.”

Surely not, Mila thought. She felt anything but well.

Heeseung looked towards the others. “You guys can leave now.”

They exchanged looks. But none of them disobeyed the orders given to them, and they slowly exited the room one by one, some of them giving her pecks before they left, and others not sparing a single glance. But in the end, Heeseung was the only thing on Mila’s mind. Especially when he marched up to her the second the door closed, before lifting her like she weighed nothing and placing her on the tabling in the middle of the room, his lips devouring hers like they were her last meal on Earth.

Mila gasped as he pushed her down onto the table, her back laying on scattered paperwork as he hovered over her, his figure cocooning her like he was trying to hide his favourite doll form the world, to keep anyone from seeing or ever going near her. And really? Mila liked it. She always did. She loved the fact that she was the only one who could make him snap like this, lose all his composure.

She didn’t know how long she was lying like that before Heeseung was pulling away, his silver hair shining under the light of the full moon.

“Do you remember?” Heeseung asked all of a sudden, not even giving Mila a chance to catch her breath.

“Remember what?”

“Remember when I told you, I wouldn’t let anyone take you away from me.” Mila bit her lip, nodding at the declaration he had made when he and the others first rescued her from the scientists experimenting on ner. “If I knew you were the one that would make you leave…”

“I’m sorry,” Mila whispered.

Heeseung closed his eyes before leaning his chin on Mila’s shoulder. “You should be. I missed you so much, baby…” He brushed a kiss to her cheek, before nipping at her earlobe, causing Mila to whine. “Don’t ever leave me like that again. Whatever the reason for it was, we’ll figure it out.” He moved away and brushed a strand from Mila’s face. “That being said, we have to talk about—”

Before Heeseung could even finish his sentence, there was a series of shouts from the other side of the door. Neither Mila or Heeseung had time to register what was happening before the door flew open to reveal an absolutely pissed Sunghoon. 

All of a sudden, Mila was reminded of the first time they got into an argument, and Mila ended up giving him the cold shoulder for a week before he blew it and dragged her back to her place where he sat her down and stared at her for five seconds straight with those piercing eyes of his before she crumbled and gave in. Those same eyes landed on Mila and Heeseung now, before narrowing on the former. Mila blushed at the fact she was caught in this position, but realised that there were more important things to worry about. 

Heeseung lifted himself off of Mila to address the man. “Sunghoon.”

He didn't get a reply. Instead of greeting him back, Sunghoon was brushing past Heeseung and storming straight towards Mila before grabbing her arm and hauling her off the desk, wrapping an arm around her waist to bring him to his firm chest.

“Wait, Sunghoon,” Heeseung said placating as he realised what was happening. “Let’s talk about this.”

Mila’s eyes widened when Sunghoon began to swing his hammer in his hand. “Stay out of it,” Sunghoon said. “I need to talk to my girlfriend.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Mila protested, “I don’t want to hurt you, Oppa, so let’s talk this ou— Agh!”

Heeseung was left to stand there with a tired expression as Sunghoon’s hammer carried him out the window, breaking the glass as he escaped into the horizon with his girlfriend in his arms. Heeseung dropped his head when the rest of the boys flooded into the room, all in equal disbelief.

“We just got her back, and already she’s been kidnapped?!” Riki asked.

Heeseung sighed. They didn’t have time for this. Thanos was on his search for the infinity stones, and he wasn’t going to let his girlfriend get away alone with one of them ever again — not if it meant leaving her vulnerable. And the others agreed on the same thing. For just ws much as she wanted to keep them safe from leaving them, they wanted to keep her safe by keeping her by her side.

So it went without saying, they as soon as Kiara caught up with them, he was suiting up, ready to lead the mission to retrieve his — their — girl from Sunghoon.

“Avengers… Assemble.”

#04. HARRY POTTER

AMORTENTIA. The potion of love.

Mila didn’t think she would ever need such a thing — nor did she want it, either. It was a fact that the effects caused by Amortentia were closer to lust or obsession more than anything else, and for that, Mila wished to stay well away from it. But as it happened, today’s Potions class happened to be brewing that exact potion.

Hooray, Mila mentally noted as she stirred a pot of pink boiling liquid, being sure to stand at arm’s length, with a hand on her nose, least her yellow Hufflepuff robes would smell of a very interesting combination of mint chocolate, bungeoppang, tiramisu, ramyeon, corn and… strawberries with chocolate?

Mila tilted her head at the scent profile. What was that about? She knew that the scent of Amortentia changed according to who smelled it, and served as an indication of the person one felt attracted to… But wasn’t this combination a bit too odd?

“If you lean back any further, your hair is going to become another ingredient in my potion.” Mila whipped her head around to stare blankly at the Slytherin behind her. She gathered her hair and threw it over her shoulder with a glare. “Happy?”

Park Sunghoon rolled his eyes, before looking down at his potion again. Mila didn’t know when it started, but for as long as she could remember, she and Sunghoon had always been at each other’s throats — exchanging short and clipped remarks, bumping into each other’s shoulders when they passed each other in the hallway, and glaring whenever they made eye contact.

She really didn’t know why he disliked her so much. But well, it wasn’t as if she cared…

Sunghoon took a sniff, before his thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Mila didn’t bother to ask about it, before turning to face his potion again. It was none of her business what it smelt like — everyone knew what type of girl he liked, anyway. A pretty, popular girl like Jang Wonyoung, who seemed to be the only one he ever smiled at.

Not that Mila was keeping track, or anything. But Mila pouted at the thought. Because, seriously, why did he hate her so much? (But perhaps, if she didn’t turn away so quickly, she would be able to see the way Sunghoon’s eyes lingered on her back after smelling his potion.)

“How’s your potion going?” Mila snapped to attention when Jake, her seatmate, leaned over to check her cauldron. Briefly, Mila could catch the scent of grass and rain, attributed to the fact that the boy was on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. 

“It’s going okay?” Mila asked. “I mean… it does smell pretty funny, though.”

Jake tilted his head, looking like a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

Mila laughed, shaking her head. “That the person I’m attracted to has a lot of different tastes in food.”

Jake laughed. “Yeah?” His smile softened as he watched Mila stir the cauldron, eyes holding an unbridled amount of affection that everyone except her seemed to see. “Well mine happens to really like chocolate — Lindt, specifically.”

Mila hummed pleasantly. “Really? What a coincidence! So do I!”

Internally, Mila despaired. She couldn’t tell why, but it really bothered her to know about the girl who stole his heart. It wasn’t her right to be, and yet she couldn’t control her feeling of disappointment. He had been telling her for a while now about a girl that he had his eyes set on, since the first day of school. And Mila didn’t know how to react when she found out, because she could have sworn that he seemed so much more affectionate around her than others, with the way he always had a hand around her shoulder or how he would lean closer to her when they were speaking…

But maybe she was imagining it.   

Jake laughed, shaking his head in fond exasperation. It made more sense the more he knew her, the reason she wasn’t in Ravenclaw — as smart as she was, she missed some of the most obvious signs around her. And yet, it only made her more endearing to him…

“I think I need some more flasks,” Mila said, as she looked at her bench. “I’ll be right back.”

Mila skipped towards the table at the back of the room to grab a glass flask before turning to head back to her desk… only to bump straight into a firm chest. Startled, Mila jumped backwards, only for an arm to grab her by the bicep to steady her before she fell over. She looked up in bewilderment, to meet Jay’s concerned eyes.

She couldn’t say anything except, “Oh.” 

Because no way the Park Jongseong was holding her by the arm right now, his face only centimetres away from her. Her face flushed a similar pink as her love potion, before she cleared her throat and stapled away from the boy’s touch, despite her body screaming not to.

She always had somewhat of a puppy crush on Jay since they first met. She was lost and couldn’t find her next class, and he, being a Prefect for Slytherin, offered to help her find her find her way.

“Sorry,” she apologised.

Jay chuckled. “It’s okay.” The boy resumed grabbing his ingredients from the table, allowing Mila to turn around and calm her beating heart. All of a sudden, it started racing again when Jay called her again. “By the way… Your potion…”

Mila blinked at the handsome boy. “Yeah?”

“Just wondering how it smelled, that’s all,” Jay said. Contrary to his usual mannerisms, he wasn’t facing her, his back instead turned as he checked the labels of several bottles on the table. Mila spotted a twinge of red on his ears, and wondered if he usually got embarrassed when talking about affairs of the heart.

Mila smiled. “Hmmm… There was quite a few distinct scents… But I do remember there being something like corn in there? Which was really random.”

Jay froze, his back rigid like stone. “Really?”

Mila hummed. “Yep! So I guess I have to give my future boyfriend some corn when I ask him out, huh?”

Jay didn’t say anything afterwards, so Mila took it as a cue to end the conversation there. She bid the boy farewell before making her way back to her desk. She was completely obvious to the crisis he had put him in with her words, as Jay stood there for the next five minutes replaying what she said to him like a broken record.

Shit, Jay cursed mentally, when he couldn’t contain the smile on his face. I’m down bad…

But to be fair, he wasn’t the only one.

When class finished and it was time to go, Mila found herself walking side by side with her best friend Sunoo who, as always, took the books from her arms and carried them in her own, looking like the textbook Ravenclaw that he was.

It was strange. When they first met, he was a library part-timer scolding her for folding the spine of her books while she looked like a child who had just been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. Who would have guessed that from that day onwards, they would form a lasting friendship?

How did your potion go?”

Mila hummed. “It was okay. Don’t know how well it would work… but it had a interesting smell.”

“Like what?” Sunoo asked, a little too eager. Since they didn’t sit at the table together (because of assigned seat mates) they didn’t know what the other was up to in class.

“Yeah, like what?”

Mila jumped in surprise when an arm flung itself over her shoulder. She looked up and groaned when she made eye contact with Riki, the resident prankster. To this day, she still hadn’t forgiven him for putting pink hair dye into her shampoo, thinking it belonged to her roommate — who also happened to be Riki’s sister. 

At that moment she noticed who was beside him and smiled brightly. “Wonie! How are you?”

The younger boy smiled, his dimples poking from his cheeks. And it was so hard to believe that he — a Prefect for Gryffindoor — would be friends with a troublemaker Slytherin like Riki.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Sunoo said impatiently.

“Oh right,” Mila said. “Hmmm, well, it smelled like a lot of different things…”

Sunoo pouted at the vague answer but didn’t get to press the girl before Riki was steering her towards the Mess Hall and changing the subject. “Let’s have lunch together today.”

“We’re in different houses,” Mila pointed out. “We sit at different tables, remember?” 

Riki shrugged. “So? We can just sit with you — it’s not like you have any friends.”

Jungwon discretely elbowed Riki in the ribs. He for one wouldn’t let the tall boy get away with teasing Mila too much. Riki cringed in pain, before glaring at the boy, but neither Mila nor Sunoo noticed it had happened — after all, who would expect sweet and adorable Jungwon of doing any harm. As Mila said when Riki accused the boy, “That’s funny. Your best joke yet.”

Riki pouted as he followed the girl to her seat, despite his protests, planted himself beside her. Sunoo followed his example and took the next seat over, while Jungwon sat across from the girl so that he would be able to look at her when they spoke. People around them began to stare at the combination of colours before happening along each other, causing Mila to giggle.

“I can’t believe you guys are actually sitting here,” she muttered. She then looked at Jungwon. “Are you really approving this?”

Jungwon shrugged. “There are no rules saying we can’t sit at another house’s table.”

Mila shook her head. At that moment she felt a hand on her head. She looked up in surprise, when she saw Heeseung staining above her, his handsome face smiling warmly at her. She then noticed Jay, Sunghoon, and Jake with him, and remembered that they were close friends with each other

 “Then in that case, it should be alright if we join you, right?” Heeseung asked.

Riki glared. Why were there so many boys around Mila? “Actually—”

Before Riki could say anything, Mila delivered a elbow right into the same spot that Jungwon had. “Of course you can!” Mila said eagerly.

The older boy was actually one of the first that Mila got to meet here at Hogwarts. It was on the very first day of school, when she saw him charming origami paper cranes in the courtyard. She complimented him with sincere awe, and he gifted her one of them in return. Somehow, Mila always found herself smiling at him whenever they crossed paths.

Heeseung smiled, patting the girl’s head. “Thank you.”

Jungwon scrunched his nose at the adoration in the older boy’s tone because was he seriously baby-talking her? Sunoo had the same thought, and eyed him with disdain as he took a seat next to Riki, while Jay sat next to Sunoo, and Sunghoon and Jake joined Jungwon.

The eight of them became the centre of attention as whispers began to float among the Mess Hall, scandalised by the prospect of students from different houses sitting together. But Mila couldn’t care less. She found that being with them, she was more at ease than she ever was alone.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on over here?” Mila watched as Kiara, her older sister figure, appeared with a glint in her eye. “Is this a Mila’s fan club meeting or something?” 

Mila didn’t know why, but she was shooting out of her chair like a rocket, her face a bright pink as she shushed the Slytherin girl. “What do you mean? We’re just hanging out.”

Riki smirked at her reaction. “Then what has you so flustered then?”

Mila looked around the table and saw the same amused looks on all the boys’ faces. She cleared her throat before slowly sitting back down again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

And yet, Mila’s heart skipped a bit when the boys laughed at her expense. The sound of their laughs overlapping each other, bouncing off the walls of the Mess Hall like a chorus in a church… It was nice. Being with them was nice.

And when Kiara found herself joking later on that Mila must have caught a few crushes during lunch that day… She didn’t deny her.

She didn’t know what it was, but something about them together felt right — and somehow, she had a feeling that they felt the same way too.

NOTE. finally the au chapter has come 😭 dark moon ended up being left out bc well we kinda already know what enha would be like in that au… ☀️ but anyway! funny story, my planni for this fic was so bad- i was supposed to write one au each day starting on Monday so I could post this first thing today…. but procrastinated so I needed to just writing around 7k words in or day 😭 it’s now 9:27pm tho so at least it’s out before mila’s bday ends 🥹 anyway! hope you liked it! yhank you guys for a wonderful year with mila and enha, and hope to continue to celebrate more milestones to come — dia 🌸🩷

[yellowharrington]

jaded -- chapter 1, carmy berzatto x reader

pairing + fandom: carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader (she/her pronouns used), the bear fx

warnings: sexual content, mention of unprotected piv sex, swearing, workplace relationship. minors dni with this story please.

word count: 1.4k+

a/n: guess who's back... back again... natty's back... tell a friend.... hey besties lol ik its been a year but i've been obsessed with the bear so i decided to write this. it will be a multichaptered fic and i will update it as soon as i've finished writing the chapters lmao. inspired by the song "jaded" by miley cyrus. pls pls pls enjoy

summary: fresh off of his breakup with claire, carmy needs a rebound. he just doesn't expect it to be his pastry chef.

masterlist | chapter 2

It starts with a ride home after service.

The sun had fallen down over the horizon, painting Chicago black with night. It’s chilly, middle of February, and you and Carmy are the only ones left at the restaurant. You’re both at the lockers, grabbing the last of your things and turning off the last few lights, leaving it behind you as you step out into the darkness of the street. Only amber lights are above you, illuminating Carmy’s face, along with the glow of his lighter around his cigarette. “How are you getting home?” He asks, looking down the alleyway. “Just the train,” you reply, gesturing towards the station a few blocks down the road. “Let me drive you,” he smushes the cigarette underneath the toe of his shoe, looking up at you, rather softly. “Oh, it’s not far,” you try to step the other way, before he grabs your shoulder lightly. “It’s cold, and fuckin’ dark, and there’s murderers. Just let me drive you home.” He was nothing if not protective. 

It really had been a short drive, slow tunes coming from his old car’s radio, drowned out by the sounds of the city around you. It was generally silent, Carmy’s hand on the gear shift. “It’s just up here,” you gesture to the building up the street. “Just take a right.” He does, obeying your action, pulling up in front of a 3-floored walk-up. “Thanks,” you grab your backpack by your feet, opening the door and giving him a small look before stepping out. “Hey, listen,” you start. His eyes are dark, sunken, tired. He’s wearing his usual wool jacket around a cozy navy blue sweater. “I was working on something before work this morning. A… a dish. Can I show you really quick? And you can tell me what you think?” He looked at the time on his phone, and then up at you. Baby blue eyes, peering from under thick lashes. “Sure, chef,” he says quietly as he puts his car in park and unbuckles the seatbelt. 

When you walk him up to your apartment, he’s endeared. You let him in, and your place smells of vanilla candles and laundry, from the load you’d done before work earlier that day. “Sorry about the mess,” you gestured to small pile of plates and spoons in the sink, and the aforementioned unfolded laundry on the couch. “You’d lose your mind if you saw my place if you think this is mess,” he laughed, pushing a hand through his soft golden hair. Your own coat comes off as you make your way into the kitchen, and he has to stop himself from staring. Your tight jeans fit your body perfectly, white t-shirt coming up over your hips only enough for him to see a dark tattoo on the back of your hip. You poured him a cup of cold water and put it in front of him, before firing up the burner on your stove and putting a stainless steel pan on the orange-blue flame. “Make yourself at home.”

He wandered around your apartment a bit, peering into your bedroom. Soft white bed, soft sheets, big fluffed pillows. An open window, letting a chilly breeze in, curtains slightly swaying with the night air. It reminds him of her, her soft sheets, big eyes, the nights he slept next to Claire and kissed her supple cheeks and pink lips. She was like this too; eager, clean, happy, simple. Easy to be with, and easy to like. You’d given off a similar energy the same day you walked into the restaurant on your first day, and you had reminded him of her. Kind eyes, warm presence, but with a different demeanour that chefs almost always had. A jaggedness, he thought. 

The sound of the plates being put on your small kitchen table snapped him out of his daydreams, as you held out a fork for him. “It’s a, uh, mango custard, bit of toasted cardamom and coconut cream in there, and, um, a coconut macaroon with a homemade chutney.” He raises his eyebrows at the dish before him, plated beautifully, and takes a small bite of each component. You seem to wait for hours as he takes his time, feeling every ingredient on his tongue before setting down his fork on the small white plate. “It’s tremendous, chef,” he says quietly, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Almost perfect. Could use maybe an acid, it’s a little sweet, but, wow,” he looks up at you to see your wide eyes, excited at his answer. This was, essentially, the highest praise from Carmy you could get. “Thank you,” you say quietly, watching as he takes another forkful of the dessert. 

“What’s the tattoo on your hip?” he asks, pointing at the right side of your body, where your shirt had ridden up before. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since he caught a glimpse. “Oh, um,” your cheeks turned a soft shade of red, standing up to lift up your shirt and show him. “It’s, uh, a snake. It goes down my leg too,” you pull down the waistband of your jeans just enough to show him a bit more of the ink, further exposing the thin strap of the black thong you had on. “Got it a long time ago, in school. Just wanted to feel cool I guess.” He stands up, slowly, coming to lightly pin you against the counter. It’s safe, it’s easy, and suddenly it feels so fucking right to have him here under the dim kitchen light. “Can I see the rest of it?”

All bets are off, then. Your jeans are pooled around your ankles in a second as he’s feverishly kissing your lips, hands everywhere, his calloused palms against your soft ass. His sweater is off, along with his signature white tee, showing off the glistening gold chain against his bare chest. You’ve managed to push his jeans down just enough to slide a hand into his waist band, eliciting a soft, breathy moan from him into your mouth.

When you stumble back into your bedroom, it’s all a blur. It’s hot skin against hot skin, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck as his hands work their way in between your wet folds. They’re so gentle, yet he knows what he’s doing, so the slow circles on your clit as he lets himself rut against you are making you unbelievably wet for him. “I want you so fucking badly,” he pants into your ear, letting a finger easily plunge into you as you open your legs wider for him. “Is this a good idea, Carmy?” you let your fingers thread through his hair, allowing him to look up at you. His usual baby blues were dark again, lustful and wanton. “No,” he says matter-of-factly, but the smirk on his lips is so unbelievable, a cruel man above you. “Should we do it anyways?” You ask, your own smile playing on the corners of your mouth, allowing your hips to rut against his fingers, fucking yourself to feel more of him. He takes a large hand to your breast, letting it slide up, thumb slipping onto your lower lip and into your mouth. “Yeah… yeah, of course we fucking should.”

It’s so easy with him, which is what makes it so hard. He knows right where to kiss, where to touch, where to love on your body. He knows to take his hands to your sides, pushing you into the mattress as he laps at your clit and kisses your inner thighs, looking up and watching you take your own tits in your hands, squeezing them together, looking down at him with such need. He knows to slide up between your legs, and to cradle your neck in his hand, his thick cock plunging into you and making you weak, making his thumb wet with his own spit and bringing you to your orgasm, spasming around him, moaning his name into his mouth like a prayer. It doesn’t take much longer after that for him to spill inside of you, warm and deep, lips locked around his as you helped him ride his orgasm out. And it feels right, and real, when he lays next to you and kisses your chest and arms before falling into a deep sleep, your soft comforter over his chest. It all feels so fucking right, that first time.

But the next morning, all you have is an empty bed. And it doesn’t feel right anymore.

[superblysubpar]

masterlist | the music

15.8k words | This is an 18+ NSFW series | A/N at the end

You’ve done bad things in your life. Tiny, inconsequential sorts of things in the grand scheme of the universe. Small white lies told to spare feelings or cut corners like letting your mom believe you liked her haircut or using spark notes in high school instead of reading the assigned chapters. Granted there have been several spiteful moments like allowing your boss to go into a meeting with lipstick on her teeth. 

It’s all relatively normal though, never more than a tick on the good versus bad meter. You’ve always known that deep down you’re a good person. 

You’re not so sure anymore. 

The orange flicker of the quickly melting candles illuminates your flushed skin. Chipping polished fingers clamp your ruined underwear against the countertop you lean on. Chest heaving as you try to get your breathing under control. Steve’s next to you, thigh almost touching yours. His white top has a new button undone, his gold chain and the start of his sweat matted chest hair on full display now - catching the light, glistening with every flicker of the flame. You hate that the sight is almost enough to distract you from your predicament, that it makes you wish you hadn’t been interrupted. 

Eddie leans against the wall across from the two of you. His arms folded over his chest, black tshirt stretched across muscles almost as tight as his clenched jaw. His large brown eyes dance between yours and Steve’s. Eyes that give his true feelings away - as his mouth ticks up into a judging smirk, those eyes are pools of hurt. The confidence you had witnessed all day quickly draining from them as he peers at you. 

Tongue jutting out to lick his lips as he throws his hands up, “Jesus fucking Christ, will one of you say something?”

Your mouth opens as Steve’s fingers rub at his temples before sliding into his hair with a long huff of breath through his nose. Steve speaks before you’re able to force any words out of your parted lips. “Well, now you know. We can talk about it later. Let’s get out of here,” the last part directed to you. Not a question, but it doesn’t feel like a command either. It’s a request. 

Something in his tone, the way Steve’s hazel eyes plead with yours makes your heartbeat turn rapid again - throbbing in your ears. Your entire body kicks into overdrive, alcohol mixing with adrenaline and thoughts of what all of this means for you and Steve. 

Steve’s eyebrows raise at you expectantly, and Eddie’s voice is soft as he speaks to you, “So you were just using me to get him, right? Make him jealous? None of that was…”

Eddie straightens as he trails off. Eyebrows pinched together, cheek pulled between teeth in thought. Stepping towards him, you shake your head vigorously. Feeling like you’re being ripped in half. “No, Eddie, I promise you, I-” faltering on how to explain it all, to ease some of the hurt you caused, you push out, “We were already sleeping together and-”

Eddie’s gaze shoots over to Steve, eyes settling into a harsh glare as his finger shoves into Steve’s chest. Steve’s eyes roll as his shoulders do the same at Eddie’s hiss, “Dude. I straight up asked you if you were into her or had anything going on and you said no and that Robin-”

“Well we are and we do, so.” Steve shrugs, too casual about it all. He swats Eddie’s finger away like it’s an annoying gnat and not attached to the friend he lied to. The two boys sit in a staring contest, jaw’s clenched and eyes darkening and your blood boils from the words exchanged and Steve’s attitude. Your adrenaline tipping from flight to fight as you watch Steve push out his chest and Eddie take a step closer, shaking his head slightly. 

Your eyes turn on Steve, “Hold on. We’re not together.” Eddie’s gaze flicks to you as you keep speaking, anger rising rapidly in you. “We’re friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. Eddie, I absolutely was flirting with you and if I want to sleep with you, that’s none of Steve’s god damn business and-”

A knock on the door stops you from continuing. Steve’s jaw twitches, tongue licking his top lip as he narrows his eyes at you. 

“Y/N?” Nancy’s voice echoes through the door, softening to a whisper, “Guys, come on. I know all three of you are in there and Robin is wondering where-”

She stops as you open the door, meeting her thin lipped smile and too insightful for their own good eyes. 

“Sorry,” whispering as you brush past her. For sleeping with Steve? For pulling her into this mess somehow? For lying to your best friend and her girlfriend? You don’t even know anymore. 

Music grows louder as you wander down the hallway, clenching your fist tighter around your underwear. Risking a glance over your shoulder to see Nancy and Steve arguing, Eddie’s eyes dancing between them before catching yours. 

Any urge to fight, any anger, it disappears, lost in the smoke that fills the room and you’re desperate to get out of there. Technicolor lights swirl as the bass thumps through speakers and you maneuver your way through the small crowd. Front door almost within your reach as an arm slinks between yours and your side, hooking and yanking you to a stop. A voice attached to the arm you’re dreading to face, especially after they ask, “Hey, do you have something to tell me?”

Her words fill you with ice, toes numb and a chill down your spine. Looking up, you’re not met with anger but a smile that thaws you. Robin isn’t mad, she’s beaming and you’re wondering why when she glances over her shoulder. 

Eddie leans against the wall, smiling and nodding towards the two of you as he lifts a red solo cup. He must have told her something else with the way Robin is looking at you. Your stomach twists as Robin smiles wider, her dimple popping out. Her hands find your shoulders, blue eyes sparkling as her voice sings, “Girl talk. Wine. Cookies. Now. Let’s blow this popsicle stand, babe.”

“Robin, I-”

She shakes her head, pressing a finger over your lips as she shushes you, “Let me say goodbye to Nance and it’ll just be me and you the rest of the night, kay?”

Robin’s smile is so genuine and over her shoulder you see Steve looking around the room, clearly searching for you. Eyes connecting with yours finally, you feel nauseous as he quickly shoves in and out of groups making his way towards you. Forcing a smile, you look at Robin and nod. “Okay, I’ll be outside. I need some fresh air.”

Robin claps, happy with her victory. She weaves her way towards the kitchen, stopping Steve and gesturing to you before bouncing over to Nancy. Steve continues to make his way towards you and as hard as you try to exit and slam the door in his face, his hand catches your shoulder as you slip outside. 

Shrugging him off harshly, you focus all of your attention on your phone screen, pulling up Uber. 

“Can we talk?”

Steve’s voice is soft, straining to be heard over the bass from inside and it makes you peer up from your screen. His hands are in his back pockets of his dark jeans, hair a mess and sticking to his sweaty forehead. Brows knitting together and a frown on his lips - you can’t stand how sad and confused he looks. Does he not understand why you’re mad? Why this is all so wrong?

Why is this all so wrong?

Your brain is screaming at your body to run, yet everything in you wants to fight with Steve until you’re breathless. If you talk, if you fight right now, you’re both going to say things you can’t take back. On the other hand, if you run, if you push him away further, perhaps you’ll never say some things you probably should. 

“Not now, Steve.”

“But, I-”

Your glare is harsh, voice ice as you repeat yourself, “Not now, Steve.”

He narrows his eyes again, hazel that’s normally soft and sticky turning amber and hard. Jaw clenching as he rocks back onto his heels. Clearly Steve wants to fight as he shakes his head, mumbling under his breath, “You’re really unbelievable.”

Phone dropping to your side, you turn to face him fully, disbelief filling your features, “I’m unbelievable? Me? Were you just in the same bathroom? Were we at the same beach today? Or how about last night, Steve? Was that a different guy who-”

“You liked all of it, so don’t even-”

That stupid gravitational pull you seem to have with each other back at work again, your bodies moving closer to one another without meaning to, chests almost touching. Hands tightening into fists at your sides, you tilt your chin up at him, “Oh, and you know what I like?”

Steve laughs cooly, fingers tugging in his hair with a groan. His voice rises, dripping in exasperation, “That’s a ridiculous question and you know that! And what, you’re trying to tell me that you wanted Eddie to-”

“Who cares what I wanted Eddie to do Steve!” Your resolve to not fight fully breaking as your voice does the same, “That’s the point! It’s none of your business who I’m fucking or not, or have you forgotten that little part of the deal?”

Steve groans, grabbing at your forearms and scoffing, “I care! And it’s stupid of you to expect me not to!”

Your faces are close enough that if anyone were watching, they’d think a kiss was about to happen. Steve’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and both of your breaths quicken. Mint and rum on your lips mingling with citrus and beer on his breath. His eyes watch your mouth as you lick your top lip, swallowing harshly before hitting him with a final blow. 

“I’m not yours.”

Something in Steve’s eyes shifts once more, amber shattering and turning to cold and hard granite. A fake smile tugs on his lips, it’s all far too emotionless and nothing like the Steve you know as he tilts his head, whispering, “Not what you just said in the bathroom, babe.”

Your fingers itch to slap him at the same time your body betrays you, pussy clenching around nothing.

Steve smirks, knowing all of your tells. His mouth hovers over yours as his fingers squeeze your arms, “You can’t have it both ways.” 

A part of you wants to keep fighting, but what are you even fighting about anymore? How can you be mad at him, when you’re just as much to blame. He’s not wrong, you can’t make him jealous and then be upset with him when he acts on the feeling. It’s just a day full of too much sun, delusions and decisions fueled by rum. 

Before you can do or say anything more that you’re sure to regret later, the front door opens and saves the two of you. Steve’s hands drop from your arms as Robin’s head turns inside, laughing at someone’s departing words for her. She turns and skips down the stairs as you and Steve step further apart. Eyes on the sidewalk as the tension that has been surrounding you both pops like a bubble. 

Robin slows, her eyes lingering on Steve as she asks, “Everything okay?”

Steve looks up at her, nodding once before smiling and backing away. “Yup. Never better. Have a good girl’s night.”

He turns on his heel quickly, walking in the opposite direction he needs to go. Robin watches him with a frown, her lip pulling between her teeth as her arms cross. His fading figure’s shoulders sink, head turned down as she tilts hers. Holding your breath as her eyebrows furrow.

“He’s been so weird all week. And he was fighting with Nancy like, three times today. You don’t think…” she trails off, tugging on her fingers and shaking her head. “Maybe something’s going on with them? Maybe he’s not as cool with it all as he said he was? I should go…”

Your fingers are pruny from the guilt you’re swimming in as you quickly shake your head, shutting down the train she’s gotten herself on. “No, no, no, Robs, “ at a loss for words, you just repeat yourself firmer, “No. That’s not it at all. He…I don’t know. We were fighting about something stupid. You should just hang out with him, maybe he misses having you all to himself, okay? First me, then Nancy, now Eddie’s back. He probably just misses his best friend, you know?”

Unable to stop yourself, the lies build and build as you drown in the waves of guilt that knock you down repeatedly. Your chest tightens, suffocating and choking as it all pulls you under while she nods and hums, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Robin doesn’t look too convinced, but turns to you and smiles, a little forced but she takes a deep breath. “God, he’s not the boy we need to talk about right now anyways.” Her eyebrows raise before she continues and steps towards the Uber pulling up, “Eddie asked me for your number inside and I’m betting my next paycheck it has something to do with the undergarment in your hand there?”

Your hand quickly moves behind your back, but it’s too late and she cackles, “Oh my god, tell me everything!”

Phone buzzing in your hand as you both slide into the car. Robin squeals and makes grabby hands for it, “Oh, oh, oh, he’s already messaging you?!” 

The unknown number’s message fills the screen and you’re not quick enough to lock it before she sees:

Robin frowns, looking up at you, “Your side of what?”

“Oh, uh, Steve and I…he…” you’re fumbling, about to just blurt it all out when Robin groans. 

“I was hoping he wouldn’t find out.”

“What?” You blink at her, sweating palms wiped on the hem of your dress. 

Robin sighs, leaning her temple against the backseat as she turns her body towards yours. Waving her hand around as she speaks, “You know, that Steve and you slept together,” she shakes her head a little, smiling, “So weird still. Anyways. As confident as Eddie may appear, it’s always a competition with those two and Eddie…” she trails off, voice softening to a whisper, “Well, let’s just say Eddie wasn’t as popular in school as Steve was.”

Your head falls back against the headrest hard. Any remorse you were feeling for being mad at Steve vanishes. Steve knew what he was doing, how Eddie would feel. He knew how risky the bathroom stunt was and he didn’t seem to be ashamed in the slightest of being caught. Bitterness sits on your tongue as you remember how you felt in the bathroom as the boys sat in their staring contest. Steve doesn’t seem to care about the rules anymore, and you hate that you let yourself sort of forget them too. Steve was right. You can’t have it both ways. 

This is exactly what was not supposed to happen. It was supposed to be fun. No one was supposed to be hurt. You never thought you’d be the one to ignore your own rules, to feel the pit in your stomach at the thought of losing Steve. Your stringless fling seems to have quickly tied itself into a tangled knot in less than a day. 

Robin pats your thigh, smiling softly, mistaking your quiet for worry about Eddie. “Hey, you’ll tell him it’s all good. You and Steve are just friends. It’ll all work itself out, right?”

Humming in a sort of agreement as the Uber pulls up to your apartment, you pause on the sidewalk as you get out. Something gnawing at you. “Hey, Robs?”

She turns, smiling as she holds the door open, “What’s up?”

“Why…” you falter, unsure if you should ask. Her eyebrows raise in wait for your question. 

Opening the door to the stairs, you frown and ask, “Why are you excited something happened with Eddie and I? Why do you want something to happen with us, but not…”

You’re worried asking might lead to her reading too much into it but she shrugs, unbothered. “Steve? I don’t know. I think Eddie’s more your type,” she ticks off on her fingers, “He’s a lot more go with the flow, he hasn’t stayed in one place for more than a year since high school. He’s not looking to be tied down, and Steve is. Steve always is,” she rolls her eyes as she starts on the stairs, continuing, “I think you both have a lot in common, like reading today on the beach, same sense of humor. I don’t know, Eddie and you just make more sense to me, I guess? Steve and you are so different. Different worlds. Want different things. It was never gonna work, and I love you both and didn’t want to see that happen.”

What she’s saying makes sense, but why does it hurt a little?

She stops on one landing, hands on her hips, “I mean, the Dingus is great, but dude would be a total mess if you broke his heart, whereas you’d probably be fine? Eddie just handles heartbreak better in the end, and he also isn’t one to fall easily. You’d be able to still be friends if it doesn’t work out is what I’m saying. Casual and easy going are Eddie and yours shared middle names, ya know?”

“Right,” you agree quietly.

She turns to continue on the last flight, voice echoing up the stairwell, “So, I think it’s an ‘I Think You Should Leave Night.’ I need some Tim Robinson. Did I tell you that Nancy had never seen it? I…”

She trails off, explaining how she introduced Nancy to the show and you stare at your phone, sending a message to Eddie with the address to a coffee shop around the corner. Maybe you should have trusted Robin’s insight into these relationships from the start.

She knew right away Steve and you would end in failure and hurt and it was silly of you to think the two of you could avoid the kind of people you are. Fundamentally different, and not meant to be together for a reason, you’re sure. 

Your phone buzzes again as you enter the apartment, Robin already pulling out cookie trays. You turn your phone off without responding. 

Ice clinks together as Eddie’s fingers swirl his straw in the coffee in front of him. His eyes remain on the drink, tracking the faintest swirl of milk, lips downturned in a frown as you gnaw on the ripped skin of your thumb. 

He’s been silent for a full minute, since you finished explaining everything. He agreed to meet you at the coffee shop before brunch with the group. You’re hopeful to just move on, to forget about Steve. Maybe it would have worked out with Eddie and you if you hadn’t created this mess. Maybe it still could. You almost forgot about Steve fully when Eddie showed up in dark wash jeans, chain hanging loosely at his hip. A burnt orange shirt snug across his shoulders and chest where his waves hung down. Framing his dazzling smile that went straight to your lungs and pulled your breath out and away. 

Eddie finally blows out a long exhale, palms dragging down his cheeks as he groans. “Shit, this is a fucking mess.”

“Mhm,” you hum, sipping your own coffee. 

He folds his arms on the table and leans forward, frowning, “I don’t…I don’t understand why Robin talked my ear off for like four fucking hours about you though. That’s what I meant when I said I’d tell her last night, Steve knew she was trying to set us up.” He rolls his eyes and continues, “If she didn’t want you two together, why does she want us?”

Your fingers fold and unfold the straw wrapper in front of you, shoulders falling as you slump down in your chair further. “Right? I asked her that last night. Let’s just say I’m not a huge fan of relationships and she thought you’d be the perfect fit for…” you twist your lips and narrow your eyes as you search for the right words, “The lifestyle? I tend to lead.”

Eddie smirks but it quickly turns to a grimace around his straw. He leans back in his chair and picks at the chipping paint on the table. “You too, huh? Who broke your heart?”

Surprised at his question, the paper wrapper rips in your fingers and your brow furrows, “I…no one. It’s a long story.” Waving your hand at him, you try to brush off the question and he raises his eyebrows and you huff out an annoyed breath. Something tells you he’s not one to give up easily, perhaps just as stubborn as you are. “I just know happy endings are few and far between, why put yourself through all of that pain for maybe a chance of it working out. Plus I’m very happy being single.”

He watches you curiously. “Happy or just complacent?”

Rolling your eyes, you sigh. Squinting at him as you sip your coffee. “I’m happy. I think assuming I’m not because I’m not in a relationship or searching for love is some 1950s bullshit. I love the life that I’ve made for myself, without anyone’s help.”

Eddie’s lips twist into a smirk as he narrows his eyes playfully. “I see why he likes you.”

Frowning, you fiddle with your straw. “Steve doesn’t like me like that. He likes having sex with me.”

Eddie laughs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I can tell you right now, that’s not Stevie. He likes you. A lot. Wouldn’t have pulled that crap yesterday if he didn’t.”

Your stomach twists. That’s the problem, isn't it? 

Shaking your head back at him you snap, not mean, but not warm either. “Well, that’s too bad. Deal’s off. I’m sleeping with other people.”

Eddie leans forward again, arms resting on the table and his eyebrows disappear under his bangs, “Other people, huh?”

You mirror his posture, arms close to his as you smile, “Yeah, have anyone you can set me up with?”

He laughs, throwing his head back. He shakes his head, curls falling across his shoulders as he watches you closely before speaking, “Steve will never forgive me princess, sorry.”

Falling back in the chair dramatically, you sigh. Ignoring his comment about Steve. “Damn. I thought you were supposed to be the bad boy of my dreams?”

Eddie laughs again, and you decide you really like the sound of it. It’s warm and comes from his chest, you can tell smiling and laughing comes easy to him when he’s around the right people. 

He sips at his coffee and then drums his fingers on the table, tongue licking his top lip, “Well, normally I’d say fuck it. Cause you’re real cute,” he winks at you and you laugh, he shakes his head no again, “But I’m afraid that you’re different. You may actually be the one to cause a fistfight, sweetheart, and I can’t afford to marr the merchandise - it’s all I got going for me.”

He pats at his cheek and you laugh at his theatrics. “Well that’s just not true. I’ve known you for only a day and I can already confidently say you have a lot more going for you than looks Eddie.”

Eddie bats his eyelashes at you, false embarrassment, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks turn slightly pink. 

Acting on instinct, you reach forward and grab his hand, “But really, the offer will stand if you ever decide to risk it. I mean, Robin thought it’d work, right?”

He smiles, squeezing your fingers, “True. But Steve-”

Groaning, you fall backwards again, letting his hand slip from yours, “Is a big boy and will get over it.”

Eddie snorts, fingers tapping at the table again. Eyes avoiding yours as he speaks, “That’s cute. Will you?”

“Will I what?”

Eddie looks up again, big brown eyes peering directly into your soul it seems as he asks, “Will you get over Steve?”

His question makes your limbs feel heavy, heart pounding, as you choke out, “Eddie, I don’t-”

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah you do,” he stands, nodding his head towards the door, “Come on, you can tell me all about why you refuse to let him love you on the walk to brunch.”

Chest tightening as you watch him start to walk away, somehow Eddie can read you quickly, knocking some of the stones you surround yourself with loose. Maybe the universe does know what it’s doing, it certainly did when it gave you Robin. Perhaps you were meant to meet all of these friends at this time in your life. Was it okay to let yourself be open? To let some light in through the cracks in your wall?

Eddie waits and beckons you with his hand, dragging out his words, “Come on, you can do it.” He grins, holding one of his hands up like he’s swearing in an oath, “I’ll even tell you my tale of doomed love first. Cheerleader dating the freak. Real star crossed lovers kind of shit. It’s pretty damn heartbreaking if I do say so myself.”

He bows as you stand, extending his arm for you to walk out first and you do. Feeling a little less alone, a little less pessimistic about the world and love as you listen to him tell you all about a girl named Chrissy on the walk to Benny’s. 

“I’m really sorry, Eddie,” you whisper as he finishes his story.

He shrugs, straw squeaking as he sucks the last of his coffee dry, kicking a loose stone as you wait at the crosswalk. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Done lot’s of healing up here,” he taps on his temple and then his heart, “And here. Now,” he spins, eyes big and lips forming a pout as he pokes your cheek, “I think I’m owed your story.”

As you take a deep breath, maybe you will tell him actually, Robin’s voice sings from behind you, “Well, well, well! Looks like some people have had quite a morning already!”

Eddie and you turn, rolling your eyes almost in sync and Robin beams. You all know she slept over last night, and was there still this morning when you left for coffee. It’s not Robin you look at right away though, but Steve, who stands just behind her and Nancy. His eyes are on yours and Eddie’s coffee cups before they meet yours. 

The light changes and Steve’s eyes fall to the ground again, passing by you silently. Eddie leans in close and whispers in your ear, “Yeah, what was that thing about him getting over it?”

Brunch is uncomfortable after that to say the least. Eddie and you end up squished together all thanks to Robin’s insistence that you can all squeeze into the booth. But, you can’t, leaving Steve in a chair pulled up on the end, dodging elbows of the staff carrying trays to the busy diner patrons. Finding it hard not to stare at the way his muscles flex under his plain white t-shirt or the way his neck extends, exposing his freckles and moles with every turn. 

His eyes catch you staring at one point and your gaze quickly drops to your plate, hands becoming busy with your coffee mug. Your stomach finds the giant waffle in front of you unappetizing. Eddie nudges your knee while offering a reassuring smile as Nancy watches all three of you over the rim of her coffee. 

Robin is oblivious to it all, chattering about her and Nancy’s trip next weekend, the football game coming up, and Eddie’s band potentially booking a gig for the Halloween party following it. 

“Wait, we’ve barely hit September, Halloween?” Eddie shoves pancakes into his cheek as he speaks. 

“In Chicago, Halloween is the entire month. So, in two weeks, October 1st equals Halloween season officially, baby!” Robin rubs her hands together like an evil genius before continuing, “Costume contests and bar crawls, horror movie trivia and marathons, oh my god all the Rocky Horror showings. It’s the best freaking time of the year.”

Nancy grimaces and Steve smiles for the first time all morning. “Have fun. Extremely happy to let you inherit the responsibility that is Robin for the month of October.” He removes an invisible hat from his head and pops it onto Nancy’s.

She smiles widely at him.  “Wow, King Steve removing his crown?”

“Only for those worthy.” He winks and they laugh about something you don’t understand, remembering you’re the outsider of this little group. Your chest burns from the thought of them together, the history they have. A bitter taste fills your mouth and it’s not from the coffee. Swallowing harshly as you push down whatever is brewing inside of you - definitely not jealousy. 

Robin rolls her eyes, responding dryly, “Ha-ha,” she takes the invisible crown and places it on her own head, sticking her tongue out at Steve. 

Eddie leans across the booth stealing it, “Oh no, I’ve wanted this bad boy since High School!” Robin and Eddie pretend to play tug of war with the invisible inside joke. Feeling yourself fading into the vinyl seats of the booth as they all reminisce about a particular Halloween from high school. Something about a party at Steve’s, pure fuel, and Eddie and Robin being higher than kites while they TP’d Steve’s backyard. 

Nancy covers her mouth in shock, “That was you guys?!” 

The two fall over in a fit of giggles and Nancy shakes her head, throwing a wadded up napkin at their faces. A smile sits on your lips as you poke at your waffle. A bump to your knee has you looking up to find Steve watching you, his eyebrows furrowed. Standing as you offer a shrug of your shoulders. 

Robin stops Nancy and Eddie from their loud boos about something, waving her hands, “Wait, where are you going?”

Your thumb hooks over your shoulder, “I’m gonna head home, I’m not feeling so hot, probably just too much sun yesterday.”

“I can walk you,” Eddie starts to get up and you motion for him to sit.

“It’s like a block away, I’m fine, promise. Catch up! You haven’t had the chance yet.”

Robin smiles at you, but it doesn’t meet her eyes as she tilts her head. Eddie nods once, sitting back down. Grabbing your receipt and quickly leaving the table with a wave. As you wait for the hostess to return to the register, the receipt is plucked from your fingers and Steve is next to you. 

A roll of your eyes as you huff a breath out of your nose, “Steve, give me my receipt.”

“Oh my god, so you can talk to me. Was worried I left my secret invisibility cloak on.”

He leans against the counter, chin resting in his palm as he raises his eyebrows. Shrugging your shoulders, you avoid his gaze. “Nothing to talk about,” you reach for the receipt again and he holds it away from you. Gritting through clenched teeth, “I can pay for myself.”

“I know you can, but it’s okay to let people do something for you sometimes.”

“It’s not sometimes with you Steve, you do it all the time. I don’t want your money - “ 

“You could just say thank you,” he rolls his eyes, “It doesn’t mean anything. Does it really bother you that much?”

“Yeah, it does, I’m able to pay for myself and I don’t need someone to provide for me.”

Steve stands up taller, crossing his arms as his voice lowers, “Probably didn’t have a problem letting Eddie provide you with your coffee this morning.”

Rolling your eyes again, you snort, snatching the receipt and leaning in closer. “Actually, not that it’s any of your business, but I bought his coffee to apologize to my friend for yesterday.”

Steve smirks, ripping the receipt from your fingers again, “Right, and I’m your friend offering to buy your breakfast.”

“If you were my friend, then you wouldn’t be acting like this,” your fingers graze his as you reach for the ticket again, and he closes his fist around it tighter. Your voice grows weak as you continue, “What are we doing Steve.”

His shoulders relax slightly and he sighs, blowing his breath out through his nose as he turns towards the counter. It wasn’t phrased as a question, but he answers anyways, “I don’t know. You tell me. You seem to want to call all the shots right? When we talk, when we don’t, when we fuck and who we tell.”

Your gaze jumps over to the booth, everyone caught up in conversation thankfully and you exhale. Turning on your heel, choosing that some battles are not worth fighting. Your armor has received far too many dents and you can’t afford to rebuild it again. 

“Not anymore,” you mumble to him as you try not to focus on the way his shoulders fall further or the wetness that pools on your lash line. 

The city transitions from Summer to Autumn in less than a week. Trees lining your neighborhood turn from green to yellows and reds. The air becomes cooler, easier to take deep breaths and be open to the change the season promises. Your fingers trail along the brick of an old building as you walk towards your favorite pizza place. Rounding the corner, you nearly smack into someone.

“Oh, sorry, I-”

“I’m so sorry-”

Steve stands in front of you and both trail off as you realize it’s each other. You almost didn’t recognize him with a black baseball hat on, tight black shirt and light wash jeans. It’s probably the most casual you’ve seen him and  you swallow harshly. Neither of you have messaged and you hate how much you wish he would have. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, twisting his lips up while squinting. “Hey, I was just coming to see if you were done avoiding me.”

A flip switched, your annoyance with him returns easily. Rolling your eyes as you push past him. “I’m not avoiding you.”

He spins to follow you, dragging out his word, “Riiight.” He kicks a pebble as he falls into step with you, “So, if you’re not avoiding me, let’s go back to your place and hang out. Maybe get Red Hot-”

Stopping abruptly, Steve nearly trips on his own feet as he comes to a halt next to you. Your arms cross as you look up at him, “Steve, I thought it was clear that the arrangement was over.”

He nods once, licking his lips before smiling, “I meant actual Red Hot Ranch, get your mind out of the gutter.” He’s trying to joke, but his tone is forced - like he’s speaking while holding his breath and it makes your chest hurt. 

Steve runs his hand through his hair before his arm falls to his side, “Seriously, I just…I’m sorry. About everything. And I miss my…friend?”

He lets the last word hang as a question. Debating if you can actually move on, you look up at the sky. You’re sure if you and Steve can get through this awkward sort of scramble to fix the mess you’ve made, you can be friends and end up happy. 

You want to move on from Steve, right?

Raising your arm, you gesture in the direction you had been heading in, speaking softly, “I was just on my way to Argyle’s, if you can handle sharing a pizza with a friend who likes olives?”

Steve’s lips twitch into a lopsided smile, remembering how the two of you met. He sighs dramatically before walking towards the bar, “Only if you agree to let me absolutely crush you at ski-ball at Replay after.”

A demolished pizza, a train ride, and several beers later, Steve is cupping his ear with his hand, a gloating grin on his lips as he asks, “How many games is that?”

Rolling your eyes, you scoff into the bottle and spin, scanning the barcade. It’s 80s theme this month, so while the front of the place is normal - pinball and arcade games - the people mingling about and heading to the back themed portion of the bar are decked out in neon, legwarmers, and dizzying patterns. An 80s playlist booms overhead mixing with dings of the pinball machines and chatter of bar goers. 

Your fingers tap on the side of your bottle and nod towards the machines, “You know, all of these are free and yet, I’ve never seen you play. Someone too chicken to lose at something he might not be the best at?”

Steve smirks around the lip of his bottle, “I’ll play you on any machine in here. Still gonna win.”

You’ve missed this with him, the banter and fun. No pressure and no feelings. Although, is it really without feelings when his cocky attitude is a turn on, because now you know how it translates into the bedroom? Will you ever be able to separate the two versions of Steve?

Spinning once more, you land on a Goonies themed free machine, you tap your fingers on the glass and face him, “Care to make it interesting?”

He leans against it, smiling. “What’d you have in mind?”

“If I win, I get to pay for the next round,” you point your finger thinking, “And the next dinner we have together!”

He shrugs, sipping his bear, “Fine. If I win, I pay for the next round, dinner next time we’re out, and I get to come over for a movie tonight. My choice.”

“Fine,” you narrow your eyes.

“Great,” he smiles wider. 

Suspicious with how easy he agreed to let you pay for something if you won, you gesture towards the game. “You go first.”

Steve hands you his beer, cracking his knuckles as he speaks, “Prepare to lose.”

Steve releases the ball, standing tall in front of the pinball machine, confident with his legs spread slightly, shoulders rolled back. You hate that your eyes travel to his butt and up his back, swallowing a drink of your beer as you reach his neck, his concentration present on his face under the baseball hat that you’re quickly wishing he’d wear more often. Watching as his long fingers press the buttons on the side of the game with quick and precise moves, his eyes roam over the glass, unmoving from the game as he smirks. “You didn’t read the names on the screen did you?” 

Flashing lights distract you from his face and fingers, turning towards the screen, Steve’s score trailing across it in bright red, then the list of top five scores appear where you see ‘Dingus’ and ‘Other Dingus’ as the top two names. 

Groaning, you close your eyes, “What?!”

He laughs, “Robs and I came here like every night when we first moved to the city and worked at that burger place just down the road.”

Steve pats your shoulder and when you open your eyes he’s smiling with fake sympathy, “I think I’m gonna make you watch a rom com tonight.”

Your groan grows in volume and you face the machine, shoving the two beers into his hands, “Bite me, Steven.”

Steve takes a sip of his beer, only to choke on it as you pull the lever and the ball immediately falls down the center. Brushing it off, you start on the second one, only for Steve to wince when you press the lever at just the wrong moment, sending the ball careening around the board with no way to control it or anticipate when it’ll drop again. 

He sets the beers down, holding up his hands, “Okay, hold on, hold on. I wanna win, but in a fair fight. This is pathetic.”

Steve comes up behind you, you hold your breath as his hands hover over yours, arms on either side of you and he whispers, “Can I help show you something?”

Worried your voice is going to betray you, you just nod and Steve steps closer. His head to the side of yours, cheeks almost touching as his fingers land above your own. He watches as your first ball goes ping ponging around the board again, laughing a little as you stick your tongue out and jab at the buttons. He whispers close to your ear, “You’re hitting it at the right time, just too quick and choppy. You gotta take a deep breath before hitting the button, relax your body.”

The heat of Steve’s face next to yours, his chest just touching your back, it’s melting you, words he’s saying fried on impact in your brain like an egg on a sidewalk. You couldn’t take his advice if you tried, the instructions gone from your thoughts as your body betrays you, underwear growing slick between your thighs.  

“Show me?” you squeak out and out of the corner of your eyes you see his lips tip up on one side in a smile. Will Steve be able to ignore your tells, will he ever be able to separate the two versions of you either? 

The second ball releases, Steve’s fingers lace with yours over the buttons, he whispers, “Okay, deep breath,” you feel his chest expand against you, feel his breath hit your neck as he turns to face you instead of the game, “Now.”

His fingers press yours into the button gently, his nose brushing up your neck slowly and the ball hitting the exact spot you wanted and you spin to face him, ignoring the game. “I-”

A girl comes out of the bright pink bathroom, mascara on her cheeks and blowing her nose loudly and interrupting any moment you two were just having. Her friend wraps her arm around her. “He’s an idiot.”

“Why doesn’t he love me!” She wails, swiping at her nose with toilet paper another girl hands her. The two friends on either side of the crying girl communicate silently with their eyes. One touches her finger to her nose before the other can, holding her hands up in surrender. 

Steve’s eyes meet yours, shimmering with held back laughter and you cover your smile with your fingers. He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear and you hate that you shiver as he speaks, “You are so not laughing.”

“No! He’s gonna be my husband!” The clearly drunk girl hiccups and the friend who didn’t tap her nose quick enough whispers, “Babe, you met him last week on tinder.”

An unstoppable snort leaves you and your shoulders shake, forehead pressing to his chest. 

“Hey! What’s so funny assholes?” The one girl directs towards the two of you. 

The sad girl hits her friend's shoulder, “Don’t be mean, they’re clearly in…lo...love!” She starts crying harder and Steve’s shoulders start to shake too, his hand grabbing yours and pulling you back into the themed part of the bar. 

He drags his palm down his cheek, laughing still, “Not funny. It’s not funny.”

Straightening, you form a serious face, mashing your lips together. “Right. Not funny.”

Your eyes meet and your laughter bursts out of you again, wiping your eyes as you lean against each other. 

Steve shakes his head, removing his hat for a second to run his hand through his hair, before adjusting the cap. His shirt rises a little, exposing the line of dark hair that runs under the waistband of his jeans. Your laughter dies off, eyes trying to look anywhere but there.   

He motions to the bar, grinning as he asks “I believe I get to get the next round?”

Rolling your eyes, you shoo him away, leaning against a small unoccupied table. As you wait for him to return, you’re lost in people watching and admiring the decorations. Replay does not hold back when it comes to a theme, specific and hidden nods to the decade surround you as you watch the groups and couples enjoying themselves. Some clearly on first dates, or new to seeing each other. Lots of sipping of drinks, nodding, restless hands and standing not too close to each other. Then there’s those that your chest twinges a little as you watch them. The couple at one of the tables with arms around each other, laughing and kissing temples. The two that come out of the photobooth catch your attention the most. They’re giggling, stealing kisses and holding hands, waiting as their pictures print. Their heads lean together as one of them squeals, “Aww, babe!”

The bump of your drink against the wood tabletop pulls you away, Steve watching you curiously, he raises his eyebrows, “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I just didn’t know people actually did photo booths anymore. Or like, got excited about them. Never done it before.” Shrugging as you take a sip. 

Steve’s mouth falls open, “You’ve never…Come on.”

He’s pulling you over despite your protests, sitting down and waiting for you. He rolls his eyes and pats his thigh, “Not like you haven’t sat on my thigh before.”

“Jesus, Steve.” Hissing at him as you sit, swiping the curtain closed behind you. 

The space is even smaller than it looks, and it takes Steve and you a second to find a comfortable position. Your elbow bumps the wall as you try to sneak it around his shoulders and give up, resting them in front of you in your lap. His chin knocks against your shoulder as he moves his arm around your waist. 

Steve leans forward to press the button and you stop him, “Wait!” 

He raises his eyebrows at you, looking up and you realize his face is right in front of your chest and you squeeze your eyes closed, “What…uh…what do we do? Smile or - “

Steve's fingers tap your hip, “We’ll figure it out. Relax.”

The number flashes on the screen, your faces filling it and Steve suggests a silly one first, his tongue sticking out and his eyes crossing. You’re mid laugh in that one. He hooks both arms around you, pulling you further onto his lap and his chin falling over your shoulder for the next one. Smiling for the camera normally, until right before the flash he blows a raspberry in your neck, squeezing your waist. You’re caught up in scolding him, trying to jab at his sides in the next one. By the fourth photo you’re laughing, looking at each other as your breathing slows down with smiles. After the flash, Steve’s hand cups your cheek, leaning in closer as your smiles fall and your breath picks up for an entirely different reason. 

“Steve…” your voice is a breath. 

He swallows, his own voice not any louder, “Yeah?”

Your noses are touching, lips hovering over each other’s as you speak, “We should-”

The flash goes off and you both freeze, the booth’s voice echoing and telling you your photos are printing. Clearing your throat, you pull the curtain and stand, Steve following you out and he exhales, sipping his drink. Well, more like chugging it, his finger looped into his collar as he tugs it away from his neck. 

The strip falls into the little cubby and you pull it out with a smile. Your thumb brushes over the photoset, happy to have a physical memory of you and Steve. You get it, why people like them. They’re black and white - timeless. Little moments caught where you weren’t overthinking what Steve and you are, or what you’ll be or how you’ll never work. 

It’s just the two of you at that moment, and you’re glad you have the photos because you already miss it. 

He’s behind you, voice quiet as his eyes take them in, “Do you like them?”

You nod your head, smiling wider, “Yeah, I really do. Thanks.”

He hums, nodding towards the door, “Wanna…?”

A very open ended question, but you nod, slipping the photos into your back pocket and walking out ahead of him. 

Your walk to the blue line stop is silent. Your hands barely touch as you walk, the back of Steve’s fingers hitting yours. Does he want to hold hands? Do you want that too? Lost in a day dream of what it would be like to let yourself walk around holding hands with someone like Steve Harrington.

The sunset draws your attention as you lean on the wall waiting for the train, your chin resting on your folded arms. Oranges and pinks are vibrant streaks across the sky as the sun sinks lower and lower behind the buildings. 

You turn and catch Steve watching you. His eyes melt as they meet yours, orange golden light hitting his jaw, eyes turning into the stickiest honey you’ve yet to see. Your breath catches in your chest and you raise your eyebrows, “What?”

He smiles, soft and barely twitching his lips up before his eyes fall to the ground. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, “Nothing. I like watching you watch the sunset is all.”

Your heart beats harder and you turn your gaze back on the sky as you exhale, “I never said sorry either you know. And I am,” you look at him again, his eyebrows furrow, and you continue, “Sorry, I mean. It’s kind of all my fault.”

The train pulls up then, both of you caught up in getting on and failing to find a seat. You stand with your back to the doors, chairs to one of your sides and Steve steadies himself with a palm over your shoulder. You’re close, caged in, and on a jolt of the car, you lean forward and catch yourself on his chest. He looks down at you, eyes bouncing between yours. The loud rumble of the car rattles inside your ribcage and as the train goes through a tunnel, the quick bursts of lights outside flash across his face. 

“Sorry it happened or sorry it’s over?”

“What?” You ask quietly, confused by his question. 

He steps closer and your back arches, forgetting there’s other people on the train with you as  he speaks quietly, barely able to hear over the noise of the train, “Earlier. You said you were sorry. That it was your fault. So you’re sorry it happened at all or sorry it’s over?”

“Steve…” you tilt your head, lip almost catching his.

His breath fans across your cheek, “I’m not sorry.” His nose nudges into your cheek and he whispers, “I’m not sorry about any of it. Sorry I hurt you, but not sorry about it happening. And I’m definitely sorry it’s over.”

Your words are caught in your throat. Is this what you want? Do you want Steve completely? Even if it means hurting him? Even if it means getting hurt yourself?

The train announces your stop and his arm falls, following you out the doors. His admission hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the thick heat that’s started to fall over the city. Is it too late to tell him you feel the same way? Can you even tell him that when you can barely admit it to yourself? 

As you step down the stairs to the sidewalk, you see Stan’s and you gesture to it, “Grilled cheese or a donut for the walk back?”

He nods and you don’t argue with him when he pulls out his wallet, only whispering a quiet thank you. You walk in silence, your mind races just as fast as your heart. It’s crazy to think you could let yourself be open to Steve. Robin is right, you’re different, and it’s never going to work. It already hurts now, what happens if it really doesn’t work out?

Taking turns with the sandwich, Steve takes a bite and sighs, stuffing the piece into his cheek. “I only ever make these when I’m sick. Kind of forget they exist outside of that.”

“So that’s your favorite food when you’re sick?” You question as he hands the sandwich back to and you round the corner, your apartment only a block away now. 

He nods, licking his finger and squinting at the sky. “Yeah, grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

“Respectable choice,” you speak around your own bite and you smile. 

You’re stopped at a crosswalk, and Steve watches you, blowing his breath out through parted lips, “Are you going to leave me hanging?”

You know he’s referring to what he just said on the train. Your eyes drop to the sidewalk, stomach turning as you speak, “Steve, we’re…this isn’t going to work. We’re too different. And you don’t even know me. Not really.”

He steps closer, fingers on your chin as he tilts your face up to look at him. He licks his lips, shaking his head and his voice is desperate, “I do. I do know you. I know you like sunsets, and your favorite foods, and what kind of body wash you use…”

His words make tears spring to your eyes, chest tightening as you shake your head. He continues, “You can tell me things. I-” he rubs his thumb across your cheek, “If you give it a chance and open up to someone-”

Maybe it’s a sign from the universe, because before he can keep going, before you can respond, the sky opens up, dumping rain on you from seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Fuck!” He screams, swiping at his eyes as the torrential downpour swallows you both.

Grabbing his hand as the light changes, you take off towards your apartment, both of you blindly running as the rain streams down your face. People honking or running by with umbrellas as you cut across the busy street screaming at Steve to hurry. 

“I’m trying! I can’t see anything more than like two steps in front of me!”

You come to a stop outside your apartment, rain pounding against you both and Steve tries to cover you with his arms, doing absolutely nothing as you fiddle with your keys in your pocket. Finally getting the front door open, the door closes and the sound of your clothes dripping onto the tile is soft compared to what sounds like a hurricane coming down outside the doors. 

Steve removes his hat, shaking his hair and running a hand through it before wringing out the cap, water dripping sadly from it and landing in the quickly forming puddles beneath your feet. Your eyes meet after watching it and you can’t help it, you both burst out laughing. It’s all so ridiculous, or maybe it’s the beers you’ve had. Taking a step, your shoes squish loudly and you groan and Steve's laughter fades and he covers his mouth, shaking his head as he looks up at the ceiling. 

The entire trip up the stairs, the squishing of your socks in your shoes landing on each step only seems to get louder. It’s comical, straight out of a cartoon and every time you look down at your shoes annoyed, Steve’s lips twitch in a fight against a smile. 

A particularly wet squelch happens on the top step and Steve snorts and whispers, “That’s what good pus-”

“Stop!” You cover your face with your palm, hiding your laughter as you interrupt his crude joke. 

Steve can’t stop laughing, both of you breathlessly wheezing as you make it to your front door finally. It’s that kind of laughter that can’t be stopped, spurred on by the other’s picking back up. You don’t even know what’s so funny anymore, all you know is your cheeks and stomach hurt and you don’t want it to be over. 

Stopped at your door, you swipe at your eyes and your laughter trails off naturally. The soft glow of the dimming hallway lights casting Steve in pale yellow, his eyes bounce between yours. Chests rising and falling almost in tandem, your breathing slightly ragged from running and laughing. The air around you feels different and Steve swallows harshly, your eyes follow the movement of his adam’s apple. You’re scared to speak, because maybe if you do, the night isn’t going to end the way you’re too afraid to admit you want it to. 

It’s silly, really, drenched from a surprise rain storm, the night you’ve had with each other and the things he’s said. It’s almost like a date, a pivotal scene from the movies you claim to hate. 

It’s almost like you want Steve to kiss you. 

Your body knows before your brain can catch up, or maybe it’s your heart this time. Drawing closer to each other, Steve pulls you in time and time again. Your own moon, controlling your tides. Keeping you tethered to him, grounded in his gravity and weightless in the same breath. How can someone who makes you feel like this not be meant to be in your life? How could it not work out?

Steve closes the distance, the tips of his sneakers tapping yours as he looks down at where his hand falls to rest on your waist. Your head tilts with an easy familiarity, eyes on his mouth as his nose brushes against yours. He sighs, eyes flitting up to yours as he speaks, barely louder than a breath, “I really missed you.”

His fingers are warm on your side, cold fabric of your shirt bunched up slightly as his thumb brushes across your skin. His other hand rises, almost in slow motion, and cradles your cheek. Steve’s voice is raspy, a little broken as he promises, “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

You really want him to kiss you. 

Your top lip skims his as you lean into him more, speaking even softer than he is, “I don’t want you to stop.”

Steve’s fingers squeeze your hip as his other hand glides to the back of your head. Tangling in your hair as he tilts your head further, lips meeting softly as your eyes flutter closed. A simple press, his breath hits your top lip as he pulls away slightly. Your eyes open, the warmth of his meeting yours, your own personal sunshine back and surrounding you. His hands move, cupping both of your cheeks. Steve's eyes close as he pulls you in again, mouth parting over yours and he sighs into you, filling your lungs with air like you hadn't been able to take a deep breath without him. 

Your stomach flips as he kisses you slower than he ever has - it's easy, familiar, yet new at the same time. Kisses that are sweeter and savoring, nose squished into yours, desperate to be closer. Thumbs brushing over your cheeks, foreheads pressed together. Steve's head tilts, nose bumping higher on your cheek, thumb dragging down your jaw gently as his tongue glides over the seam of your lips, sighing into you again as you open for him. 

Hands roaming to his chest, your palms flatten there as your back bumps into the door. Steve slots his knee between your legs, letting the weight of his body fall against you as your hands climb up his chest. One rests on his shoulder, thumb tugging and brushing against the collar of his shirt as the other trails higher on his neck until it holds his jaw. The slight scratch of scruff against your face contrasting with soft lips that continue to kiss you like he thinks he won't get to ever again. 

It turns desperate quickly, breathily sighing his name into his mouth as he sucks on your bottom lip. It makes Steve kiss even slower, a different kind of teasing than you're used to with each other. His lips move over yours languidly, but precise. Each press to yours a conscious decision, every nudge of his nose against yours purposeful until he's got his hands on either side of your head, palms holding him up against the door. Until yours are twisting his shirt in your fists. Kissing you so slow, you've forgotten to come up for air, panting breaths and back arching as he lets his teeth drag on your bottom lip. Tugging it and sucking before releasing it with a quiet pop. Steve laughs a little into your jaw as you shiver. He's breathing hard, lips ghosting over your skin as you breathlessly laugh too.

"Are we-"

"Do you want to-"

Smiling as you speak at the same time, both sounding a little wrecked. 

"Fuck, please," Steve pleads into your lips and you can't move fast enough. 

Reaching behind you to your door handle, you spin to unlock it as Steve presses up behind you. Large hands landing on your hips after he brushes your hair to one side. Nose dragging against the back of your ear, breath hot against your skin as he mouths at you, "Baby, hurry."

Baby.

Heart stuttering at the name you didn't realize how much you missed until you heard it again. 

You laugh, realizing this is crazy, only for it to break off into a moan as he presses his growing erection into your back and sucks at the skin just behind your ear. "Fu-fuck, Steve," you stumble as his fingers squeeze your hips and his bruising mark heats up under his mouth, "St-stop distracting me."

Steve's smile against your skin makes you shiver again. Soft lips grazing just barely against your cheek, down to your jaw. His hands bunch your shirt into his fists, knuckles brushing your sides as he sighs. "Dunno what you're talking about honey."

The lock clicks open finally, Steve reaches for the knob, engulfing your hand with his and pushing you both inside. He laces his fingers into yours as his other hand locks the door once more. Fingers intertwined, he spins you, back against the door again. 

"Smooth," you smirk as he catches your lips with his.

"You liked it," he breathes into your mouth. He tugs at your hips until you're straddling his thigh. One hand wraps around your back, palm pressing you closer to him as his lips move over yours slowly once more. 

You're not sure how long it's been since you've been kissed like this - if you've ever been kissed like this. 

Parted lips, tongues meeting soft and lazy, your fingers get lost in his hair as his slowly roam under your thighs, lifting you and guiding you to wrap around his waist. Steve starts laughing as you kick your shoes off and he nearly trips on them as he makes his way to your bedroom, kicking his own off somewhere along the way. 

Rain hits against your bedroom window rhymically, curtains filtering in the pale blue dusk as Steve sits down on your bed. Your legs falling on either side of his hips as you straddle him.

Steve deepens the kiss, breath warm on your cheek as he angles his head, smiling as you moan when he nips at your bottom lip again. He pulls away just enough to look at you, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as his eyes move over your face, tracking and tracing over the freckles and curves of you. You missed seeing him in this space and it makes your heart beat harder. Realizing in just a week the scent of his cologne has faded from your sheets, second coffee cups unused, a tangible thing missing from your home in too many ways to count. 

Steve's watching you curiously as your hands moved without realizing, tracing over the features of his face physically. Fingers over his eyebrows, the slope of his nose, his flushed cheeks before following the curve of his top lip. Backtracking and touching his cupid's bow. His own thumb roams to your lips too, dragging over your bottom lip as he sighs, "I don't have a condom. I didn't really expect..."

Your fingers fall, shrugging as you quietly admit, "I don’t either. But I haven't slept with anyone but you Steve. Not since before..."

"Yeah?" he swallows, thumb on your chin and pulling you in for a soft kiss. The rain picks up somehow, mirroring your hammering heart. 

Reluctantly removing your lips from his, your fingers scratch down his shirt. They fiddle with the hem of it as you avoid his gaze, "Have...have you?" 

He shakes his head, nose bumping yours as he whispers, "Just you."

"Okay," you exhale a shaky breath. 

He smiles, hands wrapping around your back. "Okay."

A crack of thunder rumbles outside so loud it feels like it's inside your apartment and you jump, clinging to Steve. His hands soothe up your spine, nose pressing into your cheek as his fingers cradle your jaw again. Your lips catch his top one in a soft press before your hands lift his shirt. 

You've removed each other's clothes before, but something about tonight feels different. Slowly tugging the shirt over his head, hair ruffled as it's drying. Your hands roam over his biceps, leaning in to kiss him again, smiling as his muscles flex under your fingertips as his run across the exposed skin on your lower back. Fingernails scratch down his chest, curls of his chest hair sticking to his tanned skin from the rain that soaked through the fabric. His arms are filled with new freckles from all the sun lately and you can’t help but lean forward and let your lips drag over them. As your fingers stop on his stomach, Steve slowly lifts your shirt from you. A flash of lightning illuminates your room, Steve's eyes drinking you in as his hands roam over you just as yours had on him. Buzzing touches into your skin, sending vibrations throughout your body as he pulls you closer to his chest. 

His nose ghosts over the shell of your ear, lips kissing under it. The pads of his fingers press into your spine and he sighs as he leaves a trail of kisses down your neck to your shoulder. Resting in a spot only he's found that makes you whimper without control, lip tugging between your teeth and back arching as he bites down gently. He sucks over the spot before his tongue soothes it as his hands cradle you closer. He sighs into your neck as you whine again. His breath is fast and hot against your skin, kissing up the column of your throat as you extend it for him, head thrown back as he holds you tighter. His mouth moves lower as his hands do the same, pulling you down and guiding you to rock against him and your stomach flutters alive with butterflies. 

Steve can’t seem to keep his hands still, squeezing your hips, roaming to your back again, soon he’s cradling your jaw, pulling you in for a deeper kiss as he falls onto the bed further. He groans as you grind against the bulge under his jeans, rolling your hips harder as his hands slip into your back pockets. Your kiss becomes frantic, letting your weight fall against him completely and he breathes into you, hands moving to your back again. “Hey,” he shakes his head against your lips, smile ghosting over them as you whine. He tugs on your chin, thumb holding it as he gasps into your mouth, “Slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

A whimper into his lips, his words make your chest ache. His fingers toy with the strap of your dark maroon bra, they trace the lace above the cups, thumb brushing over the hardened bead of your nipple through the fabric. He breathes into your lips, smiling, “This is new isn’t it?”

Nodding against his kiss, you whine again as his fingers move at a tantalizing pace over your skin, rolling you onto your back. He holds your waist as your back arches and his lips kiss over your chest. He huffs a quiet laugh into your navel as he moves lower, “You were so going to Argyle’s to try to get laid tonight.”

You’re quiet at his words, pretending like you didn’t hear him and he gasps dramatically against your skin. Lips and nose tracing the band of your jeans as his fingers squeeze at your hips. “Wow. And here I thought I was special.”

His fingers fiddle with the zipper of the denim as you breathily ask, “Excuse me?”

He pops open the button, rolling your jeans down, nose dragging over the maroon colored lace exposed. Steve scoffs, “Aha! Matching new set! I was right!”

Your hips lift as he tugs the pants off of you completely and you roll your eyes, ignoring him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He makes eye contact with you as he unbuttons his own jeans, disbelief in every feature of his face and you bite your lip as his pants drop and he steps out of them. His fingers trail up your legs, hooking around your knees as he crawls forward. Squirming under him as his thumb brushes the ticklish spot and he smirks. His hands climb up your thighs, squeezing at the soft and doughy flesh. 

Steve’s lips trail across your hips, skimming across the band of lace as you breathe out, “Okay, how did you…oh,” thoughts broken off into a moan as he sucks on your hip, fingers dragging over your clothed slit. 

He kisses up your body, nose pressed to your jaw as the pads of two his fingers dip under the band of lace, teasing, not moving any further, brushing back and forth. His legs straddle one of yours, hard length pressed to your hip, your other leg rising as your back arches. Steve smiles against your jaw, fingers slowly moving lower as your breath quickens. He speaks into your neck, “Honey, were you really about to ask me how I knew?”

He presses a soft kiss to your damp skin, goosebumps rising as he whispers, “Told you, I know you.”

The pad of his finger catches your clit just barely, slipping past it and you whine, fingers twisting in your comforter as your toes curl. Steve makes a soft tutting noise, “She’s needy, huh? Missed me?”

You want to roll your eyes at his cockiness, but your thighs spread, head nodding as you tug your lip between your teeth. 

When Steve said slow down, he meant it. His kissing, his words, the slow pace of his movements has you aroused embarrassingly quick, slick coating between your thighs. His fingers drag through your folds, teasing at your entrance and quite literally slipping up to your clit, pressing lazy and messy circles into it. A sigh, a whine of his name falls past your lips as your hands find his shoulders. Your body stretches away from him, overwhelmed already as he props himself up on his forearm and hip. 

He gives in to your whimpers, granting you a kiss. Lips latched onto your top one as he breathes heavily, his fingers sliding easily through you as he rolls his hips against your side. Your fingers scratch down his chest, hooking around his neck and tugging him on top of your body. His hand slips from your underwear, cradling your face as he grinds himself against you. 

Arching as your hands roam over the muscles of his back, you push at his boxers. His hands move to your hips, both of you sliding undergarments from each other while refusing to break your kiss. His tip catches at your clit and you moan into his lips. He unclasps your bra, flinging it somewhere and you nod against him, nose pressed to his cheek as he slides through your folds, nudging at your entrance. 

Steve pushes into you torturously slowly, your lungs feel like the air was sucked from them. Tears pricking at your lash line because you missed him. Missed this, of course, but you’re realizing you just missed Steve. 

His mouth falls open against yours, eyes pinching closed as his hand grips at your waist. Cursing softly at the roll of your hips, begging him to go deeper. His hand squeezes your thighs, wrapping them around his waist as he bottoms out, your strangled moans mixing together. 

Steve focuses on your lips again, kissing you softly as your ankles lock behind his back. He lets his weight fall on you, hand against your lower back as he angles your body for him, beginning to thrust slowly. 

Sex with Steve has always been good. He takes care of you, makes sure you’re comfortable, you orgasm at least once (but always more), and praising you to no end. His dirty talk is what always pushes you over the edge, hurtling through space. 

This is different. 

The rain beats loudly against your window, your sighs and gasps lost in it. He’s breathing your name into your lips, fingers pressed into your spine. Every drag of his cock along your walls makes him moan, makes you clench around him tighter. Your foreheads press together, his nose nudges into your cheek, you want him closer and it’s impossible, there���s nothing between you and you feel the stones of the wall you surround yourself with crumbling. 

Rolling your hips to meet each of his thrusts, he whispers into your mouth, “So good f’me,” kissing you sweetly, “Baby.” His hands roam up your body, fingertips grazing across your skin. He pushes himself deeper and you gasp out his name. The cool metal of Steve’s chain hanging from his neck, taps at your chin with each lazy thrust and your thumbs drag on it around his neck, tugging. Part of you wants to rip it off, wrap it around your own neck and be his. 

Steve practically begs, your name a plea on his lips against yours as his fingers roam higher, lacing with yours and pushing them into the pillows. Held hands above your head now and you moan loudly, nodding into his kiss as the new position gives him leverage to roll his hips. Each thrust hitting deeper now, pausing before he pulls out halfway and does it all over again. Frantic as your body fills with heat, telling him to keep going, that it’s the perfect spot. Bodies sliding together like they’re made for each other, sweat slicked as they drag against one another. Steve pants your name again, fingers flexing in yours as you grip him tighter, sinking into the mattress with every slow and powerful thrust. 

He squeezes your hands harder and your stomach somersaults. Lips moving against yours needy, desperate, you can feel the ache in his chest mixing with yours as his thrusts pick up their pace. Your foreheads still touching, his kiss turns soft, contrasting with the way his hips meet yours - the sound of your slick coating him mixing with the rain. His mouth hovers over yours and your eyes flutter open, making eye contact with him. Steve’s face is flushed, eyes looking at you like no one ever has before, like a bulldozer was taken to the wall around your heart, metal armor shattering and clanging to the floor.

He squeezes your hands again, pushing them higher and your mouth parts in a gasp as something in you melts with each snap of his hips. Your ears buzz with static, lips tingling against his as white heat bursts through you, thighs shaking around his waist. This has to be what it feels like to sit in a rocket before take off. Adrenaline and excitement mixed with something that makes your pulse throb in your ears. 

Steve whispers into your lips, “That’s it, honey, come on.” Your stomach flips around his words, your orgasm rolling through you. Squeezing his hands as your back arches. Your eyes flutter open, making eye contact with him again. Steve kisses you harder, moaning into your lips as his thrusts stutter, his release filling you up as you come down from your high.

His movements slow, both of you breathing heavily, skin flushed and damp. Steve releases your fingers, dragging his hands down your body, wrapping around your lower back. Yours fall around his shoulders, holding the back of his head, scratching at his scalp and smiling when he shivers. His nose brushes down yours, eyes meeting before his look at your lips. Fluttering closed as you kiss again. 

A different kiss. 

The kind you’ve only watched in the movies. The kiss after, not fucking, but the kind of sex where you can feel the emotions coming off the screen. 

You’re exhausted, limbs heavy and eyelids even more so. Your fingers card through his hair as his lips slip over yours lazily. Rolling to his side and pulling you with him, Steve pulls out of you with a quiet wince, his touch buzzing circles into your spine. 

“That was…” you whisper, breaking off into a yawn. 

“Yeah?” You don’t have to open your eyes to know he’s smiling. 

“Yeah.” Kissing his jaw and sighing as sleep tries to pull you under. 

Steve’s strong and warm arms, the rain, and the way your heart feels lighter, gooier, it’s all a perfect concoction for sleep, and despite knowing that you need to talk about this, you don’t. You let the heavy blanket of exhaustion wash over you, curling into Steve’s chest as your breathing grows more steady. 

Unsure of how long you’re asleep for, you wake to the soft silk of his lips on your temple, then your cheek. Steve’s whisper of having to leave and you hum, not really hearing him. Fully rising when the sun is too warm on your face coming in through the curtains. Your eyes blink open heavily, the mattress next to you empty. 

Rolling to your side, you hide your smile with the blanket. A glass of water with a note leaning against it from Steve, reminding you he left and he’ll text you. 

The corner of white sticking out from your jeans on the floor draws your attention. Pulling the sheet around you as you pad over to it, your photos from last night are a blur. Water damaged, and smeared on the edges, but if you squint you can still make out yours and Steve’s smiles. Your thumb brushes over the last one, heartbeat kicking up as your palms sweat and you close your eyes. 

Fuck. 

Are you falling in love with Steve Harrington? 

The buzz of your phone wakes you from your half asleep state, forehead and neck clammy with sweat and you pull your blanket over your shoulders again. Burrowing your face in your pillow as tears prick behind your eyes. You miss Steve, and you haven’t had a chance to talk other than a few texts since last weekend. You have no idea what he’s thinking and you’ve been ripping yourself up from the inside out with your own conflicted feelings. Silly to cry over it, you know that, but your hormones have other plans. 

Swiping at your lash line, you respond quickly and lock your phone, eyes focusing back on the movie playing. 

An hour later when your front door rings for the take out you ordered, you buzz them in and unlock the door. Returning from your bedroom as you pull a sweatshirt on, your body freezes at the sight of Steve standing in your doorway. 

He’s dressed slightly more formal than you’ve ever seen him. Hair gelled perfectly, matching navy suit with the coat and vest that’s usually missing from his work attire. The tips of his brown shoes and sheen of his matching leather belt make you glance down at your own outfit. You’re in your comfiest sweats, one leg tucked into fuzzy socks with ducks, your sweatshirt you just pulled on ripping at the sleeves, giant gaping holes in it and stains down the front. Your hair is sweaty, yanked back in a frizzled and matted ponytail. 

Your arms curl in on yourself. “What are you doing here?”

Steve closes the door behind him, holding up two brown paper bags from two different places. He goes to your kitchen with a frown on his face. “You said you were sick. Do you always buzz people in without asking their name and leave your door unlocked for them? Cause that’s really not safe?”

He spins, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his vest as he looks in your cupboard for a plate. He asks over his shoulder, “Do you want the chinese food I intercepted at the door or the pancakes I brought?”

His words make tears fall past your lash line and you quickly swipe at them, clearing your throat before he notices and you whisper, “Pancakes, please.”

He starts opening the bag, looking up at you. His cheeks turn pink, rubbing the back of his neck as he nods towards the couch with a smile, “Go lay down, you look like crap.”

Rolling your eyes, you sniffle but listen to him. Sitting up now and curled under your blanket, you reach for the cord of your heating pad, bumping up the temp as he enters the room with a plate. Watching him take in the stack of movies, the book on your coffee table, the heating pad, bottle of painkillers and finally your face. 

His lips twitch up on one side as he sits, lifting your legs and draping them over his lap as he hands you the plate. 

“Thanks,” you whisper. 

Steve watches as you roll a pancake, picking it up with your fingers and nibble on it, closing your eyes as it hits your tongue with a quiet sigh. 

He rubs at your ankle, thumb soothing under the elastic of the bottom of your sweats. Squirming at the thought of your prickly hair, you start to pull away from him, voice tense, “Steve…”

He massages your calf and your eyes flutter closed, moaning into your bite of pancake. When you open them, you see him smiling at the screen and your other foot kicks at his thigh, “Stop gloating.”

His fingernails scratch down your leg and you shiver, rolling your shoulders back as he speaks softly, “I’m not gloating. Just nice that you’re letting me take care of you is all.”

Normally you’d push back, shut him down, tell him you don’t need his help, but it’s been a particularly bad period and after your last night with him, your emotions are getting the best of you. 

Sinking down into the couch, you mumble into your pancakes, “Sometimes it’s nice to be taken care of…”

Steve hums, eyes trained on The Princess Bride playing on your small TV as he asks, “When’s the last time you let someone do that?”

Shrugging your shoulders, your eyes trained on your pancakes that become blurry, as you squeak out, “I don’t know. A while.”

He drops the subject, both of you sinking into the couch as he massages up and down both of your calves. His fingers and thumbs resting on your ankle as the movie plays. Eventually your eyes start to drift closed as the credits roll and Steve squeezes your leg gently, whispering, “Hey, why don’t you go lay down in bed.”

“ ‘m fine. Not tired,” you mumble, eyes blinking open. 

He scoffs, slipping out from under you and before you can protest, he’s pulling your blanket off, unplugging your heating pad. He picks you up under your arms, hoisting you to your feet as you groan. Your hands wrap around his neck, face pressed to his chest as you yawn. Steve’s arms wrap around you hesitantly, his cheek to the top of your head. 

You stand there for a while, holding each other, your breath falling more even as you inhale his cologne. All woodsy and the faintest hint of a cigar on his tie. 

His palms rub up and down your spine and he whispers, “Come on, I’ll put a movie on your laptop and you’ll feel a lot better laying down in there, right?”

Nodding your head, you let him go, heading to the bathroom before finding him in your room. He’s fluffing your pillow and smiling at you as you stand in the doorway. He pats the bed and you make no movement to enter the room, hands twisting together in front of you as your stomach ties itself in a knot, your words stuck in your throat. 

Steve stops his movement, eyebrows raising, “What’s up?”

Exhaling a breath through your nose, your eyes look into his before finding the floor much more interesting as you ask, “Will you…will you stay?”

“Yeah, of course.” He looks down at his clothes and then up at you, gesturing to them, “Is it okay if I take these off?”

Smiling, you tug your lip between your teeth as you climb into your bed, “What, you don’t wanna relax in a three piece suit, Steve?”

He rolls his eyes but starts unbuttoning his slacks, you try to focus on pulling up a movie instead of the way he carefully folds his pants and vest over your desk chair. He’s got just his button down on now, black boxer’s and thick dress socks. You drag your palm down your cheek and scold yourself for letting your hormones derail your thoughts into something dirty. He’s just a friend here to watch a movie.  

He looks at the laptop screen as he hangs the button down in the same place, crawling in next to you in just his white undershirt and boxers. Warm socked feet tangling with yours as he raises his eyebrows and asks, “Holes? You wanna watch the movie Holes?”

Shrugging your shoulders, you roll onto your side to face the screen, quietly admitting, “Yeah, it’s a good movie. You don’t like it?”

Steve props himself up on his arm, head resting in his palm as his other hand rubs at your shoulder. “No, it’s good. I’m just surprised by your movie choices tonight is all.”

Your eyes flutter closed as his hand rests on your waist, thumb brushing under your sweatshirt at the bare skin he finds there. Humming as you relax back against his warmth. “What do you mean?”

Steve’s breath is warm on your neck and cheek as his thumb continues to rub circles, “I don’t know, The Princess Bride? Holes? I saw The Notebook out there and your book on the table was Pride and Prejudice. Seems like someone who hates love, secretly doesn’t.”

You huff, burrowing back against him and tangling your legs between his. If you had your eyes open you’d see him smiling down at your pout, but you do feel his squeeze on your hip as you reply, “Holes doesn't have anything to do with love and The Notebook is out there because Robin left it here after she made me watch it, so.”

Steve laughs quietly, “Holes is totally a love story. Sam’s ‘I can fix that’ is a nod to ‘As you wish’ and Kate’s revenge is because the love of her life was killed, and,” Steve squeezes your hip again, nose dragging across the back of your neck as he whispers, “That’s bullshit about Robin, cause I know for a fact she hates The Notebook.”

Your heart beats faster in your chest, palms sweating where they hold your blanket up to your chin as your eyes open. You want to deny it. To tell him he’s got it wrong, but there is something about these movies that always pulls you back in, and maybe it’s okay to tell him that. 

“I like that they all still love each other, even when they’re ripped apart from each other. They didn’t let life take their love away.”

Steve’s breath changes on your neck, his fingers pause just slightly on your hip and you feel tears in your eyes as you clear your throat. Deciding that if you want Steve in your life, you’re going to have to be open and tell him things you normally keep close and guarded. 

Not noticing you’re doing it, you pull his hand from your hip, playing with his fingers in front of you as you tell him all about your parents, their once in a lifetime kind of love. Dancing in the kitchen and your dad hitting your mom’s butt when she wore a particular pair of jeans. Your tears fall down your cheeks and you wipe at them as the movie continues to play while you retell their love story and how they met. Their date nights once a month no matter what, their coffee on Sunday mornings and feeding each other food while driving on long road trips. Knowing each other’s orders and getting the other ice cream even when they say they didn’t want anything.  

Rolling to face him, Steve’s eyes roam over your face, his thumb brushing at your cheeks before you grab it again, holding it against your chest as you tell him how your mom got sick. How your boyfriend in college who you’d thought was the one left when it got hard. How you watched your mom wither away, alone. Your dad stayed with her every day, and you knew it, that when she died, you’d never get him back, not the full dad you knew. He died a week after your mom, and you’re certain it was from a broken heart. Certain no one could have anything comparable to their love for one another. Convincing yourself that a person only gets to witness a love story like that once, and they were it for you. 

Steve’s eyes are wet with unshed tears as you shrug and swipe at your nose. Your voice scratchy and rough as you clear it and whisper, “I’ve never told anyone about that before. We moved around so much when I was little, and after they died…well,” you laugh a little, backhanding your cheek roughly, “I just kept moving too.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve’s palm rests against your cheek, forehead pressing to yours.

“Yeah,” you sigh out in a breath. 

Steve swallows loudly, nose nudging against yours as his hands warm up and down your spine, soothing you. Your legs tangle together as Kate dies on the screen of your laptop, imagining her true love has returned for her. 

It’s hours later, your bedroom lilac and blue as dawn rises outside your curtains. Warmer than normal when you wake up to buzzing. Steve’s arms are wrapped around you, his body pressed flush against your back, puffs of his breath hitting just behind your ear on a shared pillow. 

Rubbing at your eyes, you search for the sound, nudging him awake, “Steve, phone.”

“What, honey?” He doesn’t open his eyes, nosing into your neck and arm tightening around your waist. 

Heart stuttering and a smile pulling on your lips as you nudge him again, “Steve, your phone is going off.”

He sits up abruptly, voice hoarse, “Oh fuck!”

“What, what’s wrong?” Rolling as he slips out of bed, pulling his clothes on quickly. 

He grimaces at his phone, locking it and shoving it in his pocket. He holds his shirts in his hands and leans over you in bed, hands grabbing your cheeks. 

“I’m sorry, I gotta go, my parents are here and…” he sighs, forehead touching yours, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, holding onto his wrists. 

Steve’s eyes open, glancing down at your lips before he pulls you in closer. He presses a soft kiss to them, sighing into you as he whispers it again, “I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll see you at the game later. I,” his phone starts buzzing again and he groans. 

He kisses your lips quickly again and then he’s gone. 

You let yourself get ready for the day with a smile on your face after that. Telling Steve about your past was the right decision, you know it was. You feel lighter, you feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. Your thumb brushes over your photos from last week again, letting them rest on your desk as you finish your coffee. 

You’re lost in daydreams of getting ready for tailgating and outings with the group in the future, only Steve is next to you in a different way. It’s insane, it makes your heart stutter, makes your stomach flip, but you have a smile you can’t hold back at the thought of it all. Robin would surely be okay with everything that’s happened, if it meant you and Steve are happy. 

When Robin, Nancy, and Eddie pick you up, you’re caught up in Eddie insisting that that top stays off of the jeep all day despite Nancy pulling up the weather app and telling him the chance of rain. 

The tailgating spot is all set up and Eddie and you are crushing Robin and Nancy at bags, beers in hand and matching sunglasses on your faces. You pretend to chest bump as you score three more points while they’re stuck at zero. 

Robin grimaces at the two of you, finger waggling, “I’m really regretting this. I don’t like you two together. You’re too similar.”

Nancy looks frazzled, hating that they’re losing. She tries showing Robin a better way to throw and Robin throws her hands up in the air, turning to the two of you again. “Can’t you go easy on us? You both know I’m athletically challenged.”

Eddie shakes his head laughing, “No can do, toots!”

Robin pretends to gag, “Gross, don’t call me toots.”

Nancy puts her hands on Robin’s shoulders, her voice strained, “Robin. Focus.”

While they gameplan and Eddie heads to the cooler for another beer, you look around wondering where Steve is. Checking your pockets, figuring you left your phone in the jeep and you open the door to search for it. 

When you do, you see three missed calls from Steve and three texts:

Your brows furrow at the messages, heart rate picking up as you wonder what could possibly be wrong. Green phone button ready to be pressed under your thumb when relief washes over you as Robin shouts, “Dingus! It’s about time! You’re going in for me as Nace’s partner, I give up.”

Turning to face him as your shoulders relax, your smile on your face quickly falls. 

Steve has another girl’s hand in his and he’s staring at you as he says, “Hey guys, sorry we’re late.”

A/N: I cannot say thank you enough for the patience in waiting for this series to update. I'm forever grateful for those of you who are sticking by this series despite long wait times in updates & I'm happy to see some new readers still finding this little world! We have one final part after this (plus a small epilogue), and I promise, it's coming soon. Endless endless thanks to my beta @sweetsweetjellybean and my ladies for talking me off cliffs and helping me make this series the best it can be. 💛

WCIL Taglist: @boomhauer @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life

[mykneeshurt]

Pray

Image by - emmakatka on Flickr

Priest AU

Father Keegan Russ x AFAB!reader

Warnings - 18+, minors DNI, explicit smut Heavy use of religious imagery, sexualising religion (Christianity/Roman Catholicism), so much smut and blasphemy, all chapters are explicit but all consensual

A/N - I’ve kept this as AFAB as there are no pronouns used, however you are a nun. Which is a female vocation, so if this needs to be changed to female please let me know! This was inspired by joyceartworks on instagram, her nun series is one of my favourite pieces of artwork.

———

You stepped off the coach, into a small beaten up town in the middle of the Appalachians. It was late afternoon, verging on evening as the sun set behind the mountain range in the distance. The trees were starting to turn, in front of you was a beautiful valley, filled with reds, oranges, browns as the autumn took hold of the sleepy town. The town looked run down, eerily quiet even. Holding the tunic of your habit you fought against the strong breeze which suffocated the town.

A white church sat in a field opposite the coach stop, rotting in the deafening silence of the misty mountain town. Gravestones littered the perimeter, each one covered in moss, crumbling back into the earth. A sign next to it read ‘Jesus is Lord. He is coming soon. Repent.’ This would be your home for the next few months, your Reverend Mother had sent you here for your next mission.

‘Help Father Keegan Russ with the souls of the damned.’

You’d met him briefly before on a few occasions, and ever since his piercing ice grey eyes had lingered in your mind. The smirk he gave you when he shook your hand still kissed your skin and the heat from his gaze still penetrated your core. He was going to test your faith, that you knew for certain.

As you entered the church the door closed behind you with a thud. The old wood barely hanging onto life with each use. The floor was stained a dark cherry colour, with stark contrasting white walls. Cracks crept along the structure, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet with each step. A huge cross loomed over the alter, also a deep cherry colour.

Darkness soon slithered through the windows of the Church, a cool draft following it. The pre-lit candles on the walls illuminated the room with a golden glow, shadows danced in the dark corners where the light refused to touch. Each flame danced with the chill that filled the old building.

A door opening at the side of the altar made you jump. Clutching your chest you spun around only to see Father Russ emerge from his quarters. ‘Ah! You’re here!’ He bellowed as he approached you. He was dressed in all black, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his Roman collar contrasting perfectly against his shirt. It made his eyes pop even more. Almost hypnotising.

Grabbing your suitcase he gestured for you to follow him, both pairs of footsteps echoed in the empty church as he led you to his quarters. You instantly felt the energy shift, his presence permeated your being, not even the rosary you wore could keep him away.

He showed you around his quarters and to your room, which was adjacent to his own. A simple bed, desk and wardrobe adorned your room. A dull orange glow emanated from the single light in the centre of the room. Dropping your suitcase down he leant against the door frame. ‘Dinner will be ready soon, why don’t you get freshened up. We can eat then I’ll show you the Church and go through what your duties will be.’

You nodded, giving him a warm smile. But not before casting your eyes over his body, you tried to fight it but you were drawn to him. His biceps bulged under his black shirt, his broad frame nearly filled the door frame, accentuated by his small waist, only adding to his impressive physique.

———

Sometime later there was a knock at your door, opening it you were met with him. An embarrassed look on his face. ‘Father Russ? Is everything ok?’ You asked, trying to fight the heat that bubbled to the surface. ‘Change of plan. I’ll show you the Church now, I forgot to turn the stove on.’ He admitted whilst scratching the back of his neck. Giggling you gave him a bright smile ‘ok, lead the way Father.’

He showed you the confessional booth, where the hymn books were kept, and took you through your duties whilst you stayed here. Sitting on the altar steps you exchanged pleasant conversation, he sat close to you. Thighs spread as he leant on them, watching you from the corner of his eye. ‘Would you like to pray before dinner?’ He offered, as he shifted his posture.

‘Yes Father.’

‘Kneel’ he ordered before he got to his feet. Doing as you were told you knelt before the altar, hands clasped around your rosary. He brought forward the Ciborium, a simple golden cup which held the host. You looked up at him through your lashes, eager to please the man before you. Eager to please God.

Standing over you he peered down into your eyes, an invisible force pulling you deeper and deeper into the temptation of sin. You tried to rid your mind of the impure thoughts that plagued you, you tried to focus on Gods words, you tried to ignore the primal feeling that surged within your core.

God how you tried.

Releasing his hand from the cup he traced his thumb along your bottom lip, along your jaw. ‘May God keep you in enternal life’ he muttered as he pulled your jaw open. You were the picture of innocence, on your knees, doe like eyes, mouth open ready to receive the body of Christ.

But within than innocence a deep wickedness hid within the shadows.

His eyes lit up as he noticed your tongue piercing, ‘and what’s this?’ He asked as he cocked his head to the side, thumb still burning on your lip. Your face changed, from an innocent lamb to a wolf in sheep’s clothing. ‘What the Reverend Mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her’ you purred as you gently kissed the pad of his thumb.

You watched as his breath caught in his chest. Maybe God sent you here to test him. A test you hoped he’d fail.

He placed the host gently on your tongue and watched has it melted in your mouth. You kept your focus purely on him as you swallowed, slowly. Biting your lip as you rose to your feet. You were mere inches away from each other, the empty space in between you bursting with energy.

Reaching down you picked up the host, he raised a brow ‘you know you shouldn’t be touching that.’

‘Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission, maybe you should take it back’ you quipped as you placed it on your tongue. Pulling him in by his belt his body slammed into yours.

He regarded you for a second, battling with God, battling with his faith.

Eventually he snaked his hand around your neck pulling you into a kiss, using your tongue you moved the host from your mouth to his. Using your neck he pulled you deeper, closer. Your hands still lingered on his belt, feeling his erection grow beneath the fabric.

You pulled away and watched as he swallowed the host. You searched his icy eyes, the windows to his soul. While his face remained stoic, his eyes had a glint to them. A twinkle. Much like your own. Both of you in this moment wanting to test your God, wanting to give into this sin of lust, wanting to bite the apple.

He moved first, pushing you against the altar. He lifted you onto it with ease, pushing his lips onto yours, unrelenting, unforgiving, all consuming. You kissed him back, arms wrapped around his neck as he laid you down. His hands slipped under your habit, mapping your body beneath your clothes.

Palming at your breasts he felt the unmistakeable presence of a nipple piecing. He groaned into your mouth at his finding, rolling his hips into you. His hard cock slowly rubbed against your cunt as he held your waist, fingertips threatening to bruise your skin. Nipping at his bottom lip he pulled away, ‘I knew God was testing me when he sent you to me’ he smiled.

‘Mmm’ you hummed as you cupped his jaw, ‘seems like we’ve both failed.’

Sitting up you pulled at his belt, desperately trying to get to what you wanted. Hiking up your habit skirt he pulled down your tights, finding beneath them lace adorned panties. ‘God’ he whimpered, already feeling how wet you were for him. ‘Don’t take the lords name in vain Father’ you smirked. He ran a finger along your slit causing a sharp moan to burst from your chest.

Placing his forehead against yours he inhaled your moans of pleasure as he inserted his finger. Cradling the back of your head he held you close, whispering words of praise, words of adoration.

Gazing into his eyes your pupils were blown wide with pleasure, breath heavy and thick as he added another finger. ‘Don’t stop Father, please’ you muttered under a strained breath. Thrusting his fingers in and out of your pussy, you said a silent prayer to yourself. Begging God forgiveness, begging him to let you cum.

‘Take me Father, take me here, in front of him, in front of his angels, in front of his cross’ you pleaded, gripping onto his shirt, his neck. He removed his fingers, watching as they glistened in the golden light of the Church. Placing them on his tongue he savoured your taste, his once icy grey eyes now a river of black. ‘Divine’ he whispered beneath his breath.

Unbuckling his belt he released his painfully erect cock, and lined it up to your entrance. With one smooth thrust he pushed into you, leaving you gasping for air at his stretch. ‘Yes Father’ you whined as he pulled your hips off the alter forcing you to wrap your legs around him. Each movement was calculated and swift, adoring rather than punishing.

You leant back onto the alter, eyes fixed on the cross as he fucked you. He watched as you bit your lip, as you gripped the white linen between your fingers, as your eyes rolled. He’d wanted this since the first time he’d met you, spending many a night cock in his hand thinking of you. Thinking of your taste.

It was better than the host.

It was better than the sacramental wine.

Better than forgiveness.

Better than God.

Soft whines fell from your lips as his breathlessness hung in the air. Each slap of skin rung out in the Church, each thrust begged for forgiveness, begged for redemption. He knew he’d spend the rest of his life begging God for absolution of he could keep his cock buried in your perfect cunt.

‘Pray for me Father. Pray for us’ you managed to ask, in between your pants and whines. Pulling out he quickly repositioned you, your back arched against him as he held your throat to his shoulder. Slipping inside you once more as he hovered above your lips.

‘Soul of Christ, sanctify me’ he began … ‘body of Christ, save me - thrust - Blood of Christ, inebriate me; - thrust - Water from the side of Christ, wash me; - thrust - Passion of Christ, strengthen me’ he whispered, his breath tickling your lips. His eyes transfixed on yours, his words being absorbed into your skin.

‘O good Jesus hear me; Within your wounds hide me;’ he said as he added a finger to your clit. ‘Separated from you, let me never be; From the evil one protect me’ he emphasised the word evil as he added more pressure to your clit. You moaned into his mouth, providing him with the very oxygen he needed to live.

‘At the hour of my death, call me; and close to you bid me; That with your saints, I may be praising you forever and ever. Amen.’ As he finished the prayer your orgasm washed over you like a blinding light, your muscles constricted, wound tightly as if round a tree. Your eyes screwed shut as the intense wave of pleasure made you ascend.

He held you close to him still, watching as your face contorted with the ultimate pleasure of lust. His fingers still lightly brushed over your sensitive clit, making you buck from overstimulation. He was close. But this isn’t how he wanted you.

His thrusts slowed as he kissed you, slowly releasing your neck and finally pulling out of you. Breaking the kiss he placed his fingers in your mouth, you ran your tongue over his fingers. ‘Kneel’ he whispered just like he did before. A sign of reverence. Except this time he used his fingers in your mouth to push you down, guiding you.

Kneeling before him your clasped your hands once more watching as he pumped his cock before you. Biting your lip you recited your own prayer. ‘I’m truly sorry for all my sins. Please fill me with your grace.’ After the final word you stuck your tongue out, the silver piercing in clear view. He caressed your jaw as he neared his high, soft whimpers and grunts rang in your ears as he came into your mouth, onto your tongue.

The silky white fluid ran to the back of your throat as you swallowed eagerly. Not wanting to waste a drop. Not wanting displease his holiness, instead wanting to show your devotion to him. His face was flushed as he lifted his head, smiling down on you as he tucked himself away. Giving you his hand he helped you up, kissing you one last time, ‘I fear we may really have to beg for forgiveness for this’ he smirked.

‘Oh I’m counting on it Father.’

—————

A/N - I fucking love Appalachian gothic/mid west gothic it has my heart

Taglist - @tiredmetalenthusiast @glitterypirateduck @lollycotton @00ops1e @cowyolks @soapyghost @dontfearthereaperazura @ghostslillady @luminousbeings-crudematter @villainsoftheweek

[crossfandomslut]

At Peace in Your Fire (pt2)

Summary: Y/n goes into the the Cauldron, and ends up in Velaris. A strange place with a sentient house and hopefully some new friends. Y/n much navigate what being fae means for her now.

Pairing: Future Eris x Reader ! Eris is in this chapter y'all! It's not much haha I'm dragging it out !

Word Count: 4,900

Notes: I'm so glad people liked the first chapter and I hope you stick with me to see where this story goes ! I wanted to get to know the reader a bit more, and have interactions with the other characters to add depth to the story and who the reader is so that she's not just some rando haha Please comment your thoughts and opinions, I love hearing what you liked about it so I can try to make each chapter better than the last ! Hugs <3

Find part 1 here

Her life flashed before her eyes as the Cauldron scanned through her every memory, as if in search of an answer, but she didn’t know what the question was. All she felt was cold. As the Cauldron raked through images of their mother and her neglect as Feyre and Y/n did whatever they could to get her attention. Even if she was yelling at them, it was better than being ignored. It took Y/n a long time to realize that Nesta wasn’t ‘lucky’ for having all their mothers’ attention. The cold continued to settle into her bones as she watched her mother get sick and their father fall deep into depression after losing his fortune. Flashes of what she had to do with the baker’s son to feed the family some weeks, of Feyre being taken away by Tamlin, of Nesta looking so hopeless as they searched for their sister, and finally of tonight, being taken from their home in the night, the pain of her sister’s faces and the fear that shot through her as her toes touched the Cauldron’s edge. Deeper and deeper the water soaked through her too thin nightgown, into her skin, and settled in her bones. the water the warm when she first touched it, but as she felt herself drift further toward the bottom, an icy cold took over her senses.

At last, a flicker of warmth ran through her as memories played of watching Feyre, Nesta, and Elain try to fit into the too small bed of the cabin as Y/n curled up right in front of the fireplace, laughing at her sisters bickering for space and urging Nesta to move her cold feet away from them. Eventually, her sisters stopped bickering and they too started laughing. Those were the glowing moments of joy they were able to find in the darkest times. The warmth in her body spread as the next memory played; the four of them dancing around a bonfire in the late Summer, early Autumn. Laughing and dancing like idiots because Y/n was able to convince the baker’s son to sneak her a cake. They hadn’t had a real cake, with icing and candles, in years, but she had seen it through the window and knew she needed to share it with her dearest sisters. The leaves were just starting to change color and the warm fire light casted the already orange and red leaves in the most stunning light.

The last memory that played was the night that Nesta brought home paints for Feyre. In the low light of the evening fire, Y/n begrudgingly gave up her spot directly in front of the flame so that Feyre had the best light to paint in. She painted their tiny dresser drawers with something to symbolize each of them. Nesta had her own dresser, full of the beautiful-and large-dresses their mother used to make her wear. Nesta requested her dresser be painted black. Simple, but a bold sentiment. Y/n’s drawer, of course, was painted with flames. It was a well known fact to everyone who met her that Y/n was drawn to the heat and comfort of fire. Sweet Elain’s drawer was painted in the flowers she loved to tend in the rather pathetic gardens. And for a reason she didn’t understand at the time, Feyre painted her drawer with the night sky. Dazzling stars and a bright moon to look down on her wherever she may be.

Y/n’s chest started to glow at that memory and finally she felt warm again, seeing that dingy old cabin, that fireplace lit, and the lives it made brighter, warmer, safer.

A sudden rush of the Cauldron’s freezing water had Y/n gasping for air that was no where to be found. She wasn’t drowning, but she wasn’t breathing either. She was stuck in this terrible, dark, cold place and feeling like all was lost. So, she spoke into the void, “you may take my body and soul, as long as you promise to watch over my sisters. Keep them safe and happy and whole.”

“Your eldest sister took something from me. Something very dark and very important. You are in no position to make a bargain for her safety.” The voice came as a harsh whisper that sounded like death itself. “I will get back what she took, and more, but I haven’t met a being a very long time who was willing to give. For that, I will reward you. What gift I have bestowed upon you, you must find out for yourself. It will either breathe life into what you love most… or suffocate it.”

With those final words spoken straight into her heart, Y/n felt the world shift as she was dumped from the Cauldron, back onto the ice-cold stone floor, soaking wet. The King of Hybern’s magic lifts just enough for Feyre to rush to her and cling to her like life depended on it.

The following events at Hybern will be scarred into Y/n mind for the rest of her newly immortal life. Lucien's painful screaming that Elain was his mate, the human queen going into the Cauldron and coming out old and decrepit because of what Nesta stole from it, Tamlin demanding that the King break the bond between Feyre and Rhysand, and Feyre saying that Rhys had her under a spell all this time.

If it weren’t for their relationship as twins seeming to strengthen now that they were both Fae, and for Feyre’s daemati powers, Y/n would have freaked the fuck out. Lucky for them all, Feyre explained the whole plan, albeit almost too rapidly for Y/n to understand given what she just went through in the Cauldron. Y/n played along and acted disgusted by Rhys and horrified as he winnowed her away. The cry of her sister's name was not forced or faked.

When they landed in what she could only assume was the Night Court, a beautiful female with eerie silver eyes and black hair came rushing around the corner. “Where is she?”

Rhysand explained everything. Only after calling for his best healers to help Cassian and Azriel. By the time he finished, Mor appeared after hiding Y/n's sisters away somewhere that they could rest and process.

“She is your mate, not your spy. Go. Get. Her.” The one with silver eyes, Amren, demanded.

“She is my mate. And my spy. And she is the High Lady of the Night Court.” Rhysand said softer, but not weakly.

“What?” Mor gasped.

Rhysand explained it all, and finally said, “Your High Lady made a sacrifice for her court, and we will move when the time is right.”

“Until then?” Amren asked sharply.

“Until then,” Rhysand spared each of them a glace, “we go to war.”

Mor showed Y/n to her room, told her to ask the house for whatever she needed, and that she should rest for as long as she needed. And that they were all here for her when she was ready to come out.

The first thing Y/n asked the house for was a fire to be lit. She was ready to get on her knees and beg for the heat of it, but when the house responded immediately, Y/n let out a sob and threw herself on the floor in front of the large hearth. She sat with her legs tucked under her, staring into the dancing flames as tears streamed down her face and choked sobs rocked her body. She stared into the blaze. Fire, she thinks, looks alive but is not. It dances and sways in the phantom wind and dries the tears that had long stopped coming. Y/n wished she could climb straight into the inferno and wrap it around herself to make her bed. For a moment she wonders if her new Fae body would allow such a thing, before she grabs a plush red dyed wool blanket, and a soft enough throw pillow from the couch, and she curls up in front of the glowing heat and sparkling embers. Right where she feels the safest and most at home.

Y/n slept off and on for four days if she’s been keeping track of time correctly. The house delivered food, that at first, she was hesitant to touch, because what does a house know about cooking? But once she got hungry enough to try the steaming soup and heavily buttered bread it delivered for dinner on night two, she ate her words. Literally. The house quickly learned that Y/n preferred black tea and something sweet to eat at breakfast, something light and fresh for lunch, and a hearty dense dinner. The fire had remained lit since the first night, when the house thought it would be okay to let it die out once Y/n fell asleep, and Y/n woke up screaming and shaking, nightmares plaguing her. The fire had not gone out again. Not even a flicker.

Y/n was feeling rested and eager to learn if there were any updates about her twin in the Spring Court. She needed to know if Feyre was okay. When she swung the door of her bedroom open, Rhysand was standing there, smirking, looking like he knew every thought in her head.

“I’ll need to teach you about mental shields.” His smirk grew, “you’re just as bad as Feyre was when she first got here, practically shouting your thoughts. I could probably hear you from the house of wind.”

Y/n blinked at him. Sure, she knew that Feyre’s daemati powers allowed her to speak into people’s minds, but to just openly heard other’s thoughts? How miserable that must be.

Rhysand gaped for a fraction of a second after hearing her thoughts, before his brows furrowed. “You- you’re not angry or afraid about the invasion of privacy?”

“I mean, would I prefer you not listen? Sure, but you just said you’d teach me to block you out, so really, I just feel bad for you both. I never want to know what’s going through other’s heads. That’s their business and it probably gets gross and annoying.”

There’s a silent pause before Rhysand throws his back and laughs, “It does get gross, and annoying,” He straightens again and says, "thank you, Y/n. Not many understand that or think about how it feels for us.”

“So then you probably already know that I was about to come find you and ask about Feyre?”

“Yes. Let’s talk about it once you’ve had a bath and change into clean clothes. Have you been sleeping and living in that for four days?” He eyes her absolutely filthy, no longer white, nightgown that she had been wearing when the Hybern soldiers took her.

“Yes. Yes, I have, Rhysand. But I will take that bath and clean clothes. I smell like the deer I killed the day we first met.” Y/n’s face scrunched at the memory of the stench that she never got used to, even after all those years of hunting with Feyre. “I’d say I would come find you, but you’ll probably know exactly when I’m ready.” She winked and tapped her finger to her temple before turning on her heel back into her room. The house must have been listening, because a hot bath was waiting for her in the bathing chambers. Soaps and oils that smelled like pine and cedar, a crackling fire, and the forest after it rains. Y/n had never smelt anything so lavish. Never smelt anything that captured the feeling of home so thoroughly.

Ridding herself of the disgusting nightgown, Y/n went to dip a toe in the steaming water and stopped. It felt so much like the Cauldron. But Y/n, like always, reminded herself to be adaptable. She was fine. This room was nothing like that place. This place had bright windows that lit up the room. She could see the bottom of the tub, nothing like the dark mirky waters she was forced into. She was fine and she was safe. Y/n prided herself on being able to choke her feelings down. She thought that if she could intellectualize her feelings, they wouldn’t be able to control her. It hadn't come to bite her in the ass yet. She calmed her racing heart, and plunged into the hot water and washed herself clean of the memories using the soaps that smelled like home. Those smells soothed her soul like a balm and she started to feel like herself again.

After taking her merry time in the tub, the house keeping the water hot as long as she needed it, Y/n stood and grabbed a towel from the vanity in the corner of the room. Y/n hadn’t looked at herself in the mirror yet, but figured now was as good of a time as any. She sat on the round cushioned stool and slowly lifted her head. She tilted her head back and forth, examining the subtle changes that suddenly made her Fae. She tucked her hair behind her ears to reveal the exaggerated, but soft, pointed ears. Smiled at herself to get a look at the elongated canines, and noticed how bright and sharp her eyes looked. She didn’t have her twin’s steely blue eyes, her father said she had his mother’s eyes. Y/n looked into her own y/e/c eyes and just blinked a few times. She was most definitely Fae now. And she would adapt.

Getting dressed quickly, Y/n stepped into the hall to find Rhysand, already waiting for her. He examined her loose, flowy brown pants, and the soft grey seater she chose. “No Night Court black?”

She tripped over her own foot at the words, “oh- oh no, I’m sorry, I’ve offended you. I’ll go change-!

“No! No, Y/n stop,” he gently griped her arm to prevent her from running back in her room. “It didn’t even occur to me that you might feel comfortable in something else. I’m the one who’s sorry.” He tilts his head, so their eyes meet.

“I just feel better in colors that remind me of the woods we grew up in. It makes me feel like myself in their new, strange body and this new world we’ve been brought into. I did not have any intention of disrespecting you or your home, Rhysand.”

“Please, Y/n, call me Rhys. We are family now, right? Humans would call us, ‘in-laws’?” His smile grew as Y/n’s lips twitched into their own smile, his hand dropping from her arm.

“Of course, Rhys. I’m glad to know my sister has found someone who loves her so well. I look forward to getting to know you as we work to bring Feyre home.”

“Yes, let’s get to work on that. Follow me.” Rhys guides her down the hall and through the foyer into a large seating area. Mor, Cassian, Azriel and Amren are all speaking lowly. Rhys clears his throat as he and Y/n enter the room, and all eyes fall on Y/n. More is the first to stand up and wrap her in a tight embrace. Y/n is shocked for a brief moment, before wrapping her arms around Mor in return.

Mor pulls back with tears in her eyes to say, “we love your sister so much. We are honored to have you in our family too. We will get her back.” Y/n smiles at her fondly and Mor turns to sit back down next to Cassian. Cassian and Azriel both smile and wave at her, just like they did the first time they met in the human lands. Amren and Y/n exchange nods, and Y/n predicts that is the most emotion she’ll ever see from the female.

Rhys is the first to speak next. “Let’s get started shall we?” He took a seat in the remaining armchair, and Y/n took up a spot on the floor, directly in front of the fireplace. Her favorite place to be. “Y/n, you don’t have to sit on the floor. We can ask the house to provide another chair.”

“I’m perfectly content right here, but thank you, Rhys,” Y/n went as far as to shuffle further back toward the heat.

Azriel’s usually calculated expression fell as he stared at her in total confusion. Never had he seen someone look like they wanted to be consumed by flames. He couldn’t even comprehend it. He schooled his features when he felt Cassian pop him in the ribs with his elbow and clear this throat.

“As you wish. Azriel, I know you’re still recovering, and I do not want you to push it, but have your shadows told you anything?”

“Not much. Feyre is still hardly allowed to leave the house, Lucien is still warry of her, and Tamlin is none the wiser. She isn’t eating enough.” He says the last part so quietly and with so much anger, a shiver runs down Y/n spine. She decides to never get on Azriel’s bad side.

“Have you heard from her? Can’t you two talk through your minds or something?” Cassian asks.

“Not much. We don’t want Tamlin, or Lucien for that matter, to get suspicious. But when we do speak, she sounds so far away and it’s an effort to keep the line open. Something isn’t right, but I don’t know what it is. When she was in Spring before it wasn’t this hard. It has to be Hybern’s presence there.”

“So all we can do is sit around and wait for more information?” Mor asks incredulously.

“I wish it could say otherwise, but for now, yes. Azriel and Cassian, you need to heal and get back to training, so we’re prepared when something changes and we have to move.” They call nod their agreement and accept that it’s all they can do right now.

“I want to train too.” Y/n’s voice startles them, as if they forgot she was there.

“Of course, we’ll work on your mental shields and-“

“No- I’m sorry- I don’t mean to interrupt. I mean, yes, I do want to train with you to build my mental shield, but I also want to train with Cassian and Azriel. I want to feel strong. I want to be strong. I never want what happened in Hybern to happen again. I never want to feel helpless like that and I want to help my sister.” Y/n was firm and confident when she locked eyes with Rhys, even as tears welled in her waterline.

“Okay. Whatever you need, we’ll do it.” Rhys looked at her like he could see right through her. To the scared little girl who lost her mother, who had to learn to hunt and steal and sell her body for godsdamned bread. She had never felt so vulnerable, and she quickly broke the stare.

“Are you okay with that?” Y/n asked Cassian and Azriel.

“Yes.” “Of course.” They replies in unison.

“Thank you.”

The day turned into evening and the group is still sitting around the tiny coffee table in that grand living room. Just relaxing in each other’s presence and sharing stories with Y/n, learning more about her. “Everyone thinks that the fire painted on the drawer was for Nesta because she is so fierce, but it’s not true,” Y/n chuckles fondly as she thinks of her sharp tongued eldest sister. “I have always been drawn to the flames. Even as a baby, my parents had to keep candles far away from me.” That gets a laugh from everyone in the room. Even Amren lets out a short breath that could be considered a laugh.

“So which one was Nesta’s? Don’t tell me it was the flowers,” Cassian asked. You could tell he was attached to her, even though they had only a few brief interactions and Nesta was far less than pleasant.

“Nesta had her own full wardrobe, painted black and full of dresses our mother stuffed her into when she gave her those awful etiquette lessons.” Y/n shuddered at the memory. And then paused, just now realizing that she had no idea where her sisters were. Her heart started racing and her eyes shot to Rhys’s, knowing he had already heard every thought.

“They’re safe. They aren’t adapting as well as you are, but they’re safe and they’re okay. I promise you; I will not let anything happen to them.” Y/n laughed internally as that word. Adapting. It’s what she was best at she supposed.

Weeks had passed and Y/n had been dedicated to training with Cassian and Azriel at least once every day, sometimes twice if her energy is pent up enough. And she has a lesson with Rhys everyday too. She’s learning to read, and her mental shield is solid. Her body had never felt so strong. It was a real hit to her ego though to learn that she had been carrying her body weight wrong and lifting deer over her shoulders incorrectly her whole life. Training with Azriel was calmer than training with Cassian. Azriel moved with so much grace and control and was making you learn all the movements and balance exercises. Cassian was intense. Teaching you how to move swiftly to block and avoid kicks and punches. The fact that was going easy on you was an even bigger hit to your ego.

On this particular day, Y/n trained with Azriel in the morning, noticing how much more balanced her body felt, could isolate muscles and utilize them. After lunch was her lesson with Rhys. She’s able to push him out of her mind now, still with some effort, but she doesn’t break out in a sweat now. She spent the afternoon resting and reading when Cassian stormed into the library and asked if she wanted to train. That brought them to the training area on the townhouse. Cassian complains that it isn’t as big as the one at the house of wind, but it did the job. Cassian had just gotten back from visiting the house of wind and he was angry. He was throwing punches and seeming to forget who he was sparring with. He was moving too fast and punching too hard, but Y/n couldn’t seem to get the words out to tell him to stop. He advanced forward and as she backed up, she stumbled, allowing Cassian to land a punch straight to her jaw. Her head rattled but before she could even register the pain, she yelled, teeth bared and fists clenched to her side, “ENOUGH CASSIAN!”

The world stopped, and after two, three, four heartbeats she realized Cassian wasn’t breathing. He was staring at her as his eyes went wide and he grabbed his throat. He crashed to his knees and reached for her hands. Releasing her tight grip on her own fists, air rushed back into Cassian’s lung. He gasped for breath as Y/n fell to her knees too and let out a sob. “I am so sorry Cassian. I am so so sorry; I don’t know what happened. I’m so sorry.” She somehow managed to get the words out between sobs and gasping for air.

“Y/n, Y/n it’s okay! I’m the one who’s sorry. I can’t believe I hit you, I am so sorry Y/n. Please, look at me, I need you to breathe. I’m okay. I’m sorry.” He held her and rocked her back and forth until her heartbeat slowed to a normal pace and she could lift her head to look at him. “Shit. Rhys is going to kill me when he sees that bruise on your face. Mor might beat him to it though. I’m so sorry.”

Y/n stands up and walks to the bathing room down the hall. Cassian ran to her when he heard her start…laughing? The picture in front of him as he skidded around the corner was one he could never have predicted. Y/n was clutching her stomach, leaning over the sink and laughing hysterically at her reflection. Cassian had punched her so hard that the bruising started at her jaw and gave her a black eye. Cassian was horrified, but Y/n just kept laughing, so eventually, he did too. Mor, Rhys, and Azriel came running around the corner too, wondering what the commotion was about. When they saw Y/n face, a collective, “what the fuck Cass?” Was sounded by the other three Fae. This made Y/n and Cassian double down and laugh even harder.

When they caught their breath again, Cassian stood up proudly, patted Y/n on the back and said, “I helped Y/n discover her powers today. No big deal,” he said with no small amount of smugness.

“You mean you needed a punching bag and I had to defend myself?” Y/n quirked a brow at him.

“Semantics!” He argued.

“Wait wait wait, Y/n has powers?” Rhys’s eyes went hazy as he mentally called for Amren. “Tell me everything.”

Y/n recounted the events of their fight and how she literally took his breath away. She didn’t know she was controlling any magic; she hadn’t felt it rise up, but it must have subconsciously come to her defense.

“You’re going to have to drop down to one lesson with Cass and Az a day and pick up an extra with me and Amren. We need to learn more about this power. Power gifted by the Cauldron itself is new territory for all of us. We don’t know what the boundaries of your power are.” The sudden seriousness in Rhys’s face felt sobering as Y/n and Cassian were pulled out of their laughter and back into the reality of who and what Y/n was. Cauldron made.

Another few weeks passed of training non-stop. The magic was a lot harder for Y/n to figure out than the fighting. As of today, she can suck the air out of a room that’s about 12ft by 12ft and hold it for five minutes before faltering, and she can send a blast of air and knock Cassian over from 30ft away. Cassian was used as the dummy for both tests as an apology for decking her in the face.

Y/n was in the middle of her reading lesson for the day when Azriel came crashing into the room. “We found her. Feyre got out of Spring; we have to get her. We need your help and your magic.”

She was up in an instant. She didn’t care that she wasn’t in fighting leathers, she just needed to get to her sister. Before she had a chance to ask any questions, Azriel grabbed her and jumped from the balcony. Y/n hadn’t flown before. Never wanted to be a burden to the Illyrians. But wow, what an experience. Azriel quickly caught up to Cassian and the three of them flew swiftly and precisely.

“Where are we going?” Y/n noticed the moment they left Velaris and the landscape changed to an icy tundra. She missed the heat and comfort of her spot in front of the fireplace in the library already.

“The Winter Court. I’m sorry there wasn’t time to get you in warmer clothes. I know you have a hard time with the cold. I should have prepared you.” Azriel felt terrible, but Feyre needed them. Y/n would adapt.

“It’s okay, Az. Feyre is more important. I’m okay,” and she meant it.

The touchdown was quick. Not a lot of time to slow down and land gently. The Illyrians landed and shook the ground. Azriel was softer about letting Y/n down. Before her was quite possibly her worst nightmare unfolding. Her twin sister, her favorite person in the entire world, was being restrained by the thing that brought her the most peace. A strange male was standing above her sister, using his gift of fire to hold her at her wrists and her neck. Y/n was frozen in place. Her mind went blank as her body was slammed with fear and disgust at the gross misuse of the flames licking at her sister’s throat. It felt like a violation to her very core. Her very soul was raging at the sight. Not only for her sister being in danger, but because of the way the male was using the thing Y/n held closest to her heart and found the most precious, as a weapon to do harm.

“Y/n! Y/n!” She was thrust back into reality by Cassian’s large hands shaking her back to consciousness. She blinked at him a few times before looking over his shoulder to see Azriel already taking down the other red-headed males and saving another. Lucien. Lucien was on Feyre’s side? Blinking again and trying to remain present, she and Cassian turned to the male holding Feyre. “Now, Y/n.”

With those two words form Cassian, Y/n approached the male, and he had the audacity to laugh at her. Granted, she was still in her house slippers, baggy linen pants and oversized sweater, so she wasn’t looking her most intimidating. But he quickly stopped laughing as Y/n lifted her hands above her head, closed her fists, and threw her hands down to her side. It didn’t take long for the male to realize that he could no longer take a breath. So focused on clawing at his throat, he didn’t notice that his flames had no oxygen to restrain his hostage either. Cassian, being well versed in her magic, ran into the void she’d created, grabbed Feyre, who unfortunately also couldn’t breathe, and got her out of your field of magic. Azriel was there with Lucien in a second, Mor winnowing in to grab Y/n, Cassian, and Feyre.

They landed in the townhouse seconds later, Azriel and Lucien not far behind. Y/n was in her sister’s arms before anyone could blink. They held each other tightly, but Feyre looked over Y/n shoulder to Mor.

“He’s on his way. He’s far away, but he is rushing home to you as fast as he can. He felt the bond and sent us ahead to get you.” Mor was crying too, and Y/n turned to wave her into their hug. Right now, her sister was home and everything else could wait for tomorrow. Even if Y/n couldn't stop thinking about that red haired male on the frozen lake today. the way he laughed at her and made her feel small, and she sucked the air from his lungs like it was nothing. She thought it would have made her feel good. but it didn't, and she wasn't sure why. She would fall asleep picturing his fearful face for many nights.

Taglist: @abysshaven @minaethrym @ivy-34 @stained-glass-eyes0708

[akittenwrites]

Queen of Ice and Prince of Fire [3]

Author: @akittenwrites

Summary: Lady Y/N Stark of Winterfell has declared herself Queen in the North. That means war, against King Viserys, and also against Prince Daemon. But the Rogue Prince doesn't want to fight her.

Type: multichapter series

Chapter: three

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x reader

Word count: 3811

Warnings: swearing, smut.

Part one.

Part two.

Daemon rested his back on the wooden chair, his eyes roaming over Y/N's body. Now that they were inside, sitting face to face, he allowed himself to enjoy her. He recognized the silk of her dress. It matched her eyes, just as he had thought it would when he acquired it. But it wasn't her fine dress that had his attention right now.

Her breasts were pushed up by the tight bustier, and he decided that was where he would settle his eyes while she thought of what to say. They had been silent for a few minutes now, only illuminated by the flames of the substantial fireplace next to them. Surprisingly, even he, a man not used to the cold, thought there was no need for such a large fire. The castle was incredibly warm, which he had noticed as soon as they had entered it.

After spending what felt like not enough time embracing each other in the Godswood, Y/N had pulled away, saying the words that needed to be said but neither wished to hear.

"We have important matters to discuss. Follow me."

She had walked a step back then, unfastening his dark cloak and letting it fall to the ground, revealing his black doublet, decorated with small silver chains. He wasn't wearing armor, not even chainmail underneath. He hadn't left his sword behind, though. Dark Sister was always with him.

"You look like you're here to assassinate me in that cloak," she explained, playing with a strand of his hair. Then she took his hand in hers to lead him out of the Godswood, the bright eyes of the direwolves no longer visible in the darkness of the woods.

"Maybe I am," he answered, making her chuckle.

"I would love to see you try," she responded, turning her head to smile at him. She seemed incredibly sure he posed no danger to her considering the message she had sent his brother a few days ago, the fact that he was armed and she wasn't, and also the fact that it was him she was dealing with. It was idiotic and naive, and it didn't matter if he was actually a danger to her or not. Not even he knew the answer to that question.

They had barely walked for a few minutes before Y/N let his hand go and one of the tall grey buildings of the castle became visible. They approached the enormous guarded double doors —those guards hadn't been there when Daemon had sneaked in— when Y/N stopped in her tracks and addressed one of the guards.

"Ser Alanor," she called, the man immediately turning to look at her. She waited a few seconds until Daemon was by her side. "Prince Daemon is our guest. Make sure the men are aware of it."

The man bowed his head.

"As my Queen commands."

Once that was settled —and Daemon leaned into her ear to whisper how the commander of her guard had looked at her too lasciviously, earning himself an eye-roll— they entered the building and walked through what appeared to be the Great Hall, with large tables and dozens of seats. Maids were setting up candles while the smell of cooked meat was in the air. Dinner, approximately 200 people, he counted. Around twenty seats at the high table, the largest made of carved stone. That was Y/N's spot, no doubt. And there was only one reason she was having such large dinners: guests. Bannermen. Boltons, Mormonts, Umbers, Glovers?

While Daemon observed everything carefully, the doors, the windows, the servants, and the watchmen, Y/N paid no mind with her head held high, ignoring the curious looks the servants were sending their way. They had surely been warned about his arrival, yet a Targaryen hadn't been in Winterfell for many years. Here the men and women had dark hair, with the occasional auburn or dark blonde. He had no way of not standing out with his long silver hair and his violet eyes. To these people, he probably looked out of this world, more god than man. Which is exactly what he thought he was.

Just as they were walking by, Y/N caught a young woman's arm.

"Ilana," she said, making her stop and turn around. She started to curtsy and greet them but Y/N interrupted her, raising her palm in the air to shut her up. "Prince Daemon and I will dine privately in my solar tonight, I will call when we are ready. Make sure there is no wine shortage in the Great Hall, and the bards only play joyful songs. Find Lord Karstark and the rest of the members of my small council and inform them Prince Daemon has come in peace and is our guest, with whom I will negotiate tonight."

Y/N made a small pause while Ilana nodded.

"Also, make sure the maids prepare our guest's chambers in the Great Keep. Use plenty of fur for the bed, he's not used to this kind of weather," she said in the end, before continuing on her way.

Considering she called him her guest, Y/N wasn't being very polite, forcing him to act like a lost puppy following her around. If only she would slow her pace...

This reminded him too much of how he used to follow her around in the Red Keep too, trying to keep up with her as she went from her chambers to the library and from the library to the courtyard and then back to the library again, with the exception he wasn't familiar with Winterfell and its people.

He wasn't sure if she was just being her usual self or if this was another subtle display of power, as the direwolves had been.

Soon, his thoughts quieted down as they were walking through winding dark corridors, with barely a few torches lighting the way. As his eyes adjusted he realized he didn't recognize this part of the castle. She slowed down her pace and he was finally walking by her side. He saw she had her hands wrung together, as she often did back in King's Landing when she wanted to take his hand but couldn't because they were in public.

He didn't know what was stopping her now. War? Formality? Honor? She may have been calling herself Queen, yet she struggled to act like one. She wasn't even twenty-five summers old yet.

"What do you northerners have against candles?" he whispered, figuring nobody was around to hear anyway. "Did you spend all your gold on weaponry? Maybe on armor? Should we donate candles to Winterfell?"

"We have more than enough gold, thank you for caring," she snapped, giving him a dirty look. "I apologize my castle is too dark for your liking, Prince Daemon. The Red Keep was too bright for mine."

He smiled to himself, remembering she used to blow out most of the candles her handmaidens lit in her chambers in the Red Keep. She preferred the cold and the darkness. Like a wolf.

They finally arrived at a wooden double door with two men standing guard outside. One of them bowed his head and opened the door for her, waiting for them to make their way inside before closing it, giving them privacy.

And that was where they were now. Sitting on the oversized wooden chairs in front of the fireplace, to his right a desk with lots of scrolls and some books, forgotten, and behind her a door that probably connected this solar to her private chambers.

The silence was long but not uncomfortable. There was a lot to think about before talking.

Finally, Y/N spoke, her voice cutting through the silence.

"Why are you here, Daemon?"

The flames barely illuminated their faces, the corners of the room submerged in darkness. Y/N's eyes were fixated on him.

"Because I wished to fuck you like the old times, so I figured I should visit," he responded nonchalantly, tilting his head to the side. "Wait, there was something else." He paused, pretending to think before his eyes scrutinized her, searing. The playfulness was gone from his voice now. "Maybe it is because you are calling yourself Queen of this barren piece of land and rebelling against my brother, your King. Unless there is some other crime you committed I should be aware of."

She raised an eyebrow.

"The Lords of the North named me their Queen. Don't act as if I take pleasure in any of this. Are you here to kill me, then?"

"No, but I will be," he answered honestly. "My brother can be very forgiving. That's what makes him a bad king, but it's also why you are still alive and will live the rest of your life in peace if you forget about this. Call off your bannermen. Burn your crown, wherever it is. Pretend this never happened and swear your loyalty to King Viserys again."

"I don't think you understand what's at stake, Daemon," she bit out.

"No, you don't understand what's at stake!" His hands gripped his chair so hard his knuckles were turning white. "Why war, Y/N? You will die!"

The intensity of his gaze burned her, but she stood her ground. She was a Stark, and Starks did not cower.

"I will die anyway if I'm dragged into another one of your royal conflicts." She gripped her chair as well, leaning forward with the same rage burning in her chest.

"What are you talking about?" he questioned, exasperated. "The realm has been in peace for decades!"

She stood up suddenly, agitated, and walked towards the fireplace, the heat radiating from it making her blush.

They both needed a pause to cool off their tempers.

"What about Viserys' succession? I hear the lords are going restless as he fathers no boys. And your reputation doesn't help you being his heir," she hissed.

"Is this what this is about?" he sneered. "You fear being dragged to war when my brother dies because the realm won't accept me as their King?"

"That's part of it," she admitted, turning to look at him, her grey eyes cold as they fixed on his. A moment passed before he stood up as well, standing behind her as she stared into the fire.

"There will only be war if you force it, Y/N, and you will die along with your people, your wolves, your family..."

Even as he threatened her, he took her hair in his hands with great care. Longer than he remembered it, but just as wild. She never bothered braiding it.

"You underestimate me," she said, lowering her voice. There was no need to yell anymore. As they stood by the fire, the conversation felt intimate. Even if the matter of discussion was unpleasant.

"We have dragons," he answered, curling a strand of her hair around his finger and letting it slip away. "The blood of Old Valyria runs through our veins. How do you think we became your kings in the first place?"

His hands wandered to her waist, where they settled, as he leaned forward and rested his chin on her shoulder, looking into the fire as well.

"We are dragonlords. Fire will consume a regular man, but not us. Your ancestor bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror. Your father swore an oath to my brother. Starks aren't known for being oathbreakers."

"Strangers in a strange land is what you are," she mused. "My House can be traced back eight thousand years, to the First Men. We have always been here. This is our land."

She could feel Daemon's grip around her waist loosening, and she placed his hands on top of his, silently asking him not to leave her.

"But you're right, we're not oathbreakers, even if Torrhen Stark made a mistake, we've upheld our vows all these years," she continued. "The problem is... rules change when winter comes. In winter, we must protect each other. And that mandate is above anything else. Even our loyalty to the Iron Throne. It is not power I wish for, it is to be excluded from southern conflicts. And that is not possible if I'm Lady of Winterfell."

She turned around, cupping his face in her hands.

"My dragon," she whispered, tears in her eyes, maybe caused by the intense heat of the fireplace, maybe because she did not wish for this to happen. "I cannot turn my back on my people. Winter is coming. And war is coming in the South, I know it. We cannot be part of it."

"You don't know that," he whispered back, clutching her wrists and pushing her away, refusing her touch. "You would force me to kill you because your lords wish for their independence. They are using you, filling your mind with baseless fear."

"Winter is coming and it is not a lie," she stated, knowing he was aware of it. "Only a fool would not fear winter. Or a son of summer, who has only known the sun and its warmth, and winters so short they are barely cold autumns. This is real winter we are facing."

She broke free from his grip and moved closer to him, their chests almost touching as she looked up at him.

"If I must die, I apologize if it has to be by your hand," she said. "I will not stand down, Daemon. We do not have to fight your wars."

"You say you are trying to avoid war yet you're dooming all your people to die by dragonfire because you refuse to back away from one."

"Haven't you heard? Some Northerners have to die when winter comes, or all of us do."

"I have read about the frozen castles, the men riding direwolves north of The Wall, the food that runs out. It seems rather fantastical."

"So do dragons, yet here you are."

"Yet here I am," he agreed. "I am not a patient man, Y/N. If this is your answer, I will take it to my brother, and I will come back with more dragons to kill you and the rest of the traitors that follow your lead."

"If this is yours, I will wait for you with our army. You might be a dragon, but you forget I am a wolf. My blood runs as thick as yours, Daemon," she defied. "We do not belong as part of the Seven Kingdoms. We never did. We do not share their customs, blood, or gods."

He stared at her, the same way he often did to men when he wanted them to submit, but she did not waver. Wolf's blood.

"Do the direwolves obey you?" he asked, changing the subject.

"They do not," she answered simply. "They cannot be tamed. But they are powerful beasts and they will fight by our side."

"Can the wolves fly? Can they spit fire? Because even with a thousand wolves you cannot hope to fight our dragons."

She smiled sadly, walking towards one of the corners of the room, where a jug of wine and two cups waited on a table.

"Of course we can." She spoke as she served both cups and brought one to Daemon. He accepted it, drinking without taking his eyes off her. "We've studied the Dornish. Dragons can die. And they will."

"Do not get cocky, Y/N," he said, brows furrowed. "It is not wise."

"Riding dragons up north in winter is not wise, yet is it what you promise me. Do not bring them here. They do not belong."

"Dragons can resist low temperatures," he contested.

"Can you?" she asked, an eyebrow raised, as she sipped her wine.

"Are you daring me to bring war to your doors? Do you even hear yourself?"

"I am asking you to reconsider. You can come here with ten dragons and thirty thousand men for all I care," she stated. "You would be out of your element. You would die. We would kill some of you, you would kill some of us, and then winter would kill us all."

"Treason is not forgivable, Y/N. There will be no negotiations. You either submit or you die. Are you sure of this?"

His question was genuine, it was clear in his eyes.

"Just give my message to Viserys," she answered.

Daemon waited a few seconds and then nodded.

"If you were anyone else, I would have your head now."

She ran a hand through his silver hair.

"I know." Her smile as she looked at him was tinted with sorrow. He looked at her too, understanding, as his heart grieved as well.

"I will leave for King's Landing as soon as the sun rises," he said. "And when I return, nothing will be the same again. Do you understand that?"

"It is the hour of ghosts," she whispered. "Dine with me one last time. Share my bed. Do not hurry. It is our last night together. Let it belong to us."

He finished his cup of wine and threw it into the fire.

"Forget about dinner." He took her cup as well and did the same with it. "Until dawn arrives, we belong to each other. Together. As we were always meant to be."

He grasped her chin, his thumb pressing on her bottom lip.

"I do not wish to waste a single minute of it," he whispered.

Their lips clashed together in an instant, hungry, desperate. She arched her back, pressing her body against his, as his hands blindly and shakily tried to undo the laces that tied her dress. She bit on his bottom lip, making his breath hitch, asking him for more as she clung to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He kissed her forcefully, sliding his tongue against hers, letting themselves get lost in each other. His hands still tried to unlace the back of her dress, as he had done so many times before but now the anxiousness to get rid of it didn't let him. She wasn't doing any better as she tugged on his doublet, frustrated when it wouldn't budge, and broke away from the kiss to pull on the small silver chains that held it together, snapping them off one by one. Still agitated, Daemon reached behind him and pulled a dagger. She was so focused on undressing him she didn't notice until he pressed the blade against her skin, between her breasts, and slid it down, swiftly cutting the fabric of her dress.

"Daemon!" she complained, feeling the warmth of the fireplace on her bare breasts. But he just gave her a mischievous look and knelt in front of her, finishing cutting her out of her dress. It fell and pooled around her, leaving her completely naked.

His eyes didn't leave her as he got rid of his also ruined doublet, placing his sword on the floor.

"It would have taken too long," he breathed out, baring his torso.

He lifted a brow, inviting her to join.

In a haze, she knelt down next to him and pressed her lips against his, licking them until he opened his mouth and let her kiss him, moist, dirty, delirious. When he finished undressing his hands found her back and without breaking the kiss he made her lean until her back was on the floor, the rug soft under her body. They parted for just a moment to look at each other, trying to force themselves to burn this into their memory, to never forget.

With her pupils so dilated her eyes were dark, she dug her nails into his lower back, trying to get him to fuck her. To love her.

"Daemon," she moaned, her lips parting as she gasped for breath, hooking a leg around his hips. "Please."

He didn't need anything else, his eyes never leaving hers as he slid into her slowly, making her feel drunk when he was finally buried deep inside her, right where he belonged. She closed her eyes for just a moment but Daemon's sudden grip on her thigh made her open them again.

"Look at me," he whispered. She did as he said and his hand loosened his grip to stroke her thigh, as he slowly slid out of her and in again, setting a slow pace, burying himself deep inside her. Their eyes were connected with lust, longing, and something else neither would ever admit.

Y/N's hands splayed across his chest and she ran them all over his body, feeling his warm skin, his muscles, his scars. Remembering every part of him as if she had never left. He brushed his lips against hers, making her arch her neck up to kiss him, but he denied her, burying his head in her shoulder instead. She could feel his heavy breathing against her skin as she crossed her legs behind his hips, guiding his movements, guiding him back inside her.

She ran her hands through his hair, undoing his braid, letting it free. She felt one of his hands touching her breasts, slowly, his finger circling around one of her nipples, leaving trails of fire on her skin. Time slowed down as he moved to suck on her nipple, making it even harder than it was, making the heat inside her unbearable. She cried out as she grabbed him by his hair and forced him to look at her.

"Kiss me," she begged, the feeling of him sinking into her over and over again almost sending her over the edge.

He did as she asked, engulfing her in a long, passionate kiss. And when they parted, a string of saliva still connecting them, they gazed into each other's eyes, telling each other what their words couldn't say.

"Y/N..." he breathed out, and she knew what he meant.

"Do it," she whispered, running her hands through his hair. "You know, Daemon. I know as well."

"I need you to say it," he insisted, looking at her deeply. "For both of us."

"I am yours..." she said, cupping the side of his face. "As you are mine."

He changed his pace then, slamming his hips into hers and hitting that sweet spot every single time, driving both of them over the edge. As he started losing his rhythm, he leaned down and kissed her desperately. She kissed him back, dissolving into pleasure as she clenched around him and felt him slowly stop moving, spilling deep inside her.

They kissed until they ran out of breath and Daemon rolled to his side, holding her body to follow his.

They lay in front of the fireplace, lost in each other's eyes, their bodies still intertwined.

They would be strangers in a few hours, but for now, they were still allowed to love.

Next part.

Tagging: @batprincess1013 @lollaa-puff @girl-of-multi-fandoms @mamamooqa @queenmendes @chevelledahuman @thanyatargaryen @zgzgzh @boofy1998 @lovelokiqueen @kmhappybunny240 @dudde-44 @dankfarrikdin @gothicgay14 @ilovemarauders @ilovemydinoboi @asgardiandeadpoetsociety @how2besalty @kaitieskidmore1 @thhriller @omgsuperstarg @missyviolet123 @booksnink13

TAG LIST CLOSED. If you asked to be tagged and you are not here, it's because tumblr wouldn't let me tag you. Sorry. I'll use the tag #queenoficeprinceoffire so you can follow anyway.

[rreeaahh]

We are both filthy now | R. A. B.

Third chapter of "One way ticket" | Ch. 1 / Ch. 2

READ THE AUTHOR NOTE, THANK YOU.

taglist> @my-beloved-fandoms

pair> regulus black x lestrange! reader (slytherin)

summary> a birthday party means, for most people, a way to celebrate your existence - for purebloods, however, is a good way to spent time together with their master. regulus and y/n are not fond of the event, but no matter the traumatic experience they both go trough, they are still enemies - and y/n should've know that.

word count> 4.5k (wtf)

warnings> some type of angst; slow burn af; family toxicity; female discrimination; description of getting the dark mark; regulus hitting reader's hand; not proofread!

a/n> hi m'loves<3 do not forget that the tag list is open, feel free to ask to be added! im sorry for the long wait, it was one tricky chapter to write and from now on im gonna stop hunting the perfection, ill just enjoy writing. im more than happy to see all the notification from you on this series, and im beyond grateful - ill love to read your reaction, it makes me incredibly happy and helps me write. any comment is more than welcomed<3 any reblog helps this series to get to more people and it only takes a minute to do so. thank u for reading, ily all<3

Dear Y/N,

I hope my letter finds you well – your cousin’s pathetic owl is one lazy bird, let me tell you, but Rodolphus seems to be quite fond of it, and won’t let me get a new one.

Anyway, I write to you in hope that you’ll make me the pleasure to attend my birthday next weekend – I already spoke with Rodolphus and your father and they assured me you’ll come, but I still think it’s better to write to you personally.

We’ll also have a little meeting, besides the party itself, so I’m sure you’ll find it rather educative than a silly simple ball – do not worry, I know you tend to get anxious when surrounded by people you don’t know that well, but my cousin Regulus is coming too! I’m sure you two young purebloods will have all the fun you need.

Don’t worry writing me back, just come along with Regulus back from Hogwarts. Your presence if the only gift I need.

                                                                                                      Lots of hugs,

                                                                                                                                    Bellatrix L.

Y/N puts the letter on her desk and grabs the other envelope – this one also has her family’s wax seal, the L and the raven on top of it sending her chills on her spine.

            Y/N,

Don’t even think of not attending Bellatrix’ party. You cannot let this family down. Your cousin, Rabastan, will wait for you on the Platform 9 ¾, since me and Rodolphus have a lot of work to do for the meeting. Saturday morning, no later than 10 A.M. The meeting will be at our house.

                                                                                        Don’t disappoint me.

                                                                                                                        Cyrus Lestrange

She scoffs and lets the paper fall from her fingers. She was only a child when her cousin, Rodolphus, married Bellatrix, Regulus’ cousin. They were the youngest at that party so all the adults expected them to spent time together. Truth is, however, that Regulus was shy and quiet and only stayed by her side, listening to all of her questions and never responding back. After the wedding, when her father seemed to be so pleased with little Regulus, with his manners and his obedient nature, Y/N decided that she hated Regulus Black. He was just a little prick, and she decided that she’ll be better than him – always.

As her roommates are deep asleep, Y/N stays at her desk and watches the two letters. She grabs again the one from her father and watches how the flame of the candle on her desk dances on it, the paper getting warmer and warmer, until it’s lit on fire. She hates to keep her father’s letters – it’s like she’d want to ever see them again.

With the burning paper still between her fingers, she gets out of her dorm and walk on the dark corridor of the Slytherin Girls’ Wing and goes to the Common Room, where the fire seems to be burning with green flames. The Black Lake is silent behind the large windows, only the water’s movement being heard. She throws the letter in the chimney and smiles at the sight of the fire eating up her father’s words. It’s like she’s watching him get eaten up by the flames.

“It’s late, Lestrange.”

Y/N jumps on her feet and gets a grip of her night robes. The light green material covers her body now that she’s tugging her fingers into it. From the dark green sofa, Regulus Black watches her with a bored expression. He was reading a book and in front of him, on the small black table, is a cup filled with tea, she could guess.

“Always staying in the shadows, like a rat,” Y/N mutters and walks to him, staying on the couch in front of him. While she sits down, she lets the robe fall from her shoulder, exposing the skin. She’s dressed in a dark purple pajama set, made out of silk, and the little string of her tank top falls with the robe. Regulus seems to notice the bare skin just exposed and he gets his eyes to look at her face fast, before she could sense his gaze. He feels… disgusted.

“Always speaking like you own the whole place,” he talks back and smirks, “when we both know it’s nothing like that.” His voice is flat – no matter his facial expressions, Regulus Black always had a boring voice when he’d talk to her.

Y/N just watches him for a second. He’s still in his Quidditch equipment, even if the Slytherin team came back from practice a few hours ago. His hair is messy, his eyes are circled by a dark color, in comparison with his light skin, and he looks tired.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” she lets the question escape her lips without even thinking.

“I could ask you the same thing, if I really cared,” he says and grabs his cup, drinking slowly from it.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Black,” Y/N laughs and puts her hands over her chest. Regulus notices that, too. “I’m sure you got an owl from Bellatrix.”

“Yes, Bella wrote me about her birthday. Unfortunately, if you’re telling me about it, it means she wrote to you, too,” he says in a quiet voice, letting out the air in his lungs.

“She’s part of my family, too, Black,” Y/N says and surprises herself – she never gave that much importance to the family relations. She only had herself, at the end of the day, no matter how much her father would scold her for being an absent member of the House of Lestrange.

Her father never really showed her love – he was meant to be her father, but he was just a kind of legal tutor who raised her and was responsible for her well-being, and her cousins looked down on her – she was just a silly girl, meant only to bear children and get more powerful connections for her family. Her uncle and her aunt were distant, and maybe that was better than giving her reasons to hate them, like the rest did.

“Please, do not remind me – I still can’t get over that.” Regulus seems annoyed, bored, tired of her presence. And, yet, he stands there, face to face with her, watching each other – studying each other with such attention like they’re looking for a weak point.

“Why are you such a hypocrite, Regulus?” Y/N suddenly asks. He just smiles in the corner of his mouth, grabs his cup of tea and gets up from the sofa.

She feels him getting closer to her and in a second his breathing is hitting her face. “Don’t act like I’m the only one putting an act on, Miss Little Perfect,” he says amused.

Her brows drop. The skin on her forehead wrinkles and her eyes watch his, wanting to see behind them – they are empty. “I know you look up to me, Regulus, but there’s no need to remind me,” now she’s the one to smirk, and he’s the one to frown.

“Please,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t look up to a pathetic orphan even if you’d be hanging out from the ceiling,” he mutters and gets back up on his feet, looking down to her. Regulus is not the tallest boy Y/N knows, but that position gives him a more decent posture.

“That orphan is better than you,” she whispers. “That’s why your momma always prays the ground I walk on, right?” she laughs and she can sense his body getting alarmed by her words. “My dad just wanted an heir, someone to get his name far – but Walburga wants more than that, right? Now that Sirius, your disappointment of a brother, left, she only has you, but she doesn’t seem to be fulfilled,” the air leaves her lungs when Regulus drops the cup of tea and gets on top of her. The liquid spills on the stone floor.

His hands grab her bare shoulders, his leg is between her hips and he presses her body into the couch. Her back is arched into the plush material of the sofa and her eyes widen at the proximity. His jaw is tightened and his breathing is deep while Regulus watches her face with a spark into his eyes. “Do not, ever again in your filthy, pathetic, good for nothing life, talk about my family,” he mumbles and his grip only gets tighter – his nails digs into the skin of her shoulders like he wants to rip it off.

Y/N shoves him away and quickly gets up from the couch. Regulus is on the floor, right into the tea puddle he made, and he seems to be caught with his guard off. “Do not, ever again in your pathetic, sad, good for nothing life, call me an orphan – I have a family, Black. The blood in my veins is just as pure as yours, and my name is just as important as yours.”

And she leaves him there, into the Common Room, to take a bath into his own mess. She needs to go back to sleep – tomorrow she has to go back home and get ready for a birthday party.

The whole night she tried to forget Regulus’ hands onto her skin – her shoulders felt like burning, like they got marked by his touch. She tried not to think about the anger in her soul the whole ride back to London, when she was forced to be in the same wagon with Regulus – apparently, they both wanted to travel into the Prefects’ cabin. At least, they both kept their mouths shut and didn’t even looked at each other.

She didn’t have to have a very warm welcoming back home – Rabastan waited for her at the station and kept his eyes on the road the whole time. He only asked about other Slytherin kids in her year and some older ones – he wanted to know if she was behaving well enough towards them. Once she got to enter the big mansion she called ‘home’, there was chaos – all the house elves were running left and right with platters, candles, flowers in their hands and all of them stopped to look at her and welcome her mechanically. She just got up to her room and closed the door behind her. When she dropped on her bed, there was silence – there was no longer Regulus Black, or Cyrus Lestrange or any other dumb man who made her angry.

Once she woke up, she started to get ready for the gathering she was forced to attempt. She got dressed in a dark grey dress, elegant enough not to make her father a fool and yet, simple enough not to make Bellatrix feel left out – it was her birthday, after all.

“There you are,” says her father as she gets out of her bedroom. “I thought you’re still asleep.”

“I was getting ready.”

Cyrus looks her up and down in a judgmental way – he points to her neck. “Make sure the chain is visible, nothing else.”

Y/N forces a smile and a hand travels to the gold flower at her neck. “Yes, father.” He gives her his elbow and the two of them go down, where the elves decorated the whole floor with black and purple roses and white candles. There’s a long table near a wall, right at the fireplace, where are plates with food and glasses of expensive champagne.

“Here,” Cyrus whispers and gives Y/N a red box, and before she could question his action Bellatrix is right in front of her, laughing happily.

“Y/N! I’m so glad to see you, how are you?”

Bellatrix Lestrange, nee Black, is a very… bipolar witch. Once, she’s loud, smiley, in a good mood, and then she acts like the Devil himself. Y/N could never figure out why her cousin, Rodolphus, wanted to marry her – there were plenty of purebloods who wished to be married to him, but all his attention was on Bellatrix ever since they were in school together, despite the fact that she didn’t show any kind of interest in him during those years. Now, Rodolphus would do anything Bellatrix asks without blinking twice.

“Happy birthday, Bellatrix,” Y/N smiles and hugs her in a soft manner. While giving her the small box, she can see her cousin behind his wife, watching them carefully.

“I told you there was no need for gifts,” Bellatrix says and gives Rodolphus the box to take care of it. “I assume you just got down here,” she continues and grabs her hand, getting her away from her father – he doesn’t seem concerned about that. Cyrus always said that Bellatrix was a good wife and that Y/N had a lot to learn from her. What he did not know is that Y/N really wanted to learn a lot from Bellatrix – she wanted to know more about the power a witch could hold.

“Yes,” she said and looked around her own house. It was full of wizards, all of them being purebloods and talking to each other with a clear superiority in their voice. “I hope I’m not late to the party.”

Bellatrix scoffs. “The true party begins only when he gets here,” she smirks and Y/N freezes, knowing who she’s talking about. Tom Riddle was certainly not her favorite person, no matter how much he convinced her father that she will be a good daughter for him.

“Wonderful,” she manages to say and walks beside Bellatrix to greet her guests. She smiles and greets Bellatrix’ parents and gets a deep breath when her aunt and uncle come to wish her a happy birthday.

“Y/N, how are you, dear?” Walburga asks and kisses her both cheeks. Bellatrix seems busy talking to her uncle about the upcoming meeting, while Regulus sits behind them and only listen. “How is school?”

“It’s good, wonderful, even,” she smiles and Walburga laughs happily. “I’m working on some essays for Potions and Transfiguration, maybe they’ll be published after I finish school.”

“Did you hear, Regulus? Y/N plans to publish some essays after graduation,” she scolds her son and now his attention is on them. He only smiles to his mother and she goes on with the talking. Neither of them seems to be truly focused on what she’s saying – they look at each other like they’d snap each other’s neck if they could.

“Regulus, why don’t you invite Y/N to dance?” Bellatrix pops between them and her aunt claps her hands satisfied with her proposal. “You know how much joy it brings me to see you two together, Reggie,” she continues and puts her arm around his shoulders. He looks at his cousin with doubt in his gaze – she made them dance together at her wedding, too, like they were some monkeys to entertain the adults.

With a silent scoff, he forced a smile in his cousin’s direction and looked shortly to his mother, who only seemed to tell him the same thing with her eyes. “Shall we dance together, Y/N?” he asks and gives her his pale hand.

No matter how much she’d like to hit it, getting it away from her, she grabs it lightly and smiles. “With pleasure,” she mutters and the adults all clap their hands and smile in their direction as they go to the center of the room, where other people are dancing slowly.

Bellatrix flicks her wand and the room is now filled with a more vibrant music – they smile to each other and Y/N’s skin is burning under her dress where Regulus’ hands touch her. He cups her hand into his and the other one rests on her back, bringing her closer to his body. She has a hand on his shoulder and they both move synchronically to the rhythm.

“You disgust me,” he whispers into her ear, sending shivers all over her spine.

A big smile appears on her rosy lips and she looks behind him, where her father is beside Orion and Cygnus Black – they all had firewhiskey glasses in hand and talked with serious expressions on their faces.

“The feeling is mutual, my dear Regulus,” she mumbles and steps on his foot, careful to put the heel right into his toe.

“Then, you could’ve save us both and deny Bellatrix’ stupid wish.”

“On her birthday?” she scoffs. “Yeah, right, you tell her no, I like to be alive.”

Regulus lets a small chuckle out and before she could look at him, he spins her away for a second. When her body is back into his arms, her vision is blurry. “You better keep your mouth shut during the meeting,” he says in a cold tone.

“Why, Reggie?” she mocks the tone Bellatrix used. “Scared the Dark Lord will see more potential in me than in you?” She’s joking. On Merlin’s beard, she’s only trying to piss him off.

“Tonight is my night and you better not do anything to steal it from me,” he spits the words into her ear. Her skin becomes ice cold and all her blood runs faster into her veins because of the way he presses his fingers into her back. “I warn you, Y/N, stay in your place,” he mumbles and when the music changes, he lets go of her and smiles, before going away.

After some hours, the chaos in her house begins to cool down – the guests start leaving until there are only the usual people. They all sit at the long table, talking about some things that happened in the Muggleworld and how unacceptable they were – for someone who said they despised the muggles, they sure talked a lot about them. The conversation dies when the chair at the end of the table is occupied by the tall, dark haired wizard. They all rise from their sits and greet him with joy.

“It’s good to see you too, my dear friends,” Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort says and he shakes her father’s hand. Her lungs take the air in with great difficult, given the fact that there’s only a sit between the dark wizard and her. “I assume I need to apologize to Bellatrix,” he speaks and looks to his left, where the witch smiles from one ear to another. “I did not bring any gift with me, Bella,” he explains.

“You are my greatest gift, My Lord,” she says and from her left, Rodolphus and Rabastan just nod their heads. “Your presence gives us hope for a better future for us, the right titled wizards,” she continues and everyone agrees.

Bellatrix is one of the most loyal followers the Dark Lord has besides Cyrus Lestrange and the rest of his friends from when they were in Hogwarts. He saw the potential in her, just like he saw it in Y/N.

“Then tell me, which is the reason of this meeting?” Voldemort asks and looks at every face at the table.

It was not Y/N’s greatest pleasure to sit at that table from time to time – her father thought it was good for her future to assist those meetings, but they were incredibly boring. There were many parents of her housemates and from other kids from school, but not even a single person her age – that until Bellatrix brought Regulus to join her. Apparently, he was quite a fan of that man because of his cousin’s stories.

“We think it’s the time to welcome another wizard between us, as an official member, my Lord,” Lucius Malfoy speaks and his voice is just as annoying as ever.

“Oh, really?” Voldemort smiles. “And who might that be, Lucius?”

“My cousin, my Lord,” Bellatrix says and points to Regulus. “Regulus is one of the most dedicated wizards to your plans,” she continues and the air leaves Y/N’s lungs.

Looking over the table to Regulus, she could see Walburga smiling proudly while he just looks to Tom Riddle. “My Lord,” he says, “I swear I’ll serve you with every power I have.”

“Then come closer, young Regulus,” the dark wizard says and plays with his wand between his fingers. The boy gets up on his feet. From his right, Cyrus Lestrange clears his throat. “Yes, Cyrus?”

“My Lord,” he begins, “I was not aware that the Death Eaters were open to new members.”

“We always have free spots for the one who wish to serve our believes,” comes his explanation.

“In that case, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that Y/N is just as worthy of getting the mark as young Regulus is.”

Her heart stops beating. What did he just say?

“Right, Y/N?” his father touches her back, forcing her to look at him. His eyes are desperate. There is no way, in his opinion, that his only child will not be recognized as a worthy follower of Lord Voldemort.

All eyes are on her. She can feel them. However, she does not care about them – the only ones that matter are her father’s, and the one from across the table who looked down at her.

“Yes, My Lord,” she says that quietly that she barely hears her own voice. Her father pats her back and goes back to Voldemort. Y/N can’t gather the courage to look at Regulus.

“You said she was worthy from the first day you saw her, My Lord,” Cyrus says. “You said she will be a powerful witch, with a great future – how is she supposed to be powerful if not under your command?”

Voldemort smiles pleased. “You’re right, my old friend. Come, child, let me get a better look of you.” Her father looks at her and orders her to do as asked just with his eyes. Do not disappoint me, hesays with his burning gaze.

Mechanically, Y/N is on her feet and walks behind her father, in front of the sick looking wizard. His hands are cold, like he’s dead, when he touches her jaw. He looks at her like she’s some kind of animal that needs to be inspected.

“Are you willing to follow my orders, whenever you are needed, child?”

There’s a knot in her stomach. She wants to say no. She wants to leave that house and never come back. She’s scared.

“Yes,” is the only answer she can give in return.

“Very well,” Tom Riddle smirks satisfied and gestures to Regulus to come closer too. They are now next to each other. She can hear his breathing from her left and her knees are about to go numb. “Who wants to go first?”

Before she can say anything, Regulus already has his shirt lifted from his left arm and brings it closer to the man. Y/N can hear the soft scoff of his father.

“You need to swear to always serve me, boy,” Voldemort demands, the tip of his wand pressed into Regulus’ arm.

“I swear, My Lord. Whenever you’ll call for me, I’ll be there, ready to do everything I’m capable of for you,” Regulus speaks.

With a big grin on his face, Voldemort begins to press the wand deeper into the skin, until Regulus grabs his arm with his free hand. From under his skin is visible a dark smoke that lingers there, running like it’s chasing his blood. His nose is twitching from the possible pain, but besides that, his expression is blank. When the wand is lifted, the Dark Mark is on his white skin. There is silence, like the rest would wait for him to scream. His parents have a proud expression on their faces as Regulus watches the crowd with a blank, serious stare.

“Your turn, Y/N” Voldemort says after a few seconds and puts his hand out there to grab her arm. She lifts the sleeve of her dress and looks at her father – Cyrus Lestrange watches her with a demanding manner, like he’s forcing her to go closer to Voldemort. Which she does.

“I always knew you’d be a great witch, child,” he says with a proud tone in his voice. He wanted her to be his weapon. “Say you’ll serve me without question, Y/N. Let the others know that from today, you’ll become one of the most powerful followers of mine.”

“I do, My Lord,” is the only thing she says like she’s hypnotized – her body doesn’t listen to her commands, it acts on its own.

The wand is cold against her skin, but as soon as Voldemort presses it harder into her arm, a burning sensation hits her entire being – she needs to grab her arm in order not to get it away from the unspoken spell. The black smoke feels like venom and she wants to scream from the bottom of her soul. Instead, she just bites the flesh inside her mouth, the taste of blood blooming from her cheek. When the wand is lifted and the mark is done on her arm, too, there’s silence again – and when there’s no screaming, all the Death Eaters gets up and start to applause them, to congratulate them.

“That’s the best birthday ever!” Bellatrix laughs maniacal and jumps from a foot to another.

She still has her left arm in her right hand, looking at the black drawing on her skin. She’s too afraid to touch it, like it could burn her fingers. Two arms wrap around her in the noise and she’s hugged by her father. Cyrus Lestrange hugs his daughter, and a single tear rolls down on her cheek.

“Good job, Y/N,” he says in her ear. “Now you’ll show everyone what you’re made of.”

She gets slightly away from him and she can feel the vomit sensation grow in her stomach. While everyone clink glasses of champagne and laughs with joy, she excuses herself and leave the dining hall.

She could not see Regulus in the crowd. She needs to see him to be sure it was all real. And she finds him on the corridor near the bathroom, at a balcony with a view to her garden. His shoulders are moving up and down and his breathing is accelerated. If she didn’t know any better, she wouldn’t guess he was… crying. She stepped closer to him slowly and put her hand on his back.

“Regulus…” she said softly and tears started to form into her eyes, too. What have they done?

“You couldn’t contain yourself, right?” he screams and turns around to face her. “You got to be the center of the attention tonight, too,” his voice is full of hate, which she ignores when she sees his wet blood-shot eyes. Her hand tries to touch his shoulder, wishing to show him… empathy?

“Regulus…” she mumbles again and her voice is hurt. Maybe they are in this together; she just needs to explain everything.

“Don’t put your filthy hands on me!” he says and slaps her hand away.

Y/N doesn’t know what hurt more – the slap, the burning feeling in her arm or the fact that she thought that maybe, just maybe, Regulus was willing to show her kindness then, when it was clear that neither of them was feeling good with their actions.

She looks at his hand – the one he slapped hers with – and at his arm. His left arm.

“We are both filthy now,” she says with despair and turns around, leaving him alone.

[xxnghtclls]

Permission

Chapter 28

(Chapter 27; Chapter 29)

True Form Sukuna x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Graphic Depiction Of Violence

Please see Chapter 1 for tags!

His Name On Your Mind

“Get up!” Sukuna’s stern voice rings through your ears. You’re startled, as you wake up, still laying in front of the main entrance, curled up like an embryo.

“Come.” his voice melts into Uraume’s, as you fight your eyes open. They are reaching out their hand to you. You exhale, every inch of your body hurting, as you take their hand and get up on your feet. With swollen eyes and and wobbly legs, you carefully climb down the stairs. Uraume holds on to your right arm, making sure you won’t fall.

On your way back to your room, some maidens peek out of their quarters, take a look at what’s going on. Shortly you make eye contact with the kitchenmaid who gave you food, but you avert your gaze quickly and try to ignore the rest of them.

You feel ashamed, so weak and embarrassed, just because your King isn’t here.

Arriving in your room, you slump down on your futon and Uraume slides the door shut. You feel their eyes piercing into your back, feeling so small and helpless. Ridiculous and pathetic.

“You locked the door, didn’t you?” you say in a raspy voice.

“You’re not allowed to leave.” they answer. “Eat! And get some sleep. Tomorrow you’re working again.” they order, before stepping out and sliding the door shut.

Silence.

You lay down and stare into the darkness, listening to your own breathing, wishing you could listen to his. Sleeping next to him. Feel him. You hiss in pain, as the string tugs on your heart again, tugs hard and drags you into unconsciousness.

You wake up to the quiet sound of bugs and maggots crawling over the plate the rice cakes are placed on. You see them squirming and crawling over the plate and it makes you gag.

It stinks.

It’s still night and despite the disgusting sight next to your futon, your hunger is almost unbearable. You sigh and decide to get up. Taking a small candle with you, you tiptoe over the cold stone floor and quietly open the door to the hall leading to the kitchen. The air is pitch black around the flame of your candle and no one seems to be awake. Quietly you open the door to the kitchen, peeking your head in it to make sure no one is there.

Quiet.

You walk in and close the door behind you. Going for the counter in the corner, you search for fruit.

They can’t have poisoned raw food.

You find apples in a bowl. Taking one, you observe it for any holes or foulness.

Seems to be good.

Suddenly you hear someone at the door. You immediately blow out your candle and crouch down. The door opens and you quietly move along the counter until your sight to the door is blocked by the counter in the middle of the kitchen. The room is softly illuminated by another candle and someone walks in. Your heart is racing as you try to keep your mouth shut from breathing so fast. The light wanders through the kitchen to the bowl of apples you just took one from. With wide eyes and heavy breathing, afraid to get caught, you watch and stay still. It’s another kitchenmaid who was working here when you came in before Sukuna left. She takes an apple and before she turns into your direction, you quietly tiptoe around the counter, out of her sight. You watch the light moving into your direction and stay absolutely still. Holding your breath, she doesn’t notice you, as she walks with extremely tired eyes past your figure, out of the door.

You exhale, relieved to not have been caught. Quietly you tap through the darkness, out of the kitchen and back to your room.

Hastily you eat the apple, knowing that she also took an apple makes it easier for you. It’s still raining outside, but having eaten the apple brightens up your mood a bit. You lean out of your window and look up. The moon shines so bright through the rainy clouds. It’s the same moon that hovers over Sukuna right now. Feeling that kind of connection kind of soothes you and you wonder, if he looked at the moon and thought of you as well. The heartache strikes again and you slump into your sheets.

It hurts so bad.

You remember the last time you were in physical pain. It was at the fire. He’s not here to help you now, to hold you in this darkness and to ease your pain. You wait a bit and huff at yourself, before you get up and out of your room again. Holding the newly lit candle, you tiptoe to his chambers and sneak in.

You place the candle on the cupboard next to his kiseru, before you start to undress yourself. Naked, you tap into the small bathroom to his dresser. From the top drawer, you grab his clean kimono and wrap it around you. It’s so large, most of the fabric slides on the floor while you walk back to his bedroom. The fabric feels soft on your skin and having it on you, reminds you of him. You take his kiseru and light the tobacco with your candle. The first puff hurts in your lungs, as well as the second and third. You cough, but after continuing, it starts to relax you. His the feeling of his kimono and the smell of his tobacco let’s your mind wander elsewhere. You sit down at the edge of his bed, taking a deep puff. Slowly, you exhale the smoke, before the heartache makes you lean back on the bed. You close your eyes, imagining Sukuna standing in front of your spreaded legs. Your left hand gently moves across your tits, your fingertips giving you goosebumps, while you imagine him looking down on you while you touch yourself.

Another puff.

Your fingers glide down your torso, until your fingertips brush over your sensitive lips between your thighs. Imagining the aroused look on his face, your fingers glide between your folds. The heartache is constant but bearable, while you continue to see his face in front of your closed eyes, feeling the arousal growing in your abdomen.

Another puff.

You use the mouthpiece of the pipe to circle it around your right nipple, while your left middle finger softly dips into your wet pussy.

Sukuna

His name is on your mind, as you wet your clit with the wetness of your finger. Drawing soft circles with your finger tip on your sensitive nub, your arousal increases. You imagine Sukuna looking down on you, with his halflidded eyes, glowing red, his brow knit, while he pumps his cocks while standing in front of you, precum oozing out of their tips. You start to moan softly at the thought, letting your right hand fall back on the mattress, still holding on to the pipe. Legs start trembling, can’t bear the teasing of the stimulation of your clit anymore. You roll over, burying your face in your right arm, while holding the kiseru next to your face. The smell helps your mind keeping his picture in front of your eyes. On your knees now, your middle and ring finger enter your cunt, imagining it’s him. You imagine his sounds, his grunts and growls, his purrs and moans. The way he would grab you by the hips and just fuck into your needy holes, the way his thighs would slap against your ass, while you fuck yourself with your tiny fingers, the pleasure you feel not being comparable to the one you would feel from him. Moaning more frequently, you imagine the way he would lean over your back, grab you by the neck and push you into the mattress.

Your motions grow faster, fucking your hole with your fingers while rubbing your palm against your clit. The way he would whisper dominant words into your ear, the way he would demand you to be louder when you moan your praise to him.

The way he would call you “mine”.

With his name on your lips you come undone, quietly whining into his sheets, the heartache getting stronger with your orgasm.

It didn’t help.

You sigh in disappointment, letting a few minutes pass, before you get up slowly and put the kiseru back on its stand. Falling weakly back into his bed, you wrap yourself into his kimono and sheets and fall asleep with a hurting heart.

You wake up in his bed the next morning at sunrise. Remembering, that this is indeed not your own bed, you hurry out of it and dress yourself in your own kimono, the dagger still being secured in your obi. Every movement is a pain, as you fold Sukunas kimono neatly and put it back into his dresser. Just as you come back and start making his bed, the door opens. Without a warning.

“Oy princess.” the bitches voice rings in your ear.

Shit.

You turn to the door.

“I heard you were in charge for this whole section of the shrine now. Thought I would pay you a visit.”

“Uhuh…” you say suspiciously.

She wanders around in his chambers, looks in every corner, until she sees the candle.

“Oh what`s that?” she points at it.

“It’s a candle.” you say, turning back around to pat his sheets smooth.

“It’s not a candle that’s usually placed there. Why is it here?” you really don’t like her overly acted curious tone.

“I started working before sunrise.” you lie, as you put his pillow back in order.

“Why are you making his bed then? He’s not here.” she sneers, walking up to you behind you. “Or perhaps… maybe you slept here after your little escape attempt last night.”

Your heart is racing, but you turn around to face her.

“Don’t you miss him?” you try to sound empathic. “I remember your tears when he welcomed the new girl. You miss him just as much.”

Your words make her features twitch in anger. She steps closer to you.

“I do miss him.” she touches the sides of your arms. “I miss the way he smirks at me.”

Closer.

“Miss the way he grabs me.” the grip on your arms grow tighter, as her face comes even closer to yours. “Miss the way he fucks me.” she whispers, pushing you against the edge of the bed, causing you to sit down.

You keep listening to her attempts to make you jealous, as she grabs your neck and pushes you down, making the cut on your neck sting. Heart is racing, as she climbs on top of you, her lips at your ear.

“Miss the way he makes me scream his name.” she whispers. “Miss the way he growls how wet my pussy is for him. Now… it’s been a while. Just because of you.”

Her words make you angry, but you’re curious. The way she acts and touches you is different from the other occasions. The fingers of your right hand move into her hair, playing along.

“How did it feel to be up there on the throne with him?” she mouths against your cheek, pressing her body onto yours. “To look into his eyes?”

What?

“Divine.” you breathe, acting like you didn’t notice how she knows that.

“That’s what I thought.” she breathes heavily against your cheek, starts to rub herself on you. “Let’s miss him together…” she breathes. Her thumb moves from your neck to your mouth and pushes it in.

Fuck no.

You swirl your tongue around her thumb and suck on it, making her hiss in your ear at your actions. She keeps rubbing, until her hissing turns into moaning, as you grab her hair more harshly. Your mind can’t take it any longer and you bite down on her thumb. So hard you taste the blood on your tongue. She screams and slaps your face, before she falls back and stumbles backwards away from the bed.

Bitch.

“Fuck you and your needy cunt!” you spit at her. She starts to giggle, putting the thumb into her mouth, smacking her lips.

“You smoked his pipe.” she smirks, cocking her eyebrow at you. “You think Uraume will allow that?”

“Just tell them. I don’t give a shit.” you spit back. “Now fuck off.”

“Careful... Keep cleaning.” she says, keeping her eye contact with you, while she walks to the door. “And don’t forget to eat.” she winks at you before she leaves the room with a bleeding thumb.

I need to break something.

Angrily you walk up and down in Sukunas bedroom for a few minutes, before you catch yourself.

A deep breath.

You look around a last time and put everything in order, before you leave his chambers into the halls. Nobody walked through these halls except you yesterday, so you just look if there’s any spot to be cleaned. Of course it isn’t.

You’re pissed. About all of this. This is ridiculous.

Heartache.

You hiss in pain, before you open the door to the throne room. The bucket and sponge still lay there and you pick them up, to throw them back in the chamber, not even checking for spots to be cleaned. You conclude your work to be done without having done any work at all. Walking to the opened door to the gardens, you watch the rain still falling down and notice how it didn’t stop raining since your King is gone. Watching it soothes you, thinking the sky is just as sad about his absence as you. Your adrenaline soothes the ache in your heart but doesn’t calm your angry pulse.

Sukuna.

The door behind you opens and on the way they tap on the floor you already know it’s Uraume.

“I’ve been informed about an incident.” they say. You roll your eyes, not moving an inch. They come to a halt besides you.

“I’ve been informed, that you have been sleeping in Master Sukuna’s chambers and smoking his pipe without permission. Concerns were voiced that you might have used his pipe to satisfy other needs of yours.”

You look at Uraume in disbelief and cock your eyebrow.

“I’m not nearly as needy as some other people here. I didn’t fuck his pipe.” you add. They nod in understanding.

“It’s come to my attention that the maids sometimes pay each other a visit in Master Sukuna’s absence. Anyway, the maids are only allowed to clean his chambers during that time, not to stay there.”

“I’m not his maid.” you say, looking into their eyes with a self confidence you thought you lost a few days ago.

What anger does to you.

They lower their gaze and the corners of their mouth twitch, looking like they suppressed a smirk and it baffles you, as this is the most mimic you have ever seen on them.

Heartache.

It feels like it rips apart your insides and you moan in agony. Your knees grow weak and Uraume catches you, holding on to your arms. They help you walk into your room and you kneel down on your futon, panting in pain.

“Wait here.” they say, leaving the room. A few minutes later they come back with a cup with fresh water, traces of raindrops on their robe and hair.

“Drink.”

You figure they must’ve gone outside to get it from the well and not from the kitchen, so you comply and drink. It helps.

“You cursed him, didn’t you?” they say quietly. “And he cursed you, too.” they add. “Even a blind person could see it.”

Their words make you huff, the heartache grows unbearable. It doesn’t even surprise you that they know.

“Pathetic, right?” you hiss, not looking at them. “It hurts so much.”

A pause.

“I see it.” they conclude. “However…” they crouch down right next to you. “I need you to stay busy. Drowning in this kind of pain will kill you before Master Sukuna has the chance to come back.”

You hate how right they are.

“And you need to eat. I can see that you’re already losing weight.” they say. “I was ordered to keep an eye on you. This includes making sure you don’t die.”

“I don’t trust those kitchenmaids.” you sneer. They nod in understanding.

“As I said. I was ordered to keep an eye on you.”

You nod, their eyes seem genuine and caring. A person Sukuna trusts is a person you should trust, too.

Your days go on and you fight yourself out of bed each day, to continue to clean his room, the halls and throne. At least you pretend to. Mostly you would just sit in his room, pretending he’s sitting behind you in his armchair. Just sharing his space with you or watching you while you take a nap on his bed. Since you would spend most of your day in his chambers, you don’t cross paths with the bitch or any other maid again and no one decides to pay you a visit. Luckily. Maybe Uraume has forbidden them to enter his chambers after what happened here. Sometimes you would sneak out in the dark, to check if the main entrance is still locked. It always is.

Your strength decreases more and more each day. Uraume keeps bringing you food from the kitchen and you start to eat again, mainly because they started to watch you eat it, threatening you to force it down your throat if you don’t. No poisonous effects show on you and you don’t know if they are more trustworthy than you think, or if Uraume stays in the kitchen while the maids prepare the food from scratch. Your body keeps surviving, but your soul keeps dying. The heartache gets worse and worse with every day, sucks the energy out of you every day and forces you to take longer breaks. Sometimes you need hours to even get out of bed, sometimes you would stay in his chambers and sleep there and Uraume lets you. Weeks go by and you grow tired. So, so tired. Even your period comes and goes, marking the one month anniversary of your fleeing attempt. It’s harder and harder to get out of bed. Uraume even tries to make you feel better by trying to heal you, calling it reverse cursed technique, but to no avail. Your limbs hurt, despite your body being nourished and your mind being kept busy. Everything is fed. Except your heart. And the string keeps tugging and pulling and it always feels like it’s going to be ripped out any second. You’re being kept alive artificially and you can’t bear it anymore, feeling like you’re alive, but decomposing.

It’s been five weeks since he left.

You’re laying on the futon in your own room. After changing into your other kimono, you decided to take a break and lay down. Weakness ripped you into unconsciousness and here you are, counting the seconds until he might come back. You’ve been laying there for hours. So weak. Like a ghost who was ripped from its body. You’re just a shadow of yourself.

It’s the end of January and the snow luckily has already melted a few weeks ago. However, the rain keeps crashing down and you don’t even remember the last time the sun was shining. Not being able to move, your heart rips itself apart and you just endure it, wishing for Sukuna to dash through your door any second, to make it stop.

Months.

You wonder how many maggots would be crawling on the plate next to your bed right now, if Uraume had not taken it away. Many probably.

Maybe they would start to eat me now, too.

The door opens and you hear Uraume stepping in behind you, probably to bring you food. You’re too weak to turn around.

They set down a bowl of steaming rice and vegetables in front of your face. It smells amazing and you wish, eating it would make you feel better.

But it won’t.

It will just keep you alive. Maybe you should have let them poison you after all.

They put a stack of neatly folded clothes right next to the bowl.

You watch in confusion, before you seek their face.

“What is this?” you ask in a raspy voice.

“Locking the door was not an order from Master Sukuna.” they say, making you frown in confusion. “It was my decision, since I knew you would try and go after him. Now… I figured, a locked door can’t suppress this kind of curse you both put on each other.”

Your eyes widen at their words.

“You’re free to seek after him, if you promise to come back in one piece.”

A weight falls from your shoulders, a lump grows in your throat and tears pool in your eyes. Feeling like you woke up from a coma, you rise your upper body and grab the clothes to see what it is. Black hakama pants, a short black kimono with long sleeves and deep red ornaments and a black cape with a hood to cover your head if needed. Your heart starts racing, as you look back to Uraume with wide eyes.

“First you’re going to eat the rice. Then you may go.” they say.

Adrenaline gives you the strength to get up and you can’t help to just hug them.

“Thank you, Uraume.” you whisper into their ear. Letting go of them, after you feel them tensing up, you crouch down to eat the rice.

Uraume turns around and walks to the door.

“I will see you.” they say with a piercing look in their face. You nod, assuring them you will come back safe and sound, before you continue to shove the food in you. After you’re finished, you put on the new clothes Uraume brought for you. Taking the dagger from the obi, you stuff it into the fabric of your waist. You’re eager to go, but you have to wait until it’s dark. Wrapping the sheet around you, ready to take it with you, you wait.

Heartache.

“Shhh.” you shush to yourself, trying to ease your pain with it. This new situation gives you new energy to not just crumble under this ripping pain inside of you. The night falls and you tip toe out of your room, wearing tabi socks and holding your sandals in your hand. Once again you sneak into the kitchen, wrap some apples and vegetables into a cloth and knot it to your waist. After that you climb the stairs to the main entrance. Uraume is waiting at the top, their face being illuminated by a candle.

“Where to?” you ask, quietly putting on your sandals.

“Three days march to the south. Target is the Stone village.” they instruct, opening the door quietly. You’re fixated on the darkness that is revealed in front of you. Moonlight and wind and rain.

“Be careful.” they order. You nod and take a deep breath.

“See you, Uraume.” you peek to them a last time before you rush into the darkness, hoping that seeing him will finally cure this heartache.

[ramsayxme]

Chapter 1

Authors Note: violence! Ramsay! forceful encounters! Ramsay!

Chapter 2: Your First Lesson

You hadn't escaped. In fact, you had never belonged to Ramsay Bolton more than you did now. You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning in your uncomfortable bed that Ramsay had brought you to at the Dreadfort. The sun was rising through the same tiny window that you had been peering out before you tried to escape. You thought back on the night before as you stared at the stone ceiling. You felt filthy knowing that you were the one who invited him under the pelt with you, you were the one who initiated sex with him. Of course, you didn't know it was Ramsay, but you should've been smarter; more careful.

The Dreadfort was sleeping, only a handful of men walked about on the snowy earth outside your window as they kept watch of the gates. You sat up in bed, wrapping your thin blankets around your body. Your room was quaint but had plenty to sustain you for a long period of time, which was concerning to you. A large fireplace took up nearly one of the walls. There was a wooden and tin bathtub near the fireplace and a small table covered with candles, wax dripping onto the floor.

The door was made of thick wood with a large latch. You thought about Ramsay being the one who held the precious key, which made your stomach churn. You slid your feet off the bed and onto the cold floor. You shuffled over to the fireplace, blankets in tow. The fire was nearly dead but still gave off warmth. You tucked your knees under your chin and sat in front of the glow, staring at the miniature flames that flickered into the air. You rubbed your tired eyes, wincing in pain as you realized you had a black eye from last night. Ramsay was not gentle with you.

Suddenly, you heard your door's latch being tampered with. You didn't turn around, didn't run to the bed, you simply froze at your spot in front of the fireplace. You heard the door groan as it was shoved open, followed by footsteps walking towards you. You shut your eyes and just tried to imagine you were an ember from the fire, dancing in the air until you disappeared into nothing. You heard the folding of leather and felt a presence next to you, a horrifying hint that someone was standing in front of you.

You squinted your eyes open to find out that your view of the fireplace was interrupted by Ramsay's legs. Without barely moving your head, your eyes tracked up his body and met his own eyes. He harshly peered down at you, a look of disapproval on his face. His jaw was tight and his hair was freshly washed, still damp as it curled around his ears. His lips were pursed together tightly as his stare bore into you. His clean clothes smelled of fresh leather and hide. You hated that you still found him attractive even though you now knew who he was and what he was capable of doing.

You felt your lip begin to quiver as Ramsay stared at you. You swallowed the lump in your throat, refusing to show weakness this early in the interaction. "Stand up." Ramsay said. His voice was soft and soothing, although the words were a command. You shifted your weight, allowing you to get up and stand before the Lord. His gaze moved with you as you stood, his eyes pale and wide. You stood in front of him, only inches from his face. You could feel his breathing on your face. "Tell me something, dear-" He began as he laid his hands firmly on your shoulders. "When is the last time you had a bath, hm? Did my men bathe you while you were kept here the first time? Before you esc- well, before you tried and failed to escape." He chuckled as he corrected himself. His eyebrows raising at the end of his sentence, waiting for your response.

You shook your head no, unable to stare into his eyes any longer. You broke the gaze and stared at your feet. It wasn't even three seconds before Ramsays hand was gripping your chin, forcing you to look back at him. His lips snarled as he tilted his head. "I asked you a question."

"No, they didn't bathe me." You said through your own gritted teeth, your eyes filling with tears. Ramsay's hand that was gripping your chin turned into a caress as his hand settled on the side of your face, his thumb softly rubbing your cheek. "No, they didn't bathe me...what? Who are you speaking to?" He cooed, tilting his head sideways. You took a deep breath. "No, they didn't bathe me, My Lord."

"That's better." Ramsay smiled, his hand now reaching to the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. Your lips did not move as he kissed you, his tongue slithering into your mouth without your permission. You tried to pull away, but his strong hand behind your head held you in place. His other hand wrapped around the small of your back, pulling your body into him. You reacted without thinking, putting your arms up, hands on his chest, and hitting him hard on the chest. He pulled away from the kiss, teeth grinding together. You knew you had just made a mistake.

Although you braced yourself for a smack in the face, Ramsay's face softened. "Let's get you clean, hm?" He whispered as he walked over to your bath, grabbing a few large pails from the floor. You watched as he confidently strode across your room, briefly opening your door and handing the pails to a few men. He smiled and walked back over to you. "They will gather water and prepare your bath. Let's get those clothes off!"

You froze as Ramsay stood in front of you, fingers intertwined behind his back. You didn't move. Ramsay's grin turned into a straight face as he raised his eyebrows, gently nodding his head in your direction, a clear direction to take your clothes off. You slowly lifted the oversized, thin, scrappy piece of woven cloth over your head. You were apparently moving too slow for him, as he stepped forward and ripped the clothing over your head while rolling his eyes.

You watched your clothing fall to the floor next to Ramsay, and your hands instinctively raised to cover your bare chest. Before your hands could rest on your breast, Ramsay grabbed your wrists tightly and brought your hands back down to your sides. "No need to cover yourself up. You had no issue with me looking at you yesterday, remember?" He smirked, making your stomach churn. You were sick to your stomach thinking about how your body welcomed him the other night, but you felt even more sick as you realized your body would likely allow him to slide in just as easily if he tried again today.

Ramsay took a step back and admired your body, his eyes lingering on your intimate areas as he grinned. The door opened as he stared, and a handful of strange men walked in with steaming water filling the tin pails. You flinched, desperately wanting to cover your naked body from the eyes of these men. They each dumped their pail into the bathtub, filling it with warm and steaming water. Your body longed to sink down into the heat, cleansing your skin and warming your bones. It would feel so good to warm up.

"Boys! What do you think of my new pet, she's quite beautiful isn't she?" Ramsay suddenly barked, snapping you back into reality. The men all nodded and mumbled "Yes M'Lord" and "She is, Lord", which made your skin crawl. You felt like an object. "Perhaps I'll have to share her with all of you." He looked around at the men. You felt the knot in your throat forming once again, imagining all of these men ravenously clawing at your body, desperate to touch all of you. The men nodded as their eyes lingered on you before they disappeared through the door once again.

"Don't you worry, I don't like to share. You're mine. Nobody else will touch you... ever." Ramsay stepped forward, reading the concerned look on your face. "You won't take another lover." He smiled as he took your hand and led you to the bathtub. It was comforting knowing that you wouldn't endure any of these other men penetrating you, but what was the alternative? Ramsay defiling your body for the rest of your days? Was that any better?

Your thoughts were interrupted by the scraping of one of the wooden chairs across the stone floor. Ramsay was dragging a chair to the edge of the bathtub and he had some cloth in his hand. He sat on the chair and smiled at you, outstretching his hand over the bath. "Well, let's bathe you!" You didn't realize that Ramsay was going to give you the bath and not let you enjoy it in peace, but you should've known better. You walked towards the bath, lifting your leg over the edge and stepping into the warmth.

Once you sat in the bath, Ramsay began swirling his fingertips across the top of the water, making small swirls. He watched you relax into the warm water, smiling as your shoulders sank below the surface. "Feels good?" He asked, dipping the cloth in the water. You exhaled, "Yes, My Lord. Thank you." You allowed your body to slightly unwind as he brought the wet rag to your cheeks, forehead, and neck, gently dragging it across your skin. For a monster, he could be quite gentle when he wanted to. You were wary to let your guard down though, knowing Ramsay could flip the switch at any moment.

He pressed the warm rag to your swollen eye, careful not to press to hard. "Poor girl." He stuck out his lower lip, as if he wasn't the one who inflicted these bruises and bumps on you in the first place. After a few minutes of silence while Ramsay softly bathed you, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on your forehead. You fluttered your eyelashes at him. Gods, you hated how you were attracted to him. You couldn't let him know. "Let's wash your hair." He used a hand to pull all of your hair to the side. "Take a deep breath." He was going to allow you to dunk your head under the water.

You inhaled deeply before plunging your head under the surface. The world was muted and you felt completely surrounded by warmth. You felt Ramsay's fingertips gently massaging into your scalp, loosening the debris from your hair. It felt very good since your hair was usually brushed and braided, not matted and tangled. After a moment, you were ready to come up for air, gently pressing against the bottom of the tub with your shoulders to push yourself through the surface. Ramsay's hands gripped your hair at your scalp and held you down.

He pushed down hard, the back of your head hitting the bottom of the bathtub. You began to panic as you realized what position you had put yourself in once again. You struggled, thrashing under the water as Ramsay held your head firmly down, refusing to allow you to come up for air. His grip was tight around your hair. You kept fighting him, kicking your legs in hopes that one stray kick would hit him in the mouth. You reached your arms towards him and wrapped your hands around his flexed forearms. You clawed at him, begging to allow you up for a breath. Just when you were about to suck in water, Ramsay yanked you up, your head quickly breaking through the surface.

You gasped and coughed, catching your breath as Ramsay softly stroked your wet hair as he grinned. You caught a glimpse of his wild eyes as you recovered. "I could've drowned!" You coughed. Ramsay hummed as he tilted his head, his hands moving to the sides of your face. "Yes, you could have. But you didn't, did you?" He cooed. He knelt down, knees on the stone floor as he was eye level with you. "That is your first lesson. I can kill you anytime I want. But I can also save you from death, and I already have multiple times. Finish bathing yourself." He spat as he dropped your head and strode confidently out of the room, locking the latch behind him, and not looking back at you.

You sat in the tub, still catching your breath. Your first lesson. You wondered how many lessons he would force you to learn.

Chapter Three

[saint-siren]

A World For Her Alone | Color all my days blue, but be sure to save one for white

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

cw (chapter specific): pregnancy, infidelity, sanity slippage, suicide

pairing: claude x fem!reader

summary: Reader really thinks she can be happy in MY story this soon? *scoffs* No way, baby!

author's note: I fear you guys aren't gonna like me for this one...more notes at the bottom

You drifted through moments you’d lived so many times before. The moment you returned, you thought for the thousandth time “this time, I swear I’ll do it right.” It was like a bedtime prayer, worn down to meaninglessness. A little lullaby on your lips, like a child searching for comfort.

There was no where else to go but back to assuming your dutiful role. This time, perhaps because your feet were barely touching the ground. Reality glitched frequently these days, if you could call them that. You tolerated Claude and Diana without even so much as a frown. And this time also, you protected her life like a tiny candle flame against the wind. Diana was well enough to start going to the academy with you, a rite of passage as much as a means of generalized education for children of noble houses.

At lunch, you sat alone in the gardens while they went to the dining hall together. If you tried hard enough, you could make out a voice in those memories. A blink of what you think could be black hair and a boys uniform, he’s floating through you as thin as air. He’s telling you something, in a voice cold, flinty and familiar. “Claude is with Diana again.” Something is being implied in these words almost bluntly and ill concealed.

Your answer is rote, automatic. “Yes, he knows I prefer to be alone but my sister is new and doesn’t know anyone so he keeps her company.”

“Is that so?” He smiled bitterly as if he hadn’t expected that answer. 

“Of course.”

“I wonder why you cover for him…” Those words passed you by without impact, they seemed more like your own thoughts than anything.

“Everyone always says Diana is better suited for Claude, that perhaps he’ll break the engagement to be with her.” Again, no impact. You already lived it, silly rumors couldn’t even amount to half the horror of the truth. “I hope you won’t take offense, milady, but perhaps you should fight harder. There are more rivals about you than just the young lady. I had heard you were a strong willed lady, will your position really be okay if you leave things be?”

He went away, or maybe you just blinked and the lunch period had passed, you couldn’t know. As if a machine, you thoughtlessly gathered your things as the piercing bell sounded and hurried you along. You caught a glimpse of Claude walking Diana out of the dining hall, her hand wrapped around his arm for support and his on the small of her back. Murmuring again to yourself, you looked away. But when Diana caught sight of you, she came over, looking bashful. “Your next class is this way too, right? Should we go together?” She asked. Of course, there was only one answer to that question. You’d risk being seen as bitter and jealous if you refused, there was already enough of that in the way Claude saw you. He was eyeing you, paused in his path.

You smiled. “Of course.” 

Claude said farewell to Diana, apparently satisfied enough by your answer not to fix you with a hard stare. The two of you walked along, all the time you could hear whispers, concrete ones instead of the thin, almost sing-song caches of remembered insult. 

“She pulled her aside to call her out…”

“She must be angry about Lord Claude eating with the poor lady.”

“She’ll act one way before her fiance and another to Lady Diana…if she’ll act that way to ladies who haven’t even done anything to her, think of what she’ll do if she thinks her own sister is a better match for Claude.”

People had gossiped about you forever, it was truly nothing new. Perhaps you had even deserved their contempt for behaving the way you did. Still, your skin burned as you heard the words shamelessly hurled at you even at your most mild action. Their slander was almost laughable in hindsight, you and Diana were sisters, if you had any desire to call her out, would you not do it at home where no one could interfere?

Diana walked along, fidgeting with the threads of her uniform and looking down. It was additional kindling for the gossip that spread like wildfire. “You’re not upset that I ate lunch with Claude, are you?” She finally said, looking up at you. “No, of course not,” You assured her, smiling again which seemed convince her. Her expression became bright again as she happily accepted your platitude. You walked on, in a haze.

Each night, you worked diligently on your wedding dress. It was something that could definitely have been left to a seamstress but it brought a bit of happiness. Your fingers moved deftly over the silk of your dress, the cool fabric bringing you back down to earth. The sensation of your aching hands, the way your gown was slowly woven into form by your careful hands, it made you dream of your wedding which would take place soon after your graduation. It made you believe that the happiness you acquired would hold up. Claude was not displeased with you this time, and had even started to relax in your presence. You even saw him more often this time, a few weeks ago he had taken you to a botanical garden. As a pair, you stood closely and walked quietly down rows of exotic flowers. Inside, you could hardly restrain a hope that nearly ripped a painful wound through tender flesh. He took your hand when the two of you needed to pass by another couple, it was warm and forgiving.

You had to put down your needle, your hands were trembling.

On your wedding day, it was overcast. You were nearly suffocating just looking up at the sky, when your maid opened the curtains in the morning, you curled into yourself to cut off the dull light.”Hm, looks like rain,” she hummed. Pushing back against the memories, you retreated under the waves of your mind and buried yourself there. It was a shame that the feeling of reality slipping was temporary. Things only felt more and more fixed the longer you lived. 

When you arrived to the temple, its solid stone and thousands of hanging candles that substituted the sun, you felt better. Here you were living between earth and heaven. All nerves and butterflies, you felt like a true bride, one fashioned in the love of her husband to be. You felt beautiful in the pure, stark white of your gown.

“...I swear in the name of my good house, to love and honor you for as long as you shall live. Never will you be disgraced by any action or inaction of mine,” Claude said his vows, not hesitating on a single word. That was the man you loved, lying before his family and comrades for the sake of the marquisate. It…almost made you smile to hear his devotion even if it was not to you.

Looking at you, after the ceremony and formalities were done, you heard Claude speak honeyed words in an awed voice that made you shudder. “So beautiful…” He murmured. Forgetting yourself, you gasped softly, feeling the rapture and confusion of his approval. And he was so near you, sitting at your side. You could reach out to him, to cup his cheek, to place a hand on his shoulder perhaps, to return something to him. 

Diana’s laugh sounded, a clear and lovely laugh that always did make everyone smile. The sound was sharp and near and you noticed that Claude’s eyes were staring through you. They seemed fixed on your face but his gaze, it was like yours had been before. As if you and everything else was passing through. You turned as though possessed to confirm that although he was looking in your directions, the praises went to your little sister who indeed looked beautiful. More like a bride than you did; blushing, chatting with a few young ladies and a lord you vaguely recognized. 

You were freefalling back to earth in an instant. The wind was knocked out of your chest and your surroundings seemed to sharpen, too bright, too loud, too colorful. Not even this day of all days was yours alone. Agony, you thought, Carrying the weight of every life I've led and still having hope enough to destroy, this must be agony.

Your marriage henceforth was nothing special, you applied a lighter hand in the politics of the marquisate. You tried at being cunning, underhanded rather than an iron lady as you had been before. Claude had expressed his gratitude whenever he was home. It was not a warm marriage, or a joyful home but he was pleased with you and the two of you were on better terms than you had been in other lives. The frigidity was bearable and as a partner, Claude was gentle. 

When would you learn not to lean into things that cannot last?

A day came perhaps two years into your marriage when Claude walked into the salon, holding the hand of Diana who looked sickly. He approached you like one does an animal they’re not sure won’t bite them. His eyes were hard and determined but his steps were slow and sure. 

“It isn’t Diana’s fault,” He forewarned.

“Is there something wrong?” It came out of your mouth almost beyond your control, even dreading whatever came next you were still desiring to make it better.

Claude hesitated before speaking. “Diana is pregnant.”

Something fell from your hands with a loud, clang. You didn’t so much as glance downward. Continuing as if a doll with a string being pulled, you answered with a question. “Who’s the father?” Stupid, how pathetic. Reality, all the time, was falling down on top of you.

“I am.”

It broken open. Whatever force kept you standing and speaking coherently had gone away and you were reduced to a child, whimpering and feeble. “Why?” was all that could be accurately comprehended.

“Because I love her,” Claude retorted shamelessly with his brow furrowed, giving you a stern look as if he was standing up to someone. But all that you were was a woman withering, struggling to grasp a single thread of sanity.

A child. Diana had a child. You couldn’t even hold yours before you died and slipped away forever. You would never even so much as know the name of your child and even so, Diana would have hers with Claude. That child would surely be loved by him, it was loved even now it seemed. Would she have that child you lost? A bright haired child crying out to let everyone hear their vigor and life. You screamed.

“I’m sorry big sister…” Diana mumbled, looking down. Claude tended to her, leading her to the couch and covering her ears with his big hands.

You were on the ground, gripping at your own skin so tightly your bled. Shivering in a display larger than any you’d ever made before. Another scream built in the back of your throat and you hadn’t even the power to restrain it. In between, you heard Claude say “Stay here, I’ll take her upstairs.”

You were shut up in your bedroom, made to rest until you were calm. But when his touch disappeared and the door locked behind him, you broke. Reality was intercut with the screams, the aches, the blood of realities past. It was all happening concurrently, Felix’s blood running in the mud, the cries of your child who could not and would not be soothed in your arms, the starvation of the prison. It didn’t end, it never ended. You were given a few years before it wanted you to remember again, to swallow you whole.

“No more” you begged “Please, no more...I can’t…I didn’t–!” 

There was a sleep tonic in the drawer of your nightstand, a strong one made and prescribed by the kind doctor. The recommended dose was just a tiny spoonful but it always put you into a sleep like death. You took them when your body was heavy from working so hard it nearly bowed your back but your mind was hung up on a thought that did not beckon sleep. Like the sound of the rain howling that night. 

You picked up the bottle and drank it all down.

additional author's note: you guys, I swear this will have a happy ending. And we've got one chapter to go before we get into something I think might make you guys feel a little better.

tags:@kage-tobiuo @kreishin @rosephantomhive@yeahdrarry @splaterparty0-0 @dear-dairiesss @qluvrv @hafsuhhh @eissaaaa @ayolk @doan-19 @fourcefulcupid @ariachaos @cerisearan@irisspade@yaesflorist@jcrml@xiaosprettygf@yevenly@amaris08atoshi012022 @obsessed-with-a-fictional-man @softbummiee

Next

[moonlight-prose]

INCEPTUS

➛ 01. HELL IS EMPTY

a/n: welcome to chapter one of a story i've been slowly cooking like a pot of stew. this series is filthy and depraved and very spooky. or at least that's what i hope it comes off as. originally it was going to only be three parts, but if you've been here long enough you know i don't do things short. so i welcome you to this witchy tale of a demon falling in love. dividers by the incredible @saradika!

note: a massive thank you to my wonderful babes @soulores and @themarcusmoreno for being the greatest beta readers ever. screaming over demon joel with you guys has been the highlight of writing this chapter.

summary: during the night of a lunar eclipse, ten days away from samhain, you somehow summon something far more sinister than you expected - him.

word count: 2.2k+

pairing: demon!joel x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, witchcraft, summoning of a demon (don't try this at home joel miller won't show up), a man covered in blood ready to kill, violence, blood, reader cuts their palm, mistakes.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

The scent of the forest was like coming home. Familiar and warm. It filled your senses as you passed the trees, a lantern heavy in your hand. The flame flickered low, barely casting a glow as you tread carefully. Bare feet crunching the fallen leaves of the season. You heard the crickets call out in the night air, animals making noise as the night life finally returned until dawn crested. Until light was once again brought to the world.

Yet in the deep crevices of the forest darkness lurked. Waiting in anticipation for someone to join them. To give themselves over. You could feel their gazes on your body, burning through you as you walked. Yet you knew that they wouldn’t come out—too afraid of the power that thrummed beneath your skin. A threat to the darkness that beckoned you forward.

The clearing you’d prepared was buried deep, hidden away from your coven in the hopes of keeping them in the dark. You knew what happened to witches that went against coven law. What they faced as the consequences to their actions. Yet this choice was not made out of selfishness. But rather a need that outweighed even their own laws; the decisions that would one day bury them rather than see them safe.

You felt the forest’s tune seep into your body. The power that practically came off the trees, through the floor as you walked. It was unwavering. Steady in all its might. The forest had been on this earth for thousands of years and you knew it would remain for a thousand more. Existing beyond your lifetime and the lives of your coven.

That’s what made it perfect for tonight’s ritual. A spell that hadn’t been done since the beginning of your coven’s move to this village. A secret that had been locked away in a book that was kept out of reach. The same book that was clasped against your chest, its taunting call keeping time with your heart beat. You had only heard what powers the pages could awaken, what darkness it could invoke. You had yet to experience it first hand.

Flames lit the candles you had set out along the pathway with each step closer. Your power shifting to take control of the situation. To handle what no one else could. You gathered the skirt of your black dress, stepping over the fallen pieces of wood that blocked your path; creating a barrier around the clearing.

A quick glance up through the trees let you see that the moon was nearing its peak. The red hue slowly creeped over, sparking life to the start of the spell. You could feel it soak into the ground below. The echo of witches that came before echoed loudly in the area, calling to your familiar spirit. Claiming you as one of their own.

You grinned, welcoming them like an old friend as you reached the center of the clearing. The old weathered cauldron your mother had passed down to you now sat in the center—a shape dragged through the dirt covered in poisonous herbs. Ones you had spent weeks collecting; all in preparation for this moment.

With a wave of your hand the fire sparked into the dirt, forming a circle around where you stood—cutting off the spell from the rest of the world. At least here you’d be able to contain it. Keep people safe from harm as you called upon a darkness that was better off left alone. You felt that unfamiliar knot form in your chest, willing you to unravel it—to chip away at what lay beneath—and with a deep breath…you began.

“I call the spirits of the north, spirits of the south, east, and west forth.”

Placing the spell book at your feet, you lit the small flame in your cauldron, the collection of poisonous herbs burning in the night air. Turning the scent of the once warm moss bitter. You inhaled it, clenching your fist as it burned the inside of your lungs, filling you with the promise of ruin. That alone should have been enough to make you stop, but the need to continue clawed its way up your throat, silencing your fears with a swift blow.

“As above the blood moon’s power, so below the poison I stand upon,” you exclaimed, sliding the dagger from the sheath beside you—it’s ruby hilted blade glittering in the firelight.

“I offer thee the blood of my blood. The blood of those before me.” You sliced your palm, wincing as pain bloomed up your arm. “I call upon the darkness. I call upon the banished evil that lay below.”

Red spilled out between your fingers, dripping along the herbs and staining the earth with your essence. The parts of you that were offered as a lifeline to what resided beneath. You felt that knot tear at your chest, burning you inside as if you’d set fire to the power in your veins. A rumble in the ground formed, rustling the trees until they began to sway slightly, as if there was a breeze in the air. You gasped, clutching your bloody hand to your heart and feeling the tremor in your legs—a darkness calling to you.

“I call upon the darkness,” you called out, watching the flame in your cauldron turn red—sparks filling the night sky.

The heat of the flames caused you to sweat, your dress clinging to your figure as you stood there. Watching your choices unfold before your very eyes. The book at your feet flew open, pages ruffling wildly until it froze, slamming back to the ground. You could see the image that stared at you. Of a man with fangs coated in blood, wings black as night sprouting from his back and claws adorning his fingers.

He looked monstrous. A creature that would drag you all to Hell with him, yet you found you couldn’t tear your eyes away. That knot in your chest pulled taut, choking the very breath from your lungs, until you fell to your knees—your bloody palm slamming to the ground. Poisonous herbs were pressed into your open wound, infecting you as you remained there, but the spell wasn’t finished.

One final thing remained.

“By the power of the blood moon—” You gasped, scratching at your throat to suck in air. The air was cloying, thick with something sinister. “By the power in my body. I summon thee! I summon thee!” A sharp crack echoed in the air, sizzling the very skirt of your dress as you fell to your back, eyes trained on the moon above. “So mote it be,” you whispered, eyes rolling back as your energy was sucked from your body.

The knot pulled free, thundering loudly in your chest and forcing you to watch as the ground split open. A scream tearing through the crisp night air and nearly deafening you. The flames were starting to die down, causing darkness to seep back into your barricaded space. Yet you could do nothing but stare. A clawed hand dug into the ground, gripping the dirt beneath as a figure began to free itself from the earth.

You scrambled back with a soft cry, attempting to get away as fear once again surged through your body. Nearly suffocating you as the creature rose. It roared, dragging himself up and for a moment you were rendered speechless. What you were seeing wasn’t a creature, but a man. Someone who was pressing his face into the dirt and gasping in air as if he was breathing for the first time.

He stood on shaky legs, naked and bare for the world to see and covered in dirt—streaks of blood going across his body from where he’d been injured. But that’s not what caught your attention. It was the sight of obsidian wings sprouting from his back, now spread out in the world for you to see—the feathers practically shining in the night sky.

The eclipse over the moon was beginning to fade, and he had yet to notice you were there. Yet soon the flames would be extinguished and you would have to approach him.

That is until the cut on your hand burned your skin, causing you to gasp in pain as you clutched it to your chest. His head snapped up at the sound, eyes a deep red now fixated on your form that was cowering to the ground. Fear clasped tight around your throat as you stood, attempting to back away. Yet there was nowhere to go. The flames still burned and he was advancing faster than you could run.

With his fangs bared, he wrapped a clawed hand around your throat, dragging you forward until your face was nearly pressed to his. Eyes seething with an anger that you felt grate on your bones. It vibrated through you, filling you with something dark, something that stained your very soul. You clawed at his wrist, nails biting into dirt covered skin as he growled, attempting to keep you still.

Perhaps this is how you would die. By the hands of the demon you called to for help.

“Please,” you whimpered, eyes wide with terror and tears tracking down your cheeks.

“You,” he snarled, the sharp prick of his claws now cutting into your skin. “You brought me here.”

Shoving at his chest, you tried to free yourself from his grasp—to take in some air—but it was no use. He was stronger than you. His anger filled the air until you could practically taste it on your tongue and you knew…he would kill you. He’d drag you back down into the depths of Hell to punish you for disturbing him.

Something wet and sticky dripped down onto your chest and it wasn’t until his eyes tracked it did you realize it was your blood. The tighter he gripped your neck, the further he was opening a wound. His gaze met yours again, eyes shifting to see the distraught expression you wore, the fear that he could practically taste in the air. That feeling from earlier pulled tight on your chest again, calling to him as he stood there. Watching your life bleed from your body.

“Why?” he asked softer than before, eyes searching your face for any explanation.

The salty tang of tears filled your mouth, nails scratching along his skin, and with a sigh he released your throat. Watching as you fell to the ground in a heap—gasping in lungfuls of air that burned.

“I—” You coughed, wiping up the blood with the sleeve of your dress. “I need you.”

“Stupid fuckin’ witch,” he spit, turning to see the setup of your spell, the cauldron now burning a light yellow. “Messing with things you know nothing about.”

You watched as blood continued to spill across his shoulder, a wound gaping somewhere along his body. The urge to help him reared its head, but you couldn’t move. Let alone offer him kindness after you dragged him up to Earth. He would most likely slit your throat with his claws before allowing you to touch him. So you stayed on the ground, watching as he caught his bearings. Analyzing the forest slowly, seeing what lay beyond the darkness.

“Please,” you begged softly, eyes shiny with fresh tears. “My coven needs your help.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“I summoned you—”

He snarled, swiftly crouching to crowd your space—effectively stopping your heart. “I am not bound to your word.”

The surprise must have been evident on your face, his lips curling into a smile that had your fear escalating. Before you could splutter out a response, he moved away from you with a supernatural speed. He grabbed the knife that had fallen to the ground and stalked through the low fire that still burned. It caught on his wings slightly, but he seemed to be used to the heat. As if it didn’t affect him.

He turned, glancing at you one last time—his eyes burning a hole through your body—before vanishing into the darkness. The flames were extinguished the second he stepped out of the ring, the cold air of the forest now invading. Turning you frozen. You stood on shaky legs, chest heaving as you stumbled over to the book that still sat open on the floor. The flame on your lantern burned, illuminating the page.

A name was inscribed at the top of the page, burned into the old parchment and you fell to your knees, dragging the pages forward. Tracing your finger over the letters, you felt your chest seize at the image. A perfect depiction of the man who had nearly ripped you to pieces. The man who was known for wreaking destruction, for being a warrior that had been cast down into Hell.

loel.

You felt that familiar tug on your chest again, pulling you towards something dangerous. Something dark. Yet you knew…there was no running from it. The fates had set history in motion and now you were captive to its hold.

“Joel,” you whispered, tracing the figure with your eyes as the moon began its descent in the sky.

Leaving you alone once more.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Blood Oath

- Chapter One -

M Demon x F Human Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Kidnapping, discussions surrounding virginity, minor self injury, nonconsensual frotting, blood, brief descriptions of gore, minor character death

~~

Awareness returns gradually, grains of sand trickling through an hourglass. Sticky eyelids crack open one at a time, but grogginess spoils your awakening. The dimly lit room may as well be completely dark for all your bleary eyes can see. You close them, rub at them, clutch your aching skull.

Beneath you, the surface is hard and bumpy. The scent of damp earth reaches your nose as you shift and you realize you’re lying on a dirt floor, not unlike the one in your grandmother’s cottage.

Groaning, you force your eyes open once more, pushing up onto your elbow. Blinking slowly clears your swimming vision and finally you’re able to push to your feet without staggering.

Now the question remains: Where are you? Little are the clues as you look around the room. To your left sits a small, wooden table covered in tattered parchment, next to it a single rickety chair. Old, dusty tomes are piled in corners and on shelves. A single candle burns low, the dancing flame throwing reaching shadows across the walls.

You hook your finger in the candlestick and cup your hand around the little flame so you can move about the room. You search for exits; windows or—

A door!

Under your fingers, the worn brass doorknob is freezing, like it was crafted from ice. You must tug and heave to haul the door open. Hinges squeal and the bottom edge drags an indent through the dirt floor.

Your face falls. Instead of an exit, you’re met with a staircase descending into yawning blackness. Icy air reeking of musk and a sharp, stinging odor pours from the open doorway, so overpowering you must throw and arm over your nose and mouth.

Disappointment turns to confusion. How could there be a room below this one? It must be dug into the very earth. But why?

And…. You hold your candle aloft, searching your tiny room—tiny prison—once more. This portal is the only doorway. Where is the exit? How did you get here?

Too many questions assault your aching head. You swallow the dryness in your throat and turn back to the ominous blackness.

The only way forward is down, so down you go.

Your small flame flickers with the trembling of your hand, your worn leather boots tap, tapping softly on stone steps. Your free hand grips the dirt wall, dried bits of mud flecking away and speckling the steps as you move. You can see nothing past the small circle of light provided by your candle.

As you descend, the strange stinging scent grows stronger. Your nose wrinkles, skin prickling as frigid air rushes past, chilling the sweat on your neck, brushing damp hair from your brow. How much farther could this channel go? The impossibility of it leaves you astounded and terrified.

The change is so gradual you don’t notice at first, but finally you realize you can see further ahead. A faint glow reaches you from the bottom of the earthen staircase. As you move closer, the color of light changes from pale white to sickly green.

Now a rich blue.

Gold.

Cautiously you tread as you reach the end of the staircase. Another room opens up beyond the threshold, its vaulted ceiling disappearing unfeasibly into the gloom above. Though, what draws your attention are the long, wooden tables littered with vials, tubes, and bottles filled with various liquids. One such bottle sits atop a flame, the bubbling substance within changing color seemingly at random and lighting up the surrounding space.

You approach and discover different stones and curling parchment littering the places not occupied by glass containers. Your fingers hover over a pearly white crystal, tempted to touch, but you think better of it and quickly withdraw your hand. Who knows what magic could be contained within.

Remembering your mission, you turn your attention to the other end of the room. Glowing coals sit in a brick hearth, a cast iron pot suspended above. As you approach, the evil, sharp smell grows stronger, stinging your eyes until tears gather in your lashes.

Using a nearby rag, you remove the pot from the hearth and set it on a table. Immediately, the smell begins to dissipate, the air around you growing cooler until you can take a full breath once more. What in God’s name is in that pot?

Each new encounter brings more questions than answers.

Wiping your eyes on your sleeve, you renew your search, lifting your candle to illuminate the far wall. You must be close to the way out by now.

What you find instead sticks your heart in your throat, forces a scream off your tongue, and makes you stumble back in terror, your little candle tumbling to the ground, flame dying in the dirt. Raising your trembling hands to your face, you stare, open mouthed and wide eyed at what is splayed on the wall.

The inhuman beast hanging limply before you is enormous, 20 hands at least. It possesses two arms—human-like if not for the curved, obsidian claws at the ends of its digits—and two, thick legs covered in curling fur. Instead of feet are massive cloven hooves, as wide around as a draft horse. It’s skin and fur are pure white as fresh fallen snow. Inky black cracks run here and there along its skin, like chasms carved into flesh. Stretching away from the beast are two great, rubbery wings, like those of a bat. Several steaks have been driven through the thin skin to keep them stretched wide and on display.

Morbidly fascinated, you take a step closer and raise your gaze to the creature’s head. Two dark horns curve out from a mess of white hair. Instead of a human face is a white snout, not unlike a goat’s. The eyes are closed. You wonder what hellish qualities they could possess.

The creature is motionless. It hangs limply, its stillness familiar to you, akin to that of humans who have passed on. It is dead, then, but why is it displayed on the wall like game?

It is then you notice the inscriptions encircling the monster, carved into the very wall. You squint and inch closer. They were runes once, you guess, runes for capture and imprisonment. Though, these have been warped, twisted during their creation. You wonder if they needed to be changed to hold such a creature captive.

One more step, just to see the inscriptions more clearly. Your mind whirs. The magic within the runes is still active. Why, though, if the beast is truly dead—

Something wraps around your calf, something muscular and serpentine. Heart stuttering in your chest, you screech and stumble back. Your leg slips free of whatever holds it and you retreat to the opposite wall, chest heaving, pulse galloping.

Your wide eyes meet solid black; iris, pupil, and whites are indistinguishable from one another in such wicked darkness. The creature’s snout opens, a dark chuckle sounding around pointed teeth. Flicking back and forth below its feet is a long, white tail, a tuft of black fur at the tip.

“Forgive me, little human. It has been so long since I had a visitor. I fear I have forgotten my manners.” It speaks in a thundering baritone, quiet growls rumbling between its words. “I thank you for removing that blasted pot from the hearth. The stench of it dulls the senses, you see.”

You open your mouth to speak but your voice cracks, air lodged in your throat. Swallowing, you try again, “W-What…what—

“What am I?” it suggests playfully, mouth curling into a smirk. Trembling fingers grip the front of your shift. Tentatively, you nod once.

“Many things, many names I have earned, but you, little human, may call me Orneth. I am—

“A demon,” you breathe. Realizing you spoke aloud, you clap a hand over your mouth. Orneth hums inquisitively, head tilting to the side.

“You know of me? I am flattered. Though, most humans do not have knowledge of my kind.”

Your palm slips from your face to anxiously twist in your dress once more. “I…there is a…a page about you in one of my brother’s bestiaries.” You wonder if you should be divulging all this, or if you should even be talking to him at all. However, you are woefully short on answers. Perhaps this demon can help you.

“A human who reads runes and bestiaries. I thought there was an air of magic about you, little witch.” You attempt to keep your expression passive. It becomes apparent you will not be able to hide anything from him.

Indeed, magic runs in your veins. You learned the healing arts from your grandmother and a little alchemy from your elder brother. Though you never met your mother, you’re told she was a skilled healer.

“Your perception is legendary, Demon Lord,” you praise, your voice more tremulous than you hoped. Courage fails you in the presence of such a beast.

At the title, the demon’s tail flicks. You take it to be a good sign. Perhaps his ego can be leveraged.

“Such a charming little creature,” Orneth purrs. “A refreshing change from my usual treatment.” You watch closely as the muscles of his outstretched arms flex against the magic holding him. Now is your chance.

“Please, Lord Orneth, will you tell me where we are? I awoke in a room above this one with no memory or how or why I came to be here.” The demon grins at your question and the back of your neck prickles. Intuition tells you he is planning some deception. You must navigate this exchange carefully.

“Indeed, I can tell you these things, little witch, but I will require something in return.”

“Name your price, demon, and I will do my best to meet it.”

“You must free me.” At his words, you balk. You knew this would be his stipulation, but the prospect of loosing him upon you and the rest of the world above chills you to the bone.

“What reassurance can you give that I will not be harmed?” The demon chuckles, the growling sound of it bouncing off the earthen walls and high ceiling.

“Harming she who aided me in my weakest moment? There’s no honor in that, pet.”

“And…others? My kin…I fear for them,” you tell him honestly. There is some truth in his words, you sense, but his tone carries an undercurrent of trickery.

“My quarrel is not with you or yours, child.” You bite your lip. Fear grips you, but desperation wins out. Free the demon and he can free you too.

“I…I will do my best to free you, Lord Orneth, if you will help me in return.” The demon rumbles in excitement at your promise.

“An honest little mage. Come closer. On the nearby table is an athamé. Prick your finger and let me drink of your blood. Then, a deal we will have.” Your breath falters. You know very little of blood magic, but giving your life essence to a demon is most assuredly forbidden.

“I-I do not intend to deceive you—

Orneth’s booming laugh interrupts your stammering. “And the blood will make sure of that! Come, human, time is not on our side. We must make haste, lest our captors return.”

You close your eyes despairingly. You have run out of options. The magic of this place is beyond your skill. You cannot hope to escape without Orneth.

Steeling yourself, you make your way to the specified table. The knife is cold in your palm, blade glinting in the low light. You set the tip against the finger, gritting your teeth at the sting. Blood wells under the metal point, black in the darkness.

Cautiously, you approach the demon. He watches intently, obsidian eyes trained on your leaking finger. You push to your tip-toes and raise your arm over your head to reach his mouth.

A forked tongue snakes from his toothy maw. It is slick and warm as it wraps around your wrist. A startled gasp leaves your lips as it drags up your hand and laps at your cut before disappearing back into the demon’s mouth.

Hastily, you back away once more. Orneth’s eyes flutter closed in apparent rapture as he tastes you, but they suddenly fly open to fix you with an astonished stare. You’re frozen to the spot, terrified of whatever it is he has discovered.

“You continue to surprise, pet. I see now what they wanted with you. A virgin witch is a rare find.”

“W-Who…who do you speak of, demon?” Your thoughts jumble together in your race to speak them, the shock of his revelation overshadowed by your need for answers.

Orneth’s lip curls up in a snarl. “Wizards. Wicked conjurers intent on more power, no gratitude for what they’ve already been given. Thankless heathens.” He spits on into the dirt. “This prison, these spells are their doing. They sought to control me and use my abilities for their gain, but their magic is unrefined. It can only hold me. I will not give them what they seek.”

He looks to you and studies your stunned expression a moment before continuing, “I suspect they wish to try once more with another of my kind. Another ritual of that magnitude would require a virgin sacrifice, one with magic of her own.” You stare back at him, speechless, body wracked with fearful trembling.

Now, you remember. Memory spills into your awareness like water rushing from a broken dam:

The stonemason’s son was weak with fever. You were traversing through the woods, making your way home from the village after treating the child. Hooves thundering down the forest trail made you look back in alarm. Armored men on horseback barreled toward you. There had been no time to flee. A blow to the head trapped your memory and submerged you in darkness.

In the hearth, charred wood snaps. Furiously blinking away tears, you come back to the present. You fill your lungs with air to calm your racing heart. Across the room, Orneth watches, ever observant.

His thoughtful hum pulls your attention. “It seems you and I are more alike than not, little one.” Your brows draw down in confusion and the demon chortles. “Both of us cursed in our own way.”

“Speak plainly, demon, I beg of you.” You grow tired of his riddles. There is urgency now, much more than when you first entered this chamber. Your life hangs in the balance.

“Virginity, young witch. It is nothing more than a burden. Lecherous sinners covet the maiden above all else. Men and magic folk alike are eager to abuse her flesh for their gain in one way or another. There will be no peace for you until you free yourself.”

At first, you’re too taken aback to respond. It discomforts you, the way he speaks so freely. Yet, there is an earnest quality to his words, a truthfulness.

“Of course, this could be included in our arrangement. An additional stipulation.” At your quizzical expression, Orneth smiles wide and adds, “It has been quite some time since I bedded a human. You would make a delectable treat, whitchling.”

Confusion instantly morphs into mortification. Your eyes grow wide and your face burns as you indignantly splutter, “C-Control yourself! Gods above, this is…I am not agreeing to this-this indecency!” You contemplate turning yourself over to the wizards. Dying would be preferable over this gut-wrenching shame.

Orneth’s boisterous laughter fills the cavern. You glare daggers at him, your eyes burning with unshed tears. Huffing, you turn on your heel and stomp back toward the staircase.

“Wait, wait little witch! I merely jest,” he shouts between guffaws. “We have a deal, if you recall.” You slow, scrunching up your face in ire. You are tempted to keep walking and deal with the consequences of breaking a blood oath, but sense prevails.

Sucking in a breath, you square your shoulders with purpose. Slowly, you turn to face the grinning demon, ignoring him as you tentatively approach. You remain hyper-aware of that swishing tail.

First, you tug free the steaks holding his wings aloft. The demon flinches with each and a small part of you relishes in his pain. He sighs in relief once the last spike is removed.

Next, you turn your attention to the runes and study each closely. Lifting your fingers, you bring them inches away from the symbols, careful not to touch. The power of them buzzes against your fingertips, a warning.

Your brother would be better for this, you tell yourself. This magic is old and powerful, something that takes years to master. Doubt overwhelms you and you draw your hand back. What if you falter and your error kills you both? Your grandmother cannot be left alone, old and frail as she is.

Then, one of the symbols catches your eye. You lean in and trace its shape with your gaze. You know this, know how to craft it…and how to undo it. You remember the book. The specific page floats to the forefront of your mind and you carefully recall the steps.

“There is a sequence, I think.” You speak more to yourself than the demon. Orneth is blessedly silent, to your relief. “They must be undone in the appropriate order. So, it should be…,” your eyes dart up to the symbol near his left hand, “…this first.”

You whisper words of unbinding. Magic rolls of your tongue and gathers at the tips of your fingers. The air crackles, the hair on your arms standing on end.

You press your fingers to the rune. It fizzes, the outline of the symbol glowing bright white, so intense you must squint. Then, it snuffs out and crumbles to dust at your feet.

One.

You move to the rune between his great hooves. Then to the one at his right hand. One by one they fall until you come to the last, the symbol between his horns.

Even on the tips of your toes you cannot reach. Hastily, you retrieve a chair and clamber onto its seat. This brings you eye-level with the demon. He stinks of sulfur and the last embers of a fire.

Orneth smirks at your proximity but says nothing, apparently unwilling to break your concentration. Cheeks heating up under his scrutiny, you focus on the last rune. Silently, you pray the demon will keep his word. You hope you aren’t making a mistake by unleashing the beast.

Under your fingers, the final symbol collapses. He is free, whether you like it or not. Hurriedly, you leap from the chair and drag it away as Orneth begins to tip forward. He lands on his knees with a resounding thud, loose earth raining down on you from the ceiling.

A beat of silence passes. In your ears, your blood rushes like a great river. Should you flee? Should you stay?

Then, one massive wing lifts, stretching to its full breadth. The other follows soon after. You watch in awe as the slashes left behind by the steaks mend themselves, thin flesh knitting together until each wing is whole and unmarred once more.

Gradually, the demon lifts his head to gaze at you. You freeze, the knowledge that he can move about as he pleases reminding you of your helplessness. What will he—

Orneth darts forward so quickly you do not have time to react. Thick hands seize you around the middle and you gasp when the room tilts. A grunt forces itself from your lungs when your back meets wood. Jars and crystals smash to the ground, knocked from one of the long work surfaces when the demon pins you to the table top.

You’re stunned, air refusing to enter your chest. The room spins as your mind desperately attempts to orient itself. Against your palms, the skin of his chest is so hot it almost burns.

“Now then,” he rumbles, settling between your legs. With growing horror, you discover your skirt has bunched up near your thighs in the tussle. The heat of him so near your center leaves you reeling. “This is much more comfortable.”

Finally, you cough and inhale, lungs filling with blessed air. Frantically, you push against his chest. “You…you swore—

“Swore no harm would come to you. And none shall. There are more things I can do to you like this than hurt you, little one.” He leans in close, close enough to feel the warm rush of his breath against your ear. “Unless you ask it of me.”

A shuddering exhale leaves your lips as you furiously shake your head. “No, n-no, I didn’t agree—

Orneth shift his hips and something thick and turgid slides against your inner thigh. You squeak in alarm, legs thrashing when you realize what touches you so intimately.

“Such a clever mage. So resourceful. You brim with more power than you realize. It would be an honor to spill my seed in your untouched cunt.” Your cheeks burn with his whispered praise.

Before you can scream curses at him, he moves again, this time sliding his heated length between your folds. Pleasure shocks you at the contact and the lascivious mewl that sneaks from your throat has shameful tears pricking at your eyes.

The demon groans deeply in response, the sound shuddering in the depths of your own chest. He continues to roll his hips, grinding his cock along your slit until it is slick with your want. You bite your lip so hard you taste iron, so desperate are you to conceal the lustful noises begging to leave your tongue.

Never have you felt this pleasure before or even imagined anything could feel this way. Every second that passes chips away at your resolve, more baser instincts itching to take over. Though…could you let…a demon…?

A snout nuzzles against the shell of your ear. “What say you, pet? Shall I split you open and free you from that wretched curse you carry?” You whimper in response, your nails digging crescents into his flesh. The temptation…it is….

A shout from behind startles you both. Your eyes snap open and you let your head fall back. There, upside down from your viewpoint, stands a man, his long, gray beard reaching down to his leather belt, a pointed hat clutched in his white-knuckled hands. Embroidered in the hat are symbols, descriptions of his status and rank.

A wizard.

A rolling growl shakes the glass jars above your head. Fear races up your spine at the sound and you quickly look to the demon. Orneth’s lips pull back in a vicious snarl as he regards the magician frozen in terror at the base of the stairs.

Then, the demon drops his gaze to you, his expression softening. “My apologizes, sweet one. It appears our pleasure must wait.” The sound of frantic footfalls reaches your ears. Orneth’s hateful gaze returns to the staircase. “I have wizards to kill.”

Sudden wind whooshes around you as powerful wings beat once, twice. The demon raises into the air and launches himself toward the stairs. The abrupt absence of his body heat leaves goosebumps prickling across your skin.

You slide from the table to land on trembling knees. Embarrassed, you hastily straighten your shift, your thighs still damp with desire. You drag a hand down your face and shake your head. How could you have nearly let a demon defile you in this hellish place?

Screaming shocks you out of your reverie. It’s distant, likely near the top of the stairs, but there is no mistaking the agony in it. Hesitantly, you follow the sound, afraid you’ll be trapped here forever if you don’t take your chance.

The cries grow weaker as you climb the endless staircase. They die off completely as you near the top. Faint light glows through the doorway ahead. Moonlight.

A way out.

You ignore the burning in your calves and your haggard breaths to sprint up the last few stairs. At the top is the little room in which you awoke. Beyond is another door. Fresh air smelling of spruce and aspen billows through the opening, bringing with it the promise of freedom. You race across the room and burst outside, but quickly skid to a halt in the grass, your hands flying up to clap over your mouth in revulsion.

The wizard’s shredded body…or what remains of it…litters the clearing before you. Innards, sinew, and bone are spread haphazardly across the ground, blood painting the grass in inky darkness. At the center of the carnage stands Orneth, his snout and chest covered in gore, the contrast of the vital fluid splattered against his pale skin stark in the moonlight.

Over his shoulder, the demon quietly regards you. Fearfully, you meet his dark gaze. His lips quirk up in a grin, his long teeth dripping with ichor. With one, powerful beat from his wings, he shoots up into the air to vanish into the night sky.

Above you, stars twinkle. A cool breeze rustles leaves and chills the sweat beading along your brow. Gathering up your skirt, you pick your way through the grass and return to the trees.

Home awaits.

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan has someone she'd like to impress.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,893. Rating: all audiences, bar a few swears.)

Chapter 42: The Ball

“Pre-senting..!”

The stage was set, the Great Hall adorned in its finest. A band played upon the dais, the floor before them awaiting its dancers. Every candle was lit, every banner unfurled—each one proudly displaying the sigil of the Inquisition.

This was their party. People of all ranks were in attendance. Advisors and dignitaries, to soldiers and mages. All, except for four.

The door thundered open. A chamberlain cried their names:

“Lady Erridge of West Coldon, Lady Samient of Samient, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne..!”

The Ladies strode in, none finer than they. Lady Erridge wore her pinkest, most ruffliest dress yet; Lady Samient wore her tightest, of dark, snakish leather; the Baroness wore her most glamorous, a gown in passionate red—with mahogany cane to match, of course.

“...and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

Trevelyan emerged, last of all. The ballgown she wore? Unrecognisable.

The black brocade was gone, the lace ripped from its seams with wicked delight. All that remained was perfect canvas of purest navy, onto which it could be painted—with shining, silvery thread.

Her mother would’ve fumed at the very idea. But what good was learning embroidery, if one did not use it in defiance?

Each Lady had taken up a quadrant of her own, yet the stitches they sewed were all the same: dozens upon dozens of tiny, shimmering, stars.

Trevelyan sparkled with every step. Diamonds glittered around her neck, lent eagerly by the Baroness. Every candle’s flame glistened upon her.

Even the night sky could not compare.

Were it not for the band, the room would have been stunned to silence. Whispers of admiration made their circuit. Trevelyan joined the other Ladies, all of them frightfully pleased with their handiwork—and quite rightly, too.

“So this is what you were all up to yesterday?” asked the arriving Lady Orroat—herself in fine doublet and breeches—laying her eyes upon the dress for the very first time. “It’s beautiful!”

A look of panic came over Lady Erridge. “I did those ones!” she blurted, her pointing finger at some collection of stars.

The Baroness laughed at such a display. “Yes, Lady Erridge is indeed a fine seamstress.”

“Oh, certainly,” Orroat agreed, placing a kiss upon her seamstress’ hand, quelling her worry in an instant. “Always has been.”

Amused, Lady Samient whispered to Trevelyan: “Seems her Ladyship has reversed her position on your knowing Lady Orroat.”

Trevelyan giggled. “Good. For I could hardly say we should make such as handsome couple as they.”

The Ladies settled, the partygoers returned to business—yet the music that accompanied their conversation furrowed into quiet. Attention was drawn to the dais from whence it had come, as the ever-elegant Lady Montilyet took her place upon it.

“Friends of the Inquisition!” she called. “Thank you for coming. I do not wish to keep you from your pleasures, so this will not be long—but, if you shall indulge me, I would like to say a fond farewell, to some of our departing guests.”

She raised a glass in the direction of the Ladies, and sang their praises each.

Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat were wished all the best, for the wedding that was to come, and for the future of their Coldon, reunited by love. They took each other’s hands, met one another’s doting gaze, and held tight.

The Baroness was sent hope, for a swift victory in Val Misrenne—but also admiration. She had more than proven why she was capable of defying the Chantry so: a steadfast determination, that they should all aspire to. With a smile, the Baroness bowed.

Lady Samient’s message was subtle. A safe journey home, all she was promised—but those who knew, knew what that meant. Absent-minded, the Lady reached for and toyed with the pendant at her neck, a twisting halla’s horn.

“Of course,” Montilyet continued, “one of our guests is to remain. Gathered friends, may I please introduce to you our new Arcanist”—she held her glass high—“Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick!”

Applause went up, echoing off the walls, filling the room with joy. Trevelyan laughed in delight, and caught glimpses of her friends amongst the rabble. Varric’s arms flew up; somewhere, Dorian hollered; even Sera clapped—though none, it seemed, were as enthusiastic as Dagna herself!

“Tonight, we celebrate!” Montilyet declared. “So please, enjoy!”

The band launched into triumphant fanfare; good humour and good company were the orders of the evening. The Ladies, all aflutter, went about these goals with giddiness and verve.

“Won’t you come dance?” asked Lady Erridge, having already roped her fiancee into it.

Trevelyan smiled, but shook her head. “Later,” she told her. “There’s someone I wish to see, first.”

Lady Samient picked up her slack. “Come, Lady Erridge!” she offered, instead. “I’ll dance with you.”

Appeased, Lady Erridge escorted her away. Trevelyan was left to withdraw from the dancefloor, and wander towards the more stationary attendees. Her eyes flitted from person to person, searching for one in particular.

A hand caught her shoulder. The Baroness, apparently having already procured a drink, leant over, and tilted it forward.

“There,” she whispered.

The crowd parted, as if by her will. True to her word, at the other end of the room, was stood precisely the man Trevelyan had been looking for.

Commander.

Maker, he had only become more handsome the longer she had known him. That rough-hewn jaw of his, a dishevelment of stubble upon it; the subtle waves in his hair, hints of his rebellious curls; those dimples upon his cheeks—the thumb-prints of the divine, left where the Maker’s scultping hand had gone astray.

And his weary eyes, whose gentle gaze found her, and drew her closer.

Trevelyan admired, as she approached, the coincidence of the navy blue doublet that Lady Montilyet had undoubtedly advised him to wear. Hm. She liked him better in red. Suited him more, perhaps.

Though truly, it mattered little. There was nothing that could dull the shine of him; true gold, after all, did never rust.

He straightened to greet her, a little smile pulling at his mouth. And he would have greeted her, perhaps warmly, perhaps sweetly—had a scout, uniformed and on duty, not appeared at his side.

Ah, fuck.

They whispered something to him, below the hubbub that came back into focus. Trevelyan crept nearer, but heard nothing of the Commander’s reply. Yet, when the he looked to her again, his smile was gone.

“Arcanist,” he said, with a bow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. Urgent business.”

Bloody typical.

“Of course,” she told him, magnanimously. “Duty calls.”

“At inconvenient times,” he added.

“No duty is ever convenient.”

That seemed to amuse him, at least. “True. I will try to return soon,” he told her. “I assure you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She curtsied to him, and allowed him to depart. The scout had lingered by the rotunda door. The Commander followed them through.

Gone.

Trevelyan looked down at her pretty, sparkly skirt, and fluffed it up, pointlessly. Not quite the moment she’d been hoping for.

Oh, well. She would have plenty of time for moments with him in the coming days. If he didn’t get called away by something or other during those, too.

Stowing her frustration, Trevelyan returned to the party. There was plenty more to do, besides.

She watched the Ladies dance, and clapped along. She saw Dagna, who was endlessly excited for the things to come. She met with Lady Montilyet, and spoke of her new quarters (ready tomorrow)! And she found Dorian, who was, as always, terribly good conversation.

Yet still no Commander.

The noise of the band and the chatter and the stomps of the dancing were beginning to blur in her brain. Dorian noted her change in temperament, as she peered out of the door to the garden. No. Too many in attendance; the party had spilled out into it. It was no less busy out there than it was in here.

“Try up there,” Dorian suggested, indicating the mezzanine above. It seemed Sera had been banned from it today, as no there was no skulking to be seen. “It has a balcony, if you need some air.”

“Thank you,” said Trevelyan. She’d had little cause to ever stray up there before—but now seemed as good a reason as any. “I shall see you later.”

Dorian waved, off to see the Baroness. Trevelyan found her way around the dancefloor, and escaped up the stairs.

The moment she reached their peak, already was she calmer. Even mere feet above the maelstrom, the music came quieter, and the conversation mere ambience. Better.

Her attention turned to the mezzanine. It was furnished well for a somewhat hidden space, with a luxurious chaise and portraits of figures Trevelyan did not quite recognise. The candleabrum here were not lit, leaving all illumination to that of the moons, who trickled their glow through a pair of glass doors—beyond which, as promised, was a balcony.

But Trevelyan felt at ease enough to stay inside for now; and indeed, she found the view of the party below to be quite of interest. The dancers, from above, weaved such wonderful patterns. Outfits, in all colours, were arrayed like a painter’s palette. She could watch, as those she knew flitted from one group, to another. An enjoyable pict—

The rotunda door opened, drawing her eye. The Commander. He strode into the party with such determination, it was as if it did not even exist around him. Trevelyan followed his path, as it led him, direct, to the Baroness.

They moved to the side. He whispered something. Urgent business? Oh, no.

But the Baroness smiled. Wider and wider. She asked him something; he nodded. She placed a hand over her heart, and sighed. Trevelyan did the same.

She took a step back, from the barrier. If the news they shared was what she hoped, then she was rather glad she hadn’t kicked up a fuss at his departure. Because if it was what she hoped, then it would be well worth it.

She had to see the Baroness.

And she would have, if not for the feet hurrying up the stairs. The Baroness? No cane. Then—!

The Commander appeared at the landing, startling himself as much as he startled her. Determination abandoning him in an instant, he padded onto the mezzanine, and did his best to bow.

“Arcanist,” he said. “Forgive me, Dorian told me you were here.”

Crafty bastard. Still, she asked, “Is everything all right, Commander? Your urgent business?”

He smiled—such a relieving smile—and nodded. “Yes. The Inquisitor has reported in.” She could hardly believe his next words: “We have victory. Val Misrenne is safe.”

As she’d hoped. Better, even. Trevelyan brought a hand to her mouth, a beaming smile beneath it. She shook her head, out of sheer incredulity. By Andraste. She could not fathom how dear Touledy felt.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed. “Or, I suppose—thank you, Commander.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it is the Inquisitor and the Baroness’ forces who should have the credit of it.”

“Very true. Though your involvement is still very much appreciated.”

Compliments did not seem to sit well within him; he kept his gaze askance, mouth struggling to form a reply. Awkwardness prevailed, ‘til his fortune changed, and his eyes chanced upon the balcony doors.

“Forgive me, I didn’t meant to disturb you—her Ladyship, the Baroness, thought you should know. You were… headed outside?”

Trevelyan followed his gaze. She smiled. “Preferably not alone.”

“Oh. I could—”

Trevelyan stepped for the doors; he followed. They opened—a portal—to the tranquil night beyond.

The stars shone in greeting. Trevelyan curtsied; an acknowledgement of their mutual beauty. She found relaxation upon the finely-carved stone of the balcony balustrade, and felt the Commander’s presence, a warmth in the absence of the sun, as he came to rest beside her.

“It’s... a nice night,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, “and a lovely view.”

The entire courtyard was laid out before them, from the tavern—as lively as the party they’d left behind—to the stables—quiet, at this time of day. Moonlit stone, punctuated by glowing torchlight. Beautiful, truly.

Yet it seemed the Commander’s focus was elsewhere, for his hand fumbled within his jacket.

“I, ah, have something,” he told her, “that I believe is yours.”

At last, he seemed to locate it, and freed it from its concealment. White cloth, that flashed in the moonlight. Embroidered, with leaves Trevelyan recognised.

It was far cleaner than the last time she’d seen it.

Trevelyan smiled. The little napkin slipped pleasantly from his fingers, and into her own. She noted the warmth of his proximity, still lingering within the weave, and the sweet, earthy scent that had been left by his possession.

“Technically,” she teased, “I believe it is Lady Montilyet’s.”

“I hardly think she’ll miss it.”

“I certainly hope so.” She tucked it away—safe. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Thank you for the use of it,” he said. “Though, speaking of Lady Montilyet, I had hoped to say—you took the offer... to become Arcanist.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

The Commander stammered, “For you—I mean. I mean, I am glad. That—despite how you came to be here—you have found enough reason to stay.”

Trevelyan laughed a little. It seemed as though he had a mountain to climb whenever they spoke. She appreciated his attempt to scale the peak regardless.

“Plenty of reasons,” she told him. “I know that I ought to have left, and truly have started my life afresh… but that would have been dishonest, to what I truly want.”

“May I ask… what is it?”

“What?”

The Commander almost met her eye. “That you… want?”

She bit back the smile that threatened to betray her. The night air wasn’t cold, but she hid goose-bumps upon her skin. “Well… I suppose there is one thing—”

Feet clattered up the stairs. Trevelyan stopped herself, turning just in time to see, stumbling into the doorway, a giddy Lady Erridge.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called. “Oh, Commander, there you are! I came to see if you wanted to dance!”

The Commander shook his head. “I’m… No, thank you. I don’t really dance.”

Erridge giggled. “I know! I wasn’t asking you, Commander! Come, Lady Trevelyan! The Commander shall have plenty of time to whisper with you when we are gone!”

Though the interruption was not exactly ideal, Trevelyan could not deny the sentiment. She curtsied to the Commander, somewhat apologetically.

“It seems I am summoned away. Urgent business, I believe they call it.”

The corner of his mouth tilted upward; it made her skin tingle. “Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

Trevelyan permitted Lady Erridge to take hold of her hand. The Lady threw a quick farewell to the Commander over her shoulder, and whisked Trevelyan away, tumbling down the stairs. They burst back onto the main floor of the hall, just as the band queued up another jig.

“Come on, come on!” Lady Erridge ordered, pulling Trevelyan into the congregating mass of dancers. Already amongst them were Lady Samient and Lady Orroat, left to partner up by the absent Erridge.

“Over here!” they called, of a little clearing beside them. Trevelyan and Erridge took position, all anticipation. They joined hands—properly now—and waited for the song to start.

And start it did! Strings and wind erupted into a prancing melody of alternating highs and lows. Trevelyan followed her Ladyship’s lead, bouncing around the floor, clapping her hands, kicking her legs into the air. Skirts clashed and flew, an explosion of fabric and colour.

It was a wonder how Lady Samient danced it so well, in a dress so constricting—but dance well she did! As hands parted and partners changed, Trevelyan found herself parading around in the arms of said Lady, each of them smiling up a storm.

As one song ended, so another began. She was to dance with Lady Orroat, too, of course—it was only fair—and then dear Erridge wanted another.

Eventually, quite exhausted, Trevelyan took the next song’s end, and made her exit.

Fortunately, she found the Baroness on the edges of the dancefloor, an audience to their frolicking. She greeted Trevelyan with a smile and an embrace—for which they both knew the reason.

“I am so glad for you,” Trevelyan said, as she recovered her breath. “Are you all right?”

The Baroness nodded. “Relieved. When I leave tomorrow, I know I will be returning to my town at peace. But—this has not come without loss. It is not over, not truly.”

“Of course.”

“But we could have lost so much more. That Val Misrenne and its people still stand is worth celebrating.”

“Absolutely.”

Trevelyan hugged her once more, yet the music’s sudden and effervescent return caused her to jump. With a laugh, she glanced back to the dancers.

“You know, I am surprised Lady Erridge has not called you up for a jig!”

The Baroness chuckled. “No, no, my leg is far too frail for that.”

“Really?” said Trevelyan, glancing to it. “I remember you saying you still dance, once.”

“I do.” She grinned. “But the leg is an excellent excuse.”

Trevelyan caught her meaning. “Lady Erridge’s enthusiasm is quite difficult to match.”

“Indeed. She has the stamina of a demon. Though I’m sure Lady Orroat could find some use for that.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Your Ladyship! Please, I feel so terrible teasing her!”

“Then you should not like to hear what we say about you and him.”

Confused by who ‘him’ was, Trevelyan followed the Baroness’ line of sight, to a nearby throng of guests. Weaving between them, was—she should’ve guessed it—the Commander.

“Oh, Maker…” Trevelyan groaned. “You all have far too—”

She turned back, and realised the Baroness’s mouth was half-open, her cane being raised in the air.

“No, no—!”

“Commander!”

He heard the call. His head whipped round. No stopping it now: he was headed in their direction.

“Baroness!” Trevelyan hissed.

Touledy smiled, gave a suggestive flick of her brow, and said nothing more. Though Trevelyan was almost glad of this—the Commander ought not hear anything she had to say right now.

“Ladies,” he greeted, upon arrival. “Is there something you require?”

“Why, yes,” said Touledy, all too confidently. What was she up to? “Lady Trevelyan here wishes another dance, but I am afraid I am unable to”—she flashed her cane—“would you be able to dance with her Ladyship, in my stead?”

“Oh.” The Commander softened. "Are you all right?”

Trevelyan noted, rather indignantly, that the Commander asked this question with the same sort of gentle voice that he often put on for her. This was a concept which, she suddenly discovered, she did not like. Why, oh why, did she have to make him befriend the other Ladies? Fool.

“Yes, thank you,” the Baroness answered. “But her Ladyship must have a dance.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “But Baroness, the Commander does not like to dance.”

“I could try,” he said.

Trevelyan stared at him. There were a thousand questions she thought of in response to his saying this. But somehow, the only one she could quite manage was:

“What?”

He repeated the sentiment: “If you would like to.”

“Oh.” Well, there was little chance of her saying anything other than: “Yes.”

The Baroness smiled, clearly relishing in the success. “Go on, then,” she said, “enjoy.”

Easier said. At least Trevelyan had done enough jigs with Lady Erridge to know what she was to do with them, now. In her mind, as they walked to the floor, she went over the steps. Left, left, kick, clap. Switch. Then to the right? But—

The music grew in volume. Yet it sounded like no jig she’d ever heard. Trevelyan realised that the band had betrayed her. Not a jig. Not at all.

Sweet, slow strings floated across the hall. A… romantic melody, that had couples approaching the floor. Dear Maker fucking Andraste shitting Void.

People linked hands and put them on waists and Trevelyan realised that she was in the midst of it now, surrounded, and there was no escape, and she would have to do those things herself.

She faced the Commander. Maker, why did he have to look like that and be like this? This sort of thing was far simpler with unimportant suitors that one could so easily discard after, even if one did step on their toes.

He offered a hand. Trevelyan’s shook.

But still, they met.

Her fingers slid into his palm, felt the warmth that emanated beneath the leather of his glove. The feeling of his skin, however rugged or tender, was cruelly left to the imagination. She savoured it regardless.

Her other hand gathered up her skirts, like the rest of the dress-wearers were doing. Almost in position. There was simply one last thing to emulate—

The Commander’s hand moved for her waist, hesitant in its approach. The first touches of his fingertips—gentler even than that of cotton or down—caused her body to tense. She did not know how she was to bear his entire hand.

But his hand stopped short. It instead hovered over the fabric of her dress, as if afraid to press any further.

Disappointing.

Nevertheless—the music began in earnest. The dancers began to move. The Commander took a step, and Trevelyan followed. Her nerves hit a peak.

And then, began to fade.

Because dancing with him was unlike dancing with anyone she had danced with before. It felt different. Better. Warmer. Safer. It almost did not matter if she was dancing well or not. It was only him that mattered.

There was no need for extravagant moves, or flourishes of the hand. This was enough. Sweet, simple, swaying in one another’s arms. More than enough.

“You should dance more often,” she whispered to him. “You do it well.”

He smiled, soft, and simply said, “All right.”

Her words must have bolstered his resolve, for his shoulders relaxed, and his grip around her hand firmed and strengthened. Its pull drew her closer; his other slipped around her back, fitting perfectly into the mold of her body. The gap between them was more indistinct than ever.

Yet in that closeness was comfort. She could have stayed like that for an eternity.

But the music slowly, gradually, dulled away. Other dancers reappeared around them, the party audible once more. It was over.

They came to a standstill. Trevelyan’s hand fell reluctantly from his grasp; his trailed away from her waist. Yet still she smiled, for nothing could take it from her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I shan’t make you dance another.”

“That’s… all right.” He rubbed his neck. “Will you, ah, be stargazing tonight?”

She played with her dress. “Most likely.”

“Good.”

She curtsied, he bowed. He left, she stayed. Her feet still wobbled, a little.

But she would have to recover quickly. For she turned to her side, and saw complete what had, until now, been only a disruption in her periphery: the Ladies, gathered together, in keen observance.

Trevelyan shook her head, and, before they could open their mouths, told them firm:

“Not one word.”

[asykriel]

Love is the Death of Duty - 15.

☆ Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Male! Targaryen OC

☆ Status: Ongoing 

☆ Summary:  

“He is half of my heart.”

War made monsters of them all, but it also brought the two second sons together in a flurry of death, love, deceit and delusion. The story of Aemond Targaryen and the eldest son of Daemon and Rhaenyra, Maegor Targaryen, second of his name. 

☆ Warnings: Sexual content, explicit violence, dark themes, targcest etc.

☆ AO3 ☆ || ☆ Wattpad ☆

☆ CHAPTERS: (Prologue) / ( 1 ) / ( 2 ) / ( 3 ) / ( 4 ) / ( 5 ) / ( 6 ) / ( 7 ) / ( 8 ) / ( 9 ) / ( 10 ) / ( 11 ) / ( 12 ) / ( 13 ) / ( 14 ) / ( 15 ) / (16 from now on upcoming chaps only on-  AO3  ||  Wattpad  )

☆ Masterlist ☆ ||  ☆ Spotify Playlist ☆

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CHAPTER 15

Under the dimly lit catacombs beneath the Red Keep, the giant skull of Balerion the Black Dread looms. Hundreds of candles encircle the relic, their flames dancing in flickers. The air is thick with the scent of melted wax and incense, and the lights paint eerie, ever-shifting shadows across the walls.

Before the sacred altar of the Conqueror's dragon, two men stand facing each other in solemn silence. A third voice resonates through the chamber, reciting the sacred vows in High Valyrian.

Blood of two

Joined as one

Ghostly flame

And song of shadows

Two hearts as embers

Forged in fourteen fires

A future promised in glass

The stars stand witness

The vow spoken through time

Of darkness and light.

The same old words that had bound countless Targaryens before them, including Maegor's parents. Now they will seal their love in the same manner.

With the officiant's blessing, one of the maesters who schooled them as children and the few remaining in the Red Keep that still have knowledge of old Valyrian customs, Aemond and Maegor each take a piece of dragonglass. They make a small, precise cut on the other's lips, mismatched gaze never looking away from the one violet eye.

Adrenaline and the unquenchable fire roars within both, they were doing this in a rush, in secrecy, wearing their dragon riding armor instead of the traditional wedding robes. There is no time for that now. They are already disregarding the Queen's discovery and disapproval completely. Disregarding everyone, even the start of a new reign.

Who else other than them would have enough audacity and madness?

Above them, Aegon's coronation is unfolding under the Hand's command with or without his younger brother present. Although in less secrecy, the Hightower made sure to be quick to strip Rhaenyra of the rightful claim over the crown and the Iron Throne.

A distant thought gnaws at Maegor's mind. If he was more selfless and less in love he would have definitely tried to stop Otto and prevent the usurping from happening. But he is not.

The warm, wet touch on his forehead quickly reminds him of that, as Aemond marks him with his blood, drawing an old Valyrian symbol.

Fire.

Reminding himself to breathe and not falter from the rush that makes his ears pound, Maegor mimics his uncle, marking the other's forehead as well.

Blood.

The very same words that their house and legacy was built on centuries ago.

Pausing for a moment to suck a silent breath and try to calm himself as best as he can, Maegor nods to his uncle in approval, who in return flashes him a warm smile. Continuing with the ritual, next they make a slice on their palms with the dragonglass, slowly and in synch, allowing the blood that was seeping instantly from the wounds to drip in a silver goblet and mix. With their trembling hands now clasped together, their mingling blood flows from one to the other as they take turns to drink from the goblet. There's no turning back now, no matter the consequences they will face. For all Maegor cares, he'd take on the whole known and unknown world for Aemond.

It's like anything either of them felt before. And when the Princes finally kiss with bloody lips, both are on the edge of delirium. A new kind of force flows through them, far from any natural powers, because this is a sacred oath made with the old blood magic that granted Targaryens their formidable and revered powers. With their blood intertwined Aemond and Maegor are tied together now, not just physically.

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

────────────────────────

Emerging from the catacombs bellow and ascending the stairs to the castle's upper levels, the two Princes make their way through the Red Keep in silence, clasping each other's wounded hands as they march through the empty hallways. Their sacred blood oath and union beneath the castle, has bound them together in ways that can never be undone. They have committed to an act and a love that is shunned by many. Now more than ever since the faith of the Seven is starting to gain more influence, thanks to Queen Alicent's endorsement.

But the thing is, it didn't matter. Worthless words coming from the mouths of sheep are nothing to dragons.

Advancing towards the main hall they could hear the distant echoes of Aegon II's coronation ceremony coming to a close. The cheers and applause of the courtiers reverberate through the stone walls, heralding the beginning of a new reign.

Speeding up the pace, Maegor clenches Aemond's hand tighter and grits his teeth. He can already anticipate the chaos.

Reaching the hall of the Iron Throne, they completely pass by the guards, stunned by their sudden appearance , and enter just as the ceremony concludes. Now King, Aegon sits the Iron Throne with the Conqueror's crown on his head. But Aegon doesn't rejoice or drink in the cheers and his newly acquired power like Maegor expected. His older uncle appears exhausted, wearing no smiles, only a blank, distracted expression, as if the crown he bears is a burden too heavy. As if he didn't want this.

Close by Alicent and the Hand, stand beside Aegon, beaming with delight as their plans finally came to fruition. Indirectly, the Hightowers sit on the throne now and Rhaenyra can no longer be Queen. The only one sharing the new King's sentiments is his own wife, Helaena, who looks nervous, fidgeting with her hands and wearing a sad expression.

The commotion of the Princes entrance attracts immediate attention. The cheers stop and a heavy silence falls over the assembly, all eyes turning from the new King to them instead.

Still hand in hand, Maegor and Aemond advance towards the throne, completely aware of the implication of their deed. Nonetheless, both of them hold their heads high and stride onwards with confidence.

Alicent's glare immediately falls down to their clasped hands and she clenches her own into fists, sinking her nails painfully into her palms. She was so lost and distracted with the coronation preparation that she completely discarded the sunrise that left such a sour taste in her mouth. But now she recalls the conversation with her son very vividly in her head. Her face pales immediately. The Queen has to rest one hand against the pillar next to her to keep her from crumbling to the floor as she pieces everything together.

Wed him to me.

Has he completely poisoned your mind?!

Quite the opposite.

Don't be a fool, Aemond, this is a heresy! You will cease this farce at once and Prince Maegor will return to Dragonstone immediately!

Your approval is not necessary, mother, nor did I expect it.

Maegor fixes his sharp gaze on the dowager Queen and her father, holding their eyes with a cold intensity as they slowly grasped the implications of the scene before them. Even those in the hall who are not well-versed in Targaryen customs can discern the significance of the blood-red Valyrian runes adorning both Maegor and Aemond's foreheads, the cuts on their lips and hands, and the unspoken bond that had grown unnoticed until now.

"What is the meaning of this?! What have you done!?" Otto thunders, his fury palpable. His own nephew, the boy he shaped and groomed into the man he is today, to betray him like this. With Daemon's vile mongrel.

"Joined our legacy and strengthened our family at last. We have married in the tradition of our house." Aemond speaks first, calmly. He pays no heed to the gasps and whispers that ripples through the hall but focuses instead on his seething grandfather.

No longer having to hide away with stolen glances and touches, Maegor smiles, drinking his uncle with his eyes as he listens to him speak. He can't tell which he enjoys more, the Hightower cunts seething or hearing Aemond reveal everything so casually to his own family.

"This is madness! You dare bring this abomination into the light during the king's coronation?" Alicent, can hardly contain her outrage. Her chest heaves with indignant breaths as she trembles in anger at the sight of Rhaenyra's offspring, taunting and looking down upon her with a victorious smirk on his lips

"Abomination? Which one of your seven gods told you that, my Queen?"Maegor scoffs, eyeing her lap dog, Ser Criston, as he tenses up quite noticeably.

"This marriage is a farce and a sin! Aemond will fulfill his duty by marrying a woman and siring an heir!" The Queen shouts in desperation at both her son and the younger Prince.

Maegor's teasing smirk falters upon hearing her vehement insistence. He clenches his teeth and exhales deeply, suppressing his impulse to take reckless action.

"My marriage is sacred! You're no Targaryen, you cannot understand. I'll forgive you for this, mother." Aemond raises his voice with authority, leaving Alicent completely dazed.

From the throne, Aegon is silent and despite being very much sober, he is completely stunned by everything unfolding before him as he sucks in a sharp breath. He knows his little brother had balls, just not this big.

"Aemond! How dare you!" The Hand shouts, stomping the stone under him with his foot.

"Enough yapping!" Maegor interjects, cutting through the turmoil with an air of defiance. "Our union stands, and none can contest it, least of all you, Alicent. Your own marriage was a political ploy, devoid of love, and you know it."

"I'll have your tongue for that!" The Queen screams in anger.

Maegor can't help, but let out a laugh hearing her words.

"I'll send a raven to Dragonstone. I'm sure my father will be delighted to teach you."

The mention of Dragonstone irks Ser Criston's temper, and he unsheathes his sword, taking a menacing step toward Maegor. The white-cloaked knights move in with him, daring the young Prince to utter another word.

A soothing touch on his wrist keeps him grounded and in place, preventing Maegor to bring out Nightbringer and escalate the situation first.

"This is an act of treason!" Otto's words do nothing, but amuse him even more than his daughter did.

"Treason? My grandfather's corpse is not yet cold, but you've already usurped the throne and made your nephew king. I should cut your fucking head off and bring it to my mother for this." Maegor bares his teeth and curls his lips as the anger slowly bubbles to the surface.

Ser Criston goes after him before the Hand shouts the command.

"Seize him and hang the traitor!"

The crowd present starts to get loud and scramble away as the white cloaks follow after Criston and go after the Prince. Letting out a sharp breath, filled by the adrenaline, Maegor unsheathes his valyrian sword at last and meets Alicent's faithful mutt heads on, steel clashing against steel. Even if Criston is older and more experienced in duels, he lacks the fire and determination that drive Maegor on. The knight is taken by surprise by the Prince's agility and unpredictable strikes. He barely manages to parry a shot aimed for his throat.

Thankfully the other white cloaks come to his rescue and two of them tackle Maegor away in an attempt to disarm and apprehend him. However, Aemond is not far behind. He rushes to his nephew's side, and doesn't hesitate when he plunges his own sword in the back of one of the Kingsguards restraining the younger Prince. Maegor uses his uncle's distraction so he can cut down the other white cloak with ease. Closing the distance between them, Maegor turns on his heels.

The two Princes stand back to back, their blades drawn, ready to face the remaining white cloaks and Criston Cole that have now surrounded them. Most of the courtiers are rushing closer to the main doorway at the sight of bloodshed, but the rest are too stunned by the actions of the two Targaryens and maybe too curious as well to see everything unfold before their eyes.

"Aemond! How can you turn your back on your family like this!?" Alicent wails in frustration, clutching her head.

"Maegor is my family too, mother. I'm not turning my back on anyone, but I will protect him." Aemond doesn't take his eye off the white cloaks circling around him and his nephew as he speaks.

Pressing his back against Maegor, Aemond makes sure to keep the contact at all times, offering some kind of piece of mind in this situation for both of them, but mainly for his own sanity.

"Side with the traitor and you shall be considered one too! Do you wish the same fate, boy?!" Otto barks.

He's bluffing, Aemond knows it. Together with his dragon he's an asset far too valuable for the Greens. Otto can't afford to lose him, this is just another tactic to make him ponder and reconsider. So Aemond prefers to offer an answer through silence.

Behind him, Maegor doesn't know the Hightower is just using a facade. It takes only an instant for the Hand's words to get to his head and rile him up with fury at the thought of Aemond's alleged execution.

"Fucking do it then, you old cunt. Execute us both for treason and I can promise you King's Landing will turn to ash and rubble." Maegor sneers, gripping the hilt of Nightbringer painfully tight. He's itching to just lunge at the closest knight and spill his insides to the floor.

"I'll have Daemon and the bastards ended before they reach here, you fool." Otto lets out a mocking laugh.

"I thought you were smarter than this, lord Hand." It's Maegor's turn to sneer and click his tongue in disappointment.

In the heat of the moment, his alleged captors have forgotten one crucial detail. Aemond and Vhagar are not the only assets around, the low roar somewhere high in the skies above the Red Keep's spires makes sure to remind them that. It's the strong bond between Maegor and the Cannibal that makes the beast sense his anger and surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins. If harm would come to his rider again, it will be like Sunspear all over again.

"You see, Saagael is quite protective of me. My family is safe in Dragonstone, but yours is here. So plan your next move with more wisdom, Otto." Maegor scans the old man's face as he turns silent, already probably trying to think of all the ways in which he can kill a dragon that size before it levels half a city to the ground.

The tension in the hall grows thicker with every passing moment. The courtiers and nobles who have not yet fled the scene are held rapt by the unfolding drama. Ser Criston and his white cloaks are testing their boundaries, trying to find an opening and split the two Princes apart so that they can get to the target.

In silence, Aegon watches it all from his position on the Iron Throne, his fingers tapping nervously against the armrests as he's leading a battle against himself in his head. He's barely been proclaimed King and he has no idea how to act next. The weight of the crown upon his head is already painful, but he can at least use it to his advantage now.

"Enough! Stand down all of you!" 

All heads turn to Aegon in surprise, even Aemond is very much stunned by his intervention. Maegor throws him a suspicious glare. What is the drunkard playing at?

 The King's command cuts through the turmoil like a knife, and the white cloaks hesitate for a moment. They eventually lower their weapons, stepping back from the Princes. They have no choice but to respect the authority of their new sovereign.

The only one who does not obey is Cole. The knight stands in front of Maegor, weapon still drawn and his pride hurt. It's clear he bears a deep grudge against the young Prince, deep enough to directly disobey the King's order. 

"Hurry up after your soldier boys. Next time I won't miss your throat, Ser Criston." Maegor taunts him on purpose. 

"There won't be a next time, Prince Maegor." 

How did this brawn even end up commander of the Kingsguard?

"Cole! I said stand down." Aegon calls out again. 

This time the knight reluctantly obeys, backing up slowly from the Prince who wears the faintest of smirks on his lips. He can't tell which irks him more about the boy, the fact that he's basically a second Daemon or that his face looks so much like Rhaenyra's. Either way, Ser Criston is convinced he's a demon sent to haunt him for the sins of his past.

"Aegon! Why are you doing this too?!" Alicent pleads. 

"I'm your king now, you shall address me as such." Seeing the pained look on his mother's face doesn't even hurt Aegon anymore. It's his ounce of payback for all the shit he endured from her, especially today. He never asked for this. She forced this cursed crown on his head.

The dowager Queen feels like she's going crazy. Two of her sons decided to rebel against her at the same time. And Aegon, insufferable, worthless Aegon who is sitting on the throne thanks to her turning to bite the hand that fed him all these years.

"My King, you know very well what the punishment for treason is!" Otto's voice almost cracks from the restrained anger at Aegon's audacity.

"What treason? Maegor isn't a traitor for marrying my brother. I don't see a problem with it and neither anyone else should." For a split moment Aegon's normal character comes back as he speaks so casually. 

But he means it genuinely. Ok maybe Maegor hates him, that's alright, he's quite the hot headed loner. However his brother endured more shit than Aegon did from everyone in their childhood, including him . He could at least offer Aemond this. A wordless apology.

Watching the throne before him, Maegor blinks in confusion.  He slightly cocks his head towards Aemond, silently questioning everything with a glance. Next to him, Aemond is just as dumbfounded by his brother's actions. 

"Everyone but the two Princes clear the room!" Aegon barks another sudden command.

Without wasting a breath, the remaining courtiers quickly scramble towards the exit, reluctantly followed by the soldiers and white cloaks, throwing confused glances among each other as they pass in front of the one they've previously tried to apprehend. 

When Helaena leaves, she gives her husband a nod and a warm smile of approval, subtly clapping her hands as she climbs down from the steps leading towards the Iron Throne. The corners of Aegon's lips pull of in a faint smile. He can't even remember the last time he saw his sister actually smile at him.

The last to leave are dowager Queen and the Hand. Both Alicent and Otto Hightower seethe with fury, both their faces flushed with indignation. They crowned him king, gave him all this power and privilege. And what does Aegon do? Takes his side. First Aemond and then the firstborn. It's a clear signal that Aegon will not easily bow to their pressure and do their bidding like he did before he was just Prince. The Hightower's carefully constructed plans have unraveled before their eyes and now they are almost slipping through their fingers.

As he watches his mother exit the throne hall and the heavy, tall door close behind her, Aegon let's out an audible sigh of relief, slumping his tense shoulders. Neither of the three speaks a word, until Aegon decides to get off the throne and join them hesitantly, at the base of the stairs.

"So I'm king and you two are married. What a day, huh?" He takes off the crown that was so uncomfortable on his head so he can study and fidget with it in his hands, before he reluctantly places it back on his head.

"I won't forget what you did. Someday I will return this favor." Maegor awkwardly clears his voice, before Aemond can question his brother.

 It feels so weird saying this to his older uncle, but he means it. An eye of an eye. Aegon gives him a wary look, but quickly replaces it with the sketch of a smirk. Maegor owes him, he can indulge himself in a bit of harmless teasing.

"What's this, an ounce of kindness in your stone cold heart, nephew?" Aegon elbows his side and relishes on how Maegor bites his tongue in annoyance. He takes a step away from him, closer to Aemond instead of lashing out to grab his older uncle by the throat. 

"There was no need for you to do this, but thank you I suppose." Aemond sighs, stepping between them much to his nephew's relief.

"It won't end here." Maegor's expression suddenly hardens as he begins to think of the outcomes. 

All three of them know this. News of the throne being usurped by the Hightowers and Aegon becoming king will soon reach Dragonstone and when they do, it won't be without repercussions. 

Even if Aegon agrees and gives up on the crown in favor of his older sister, Maegor is very doubtful that everyone in the Seven Kingdoms will accept her as Queen. House Hightower is the richest in Westeros, Otto and Alicent will never stand by this, they will plunge the realm in civil war for the grudge they hold against his mother. But maybe, just maybe with Aegon king there can be peace if somehow Maegor manages to convince his parents it's the lesser evil. Who is he kidding? It's a delusional thought, even if miraculously his mother would agree, Daemon will never accept this.

"Return to Dragonstone if you must, Maegor." As if reading his thoughts, Aemond offers a warm touch as he takes his hand into his, temporarily calming the storm in his head.

 Maegor flashes his uncle a grateful, but weak smile for his presence and support. He doesn't know what he would do without him. Aemond is his reason and comfort, the last string of sanity when he feels like he's going mad and cracking under pressure in this world. His everything.

"Only for a while, until tempers calm down." Maegor makes a subtle promise.

"And if they don't?" Aegon dares to ask even if the nauseating hole he feels in his stomach gives him an idea of the consequences.

"We'll just have to drag it out for as long as possible." Maegor tightens the hold on Aemond's hand. A thumb running gently over his faintly scarred knuckles is the silent reply that comes.

"Make sure you won't make it worse, you're quite skilled at that, nephew." Aegon teases. Trying to crack a joke between tensed nerves and grey horizons. 

Truth be told he's terrified of the uncertainty and this new burden he has to bear, but this is nice. And now Aegon deeply regrets the three of them couldn't have bonded in more civilized manners than the foolery in their childhood. He has a feeling he would have liked to know Maegor better, find out why his brother is so smitten with him and maybe even call him a friend. Alas, there's not enough time for that now.

A flash of teeth and the smirk of an accepted challenge is the only crumb the King gets.

"I won't ever give you the pleasure, uncle."

────────────────────────

High in the skies, the weight of the clouds Maegor is so accustomed feels suffocating now. Black wings flap almost silently as Saagael glides with ease, sharing his rider's restlessness through their bond.

After an unbearable farewell, Aemond joined him with Vhagar halfway through the trip back to Dragonstone, before barely bringing himself to turn his dragon away. He returned to King's Landing to help Aegon deal with their own family.

Now it's Maegor's turn to do the same. His father sent him to reinstate his claim over Dorne, instead he returns without it, married to someone his family holds disdain for and with news of the old King dead.

Just as he begins to make out the form of the Dragonstone island in the distance, he swallows the lump in his dry throat. Beneath him, he can feel how the muscles ripple and tense up as the Cannibal let's out a low growl. They have company.

Higher pitched calls, echo in reply to them and Maegor makes out the two flashes of color from the left side as they flank Saagael. White and dark. Astride Arrax and Tyraxes, his younger brothers join his flight from below. The Cannibal lets out a short warning snarl for the unwanted surprise and the two much smaller dragons keep a safe distance, not daring to invade his personal space.

Turning his head to search for the skies, soon enough as expected, Vermax and Jace join them as well. Maegor lets out a groan of frustration that gets drowned by the velocity of the wind.

"The Prince of Dorne returns at last!" Jace calls out as he levels his dragon to fly in parallel with his brother's.

"Why on earth are you flying so far out?! You know Joffrey is not allowed." Ignoring the comment, Maegor shouts back, making sure to glare at his youngest brothers's lack of caution as they close in towards the island.

"I can handle myself too!" Joffrey's cry reaches only as an echo to Maegor's ears as he speeds past them.

Like always, Saagael lands on the grassy clifftop next to the castle, followed by the other smaller dragons. However he does not allow them stay for a moment longer than needed. After their riders dismount and join Maegor, now also on foot, the Cannibal makes sure to bare his teeth and chase away the younger ones. This cliff, where he could watch over Maegor's bedroom window, became his lair ever since the Prince claimed him. An open space, completely opposite from the dark cave he used to call a home.

"You didn't answer my question Jace." As he walks towards the castle with his older brother next to him and his younger ones trailing behind him, Maegor let's out a tired sigh. He wasn't planning on having a welcome party.

"Foolish of me that I hoped you'd be in a better mood after all that praise about conquest."

While he is in no mood for jests and teasing, clearly his brother has other plans.

"Jace." Maegor warns, keeping his eyes locked on the path before him.

"How come Aemond hasn't followed you back like the faithful dog he is?" Jacaerys doesn't get the hint, continuing to poke at the embers threatening to unleash into a blaze of fire.

Before he gets the chance to finish his dumb question, Maegor stops dead in his tracks and turns towards Jace with a cold glare. He doesn't even feel the weight on his side as Joffrey bumps against him, too distracted by the sea on the horizon to notice his older brother come to a halt.

Maegor barely returned home and he's already met with constant pestering and nuisance. Even Aegon had been more agreeable than Jacaerys recently.

"It's just a jest, Maegor, ease off." Jace huffs at him.

Maegor bites his tongue and musters all restraint to not grab his older brother by the collar of his tunic and rough some sense back into him.

"Princess Rhaenys arrived earlier and she's having a private audience with mother and Daemon. We've been told off so we won't disturb them." Luke clears his voice and the tension between his older brothers immediately vanishes.

The color from Maegor's face drains as he suddenly realizes the topic of the audience and Rhaenys's sudden presence on Dragonstone. Without uttering any other words, fueled by adrenaline and anxiety he darts off, running up the stairs leading into the castle and ignoring all the puzzled looks of courtiers and guards. Behind him, his brothers give chase, calling out to him in confusion as they struggle to keep up.

Swinging the doors open, Maegor stumbles inside the hall of the Painted Table where the council is being held. His heart races against his ribcage. Swallowing heavily and calming his frantic breathing, he cautiously steps forward, ignoring his brothers chatter from behind, as they finally caught up with him.

All the eyes inside fall on him. At the head of the table Rhaenyra and Daemon watch his every move, on the other side Rhaenys, cladded in her dragon rider armor gives him a skeptical look.

It was painfully clear that they are already aware of his transgressions. Anticipation gnaws at Maegor as he interprets the expressions on his mother's face—filled with disappointment—and his father's, where anger smolders.

"You better have a good excuse for why you let those cunts take the throne from your mother." Daemon's low voice cuts through him like a blade.

Slumping his shoulder he takes a deep breath, gathering his strength approach the large table, close to his parents. Annoyingly, he can hear his younger half brothers as they start whispering. Now they too found out. Jace lets out an audible groan of frustration as he joins the table, on the opposite side from Maegor. On purpose.

"Answer your father." Rhaenyra demands with a calmness in her voice that irks the young Prince.

"I wasn't there." Maegor confesses in a sharp breath.

The only ounce of luck he has on his side is that Rhaenys was not present for the coronation. She must have left just as it started since she felt too unsafe in the Keep being an ally of Rhaenyra's. And now all she can do is watch his family bicker from the sidelines as she delivered the news of Viserys's death and Aegon's coronation.

"I've sent you to the Red Keep. Where were you if not there, boy?" His son's cryptic answer only manages to thin out Daemon's patience more.

"Where else other than with Aemond? Ever since he's started going crazy for him I don't recognize my own brother anymore!" Jace can't help himself and jumps in, slamming his palms against the table.

"Perhaps you never cared enough to truly know me." Maegor purses his lips and glares back at his older brother.

"Quiet Jacaerys. This isn't about you." Daemon warns and Jace quickly surrenders from throwing back another comment at the younger one. Even if the Rogue Prince is not his father, Jacaerys respects his authority, especially when he's about to snap from anger. What Daemon says, goes.

"Maegor." Rhaenyra demands again, this with a louder tone in her voice and a hint of pain in it.

Lowering his head to look at the intricate carvings on the Painted table, Maegor finally takes a deep breath and summons all of his resolve.

"I married Aemond in the tradition of our house..."

He pauses for a moment to take another long breath as an eerie silence falls inside the hall.

"...during Aegon's coronation."

Hearing these words, Rhaenyra has to grab Daemon's arm for support. She feels a surge a pain worse than a dagger shoot through her pregnant womb.

"You're fucking insane! Do we mean nothing to you!?" Jacaerys yells out to him and Luke has to pull on his arms and tunic to prevent him from going after their brother.

Turning his head, Maegor looks away from his brother and focuses on his parents instead. Waiting for whatever punishment will come.

"You could have stopped them, boy. Burn all of those green rats to a crisp while they were stealing the crown from your mother. But you're a selfish little shit, aren't you?" Daemon's assault is merciless, but Maegor takes every word, lowering his head as he listens to his father talk.

"I will accept the consequences. But I do not regret marrying Aemond."

"Your grandfather barely took his last breath and you were holding a wedding!" Rhaenyra shouts in frustration, clutching one arm over her belly.

"Doesn't it sound familiar? I did exactly what you and father did. While Laena's coffin was sinking to the bottom of the sea and Laenor's remains were still smoldering, you married my father in the tradition of our house. Out of love. And now I did the same with Aemond." Maegor keeps his voice as calm as he can even if frustration was threatening to overcome him.

"This is different! You chose Aemond over duty to your family, Maegor! Where is your honor!?" Rhaenyra pleads.

"Don't talk to me about honor, mother." Maegor barks back, more on instinct than on purpose.

"What did you say?"

In his subconscious, every rebuke he wanted to pour at Rhaenyra's feet was starting to simmer dangerously close to the surface. The hypocrisy was scratching his mind in all the wrong places. Years of restraint and suppression were finally reaching their breaking point.

"I said you're in no place to lecture me about honor. Do you think yourself so righteous, mother?"

"Careful, Maegor." Daemon warns with an eerily calm tone.

"No father, you know I am right! More than half of the realm never took her seriously because my mother couldn't do her duty. Why am I at fault? I didn't bed knights or bring bastards into the world!" The Prince finally snaps. Every drop of pent up frustration was spilling over in this moment.

Maegor's accusations sting like wildfire, and his words leave a heavy silence in their wake. Before either Jace or Daemon can get to him, Rhaenyra does, storming past her husband, despite the agonizing pain and cold sweat she was breaking into. With eyes filled with tears, she doesn't hold back her anger as a flurry of emotions overwhelm her.

A smack across his face leaves Maegor's skin stinging. He closes his eyes shut and lowers his head to be more on his mother's level. He doesn't budge, or retaliates. Just stands still, accepting the punishment.

 It doesn't stop at just one hit, he can feel another one and another one until his cheek goes numb. Then the slaps suddenly stop. Opening his eyes, Maegor sees his mother sobbing and wailing in pain.

Rhaenyra let's out a choked scream and almost collapses to the floor if it weren't for Maegor to catch her. Blood seeps through the lower end of her dress and he inhales a sharp breath, realizing what was about to happen.

"Father!" His voice cracks, but Daemon is already there in an instant.

Anxiety gets a hold of him fast and the previous heated argument is temporarily forgotten as he watches the maesters rush inside the hall. His father carries his mother away with his half brothers trailing behind them full of worry and fear. 

Throwing him a disappointed look, Rhaenys leaves the chamber last. Suddenly, Maegor finds himself standing alone. Lowering his head, he looks down at the small puddle of his mother's blood that gathered under his boots. His cheek throbs with a dull pain while he listens to the screams of agony that echo throughout the whole castle.