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loslentesdepedrito · 10 months

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I'm Your Wife- Chapter Two

Bottom left gif by: @binary--sun , bottom right gif by: @interstellarflare

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter One

Next Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Three

Word count: 5.1k+

Chapter summary: Nine years later, unexpectedly, Jack hears from you.

Rating: 18+ no explicit content but I'd rather not have minors read these types of subjects. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles.

Warnings: Angst, language used by the characters is harsh and contains strong emotions, mentions of cheating, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease. (I hope I didn’t forget anything, it’s been years since I wrote this.)

A/N: I want to express my heartfelt gratitude to everyone for the overwhelming support on Chapter One! I didn't have much time to work on the graphic for this chapter, so it took me a while to upload it. I have ADHD, and it's currently unmedicated, so that's also a factor. I find that I work best when the house is quiet, but with children around, getting them to sleep can be quite hard, haha! Again, I wrote this years ago, so I apologize for any and all mistakes because if I read this over, I’ll overthink and not post. So, thank you for your understanding, and I hope you enjoy the story!

As Jack's footsteps carry him back to his apartment from the Kingsmen agency, his mind is consumed by the weight of his day's work. An hour before he intended to go home, he found himself inexplicably overwhelmed by a sudden urge to rush to his apartment. It wasn't a foreboding feeling, but rather a strong sense that something good was on awaiting him. If anyone happened to catch a glimpse of Jack's somewhat clumsy dash out of his office, barely avoiding a slip on the freshly mopped floor- no one commented.

Now, in the lobby, with each step closer to his sanctuary, a glimmer of anticipation flickers within him, a faint hope that there might be a respite from the pain that has plagued his heart for years.

Reaching his mailbox, he pauses, his hand steady as he retrieves the day's mail. Among the advertisements, his eyes catch sight of a familiar return address adorned with the emblem of the firm that handled the painful dissolution of his marriage. The sight sends a jolt through his veins, instantly sharpening his senses. He feels a surge of joy and curiosity that threatens to overpower his cool demeanor. This, this is what I’ve been waiting for, he thinks.

With the letter clutched tightly in his hand, Jack climbs the staircase, his heavy and rushed footsteps echoing through the empty building stairway. As he reaches the sixth floor, he pauses for a moment, catching his breath and steadying his racing heart. Fuckin’ hell, I’m really starting to get old.

His apartment building's signature aroma, a mix of aged wood and Reed Diffusers, drifts through the air and the illuminated corridor, offering a soothing moment. With renewed determination, he strides towards his apartment, the key ready in his trembling hand, eager to discover the message held within the white envelope.

Taking the letter inside, he fumbles to close the door behind him, his focus solely on the contents of the envelope. It feels like an eternity as he tears it open, the sound of the paper ripping echoing through the room. Throwing away the torn envelope, his hat, his phone, and his keys on the coffee with disregard, his gaze locks onto the words that lay before him, ink etched upon the pristine white surface.

With each sentence, the gravity of the situation becomes clearer, the weight of the words pressing against his chest. His heart beats faster, his breath growing shallow. The letter, written in a professional tone, contains the invitation he had never anticipated but always hoped for. She wants to meet me. The delicacy and urgency of the matter are subtly emphasized, practically begging Jack to meet you.

Jack's eyes scan the lines, his mind working swiftly to decipher the unspoken pleas hidden within the formal language. He can almost hear your voice, strained and vulnerable, begging for a chance to talk.

The letter extends an offer of legal representation, a reminder that the cold machinery of the law can mediate their meeting. But Jack's resolve is unwavering. He wants this to be personal, as personal as it can get. I can finally clear everything up with her. Tell her what I never said. The opportunity to talk face to face with you without the barrier of attorneys fills him with a mixture of hope and anxiety, like a tightly wound spring ready to unfurl.

A surge of emotions floods his being, the years of longing and unanswered questions vying for attention. He clings to the flickering flame of possibility, for within this letter lies the chance to reclaim what was lost, to confront the lingering ghosts of his past, and maybe, just maybe, you could love him once more. Throughout the past nine years, when Jack basically pushed you out of his life, he lived in constant regret. He promised himself if he ever got a second chance with you, he would take it and do everything in his power to ensure you never felt the same pain as you did during your marriage.

Jack can't help but feel a glimmer of optimism as he sets the letter down. The future is uncertain, but the mere fact that you have chosen to reach out stirs hope deep within him. It's a fragile hope, like a flickering flame in the darkness, but it burns nonetheless.

As the weight of the letter lingers in Jack's hands, his gaze drifts toward his phone. Resting on the table beside the torn envelope lay a familiar device—Jack's unchanged phone, a device that held precious moments. He had never upgraded it because it carried countless memories. It was the very phone into which you had entered your number when you first met. It was the same phone that had kept him up on calls until the sun peeked over the horizon, the same phone that had exchanged texts with you at all hours of the day. It was the very phone where you introduced him to the world of sexting, etching those intimate moments into his memory. Jack found himself continually revisiting these cherished memories, and he never changed his phone number. Perhaps, in the recesses of his hopeful heart, he believed you might someday reach out. Even though the years following the divorce had passed without your contact, he couldn't bring himself to give up hope.

He reaches out for his phone and picks it up, his fingers gliding over the familiar touchscreen. With a deep breath, he dials the number to the firm, his heart pounding in sync with each number pressed.

The sound of the dial tone echoes in his ear, and before the receptionist has a chance to utter a greeting, Jack's voice resonates with urgency, cutting through the silence, "Good evenin’. This is Jack Daniels. I'm callin' for Mr. Raul Santos."

The receptionist, taken aback by his directness, responds with a polite tone, "Good evening, sir. Please hold while I transfer you." The hold music fills the air, a symphony of anticipation mingled with the echo of distant voices. Jack's mind races; moments feel like hours while he rehearses over and over what he will say.

Finally, the ringing ceases and is replaced by a voice on the other end. It's Raul, the person who holds the power to give Jack his biggest wish. Jack wastes no time, the words escaping his lips before doubt can creep in, "Raul, it's Jack. When can I meet with her?" His voice carries a blend of longing and urgency.

"Jack, can you meet tomorrow at St. Andrew's Hospital at 10 AM?" The words hang in the air, filled with anticipation, as Jack's breath catches in his throat.

Why the hospital? Jack's mind questions. Summoning his resolve, Jack finds his voice and responds, "I'll be there."

"Perfect," Raul replies, his voice a lifeline in the abyss of uncertainty. "We'll be waiting for you on the tenth floor of the East Tower. When you sign in on the first floor, tell them you're meeting Dr. Navarro." Jack nods to himself, memorizing all the instructions as if his life depends on it.

Jack's emotions simmer beneath the surface as the call comes to an end, a torrent of hope, nervousness, and a glint of renewed longing. The image of St. Andrew's Hospital burns in his mind, a symbol of new beginnings and the coming together of their separate lives.

With apprehension and excitement, Jack sets the phone down, his hands trembling ever so slightly. Tomorrow assures a reunion, a chance for Jack to apologize for all of the suffering he has caused you. It is a moment he has dreamed of, yearned for, an opportunity to correct all his errors.

As he gazes into the distance, the fading daylight casting long shadows across his tired face, Jack finds solace in the glimmer of hope that glows in his heart. The road ahead may be filled with uncertainty, but at this moment, he dares to believe that the fragments of their broken bond may find a way to heal.

Despite his initial doubts, sleep had managed to find its way to Jack, offering him a few hours of rest. When he wakes, a surge of excitement courses through his veins, fueled by the knowledge that he will soon be reunited with you. The morning light filters through the window, casting gentle rays of warmth upon his face; as he rises with a renewed sense of purpose.

Determined to make a good impression, Jack steps into the shower, the hot water cascading over his body, washing away the traces of sleep and leaving him feeling refreshed. He carefully removes the stubble with each stroke of the razor against his skin, his fingertips tracing the sharp contours of his tanned face, ensuring a clean and polished look. The mustache, once untamed, is now meticulously trimmed, framing his pink lips.

Moving to his closet, Jack sifts through his collection of clothes; a rain of fabric and colors fall on his full-sized bed. He changes in and out of various combinations, looking for the perfect outfit. His fingers glide over the texture of his dress shirts, searching for the best one. Jack eventually settles on a deep blue dress shirt, a charcoal gray blazer, tailored pants that hug his frame just right, and a tie with subtle patterns.

Next, Jack turns his attention to his footwear, opting for a pair of polished black leather shoes. Would you examine his shoes with a magnifying glass? No, but that doesn't stop Jack from meticulously brushing off any lingering specks of dust, ensuring they shine in the morning light. As a finishing touch, he retrieves a felt Stetson hat, a prized possession that holds sentimental value because you gifted him with it. He tenderly cleans it, erasing any signs of wear, and proudly sets it atop his head.

Ready to see you- Jack leaves his apartment, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The crisp, chilly morning air greets him as he exits the lobby. I remember I met my sugar on a day like this, Jack thinks. He pretty much runs towards his car and turns the key making the engine roar to life. With each mile that passes throughout his two-hour drive, his mind remains focused on the meeting ahead.

When Jack arrives at the hospital, he hands his keys to the valet while scanning the surroundings for the reception area. He spots a man in a gray uniform and approaches him, his voice full of eagerness, "Good mornin’,” Jack begins, "I have a meeting with Dr. Navarro at 10 AM."

"May I see your ID, please?" The man asks politely, extending his hand.

Jack hesitates for a moment and reluctantly hands over his ID, watching as the man's eyes scan the name. There's a brief pause, and then the man looks up at Jack, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Jack Daniels." The man says with a chuckle, raising an eyebrow at the name on the identification.

Jack, sensing the unspoken question, clenches his teeth and responds with a touch of irritability, "Yes, it's real." The man understands the tone and directs Jack toward the appropriate elevator.

Jack complied eagerly and made his way toward the elevator. With anticipation, he reached out and pressed the button, making it glow orange. A ding echoed behind him in a matter of seconds. He hurriedly stepped inside the elevator and quickly jabbed at the close button, unwilling to wait for another passenger. Jack kept repeating a mantra of hurry, hurry, hurry in his mind. Without wasting a second, he confidently pressed the number 10.

Jack grows impatient inside the elevator, his fingers tapping restlessly against his hips as he paces back and forth. The rising numbers on the display screen get his attention, frows burring with each digit slowly increasing- reminding him of precious time slipping away. "This has to be the slowest fukin' elevator in the world." He growls in the empty elevator. Frustration lingers in Jack's thoughts; You should've taken the stairs instead of the goddamn elevator, his inner voice cursing the choice that delays the meeting with you. And when the tenth floor finally arrives, Jack leaps into action, his boots hitting the clean baby blue floor with a resounding thud.

Startling the receptionist, Jack raises a hand in apology and walks toward the front desk. He provides his name and appointment details, receiving a buzz of approval before being directed to his destination. Jack rushes forward, his heart pounding. Unbeknownst to him, the receptionist shakes their head, silently cautioning him to be careful, a concern in the receptionist's head so he won't stumble and falls on his ass because of his hurried run.

The instructions echo in his mind, and he checks them off as he goes; walk to the automatic white doors, check, press the buzzard, check, walk to the end of the corridor, check, make a left, check, take one last left, chec-

And there you are, seated on a gray leather bench outside the meeting room, your eyes locked onto the black screen of your phone as if you’re waiting for it to light up, lost in a world of your own. Jack's breath catches in his throat as he takes in the sight of you, and his eyes well up with tears. Time seems to stand still as he stares at you, overwhelmed by the flood of memories and emotions that surge within him. Despite the passage of years, you still possess the power to make his heart flutter, your presence stirring a mixture of awe and love. She's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, he thinks.

However, Jack's expression falters as he realizes the missed opportunities, the unspoken words, the love not fully cherished. Regret taints his thoughts as he reflects on the path that brought the both of you to this moment. He wants to make amends for the pain he caused you, but Jack knows that this meeting has a different purpose; he doesn't know why the exact reason, but after everything he put you through, there must be a reason you need him. He's not going to let you down, not again.

Summoning his courage, Jack calls out your name. Your head immediately turns towards the voice, one that hasn't graced your ears in years, and for a quick moment, he sees a flicker of reluctance in your eyes. Seeing Jack again, admittingly, stirs up an overwhelming desire to hide from him. All you can see are the haunting memories. A flood of painful flashbacks that would bring you to tears in privacy. The temptation to approach him surges within you, but it's not for a hug or a kiss, no. Instead, you imagine the crimson mark your hand could leave on his cheek. But you take a deep breath, reminding yourself of the reason you reached out to him after all these years.

"I didn't think you were going to show." You finally say, your voice tinged with relief and guarded vulnerability. Rising from the bench, you stand before him, your hands tucked inside the comforting embrace of your black hoodie's pouch.

Jack's heart aches at the sight of you, knowing that the pain he inflicted has left an unforgettable mark on you. Though he craves to erase the memories of hurt, he understands that redemption lies in actions, not words alone. Taking a deep breath, he suppresses his own desire to close the distance, touch you, and maybe taste your lips again. He mentally shakes his head, focusing instead on the reason for your reunion.

"Hi, Sug-" He stumbles for a moment, realizing he no longer has the right to call you by the affectionate nickname. "I mean, hello. I'm here."

"I'm glad you came."

Jack nods, his throat tight with emotions he struggles to put into words. "I knew I had to be here," he says, "I couldn't let this opportunity slip away."

"There are things we need to address, wounds that need healing. I want to make things right, to find a way to move forward together."

You want to interrupt, to rip the bandaid off, but Raul's advice rings in your ears, urging you to let the meeting room be the place to lay everything on the table. So you hold back and let Jack do the talking.

Jack takes a step closer, the distance between you shrinking. His heart pounds in his chest as he gets closer. "I know I've caused you so much pain," he continues, his voice tinged with regret. "I'm here today because... because I want to make things right. I wanna understand, I wanna listen, and try to heal the wounds I've caused. I wanna be there for you, to support you, to love you, and do whatever it takes to earn your forgiveness. And if you'll let me, I wanna be a part of-"

Just as Jack was about to request something that has always been on his mind, a door opening from behind you interrupts him. Raul with one foot inside the meeting room and the other in the corridor, calls out for both your names.

"We're ready for you," Raul announces a sense of urgency in his voice. He holds the door open, his gaze shifting between the two of you.

You exchange a quick glance with Jack, seeking reassurance, a silent confirmation that he'll follow through and both of you follow Raul into the conference room. The door shuts softly behind you, filling the room with the only sound. Your gaze sweeps the room, and you take in the white conference room with its black and white marble table in the middle and the soft glow of natural light.

Feeling a wave of emotions crashing over you, you instinctively shut your eyes for a few seconds to compose yourself. This is a lot harder than I expected... the thought lingers in your mind. Dr. Navarro's words echo in your memory, urging you to relax through the simple act of breathing. Breathe in, breathe out, you repeat silently, allowing the rhythmic inhalation and exhalation to steady your racing heart.

Choosing your chair carefully, you opt to sit with your back facing the window. It provides a sense of security and shields you from external distractions allowing you to solely focus on Jack. Your hand reaches out and lands upon one of the gray roll-on chairs, its smooth leather headrest cool against your fingertips.

On the opposite side of the table, Jack is reluctantly guided by Raul to his designated seat. Oh, I can sit wherever I damn well please, he scoffs silently, but I suppose I can play by the rules for now. Just think about all the appointments with Dr. Reynolds and what-if scenarios. Don't mess this up. He takes a seat, begrudgingly accepting the arrangement, while his back deliberately faces the door. The positioning serves as a physical reminder of the boundaries and emotional distance that have grown between the two of you throughout the years.

Raul takes a seat at the head of the table. Clearing his throat, he breaks the silence. "Thank you both for coming today. As you may already know, the purpose of this meeting is of utmost importance. Mr. Daniels, the reason my client-"

Jack interrupts, his voice filled with a mix of urgency and vulnerability. "Stop. I don't want this to be an official meeting. I just... I want," he glances at you, his eyes searching for understanding, "I just want you to do the talking, please." He knows he has no right to make demands, but he wants to talk with you directly, to bridge the gap between you, if even it's just for a moment.

Raul looks at you briefly, to see how you're doing. "My role is simply to facilitate the conversation," Raul responds, his voice assuring and tinged with a hint of anger. Maldito inútil malparido (Fuking useless bastard). This asshole hurt her so much. How dare he make demands? Raul is well aware of the pain Jack caused you. He was one of the first people you confided in about the divorce, and he naturally helped you with the process. Raul cashed in many favors to expedite the process which would usually take time. In fact, he stayed up all night to ensure that he could serve Jack the papers the morning after you left him.

Truth be told, Raul initially liked Jack when you first introduced him to your friends. However, as time went on and you grew more serious, Jack's repeated slips of the tongue and thoughtless actions made Raul's opinion of him sour. The final straw for Raul was when Jack couldn't even give you the wedding you deserved. Raul knew how much you loved Jack, so even though he could see through your forced smile when discussing the wedding details, he congratulated you both and sent a gift.

You meet Raul's gaze, conveying your appreciation for his support. "Raul, está bien. (Raul, it's okay.)" You say softly, recognizing his concern and knowing that you need to have this conversation directly with Jack.

With a nod, Raul settles back in his chair, allowing the focus to shift solely to the two of you. The room is filled with a charged silence. As you prepare to speak, you take a moment to gather your thoughts and decide how you want to phrase everything.

"My baby... my baby has Fanconi Anemia and needs a blood donor." You explain, your voice trembling with desperation. "No one in the family has been a close match. Even among friends, no one is a match. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that almost everyone I know has been tested, but a donor hasn't been found."

You pause, the weight of the situation making your heart hurt. "Just a month ago, we were hopeful. A match was finally found through the National Marrow Donor Program. We finally felt like we could breathe, but then she was involved in a severe car accident. She was T-boned by a drunk driver, and her car fell into a ditch, causing a traumatic brain injury. Thank God she's going to be okay, but unfortunately, her condition disqualifies her from being a donor."

Tears well up in your eyes, threatening to spill over. "Now, we're back to square one, searching for a compatible donor, but it's going to take a long time again. Jack, I know you didn't love me or care about me, and I understand that you didn't want me to have the baby. But please, I'm begging you to get tested to see if you're a match. If you are, please consider donating."

A rush of emotions floods through you, a mixture of fear, vulnerability, and a glimmer of fragile hope. You gaze into Jack's eyes, desperately searching for a spark of compassion, a willingness to help. "I understand you still resent me for everything. If you do this, I promise it will be the last time I'll contact you. I won't ask for anything more. Please, Jack."

Jack takes a moment to absorb your words, his eyes flickering with a complex mix of emotions. "What's their name?" He asks, his voice filled with curiosity and a hint of longing.

"His name is Ángel." You reply softly, feeling a bittersweet ache in your heart.

Jack's eyes widen, and a myriad of emotions passes over his face. "Ángel." He repeats and although he can't quite replicate your pronunciation thanks to his accent, it's still beautiful to him. "I have a son." He whispers, his voice barely audible.

A flood of thoughts and emotions washes over Jack, overwhelming him. He shuts his eyes momentarily, attempting to process everything. This newfound knowledge stirs something deep within him, a sense of responsibility and a longing to be a father. I lost a son before he was born, I missed out on Ángel’s life when I said I didn’t want him, but I won’t lose him again.

With determination in his voice, Jack looks at you. "I'll donate. I’ll do whatever it takes to help Ángel.”

He’s going to do it, you let out a sigh of relief. The alleviation that surges through you, washes away some of the anxieties that had been weighing you down. You're grateful that Jack is willing to take this step, to offer his help for the sake of your son. However, before you can express your gratitude, Jack's questions pour out in a rush.

“But... what is Fanconi Anemia? How bad is it? Is the procedure going to hurt him? Does he need surgery? What if I’m not a matc-" his voice trails off, uncertainty and concern etched on his face.

Realizing his anxieties, you reach out and gently interrupt him, calling his attention. "Jack," you say softly, trying to soothe his worries. "Breathe."

"I'm sorry. I forgot to explain Ángel's condition. His doctor was supposed to join us, but I can explain for now."

You take a deep breath, grateful that Jack is willing to help. "Fanconi Anemia is a rare condition where the bone marrow doesn't produce enough blood cells." You explain, your voice filled with sadness. "Ángel was diagnosed fairly recently because he didn’t have any physical abnormalities. But then, he started experiencing frequent nosebleeds, which was weird to us. We took him to his Pediatrician, who ordered blood tests. The results showed abnormally low blood counts, and that's when we knew something was wrong."

A twinge of admiration and pride fills your words as you continue. "He underwent a bone marrow needle biopsy to confirm the diagnosis. It wasn't an easy procedure, even though they numbed the area. I could see the discomfort in his eyes, but he never complained. In fact, he saw that my eyes were red and swollen, and he reassured me that he didn't even feel it. I knew it was a lie, but he just wanted to protect me."

Your voice trembles with a blend of love and admiration as you speak of your son's strength. The memories of his bravery since before his official diagnosis fills your heart with both pride and a deep ache. You pause for a moment, to regain your composure.

You are about to explain more about his condition and the procedure when the door behind Jack opens. Jack's gaze is solely focused on you since he assumes his son's doctor is the one coming in. Suddenly, you have a smile on your face when you look over Jack's shoulder, and he's confused until he hears the voice of the man that has given him nightmares ever since he got served with divorce papers.

“Cariño, Danny, and Heidi are staying with Ángel now,” Javier says as he makes his way to you, his presence a comfort for you and unease for Jack. "Sorry I'm late, I wanted to stay to see if he could keep his food down." He hovers over you and kisses the top of your head.

He pulls out a chair next to you, and that's when Jack sees it – a wedding band on Javier's left ring finger.

Fuck.

Unconsciously, you pull your hand from underneath the table and place your left hand on Javier's for comfort.

You had your hand covered the entire time, and that's when Jack notices it- your rings.

Fuck.

You’re married to him? Jack seethes in his head.

“Jack.” Javier nods but Jack can’t respond. How can he respond when another man is married to the love of his life?

In a moment of anger and hurt, Jack blurted out, "Did you cheat on me with him? Is that why you wanted a divorce?" Jack asks, the pain and jealousy bubbling to the surface.

Just like that, some of the gratitude for Jack shatters.

The response from you was immediate, “Jesus, no, you asshole,” you spit out, offended. “How dare you ask that?”

“You didn’t love me. That’s why I divorced you." You retort, feeling the anger resurface.

At that moment everything he discussed with Dr. Reynolds, all of the progress was gone. He did just find out so much within the past few minutes, and his usual coping techniques seemed to fail him in this moment of overwhelming emotions.

“Wait, if you cheated on me with him, that means he could have been the one to knock you up. How do I know Ángel is my son?” Of course, you remarrying was killing him, but if that on top of having his son snatched when he just got him back, it would end him.

“I never cheated on you, Jack.” You spit out, offended. “You were the one that was involved in another relationship, even if it was emotional. Not me. Don’t make me the villain.”

"You’re Ángel’s biological father, Jack." You emphasized, hoping to dispel any doubts he had. But he seemed stuck in his head.

Biological, the word echoed in his ears. It was a harsh reminder that he was just the man who contributed to Ángel's DNA. He hasn't been his dad, and if he keeps this up, he will never know his son like he wants to.

"You want a paternity test? Done," you offered, wanting to rid his doubts. "But if you don’t want to take my word for it, Fanconi Anemia is an inherited disease. Ángel has the FANCR gene, which is autosomal dominant. I got screened for it, and I’m not a carrier. Autosomal dominant means that a gene from one parent can cause the genetic condition. If I didn’t pass the gene, that means you’re the carrier. That’s how Ángel got the disease."

The reality hit him like a ton of bricks. I did this to my son. He’s sick because of me.

The room falls silent, the weight of the revelation hanging in the air. The pain and guilt wash over him, and Jack is overwhelmed by his emotions.

"Querida, calm down. This isn’t good for you. Te va ser daño. (It’s going to harm you.) This isn’t good for the baby," Javier tries to soothe you, his voice gentle and caring. Javier's dark eyes bore into Jack with rage. Jack can feel the anger emanating from your husband. Javi leans forward, his body language asserting his presence. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck visibly tense, and his hands grip the edge of the table as he struggles to keep his emotions in check.

The baby? Jack thinks.

The hospital is always cold, which is why you always have a sweater with you, but right now, you feel like you're burning up. You lean back from the table and unzip your hoodie, instantly feeling cooler with your sweater out of the way.

Jack's eyes are drawn to your swollen and round stomach, and he's speechless.

Extended note: Just as I thought, Jack is more popular than Dave, so in the meantime, I'll be working on the graphics for this series instead of Eres Mía. Dave is one of my top 3 favorite Pedro characters, and I think he's highly underrated, but I get the love for the cowboy!

I'm slowly adding titles of fics that I plan on sharing, so if you see something without a link on my masterlist, I'll get to it (eventually). After this series is completed, I think I'll post another Whiskey one-shot (he's been to therapy in this one :), but I'm not too sure yet.

If you've read this far, thank you, and have a great day 🤎

Please feel free to comment and reblog! I truly do love reading them!

Tag list: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy

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sorryseraphim · 2 months

Text

SMUT IN COMING.

Nothing can calm his mind from the thoughts of her, not even as he scribbled plans, a goblet in one hand, half full of wine, scribbling away figures and narratives. Suddenly, the door opened loudly, the familiar sound of Helene’s footsteps filling the room as Enver looked up, watching her walk towards him. After a few long strides, she was in front of him, standing tall and proud.

“I just came to drop some letters down. I have received word from our people who closely monitor the activity in Moonrise.”

His eyes scanned the letters, but they shifted back to her once again. They remained there for a few moments longer than they should have. It was hard to resist the urge to run over to her and sweep her up in passionate engagement just as they did many weeks ago, but instead, he chose to speak plainly.

“Is that all?”

“Should there be something more?” Helene asked, her lips pursed as she met his gaze.

It felt like an insult. His body ached to have her close, to feel her skin under his touch once again. And yet, he once again chose to be rational, sighing as he spoke. “No, I suppose not.”

At that remark, Helene smiled. Turning her heel as she spoke once again. “The clerics did a wonderful job in your arm, by the way.”

The remainder of their last encounter made his heart pound, the burning desire in his gut only growing stronger, prompting him to get up from his chair and move quickly, wrapping a hand on her wrist, turning her around towards him, their faces only inches apart.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until you admit that you like the way I touch you.”

Helene hissed, baring her teeth at him as she felt him push her toward a nearby wall, locking her between his arms, his hands tightly wrapped against her wrists. Her eyes lingered on his lips, for she, too, was reminded of the night she let all of her walls down, allowing him to take her. “Why would I do that? Do you need me to drive my dagger again to your arms?”

His grip did not falter, wanting to be in control. To make her tremble at his words, but it proved futile with how she resisted. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to stab me again. I might have to retaliate this time.”

“Do it.”

Helene could feel his breath, hot against her cheek, as Enver leaned forward, not taking his eyes off her. She tried kicking his knee, but he was anticipating it already, dodging it easily, titling his head at her attempt.

“If you really don’t want me, your body would not be trembling like this. Your breath would not be caught in your throat. Your head would not be inclined as if inviting me to kiss you.”

“I don’t want you...” she replied breathlessly, tempted to break and let the overwhelming feeling of desire succumb to her entirety.

“Stop lying about how you're feeling. You want me as much as I want you.”

As this remark, he let his lips sink onto her neck, his chin resting on her shoulder as he felt the warmth of her skin against his tongue. Helene closed her eyes, trembling as she fought the urge to respond, her heart pounding in her throat as his mouth began moving, slowly kissing along her jawline. She felt his fingers tangle her hair, pulling her closer.

“Let go of me… Enver, I swear to the Gods…”

“Swear to whatever you want to swear to. Just let me do this without killing me too quickly.”

He looked up at her, breathing heavily. His eyes looked for any signs of affection, even an answer to his desires from Helene. For a moment, they stared at each other eagerly, her eyes wide at what he did. She tried to speak; her mouth partly opened as word failed her. When she can’t find the right phrases, she pushes him away, angry at herself and her weakness.

Once again, her steps echo the room, leaving Enver sighing, defeated once again.

He spent the entire day thinking of their conversation. The thoughts of her silence, weeks after they had engaged in a passionate night for the first time, ruined his thoughts of planning. Today, her cold demeanor infuriated him to the point that as he wrote aggressively, ink sipped deeper on parchment, almost tearing the paper with his quill.

Now back in his chambers, he started to ease himself, leaning back on his chair as he put down his pen, rubbing his temples as the thoughts inside his head fought one another, making his head spin. Suddenly, he heard a loud thud from his balcony. Quickly turning around, he found Helene standing by the door. Even in the dimness of the room, he could still see the dagger on her side, clearly dripping with liquid he knew well as blood.

“Why? Why must you send your people after me?” Helene roared, moving a step closer to him, the bloodied blade on her hand shaking as her hand fidgeted.

“Isn’t it evident? I enjoy our little contests. I find fighting for my life to be a thrilling venture, especially when it’s you who is trying to kill me.”

Helene watched as he stepped closer to her, mirroring his actions as she took another for herself. Breathing heavily, she tilted her head and started to raise her dagger up, spitting her next words. “Do you wish to spend another night bleeding out? Is that what you want?”

“If this is what it takes to be near you, then yes.” He replied in a heartbeat, his gaze not leaving her as he took another step forward. “A hundred times over.”

His chest tightened a little when she started approaching him. Her steps were deliberate and purposeful that his breath caught in his throat as he watched her move closer and closer to him until, eventually, they were almost standing face to face. Just as he anticipated the blade, once again sinking in his arms, she did the unexpected.

Throwing her dagger to the side, she pulled his face towards her, crashing her lips aggressively at his. She could feel his body limp as the warmth of her body pressed against him. He was surely caught off guard, but the softness of her lips, her eagerness, set him on fire, returning the same force of passion as his hands grasped tightly around her neck, the other one trailing from the small of her back, sliding down her rear.

Using his strong arms, his hands travel under her thighs, lifting her gently. He could feel her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to bed, their lips not leaving one another, drowning in each other’s heat. She herself fell onto the mattress as soon as he let go of her, staring at him with desire as he took off his shirt, revealing his torso.

Helene kicked her boots off and discarded her gloves, matching his impatience to free themselves from the confines of their clothing. Seeing as he was now free of his trousers, his cock erect and throbbing, she held her breath for a moment as he moved towards her, tugging her pants, baring her body in front of him. She watched as he gaped at her, mouth partly opened, licking his lips afterward.

Slowly dipping his mouth towards her, their lips met once again, and it felt like both of them would explode. Her passion met with his own, their breaths mingling with one another. Small gasps escaped her lips as his hands roamed around her body, palming her breasts, squeezing them to make her moan. Breaking from their kiss, Enver let his tongue travel down her neck, trailing lower to her bosom as one hand continued to cup one of her breasts in his hands.

When he bit her hardened nipple softly, Helene let out a loud moan, making Enver grin. Briefly lifting his head, he looked at Helene’s reaction as he continued to fondle her breast in one hand, taking in her groans and the way her voice hitched at the sensation he was giving her.

Trailing down further her breasts, he planted kisses down her abdomen until he reached where her womb was, dangerously close to her cunt.

In a daze, she looked down at him, confused as to where his head rested. Helene lifted her body a little as she asked him. “What… what are you doing?”

“What you must have been letting me do all this time, worshipping you.”

She gasped loudly as she felt his mouth go down her tenderness, her hands immediately finding his hair as she clutched it hard. She could feel his tongue traveling up and down the length of her cunt, ultimately finding her clit and sucking it. Her chest started to heave as she tried to catch her breath. The pleasure that his mouth was giving her drove her to heights unknown, moaning loudly as the sensation drowned her.

When he lifted his head between her legs, a grin spread wide across his face. The thought of having her in his bed again made him tremble. Spreading her legs wide, he lined his cock between her folds, groaning at the sensation of her wetness against the tip of his length. Slowly, he sank himself inside her, both of them moaning as their bodies became one, Enver propping an arm beside her as his hips moved, digging inside her cunt.

Helene let out a soft groan, mouth partly open as she felt him drive his manhood deeper after each thrust. She was far gone, her body responding perfectly as his pace increased. She held tight onto his arms, her legs intertwined with his as she chased the feeling of his cock hitting her in a particular spot that made her dizzy and wanting for more.

He felt the shiver that ran through her body as she moaned again, smiling triumphantly. His mouth found her lips once again and pushed his tongue in. Her breath was coming in short, quick pants and made his body shiver with anticipation.

“You don’t know how much you occupy my mind,” Enver said as he lifted her leg, his grip tightening around her thighs as he chased the feeling of her walls around his cock. He relished the pleasure her body was giving him; the thought of her giving in for tonight filled his head until he could not think of anything else but her anymore.

“Enver…” She called out softly, her head lulling to the side, quickly caught by him in one hand, holding her by the jaw as he steadied her head to look at him. Helene was long gone, lust and desire taking over her entire body as he continued to fuck her with rigor. Her body shook at the intensity of his thrust, her climax building up as he moaned her name in return.

“I want more of you. More of this. Gods, Helene, I can’t get enough of you."

“Then take more of me,” Helene replied in a whisper as she sat up, pushing Enver down to the bed and positioning herself on top of his cock. He was taken by surprise, but as soon as he felt her cunt wrapped around his cock again, straddling him as she propped her arms onto his chest, he couldn’t help but sigh in satisfaction.

She was perfection in the flesh. Her body glistening with sweat is a vision he would want to embed inside his head for a long time, in case this night won’t happen again. The way she threw her head back as Helene rode him, her body bouncing up and down his length, made his heart pound. Shifting a little from where he lay, he planted his feet and met her hips with his thrust, making Helene moan loudly at the sensation.

“Fuck, I’m close. Enver, I’m close…”

“Be a mess for me, Helene. Let go.” He growled at her, feeling his own release nearing. He sat up to meet her lips, devouring them as his hand grabbed her ass, the other guiding her body up and down his cock viciously, both of them panting hard, desperate for their release. Helene leaned her head forward to his, their foreheads touching, sweat drenching their entire body. He once again caught her mouth, tugging on her lips as he felt her walls clenched, about to release.

“Enver…I’m about to…”

“Let go, let me know how I fucked you so good.”

She let out a short cry, gasping for air as she spilled around his cock, making Enver groan in delight. He buried his mouth down her neck as he felt his climax neared, still thrusting up her cunt, slippery from her cum. When he felt himself closing in, Enver lifted her body from him and laid her down, still panting and out of breath.

Jerking himself from the side, he let his seed spill over the sheets, grunting from the sensation of cum leaving his cock, pumping every bit of it out of his length. Once he was finished, he crawled back on top of her, kissing her flushed cheeks and caressing her side as she tried to recover from being out of breath.

“You are divine, Helene. Perfect, perfect girl.” He murmured between the kisses, basking from her afterglow as he felt his breath return to normal. He rolled next to her in bed, pulling her hand towards his chest, letting it rest there. He was more than satisfied, a smile creeping up as he felt her body lay next to him, but it was immediately taken when she finally spoke.

“I need to leave.”

“Why? Why not stay the night with me?” He asked her, his voice with a hint of pleading. He didn’t know why he was desperate, but the thought of her leaving so soon stung deep in his chest.

“Because we simply can’t. I can’t stay here.” Helene replied with genuine sincerity. She was weirded out by the lingering feeling inside her chest; the way she succumbs and let herself feel the passion of the moment felt freeing. It was as if all her life and being deprived of the pleasures of the flesh caught up with her and finally be consumed by desire and lust for the first time.

She sat up from the bed, her hand still clutched by him above his chest. She looked at him for a while, admiring his body, the contours of his chest, the rugged features that somehow made her gut stirred.

“Tell me. Would you like to see me more often?” Enver asked her, sitting beside her as he brushed her hair away from her face, breathing her in as he waited for her reply.

“You always see me in the council meetings.”

He gave her a knowing smirk, resting his chin above her shoulder. He didn’t want to only see her during duties; he wanted to see her when he had her alone in his chambers, with no one to interrupt or interfere.

Helene raised an eyebrow and sighed. This is the price of letting him inside her life, baring herself to him. Somehow, it doesn’t feel entirely wrong, and yet she knows these types of distractions would hinder her plans.

Enver noticed how she fell deep in thought. Leaning his face towards her further, he asked her softly as his hand dipped down her abdomen, fondling her skin, teasing with his fingers. “Do you want this to be a one-time thing?”

She made a sharp inhale as she felt his fingers dug between her folds, his breath hot on her neck as he waited for her reply.

Enver smirked as he watched her reaction, his fingers working effortlessly against her cunt. “I take that as a no. The way you sighed, you’re enjoying this as much as I do.”

She felt his fingers move away from her folds, a tugging sensation of disappointment weirdly sipping in. She sighed and looked at him. “I will see you when I want to see you,” Helene emphasized.

Enver titled his head, puzzled at her declaration. He let out a hum before asking again. “How long do you think you’ll decide then?”

“You’ll just see me here again when I want to.”

“You’re terrible.” He said, clearly enjoying this little game they have now initiated. She was a tease, so stubborn but at the same time irresistible and seductive.

“I’ll see you again when I want to see you again.” She said as she stood up, stretching. One by one, she picked up her clothes and started dressing herself.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He sighed at first, disappointed that she wouldn’t give him a more concrete answer. But then he smiled widely as she gave her final words; she was a challenge, no doubt.

“Don’t send anyone to find me or my temple again. Or I’ll send their head along next time.”

No blood was spilled that night. Only passion and desire flooded both of them as Helene gave in and let him take her body, her carnal needs met by someone she considered her sworn enemy. Although she knows it is wrong, but she has never felt so alive and pleasured.

She would come back. If not to kill him, to meet him in his chamber and engage once again in a night of passion.

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imthefemalemonster · 1 year

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Hiii

Can u Yandere!Daemon Targaryen x reader

He kind of force her to marry him after he arrive in pentos (he didn’t marry leana) time pass and she just love him and they have lots os kids. They go to leana funeral but daemon don’t left her side, when people tried to talk to him alone he says that his wife stays. The one second that she left his side to attend one of their kids Rhaenyra came to his side and asks if he love reader and he barely look at her before saying that she’s his moon end stars (Khal Drogo vibes) ❤️❤️❤️

Hello beautiful! Of course I can, I loved the ideas and I tried to develop a bit more the start of the relationship, I hope you like it. ♡

***

⸻We'll Meet Again

Daemon Targaryen x Female!Reader (Fluff/Mature themes)

⸻ Summary: Love grows mysterious way; you soon find out when Prince Daemon Targaryen seeks your hand and even the Gods themselves wouldn't dare refuse him.

Tags: Not Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence, Dubcon, (at the beginning), Obsessed/Overprotective Daemon, Forced Marriage, Innocence Kink, Age Difference, (age not specified but reader is ~20), Fluff, Kisses, Hugs, Mention of Sex, No Use of Y/N, No beta feminism left my body when I wrote this

⸻Read on Ao3

Notes: Requested by anon, I hope you like it. ♡

There’s mention of some sex/virginity loss/first time but nothing too bad, not really smutty more fluffly with Daemon being obsessed ((manipulative)) and overprotective with you. ~

Warning for dubcon at the beginning.

Tumblr for ideas/requests: @imthefemalemonster

Smut & fluff prompts: here & here

⸻ Words: 4934

The afternoon sun hit your skin as you walked down the streets. Busy and noisy, you wandered with ease in the crowd, in the city you knew all too well. You had to meet friends at the port, the one Pentos was most known for. You had proposed to meet in the beautiful gardens close to your home, but the air of the sea suited your friends more. As you arrived near, you looked around, only finding goods, people and boats. The familiarity of the place reassured you, the smell of the water like a mother’s embrace. But as you walked down the gardens, into the city and to the port, for some time now, you had felt eyes on you, two orbits you saw too much to be a mere coincidence.

Daughter of a public figure of the city, your father made rich from the trades of spice, you were accustomed to interested men gravitating around you. But youthful as you were, or rather innocent and unbothered. You had never really thought about the next big steps in your life, you preferred living in the instant. What pleased you were long walks, books that told a hundred stories, and the little voices in the walls who recounted the tales of love and betrayal of the people of the city, of the lands, and past the sea. You listened with much care, learning about the things you would maybe never see. Seated next to your friends facing the sea, you heard songs and stories, your noses in books as you all laughed and speculated on how the other people outside the city must live. You had a few friends over there, girls you met times ago, their letters would crack under your curious fingers, drowning into the words of another world. As you listened to the story of your friend and flying lizards, which you longed to see one day, you noticed the presence back not far away from you. You couldn’t quite catch the sight for long, everytime your eyes met, the figure would disappear soon after. You had never paid much attention to it, you were used to being looked at. But something deep inside you knew that this was different. Turning your head back to your friends, you soon forgot the blonde locks and lilac stare, until the next time you meet.

It happened in the garden the second time you really paid attention to it, you won a tender smile. The third time a voice, a low, deep one who sounded both like a threat and honey, like a blade would tenderly brush your skin, each second menacing to pierce your body and see the blood flow out of it. The fourth time, you couldn’t remember, was it at the port again? Near your home? As the day passed, it felt like everyday. Everyday a shadow behind you, eyes on your figure. Hands that grazed your back, fingers brushing your neck, smiles exchanged. Curiosity got the better of you when you approached, naive as you were. The gardens were full of people, talking, laughing. Digits touched slightly as the words flowed in your ears, lips sweet against your skin. He had a name and a title you would not forget. Once again the orbs left you alone, your hands gripping the silk of your dress, lips parted as you wanted to call him back. Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Daemon had rarely held this much restraint. What he desired, he always got, whatever it cost. So when it came to you, he observed, he stalked, he learnt. You were much younger, walking around the city with an innocence to match his insolence. Your laugh was honey to his ears, your face as enchanting as the sun, your voice a bliss he could beg to hear singing, as you did once in your home’s garden as he was resting near. The first time he noticed you, you never left his mind. It was similar to poison, but one he would drink day after days after day even if it consummated him to the bones. Without your knowledge, he followed you in the city, he watched your fingers turn the pages of a book, the details of your joints engraved in his mind as they moved gracefully. He observed your lips moving as you talked, laughed, called to your friends or spoke words he drowned into. Daemon desired you all over his body, and desired him all over yours. At first it was soft, discreet caresses. When he got tired of just following you around, he craved to touch. He lost his hands behind your exposed back, digits tracing your spine. He observed you shiver at the touch, trying to meet the eyes of the culprit of these unwanted caresses. Daemon would smile at your visible distress mixed with curiosity, his arousal growing stronger with each touch. He grazed your neck, arms, hands. He wanted to possess you whole.

When he noticed people, especially men talking to you, he would fixate on them until they couldn’t hold his lilac stare anymore and they would leave. Rejoicing in the newfound power he had, as much as his reputation gave him, he observed you walking alone, shadowing you like he was your dark reflection caused by the sun. After you really interacted for the first time, to his delight, exchanging names and smiles, he was even more present at your sides. He never thought you really appreciated it, he never cared, in time you would, he would make you love it. So you walked together, talked all afternoons long, spend evenings together. He would randomly show up at your door, surprised but touched by the attention, you obliged him. When he walked all the way to you, he would grab your wrists, his figure broad and impressive, you felt small, a kitten held in gigantic arms. You couldn’t quite tell if you appreciated it, all the attention, all the time, but your life had become his. Everytime he met you eyes, Daemon used all his strength, everything he didn’t know the Gods could give him not to press you onto him and devour you whole like he dreamed for weeks now.

That night, Daemon had invited you to a sort of feast organized nearby. You weren’t sure what was celebrated, but you accepted as you loved to hang out. Maybe you could find your friends there, some you hadn’t seen for some time now since you spent most of your time with Daemon now. You felt some relief at the idea, the city was noisy with music and voices, busy with lights and fire at every corner, you rejoiced at the atmosphere. When you stepped out of your house, he was already here. The Rogue Prince, standing fiercely, eyes stripping you from your thin dress as he looked at you from toes to head.

“You smell really nice.”, he whispered as he stalked toward you, hands resting on your waist as his head leaned into your neck.

The contacts had become so much more intimate the past few days. You only thought it was gentle and attentionate. Sometimes you couldn’t quite decipher the smirk on his lips as he looked at you. To you it was kindness, to him it was hunger. He reached for your hands, thumbs caressing the skin, his digits trapping your own as he guided you toward the exit, down the streets, into a grand and beautiful house decorated with magnificent mosaics. There he placed his arm around your waist, locking you against him. Inside, you walked like a couple you were not, to you, not to him.

Daemon had hoped you would stick with him, now that you had learned the lesson. Maybe he had not worked hard enough, or maybe you were really this naive. When you immediately left his arms, the heat of your body leaving with you, he groaned in discontentment. Stalking behind you as you wandered and talked to people you knew, he observed each of the faces, each he would remember so they never talked to you again. His digits found your neck, your arms, your back, but everytime you escaped his control. You went around laughing, sometimes turning back to smile at him and invite him near. He drowned in these moments you would look at him, and him only. That all of you were focused on him. He could grab you, lift you above the crowd and claim you as his. After hours of talking and laughing, music buzzing in your ears, your feet and body were exhausted. You were still in the middle of everyone, you sighed ready to leave as you felt a harsh grip on your waist. You recognized the touch immediately, Daemon’s chest pressing in your back, his lips brushing the overheated skin of your neck.

“Give me your attention.”

The words left his mouth so fast, cold as ice, it felt more like an order than an invitation.

“I’m sorry?”, you mumbled, eyes filled with confusion.

“I haven’t received any.”

You choked on the words. His voice wasn’t low and soft like it used to. It was guttural and scary, like it was coming from a part deep inside him you never wanted to meet with. You heard the stories, you would rather not finish impaled on a sword or fed to a dragon.

“All night.”, he continued, spinning you around with no care for your tired body, his eyes staring into yours, intimidating.

“All-”, you paused, uncertain of his intentions, “I’ve been with you all night.”

He scoffed at the words, a hand on your neck, squeezing it slightly. Smirk on his lips, more vile than kind. He pressed his broad body onto yours, you felt crushed, by him, and by all the people around you.

“You have not paid attention to me all night”, he repeated, the sentence like a blade ripping your throat open, “Apart from glancing at me and laughing with other… men.”

The last word was accentuated like an insult. You swallowed, his thumb pressing on your neck as he felt it. You felt both angry and sorry. Maybe you could indulge in more time with him, but you already did everyday. You sighed. One last time then.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes sparkled at the words, lips moving into a soft smile. You had found the right words, you thought. He nodded, a hand cupping your cheek. A gentle and reassuring move, to you. To him, he could mold you to every of his desires because you were so easy to frighten.

“It’s all fine.”

You smiled as he lowered his hand to your wrist, brushing it gently, digits closing around it as his body started to move back, taking you with him

“You can give me this attention now, I promise to use it well”, he murmured against your face, flushed at the hot air hitting your skin. “How about we finish the night elsewhere?”

Unsure what the words meant, you simply nodded, letting him guide you outside. You walked past people and houses, down the street to the port, where you loved to rest during the day. It was dark, deep in the night as you sat facing the sea. You felt reassured, it was just another gentle evening at his side, maybe he had gotten overwhelmed by the people, and you wanted to reassure him that your friendship was still intact. Legs slightly brushing one another, he fixed at you. His face had changed, you couldn’t quite decipher it. He was smiling, but it didn’t feel gentle. You wanted to ask a thousand questions.

Daemon was lost in his thoughts. He was so close to both his goal and climax. Your naive, flushed face turned toward him, he could have lost it in seconds. He dreamed of your scent and naked body, to have you scream his name on the very floor. But he doubted you had the same idea in mind even if he wished you did. Forcing the act was considered but he didn’t go with it, he would rather avoid a diplomatic incident. He was surprised by his own restraint. He would win this war with words and touches, like he did for weeks now. You would yield.

“I’ve never felt stronger than when you’re with me.”

Your eyes widened at the words, knowing him, it meant much. Blushing you lowered your head to your hands, shyly intertwining your fingers as they danced on your dress.

“How strong?”, you laughed. He focused on your hands, his eyes lost on the motions as he dreamed of having them all over his scared body.

“Give me your hand and I’ll show you.”

You obeyed, raising a hand toward him, unsure what he would do with it. He softly grabbed it with his own, he paused for a second, observing every detail on your beautiful skin, before softly kissing the top of it. You shivered at the touch, cheeks red and eyes escaping the intimate sight.

“Daemon-”, you chuckled. You had heard and read a thousand love stories. This is how they started and you smiled at the nice intention. You tried to withdraw your hand, ready to ask him to take you home, your tired body starting to hurt. But when you moved your arm, he only squeezed your hand harder, pulling it to him. You frowned your eyebrows, raising your head to look at him, confused. Everything sane had left him, his eyes were as dark as the night and as savage as the sea.

“You are my love.”

Waves crashed near you. You wished they would have swallowed you whole with the words just spoken. You had understood Daemon’s intentions a while ago, you weren't a stranger to the flattering of men. But you had never shown interest back, you thought. And if you ever did, you wished for it to take the time it needed, the one you needed. Maybe love wasn’t the word yet, you had sincere feelings for the man, gratitude to his kindness and attention.

“I don’t-”

You couldn’t speak. What could be said?

“You don’t love me?”

Eyes closed, your hand still trapped in his, you felt it tense, squeezing your harder. It felt like a warning, not like concern.

“I-”, you searched for the right words again, “That’s not what I mean no. I truly appreciate you…”

“Then what?”, his eyes pierced right through your heart, it bled like rain falling from the saddened skies.

“I’m not- I’m not ready Daemon”, you spoke, voice trembling.

“You don’t need to be”, he rasped, “You never truly are.”

You shook your head at the words, it didn’t make sense.

“I don’t want it.”

His digits dug in your palm, his breaths heavy. You wondered if it was going to be the sword or the dragon that would end you.

“You don’t”, he whispered, he had not moved a bit, like he was turned into a statue, his face similar to stone, “Then what of the touches? The smiles? The laughs? The time spent together?”

“Simple kindness!”. You let go of the words, wondering if you would regret them, “You were nice, and I appreciated it, so I was nice too. That’s it.”

“But that’s not love to you?”, he scoffed, “Oh you truly are that innocent.”

“I never said it wasn’t, I only said I didn’t know yet.”, you whined, “Maybe with more time.”

“I don’t want more time.”, Daemon grumbled, “I know what I want.”

You raised your eyes to meet his stare, as time had passed, you had both moved closer, you got lost in his eyes and him in yours.

"I want you.”

Your heart stopped beating, it felt like void, no noise was to be heard but the whispers of the sea. May she deliver you. Silence loomed for minutes.

“B-but my family”, it was merely an excuse, you didn’t really care. You only wanted to get out of here, out of his manipulative grasp.

“They didn’t deserve you.” His thumb brushed your hand softly, he almost had you. “I’ll treat you well. I’ll love you. I already do.”

Eyes tearing up you closed your eyes, focusing on your heart racing again. Your digits intertwined like real lovers.

“Love…”, he whispered. The words had you tensing. It felt good, yet menacing. Did you even have a choice? Accept and it was done, but refuse? It would probably be worse. You heard the stories, you knew the stories. You felt his presence lean closer to you, his nose brushing yours.

“F-fine.” You gave up. Maybe you only needed time. He drank your words like the best wine, his smile malicious, victorious.

Thoughts and prayers were taken away from you like air in your lungs when his hand grabbed the back of your neck, pushing your lips to his. The distance was closed in a wet contact, much more gentle and loving than you imagined. And to the first kiss followed the first night.

Your father was quick to accept. You never really thought about his opinion on it, but considering his status there was nothing more he could wish than having you bed a Prince. You felt a sort of abandon when they agreed so fast. To be tossed around wasn’t your greatest joy. You still had to process the last night and the gravity of Daemon words. Your father wasn’t necessarily overjoyed, everything was business to him. If the business was good, then he rolled with it. Within the day it was done. Now Daemon didn’t have any sort of restraint concerning you anymore. He stayed at your house and came when he wanted. At first it was a grand annoyance to you, you felt like liberties had been taken away. But as the days passed, the word ‘husband’ slinging on your tongue started to please you, as you were met with ‘wife’, even if you preferred ‘my love’. You couldn’t quite explain it, something felt right.

You sensed something different in Daemon, like his chains had been taken off. He was still terribly overprotective, especially after claiming before all as his wife and to his words, ‘his greatest love’. You experienced everything of a wife, and more to the fact that you were the Rogue Prince’s. Now Daemon was not shy to threaten anyone who would look down on you or wouldn’t treat you well enough to his taste. The men walked toward you eyes on the floor, the women envied you as you told the thousand kind attentions Daemon had toward you everyday. He wanted you both to experience everything of love and more.

The first time was… strange. You remember his own excitement and your confusion. You had… read things. But you still rested there on the bed, inexperienced and exposed to his expert hands. Freezing and tense, your heart beat to a never ending race. When he crawled above you, you braced yourself for the pain you have been told about. But to your great surprise, you were drowned in praises and kisses, exchanging smiles and laughs. You remember the feeling, it was painful, but it was accompanied by your loving husband's willing hands and mouth. For the few seconds of pain you had, he granted you hours of pleasure. And it never ended, each night back at it. You kissed and kissed, whispering words, your bodies enlaced, full of him as he melted into your tender embrace, worshiping your body like the Gods.

The first kick happened at night. You couldn’t sleep well as the month went by and your belly grew larger. When you felt it move your eyes widened. It didn’t hurt, it just felt weird to feel the little babe growing inside you manifesting itself. Smiling, you brushed your skin hoping it felt it too. You leaned closer to Daemon, fingers tapping his chest. Sleeping was much easier for him as he was glued to your body, legs intertwined, arm under your head and breath heavy against your sensitive skin. He emerged when you kept pinching his cheek, trying to get his attention. He turned to you, face half awake, worry in his eyes. Since the start of your pregnancy he had been more than overprotective. You struggled to thought it was possible. But he followed you everywhere, never leaving you alone. He ensured you always had maidens around in case anything happened. You took naps together, bathed together. He spend hours head resting next to your growing belly, peppering kisses all over it. He whispered soft and loving words to the babe. You watched him, brushing his hair while he felt asleep on your chest.

“What’s wrong? Are you ok?”, he spoke, sitting up, his hand brushing your shoulders, thumb circling the skin in a reassuring manner.

You smiled at him, gently guiding his hand toward your baby bump.

“It keeps moving”, you mumbled, falsely vexed as you closed your eyes to melt into his touch. His digits grazing the skin, slowly tracing your rounded belly. He laid back on the bed, face next to yours as you exchanged loving kisses, the baby’s kicks reminding you of its presence. “They are going to love you.”

“They?”

“I want many of them.”, you smiled against his lips. He laughed into your mouth as he planted kisses on it.

Entering into labor was probably the scariest thing that happened to you. You had heard much about giving birth, but all the words Daemon would whisper in your ears couldn’t calm you down when the first contractions happened. It felt like tearing your body apart. You groaned and used words nobody thought could come out of your mouth. You ripped the fabric open in your hand, cried to whoever would hear you. As always, Daemon was at your side. You screamed and begged him to never leave you. He promised it and he never left you. The only time you allowed him to was when he stood up fiercely, your son in his arms as he cradled it, walking back to you. Dropping the little whining babe in your arms, he sat next to you, brushing the sweat off your face. He laid next to you, arms over your body and the little one. I love you. The sun set and the moon rose, the years passed and he was here for your second son, and still here for your little girl.

“I’m not leaving your side.”

Daemon looked after your two little boys like the most precious things he had. They looked very much like him. Fearless, brave, insolent. They ran around the house, escaping your sermons when Daemon laughed them off. They looked up to him with such admiration, he walked them to the port, trained them with the sword, and rode Caraxes with them. He had all eyes on your two little Princes. He praised them, kissed them, hugged them, loved them more than you could ever hope. You watched them grow in his arms. After their birth, waiting for your third child who happened to be a girl you wondered if he would treat her any different. Worries bubbled in your belly as she grew. She was very much like him too, which Daemon adored. He cherished her with everything he had, he taught your boys to love her as much. Barely walking, held between her older brothers, she walked with them to the port, into the gardens, her eyes sparkling like her father, fire into her veins. The girl was very talkative, even if her babbling didn’t make sense to others, Daemon listened to it for hours as she sat on the bed with her small hand moving in the air. He was so attentive, so focused, he answered back and their connection grew stronger each day.

“You were right here all along.”, you whispered.

Daemon raised an eyebrow at the words, unsure of what they meant. You were both laying in the grass, the afternoon sun cradling you both as your children were running around amongst the flowers in the garden. You heard their little yells and laughs as they were chasing butterflies under Daemon’s attentive gaze.

“You do love me.”

“You thought I lied?”, he murmured. There was no anger in his voice, but you could decipher a hint of sadness.

“No”, you reassured, cupping his cheek gently as you smiled at him, “But I like that it showed through the years.”, you paused, “By other means than grabbing my hand and kissing it.”

A shy laugh left him as he kissed your temple. You felt a small presence at your side as you turned, meeting with your lovely daughter, still struggling to hold onto her feet.

“Love you”, she babbled, resting her chin on your shoulders. You pinched her round cheeks and she laughed, head wiggling to escape your teasing touches.

“And me?”, pouted Daemon, falsely looking annoyed. The little girl raised her eyes to meet his, their lilac orbits clashing. There was as much insolence in her as there was in him, he loved and encouraged it each day.

“Love you too.”, she finally spoke, tongue escaping her tiny lips in defiance. A smile tore through Daemon’s face as he scoffed, twiddling the mess of her hair.

Leaving Pentos for the first time in your life was a huge step forward for you, you only wished it wasn’t because a close friend passed away. For years you exchanged letters with Laena, she was sweet and caring, strong and loved. Daemon was obviously saddened at the news, he apprehended going back there with you and the children. Having you around all the people, some he hated, made him only grow more annoyed and anxious as you embarked for the Driftmark. He hid it but after years together you knew how to interpret each of his moods.

“Never, ever, leave my side”, he ordered before you arrived.

“Didn’t we promise that to each other?”

He smirked at your answer, you had learnt your lesson well years ago. None of you was leaving each other's sides. Never.

As you met with more and more people, family and distant friends, you were asked everywhere. Faces unknown to you, gripping at your children as you held them onto you. You smiled and pretended, but Daemon wasn’t. Apart from his close family, which were his brother, sister and niece, and a few selected friends, he was cold to everyone else, especially those who looked down upon you. You were a woman of a distant land, some treated you like an exotic good to be handled and looked at. You greeted people with politeness, speaking a few words of your land. You felt your husband's grip tighten around your waist. Digits intertwined with his, you tried to reassure him, soft smile on your lips.

During the day, Daemon was asked more than once. Everytime the men looked at you with nonchalance as you accompanied him. He walked fiercely at your side, holding you like his most loved and precious prize. But you were much more to him than that. Anyone who dared to ask you to leave you meet with the famous Dark Sister, and probably regret it.

“She stays with me.”, he husked everytime the men wanted you to leave him. Nobody dared to contest the Rogue Prince’s decision.

Gentle smile on your face, you would rather avoid a slaughter. Each time Daemon started to threaten the people that treated you too badly to his taste, you would brush his face, his shoulders, desperately trying to soothe him before he lost it. Still you were reassured he never wanted you to leave his side, this new land was making you so anxious, looking after your kids as they ran away with others, scared to lose everything you had built for years.

Later that day, your little girl couldn’t stop pulling on your dress, whining that she wanted to go and see the pets, as she called the dragons. You had seen them too, beautiful, impressive, you wanted to take her closer to them, but Daemon was lost in an important conversation. Softly you whispered to him, his eyes traveled to you and his daughter as you pointed to them. For a second he hesitated, squeezing your hand harder, but he couldn’t refuse anything his children asked. He nodded, worry in his eyes as he watched you both walk away from him, already missing your presence. His eyes never left you, smirk on his lips as his boys jumped, hands in the air to get the wyrms’ attention. He heard their laughs and yells when the impressive dragons moved around, observing your figure, bent over to hold your little girl.

“They are beautiful, Uncle.”

Daemon recognized the voice, nodding at the words. Rhaenyra moved to his side, her magnificent eyes staring in your direction.

“They are”, he murmured, eyes still fixated on you and your children, a hand on the hilt of his blade, the other empty, missing your loving warmth.

“You love her do you?”, she questioned, asking like she knew the answer.

“I love them”, Daemon corrected, smirking, “Our relationship is the most important thing in my life.”

He paused for a second, eyes closed. He hoped the wind could carry his words across the lands and seas.

“I am but a starless sky without her. Empty. Lost. Each time they shine it reminds me of her laugh, her smile, her warmth. She'll always be the spark to my void.”

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #fics #dubcon #**mine #What did I just wrote

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beautouslysandy · 1 year

Text

Letters

Sodapop Curtis x GN!Reader

Warnings: Sodapop + Fluff= Death By Cuteness

Word Count: 645

(trying a new format, what do y'all think? also a big part of this post is through “letters”)

______________________________________________

-Your a bubbly person no wonder you and Sodapop clicked. You were so happy to have someone that had similar personality traits to you. You guys met in freshman year and have been friends since well until you moved to Florida. -You moved about a month ago and decided to send a letter to Sodapop.

-You had feelings for Sodapop but didn’t state such in the letter. Soda has feelings for you but never said anything and now it’s too late, what will happen?

______________________________________________

With The Curtis’ Brothers

“Soda!” Darry called from the kitchen. “Yeah?” Soda replied with his eyes locked in on the cartoon playing on the tv.

Darry walked over and handed Sodapop a letter, he recognized the handwriting instantly. He smiled softly. He opened the letter and it read,

‘Dear Soda,

I am officially a resident in Florida. It’s so humid here! I want to be back home, this is the worst. I am trying to look at the bright side….the trees are nice?’

Sodapop paused reading the letter and chuckled a bit with a sad smile. He was missing you as much as you were missing him.

‘I have met our right side neighbor, it’s a couple and their son who is our age. Total ass. Didn’t even acknowledge me until he saw my figure, gross! I wish I could say I am excited to start fresh but I would rather be with you and Steve at the Nightly Double watching some crappy movie and stuffing our faces with popcorn. And laughing till our lungs hurt.’

Sodapop scoffed at what you wrote about your neighbor, slightly wishing he could beat him up, but smiled at a memory of you, him, and Steve at the Nightly Double the night before you left. He pouted, he misses your smile.

‘But I am stuck here in mucky humid Florida but, I am coming back for the summer to see my aunt! The whole summer! It’s not as long as all-year around but you and Steve will survive, just don’t do anything I wouldn’t…I mean it. Also make sure Steve isn’t eating more than a slice of cake for breakfast, when I get him a slice at times I make it smaller than usual. Don’t tell him that! I wish I was there, Y/n L/n’

Sodapop smiled and began looking forward to the summer even more than usual. He wanted to write you back as you put your address for the return address. The next day he wrote back and put it in the mail box. All he had to do is wait. Which he wasn’t very good at.

______________________________________________ With you at your new house

You got the mail from the mailbox and received a letter with your name on it, it was probably illegible to some but you knew exactly who the letter was from. As you entered your new house you were smiling from ear to ear. You opened the envelope as soon as you got to your bedroom, in barely legible handwriting it said

‘Dear Y/n,

I wish you were here too. We miss you, especially Steve and I. It's not the same without your cheesy jokes and bright smile. Steve misses you coming and stopping by at the DX. I miss going to the Nightly Double with you as well. Steve will always whine that you're not with us. Once I told him you're coming back for the summer he got back to his old self. The chocolate cake problem will be dealt with, don't worry. Your aunt talked to me yesterday, she seems really excited that you're coming to stay with her this summer. But I bet I am more excited. Also, nobody gets my humor so you better not cancel, don't know how much longer I can take it. You're the only one who understands my dad jokes. I am not joking. I am counting down till summer also your neighbor's son does sound like an ass, want me to come over? I think Ponyboy and Darry miss you too. They seemed a little sad after your left for a few days. You have a toll on us, we won't survive. Better hurry!

Miss you most and wish you were here,

Sodapop Curtis’

You had butterflies in your stomach, you shook your head with a laugh, Sodapops letters almost sound as energetic as he does in person. You immediately put pen to paper. And put your letter in the mailbox.

This continued for months, leading right up to when your school for out. A week after you hopped on a plane to go to Tusla. You were beaming with joy, practically bouncing on your sit.

Your aunt picked you up at the airport and drove back to town, you guys had a great conversation. Your aunt was so happy you were back home. You were so happy you were back home.

Your aunt conveniently lives 2 blocks down from the Curtis’. After you, were all settled in, you practically ran to their house and knocked on their door. Soda pop opened it and his face turned to shock and happiness. He gave you a big hug.

“Your back!” He gleamed as he stepped aside to let you into the house.

“Yeah, so happy to be home!” You said back with a smile.

As soon as Sodapop saw that cheery and sunny smile of yours he knew all was right in the world.

You guys made eye contact, in your minds at that moment you guys knew exactly what the other felt. Y'all knew this was gonna be the best summer yet.

#the outsiders #the outsiders x reader #the outsiders imagine #sodapop curtis x reader #sodapop x reader #the outsiders sodapop #sodapop imagine #sodapop curtis

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blixssily · 8 months

Note

Hello!! If your prompt list is still open, can I request for #1 first encounter for Dan Heng and Kaeya? Except they already have an established relationship with their s/o, and its a first encounter with their alternate forms (dragon dan heng) / outfit (kaeya's new skin from the event). *^^*

prompt 1: first encounter + kaeya !

authors notes: hello!! thank you for participating in this event! I'm really sorry this took me so long to write :((

you haven’t seen your boyfriend in ages.. you knew he’d be gone for a long time due to a mission but you didn’t expect it to be this long. he wrote a letter to you a few days ago, mentioning how the mission would have to be extended for a few days. he didnt mention how many more days it would be extended by so you were a little bummed out about it.

you decided that you were gonna take the day off, just relax on the couch and enjoy the book that kaeya had bought you a few weeks ago. maybe taking a little nap after wards too... you weren't expecting anyone to be at your doorstep that day but the sound of knocking suggested otherwise. "coming!" you called out as you set the book down on the table in front of you, making sure to bookmark the page you left off on.

you honestly didn't know who or what you were expecting but it sure wasn't your beautiful boyfriend all dressed up..

"my my.. have you missed me so much that the first sight of me has you speechless?" your eyes glide over the new fabric adorning his skin, his smooth voice ringing through your ears. "oh ho~?" the amusement in kaeya's voice was evident as your hand grabbed his wrist to pull him inside your shared house, shutting the door behind him.

"i missed you." your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, his laughter fills your heart with joy. "i've missed you too." his arms hung loosely around your waist as you stepped back. "where did you get the outfit from?" you inquired, playing with the peacock feather at the end of his braid. "i got it in sumeru from a play." he smiled.

"you're beautiful like this, i mean you're beautiful all the time but.. you know what i mean!" you rushed through your last sentence, the smirk on your stupid boyfriend's face growing impossibly bigger by the second.

"i'm glad you like it so much." he takes your hand that was once playing with his braid and places a kiss to it. "i'm glad you're back." you smiled back at him, using his shoulder as leverage to softly kiss his lips.

notes and reblogs are heavily appreciated and thank you for participating in this event !

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich x reader #cora's event !!#i'm finally back from my non announced hiatus #i'll prob be gone again so don't expect much hehe #exam stress hitting HARD

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josefavomjaaga · 1 month

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(Sorry to bother folks with yet another non-art post about non-popular guys but I was so excited to find this I just have to tell somebody!)

The "Revue du Rhin" from September 1937 published a letter from Eugène de Beauharnais and another from Jérôme Bonaparte to Eugène. And the letter scribbled written by Eugène is the earliest I've come across so far - his dad is still alive at that point and still at the head of the army (while he has already failed to defend Mainz).

The letter is directed at one Louis Apffel, an obviously somewhat older friend, as he seems to be already with the army. It's undated, but the recipient has noted on top that he believes to have received it in August 1793, which would fit the events mentioned in the letter. The translation, including random capitalization and lack of punctuation, reads:

- Dear Friend, I saw with pleasure that you have already made a campaign but I would have had much more Pleasure to learn that Mayence was not under the power of the Austrians, bad news one says in Strasbourg that my papa is in Wissembourg that the army of Ferrière is surrounded and the vanguard of Houchard is also surrounded a letter of Macé says that we had 2 hundred men killed in Vorth is of the number tetrel is wounded, the republic should sound the tocsin of legality and each citizen would put himself under arms would acquire glory and the trade which since the revolution was destroyed would come back more beautiful - Chairoux, henrion and Lestranges will write to you when they have time. Monsieur Rivage told me that I would be going to see my papa during the holidays. Adieu a thousand times, love me as much as I love you Beauharnais

Eugène at this point is 11 years old, and as the article states, him talking about events in the war in such detail and especially him considering the effects on trade are somewhat strange for a boy his age. What Eugène obviously does not suspect yet is the consequences the loss of Mayence would have for his father, who would soon leave the army and try to make himself forgotten, before being arrested and, not quite a year after Eugène wrote this letter, executed.

The article continues to describe Alexandre de Beauharnais' military record in not exactly flattering terms 😋 and to identify the generals, classmates and teachers Eugène mentions.

The second letter is one of recommendation, written four years later, in 1797, by Jérôme, most likely for the same Louis Apffel who had come to visit his former classmate in his college of Saint-Germain (probably in order to get in contact with Eugène's new stepfather), only to learn that Eugène three months earlier had left for Italy as general Bonaparte's aide-de-camp. Apparently he was going to follow him there and wanted to make sure he would be allowed to approach the general's family.

And if you thought Eugène's handwriting was bad, here's Jérôme:

Translation:

My dear Eugène One of your close friends, as he tells me, came expressly to St. Germain to see you, but on learning that you had left 3 months ago for Italy, they asked me for a letter for you, fearing that they would not be able to see you. In the name of your friend I gave him a letter and would have given him everything I hold dearest in this capacity. Farewell, I embrace you and I am your faithful friend. Jérôme Buonaparte -

I like how Jérôme is obviously not stupid (your friend "as he tells me" - who however doesn't know your whereabouts). And as he speaks of several people who wanted to get in touch with Eugène, now that Eugène was the stepson of the most famous army general, I wonder if this may have been the whole family of Louis Apffel, trying to take advantage of the fact their son had once been in school with Eugène.

#napoleon's family #eugene de beauharnais #jerome bonaparte

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theidiotwhowritesthings · 1 year

Note

CONGRATS ON 2130! What better way to celebrate you than asking for you to write a drabble of whatever YOU want! Something you have maybe thought about but it's not your norm? Love it. A character you love and just want more of? Love it. Little side quest in a current running fic? Love it. Just super happy for you and love everything you put out there for us to enjoy! 💕✨🎉

[a/n: omg thank you! I got so excited to see this 'free reign' request and then spent the next like 12 hours agonizing over what to write lol. I went with this absolutely not 500 word one-shot. Oops. It seemed fitting to me though b/c the first fanfic I ever wrote was one of those kind where the reader like 'magically' ends up in the media with knowledge that they're in their fav tv show/movie/game. So, writing a one-shot in that theme kind of felt perfect since we're also celebrating the number 213!]

Joel Miller x F!Reader; Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Warnings: canon violence, descriptions of creepy ass clickers, language, gun use, mentions of injury and blood

Word Count: 1.7k (again oops)

Summary: You just wanted to take a break from the job while hanging out with your favorite hunter, but you instead wind up in the last place you thought possible. Honestly, it was your own fault for thinking you could have a normal day.

As you watched Joel Miller get mauled by a cordyceps clicker on the television screen you let out a laugh. In response, Dean barked out a curse. The eldest Winchester brother had been playing this game for the last day and a half. Though the phrase attempting to play might be more accurate. You snickered again. “Dean, I’ve seen you mow down an entire coven of vampires alone with only a hunting knife, but you can’t shoot a few infected?”

“This is different.” Dean replied firmly. He pointed at the screen accusingly. “Put one of those fuckers in front of me right now and I’ll take it down.” He picked up his beer bottle to take a swig. Then he motioned to you with the bottle. “With my eyes closed.”

“Yeah, okay, tough guy.”

“I’m serious!”

You laughed again and pulled your legs up under you. The Winchester brothers and you were stuck in the Men of Letters bunker for the last week. Sam was in the library, trying to find any kind of hunt to go on, and for the sake of Dean’s sanity you hoped he found one soon. You sunk into your seat with a grin. “Come on. Try again. I love watching you lose.”

“Maybe you should give it a try then, sweetheart.” Dean replied and offered you the controller.

You briefly bit your lower lip at the pet name. It was no secret that you were head over the heels for Dean⏤ well, to everyone but Dean. He seemed pretty oblivious to the fact that you’ve been carrying a torch for him since the moment you met him three years ago on a hunt.

“I would, but I’d hate to embarrass you like that, Dean.”

The man rolled his eyes before restarting the level from the top. You watched Dean play, smiling to yourself at his overly exaggerated expressions every time something went wrong or went right. Gradually, your eyes began to droop shut, heavy with exhaustion, and you fell asleep listening to Dean’s voice⏤ the sound familiar and comforting.

The sound of clicking hadn’t necessarily woken you up, it was probably the freezing air that did that, but it was the first noise that registered in your sleep-addled brain. With a quiet moan, you forced your eyes open and the sight of a busted ceiling greeted you. The wood was aged and a gaping hole allowed you to see the blue sky as morning light and flakes of snow streamed through it. It took one second for your brain to comprehend that you were not in the bunker with the Winchesters and one additional second for the hunter in you to grasp the wheel.

You sat up with a gasp. The space surrounding you resembled an abandoned storage room at the back of a larger structure. Broken and empty shelves lined the walls and you were lying on top of a disgusting, aged mattress. With steady motions, you rose to stand. A chill shot down your spine and you shivered. The pajamas you wore were not conducive to this new weather⏤ weather that also did not make sense. It was summer time in Kansas right now. Why the fuck was it snowing?

There was no sign of Dean or Sam that you could see. You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat as your stomach stirred with a foreboding sense of doom. Something was very, very wrong. Knowing that standing here confused wasn’t going to help anything, you searched the room for something of use. There were no articles of clothing you could scrounge up which meant you were stuck with pajamas and bare feet. The cold was beginning to grow painful as your extremities ached.

Only one door led out of the room, but experience told you that walking out without some kind of weapon was a mistake. Again, your options were sparse. You hadn’t expected to get lucky and find a handgun on the shelf, but a knife would be nice and not asking the universe for much in your opinion. However, you had never been the lucky kind. With a grumble, you found a few broken pipes and picked out one with the sharpest end. The metal was biting cold in your hand, but it brought some semblance of control and comfort to your anxiety riddled mind.

Seriously, what the fuck was going on?

You carefully cracked the door open to peek out into a dimly lit room. It looked like some kind of convenience store, but just like the room you had woken in it was in shambles. Bits of the ceiling and wall were broken to allow in light. You pulled the door open wider and a vaguely familiar clicking noise drifted to you once more. Where was that coming from? It had been there when you woke, though quieter, and why did you kind of recognize it?

A soft hiss made you glance to your right and your eyes widened when you spotted a young girl hiding behind half the counter. She had to be no older than thirteen or fourteen and her messy light brown hair was pulled back and half hidden under a winter cap. She glared at you in alarm, clutching a knife in her gloved hands, and mouthed words to you. She had to do it twice before you recognized the words, ‘What the fuck are you doing?!’ It was followed by something that looked suspiciously like the words, ‘fucking idiot’. Had this small, angry child just called you a fucking idiot?

More clicking.

Your gaze lifted and your eyes landed on a new sight that filled you with dread. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight, but it was certainly one that shouldn’t exist. A clicker. It stumbled in its inhuman gait. Shoulders and arms moving in twitching motions as its head snapped back and forth searching. Whatever face the body used to have was replaced with rows of growing, eerie fungus that fanned out in what looked like two rolling curves⏤ as if it were a wave that surged then splashed right out of the skull itself in frozen motion.

The small gasp that left your lips was an obvious mistake that your hunter side was kicking you for. Its head and body snapped to face you and with a screech it roared forward. Instinct took a hold of your body, and you swung the pipe out, rather than freezing in alarm, and the clicker fell back.

“Run! Go!” You screamed and motioned for the kid to get the hell out of there. She began to scramble away, but you stayed planted to handle the clicker that was already back to its feet and rushing you once more. You ducked under and sprinted in the opposite direction of the kid while making as much noise as you could. As impossible and odd as this was, you had no problem falling into your hunting pattern. It was second nature to you. There was a monster and a civilian who needed to be saved. Your choice was easy.

Your right foot stepped on something that made you hiss out in pain and stumble. That gave the clicker enough time to slam into you and send you to the floor. With gritted teeth, you rolled before it could pin you and you swung the pipe once again, knocking it back a few steps. It recovered quickly and lunged forward, but you held the pipe up firm and met it halfway so the sharpened end of the pipe drove right through the center of its face⏤ or lack thereof. You were gasping for air as its arms went limp and with a singular grunt you used the pipe to shove it off to the side so it slumped to the ground with your weapon still buried in its skull.

Your heart was threatening to beat right out of your chest as you tried to catch your breath. The adrenaline and panic made the cold barely noticeable. Your eyes glanced down though to see blood pooling around your right foot. Wincing, you lifted it to see a large shard of glass shoved deep into the tissue there. That was disturbing evidence this was not some kind of fucked up dream.

“Fuck.” You muttered. The sentiment was interrupted by a howling screech. You spun in place to see a different clicker, just as grotesque and real as the first, lunging at you from behind. Your hands raised in defense as a gun was fired. The clicker’s head exploded in a spray of rotting tissue and clumps of fungus before collapsing a few feet in front of you. When you lifted your gaze, you spotted an older man equipped with a rifle that was now leveled at your own head as his eyebrows furrowed in an emotion that reminded you a lot of rage. At his side, one hand wrapped around his bicep was the girl from earlier.

It took you a second to comprehend the image in front of you. The clickers. The young mouthy girl. The older angry man. This could not be possibly happening to you right now. “Hands up. Now.” The man grunted in a southern accent. He didn’t look quite like he did in the video game you watched Dean play for the last day and a half, but there was no denying who this had to be. Slowly, you lifted your hands with a grimace. “If you got any weapons, drop ‘em now.”

“Weapons?” The girl scoffed. “She’s in fucking PJs, Joel, where do you think she’s hiding a weapon?”

He hushed her in response and motioned for her to take a step behind him. Great. You had survived the apocalypse twice with the Winchesters, quite the feat considering the people who traveled with the boys had a bad habit of dying bloody, but this was how you were going to meet your end. Shot by a video game character. This was some kind of fucked up karma for laughing while watching Dean get his character mauled over and over.

“Hi there.” You blurted with a sheepish smile and Joel stiffened. “I mean you guys no harm, so if you wanna lower the rifle⏤”

“What’re you doing here?” Joel demanded. The rifle did not lower an inch.

“Right.” You muttered then blew out a breath of hot air. “Uh, funny story.”

Joel did not look eager to hear said funny story and you had a bad feeling that once you explained what was happening to him he’d find the entire scenario even less amusing. Fuck.

#tlou #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #joel miller #supernatural #dean winchester #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader insert #reader insert #female reader #2130 celebration!

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deepspacedukat · 5 months

Text

The Baker's Baker - Part One

So, this is the fic I made the poll about. 75% of you said you were at least open to other David Birney characters depending on the character, so here it is. I honestly have no excuse. David Birney played a hot character in "Murder, She Wrote" and I have caught the brainrot. Spoilers for S10E3 "The Legacy of Borbey House." I know I changed part of the story, but it doesn't stray too far from the original, hence the spoiler warning. I'm not tagging anyone for this fic, because, even though some Letant Enjoyers might like this, I don't think anyone came to my blog for MSW fanfiction lol. To those who choose to give this little brainworm a read, I hope you enjoy.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Lawrence Baker (MSW) x Reader

[A/N: Future chapters will contain smut/smut adjacent content, so 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: Mild rudeness, flirtation, mention of a missing person per the episode plot, vampire rumors, utilizing cupcakes for flirtation, readers owns and works in a bakery, reader has history with Borbey House but that'll be expounded upon in a later chapter.

~*~

Cabot Cove was rife with rumors surrounding the property across the street from my front door. Borbey House had stood empty for a year and a half - some residents wondered if anyone would ever buy the place until a couple of weeks ago. I only caught a glimpse of my new neighbor as I was getting home one night. Dark hair, a darker suit, and the jaunty strut of a man who was utterly confident in himself - whoever he was, the new owner of the Borbey Estate was much flashier than the usual Cabot Cove crowd.

I only saw him once, though, along with a couple of curtain twitches from one of the upper windows. Any other time a person emerged from the house, it was without fail a harsh looking man with a square jaw. He and his employer both seemed rather ominous to anyone who believed in superstition, and the Borbey legacy was rife with those. All those mysterious deaths years ago...it was a wonder that anyone was interested in buying the place when it went on the market.

Legend had it that the original owner, William Borbey, had been a vampire, and given the new owner's tendency to avoid going out in the daylight coupled with how quickly gossip of any sort traveled through Cabot Cove, rumors about his condition spread rather quickly. I couldn't really blame the man for not wanting to immerse himself in the insanity that was a small town like this. I had hoped I'd catch another glimpse of him eventually, but after that first sighting, all I saw was his - was the man with a square jaw a butler or a chauffeur? Both, perhaps?

This morning, however, my luck changed - for better or worse, I couldn't definitively say. It wasn't often that our postman switched mail around, but today I'd opened my mailbox to find a letter addressed to one 'Mr. Lawrence Baker.' Glancing at the address confirmed my suspicions: this belonged across the street.

With barely a moment's thought, I hurried back into my house and dropped off my own mail, scooping up a box of assorted cookies I'd packaged in advance for the bakery in the process. There were plenty more where that came from, so I figured it couldn't hurt to give Cabot Cove's newest resident a warm welcome.

Straightening myself up a bit, I grabbed the misdelivered letter and the box of cookies and walked across the street. Before I even got the chance to knock on the door, however, it was practically flung open. Mr. Baker's butler scowled silently, expectantly down at me with cold, hard eyes.

"Uh, hi! I–"

"Do you have an appointment?" His question was clipped and rough. Was that a German accent? Interesting.

"No, but–"

"Then begone." With that, the door was slammed in my face.

Oh, hell no. Tall and scary that man might be, but I wasn't about to just let someone treat me like that.

I was secretly quite proud of the firm, confident sound of my knuckles rapping on the aged wooden door. Once more, it was thrown open, but before Mr. Scary got the chance to do something more drastic than slamming the door in my face, I held up the letter so he could see the typeface on the envelope.

"This was delivered to me by mistake this morning. I was just coming over here to give it to its proper owner." After a tense moment of silence, the letter was snatched from my hand. "And these are from me. I run the bakery on Main Street and I wanted to officially welcome Mr. Baker to the neighborhood."

Shoving the box into the stunned butler's grasp, I turned on my heel and started back to my house, standing as straight as possible to cling to my remaining dignity. Well, that had been slightly more humiliating than I'd expected. So much for being neighborly–

"Excuse me, miss?" A smooth, sophisticated voice called out from behind me before I was more than a few feet down the front walkway. Looking back, I saw a familiar dark-haired figure stepping around the gruff-mannered butler to stand in the doorway. Red-lensed sunglasses rested atop the bridge of his nose, but it was still undeniably the same man I'd seen that first night. Lawrence Baker, in the flesh. Up close, he looked...well, extremely handsome. "I'm sorry for the rough reception. Peter is used to dealing with less pleasant visitors. I'm afraid most people don't like an outsider invading your peaceful community."

Taking a few small steps toward the door, I gave my elusive new neighbor a tentative smile and attempted to ignore the way his pale blue button-down shirt clung to his figure so perfectly.

"It's alright, but I promise not all of us are quite so prickly. I'm sorry if you've been on the receiving end of any sort of intolerance," I said, and he leaned jauntily on the door frame as a grin stretched his lips. The lines on either side of his mouth spoke of the many smiles he'd worn over the years. "Anyway, I should really let you get back to your day. I just wanted to officially welcome you to the neighborhood. If you need anything, I live just across the street."

"I'll be sure and keep that in mind, Miss...?"

I introduced myself, keeping a respectable distance between myself and the front door. The longer I looked at Mr. Baker, the more I wanted to do something ridiculous, like take up sketching just so I could capture the shape of his lips when he smiled.

"I couldn't help but hear what you said a moment ago. You run the local bakery?"

"Yes, I do. If there's something you'd like that I don't normally offer, I take custom orders." My brain went somewhere it definitely shouldn't have, and I fought to keep myself from blushing.

Instead, though, I had some restraint. Excusing myself, I retreated quickly back to my own home. I took a seat in the kitchen and glanced at the timer I'd set for the cake in the oven. There was still a while until I needed to check it.

I had no idea how long I'd been sitting at my kitchen table lost in thought when a knock sounded at the door, jolting me back to reality. A brief flash of fear zipped through me at the prospect of Mr. Baker or his butler - somehow the name 'Peter' didn't full encompass that man's personality - coming to throw my cookies back in my face and threaten legal action if I ever set foot on their side of the street again.

"Why, you look as pale as a ghost, child!" Seth exclaimed when I opened the door. I'd almost forgotten that he and Jessica were coming over for lunch today. Inviting them in gratefully, I stole a quick glance across the street and was just in time to see a curtain twitch in one of the upper windows of the Borbey House.

There was nothing I could do but close the door as if to block out the storm that was my neighbor's red-tinted gaze.

"Are you alright?" Jessica's hand rested gently on my shoulder, and I gave her a grateful smile.

"Oh, yes! I'm fine. I just had a very odd encounter with the new owner of the Borbey place," I told her as we all made our way into the kitchen. A couple of hours passed, and with lunch consumed and my new cake recipe freshly sampled by the three of us, I'd heard several bits of gossip about Mr. Baker and his butler.

"You say he had red lenses in his glasses?" Seth asked as he cut himself another slice of cake. When I nodded my head, he hummed thoughtfully. "Those have a few uses medicinally, dependin' on the shade. He could be sensitive to light. Until he comes into my office, though, I'm afraid that's all I can say."

With a wry smile, Mrs. Fletcher leaned back in her seat.

"I doubt that will do anything to dispel those ridiculous vampire stories that have been making the rounds, lately." She was right, of course. "Be careful, dear, you might find him knocking on your door one night in search of something more than just cookies."

A laugh bubbled out of me, and I felt suddenly better than I had all morning. Trust Jessica and Seth to know how to lift my spirits.

"I'll be sure to wear a garlic necklace and keep a stake handy," I joked. Allowing my smile to fall in favor of something more serious, I switched topics. "Any news about...?"

Jessica and Seth glanced at each other and shook their heads.

"You'd be one of the first to know. The last tip-off the Sheriff had was a dud. Lady was in her fifties. Definitely not Laurel Perrin," Seth murmured setting his fork down. Had he already eaten his second piece of cake? Mentally, I marked that recipe down as a success. I'd have to make one or two for the bakery this week to see how people reacted to it. "I...I know you were her friend, and I don't mean to sound disheartenin', but the chances of Laurel turnin' up after all this time..."

The doctor laid his hand over mine where it rested on the table, and I looked pointedly down at the wood grain beside my fingers.

"I know, Doc. I just...I can't give up hope. Neither can Dave or Charlie. Not until we know for sure, one way or the other. You can understand that, right?"

"Of course, we can. Closure is a somewhat universal longing, especially for those closely involved in situations like this," Jessica murmured wrapping her arm around my shoulders in a reassuring hug. "Now, why don't you tell us how the new space for the bakery is working out?"

Never had I been more grateful for a change of subject.

Six days later, I was in the middle of serving who I thought would be my last customer of the night when the bell over the bakery door jingled.

"I'll be with you in just a moment," I called over my shoulder as I boxed up a dozen brownies.

"No problem, take your time." I blinked a couple of times as I finished up. I knew that voice. Forcing myself to stay focused on my current task, I served my regular customer and handed him his change.

"Thanks, Jim. Have a safe drive home, okay?"

"'Course, ma'am, and I'll be sure and tell the wife you asked after her," he said tipping his hat as he turned to leave. My heart thudded rapidly in my chest as I turned to the new arrival.

"How can I help you tonight, Mr. Baker?" The man in question was clad in a crisp, black suit that was probably worth more than my entire inventory, but the smile on his face softened his visage into something more personable.

And his eyes! I hadn't been able to see them properly when they were hidden behind his tinted glasses, but they were the clearest blue I'd ever seen.

"Would you prefer the socially acceptable answer, or the truth?"

Oh, color me intrigued! Clasping my hands and resting them on the counter, I narrowed my eyes at him playfully.

"Hm. Let's have the truth first, then the respectable excuse," I murmured, and he stepped up to the counter, tracing his fingertips over the refrigerated cases as he moved closer.

"Alright. I was fascinated by you the moment I saw you walking up the drive. The way you handled Peter's abrupt dismissal made me realize I'd made a mistake in avoiding contact with my neighbors," he said leaning one forearm on counter. "I wanted a chance to see you again...to talk to you longer than just a few seconds, and this seemed like my best bet. In my defense, I had no idea that I'd have such a gorgeous neighbor."

I forced the muscles in my face to remain neutral. No smiling, not yet. I had to be casual. If I let myself smile now, I might explode.

"And the respectable excuse?"

"Ah, that. Well, I heard about the special you were having on cupcake orders and thought I'd come take advantage of the discount," Mr. Baker said with a smile, and I bit my lower lip to stifle a laugh. "What?"

Crooking my finger at him, I coaxed him into leaning close enough to whisper in his ear, trying to add to his anticipation.

"The special is on brownies today, not cupcakes."

A warm, velvety laugh spilled from his lips as leaned back again.

"Oh, damn, there goes my airtight alibi," he mused when his eyes met mine once more. "I guess that blows my chances of you accepting my invitation to dinner..."

I couldn't hide my surprise.

"Dinner?"

"Yes, but I doubt you'd be interested in socializing with a man who can't even get his excuses in order beforehand," he teased. Giving me a shrug and turning to a cloche-covered tray of brightly-iced cupcakes, he pretended to study them as I forced my brain into gear.

"...What day did you have in mind?"

The wide grin he gave me lit up the whole shop.

"How about tomorrow night? From what I understand, your shop is closed on Sundays, isn't it?"

"That's right. Sure, why not? Tomorrow sounds great," I answered lifting the cloche off the cupcake tray. "In the meantime, if we're going to sell that poorly-constructed cupcake excuse, you can't leave here empty-handed."

"Ah, thank you. We wouldn't want the rest of the town to think you were in danger from a reclusive vampire," he muttered with a gleam in his eye as I boxed up an assorted half dozen cupcakes. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing at all. These are on the house."

His eyes went wide, and he placed one of his large hands gently on my arm.

"I didn't come here to swindle you out of your merchandise. I don't want you to think I can't afford a few baked goods."

"This has nothing to do with your ability to pay, Mr. Baker. Haven't you ever had someone do something nice for you before, just because they could?"

Something like comprehension flickered across his face.

"Not...in a very long time, no," he said just above a whisper, looking at me as though I'd transformed right before his eyes. Placing one of my hands over his where it still rested on my arm, I spoke just as quietly.

"Then it's about time someone did." A moment's weighted silence passed between us before I got back to the cupcakes, closing the box and sealing it with one of my labels. "There you are. And if you really want to do something to repay me, tell me this: what's your favorite dessert?"

He was silent for a moment while he considered his answer, but ultimately he shook his head.

"I'll have to think that over. It's serious business deciding something like this," Lawrence said with a faux stern expression plastered on his face.

"Oh, naturally. You can tell me over dinner, assuming you've selected by then," I said with an equally stern expression, but when a bright smile broke across Mr. Baker's lips, I cracked and let out a quick laugh.

"I look forward to your charming company tomorrow night, my dear," he said, and without a moment's hesitation, he caught one of my hands in his grasp and brought it to his lips. My heart fluttered in my chest, the traitorous bastard, and before I knew it, Mr. Baker had taken his box of cupcakes and left.

Resisting the urge to squeal or smile so hard that my face broke, I went to the door and flipped the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.'

When I got home that night and exited my car, I glanced across the street. Instead of the usual twitching curtain, I was just in time to see both Peter and Mr. Baker in the latter's sitting room, nibbling on what were unmistakably a pair of my cupcakes.

If I'd been any happier, I might have floated away like a balloon.

"You're having dinner with the man? But neither you nor anyone else in town knows him very well," Doc Hazlitt protested the next morning as I chatted with him over the phone. He'd called to ask what day that new cake would be added to the bakery's menu so he could give me some extra patronage. Once I assured him it would be a Tuesday addition, he moved on to a rumor he'd heard about Lawrence Baker kissing my hand during business hours and leaving my shop with a box of desserts. I hadn't disabused him of the notion, hence his current state of agitation.

"Doc, I am perfectly capable of handling a simple dinner. I'm not a little girl anymore," I said, and a sigh crackled down the line.

"I know, I know, but I don't want you to get hurt. I was the doc in the ward when you were born, and I've known you all your life. Is it any wonder that I feel a little nervous about you gettin' involved with a man who's only been in Cabot Cove for a handful of weeks?"

"Y'know, that's another thing, Seth," I started as I cradled the phone to my shoulder and slipped a tray of scones into the oven. "People around here act as though every new arrival or outsider is here to pillage the town. Why can't someone move in and be given the benefit of the doubt for once? Mr. Baker is perfectly friendly–"

"–And rich, to boot, meanin' he is used to gettin' exactly what he wants–"

"That's enough, Doctor. You haven't even met the man. You have no right to judge him until you've at least tried to get to know him." I didn't even try to keep the reproachful edge out of my voice. "Please, at least try to be open minded. If not for his sake, then for mine."

"I'd still be grateful if you gave me a call tomorrow morning so that I know you survived the ordeal," he requested, and after a quick agreement, he finally let me go.

Seth was right to an extent. I barely knew him, and Borbey house, despite my personal history, was still surrounded by gruesome stories and the ghosts of its past. It wouldn't hurt to be a little cautious.

Although, a benefit of spending time across the street was that I'd have a chance to change that surly butler's opinion of me. That was something I definitely needed to do, especially if I was going to be acquainted with his employer. Maybe with the right dessert, I could lower his defenses enough to show him I wasn't just a pest to swept out onto the street.

~*~*~

#deepspacedukat fic #Lawrence Baker x Reader #did i catch brainrot for another side character? yes #do I regret it? no #is anyone but me gonna read this? probably not #I was hoping to have all 4 chapters finished before I posted this but writer's block said no

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debu-neko-kun · 11 months

Text

Weighty Wager

Crossposting this here, a story I wrote a little bit ago! Contains: XWG of the male variety, magic weight gain, gay boyes as always, fun fetish stuff. Viewer beware, you’re in for a... I dunno, have a good time. :3

Jesse whistled to himself as he fumbled with the wads of cash in his pockets, turning the tight rolls of paper currency between his fingers. He strolled by mahjong parlors and poker dens, smoky clubs crawling with their usual suspects and public gambling halls flooded with tourists looking to make it big in the entertainment district. There was comfort in the flashing lights, the gaudy music, the lucky cheers, the unlucky cursing; this was a place where both sides of the coin were visible at once. Thankfully, he’d always been on the up and up here, lady luck kissing his cheek every time he rolled. Didn’t matter what game he played, he won all the same. Jesse supposed it had always been like that; ever since he was a kid playing old maid with the seniors on the corner, he’d just been winning. Born like that, maybe; entering the world on a perpetual up.

Didn’t matter, the whys and the hows, only that it just kept happening; he loved the complimentary drinks, the complimentary suits, the complimentary penthouse rooms, the complimentary lovers… hell, maybe it was just the luck again, but it seemed like the more money he made, the less he had to spend. But spend he did: manicures, private gyms with personal trainers, hundreds on haircuts and thousands on jewelry. Cars and planes, glitz and glamor… but there was only one thing that made him happy, and that was the thrill of the game. There wasn’t a single gambling hall in this whole city that he hadn’t visited, no game left un-dominated, no prize un-won… that was, until yesterday.

Nobody could tell him when it was built, who owned the place, or even what games were played there. He didn’t notice any construction on the lot in the weeks prior; it was like it had suddenly appeared, bloomed from the ground into a grand temple of tempting chance on the very edge of the district.

The Devil’s Deal… Jesse stared up at the smiling cartoonish devil that loomed over him, the sign all lit up with ember-red swirling letters. Suddenly noticing the encompassing quiet, he looked around, realizing that the street around the building was decidedly empty and lit only in the red of the sign.

The only sound came from beyond the doors, a piano number he couldn’t quite make out. Tears formed at the edges of his dark green eyes as he stared into the dark glass of the doors, and took a moment to breathe; what was he so spooked about? Slow, quiet night just meant fewer people to crowd him once he started really raking in the cash; he smoothed back the stylish swoop in his chestnut hair, settled his pocket watch chain, adjusted the dark waistcoat on his toned, muscular torso, and pulled on the ornate brass handle of the glossy black doors.

At once, he was overwhelmed by the decor of the place: everything was new and pristine, but looked plucked straight out of an earlier age. Red velvet flooring, big purple curtains hanging down from a tall vaulted ceiling, chandeliers sparkling with a thousand tiny glass gems. Deep, dark wood comprised the paneling of the walls, swirling into intricate patterns at the two archways he could see ahead of him; one arch, further ahead and to his right, had a large sign above it, announcing the “Dining Room” in large gold letters. The wide wood doors were shut; just as well, he thought, wandering deeper into the building; he was hardly hungry, stomach too tightened by the prospect of the games that awaited.

He wandered up to a large, marble counter, large barred windows built into it peering into a room beyond. This was clearly the chip exchange counter, but where was the attendant? The clinking of a glass drew his attention to the bar at the back of the room, where a bartender busied himself mixing up drinks for the only other occupant in the room besides Jesse-- a young man, seemingly slightly younger than Jesse himself, perhaps 21 or 22, sat with his elbows on the bar. Like Jesse, he was dressed well, his coat hanging on the back of his chair leaving him in dark slacks and a nice white button-up shirt.

Realizing there wouldn’t be anyone else to help him, Jesse wandered toward the bar, passing by well-spaced slot machines-- all themed on the seven deadly sins-- that were situated in front of odd-shaped stools; the seats were large, almost like tables, and lower to the ground than normal high stools. Probably for elderly tourists, he thought, or the sort of fatties looking to spend a few minutes at the machines before spending a few hours at the buffets. And yet, this didn’t seem like the sort of place that catered to the casual wayward gambler. Hell, it didn’t even look public, more in line with what he saw at flashy invite-only locales.

“Oh, good evening, my good sir!” the bartender smiled warmly, setting the young man’s drink on the bar, wiping his chubby hands with a small towel. “The name’s Bacchus; what can I get you?”

“Jesse. And some chips would be nice.” Jesse said, gesturing back towards the counter.

“Ah, food is served in the dining hall-” he began, but stopped himself with a little chuckle that sent his soft belly bouncing. “Oh! You mean for the games; many apologies, but Kharon is measuring winnings in the back at the moment. He should return any minute-- you can wait here with a drink, if you’d like. On the house.”

“None for me, thanks; not before I play.” Jesse waved him off, but the bartender waved him forward.

“Doesn’t have to be alcoholic; come on, I’ll mix you up something tasty for the wait.”

Jesse paused, glancing back towards the counter, and finally approached the bar with a little sigh. He sat next to the young man, the two seats-- like the seats at the slot machines-- were wide enough that it wasn’t awkwardly close.

“Oh, another one! I was starting to think I was the only person here.” the young man spoke, words rolling off his tongue in a friendly french lilt. His blue eyes sparkled even under the warm light of the bar. “I’m Claude. Claude Benoit. Lovely place, is it not?”

“It’s certainly something.” Jesse said, leaning against the bar. A moment of quiet passed, and Claude spoke again.

“So, did you get an invite too?” he asked. “I was surprised they’d send me one so far away; perhaps my exploits in Paris precede me.” he giggled, his soft, wavy blonde hair bouncing.

“So it is by invite only, then.” Jesse began, letting out a sigh. “Better beat it before security kicks my ass-”

“Oh, nonsense; the invitations were only to add some excitement to the grand opening.” the bartender spoke, rolling ice back and forth in two silver containers, deep red liquid flowing over and over between the two. “Attract a handful of the luckiest the world has to offer, give them first dibs on chancing fate. But of course, the doors are open to all; besides, you seem like just the sort that should be here.”

“I do alright for myself.” he shrugged, but Claude scooted in close.

“Aha! Not merely a casual player; you live life on chance too, a man after my own heart!” he laughed, propping his head up on his hands with an expression like a smitten lover. “Tell me, what’s your fancy? Poker, slots…?”

“Blackjack. Err, twenty-one, as some people say.” Jesse said.

“Aha, cards! Lovely, lovely; my fortune passed to me from poker tables, but blackjack is near to my heart as well. Though, I do enjoy the simplicity of these electronic games; just push a button or pull a lever, and luck is dispensed! Or, well, not dispensed, I suppose.”

Bacchus placed a short, pink glass on the bar in front of Jesse, who listened on to Claude’s enthusiastic rambling about the various types of gambling machines in his home city. Jesse picked up the beverage, sipped it; the fresh taste of strawberry nectar filled his mouth, washing down his throat in a waterfall of frosty, sugary sweetness.

“Oh, that Kharon sure is taking a long while, no?” Claude whined, looking around at the slot machines. “I’m so eager to give these a spin…”

Before Jesse could respond, the double doors at the back of the building rushed open, their heavy wood settling against the walls with an impressively deep thump. A man stepped out from the room beyond, pale hands clasped politely together. A Dealer, from the looks of him; he was simply dressed, in matching onyx-black slacks and waistcoat, with a burgundy tie that stood like blood on marble against his pure white shirt.

“Gentleman,” he regarded Claude and Jesse, his pale blue eyes unblinkingly moving from man to man. He seemed to Jesse a young ghost in the dim light, stark white hair combed neatly and flesh as smooth and uncorrupted as a coroner’s subject. “Allow me to extend an invitation to the VIP lounge as our guests of honor for the evening.” Claude gripped his half-empty drink, eyes opening wide. "Tu te moques de moi? I-I mean, surely you jest! We’re the only ones here, and haven’t even had a chance to play; hardly very important, no?”

The ghostly Dealer simply smiled. “An opportunity to become very important. We’d like to offer you both the chance to play against the house; our game for the evening will be twenty-one, with yours truly dealing.”

Jesse straightened up in his seat, leaning towards the Dealer now. “Twenty-one, you say? Color me interested… but it’s like my friend here said, we haven’t even had a chance to buy chips yet.”

“A small sum will be provided for the purposes of the game. Call it an incentive to join me. You’ll only need to repay what you lose if you lose a bet beyond the summation of the pool. But something tells me you won’t have that issue.”

Jesse nodded, and pushed himself off the bar to a stand. “Alright… you have yourself a deal.”

“Splendid! Will your friend be joining us?”

Claude, rosy cheeked and looking bashfully through the bottom of his glass, quickly set it down and wiped his soft lips. “Non, non; you must pardon me, sir, for your invitation is gracious, but I’m afraid I can’t touch cards after I've had a drink. I’d like to stick to the machines; binary bets treat me better when my belly is warm, aha. You two go ahead, play away; I shall await this Kharon and have my fun out here.”

“As you wish.” the Dealer nodded, smile never falling from his pale pink lips. “Sir? If you’ll follow me.”

Jesse stepped away, leaving the half-drunk boy in the company of the bartender.

“Win big, yes?” Claude called after him, his joyous laugh bouncing around the room.

“You bet.” Jesse spoke to himself as he entered the VIP area. It was more of the same classically-styled furnishings, only here they seemed of an even-finer caliber; long, deep-set booths of deep red cherry and purple velvet arranged against the walls, thickly padded wingback chairs of similarly substantially-disproportionate depth and width arranged around green-furred tables. Serving carts with several tiers were arranged at the ready by the booths, seemingly prepared to serve many gamblers wine and steak to keep them playing. But for now, the room was empty, save for Jesse and the Dealer.

Jesse turned in time to see the Dealer shutting the double doors. Through the gap between the rapidly closing doors, he could see a man step up to the counter-- the elusive Kharon, maybe-- and give him a knowing smile. And then, the doors were closed, and the Dealer was gesturing to a chair in the middle of the room.

“If you’d like to have a seat there, I’ll begin by explaining the rules of this evening’s event.”

Jesse did as he was told, swinging his arms to loosen his shoulders as though he were a baseball player stepping up to bat, and sat down at the chair. It was like resting on a velveteen pillow, though it was perhaps ill-fit for somebody of his size; he was no slender waif, shoulders and biceps broadened by his excess free-time spent at the gym sculpting his body just shy of muscular formidability, and yet he felt like a child in a recliner. Too wide to be a chair, yet just shy of a love-seat… Jesse shrugged off the strange taste in furniture and sat cross-legged on the seat, as silly as it made him feel. The Dealer sat on a simple wooden stool across from him, though properly sized for his slender build.

“Now then.” the Dealer spoke, drawing a wooden box from the edge of the table towards him. The lid was designed with a carved wooden tree, each branching bowing under the weight of many ornately-designed fruits. It seemed there were multiple round shapes reaching what appeared to be swollen limbs up towards the fruits, but Jesse couldn’t quite make them out. The Dealer placed his hands over the lid, and folded the sides out like a book; inside the velvet lined box, a deck of cards, elegantly gold-leafed on their backs, looking freshly made and never-before-touched, despite the antique quality of the box they were housed in.

“For your inspection,” the Dealer spoke, raising the deck from the box and placing them before Jesse. “So you understand, win or lose, it’s only chance that decides the hand you receive.”

Thumbing through the cards, Jesse took the time to peruse the designs imprinted on them. They were seemingly hand-painted, each portraying unique representations of the face cards; the king seemed more princely, youthful with a cocky grin on his sharply feminine face, eyes painted gold. The jack was painted with the figure of a knight, imposingly muscular, black hair flowing down to his broad shoulders and framing a proudly serious expression. He expected one figure for the queen, but instead there were two figures painted together, holding a box with the suit inscribed upon it between them: a woman with dark brown skin dressed in silk finery, and a bronze-fleshed man, shirtless, gold piercings on his chest and ears. The numbered cards were simply numbers, the aces simply aces.

“Satisfactory?” the Dealer asked, extending his hand toward him. Jesse nodded, placing it in his hand, feeling for a moment the intense heat radiating off of his palm. It made him shiver, this warmth; he loosened his shirt collar, undoing the top button.

“Excellent.” the Dealer smiled, beginning to shuffle the cards. “The rules are simple; there will be five rounds, and each round begins with a bet. The maximum for each player will be 200: I will provide this first pool to you. Try not to lose it all at once.” he chuckled, though whether it was to himself or for Jesse, he couldn’t tell. “To make things more interesting, I’ll have free reign to bet as I please, not merely a match of your own amount. Once this is finalized, each player will be dealt two cards, one face up and one face down. You may choose to hit or stand. Whichever hand is closest to 21 without going over at the end of the round wins. If you go over-”

“You lose. Don’t worry, I’ve played before.” Jesse said.

“So you have. Wonderful; now, your prize for joining me.”

The Dealer reached under the table, dispensing chips from an unseen dispenser, placing twenty chips in two neat stacks in front of him. Each chip was black, seemingly made of shiny volcanic stone, and had a gold “10” etched on the face of each one. “200 actual dollars? That’s generous.” “Pounds, sir.” The Dealer corrected. “Makes things interesting. They’ll be converted at the end of each round, and you can surrender your tokens to the front desk before you leave.”

“British? Huh.” “I hail from the marshes of England, but have not been in many years.” the Dealer said, and simply smiled.

“Well… alright then.” Jesse shrugged, and placed one token in front of himself. “Deal me in.”

“Testing the waters, I see. Very well.” the Dealer nodded, and reciprocated with one token of his own. “The current total bet is twenty.”

With graceful movements, the Dealer carefully placed two exposed cards in front of Jesse, and then two in front of himself with one hidden, face down. The Dealer held a three; Jesse’s hand consisted of a nine and a king, the pretty face of the painted gentleman staring up at him in his eternal smile. And there it is: the feeling of the scales tipping in his favor once again, like waking up to sunlight on his skin.

“I’ll stay.” he spoke, looking intently at the Dealer’s hand. The Dealer turned over his own card, revealing a ten. He drew one more… and drew another ten.

“And that’s a bust. The winnings are yours.”

Jesse always told himself he’d never do drugs, since he already knew nothing would compare to this: nothing else in the world made him happier than a win. And yet, as the two tokens passed the threshold from the betting zone on the table to his own little square, he couldn’t help but notice a strange tingling sensation welling up in his abdomen. It was like goosebumps, only deeper; a momentary tingle that echoed through his core and abated rapidly to nothing. He adjusted his waistcoat, undoing the top button, and fiddled with his belt.

“Is something the matter, sir?” the Dealer smiled, hands folded patiently on the deck of cards.

“No, it’s nothing. Just had too big of a lunch, I guess.” Jesse said, settling back into his seat casually, brushing away the odd sensation.

“Then we shall commence the second round. If you’ll place your bet, please.”

Jesse took a deep breath, rubbed his smooth cheek in contemplation… and then pushed the entire pile of tokens forward. “All in.”

“My my…” the Dealer grinned, and similarly pushed his entire pile forward. “Go big or go home, eh?” The way he hovered on the “or” sent a strange tingle down Jesse’s back.

“The total bet is currently 400 pounds. Dealing will begin.”

Same as before, the cards were dealt. And same as before, the endorphin rush of risk flooded his system, sending his heart thumping like nightclub bass. Jesse watched the ten be placed, and then the ace; another easy win passed unto him by the gods of luck, he thought with a grin, whoever they may be.

“And that’s blackjack. Goodness, you weren’t kidding, you’re quite good at this game. That’s 400 big ones for you, my lucky friend.”

“Well, what can I say.” Jesse responded coolly, reaching out to scoop up the whole pile of tokens. And as they plinked together on their way towards him, the odd sensation in his middle returned, rippling out beneath his flesh like a warm tidal wave. It overwhelmed; he let go of the chips, pushing himself back into the chair to keep himself from slumping forward.

“Wha…?” he slurred, holding his hands out in front of himself, wondering if he’d see his very flesh melting from his muscle, for that was the sensation that throbbed beneath every pore on his body. Not pain, far from it; a sudden and all-consuming relaxation, like being dunked into a pool of warm honey.

Drugged… he had to be, for why else did it seem like his hands were changing before his very eyes? The definition of the slender bones in his hands blurred, then vanished. The gaps between his fingers began to close, flesh rose to swallow his wrists; a pinch at his middle drew his eyes down and away, sending his head reeling at the sight below.

A belly, fat and saggy, rose in a buttery swell of flesh beneath his waistcoat, forcing his shirt tails out of his too-tight pants. A muffin top had already formed where once there were tight abs, starting to dip down towards thighs that pulled the fabric skin-tight around them. He dreamily moved his head to both sides of his body, watching rolls form beneath his swelling tits, pushing his shirt to his limits; his ass blobbed out to either side of him like pizza dough pressed in slacks, making the oversized chair seem ever closer to a “normal” size.

“What’s happening to me?...” he huffed in horror, mind still stuck between dull panic and stubborn disbelief.

“Your winnings are being transferred. It should only take a moment.” the Dealer spoke, that same calm smile never leaving his lips. He began to dispense more tokens, slowly setting them out in front of himself one by one.

“No… no, this can’t be real…” Jesse muttered, his voice foreign to himself, broadcasted from plump lips, chubby cheeks and a chest swaddled in lard.

“I assure you, it’s all real. Every pound, all 400… we’d never cheat an honest winner. Now, are you ready for round three?” Jesse ignored the Dealer, struggling to stand. He rocked forward, belly rolls bunching together beneath his shirt, busting a trio of buttons from his waistcoat and ripping a seam down the seat of his pants. Everything jiggled as he dropped the inch to the floor, from his rounded neck to his pudding bag thighs. God, he was so heavy… just standing was an alien sensation, the perpetually added mass of his curvaceous front and thick back forcing him to recalculate his stance. Shakily, he took a step with his jiggly arms out ahead of him like he was wading through waist-high water, seams popping and ripping here and there in a cacophony of cloth catastrophe with every movement. If he could just get outside, get some help…

Sweat from a mix of exertion and fear dripped down his cheeks, landing on his chest. Beads formed on his perky pink nipples, which he realized-- with no small shame-- were attached to two bulky bags of milk and lard that obscured the view of the gut that he knew was still getting larger by the way it slapped his thighs lower and lower. One step, two step, one waddle, two waddle, jiggle, grow… at last, with great effort, he reached a saggy arm out towards the door, grasped the handle…

...and found the door stuck tight.

“Now now, my lucky friend,” the Dealer spoke, placing one card in front of himself, and one in front of Jesse’s chair. “It’s quite healthy to get up and stretch your legs after a few games, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t wander too far. After all, we still have four rounds left.”

“No… no more… let me go...” he panted, leaning against the door. He expected it to creak and pop against his immense weight, but it held steady as stone. His gut spread out against the cool surface, offering a small respite for his misty flesh. At least it felt like the growth was slowing… and yet it didn’t make him feel much better. 400 pounds… and combined with his early win of 20, that would put him somewhere in the ballpark of 600 heavy, heavy pounds.

“I’m afraid quitting isn’t an option now. You agreed to five complete rounds, and five complete rounds we’ll play. The devil’s in the details.” he chuckled, a laugh of many voices. “To run with your earnings now would be cheating. You wouldn’t want me to accuse you of cheating, now would you?...”

The Dealer glanced back over his shoulder toward Jesse, his eyes burning with a fiery orange light, like molten gold. His smile widened, revealing sharp silver teeth like knife tips.

“I’d suggest you have a seat now, Jesse Ward. Allow me to help.”

Jesse yelped as a strange force wrapped around his midsection, like a giant invisible hand that plucked him from the ground, carried him through the air, and placed his considerable girth back in the chair. Where it had seemed like a loveseat before, the sides of the chair gently pressed into the swell of his butt, though it was simple fright that held him there.

“Splendid. Betting has begun.”

The words caught in his head, jammed by recurring waves of fresh panic. What could he do? Just play?

“What are you?” he blurted, gripping the chair arms tight to stop his wobbly trembling.

“Why don’t we talk while we play? Place your bet, please.” he smiled, hands clasped together in front of himself as if in unholy prayer. His breaths exuded steam now; whatever facade he held before was slowly failing, dripping off like a wax mask.

Jesse looked at the pile of chips in front of him, their awful weight unbearable. He could hardly stand to touch them, but with no way around it, he slowly reached out and pushed a single chip forward.

“Aha! Hardly giving me a chance to win it back, are you? Ah well, I’m feeling pretty good about this one, so I’ll take it upon myself to make this interesting…”

The chips slowly floated up one by one from their rows, all twenty of them, settling down in a spiral formation around the single chip.

“The bet is now 210. The game is now afoot; good luck, my girthy gambler.”

The Dealer placed another card ahead of himself. As he reached across the table, card in hand, Jesse mustered up the courage to ask again.

“What are you?”

“Oh, dear Jesse, that might be playing my hand too early… but perhaps it’s obvious by my poker face?” he giggled, the sound sending a chill down his spine. “From an underworld, a place that man finds himself from time to time since time began. I… simply found my way to the realm of man instead. It’s a goldrush up here; all sorts of fun can be had with all of these delightfully mortal wants and desires.”

The Dealer set the card in front of Jesse. A jack, with the picture of the knight, but the picture had changed; the once imposing knight had been rendered round as a pumpkin, gut bursting forth from his armor, tired expression painted on a face softened into round, feminine features. The discomforting card brought his total to 15.

“So… why this? Are you going to take my… my soul?” Jesse whispered the last part, thinking of all of the faustian tales he’d heard since he was a child.

“Not unless it’s on the table, my dear; I’m simply offering what every gambler wants in the end. I want to see the desires of men and women taken to the extreme, but unlike some others, I don’t want anyone to bargain for it. For what do mortals have that I don’t? No, I want people to play for it… a chance at excess.”

The word rolled from his tongue in a cloud of hot steam that set a fresh wave of perspiration over Jesse’s belly. Jesse shuddered; was he telling the truth, or was this another veiled trick? Though, he hadn’t lied to him yet, just obscured the details to this terrible game... as important as they were. He was playing fairly… which gave him an idea.

The Dealer held his hand out, palm up. “And speaking of… your move.”

“Stay. I’ll stay.” Jesse spoke quickly.

“If you’re sure…” the Dealer said, turning over his cards to reveal a 7 and a 2. He drew one more, pulled a four, and drew another, turning it over.

“No…” Jesse whispered, heart sinking fast. The king of hearts. He had drawn a king of hearts, the princely man on the card drawn morbidly obese, maybe fatter than Jesse-- it was hard to tell how tall he was in the portrait, but he certainly seemed wider-- with a look of hunger in his eyes that mocked him.

“Don’t look so down, Jesse: that’s a bust for me. I’ve lost. Which means you won! My, how truly lucky you are.”

The spiral of chips began to float again, lining themselves up ahead of him. Tauntingly, they hopped, bounced off his gut, and landed with the other earnings, each thump adding another ten pounds to his frame. Thump, grow, thump, grow… he could feel the pounds pouring into him like melted butter in a latex balloon, belly sagging towards his shins like a lardy volcanic flow.

“I’m so big…” he whined, gripping his breasts as if to hold them back. And yet, they simply sagged between his fingers, growing fatter and rounder, pancakes of side-roll fat forming beneath them that reached around to his sagging rolls of his back. His shirt began to pull itself apart, jiggling water wing arms growing far too big for any fabric to contain them, broad shoulders ripping it down the back.

“Some might start to think your game was more strip poker than blackjack if they saw you in such a state as this, Jesse.” the Dealer tittered, watching him grow fatter still.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen; the chips continued their little trapeze act, and he his growing one. His arms, uselessly laid on his belly, rose up higher as his upper belly roll rose like so much pizza dough. His hips flared out tremendously wide, the swell of his buttcheeks below pushing into the sides of the chair, wedging him in like a titanic loaf of bread in a pan. The last chip bounced off his belly, adding a third rolly chin to his face, and bringing his earnings--and added weight-- to 630.

“Huff… ha…” he panted through bloated lips pushed together by his obscenely fattened face.

“You know, in the early days of my residence in this world, weight was a signifier of wealth. I’d dare say kings might be envious of your current heft… and perhaps a prince or two, but perhaps only because they’d still be small enough to wiggle a toe or two. Oh, the fun I’d have with royalty, aha!”

The Dealer’s eyes glowed brighter, thin rivulets of gold dripping out to gild his cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice, or else didn’t much care; he simply cued up another selection of the cursed chips, providing a twenty-second countdown to the next round.

I can’t take much more of this… I’m fatter than a cow, fatter than a hippo, fatter than… fat! It’s all so heavy… every part of me is so full, so soft, so wobbly… if I go over my weight any more, I’ll never be able to walk again. There must be a way to lose… Think, dammit, think!

“Round four will begin shortly… please, place your bets.” the Dealer smiled, snapping Jesse back to reality. Once again, Jesse reached out-- with some added difficulty, struggling at leaning his bulky body close enough to get his flabby arm to the table-- to push a single chip forward.

“That’s just a show of poor sportsmanship, Jesse… you’re truly lucky I’m here to raise the stakes.” the Dealer hissed, shoving all of his chips forward again. “The bet is now 210. Round four has begun.”

Jesse watched with exhausted anticipation as the cards were placed one by one. A seven and a two… at least it’s not an instant win. It felt strange pushing back against luck; wrong, even, to force a loss. But if he wanted to walk out of here…

“Hit.” he nodded, feeling the roll of his neck bunch up like a blubbery donut as he did so. Another card was placed; a three.

“Hit.” he said again, heart thumping between his mammoth breasts. Another card; another two.

“Hmm… pushing your luck, eh?” the Dealer grinned.

“Come on… hit me.” Jesse spoke, voice trembling. This was it; he just had to go over. Just one more card…

“And another seven. That’s-”

Impossible…

“Blackjack. Perhaps it was a fool’s errand to try and win against you, but I have to say: I’m having a ton of fun.”

“T-That can’t be! You… you have to be cheating!”

“Cheating?” the Dealer laughed, the sound throaty and indignant. “But you’re the one who’s always winning. No, dear Jesse… lady luck just won’t leave your side. Now, your winnings…”

“Wait, j-just hold on-”

Jesse raised his hands in protest, hoping to block the slowly levitating chips from adding to his pile, but he couldn’t get close enough to reach; his fat belly pushed into the sturdy table, limiting him to futile swats at the approaching chips.

*Guuuurble…*

His gut groaned ominously as the chips transferred into his pile at a slow, methodical pace, the Dealer savoring the show beyond the expanse of green felt. At the third chip, whatever scraps of clothing that remained on his body tore free, slipping off his misty flesh and down to the floor. Even his underwear, stretchy and pulled tight between his cheeks like a cheap g-string, utterly failed with a perceptible snap that sent his butt jiggling.

Bigger, bigger… at 900 lbs, he was already the fattest person he had ever seen by a long shot, and still he was getting bigger. His fingers swelled into little sausages, fat hands dimpling into buttery mitts, wrists melding into fat forearms that in turn melted into fat arms that sagged against his buttery under-tit rolls even if he raised them as far as they could go-- which wasn’t very far. His breasts spilled out against his belly in two overly-full swells, udders that would make even the chestiest supermodel green with envy. His nipples ached; he felt like a proper cow, ready to be relieved of his milk… it was quickly becoming obvious that this place was shaping him, molding him beyond a simple addition of weight, turning him into the definition of overindulgent plenty.

The chair beneath his form had seemed so big before, and now he was practically bursting out of it, back fat oozing around the backrest, belly rolls creeping up over the sides, butt pushing up beneath them to further consume the arm rests. The titanic, churning belly at his front spilled far past his knees, creeping forward like a massive melting yoga ball, eating up his playable space on the table in front of him. Even his face swelled into obscenely round shapes, cheeks melding directly into his fat neck, jawline utterly missing with only the barest dimple commemorating his first of three rolly chins; if anyone saw him now, he doubted they’d have even a hint at who he was-- who he used to be.

“Mm, getting rich there… and I’m not just talking about your milk.” the Dealer chuckled, followed by a surge of growth in Jesse’s chest that pushed him up another cup size or three… if they even made bras that big. Jesse simply groaned as the last eighty pounds surged into his body in tens like kinks in a hose of cream, pushing every swollen roll just a little bigger, weighing him down just a little more until it finally stopped, leaving him as a half-ton pile of defeated fat rolls.

“Well, it seems we’re at the final round. I’m sad to see it come to an end… but I saved the best for last.”

Jesse looked over his cleavage, holding his breasts like a massive fertility idol just to keep the sensitive blubber from rubbing against his belly too much with each heavy breath. He watched as the Dealer withdrew a single solid gold token from below the table, this one inscribed with a deep-set ‘500’.

“The final round will be a high-stakes game. The maximum bet for this round has been raised to 500… with a minimum bet of 500.”

“Buh… But if I win…” Jesse panted, still awash with the strange sensations that overwhelmed him after the last growth spurt. Things tingled and sloshed and wobbled at nearly every roll and crevice of his wide, wide body, sending him flushing and fidgeting in his chair.

“You’ll be more than 1900 pounds richer than when you started… in both pocket and body, aha.” The Dealer chuckled, the sound like sharp rocks falling down a mountain.

“I… I can’t…” Jesse huffed, fat hands pressed to the curve of his sloshing gut.“I’m big… too big…to reach…I can’t play.”

“Nonsense, my porcine player! I’ll appoint you some attendants; they’ll be more than willing to help you out.”

A draft like an open oven rolled across Jesse’s sweating backrolls, and just as quickly diminished into nothing. He tried to look for the source of the sudden heat, but found the range of his vision was greatly reduced by the new addition of flushed saddlebag cheeks and the neck roll that bulged up towards his soft brown hair.

The answer didn’t take long to arrive, however; emerging from his left and right were two slender male forms, clad in identical latex booty shorts that clung tightly to their exaggerated hips. In fact, almost everything about them was identical; the same light blue flesh, the same bright, round white eyes surrounded by gothic black makeup, the same golden bars piercing their deep purple nipples, the same swirling black ram horns.

“Aww, need some help, darling?” the incubus to his right purred, wrapping his slender arms around his bloated, hammy sack of a bicep, resting his smooth, alluringly pretty face against his shoulder.

“Allow us to help… after all, there’s still *loads* of fun left to be had, ehehehe~” the incubus to his left responded in the same seductive tone, covering his black lips with his hand as he giggled to himself.

“Now now, Cassy, Cress; do you gentlemen mind arranging things for our guest here? It’s our final hand of the evening… you can have all the fun you’d like in the dining hall once this game of ours is finished.” the Dealer spoke sternly, holding out two cards between his fingers towards them.

“Aye aye, captain.” they spoke in unison; in one fluid moment, Cassy pushed the requisite chips from Jesse’s pile into the betting pool while Cress reached across the table to accept Jesse’s two cards, showing off his exaggerated bubble buns as he did so. He leaned back and gave a knowing smirk before placing the cards on Jesse’s soft belly.

“A seven…” Cassy purred, rubbing the side of his gurgling gut in slow circles.

“...and a four.” Cress finished, rubbing his belly on the opposite side. If he wasn’t gripped by anxious fear, he might’ve admitted how good it felt… but the only thing he could focus on was the heart thumping behind his fat breast.

“Aha, it seems we have similar hands; how interesting. And how will you proceed, Mr. Ward? Will you hit… or will you stay?”

How, indeed. What could he do? 11 was a lucky hand; if he hit, he’d undoubtedly land a blackjack. If he stayed, the dealer could just bust and make him win anyway. He never lost; what options were there for a man who always wins?

Unless…

The twin swells of his chest rose as he took a deep inhale, and let it out slowly.

“...I’ll stay.”

The Dealer shrugged. “If you say so. Now then… my turn.”

A fat drop of sweat rolled down Jesse’s cheek as he watched the dealer place his finger on the deck, pulling one card slowly off the top.

“Let the best man win, hmm?” he grinned, and flipped the card onto the table. His grin faltered, lips tightened into a thin line.

On the table in front of him sat the portrait of the Queen and her lover, the two smooshed into the frame with a burger between them. They had sauce on their lips and chins and looked exhausted, as though they had been eating for days straight… and judging by what little of their blobby bodies Jess could see–mostly just their ballooned-up tits and fat faces–may not have been far from the truth.

“...well. It appears I’ve won.”

“Depends on how you look at it…” Jesse threw him a look of smug self-satisfaction. “...’cause I was aiming to win my mobility. Looks like I really never lose, huh?”

“Well played, sir. Well played indeed.” the Dealer spoke, curls of smoke drifting out of his nostrils. Cress and Cassy let out disappointed “awws” at the same time, shuffling dejectedly up to the table. From his chair-bound spot, Jesse could hear them muttering to themselves: “I wanted a new whale to play with; Angel’s totally gonna rub this in my face…”

“And he was so top heavy! Imagine how big his boobs would’ve gotten…”

The clinking of chips permeated the air as the twin incubi re-sorted the chips to the proper piles. Almost immediately, Jesse could feel himself getting lighter, pound after pound vanishing from his frame. His belly moved back from the table, his breasts shrank; his side rolls diminished, and his backside became less mountainous. When he became small enough to unwedge himself from the chair, he immediately rolled his body to a standing position while he continued shrinking. It almost felt like he was approaching some kind of normal body shape… when the shrinking stopped. While smaller, he still looked like a pro sumo wrestler… or at least just a professional eater. His belly slapped down against rolly thighs, which wrapped around to equally wobbly buttcheeks. Oversized breasts, fat as cantaloupes and just as juicy, bounced against his chest. At least he could still walk…

“Shame to see so much potential wasted, but alas… all good things must come to an end. Enjoy your winnings, Mr. Ward. Perhaps you could try your hand at another game while you’re here?” the Dealer called after him, framed by the two twink-ish twins.

“Go to hell…” he huffed, shakily wobbling his naked bulk towards the door, jiggly arms outstretched like he was walking a tightrope.

Jesse ignored the trio of laughter echoing out behind him as he pushed against the door, his bellybutton engulfing the doorknob as he tried his best to maneuver himself into a less awkward position to grab the handle.

“Come on, Jesse, figure it out… get it open and you’re free. First stop, liposuction clinic, then I have to warn somebody before anybody else gets roped into one of these awful games-”

His heart leapt when he finally found the doorknob.

Claude.

He was so wrapped in the whirlwind of a situation that he had forgotten about him, the pretty Frenchman from the bar; if he was still in the building, he could be in danger too! He hoped he could find him, warn him before it was too late, before he was taken for a wicked game and blown up into some kind of blimp…

The door flew open silently despite his impatient belly slam, sending him stumbling into the main room. There, standing across from the door, drink in hand, was Claude; his soft, manicured hand was just pushing a token into the slot machine in front of him.

“Claude… wait…” he huffed breathlessly, trying his best to awkwardly stomp forward in his unfamiliar new state. Just a bit further…

The blonde man took a lucky sip of his drink, steeling himself for the pull. He raised his hand, grasped the lever…

“No!...”

In that moment, surrounded by sneering devils adorning the hall of slots in front of him, Jesse reached his hand out for Claude, wishing he could cover the last six feet and just yank him away; instead, his legs failed to support his speedy approach and he tripped. Panicked, Jesse let out a yelp and grabbed onto the closest machine to steady himself. The sound startled Claude, who lept out of his chair and dropped his drink with a strawberry splash.

"Monsieur! T-Tu es nu!” he exclaimed in confusion, his cheeks flushing with astonished embarrassment. Just as Jesse was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Claude saw his swaying breasts and stepped back in a flustered daze, slipping on his spilled drink. He also caught himself with the bar of the machine, but this one lurched forward and sent the three wheels spinning. Suddenly, the handle unlocked under him, and his own machine also spun to life.

“1 FREE PLAY!” the letters flashing above him exclaimed, sending a wave of dread through his expansive body.

Jesse could only watch in shock as he watched the wheels spin, each one stopping with a loud thunk one after another, each displaying matching sixes.

Across the room, behind a still-stunned Claude, his own machine displayed three matching symbols, these ones depicting donuts.

“UNHOLY COMBO: SIX HUNDRED SIXTY SIX POUNDS AWARDED”

The machine cheerily announced the spine-chilling statement above Jesse, a rain of the cursed chips bouncing onto his back rolls. He groaned as he began to swell up again, belly raising him up off the floor as he filled right back up to his last colossal size at the table… and larger beyond.

Behind Claude, a veritable fireworks show erupted from the machine, with jets of fire and dazzling sparkles shooting up into the air. Over the loudspeaker, a bright chime sounded, followed by an excited announcer proclaiming:

“DAILY JACKPOT: THREE THOUSAND POUNDS AWARDED! ”

“Claude… run!” Jesse puffed through pudgy cheeks pushed into his chest, but it was too late. Claude’s middle began to expand like a hose was pumping butter directly into his center, sending the frenchman into a shocked stupor. One by one the buttons popped off of his fine shirt, falling soundlessly to the carpeted floor. Pale breast flesh rapidly bulged through the gaps made by the remaining buttons before these two failed, his round, delicate breasts bouncing out. He grasped them in his hands as if to stop them from encroaching any further, but still they grew, going up a cup size every few fleeting seconds; as if to spite his efforts, his ass quickly took a surge of growth, blasting his pants off like cheap latex; his underwear band couldn’t handle the onslaught and tore free, leaving him nude from the waist down… not that you could see anything particularly naughty, so buried was his manhood in a pillowy fupa and covered with a belly hanging down in double-stacked rolls.

Jesse fared little better, groaning as his body slowly took on the pounds, spreading his flab like pancake batter on the floor. Even amongst the madness, he couldn’t help but be enraptured by the womanly form Claude was taking on, with his huge pink-nippled breasts that blobbed out towards his bellybutton paired– or should he say peared– with his double-wide hips and fat-packed asscheeks that sat wider than anything else on him. He looked like a statue of Venus, an image of fertility and abundance despite his male presentation, though perhaps even ancient sculptures would be hard pressed to capture his girth. Arms hung down like pale flags announcing his body’s surrender to the tide of fat flowing into him, and soon his thick calves began to wobble as he struggled to simply stay standing.

Two demons in skimpy leather harnesses sauntered through the wide wooden doors leading to the dining hall, dragging a kind of chariot seat behind them; the width was considerable and it sat low, covered in deep purple cushions like some kind of pillow for a car-sized jewel. The only object of value here, however, was gaining pounds by the second, and so they wasted no time in positioning it behind Claude’s bare, sagging butt that sagged lower and blimped further outward to greet it. Just as he thought he might find his center of gravity, the two demons positioned themselves on either side of his lardbag arms and pulled him back, sending him falling back to the cushion.

The impact sent him wobbling like a glob of jelly, his sweat-drenched rolls slapping meatily all across his body. He could feel his back-fat touch his ass as he continued to swell, larger and larger still; in the cushioned divot, he looked like dough in a pie tin, the overwhelming roundness of him moving out to fill every available space.

“Hah… hah…” he panted, the sheer act of growing exhausting him; he felt like he was sinking into himself, and he practically was; his neck was engulfed in concentric rings of thick fat, and his cheeks bloated into blubbery watermelon-sized sacks on his face. He could see his cheeks encroaching into his vision, but mercifully the growth moved to the rest of his face too, softening his masculine features into buttery androgyny.

Two more barely-dressed male demons crept out of the dining hall, one sporting a pair of huge bubbly breasts, pierced nipples shining against the casino lights, while the other’s ass swallowed up his skimpy painted-on shorts. The bottom-heavy one carried what looked like a square board with wheels on it, made of some kind of dark wood and decorated with smooth gold. They moved to Jesse now, who had stopped growing by this point and was too focused on Claude to care about the demons at his sides.

“Come on, big boy; can’t lay around forever.” the top-heavy demon spoke commandingly down to him with a grin, straddling his butt.

“Or maybe he can? Give him another spin.” the bottom heavy one giggled, hugging the wheeled board against his chest.

“Now now, that would be cheating… plenty of time for more games later, anyway. Ready?”

The bottom heavy demon nodded, and the one straddling his ass leaned over, warm breasts pushing into his back fat, and hooked two muscular arms around his own sizable chest. He pulled up, and suddenly Jesse was lifted to a standing position. The bottom-heavy demon lifted his gargantuan belly and placed the rolling board beneath it, letting the mass plop back on top of it quickly after.

“There. Now you’re at least a little mobile… won’t take you quite so long to waddle that blubbery ass around, anyway.” the demon behind him chuckled, releasing him from his grasp.

“Now then,” one of the lusty creatures spoke beside Claude, but the bottom-heavy one by Jesse continued, “why don’t we get to the dining hall? There’s plenty there for winners like yourselves..”

“All on the house, of course.”

“We’re sure you’re simply starving.”

“I know I could go for a bite… I’m always hungry for stuffed pig.”

With this, the demons laughed, and began pulling Claude’s cart like horses on a carriage, moving him towards the doors. Jesse was pushed forward to follow behind, the wheel letting him rest forward on his gut to move, though he would’ve followed behind even if the demanding demons weren’t directing him. What else was there to do in hell but go deeper and see where it all leads?

He shuddered, expecting a huge oven, or perhaps pitchforks waiting for him on the other side of the doors, and as they passed into darkness his breath hitched– yet the darkness lessened as they walked, brightening slowly until they came to the end of a dim hall. Two more doors just as wide as the last opened by themselves, and the pair rolled into a huge, lavishly decorated room. It almost looked like a theater, with wide viewing boxes forming towers that surrounded a stage, more spaces in front of the stage allowing more up-close viewings of the performance. Moans low as whales and high as birdsong yet no less passionate emanated from the boxes, putting images of the passions the audience engaged in in Jesse’s mind. And as Claude and Jesse were moved to the ramps on both sides of the stage, they came to the collective realization that *they* were this evening’s show.

“Lardies and jellyman, tonight’s special show…” a voice from above spoke, booming yet smooth and melodic, “winners that just keep winning. And my, how they’ve won big tonight…”

Claude’s cart stopped in the spotlight shining in the middle of the stage, Jesse set next to him. They exchanged tired glances as the quad of demons disappeared behind the stage curtains, returning just as quickly with several food carts piled high with pastries, cakes, puddings, and pies.

“These two will get a choice… eat something from the cart, or feed it to their new friend. Greed begets gluttony.. But will gluttony beget lust?” the voice above questioned. “Place your bets as our contestants decide…’

Jesse stared at Claude, the light turning him into a radiating beacon of glistening flesh, his many rolls practically sparkling. He was immense, obscenely and impossibly fat… yet something about how utterly engulfed in himself he was captivated Jesse. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from how his legs sat uselessly saddled with hundreds of pounds of fat, arms laying out against his sides like gloves taped on bin bags full of lard.

“J-Jesse…”

The word was enough to shake him from his enamored, confused daze.

‘Claude… Claude, I-”

“Please… Jesse, I can’t…” he huffed, panting over his own immensity, boy boobs bobbing on his chest with every breath.

“N-No, I… I understand.” Jesse spoke, taking a heavy step towards him. Pushing their guts together to get close enough, Jesse placed a hand on the edge of his huge belly. “I’ll have to eat… I promise I won’t let you get any bigger if I can help it.”

He felt immediately guilty thinking the opposite, thinking obscene and uncontrollable thoughts about stuffing every one of the hundreds of pounds of bakery delights into him, making him so much bigger…

A loud gurgle rumbled in Claude’s belly, and a flush rose from his nose to his blubbery chest.

“No… Jesse… please… feed me. My belly… so hungry…” he huffed, biting his lip. “This weight… is driving me wild… nom de dieu…”

Jesse stopped, stunned, watching this blob of a man moan in a sea of himself. And then, grabbing a thick slice of chocolate cake, he leaned forward to press it to his lips, practically laying on him to get close enough. Their soft rolls mingled together in the warm embrace, and as Claude took the first bite, the two couldn’t help but wonder…

Was this truly hell?

Or their own personal heaven?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rumors sprouted quickly of the haunted casino off Chance Avenue, with its darkened doors and unlit signs. The winds around the building carried hints of music: dulcet, jazzy tones that vanished as soon as you listened for them, and yet the scents of sweet liquors and fine meals lingered beneath the nose. Nobody truly believed the place was still open despite these vague echoes of life, or if it ever was; it was merely another abandoned building, another empty parking lot. And yet, once every-so-often, an invitation is extended, or else another gambler exhausts all other avenues of luck-based-thrill the city has to offer and finds themselves approaching the edge of the avenue, and once more the grand building comes to life... for some devils are always waiting to make a deal.

#fatboy #fatmen #weightgain #magicweightgain #demonweightgain #gayfat #fatgay #thefattestofallthegays #itshardtothinkoftagssometimes #mywriting #fetishlit #kinklit

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thewritingsandwich · 4 months

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The Chiming Lady - Part 1

A Lockwood & Co. Fan Fiction

Other Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Summary: The agents of Lockwood & Co. are invited to the Halloween-Party of a former client.

A/N: I originally wrote this for @ savelockwoodnco on instagram's filler episode theme. But I'm a month too late... anyways this takes place after 'The Empty Grave' but there are no major spoilers for it. Originally I wrote it in german, but I translated it for the internet with the help of DeepL.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, brief mentions of su***de and mu**er

Even though letters are still commonplace in this day and age, we at Lockwood & Co rarely expected to receive letters that were not from DEPRAC or in any way related to a case. So you can imagine how surprised we were when George presented a letter from a former client at breakfast.

Mrs Aminah Pearson's case was several months ago and if she hadn't written us a letter, I would probably have forgotten about it. Okay, I had forgotten about it until she wrote us a letter. In my defence, we were only dealing with a simple lurker in her house, but for her it was "at least as bad as a poltergeist".

Before we opened the letter, I checked my memory for at least something about Mrs Pearson, but apart from the fact that she was incredibly fond of us, I couldn't think of anything else. I am very sure, however, that she had got us a cake at the time.

Over eggs and toast, Lockwood grabbed the letter and opened it before George could object. It was a single sheet of paper through which the ink had bled slightly. Lockwood skimmed the letter once before sitting up properly and reading it again, now more carefully. George and I exchanged glances expectantly, but neither he nor I could interpret anything from Lockwood's gaze.

Mrs Pearson is inviting us to her costume party," Lockwood finally said and placed the letter in the middle of the table. George was quicker than me and read the letter aloud.

"Dear agents of the Lockwood & Co agency, due to your impressive work last March, I would like to kindly invite you to my costume party at the end of October. I have enclosed an envelope in which you can send your acceptance (or cancellation). If you accept, a car will come to pick you up on the evening of the party and take you to Norridge Mansion outside London. There are a number of night taxis available to get you home safely later. Please come in costume. Yours sincerely, Aminah Pearson." George put the letter aside. "That sounds great. I've always wanted to go to a costume party."

"Mrs Pearson is very wealthy, if I remember correctly. A party like this is an easy way to socialise and get the Lockwood & Co name out to the other rich people of London," Lockwood replied, "but a costume?"

"We've been asked to dress up, Lockwood. It's daft if we don't come in costume," George replied, causing even more discomfort on Lockwood's face. Although it wasn't discomfort. I think 'disinterest' describes it better.

"What are we supposed to dress up as and still look serious? I would like to use this party to make the guests aware of us. We shouldn't turn up in tights and a cape." Lockwood knew George well. After all, the likelihood that he would have suggested costumes from his comic books was very high. Offended, George leaned back in his chair and shoved a piece of toast with jam into his mouth.

"Okay, then what?"

Personally, I wasn't against the idea of costumes, provided they were the right ones. I had to agree with Lockwood that characters from comics were off the table. I've seen the women in George's comics, or comics in general - the costume choices were 'way too much skin' and 'skintight jumpsuits'.

I gazed at the thinking cloth in thought. Between conversations, insults and several scribbles, something peeked out between the orange jam and peanut butter. I pushed almost everything on the table aside and cleared a drawn-on grid. Some time ago, we started playing Dungeons and Dragons - a fantasy role-playing game - on free evenings and the thinking cloth served as a map.

"What if we dress up as our Dungeons & Dragons characters?" I just threw the idea into the room. Personally, I would love to dress up as my character. I played a little halfling girl who hunted fairies as a ranger, and even though the game wasn't really for me at first, I took a liking to Eobyn Truewood.

George's eyes began to sparkle and believe me when I say I've never seen him like this before. He straightened up, braced his hands on the table and looked at the exposed, drawn grid.

"That's a brilliant idea, Luce. You go as Eobyn the Ranger, Holly as Brythyra the Bard, and Lockwood as Arris the Rogue." Arris was Lockwood's character - a charming half-devil who came from a rich family but gave up his wealth for adventure and arcane magic. Brythyra was Holly's bard, who supported Lockwood's character and my character with music and magic after protecting her own home village from orcs.

"And you?" George was the game master and therefore responsible for all the other characters, the world and the story. He was truly absorbed in the role - perhaps because he could finally boss us around.

He paused for a moment before replying: " That's a surprise. I already have the perfect idea."

"Hold on a second. Arris has bright red skin and horns. That's not serious enough for me," Lockwood intervened.

"Or your costume is so good and impressive that you'll definitely be remembered," I replied. If Lockwood was going to this party for work reasons, then he might as well make a lasting impression. Even if he didn't seem particularly convinced yet. "And in this form, we can easily take our rapiers with us. I'd hate to go into an old building without our weapons."

Any further objections from Lockwood were successfully met with his reasons for going to the party in the first place.

With nothing else on the agenda for the rest of the day, I turned to my sketchbook and drew up ideas of exactly what Eobyn's outfit could look like. The ideas flowed out of me, so I was glued to the table in the kitchen for several hours while George and Lockwood were busy elsewhere. After a while, Lockwood joined me and once again expressed his doubts.

"I think it'll be fun. We'll dress up, make a good impression and get free food. Nothing can really go wrong," I replied and leant forward a little. Lockwood was sitting at the head of the table as usual.

I gently placed my arms on the table so that my hands were only a few centimetres away from Lockwood's. For a moment, we both just stared at our hands, which came closer and closer together, until my pencil rolled off the table and startled us.

I felt the blood rush to my face as I bent down to grab the pencil. Back above the table, I saw Lockwood peering into my sketchbook. So I pushed it closer to him and told him I was thinking about Eobyn's clothes.

"That looks great, Luce. And I don't even know what Arris looks like," he replied and, as always when he complimented me, I felt a little warmer.

But he was right. The portrait on his character sheet was a smiley face with little horns. Mine, on the other hand, was a detailed drawing of my halfling. I was passionate about drawing her by now, but my sketchbook was still dominated by someone else.

"If you want, we can work on the look and clothes together," I suggested. He leant back in his chair.

"I don't have any more plans for today. George threw in the acceptance earlier. I don't think anyone could have stopped him. But as soon as a job comes in, it has priority, all right?" So he took off his suit jacket and hung it over the chair behind him.

Over tea and the remains of a lime pie I'd baked for yesterday's client, who had cancelled without notice, we tinkered on Arri's look together.

During the afternoon, Holly joined us and we explained our plan to her. Surprisingly, she loved the idea of dressing up as Brythyra and told us in detail what her costume would look like. Brythyra was a high elf and according to Holly's description, she would look even more elegant in the costume than she already did. She also offered to bring her sewing machine tomorrow and take on the task of tailoring our costumes.

It was already evening when George returned through the front door, laden with a few bags from department stores.

"Did you buy a whole shop empty? And where did you get all the money from?" Lockwood replied.

"I had saved up quite a bit myself and my piggy bank was waiting for just this moment," he replied proudly, "oh hello, Holly."

She waved to him before he disappeared from the kitchen and went to hide his bags.

"What's George wearing?" she asked as he audibly climbed the stairs.

"He won't tell us," I replied, looking at the designs for our costumes. It was hard to imagine Lockwood in Arris's costume, but it was harder to imagine me in Eobyn's. I rarely, if ever, experimented with my clothes, so it was difficult to imagine myself in something I would never actually wear.

Shortly after George disappeared, I quickly ran up to my attic to grab some coloured pens so the three of us could decide what colours our costumes should be.

As Eobyn has spent a lot of time in the forest and nature, I chose lots of natural colours like brown and green for her costume. Arris was very good at hiding in the shadows as a rogue, so he was given a suitable dark colour palette so that he would blend into the darkness through his clothes. Holly told me that she had pastel colours in mind for Brythyra's costume and I already knew that she would look amazing in it.

Holly and I went fabric shopping the next morning to get the costumes made as early as possible. We returned with several metres of fabric. Holly set up in the kitchen and put her sewing machine on the dining table. She also brought some sewing patterns with her, which we used to start sewing the costumes.

#original work #lockwood and co #locknation #locknationfillerepisode #anthony lockwood #george karim #lucy carlyle #holly munro #jonathan stroud #l&co #locklyle #l&co. netflix #lucy x lockwood #lockwood & co. fan fiction

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someverygaymoth · 3 months

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KD!AU

(lmao did I forget to mention the errormare? My b Dawgs that too. We have chaos polycules in this au.)

Euclades(NM) knew Steller(Error), when he was younger, still in his flock, still by an entirely different name and form. When things went horribly wrong for him, he ran from his flock, and Steller. A lover he'd taken some 400 years ago. They parted with only a letter, a letter Clay left for him in a fit of fear and confusion after becoming what he is now. He fled from his problems, and didn't allow anyone to follow him or help them. Needless to say, Euclades still thinks of him often, and having him show up on his doorstep, with a mate, no less, is not something he was prepared for.

Steller doesn't recognize him. He looks so different now, he can hardly blame him, but part of him aches. He can barely stay there long enough to greet both him and Atra(ink) before having to spend the rest of the day in his room, shocked to realize he can still take his old form. He didn't know that before Steller came around. But, it didn't take much for Steller to figure it out...

Literally the whole fic I wrote about that ages ago↓↓ (this is old AF I revamped it literally just for this post PLEASE forgive me if it vaguely sounds like garbage in some parts.)

(Important details: trade is the common language used for international trade in this world, dragons propose with giant intricate circles made with stones and rocks gathered sometimes over months, dragons have little balls of flame for souls called soulfire.)

(First person: Steller's point of view)

Clay isn't who he says he is. To Steller, it's all but a mystery to whom, if anyone, he's told the truth to. It started with a feeling when they first arrived here. Something felt off, familiar and suspicious. Then it became a hunch, then a conclusion that the king was hiding something. If his mate, his kid— Atra's kid were going to stay here, secrets weren't going to fly with him.

Many things clued him in on the King's secret, and when he uncovered something so personal as this is, Steller found it an incredibly difficult realization to have. He had to confer frequently with Atra, to fumble through what to do and what to think, how to feel. Not that Atra is any good at any of those things, but stars he does his best. And that's something. One thing Atra said stuck with him through all of this.

"If he loved you as you said he did? He left so abruptly to keep you safe, even if it was something you didn't need to be protected from."

Euphe was always the protected, never the protector. Of course he'd want to protect Steller from what he wasn't protected from. From whatever happened to his home, to his people. To him. Thinking about and processing all of this went slow, was absolutely heart wrenching, and snowballed slowly into more of an investigation into the truth rather than a hunch or a feeling.

The first hint had been his reaction to his presence here, Euclades didn't utter a word beyond a curt greeting in draconic, in response to Steller's trade. That could easily be mistaken for an old age monarch attached to his ways, but Euphe never learned trade either. Then, with nothing but those words, he disappeared for the rest of the day. Stellar had been intrigued, and looked for him, wanting to talk to him more. At least thank him for allowing himself and his mate to stay here, apologize for his lover's foolishness.

Though, he wasn't around. Steller asked his mates, though they told me he was in his room, probably working, and he seemed in a mood about something when they last saw him. In other words, he was best left alone. Though they remarked about Cain handling the political affairs this week, to give him a break, and promised they would check on him later, and relay his gratitude. It left him with an odd taste on his tongues, persay.

The next? Cain. Steller never met him when he was with Euphe. Euphe talked about him a lot. Tall, strong, bright and beautiful. Steller knew without a doubt, that Euphe loved him deeply, but Cain was a protector before all else, he would've kept the secret at first, but Euphe knew it would spill eventually... On purpose or not. His flock wasn't a fan of lone draconics. Nor was any other, really.

To have one of their monarchs, nevermind such a sacred being as Euphe fraternizing with a troublemaker like him, that would give the young monarch's flockmates more reason to hate him. Though, now Cain acted the same way Euphe had always talked about him. A beautiful golden social butterfly that was able to connect with damn near anyone. Though he lacked a certain naivety that Euphe described, Steller could guess that was a product of maturity. To find them together now, ruling their empire as mates, was no surprise.

Cain contributed to more than one hint, really. One other being, their origin. Born of the sacred Tree of Connection, twin protectors given to their flock by their deities. It's pretty difficult to miss that one. Euphe never completely explained what they both were to him, but he's not sure that Euphe completely understood that for himself at the time. Nonetheless, you don't get two stories like that one. He was almost completely sure of it then.

The fourth hint lie in the garden. Deep in the garden, in fact. Abandoned and alone. The Tree of Connection itself, and the last source of Empathy magic, a single golden apple, alone within its ancient branches. A story that's also pretty unmistakable for any other, it sat in a well, reflecting golden light onto the water beneath. It was so well kept. Too well kept to be anything but the real Tree of Connection. How the hell they got it here was beyond Steller's comprehension, but still.

Steller would suppose it's fair to count the Tree of Life as a part of that last hint as well. The massive tree in the middle of the castle's main buildings. An apple tree, just like the Tree of Connection. It wasn't hard to figure out that it was grown from the last dark apple of Empathy. Steller put that one together pretty quick after seeing the golden apple all alone on the tree. He had few doubts then.

The fifth clue, was each of Clay's mates. The stories of how they met. Clay's need to help them all... That unmistakable empathy for small, helpless things. That was all Euphe. It was just like him. Steller could see it in his expression as they talked about it, he seemed so nostalgic for the time, but so terribly empathetic, hurt by remembering their pain and helplessness. He still has that same desperation to protect, to provide. Like he has anything to prove after taking an entire Empire by right of combat and creating a safe haven for draconic people everywhere.

The sixth was the library. The moment Steller saw it he had no doubts left. So many books, in so many draconic languages, so many scrolls from so many different flocks. Euphe loved books. He may not know trade, but he knew almost every draconic language near to his own flock. He used to bring many books in whatever language he could find, to their little clearing in the woods and read to him all night long. Memories Steller carries with fondness.

The castle is full of secret rooms and dark passages, and the library is no exception. The library has so many secret rooms, full of old scrolls in ancient draconic languages. In one of these rooms there was nothing but scrolls about his flock... The flock and the prophecy that tortured Euphe until the day they all disappeared. So many of them had the burnt impression of claws on the corner of the page. Steller could imagine it so easily, Clay staring at it with such fear and anguish, wondering why they had done this to him, and allowing his emotions to run away with him.

Between Cain dropping information about their past, Clay's desperate little attempts to hide the obvious, and the clues practically written in the walls themselves... It wasn't long before Steller figured it out. Now, came the hard part. Actually talking to him about it.

Atra was there through it all, content to let Steller know his thoughts on everything. All he had to say when he decided he wanted to talk with Clay was, "do whatever you feel is right. If the dust settles and you want to be friends? That's okay. If you end up fucking on his desk, that's cool too! We can sort stuff out later." Stellar gave him a straight shot to the ribs for that, of course, because that was a very unhelpful fantasy to carry in this situation... But at least he knew whatever way things went, he had the support of his mate.

After hours of pacing and procrastination in my room, Steller somehow end up in front of his door... Holding that old letter like the most precious thing in the world. The purple ribbon that held it was old and worn now, he'd applied sap many times over the years to help the fraying. The edges used to be a vibrant shimmering silver, but now the thin metallic touch had worn and flaked in some spots. The letter itself was corroded and yellowed at the edges. Steller read it often in those first years that his lover was gone. In fact, he'd read it so many times now he's certain that he could recite it word per word, blindfolded.

Now he held it before the door of the one who gave it to him, unsure and fearful. Clay knew he was there, without a doubt. Born of the tree of Connection, he possessed focal magics even other monarchs did not. Empathetic magic, specifically. He'd always been able to feel the emotions of others, but what he understands now is that Clay's abilities have grown much over the years. Steller knocks on the door gently and it unlocks with a small click, opening just a little. He pushes it the rest of the way open, and when he does, Clay watches him with tired eyes.

After all his anxiety and worrying today, it would seem he is an expected guest.

"Steller, what do you requi-" he freezes-no, flinches- when he sees the letter in his hand. His eyelight swirls with an unmistakable twinge of vibrant violet for a moment. He blinks and it's gone, it almost felt imagined.

"Euclades. It's a lovely name."

He was silent, watching Steller wearily. He looks guilty, contemplative, maybe even afraid... The dredge of negativity that flows over his bones seems to drip more heavily around him, roiling like a pond disturbed by rain.

"But it isn't yours, at least... It wasn't always. Was it?"

"No. No it wasn't." The door shut quietly behind him. The sound makes Steller glance back, only for a moment. "Please... Please allow me this moment in private. I... Cannot imagine how you must feel. If I must endure your anguish, let me be the only one to bear it." He pleads.

Steller locks the door on his own, content to give Clay what he asks. He sighs out, "I knew it was you," in a breath. It's difficult for him to tell whether it's a sign of relief or something entirely different.

"You're clever, I knew I couldn't hide it."

"You made quite an effort," Steller counters quickly.

He whispers back, "I am sorry."

"Why?"

"I was afraid," Clay answers. He looks Steller in the eyes with some acrid, visceral emotion that lingers. A terror he keeps buried away in the embers of his soulfire. It's an expression so like one he'd once seen Euphe make, whenever he spoke of his flock... It makes Steller's soul twist with longing, nostalgia, love and care that still lingers after centuries apart.

"Why did you leave." He corrects, "why didn't you even say goodbye?" Steller steps forward slowly, pulling the worn, old ribbon from their letter, and places the curled page gently on Euclades' desk, right in front of him.

"I... was afraid," he answers again.

"Of what?" Steller paces a slow line past his desk and around towards the door, gripping his skull as though he couldn't comprehend any of this. Maybe after all these years, he still couldn't.

"Of myself, what I might do... What the corruption did... It... I hurt people. It made me want to hurt people. I didn't want to hurt you."

"And you thought I wouldn't stop you? You thought I'd ever let you become something you're not? You thought you could hurt me? I am a force to be reckoned with, I've burned villages and destroyed towns, I have faced those which were unbeatable in the presence of draconic armies! I can protect myself!" Steller spits.

"Not from this. You don't understand. The influence of the tree is strong, Steller, it is dangerous, and real. It isn't something you can protect from. It took me centuries to break through it's influence-"

"And I COULD HAVE HELPED YOU!" Steller cries, pausing his pacing near the door, "but no, no you left me alone, and scared, with no clue where you were and no chance of helping you- you fool! I would never be afraid of you!"

"Well maybe, you fucking should be." Clay hisses, standing up.

"Don't try to prove a point, dumbass. I know what you are. What you REALLY are. And you can't ever hide that. You are not, and will not ever be something I fear." Steller growls, wings flaring out behind him. Already a broad, tall monarch, it made for a threatening display.

Clay puffs up right back, purple dancing through his eyes and in his markings. Two eyes... That's... Different. Everything is different. He's so much bigger now, it's startling to hear everything in his voice ring with something from the past, all coming from a form so different. Euphe was beautiful, even without the extravagant marks of a strong monarch. Even now, he's so beautiful, in all the conventional ways he never thought himself when they were younger. It makes Steller ache, but he doesn't let up on his stance.

He's in power here, size and status be damned.

Euclades still can't hurt him.

Clay marches around his desk, a growl heady in his throat. "That's exactly why I stayed away. You're too trusting— too stupid to—" he makes a wounded sound, "if I wanted to hurt you, would you even stop me?" He asks, expression pained.

"If you wanted to hurt anyone I would have stopped you!" Stellar barks back, throwing his hands up in the air.

He marches forward, face twisted into a snarl as he slams a fist into the door hard enough to make the wood tremble. "WOULD YOU?! Would you hurt me to stop it? Would you?" Steller doesn't flinch. Instead, he slides hands up to Clay's face, rubbing the gleaming markings under his right eye.

It has all the effect he remembers. The expression on his face wanes and it's not so difficult to see the tears blossoming in his sockets now. His wings shudder and his eyelights shift to a deep plum, he might notice, given the way he blinks a little harder for a moment, but he seems to give up on whatever he was trying there fairly quickly. Steller lets out a long breath, still holding him gently.

"The entirety of this hypothetical little situation that you've made up in your head, depends on you being able to hurt me. Euclades. You may be a king now but I know you are not but a stubborn child in your embers. I am not afraid of you, I never have been, and I never will be. No matter how hard you try, you can't hurt me. I won't let you, and you would never. You never once won a sparring match against me in our days together, and a handsome set of horns and some height on me will certainly not change that. Euclades, Euphe, neither of them would hurt me, I know that. More than anything, I trust that," Steller whispers to him, watching as Clay closes his eyes.

He leans into the contact as his breathing goes shaky, and his shoulders tense up with quivering little sobs. His expression tenses for a moment before going lax again. When tears fall, they're a familiar purple, not seafoam. They leave smooth trails of ivory white bone visible in their wake, and only more of it is exposed with every moment.

He asks softly, "do you hate me?" and when he speaks it's not the same deep central nation draconic grumble. It's softer, a gentle voice with an eastern dialect. It's Euphe's voice, not his.

"I couldn't ever hate you, I don't," Steller promises, still holding him in his arms, even as the darkness fell away, dripping onto his hands and the floor. "Not Euphe, and certainly not Clay. I don't blame you... Even if you were a stupid jerk for leaving me like you did." He whispers. Clay smiles, and when he opens his eyes, blinking away tears, it's Euphe staring up at him. "I uh... didn't know you could... you know. I didn't know you were... Still... Like this, under all the..."

"I didn't either... Until you came back." He laughs, like it's all some cruel joke.

"You're beautiful. Still so beautiful..."

"You always said that." He's smaller than Steller is now, looking up as he gently wipes the tears from the other's cheeks.

"I'm not talking about Euphe, you're not some relic, Clay. I'm talking about you."

Euclades looks up at me like he's said something profound, something that he hadn't even considered.

"That's not- I'm not..."

"But you are... You're so beautiful. You're strong, and amazing. You always have been, you just didn't see it before. And your horns have grown so much too... I won't lie, it's... attractive." Steller admits, smiling wryly and glancing to the chair in the corner of the room. It's upholstered in a beautiful purple, velvety fabric, and it's clear that someone sits their frequently, likely to keep Clay company while he works.

"Oh..." Clay stares at him wide eyed, flushed a deep plum, a color that's rather ironically fitting of royalty.

"You're... I still..." Steller sighs before taking a deep breath in, "I loved Euphe, and I want to love you too, Euclades. I want to chart every difference, bed our coals and make a new fire together, every new feature and habit as our kindling."

Clay sighs when their skulls press together, a smile creeping onto his face when their horns clink, and it makes both their beads rattle on their horns. "I cherish you Steller... I always have."

"Too much for your own good, dork."

"Hah! Maybe..." Clay admits, sighing.

Steller smiles down at him with an unconditional fondness. Their faces are close, like this Steller can feel their breaths mingling together. The tease of a taste on his tongues, like sweet spices and the love Steller wants to give him. Clay takes a step closer and pauses, seeming contemplative.

"Is this okay?"

"More than okay," Steller murmurs back, sliding one of his hands into the other's.

With the confirmation, he presses a slow kiss to Steller's mouth, chaste and small. The taller leans in again, vying for a deeper kiss. Clay happily reciprocates, squeezing Steller's hand as his other gently squeezes his iliac crest. He pulls away just enough to breathe before searching for more. Steller encourages the closeness with a hand on his skull, pulling him closer with the gentlest insistence. Clay doesn't resist or hesitate, just presses closer, until Steller's back is firmly against the door, wings relaxed out to the side.

After a couple more rounds of kissing he pulls away, breathless. "Wow, spirits I missed that..." He says softly, almost trembling.

"Did you now?" Steller asks, grinning a little.

"Silence, I missed your silence... That's what I missed." He insists, although the soulfire glimmering through his thin shirt does him no favors in confirmation.

"Naturally, of course."

"I- oh stars, Atra, he- did he say this was okay?" He tries to pull away, seeming startled.

"Shh, he's fine... Jerk was literally rattling off about every way this could go and telling me I better at least kiss you," Steller scoffs.

"Oh... Hah! Dear stars... Yes, I can imagine he was as helpful on the mind as Vicki was..." He sighs, "I figured this was coming... I... Thought you would be more... Upset with me."

"Something like that... Ramblings of a horny bastard," Steller sighs, shaking his head. "I was upset, at first. I couldn't fathom why you'd abandon me. Not when we almost..."

Clay pets gently over his hand.

"We were almost mates, Clay... That and I... I know I didn't tell you but I... I'd been working on a circle for weeks before you left."

Clay's expression twists up again, and his surprise is almost something he can feel in the air. "Steller..." He sighs, tearful.

"Shit timing... Huh?"

"My love..." Clay cries, smiling at him. "I would've loved that more than anything."

"would've."

"I still would now."

Steller's soulfire burns cold for a moment, flickering in his ribs.

"We have some catching up to do... and we still need to talk with our mates, together. But I want you to know... really, it was time that wronged us. You, were perfect. Always," Clay says softly.

"You were perfect too..."

Clay smiles wider, and Steller can almost feel the joyful shift of his magic in the air around them.

"So... where should we start, on that catching up?"

Clay grins slyly, "you know, I have been thinking about that. I have some ideas."

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