#exhales. this one was excruciating to write but

[sunkendreams]

I'm not really that familiar with 'The lost boys'

But, at the moment i just can help but think about any of them just absolutely going feral for reader in their period;

Just- top tier pussy eating and indulging while helping reader ease the pain.

This can either go really dark or really *really* soft :))

once bitten, twice shy.

( paul x fem!reader x marko. )

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. | paul x fem!reader x marko (paul-centric fic with a healthy side of marko)

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓. | one-shot — requested.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. | 5.2K.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. | SMUT! (mdni), vampire antics, blood drinking, bloodplay (they’re vampires), period sex, cunnilingus, oral sex (f!receiving), biting, hair-pulling, dirty talk, scratching, paul loves your tits, marko is kinda selfish, making out, kissing while they’re bloody (hot), threesome, ambiguous ending, panty-stealing

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. | so ,,, I would absolutely love to write a part 2 to this with them blowing the reader’s back out, so if that’s something y’all wanna see, please comment and/or send a request! I love writing for the lost boys so much ,,, most inspired I’ve been in a long time! I’m gonna start answering requests, too! I’m so excited to be back in the thick of things. Love you guys so much, thanks for your support!

TAGLIST: @dootys ; @reveluving ; @sat10 ; @milland ; @iamcautiouslyoptimistic ; @darklylucid ; @sirstompely ; @chaotichellscape ; @callsigncrash ; @manicpixiimurderdoll ; @sandeepics ; @rainbowcreepie ; @kiki-dohedo

They were descending upon you like a pack of slavering wolves — like sharks in the water, drawn to the scent of your blood. Whenever your menstrual cycle came around, it was as if you were wearing a dinner bell around your neck. Dwayne knew better than to interfere when you were in pain, and David simply told you that it would be over soon, without any real compassion.

Paul, however, had no real concept of boundaries, nor did he really have a desire to adhere to them. As soon as he caught wind of your blood, he was always a little closer — never too far away. If Paul happened to be nearby, it was a possibility that Marko was right behind him.

As you lay in your makeshift nest, nestled atop the rickety mattress, you were partially tangled within well-worn sheets, wishing for your torment to end. An excruciating ache spread throughout your lower belly, sending dull shockwaves of pain towards your limbs. Your head vibrated with an unpleasant humming.

Your alcove was shrouded in thick curtains which served as a door — even then, there wasn’t a purpose for it. Privacy was threadbare around the cavern, especially when it came to you. With a low groan, you rolled over, attempting to find a comfortable position, but everything felt horrible.

It was as if your body was imploding, ripping itself to pieces while still barely functioning. Sometimes, you wished that you could turn — if you were a vampire, menstruation would cease, becoming a thing of the past. You were half-tempted to beg David for a sip of the crimson bottle, but you knew he would decline.

With a shaky exhale, you sluggishly rolled out of your bed, gritting your teeth together as another wave of pain radiated through your lower back. A hot bath and plenty of sleep would do you good, but living with the boys had completely altered your circadian rhythm. There was no use in trying to return to normalcy.

Draped in one of your blankets, you wandered toward the drawn curtains, gasping when your foot nudged into something sitting atop the rocky, uneven floor. It was a small pile of chocolate, accompanied by a partially-destroyed box of tampons. You weren’t sure who left it there, but you had a hunch.

You stooped down, gathering the many offerings as you retreated into your chambers, mood improving by a sliver as you went about eating some of the chocolate. They were Milky Way and Secret bars, something you might’ve grabbed at the convenience store once upon a time. You assumed that one of the boys stole it.

As you sat along the edge of your bed, your mouth flooded with a rush of gooey nougat, sweet as can be and somewhat of a relief. It wasn’t enough to quell your constant aches and cramping, but the gesture was thoughtful. You placed the rest in a box underneath your bed, discarding the wrapper into a bin.

Your mattress was the most inviting thing you’d seen all day, coaxing you back into its plush warmth. Swaddling yourself within one of your blankets, you intended on sleeping — attempting to sleep the day away, if you could. Best to do it now before you were rudely interrupted come nighttime.

It was best to rest whenever the boys did, knowing that they’d become rowdy once the sun descended. They had a rather common practice of waking you up whenever they got up, and this time wouldn’t be any different.

“You’re on the rag,” Paul’s voice sliced through your slumber like a hot knife cutting into butter. “I can smell you from miles away — bet anybody could.” Your eyes fluttered, groggy from sleep as you adjusted to the low, flickering candlelight of your nest. It didn’t surprise you to see your boyfriend perched at the foot of your bed, smirking like a maniac, the bastard.

As much as you adored Paul, he was the last person you wanted to see. The unfortunate part about cohabiting with vampires was their nosiness, their desire to feed, their backward circadian rhythm — your boyfriend was the worst of all. With a soft groan, you twisted away, drawing the blanket over you.

Another sharp jolt of pain cut through your stomach, the sensation equating to that of a gut punch or shallow stab wound. You didn’t want Paul to see you like this, all disheveled and haggard, a mess of gore and exhaustion. “What time is it?” You mumbled, briefly rubbing at the bridge of your nose.

“I don’t know,” He shrugged, slithering forward until he was right next to you, close as could be. “Poor baby,” Paul crooned, peppering kisses against your face. “You’re just dying over here, aren’t you?” Admittedly, he wanted to eat you out — he hadn’t asked before, but being in such close proximity without having fed in awhile, he was ravenous.

His lips felt so cool against your feverish flesh, like ice against fire. You shamelessly careened into those brief pecks and fleeting sensations, lips parting as you let the blanket slip a little bit. “Feels like it.” You sighed, hand reaching toward his chest. His skin was always icy, perfect to quell the searing feeling that coursed all over your aching form.

Paul’s motives were mostly self-satisfying, an attempt to extinguish the ragged burning that blistered through his throat. Of course, he wanted to help you — take some of your pain away, but above all, he wanted to feed. He’d drink from your cunt like a fountain if he needed to, but it was all about execution. He wanted you to agree to it.

Marko would want in on this, Paul contemplated.

Sharing with his brother was an act of generosity, but Marko had some claim over you, too. Paul loved you, you loved him — Marko loved you, too. He felt obligated to alert his fellow blonde to your suffering — he was just as hungry. Though, Paul was delighted to find that he could have his fill first, no waiting in line.

“You feel so nice,” It wasn’t intended to be flirtatious — but for Paul, he’d take any scrap that he could get. In an attempt to feel his cold skin against your cheek, he playfully groped at your chest, causing your brows to furrow in mild annoyance. “Paul, not right now.” You sighed.

“Not right now?” He parroted, tone jocular and mischievous as he pressed another kiss against your cheek. You really were warm. Paul watched with a twinge of empathy as you winced, contorting and writhing around atop the mattress. You were in pain — he hated seeing you like this, wrought with an agony that he couldn’t rip away from you.

A bout of silence passed between the both of you, and you looked to Paul, whose mind was racing with lascivious thoughts. Saliva pooled within his mouth, a desperate hunger intermingling with his desire to no longer see you suffering. You curled up against him, hands pressed flat atop the mesh shirt he wore.

You’d grown accustomed to his smell — a pungent aroma, like carrion in the sun attempting to disguise itself as a bottle of stale cologne. At first, it was extremely off-putting, especially when you were having sex, but now, it was simply apart of his very being. You had been surrounded by vampires long enough to understand their distinct and disgusting scent.

“Baby, you gotta let me help you,” Paul murmured, cerulean hues taking on a predatory sheen. He was partially just a boy wanting to fuck his girlfriend, and the other half was a greedy creature who simply wanted your blood. “Got an idea to make you feel better, yeah? Make your pain stop for a little while.”

His icy hand traced over your cheek, thumb sweeping across your lower lip as he continued to shower you in feather-light kisses. It was akin to cold raindrops peppering your flesh. Paul’s hand then drifted underneath your shirt, an item that coincidentally once belonged to him, now repurposed.

That chilled temperature was a nice feeling — as much as you desired heat, the cavern could become oppressively stuffy and overbearing. When the California summers died down, the interior became a little cooler, more mellow. For now, you endured the heat. “Paul, I don’t think sex is going to help me.”

Paul guffawed, grinning wolfishly as he planted a kiss against your lips. It was open-mouthed and needy, which happened to make your cunt throb with a distant ache. You hated Paul sometimes — he made you so aroused and pent-up that you wanted to scream.

His facade of ‘dumb blonde’ charm initially worked on you — a carefully-crafted disguise that gave way to his underlying intelligence. Paul was wicked smart, but he enjoyed keeping up a charade for the fun of it. Easier to hunt that way, he’d told you, once upon a time. He was so charismatic, like a magnet — drew you right in.

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, sweet thing.” Paul snickered, crawling a little lower as he pressed kisses against your stomach, which made you so unbelievably flustered. “Let me help you out, baby. M’hungry,” He murmured into your skin, idly rucking your shirt up towards your chest. “Wanna taste you so bad.”

Realization washed over you then and there.

He was hungry.

The fresh menses that coalesced between your thighs must’ve been calling his name, and you stiffened as another tendril of blood wept from your core. It was always an uncomfortable sensation, but Paul could smell it — he had the nose of a keen hunter. You swallowed the lump within your throat, feeling more embarrassed than anything else.

“Paul, I — Are you sure?” If it weren’t for his state of vampirism, you would’ve been mildly disgusted, but this was Paul, after all. He was messy, nasty, and rowdy. He didn’t care whatsoever, and it was one of the reasons why you adored him. He was unapologetically unhinged — his constant state of being.

His cajoling laughter caused you to shiver, knowing what his answer would be before he said anything. It was stupid to believe that a vampire wouldn’t want to have free access to blood, no matter how unorthodox it might’ve been. “I’m very sure, baby. You just lay back, let me handle the rest. M’gonna make you feel better.”

If it weren’t for the context of the situation, he sounded like a doting, devoted boyfriend. You couldn’t help but let out a brief huff of laughter, but then again, if Paul intended to relieve some of your period pains in the process, you weren’t about to stop him.

With a nod, you rolled over, lying flat against the mattress as Paul swiftly shrugged off his tuxedo overcoat, letting it drape against the foot of the bed. His eyes glittered with excitement, and once he was perched at your feet, you got embarrassed. He’d eaten you out before on so many occasions, but this made you unbelievably flustered.

Insecurities got the better of you as you pressed your knees together, hand covering your face. “I can’t, Paul. You’re going to think I’m repulsive.” You groaned, feeling his strong, muscled hand gently clasp around your wrist, dragging it away so that you could see him.

“Baby,” Paul hummed with an urgency, his mane of coarse, dusty-blonde hair looking exceptionally wild when he hovered above you. “You really think that I’m gonna find you gross ‘cause of that?” He inquired, watching your pretty little face scrunch up. “I think it’s hot.”

You scoffed, finding some amusement in that. “You think me being on my period is hot?” It shouldn’t have surprised you — this was Paul, after all. “You’re insatiable. I’m just a free meal for you right now.” You sighed, and even if that was true, you would always be more than that to Paul.

Ever the patient predator, Paul perched his chin against the top of your knee, pressing a sweet kiss against your softer flesh. “Nah, baby! You’re more than that,” He protested, hands rubbing along your thighs. “You’re my sweet little mate.” He watched you shiver, and his lips twitched into a smirk.

Unfortunately, Paul knew how to get you hooked — whenever he referred to you as his mate, you became very smitten very quickly. “I know,” You mumbled, listening to his impish laughter as he showered your legs in greedy kisses. “I know I am.” You shuffled your legs apart just a little bit, and Paul was barging right into that newfound space without warning.

Paul grinned — a glittering, vibrant expression that made your stomach do excitable flips. “Yeah you are,” He purred, pushing your shirt up until it pooled around your stomach. That familiar scent of blood invaded his senses, activating that burning hunger. His throat blistered with a dry, festering agony. “Fuck, you’re all mine.” His voice became a touch darker.

You shuddered, skin crawling with an excitable heat as you squirmed atop the mattress. Paul’s ring-adorned digits curled into the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down and off of your legs. With only one thin veil to protect you from Paul and his appetite, you felt his arms hook around you, prying your panties away.

His attention turned to the menstrual pad, gaze sparkling with intrigue as he smelled the freeh blood on it and on you. “Might save that for later, as a dessert.” He let out a bark of laughter, gingerly discarding your panties off to the side, treating them with care. “You smell divine — bet you taste just as good.” Paul groaned.

With a brief inhale, he caught a full gust of your saccharine scent, interwoven that the twang of copper and your menses. He licked his lips, flattening himself against the mattress until he was on his belly. Paul rocked forward, and without hesitation, began to greedily lap at your cunt.

It was as if being touched by an open flame, nerves set ablaze by Paul’s eager, greedy licks. The broad flat of his tongue swept across the length of your slit, drinking in each tendril of blood. A lion drawn to that of a lamb, the predator finally catching its prey. You whimpered, aching something awful as he worked to soothe it.

Your hands lazily clamored toward the crown of his head, digits sinking into his product-stiff mane of hair. It felt coarse underneath your fingertips, but you didn’t care, clutching onto him with a fervor. “Paul, ri—Right there,” You sighed, hips jolting forward. “S’good.”

His oral fixation was rather renowned, and his prowess at giving you mindblowing head was really beginning to show. Paul’s tongue languidly split toward your weeping core, imbibing your menses as your blood began to extinguish that festering pain within his throat.

A molten-hot wave of heat rolled over you, dropping right into the pit of your stomach as he flicked his tongue across your clit. That singular gesture made your cunt clench pathetically around nothing at all, thighs beginning to squeeze at his face. Paul snickered, forcefully parting your legs with a mere shove of his rough palm.

He wished that you were always like this — he wouldn’t have a reason to hunt anymore. That was the lazy way out, and Paul loved the chase, but being able to simply feast on you without harming you was quite the payoff. He cleaned you up, tongue prodding at your entrance with a fervor.

Fortunately, Paul caught you on a heavy flow, and his greed was beginning to shine through. His restraint was thinly-veiled and shattering at the very foundation, hands tugging you forward as he lapped at the trickling rivulets of crimson. A groan escaped him as he devoured your cunt like a man starved, and in all actuality, he was.

“I hope you plan on sharing.” Marko’s voice was extremely unexpected, snapping you out of your lust-induced haze, eyes going as wide as saucers. Your relationship with Marko was a complicated one — Paul was your boyfriend, but you liked Marko, too.

Suddenly, you felt embarrassed — ashamed, even. You almost wanted to kick Paul away and wallow in your own frustration. You wanted to squeeze your legs together, but he wasn’t having it, keeping you spread open with one hand. “Paul, wa— Wait,” You protested, voice meek and soft as he lapped at your cunt. “Paul.”

Paul was laughing, tearing himself away from his meal with his chin and mouth turned scarlet, stained with your menses and ichor. He licked his lips, peering toward you with a mischievous expression. “Marko wants in on this,” He mused, caressing your thigh in an attempt to quell your sudden bout of nervousness. “You mind, baby? You can say no.” He assured you.

It all felt like some fever dream, and you were staring at Paul with an incredulous look. They were always prone to sharing, but this seemed like a step further than you intended. “You … You don’t care?” Admittedly, you wanted Marko — burned for him. He was certainly greedier than Paul, twice as insatiable.

“Nah,” Paul chuckled, seemingly nonchalant about this entire ordeal. He was busy licking your taste off of his mouth with all of the excitable gusto of a dog. “You’re still my mate, but I can share a little bit. ‘Sides, Marko’s been looking at you for weeks. He’s jealous that he doesn’t have a hot girlfriend like you, baby.” He sneered, grinning like a wolf as he kissed your leg.

Marko’s countenance became somewhat dour, but he elected to ignore Paul, who was entirely amused. The curly-headed blonde sauntered forward, inching closer toward your bed until he was at your side. He reminded you of a cherub — a cherub cleverly disguised as a devil with a forked tail.

Paul smirked, slithering back to his perch between your thighs, busying himself with eating you out as Marko decided to finally have his moment with you. Besides, you were his thrall — the girl of his eternal dreams, flesh and blood, all belonging to him. He happily lapped at your cunt again, lips occasionally teasing your clit.

You shuddered, shrinking underneath the oppressive force of Marko’s stare, which glistened with an unrestrained desire. He slipped forward, settling beside you on the bed — it was the closest you’d ever been to him. Your heart pounded within your chest, hammering away just underneath your collarbone.

He uttered something in Italian, something that you couldn’t decipher as he hovered above you, fingertips gently trailing across your cheek. You didn’t expect this sort of behavior from him, considering that he had quite the temper and violent streak, but you weren’t about to complain.

Without missing a beat, you slid your hands toward his waist, wanting to touch him. He noted your hesitation, grasping ahold of your wrists as he guided your hands underneath his cropped shirt. “Marko.” You cooed, voice tapering off into a moan. Goosebumps coalesced along the length of your spine — it was hard to focus when Paul was tongue-deep inside of your cunt.

“You’re beautiful,” Marko hummed, dark, green-flecked hues roving over your writhing physique. Your scent was overpowering, awash with that coppery twang of blood, perspiration, and natural musk. He dipped forward, mouth brushing against yours. “Delicate.” His lips split into a gregarious smirk as he nipped at your jaw.

You shivered, beginning to squirm around as Paul lapped at your oozing slit, mouth rapacious as he lapped at stray tendrils of your cruor. He planted a kiss against your thigh, leaving behind the imprint of bloodied lips, fingers clamping down on your hips as he urged you back onto his tongue.

A myriad of whimpers and moans escaped you, swallowed whole by Marko, whose kiss was completely consuming. He was the smallest of the pack, but easily the most voracious alongside Paul. Your palms slid everywhere they could, flat atop Marko’s abdomen as you kissed him.

He felt like smooth marble underneath your fingertips, cold to the touch. Your breath caught within your throat as he gripped at your neck, holding either side as he continued to kiss you. A soft moan escaped you, barely audible between the barrage of kisses exchanged, soon devolving into tongue and teeth.

Paul licked his lips, tasting your body upon his tongue. “Wanna have a taste, Marko?” He snickered, tossing his sandy tresses back with a shake of his head. It was like some unruly, disheveled halo that surrounded him, stiff and layered in product he hadn’t washed out in years.

Marko’s eyes glittered with lust, intermingled with a rapturous hunger. He kissed you hard before recoiling, swiftly switching places with Paul, who was more than happy to come curling up next to you. Marko wanted nothing more than to feed — whether you came or not. It was entirely self-gratifying.

“She smells good enough to eat,” Marko sneered, playfully biting at your inner thigh. He was rougher, somewhat reckless compared to Paul, oddly enough. Paul knew you inside and out — and he wanted to try and be careful with you, if that were possible. “Don’t you, ragazza?” It must’ve been something in Italian.

Your boyfriend let out a bark of laughter. “What are you tryin’ to say? It doesn’t sound as good as you think.” He teased, and Marko gave him a spiteful look. Paul grinned, bloodied mouth on display, like something from a splatter film as he let you recline against his chest. “You gonna pull your shirt up?” He asked you, matter-of-factly.

You blinked, wincing when Marko’s sharp teeth suddenly nicked your supple flesh, drawing out a thin rivulet of blood across your thigh. “You can take it off.” You mumbled, gasping as Paul’s roughened digits pawed and clawed at your shirt, wrangling it up enough until he pushed it over your head.

Paul’s crimson-coated mouth was on your tits before you could fully form a sentence, letting out a soft moan. You immediately gripped at his hair, thighs trembling as Marko dove right in. His tongue split you open, greedily lapping at your fresh wave of menses, hungry as could be. He was far more intense and animated than Paul, which both excited and terrified you.

With a sigh of delight, your hips twitched and jolted forward, held down tight by Marko, who was greedily drinking his fill from you. His tongue swiped against your sensitive cunt in a rather vigorous pattern, hands clasped around your hips. Paul not-so-gently sucked on your nipple, teeth nibbling around the tender bud as he groped at your chest.

Pleasure rippled throughout your body, like tidal waves of ecstasy. That sharp ache that once blistered within the pit of your stomach had been quelled for now, and you couldn’t have been any happier. Your hands roamed through Paul’s tresses, giving them tugs whenever Marko hit a certain spot.

“Fuck, baby — you got the prettiest tits,” Paul groaned, busying himself with kissing and groping your breasts, dexterous hands caressing wherever he could. “Marko being good to you?” He asked, lips twitching into a rather bemused grin. His brother had a tendency to tease — Paul wanted to make sure that you got your release.

Marko smirked; he was devious, mind working to concoct some plan to torment you. He was gleefully tonguing at your cunt as he fed from your menses, chin steeped in gore. He was the picture of mischief, gaze gleaming with an animalistic fervor.

The curly-headed leech hadn’t bothered to touch your clit very much either, but you nodded nonetheless. You wouldn’t be able to find anyone else who gave as good of head as Paul did. There was nothing like him.

“Nothing like him?” Marko’s sardonic lull pulled you from the heat of the moment, goosebumps rising along the length of your spine. Another unfortunate downside of living with vampires — their mind-reading. You gulped, listening to Paul’s heckling howls of laughter as you peered toward Marko.

“D’aw, don’t get jealous, Marko! She knows who she belongs to.” Paul grinned, pressing a sloppy kiss against your jaw, leaving behind trace amounts of blood, which he happily licked away. “That’s why she’s my mate.” His teeth glinted in the low light, eyes blazing with a lustful fire as he squeezed your chin.

Unconvinced, Marko’s lips curled slightly, mouth hotly returning to your still-weeping cunt. You were so close, teetering on the edge of your climax as you moaned, hips jolting forward. It had become a competition, but unfortunately, Paul was still miles ahead.

At last, those angelic lips of his pursed around your clit, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. Marko was undeniably greedy, adding a slight graze of his teeth as he lapped at your menses. The burn in his throat had diminished, but only by a sliver — he’d go feed on some unsuspecting tourist later.

Your body spasmed, trembling with an explosive bliss as your thighs threatened to smother Marko. Thankfully, the vampire was quick, pinning you apart as he lapped at your clit, swiftly interchanging his ministrations. It was enough to send you careening over the edge.

Paul seemed appeased by this, having to adjust his jeans to relieve some of the friction. Your breath came in excitable huffs, moans tapering off into the cave, reverberating throughout the alcove. Marko didn’t stop, still lapping at your cunt with an eagerness in an attempt to feed just a little more.

Marko growled, drinking in your menses, intermingled with that of your cum as cleaned you up. Paul seemed mildly disappointed that it wasn’t him down there, but there would be plenty of chances.

“Gonna make her explode,” Paul chided, reaching over to shove Marko’s head away from between your legs. Marko’s expression was one of displeasure, but he’d gotten what he wanted, licking at his lips; as satisfied as a cat who’d just caught the canary. “Think she feels better.” He affirmed, pressing kisses all over your face.

You did.

The relief would be temporary, but you were beyond grateful, panting and quivering as you came down from your climax. Perspiration danced along the length of your spine, manifesting as a cold dew. Paul was attentive, hand rubbing into the small of your back as he hopped off of the bed, retrieving a new shirt for you.

It happened to be his, a shredded, dirty Metallica shirt that he’d worn on a handful of occasions. You were still recovering from it all, watching as Marko stood up from between your legs, licking his lips as if he’d eaten something delectable.

“Thank you, Marko.” You mumbled, noticing the blonde’s devilish smirk as he tossed you the box of tampons. “This was you?” That was a surprise — you assumed that it was Paul’s doing. He was much more into giving you gifts like that.

Marko shrugged, but Paul was cackling, grinning at his brother with a sense of understanding. “He’s got a crush on you.” He guffawed, watching as you got dressed — if a shirt and panties counted as such. “I don’t blame him.” Paul purred, giving you another affectionate kiss against your cheek as he slapped your backside.

You noticed that your previous pair of panties were mysteriously missing — but you didn’t say anything, utilizing the tampons gifted to you before clearing your throat. “Can we go to yours, Paul?” You asked softly, wanting to go to his nest, instead. It was much more lived-in and vibrant than yours.

“Sure thing,” He hummed, head cocking to one side. “Don’t you wanna say goodnight to Marko?” Paul mused, planting his hands against your shoulders. You seemed a little flustered but nodded nonetheless, feeling his lips meld against yours in a reassuring kiss. “I’ll be waiting for you.” His teeth nipped at your jaw before he disappeared through the thick curtains.

Tension hung heavy in the air, thick like an inescapable haze as you stared at Marko. You didn’t know what to say, but he beat you to it.

“Will you let me take you out sometime?” He asked, head cocked to one side. Paul must’ve known about this already — otherwise, there would’ve been some sort of rift or protest. Marko’s chin was still stained in your blood, which made your stomach do excitable flips.

“Yeah,” You nodded, stepping forward to wipe off his chin with your discarded shirt. “Thanks for … That.” Heat crawled across your flesh as Marko grabbed your wrists, dragging you in for an invasive kiss. His tongue greedily meshed with yours, enough to make your head spin, feeling dizzy with desire.

The kiss made your heart race — it was different from Paul’s kisses. Marko was always dancing along that fine line of danger, but Paul was, oddly enough, a little more docile. Both were just as satisfying as the other. Either way, you were whimpering, hapless as you moved your mouth against his.

Marko withdrew, angelic countenance reminding you of a fiendish imp instead of a cherub. He swept his hand across your jaw. “Don’t mention it,” He seemed more subdued than he’d been before. “You know who to ask if you need help.” His chuckle was mesmerizing.

You pushed your fingers through his mop of golden curls, chewing at your lower lip. You gave Marko another sweet kiss before the both of you left, Marko going one way, and you wandering toward Paul’s nest.

When you slipped past the mangled web of tapestries and curtains, Paul was laying on his bed, legs kicked up against the rocky wall as he smirked at you. “He asked you?” He inquired, propping himself up on one arm. You were surprised, but admittedly, you shouldn’t have been.

“Yeah,” You murmured, shuffling forward until you sat down next to Paul. The blonde immediately grabbed you, hauling you on top of him as he snuggled his face into your clothed breasts, which made you giggle. “Paul, you know that I’m yours, right? I don’t want us to stop.” You gushed, worried that he’d leave you because of this.

“I know,” Paul mused, grinning up at you with that wonderfully stupid expression of his. “You can be his side meal,” He snorted at his own ridiculous joke, palms caressing and massaging into your hips. It was a nice feeling. “S’long as you’re still my mate.”

“Of course.” You nodded, grabbing his face with your hands, leaning in to give him a sweet kiss. Paul exhaled, sitting up fully to hold you, letting you straddle his lap as he began to kiss you back. It was a rather foul concoction of your blood and his own saliva. “ … Did you steal my panties, by the way?” You mumbled.

Paul snickered, playfully quirking an eyebrow as he jerked his chin toward the entrance of his nest.

“You’ll have to ask Marko.”

[milliesdiary]

i cant stop thinking about aemond fucking you so sweetly and just worshipping your body, making you cum multiple times

𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; aemond spoils you like the princess you are.

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; princess!reader, p in v penetration, mentions of fingering and oral, just pure smut ♡

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; hi! i just had to write this little drabble :) please reblog and comment with your feedback. it means the world to me and keeps me motivated! be sure to consider following to stay updated ✨

"Breathe, Princess," Aemond grunts lowly, his hands holding onto your hips as you balance on his lap. When you fully press down on his erect cock once more, he guides you and lets out a satisfied hum. You start moving your hips, slowly — painfully slow — grinding his thick shaft deep inside your sopping cunt. 

“M-My Prince!” you gasp out. Everything is so sensitive; you have already cum two times, once from Aemond stuffing his long fingers into your pussy and the mind-blowing oral he performed afterwards. You’re close to another orgasm, and you would be embarrassed if you weren’t so clouded by pleasure. 

“Aemond,” he corrects, that one violet eye of his glinting with unadulterated desire and a tinge of fucking amusement.

Aemond pulls you down for a scorching kiss — his ability to tolerate the sight of you taking him so well is quickly vanishing. The whole thing is fucking messy, just a collision of teeth and tongues as he licks at your bottom lip. His head spins as a result of the sensuality of your kisses, and when he starts to grind up into you, your fingers fly up to tug on the silver strands of his long hair. 

The sting on his scalp makes Aemond lets out a strangled breath, and his thrusts deepen as he growls out, "You are beautiful." He enjoys the sound of your high-pitched whine in response, and his pride grows as he observes how fucked out you are already.

"I possess a considerable amount of desires," Aemond says in a hushed tone. "I want you. Your hand in marriage. I want to suffocate you with my dedication. Every inch of you." 

You wish so greatly that you could exchange the same words, reassure him of your affections; but you’re too jaded, too caught up in Aemond. That fire inside of him burns with a flaming wrath, yet he is gold. 

You can only think of one thing: 

What an honor it is to be valued by him. 

A stifled grunt escapes Aemond's chest as you grind your hips over his agonizing length, and he furrows his brows. The way your walls cling to his shaft and draw him in until his swollen, enraged tip is pressed firmly against your cervix has completely captured his attention. You're just so wet and tight, leaking all over his cock.

To bring you forward and press his lips against yours, Aemond’s large hand extends to the nape of your neck. Your lips passionately slide against his, and you might just die from the sensation.

“If I am a monster, it is because of the malice of man,” Aemond murmurs into your mouth. “It is only because of your love that I can be spared.” 

And this is the moment you have no regrets. 

Those in the kingdom made fun of you for selecting Aemond, a man built of barbed wire, equally as sharp and dangerous. How can you explain to them that it is the barbed wire that has protected you all this time? 

His fingertips clench around your neck as you attempt to move on instinct, and all you can do is you scream out a pathetic "Aemond!" as you break free from the frantic kiss. “Gods, please. Don’t stop!”

“Keep begging, my love.” Aemond almost chuckles, his lips mouthing over the curve of your breast. "It suits you."

His fingers start to circle your clit and you gasp, clinging to him as his calloused thumb hooks against it and he continues to gently rock into you in excruciating pleasure.

You both gasp as the sensation of him being so completely inside of you, your choked exhale shuddering as they pass through your lips.

“Good girl,” Aemond purrs, his smirk predatory and devilish, made worse by his expression full of mirth. He’s so fixated on how your cunt is trying so valiantly to milk him for all that he is worth, focused on the way your eyes slam shut with pleasure and your jaw drops open. Before you can tell him how much you love him, he gently rolls his hips to lead you up and down his burning-hot length. He begins to place kisses along your jugular, the hot puffs of breath fanning across the skin there, his speed on your clit increasing.

“I’m so close!” you whimper, your hands trembling as they grip his shoulders. Aemond hum in acknowledgement, the corners of his slightly lips twitching upward. 

“I am in your blood, in your veins, your psyche. Your entire being—body, senses, and divinity is mine. Can you feel it, Princess?”

“Yes!”

You’re about to cum, hanging right on the precipice of falling over the edge. The heat builds up in your belly, prepared to burst and dust you both with screamed moans and detonate explosive stars behind closed eyelids. You let out a broken cry of his name, urging him brush his mouth against your lips. 

“You stole my heart, my love,” Aemond whispers. “Don’t dare give it back.” 

[nerdiel-has-no-braincells]

A Lifetime | Death

feat: Nanami Kento x fem!reader, Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

cw: cussing, mention of death/suicide, mental illness, slight child neglect, spoilers for jjk

summary: taking the news of the death of your husband was something you never expected. you spiral into despair as you grieve

a/n: this hasn’t been proofread, so please forgive any typos and mistakes! I write on my phone and I have autocorrect on because I’m too lazy to fix what I type

next chapter ↝ | masterlist

You stood in the kitchen staring at Yaga with wide eyes, your hands shaking.

“W-What?” you asked quietly.

Yaga rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled through his nose. He knew this would be hard, but he wanted to be the one to tell you rather than anyone else. He was your teacher and friend.

“Nanami Kento was killed in battle against the curse Mahito. Itadori Yuji reported this incident as soon as he could.” Yaga spoke quietly.

Your heart stopped and the shaking proceeded to become worse, causing your hands to crush the glass you were holding as you were about to set a glass of tea down for Yaga. This caused the porcelain shards to cut into your hand, causing Yaga to immediately jump from his seat, rounding the island in your kitchen to get to you.

You couldn’t feel anything though, couldn’t process the news. The wounds you received didn’t even register to you as Yaga took your hand and ran it under the water, gently taking out the shards.

Kento, your beloved husband, was killed. By a curse. He had told you about the upcoming incident with the promise of coming home on time as usual. You remember him leaving in the morning as usual, leaving you with a kiss to the top of your son’s forehead and a kiss to your lips, making sure to tell you both that he loved you.

But he wasn’t coming home. Ever again.

As soon as your brain processes this, the tears welled up in your eyes, your legs giving out and you fall to the floor. The fall was softened by Yaga, who was in the middle of treating your wounds.

Once you’re on the floor, the tears began to flow, heaving sobs and screams escaping your throat. You’ve lost the love of your life, your soul mate, your best friend. You couldn’t believe this to be real, hitting yourself in order to determine whether this was real or just a terrible and excruciating nightmare.

After the first hit, you raised your hand once more, ready to strike yourself again before Yaga gently grabbed your wrist.

“Y/N.” He spoke.

You had no energy to fight against him. The air escaped from your lungs and you felt yourself have a panic attack. How were you supposed to go on without him? How can he not be here to watch your son grow?

And then it hit you — your son. How was he going to process the news? How will you tell him?

Your mom would come home after picking your son up from preschool in a couple of hours. He was so attuned to your emotions that he would know something would be off. Your son was only 4, he wouldn’t fully comprehend grief just yet as he was still learning how to be more attuned to his emotions and keep them under control.

Fortunately for you, he had his father’s personality. He was incredibly smart and understood things perfectly fine when it came to anger, but he had never had to learn how to control his grief.

The thought split your already broken heart further, feeling as if the shards of your heart had spread and was stabbing you on the inside, slowly making its way through your body, making sure to stab every nerve you had along the way.

“Y/N.” Yaga spoke to you in a gentle tone.

For the first time since you found out, you looked at Yaga through blurred eyes, fully recognizing that your tears hadn’t stopped and Yaga had been holding your hands. Your throat burned, just how long were you screaming as your tears fell?

Yaga’s expression was that of utmost concern. He was your teacher, having taught you, Nanami, and Haibara. The three of you were close to each other as he remembered.

Eventually you and Nanami had begun dating within your first year before getting married after he left the Jujutsu world. Yaga, of course, had been invited as Nanami’s best man. The wedding itself was beautiful and you were stunning. The way your and Nanami’s eyes sparkled as you saw each other was something out of romance novels and Yaga felt a sort of pride knowing that he had watched the two of you since the beginning.

And here he was, at the end, the one place where he didn’t want to be as he watched you crumble in front of his very eyes. Jujutsu sorcerers dying was almost common, but Nanami was a great sorcerer. Yaga should have known that even the strong ones would fall eventually.

First Gojo disappears, and now Nanami is dead, two things Yaga never would have expected. But he had grieved as much as he could, it was your turn to grieve. And he was here for you as often as he can be due to the events in Shivuya taking what little sorcerers we’re available. He would have asked you to join, but he didn’t want to risk Yu to become an orphan at such an early age when he’s expected to manifest his powers any day now.

Looking into your eyes, he felt his heart break. You were never to look like this, so broken and done.

You were waiting patiently for Yaga to speak, the tears never ending as you hiccup every so often, the sobs having done so much to your throat.

“Nana- no, Kento,” he corrected himself “was a great sorcerer and he will be deeply remembered throughout the years. I will help you with funeral services as soon as Shibuya is dealt with, this I promise you.”

You tried your best to smile, showing Yaga the appreciation you feel, but it felt so wrong to smile, not while you’re grieving. Instead, you nod. You couldn’t find it in your heart to be vocal fearing that as soon as you open your mouth, you’ll start screaming again.

Yaga continued to hold your hands as you worked through your tears before he was called away.

You hadn’t moved from your marital bed since Yaga left, hugging Kento’s pillow tight, feeling your heart painfully pounding against your chest, your body growing numb as emotions left your body completely. Even the feel of your own heartbeat had begun to feel numb.

You never thought you’d have to experience this in your lifetime. Kento was a strong sorcerer and he was physically gifted in combat. You couldn’t ask for the details, afraid that your imagination would run wild with the details.

The front door clicked open and shut, indicating that your mom and son were home.

“Y/N? Where are you dear?” Your mother called out.

“Mommyyyyyy!” Yu yelled.

Hearing the tiny footsteps, Yu knew exactly where to find you; in your room. Pushing open the door, Yu sees your form on the bed and his eyebrows upturned — he could feel something was wrong when you didn’t greet him like you normally do.

“Mommy?” He called out, nearing your bed before using the stepping stool you and Kento left on the side of the bed so that when Yu needed the two of you, he could climb into bed himself and cuddle in between the two of you. He felt safest in between you and his father.

“Mommy what’s wrong?” Yu asked as he climbed your bed and crawled his way over to you.

“Yu? Did you find mommy?” Your mother asked as she entered your room, stopping as she sees your still form on the bed. Yu looked at his grandmother, worry expressed on his face.

“Gram? What’s wrong with mommy?” He asked.

As your mother neared you, she shook her head. “I’m not too sure sweetie, why don’t you go to your room so I can talk to your mommy?”

Yu shook his head and held onto you. It was pitiful, you couldn’t even register your own son’s arms. You didn’t feel even an ounce of happiness that your son was home.

“Yu,” your mother spoke in a gentle tone “I need you to please let me talk to mommy. It might not be something you’re meant to hear.”

Yu gazed at his grandmother before looking at your expressionless face, your eyes red, hugging his father’s pillow before looking back at his grandmother, nodding with a solemn expression before safely sliding off of the bed. He walked to the door before turning to look back at you.

“I love you mommy…” he spoke before leaving entirely, heading to his room as instructed.

As soon as the door was mostly shut in Yu’s room, your mother looked at you. Sitting on the edge of your bed, she placed her hand on your arm, trying her best to be gentle with you.

“Hon? What happened.” Your mother asked.

You felt your tears sting your eyes. Biting your lower lip, you try your best to contain your tears before covering your face with the pillow.

“Kento’s dead, mom.” Your voice squeaked, hoarse as you spoke. And that was it, your tears fell again as you began to sob into the pillow, attempting to muffle the sound as to not alarm Yu, who you were sure was listening in his room.

Your mother felt her heart break, seeing you like this. She knew the risk of being a Jujutsu sorcerer, but she also knew Kento was particular when it came to the missions. She for sure believed that he would stay alive, but fate is inevitable.

“Honey…” rubbing your arm, she felt your body shaking as you attempted to hold back your tears. “You can go ahead and cry, don’t hold them back. You know it upsets your stomach.”

You snapped and looked at your mom, brows furrowed.

“I don’t care about my stomach ma! My husband is dead! My partner, the love of my life, Yu’s father!” You yelled.

Your mother’s brows knitted together. “Please keep your voice down honey, you don’t want Yu to hear you.”

Your brows upturned. She was right, you didn’t want Yu to know, not just yet while you were still figuring out how to tell him.

“Daddy’s dead?” A soft voice echoed in the room.

You and your mother’s heads turned towards the doorway to see your son in his pajamas, his tiny hands clutching his shirt, his eyes wide.

Shit.

Your mother sighed and stood, making her way to Yu, before crouching down to his eye level.

“I want to tell him.” Your voice a hoarse whisper.

Your mother looked at you as you stared at the wall in front of you. You looked tired, exhausted even. It was to be expected, losing your significant other was one of the hardest things to go through.

Standing, she patted the top of Yu’s head before leaving the room, giving the two of you privacy.

“Mommy?” Yu asked. He knew you were sad and he could see it in your eyes. You looked at him and gave him a pained smile.

“Come here, baby. Let me hold you.” You asked, holding your arms out for him.

Yu immediately ran to the stepping stool, lifting himself on the bed and into your arms. Wrapping your arms around him, you looked into his eyes, the same eyes that resembled Nanami’s with your hair color.

You remembered when you were pregnant with him, Kento had quit working at his job because he was tired of exploiting others for the sake of money, and you wholeheartedly agreed with his decision. He had become a Jujutsu sorcerer once again.

You inhaled then exhaled. Looking into the eyes of your son once more, you raised your hand to gently set it on his cheek, rubbing it.

“I’m afraid that —“ you paused to control your tears, but your voice betrayed you as you continued. “Daddy’s not coming home.”

Yu tilted his head. “When is daddy coming home?”

Your breath hitches, doing your absolute best to control your emotions for your son. You never thought you would have to say this.

“He…he won’t be coming home, baby. There were complications in daddy’s mission and he…he passed away, sweetie.”

Yu stared at you as if he was trying to gauge your emotions to better attune himself to it. Eventually, the tears welled up in his eyes.

“Mommy?” Yu cried. If you could feel anything, you could feel what was the rest of your broken heart shatter. And the fact that you don’t feel anything when looking at your crying son makes you feel horrible. But you were broken and didn’t have it in you.

As the arms around your son tightened slightly to reassure him that you were there. But were you really? The two of you were grieving for the loss of Kento, your husband and Yu’s father.

You couldn’t even feel your son in your arms, the numbing feeling taking over you, the poison coursing through your veins, numbing your body but not enough to no longer feel the pricks to remind you of the poison, the grief you were feeling.

“-ey? Y/N!”

Your eyes snapped up to look at your mom, who was standing beside your bed, staring at you, her expression full of concern.

“Honey, I can stay with you, help you take care of Yu.”

You shook your head.

“I just…I just want to be left alone.” You answered, your voice had gone from a choke from holding back your tears to a low monotone devoid of emotion.

“I can take Yu and he can stay with me while you grieve.” She offered.

Yu immediately pulled away and shook his head.

“No! I wanna stay with mommy! I don’t wanna go!” He yelled as he cried harder, as if he was throwing a tantrum, which in this case would count as a tantrum.

Your mom reached her arms out and went to gently take Yu from your arms as they loosened your hold on him. As soon as your mom touched Yu, he screamed and grabbed onto your shirt.

“No! Mommy!” He screamed, holding onto you as he screamed and cried.

You continued to sit there as your son was clutching onto you for dear life, begging you to keep him safe but you didn’t have the energy to do so.

Yu continued to clutch onto you while your mother tried to pick him up. Every gentle pull resulted in him screaming and eventually your mother gave up, leaving him to cry on your chest. Sighing, your mother looked at you.

“I’ll come back tomorrow to take Yu to preschool, ok?”

“I don’t wanna go!” Yu screamed. He wanted nothing more than to be with you, his safe haven. But could you provide your son with that safety?

I hope this turned out well! I’ve been stewing on this for a few days while I’ve been trying to think of how to write the Lucifer story.

I planned on making this a series, so please let me know if you’d like to see more!

Jujutsu Kaisen belongs to Gege Akutami

©️nerdiel-has-no-braincells Please do not copy, translate, and post as your own. Reblogs, likes, and comments are ok with me!

[ave09]

as you wish

indiana jones x wife!reader

this was the request! and it was so fun to write! i hope you like it 🫶🏻

“oh my god,” you groaned, trying to shift into a somewhat comfortable position, but it was quite the struggle, considering you were currently nine months pregnant with your second child. 

“are you alright, mrs. jones?” you sighed deeply, nodding, “i’m as good as i can be, sallah.” you muttered, placing a hand upon your aching stomach. your precious little girl would be here any day now, and you couldn’t wait. 

as much as you hated the experience of pregnancy, for it had caused you so much distress this time and for your first pregnancy, you knew it would all be worth it once you saw her beautiful face. 

“can i get you something? some bread, some lemonade?” you shook your head, “no, no, i’m fine. i’m okay.” you assured, grimacing as you felt pain radiate through your lower abdomen. it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. you were certain it was braxton hicks. you’d had them with your first child, and you were certain you were having them now.

slowly, you began to push yourself off of the couch, “mom, please, you need to rest.” your teenage son, allen, chastised, not looking up from the novel he was currently reading. “i need to walk around.” you mumbled, “i can’t sit around anymore… where did you say your father was again?” 

“he’s out doing research, didn’t give me too many details.” allen replied, “why?” you ran a hand through your hair, shaking your head, “it’s nothing, i just-“

you were cut off by an excruciating pain washing over your body. “oh fuck-“ you whispered, clinging to the chair beside you. sallah and allen glanced up in worry. “mom?” 

“mrs. jones?”

allen dropped his book, rushing towards you, “are you okay?” you nodded slowly, exhaling deeply, “yeah.. yeah fine-“ another wave of pain, and this time, you felt liquid trickle down your leg. 

oh god. 

no. this couldn’t be happening—not now. 

“mom?” you let out a shakey breath, “i think-i think my water just broke.” the pain was excruciating. at least when you’d first gone into labor with allen, you’d been in a hospital, pumped up with drugs, you’d hardly felt anything.

and yet somehow, indiana had convinced you to try a homebirth. and somehow you’d ended up living in cairo with his closest friend sallah, and his family. it was nice of course. but you were now regretting saying yes to indiana’s suggestion. 

“water broke?? like-like the baby’s coming??” allen asked, panic stricken. you nodded, “yeah. yeah, the baby’s coming.” you mumbled, wincing in pain as another wave of pain washed over you. 

sallah immediately rushed towards you, calling for his wife. “fayah! fayah! it’s mrs. jones! the baby is coming!” he shouted. his wife was quick to appear, walking towards you, seeming eerily calm, which wasn’t out of character. considering she has nine children, she was not thrown by the idea of childbirth. “let’s get you upstairs, yeah? the room is all prepared for you.” you shook your head, breaking out into a sweat already, “i need indiana, i can’t do this without him.” 

“we’ll go out and find him.” that was your son, he had his father’s confidence. sallah furrowed his brows, “we will?” allen elbowed the man, “yes. we will. i promise, mom, he’ll be there.” 

slowly, you nodded, exhaling deeply as you tried to breath through another contraction. “go. be safe.” was all you could say before letting out a cry of pain. fayah placed a hand upon your back, “please, miss. we must get you upstairs while you still can walk.” you nodded again, watching as your son and sallah exited the home, praying they’d be able to find indiana and bring him here so he could be here to hold your hand and support you when you delivered his child.

— — —

“jesus!” indiana exclaimed, ducking down in order to not get punched in the face. “i’m so goddamn sick of these nazis!” he exclaimed, jumping back up, kicking one harshly in the stomach. he was just trying to do some research, and as he was beginning to head back to sallah’s house, he was ambushed. 

“can’t you just leave me the fuck alone!” he exclaimed, socking another in the jaw, causing the man to tumble over into the sand. 

“dad!” 

“indy!”

indiana whipped around, eyes widening at the sight, “allen? sallah? what the hell are you two doing here!?” he shouted, ducking again as he rammed into another nazi, slamming him against the wall. 

“dad! it’s mom!” this caught his attention, “what’s wrong with your mother?” he asked, distracted and panicked, unaware of the nazi who was currently rushing toward him. indiana was tackled to the ground, slammed harshly against the sandy floor. he heard an obnoxious shout, one that could only belong to sallah, and suddenly the weight was lifted off of him. indiana glanced up slightly, catching sight of sallah using a discarded pan from a cart nearby to knock the german man unconscious. he heard footsteps, and suddenly his son came into sight. “are you okay?” he asked, extending a hand to his father, who took his hand, indiana was surprised as he was being practically yanked to his feet. “just peachy… jesus allen, have you been working out or something? you’re pretty damn strong-“

“dad, mom’s in labor.” 

indiana’s eyes widened, “she’s what now?” “her water broke, indy!” sallah exclaimed, rushing over to the father and son. indiana remained silent for a moment before exclaiming, “well, what the hell are we standing around here for?! my wife’s having a baby!” 

— — —

“i’m gonna kill him.” 

“don’t say that.” fayah whispered, placing a wet cloth on your forehead. “no i am. we have a fifteen year old. we were happy with one. but then, he comes home from asia. and of course, the fucker doesn’t have a rubber. ‘it’s just one time’ he said. ‘we’ll be fine’ he said. and look at me now!” you groaned, feeling a wave of pain was over you, this one worse then the others. 

fayah’s brows furrowed as she frowned. “what? what’s wrong?” you questioned, suddenly worried. 

“i’m afraid, mrs. jones. you’re going to have to start pushing soon.” 

your eyes widened, “push? no-no i can’t.” “i’m afraid you might not have a choice. trying hold in the baby when she’s ready is not the best idea..”

but you were adamant, “indiana needs to be here. i can’t do this without him.” you whispered, voice soft, fragile. fayah smiled softly, “yes you can. you are the strongest woman i know.” 

you opened your mouth to protest when you let out another moan of pain, “it hurts-it hurts so bad-dammit last time i did this was fifteen years ago, i was twenty-one! and now i’m here, thirty-five, about to have another kid-what the fuck is this!” 

suddenly, the door burst open, revealing a frazzled indiana, and suddenly you were relieved. he rushed to your side, “hey sweetheart,” he greeted, sounding of of breath, “how you doing?” 

you threw your hands up in exasperation, “how could you do this to me? put me through this again? and then you go out and make me think you’re not gonna be here when she’s born, what the hell-“ you were cut off by him leaning down, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. after a moment, he pulled away, “i’m here now, honey. that’s all that matters.” you nodded slowly, before your eyes widened slightly, “wait-allen. where’s allen?”

“he’s fine. he’s downstairs with sallah. i didn’t think he’d want to be here for this.” you nodded again, “i’m just relieved that he’s alright, that all three of you are alright.” 

you let out another groan, reaching for indiana’s hand, “god i’m going to kill you, junior.” the man shook his head, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze, “you can kill me after the baby’s born.” 

“speaking of baby being born,” fayah spoke up, a soft smile on her face, “it’s time to push.” 

it took thirty grueling minutes. thirty. indiana was whispering words of encouragement the entire time.

“you’re doing amazing honey.”

“i’m so proud of you.”

“you’re doing so so good.” 

and then.. you heard her cries. a wave of relief crashed over you, you let your head roll back against the pillows, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. 

you were exhausted. but you’d done it. 

your baby girl was here. 

you opened your eyes as you felt fayah place the small child onto your chest, “she’s so beautiful, mrs. jones.” 

you couldn’t help but smile at the sight. she had a full head of hair, the same color as her father’s.

“hi sweetheart.” you whispered, your fingertips grazing her pink skin, “i’m your mommy. and i love you.” you shifted slightly, so that indiana could get a good look at her.

“and this is your daddy.”

“hi baby,” he greeted, sending you a teary smile. you two were able to spend a few more moments with your baby before fayah carefully took her from you to bath her. 

you let out a sigh of relief, “thank god thats over.” you mumbled. “it was worth it though, wasn’t it?” you nodded, “one hundred percent, but let me tell you something jones, and you listen good. when we get back to connecticut, you’re getting a vasectomy. i’m not doing this again. two is enough.” 

“as you wish, darling.” he said, leaning down to kiss you again. 

— — —

later that evening, you laid awake, your eyes on your baby asleep in a small bin similar to ones used in hospitals. she’d been fed, and swaddled in an adorable pink blanket that fayah had made. 

indiana had yet to leave your side, his hand remaining intertwined in yours. 

there was a soft knock on the door before it was pushed open, revealing your son and sallah. a soft smile tugged at your lips, “hi allen.” 

“hi mom.” he said, his eyes moving to where the baby was sleeping. “you can look at her,” you whispered, and so he did. carefully, he tiptoed over, admiring the small child. sallah approached you, “how are you feeling?” 

“absolutely exhausted.” you replied with a soft laugh, before glancing over at your son, who’s eyes were wide, “she looks just like you mom, although, with dad’s hair.”

indiana nodded, “that’s what i said.” 

“what’s her name?” 

“marie. marie jones.” you replied. allen glanced up, “did you name her after aunt marion?” you shrugged slightly, “something like that.” 

you then closed your eyes, sighing contently. you could hear allen’s nervous voice, “is-is she okay?” indiana chuckled softly, “she’s tired. it’s a lot of work having a kid, allen. one day you’ll know, when you sit beside your future wife and hold her hand the whole time.” you could feel indiana press a gentle kiss to your temple, “let’s leave her be. let her sleep.” he whispered. 

you could hear retreating footsteps, you then called out, “indy?” 

“doll?” 

“stay with me?” you could hear the footsteps again, before you felt his hand slip into hours again, “as you wish, my love.”

[i-smoke-chapstick]

'DON'T BLAME ME, [PART THIRTEEN]

-GOTHAM!JERVIS TETCH X READER-

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; Reader doesn't know what to do about the kiss. Selina might help.

⋆ tags/warnings. GOTHAM!jervis x female reader. SLOW BURN!!! Not sure how many chapters this will be yet! LOTS OF PLOT SET-UP!! AGE GAP ROMANCE! (reader is Jim and Barbara's daughter) He's fallen harder. Selina's tweaking. No Jervis this chapter. Reader is STRESSING. Writing this kind of artistically and as character studies for everyone. They are in love guys everyone shhh. Reader is just being a little silly. I'm taking canon out back and beating it with a stick until it stops twitching.

⋆ tag list (tell me if you want to be removed!) @adalwolfgang @jervis-tetch-my-beloved @honestmrdual @moonlightnyx @all-things-fandomstuck @killingboredom @sweetlimeharvest @frenchfryqueen69

⋆ 'PART ONE, - 'PART TWO, - 'PART THREE, - 'PART FOUR, - 'PART FIVE, - 'PART SIX, - 'PART SEVEN' - 'PART EIGHT, - 'PART NINE, - 'PART TEN, - 'PART ELEVEN, - 'PART TWELVE, - 'PART THIRTEEN, - 'PART FOURTEEN,

♫ “And if you were my little girl, I'd do whatever I could do. I'd run away and hide with you.” Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood

You leave the room with a small exhale. You still feel him. The taste of his lips, the grip he held on you. Tight. Like you would slip away at any second. It was excruciating to leave. Horrible idea. Now all you can do is think about him. The look in his eyes, the feeling of the fire. You're pacing around your room.

God, kissing Mr. Tetch was probably revenge enough on your father. Stop, stop, stop. Don't feel guilty. Your thoughts are a million a minute, and you can't help but flop on the bed.

"You okay?" A voice calls, taking you out from your thoughts. Selina's back, to do her nightly check-up. You heave a breath.

"Yeah, fine." You can feel her piercing gaze on you, looking you up and down.

"You're such a liar. What the hell did that freak do?" She says, and you feel you're heart tighten at the mention of Mr. Tetch.

"Don't call him that." You say, beside yourself. You can see her baffled expression transform into a scoff. She clicks her tongue and throws her hands up.

"Um, okay? Are you insane? He tried to kill you." She tuts. She can see right through you.

"So?"

"So?" She repeats, staring at you like you're stupid. "Please don't tell me you're starting to warm up to him?"

More then that, you think. You kissed him.

"I don't know," You speak, truthfully.

"You don't know. Yeah, you're an idiot." Her words carry a bite. If Selina's this angry, you can't seem to imagine how angry your father will be. Shouldn't that make you happy? You swallow and twiddle your thumbs. You sigh into the pillows.

You motion Selina to sit down with you, and she shoots you a look, before sitting down.

"He's not horrible. He's kind of nice."

Before Selina can state the obvious 'he tried to shoot you!' you manage to fire back in time.

"AND...who cares? Selina- listen to me. Tabitha and my mom have shot at each other. So have my dad and mom! And Tabitha and Butch...god, you've tried to push Bruce off a roof a few times!"

Her expression flushes at the mention of Bruce, before it darkens underneath your stare.

"Those are all romantic examples." She notes, and you don't quite understand what she means, until it clicks. Every example you picked, the people were romantically connected. She noticed. "Holy shit." She speaks in a whisper, eyes widening. You hold in a breath.

"Selina-"

"EW. Gross!" She immeadiatley whisper-yells, and you shove a hand over her mouth. You two fight for a second before she pins you on the bed. "He's old enough to be your dad!"

You roll your eyes. Selina scoffs. You stay silent underneath her scrutinizing gaze, not sure if you should be offended or take note of what she's saying. Either way, it feels good to finally tell someone, negative reaction or not.

She shoves you lightly, groaning.

"I just don't understand. He wears a top hat." Her tone turns lighter after clearing her throat, trying to make at least an effort to understand. You exhale.

"Yeah yeah. Whatever. He makes me breakfast."

"Wow, your standards."

"Shut up!" You laugh, and you notice the corners of her mouth twitch up.

"So what? You don't want to kill him anymore?" You forgot that's what she thinks you came here for. You bite your lip. Better not to let her know you've been lying about something else, too.

"Yeah. Basically. I've kind of just been staying with him."

"Pfft. You think he's caught on to your school girl crush?"

Images of the kiss flash in your head. The way he traveled down from your jaw, to the nape of your neck. The way he gently tugged on your hair and groaned into your lips.

"I don't know. I don't think so." You lie through your teeth. Damn it.

"Good. He's a creeper."

"Watch it."

She puts her hands up in mock defense.

"You know, you're going to have to come back to the club eventually. Tabitha's going crazy. Barbara too. They miss you. Butch misses his drinking buddy too, or whatever. He's been more depressed then usual."

You cringe, and you sigh.

"I don't want my dad to know I'm alive." The words come out before you have a chance to stop them. She furrows her eyebrows. "I mean, how do I even explain where I've been?"

"You come up with some lie. Just...come back. Let them know you're okay. You know they can keep a secret from Gordon of all people. They'd do anything for you."

You feel warmth bloom in your chest, a strange squeeze of affection for your mother, Tabitha, and Butch. Maybe it's time you stop reminiscing on what your family could've been...and start talking to the family you have.

You nod to Selina, sighing.

"I'll come by tomorrow. I promise. Thank you for keeping this a secret."

Selina clicks her tongue.

"Whatever. I just don't want you to try and kill me."

You send her a grin, and try to shove her off the mattress again. You briefly wonder what Mr. Tetch will have to say tomorrow.

[bleue-flora]

Yo! Just noticed it’s the anniversary of when I finished my second fanfic Dreamcatcher, which is the work I actually started to lean into writing fanfiction (since my first work I really just wrote for myself before being encouraged to share it).

So, in honor of that, here is some of the original second nightmare which was actually written from Dream’s pov before I ended up changing it to Punz’s.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Referenced Torture, Blood, Death, Injuries, Profanity.

Dream is wet and panting, in a puddle of watery red flowing into an equally crimson pond to his side, where the non diluted liquid gets thicker.

There’s white fur stuck in it as the body of a dog, slashed to bits lies there next to him. Both sitting in the despairing silence of the box.

Tears form in the corners of his eyes and his vision gets blurry, but he doesn’t let them fall. He just exhales.

Why does everything die around him? Why does everything he dare to care a smidge about get taken from him?

As if to follow his thoughts, the white turns to black. The fluffy bloodied dog shifts into a cat that’s long since stopped breathing. Dream turns his head, and faintly smirks at the sight of the additional body sprawled out on the floor next to him.

He mutters to the corpse under his breath, rolling his eyes, “To be fair, you were being a bitch. Like don’t blame me, you know you d—deserved it… I mean I lasted like—how long before beating your head in? That’s pretty impressive—pretty fucking impressive, you know.”

Tommy’s body doesn’t respond, just stays there, unmoving and uncharacteristically quiet. His face swollen and bruised, not unlike the innocent cat he beat to death.

Then his body evaporates and Dream finds himself in a new room, accented with black walls and bedrock. It’s detail is perfectly ominous like he wanted.

He’s kneeling, unguarded by armor with an audience of people surrounding him. His heart beats rapidly threatening to burst out of his chest at the danger. But he ignores it.

Indignant, Tommy rips off the mask that always covers his face. Exposing his pale skin to the cool air and the venomously judging faces.

Despite the frustration at his denial of privacy, he doesn’t so much as dignify it with a flinch. It was expected. He was ready. He’s not about to show weakness in front of a crowd.

They are silent as the axe lands, and lands again before lady death finally embraces him.

They are silent as the sword finds its place in his chest and he falls to the ground, bleeding out into the cold stone beneath him.

It’s ok. He knew this would happen. It was expected, it was planned. He didn’t know they’d kill him twice, but it’s fine.

On one life, he makes his way back down with sharp pain running through his veins. Somehow it seems duller than the pain in the prison cell, though it can’t have been less excruciating.

Tommy once again stands above him savagely firing arrows away. As they pierce his flesh and bone, he searches the cold faces around him and listens intently, hoping to hear one sound of objection to his approaching final death.

Surely, someone will say something, right? Surely, someone will oppose his final death, right? Surely, they woundn’t let Tommy kill him off in cold blood. Would they?

But there’s nothing from them. Absolutely nothing. Standing there, dripping in blood, he feels his heart entirely disintegrate into nothing. Leaving only a hollow emptiness in its wake.

Then suddenly he’s freezing from more than just death and despondency. He’s surrounded by ice. Their pillars, tall and sharp, casting the land in a pointed terrain. Despite the bone chilling air and his frozen insides, he stands, planted to the ground, looking at a sign pinned to the glacier. The wood marking the death of his parrot that travelled so far only to die there.

A deep sigh is released from his lungs and the scene smears into broad strokes of colors. Until a well known bleak room encases him in lava and obsidian again.

Sitting there with nothing but the annoying sounds of the prison to keep him company, he wonders if he’s always destined to lose everything. Was it always going to end up like this? Was he always going to end up alone?

[boytouya]

「SAINT」 ; takami keigo | hawks x male reader

wc: 1.5k

warning: suggestive themes & language, religious themes, one (1) crude joke about nuns, abrupt ending (scrapped fic)

additional tags: priest reader (kinda), incubus hawks, probably some religious trauma, agnostic writer who doesn’t know how to write things relating to demons + religion

a/n: this is loooong overdue and also months old, i’m so rusty so i’m so sorry if this isn’t good. anyway there’s about 3-4 versions of this fic so if you see it somewhere else dw abt it (unless stated otherwise)

Your fingertips trace the thin, pale paper of your annotated Bible, cold pages crinkling under the weight of your palms. Covering for your father, a well-liked priest, was not an easy job— especially when you strayed further and further from the Holy eye with every passing moment. The pews of the church remain dimly lit, moonlit and almost sparkling under the glass stained windows. The rich, brown and polished wood glows, light dancing between warm yellow lights aligned by the aisles, and despite the unwavering wholeness you should feel, you stare back at the empty seats with nothing but loneliness.

It was only a matter of time before you begged someone, anyone, for even a sliver of company.

You exhale slowly, reaching up to readjust your hair, even if it doesn’t actually move. Your wrist in your peripherals momentarily consumes your vision, but you make no effort to quicken your movements. The last time you’d felt this way he encountered something darker than light, something tempting. Something that, still, reminded you of your own loneliness, and the exhaustion that comes with it. The memory remains fresh, as though you were hit with a hammer amalgamated from the darkest parts of your mind, unbeknownst to the consequences.

In a Church, you suppose, love is always in the air, a thickening aroma that’s much too sweet for your liking. It sticks to the murals within the room, it clings to your goosebump ridden skin, it’s plastered to every page you turn to. It’s excruciating. It’s exhausting.

And yet, with the smell of his skin lingering on your body, your mind empties, and your thoughts simultaneously erode whilst coalescing into a serene hum stuck in the far back of your mind. The bittersweet tranquility floats above you for just a moment, descending as soon as moonlight peeks through the windows and into your darkening, tired eyes. It stares back into your irises, taunting you despite your expensive effort to avoid it.

It and it's dark children who hide behind the muse of a wickedly comforting smile. But, you decide, it’s because that’s what you seek.

It, who sleeps beneath darkening shadows, moonlight dancing across its shiny eyelids and painting its face with a silver hue. The way it bounced off its skin, you’ve ong since decided night was made for it. An Incubus. With warm skin and a glowing, crimeon tattoo below his belly button, a thin tail with a pointer end, strong dark wings, and a scantily clad choice of clothing. With angelically golden locks of hair, that fall in his face from time to time, and just as golden eyes.

A strong jaw, furrowed eyebrows, calloused and veiny hands that look rather large— or so they’d seem when they glide across your skin, sharp claw-like nails that drag against the wood pulpit.

It— or, he, who’s hands curl into fists as he grasps at the decorative cloth on the pews’ arms like a lifeline (or in most cases, your hair), as if holding them tight would somehow keep you there with him, limbs tangled and lips locked. Sinful in a place supposedly free of sin.

He, who stirs under the sun’s gaze, uncomfortable warmth blooming from his body. But you… You want nothing more than to hold it in his hands, cherish the comfortable silence and bathe in his inviting body heat, hidden away from the chilling air that signifies winter’s welcome.

He— Keigo, you’d come to learn, who wakes at the feeling of your trivial eye, with long eyelashes that bat against his cheek with grace. A smile places itself upon his lips, but before he can speak, a yawn ripples out his mouth. You watch as his sharp teeth nestle into his gums, completely relaxed under your critical gaze.

The rosary beads wrapped around your fingers slip, smacking against the ground where you two stand, and gasps leave both your lips. You, somewhat mortified as you quickly kneel, tucking your feet beneath your body as your shaking hands reach for the blessed beads. Keigo quirks an eyebrow, much more awake as he steps out to place his heavy boot just beside your fingertips.

There’s a sickening sound of friction against the polished wood beneath his shoe.

“You look better this way,” He exclaims, an uncanny smile splitting his lips as he crosses his arms. It’s almost impossible to notice the bulge of his biceps, your eyes trailing the way his fingertip taps against his flawless skin. Ignoring how obscene this must look— kneeling beneath an incubus in the middle of a church, with no one but the moon as your witness— a scoff leaves your mouth, and you decide the tainted prayer beads will do fine resting on the floor. “No, really! You should stay like this.”

As you begin to stand, his warm palm presses into the swell of your shoulder, keeping you hunched over, your face basically pressed into his hip. It slithers upward, resting at your cheek. His large hands obstruct your vision, nimble fingers pressing into the meat of your cheek as if it’ll leave a mark. Under different circumstances you’d have keened into the— almost — intimate touch. Under different circumstances you’d have kissed his palm.

“Keigo—”

“It’s almost natural at this point. You and the nuns must go crazy in here,” His eyes shift, much darker than before, and something tells you he doesn’t find that joke funny. From what you can see, his body stiffens awkwardly. His jaw clenches, then his Adam's apple bobs, and suddenly the air feels much thicker. “Don’t you.”

His question falls flat on deaf ears, as you’re too lost in thought to even think about what he may be insinuating. His thick eyebrows twitch at your hesitation, the hand resting on your cheek suddenly tightening around your jaw. Your lips pucker, forming a small ring as he forces your eyes to meet his.

And, finally, like you’ve fallen out of a twelve story building, the weight of his words hit you like concrete. Against his strong hand you mutter, “Don’t even say things like that.”

“Hm.” He hums, releasing your jaw with faux disregard, releasing the prayer beads beneath his feet. He watches your frantic gaze flicker back and forth, your lips pursed as you chew on the insides of your cheek. You’re as cute as he is touchy.

He could just eat you alive.

Why’re you here, demon.” Your tone falls flat, missing whatever malice you were supposedly injecting into your tone—and even if it had come out as a hiss, it wouldn’t have phased the being.

“Ooh, ouch,” The blond knocks a large fist to his chest, knocking himself down and stumbling dramatically as he feigns offense. Your stare is heavy on his form, despite the constant insults you just can’t seem to look away. “You wound me, Father!”

“Keigo.” His tail jumps, straightening at the sound of his name passing by your lips. He grins, cheeks blessed with dimples and freshly shaven facial hair. His demeanor remains relaxed, tufts of hair swaying ever-so-slightly as he steps around you in circles, taking in the sights as if he hasn’t seen them a billion times before.

“Always so angry!” Takami chirps, long nails brushing against your cheek as he pinches at whatever remnants of baby-fat you had on your face. Suddenly, the goofy, love-struck expression on his face faulters, and his golden eyes harden. “Whether you want to believe it or not, I felt you calling for me.”

There’s a glowing, magenta ring around his irises that you aren’t sure were there before, burning bright in comparison to the dwindling candles adorning the walls and hallways. You’d hate to admit it out loud, but there’s something inviting about it. As unfamiliar as neon lights accompanied by city streets and the smell of recreational drugs, but simultaneously as familiar as the warm buzz of the sun through glass-stained windows.

“Liar,” You bite your tongue, the bitter taste of nickels and dimes drowning your senses. Blasphemy. “I’d have to be a whole different type of desperate to even—“

“Aren’t you?”

Ignoring the prickles of heat that dig into your skin, you let out a frustrated sigh. You almost want to yell at him, loneliness and desperation are different levels of isolation, and you don’t want to think about where that puts you. His silly, ill-attempt at rendering you speechless wasn’t in vain: he’d won. For now. Proud of himself, Keigo hums in assurance and places his hands on your shoulders. He runs much warmer than the average human, and if he’d been any warmer, his palms would burn right through your clothing and scorch your skin.

”I know,” He pulls you forward, placing a hand behind your head as he cradles your face into his neck. You can hear him take a deep breath, probably trying to engrave your scent into his brain. To bottle it, keep it there, and have it whenever he needed. His warmth makes your eyelids heavy with sleep, and you find yourself sinking into his embrace. Reluctantly, your hands rest at his waist, the pads of your fingertips digging into his toned back, equally wary of his tailbone. “You’re not. Maybe I’m the desperate one.”

TAGLIST: @zawadni @indigowren21 @cannedfoodisbestfood @junkwhoore @dilfchoso @sanderssidesangsttrash @i-d0g @kaito-asmr @jream-23 @mhasimp666 @princejasno @onehellofasimp @corporeal-terrestrial @angelaturservice @shadows-of-nightmares @double-homiecide @rintarosaku @saturnsbend @trailsnix @luckduckanon @oddball215 @toodeepintofandoms @devilgirlcrybaby @playb0ysuna @uwiuwi @yuzukeni *if you’ve changed your username pls let me know!

MASTERLIST

[canonicallyobserving911]

Several Sentences Sunday

Fanonwriter2023 on AO3

Where CANON and FANON collide!

FANON Future Buddie Fanfic Series

First Child (Buck) & First Baby (Buck and Eddie)- Buck's first child and Buck and Eddie's first babies.

Buddie Fanfic

Part 15 - Chapter 7 will be posted soon. It's the final chapter in the fic and the series.

First Child (Buck) & First Baby (Buck and Eddie) - Currently 134.9K Words and 6 of 7 Chapters have been posted; Rated: Mature

Chapters will be posted one at a time.

___________

I'm excited to finish writing Chapter 7 because a lot happened in Chapter 6. After they received the news that Bill and Sandra passed away, Buck and Eddie had a meeting with the estate attorney and they learned everything about the assets Bill and Sandra left them. They watched two videos they recorded for them and even though the entire Buckley-Diaz family took it hard, Buck took it worst of all.

At the end of the previous chapter, several months had passed and Buck and Eddie were preparing for the birth of their daughters, Daniella and Danielle at the end of May or early June. There's a lot more to come in this final chapter of the fic and the series.

___________

Here's a snippet from Chapter 7 of Buck and Eddie while they're in the delivery room with their surrogate. Her water broke and she's in labor and even though she's been given an epidural, she's still in pain.

___________

It’s obvious from Diana’s yelling that she’s in excruciating pain and even though Buck and Eddie have seen babies being born before, neither of them has ever witnessed the birth of twins, therefore, it’s concerning.  Also, these are their babies and they want to make sure they’re ok especially since their surrogate was rushed to the hospital two days ago after she experienced Braxton Hicks labor pains.

“Diana, I need you to listen to me… you’re 10 centimeters dilated, the twins are coming and they’re ready to meet their dads.”

“I—I… Dr. Dorson, it hurts!  I think there’s something wrong!”

At that comment, Buck’s and Eddie’s eyes widen but neither of them interrupts the doctor.

Dr. Dorson looks at the nurse and in a low voice, she asks, “You all administered the epidural before I arrived, correct?”

“Yes!  We gave it to her after she asked for it about an hour ago.”

“How much did you give her?”

The nurse starts speaking but it’s so low they can’t hear her and she’s also wearing a mask which means Eddie can’t read her lips.  Therefore, he doesn’t know how much she said.

“Thank you.”  Dr. Dorson replies, then she looks at Diana and says, “We’ve already given you an increased dose of an epidural but now that you’re in labor and baby A’s head is visible, we can’t give you another dose.”

“DR. DORSON, PLEASE!!!”

“Diana, please listen to me.  I know it hurts but Nurse Kathy’s going to do the breathing exercises with you and they should help ease the pain.”

“I CAN’T!  I’VE BEEN TRYING... DR. DORSON… SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT!”

Dr. Dorson’s seen this before with multiple births and she fully understands the pain Diana’s in since she’s given birth to her own set of twins but she also knows it’s too late to give her another epidural.

Eddie’s watching his husband, Dr. Dorson and Diana because Buck’s eyes are wide, Dr. Dorson’s trying to calm Diana and she’s screaming in pain.  During their legal surrogacy legal, they discussed the different types of birth and even though they agreed to natural, they included the other options as well just in case the doctor needs options.

He exhales and moves closer to Buck, if that’s even possible and they both keep their eyes on their surrogate and her OB/GYN.

Dr. Dorson makes a quick decision, then she looks at them and explains, “Buck and Eddie, we’re going to transport Diana to the operating room.”

Eddie nods in response because he fully understands what’s happening. “Thank you, Dr. Dorson.  We’ll follow you and your team.” After he refocuses his attention back onto his husband, he notices he’s still swaying back and forth like he’s going to faint, so he steps in front of him.  Once he’s directly in his line of sight, he puts one arm around his waist and pulls him close so Buck can’t see anything but him.

After their conversation this morning, he knows Buck’s worried and he has been for weeks.  He’s fully aware he’s scared something might happen to the babies and if he’s honest, he’s scared now too.

He can tell Buck’s not breathing and since they’re wearing masks and scrubs, he focuses all his attention on those ocean blue eyes he loves so much and in a low voice, he asks, “My love.  Can you hear me?”

After a second or maybe two, Buck slowly nods then his tears break free and they start rolling down his cheeks.  His mask gets wet but he’s so afraid that he doesn’t notice.  He whispers “Babe… I—I don’t understand.  What’s happening?”

Eddie cups his cheeks with both of his gloved hands and admits...

What's going to happen next as Buck and Eddie wait for their twin daughters to be born? 👀

___________

First Love Confession -Buck and Eddie share their first real and meaningful love confession.

First Date - Buck and Eddie go on their first date.

First Kiss - Buck and Eddie share their first kiss.

First Argument - Buck and Eddie have their first argument.

First Couples Therapy Session- Buck and Eddie go to their first couples therapy sessions.

First Time - Eddie and Buck make love for the first-time.

First Morning After - The night after Buck and Eddie make love for the first-time, they spend their first morning after together.

First Relationship Reveal - Buck and Eddie’s first relationship reveal.

First Mourning - Buck and Eddie experience their first mourning after a loss together.

First Marriage Proposal - Eddie and Buck’s first marriage proposal.

First Fiancé Introductions - Buck and Eddie’s first introductions as fiancés.

First Wedding Planning & Preparation - Buck and Eddie’s first planning and preparation for their wedding and honeymoon.

First Civil Marriage Ceremony - Buck and Eddie’s first civil marriage ceremony.

First Honeymoon - Buck and Eddie’s first honeymoon.

First Child (Buck) & First Baby (Buck and Eddie) - Eddie’s been a father for almost 14 years and Buck’s been a legal guardian to the same child for 4 years. However, after a court hearing, Buck will become a father to their first child and the title of legal guardian will be given to someone else. Also, one year and three months later, Buck and Eddie will welcome their first baby into the world.

__________

Their Firsts, At Last - 200K Words; Currently 14 completed works and 1 in progress: A multi-part fanfic series about the romantic “firsts” Buck and Eddie share as they journey through life in an established relationship and their lives as a couple will include some of Buck’s individual “firsts” too. It’s filled with the FANON love, romance, fluff and domesticity their relationship should have been allowed to experience in CANON. The second part of the series title was adapted from the song “At Last” by Etta James.

This series of FANON future speculation fanfics is being written on a continuous timeline that begins with the start of season 7 (if it were to start in September 2023). Each part ends at a specific point in Buck and Eddie’s relationship so the next part can begin with the ending of the previous part. Therefore, parts 1-14 should be read prior to reading part 15 and the series will continue in that manner until it’s complete.

Parts 1 - 15 are available on AO3

Part 15 has 7 chapters but they will be posted one at a time. Currently, Chapter 1 - 6 are available on AO3.

Chapter 7 is the final chapter in the fic and the series and it will be posted soon.

[vermillionwinter]

Fever Dream

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian f!reader

Summary: How many chance encounters can you have before you decide fate has intertwined your threads? With the 141 on leave pending an investigation, you appear to Simon, a lighthouse in the distance calling him to safety.

Warnings: Mutual attraction, slow-burn series (our boy's got a lot of work to do), Spicy thoughts-not explicit.

Note: I haven't had the will to write like this in years, but Simon Riley has reawakened a beast, and I need to get all the words out. So, this is a very rusty piece of work, but hope y'all find some enjoyment! Tattoos are the only physical descriptions I believe. the 2nd POV's are bringing me back to middle school Quizilla days.

Quiet. Everything in Simon’s Manchester flat was too fucking quiet, and the air stagnant when he was home. And that silence gave his thoughts the freedom to creep and dance to the murkiest valleys of his subconscious. Wrapping its tarry tendrils around the very memories Simon wanted to keep locked behind the chained door, dragging them out of him to relive every excruciating moment the darkness saw fit to unleash. 

Sitting in the single chair of his small, round table, Simon could catch wafts of soil and decay wrapping him in the tight confines of the damp wooden coffin. His lungs tightened, constricting the oxygen he needed. The fear of no escape webbed its way through the calm fog the prior glass of bourbon provided. It was as if the darkness narrowed in on him, boxing him into the point of full paralysis. The arms of his chairs he gripped tightly in his fists began to transform into the feel of the corpse that once was buried with him. 

HONK!

Simon’s eyes shot open, and he took the deepest breath he could muster as his lungs got used to the feeling of a full inhale and exhale. His eyes darted around in panic taking in every detail of his barren flat. It was sparsely furnished with essentials, one of them being a bed large enough the behemoth of a man could stretch upon comfortably. As comfortable as one could get when they're accustomed to the hard ground or the scantily padded cots.  

Simon shot back the bourbon he originally poured to savor and appreciate relishing in the slow burn it made down his esophagus. What he wouldn’t fucking do to get back out on the field. 

“As soon as we're back, gents, we are boots on the ground finding these bastards. We’ll find Shepherd and every lost Shadow.”

Ghost hadn’t been deployed since he took the last shot at Hassan in Chicago- weeks have passed. Bloody fucking investigation into Shepherd’s and Shadow Company’s off book deals called that all operators on the ops related to Graves’ and Shephard’s stolen missiles had to take mandatory leave pending investigation. Shadows were still getting wrapped up for questioning. There were few still on the run. But they’d find them. They didn’t deserve the courtesy of living their lives in fear. The face of death is all they were due. 

Betrayal. Betrayal got his family killed. Got Simon Riley killed. And now good soldiers lie dead in fields, their graves forever empty; and families lie dead in the streets of Las Almas. Innocent lives taken by those he once defended, defended the 141. 

Glass shattered against the opposite wall before Simon realized he threw the blown sand from his hand. Shoulders sagged, defeated, depleted, ready to give into the quiet of his home. The benched operator stood from his chair and made his way to the shower. He’d clean the mess later. He was alone after all. Always alone. 

Simon walked through the small crowds, prolonging the journey to his destination to walk to a path he didn’t have to squeeze through a throng of people. Wisps of the fresh air sauntered over him, releasing threads of tension into the open. Easing him from looking over his shoulder and checking his surroundings more often than they stayed in front of him. To his relief, no one was following him. Venturing out into society felt like an op in its own way. Having to blend in when you lived your life in anonymity. He wore a different mask in the calm of the world. One fewer people were familiar with than the ominous mask he donned on the field.  

And Las Almas was proof of why. Shephard was a loose-end that needed to be handled yesterday, and Simon couldn’t shake off the constant feeling he would be found. Just as Roba had found him. He couldn’t very well walk around with his most distinguishing feature on full display, a beacon where to strike next. Simon had to stay vigilant. For himself, but most importantly for them. Nothing could get to them. 

Sleep was an elusive luxury Simon would not allow himself since he was dismissed on leave, not that he had the best slumber before then. Running on cat naps, caffeine and spite. The blame and guilt eating away at him, letting those bastards go unseen. And all he wanted was five minutes alone with Shepherd. Ghost wanted the ex-general begging for his life as it left his very body. 

To…

All of Simon's plans of vengeance were halted when you stepped out onto the patio of the bakery he found a form of solace in on leave- emerald lace dress billowing around your body, combat boots peaked through with each step you took. Ethereal. A goddess among man. You were divine and entrancing as you stepped lightly, despite the clunky footwear you chose. He was in the door before he could notice where you sat, but hell he found himself praying at your altar you would be in perfect view. 

La Gouter was one of the few havens Simon had found in the area. The crowd was moderate, but constant. Tea was always fresh, and the man could not resist the warm, buttery treats. Today he sat with a chocolate croissant with his black tea- two sugars, no cream. Balance. 

A book tucked under his arm, he leaned against the mural of Paris- where he had a clear view to the left, right, patio door adjacent to his table, and the entry of the cafe itself. Which also gave him the view of his tea shop muse, and a sudden warmth rushed over him when you looked towards him, eyes honing in on his eyes. Target locked. 

Looking down quickly, he cracked open the book that accompanied him. Laying there waiting to be read, to transport the reader to another realm. A world where he didn’t have to be Simon Riley. Now he could get lost in the spice filled sands of Arrakis. Simon let his eyes settle on the pages behind the orange cover. 

Twenty pages in, half the tea gone, he felt his eyes drifting again. Black nails adorned your lithe fingers-wrapped around a pen you used to write in the notebook splayed on the table. Legs shifting, the slit of your dress exposed more tattoos scattered on your smooth leg. Wouldn't it be nice to run his fingers over the lines of each piece of art that was displayed there? To feel those hands wrapped around him instead? To lay you out in front of him the way your notebook was exposed to you. Lines of intrigue covering both flesh and paper. He wanted to know the webs of thought spinning from your head to paper. The sounds your lips would release at his touches. Were they soft and airy? Low and rough?

Fuck, he shook himself from the lasvicious thoughts (swirling in his head) throwing back the rest of his tea that he dearly wished was bourbon, and left for the gate. But as he threw his trash into the bin, he had that feeling. There was an energy when eyes bore into you. Watched your every move, like you were prey. Their target . Taking in even the smallest of twitches.

Chalked it up to being on edge after Las Almas, but fuck he needed to get back to his flat now. What if Shephard had found him? Ghost had no shortage of enemies that would crave nothing more than to spill his blood. Were the others still alive? Gaz. Price. Soap. But Simon wasn't met with a bullet when he turned around to face whoever was trailing him. No. Simon found curious eyes glistening in the sun- following his every move. Down to the smallest twitch.

Simon felt his heart stutter, a catch in his throat when you flashed a disarming smile, painted in dark red. Stomach in unfamiliar knots, he froze for a moment soaking in your warmth in the moment of vulnerability. He wanted that warmth to blanket him in its softest rays. It was terribly disarming. Blinking out of his stupor, he found tantalizing eyes paired with a shy smile greeting him. But, the brute didn’t know how to respond; his mind was still in conflict. And he left without another glance in your direction, all the while wondering how someone could glow in the dull skies of London. There was enough sunlight to bathe you in its golden rays. The shimmer upon your skin was like nothing Simon had ever seen, your beauty enraptured him. 

You watched the giant of a man turn-hands shoved in his pockets-and leave the cafe, and you couldn’t help the appreciative gaze as your eyes roamed the backside of the man who stopped dead in his tracks and stared at you for an agonizingly small amount of time. Whom you had caught staring at you minutes ago. His gaze, through red lenses, overwhelmed you, a vehement aura exuding and reaching.

He was statuesque, a gargoyle in the flesh wrapped in the darkness of his fabrics, sitting at the small metal table against the bright paints of the Paris mural. You certainly appreciated the contrast. Auburn beard covered a strong jaw, but his face was mostly obscured by the black Everton cap and red lensed shades. The hoodie did little to conceal the firm bulk of his arms, broad shoulders. When he broke eye contact to read his book, shades went to his hat, but angled his face to further obscure your view. A shiver chilled you. Why was he hiding? But you didn’t let your attention linger, though you did want to. You wanted to watch him read, and immerse himself in whatever tale he was venturing through.  

In. Out. In. Out.

The mantra on loop to keep his thoughts focused. Singular. Not focused on red lips pressed against his neck. Teeth grazing a path over a protruding vein. So he ran faster. Faster. Faster, until all he could think about was how to get enough oxygen to his lungs, Lamb of God blasting through his headphones. The opening notes of Walk with Me In Hell leading him through the end of his run. Spent. Overexerted. Exactly what he needed. He’d finally sleep, and just not fucking care what happened next.

Simon released a breath he had not realized he was holding until it left him. Disappointed relief. The tea shop siren was absent from his visit. It was strange. The wanton desire to be in the presence of another being. He was used to alone. It was easier to work when you didn’t have the reminder of how many lives were in your hands. It was effective, and he was damn good at it. You had his mind in a whirlwind of confusion. Not even the women he's fucked stayed with him the way you have. You've never even said a damn word to him, and he was crumbling. Under a spell you were unaware you cast. Synthesizing his dreams to your every whim.

“Fucking Christ.” A soft growl met his ears, eyes slid toward the culprit. And there you were, just as gorgeous and warm without the infrared glow of the burning star above. Even with the snarl across your painted lips, coffee spilled in front of you as you picked up the few items you dropped. The espresso color accentuated the shape of your plush lips, and he wanted to know what the supple flesh felt like between his teeth, tongue sliding in sync with yours. And fucking hell he’s heard your voice, further fueling his mind. Simon’s base instincts were bleeding through more than he would care to admit. Like some horny school boy seeing tits for the first time. He didn’t care for it, wanted it gone. Made him feel compromised. It was consuming him in a time he couldn’t afford distractions. When could he ever?

Your morning started out shit, and seemed to become progressively shittier. You had an assignment due by midnight. The internet at your place was out, and the company had been very little help with an ETA. It had been your day off, but Deana was out with some virus her kid picked up from school and you were the lucky winner to be on rotation that week for the store. All you wanted was the comfort and warmth of a white chocolate mocha, and now that was also ruined as the caffeinated beverage seeped into the porous concrete of the patio. 

You had been set and determined to complete your assignment covering the impact commercial farming has had on the environment and global economics. Then, you saw him. Shades sat atop his same hat, the once full beard had been trimmed, hugging the shapely jaw. You liked it, so much so that you stumbled on a table, coffee slipping from your hands.

You wanted to scream, cry, kick the chair, but instead you blinked back the tears and picked the empty cup from the puddle of cream, sugar and caffeine. Feeling like a bloody idiot for being that damn distracted by a bloke you’ve not actually seen yet. If he walked around without the hate and sunnies, you’d most likely not realize it was him. But hell if the mystery wasn’t all the more enticing.

 You sighed, paying no more mind to the gargantuan on your left-dizzy from the distractions- and set your workstation. Three hours. That’s all you had before your shift at the shop.

You sat with one earbud playing music as you began cycling through your notes finding topic points and sub plots for your outline. The angelic voice of Florence Welsh guiding you through the motions of the ebb and flow of your homework routine. And deep in your concentration and will to see this task complete, you did not notice a dark figure leaving its perch. 

“Excuse me?” you looked to see one of the younger baristas standing with a coffee. “Uh…some dude ordered this for you, and wanted me to bring it out to you?” 

You quirked a brow taking the drink from the nervous kid and thanked them. When they skittered back into the building you took a look around seeing Paris missing one of its Gargoyles of Notre Dame.  A jolt of excitement warmed you when the sweet velvet flow of the caffeine hit your tongue. A perfect coffee to lift your spirits from a perfect stranger.

[tworosesblackthorn]

strangers - matt sturniolo

strangers

matt sturniolo x reader

wc: 1.7k

in which: matt hasn’t been the best boyfriend recently

a/n: been on here for a hot minute but haven’t written anything… just admired from afar. feeling hella angsty today so i decided to write a sad fic (sorry not sorry lol) based on “quilt of steam” by del water gap. (he’s my babygirl and if you think you love him more than me, no you don’t. anyways! get your tissues.

-all i ever wanted was for you to take a second, drop it all to sit with me

another missed date. another night with a quiet phone and an empty bed. you were starting to feel like an afterthought. life gets busy, sure, but one would think that a girlfriend of two years would at least deserve a text saying the romantic night out you had planned had to be cancelled. but once again, your phone stayed silent. you only ever saw matt in fleeting moments now, when he came home between photoshoots and filming and merch drops and promotional events. and even then, he barely spoke. a small peck on the lips, a quick “love you,” and he was gone again. you can’t even remember the last time the two of us were alone together. or just together at all. you missed him. the long drives the two of you would take, the way he would rub his thumb over your knuckles when you were holding hands, the way he would hold your face when you kissed, how he brought you flowers every friday, how he told you that you were the prettiest girl in the world. you missed it all. your heart ached for just a tender moment with him, for him to let go of his responsibilities and treat you like you were important again. it was a simple wish, but it never seemed to happen.

-waiting in the car wondering if you would address it, or just leave me hurting quietly

with each ring of the phone, you begged whatever power was out there that matt would pick up the phone. with a flat tire on the side of the road and being late to work, you were at your wit’s end. your first call was to work. your second to your mother. your third to your best friend. the latter two were busy and couldn’t pick you up. which left you to your last resort: your boyfriend. you weren’t sure what was more upsetting: the flat or the fact that you didn’t want to call matt. but here you were, silently praying that the one person in the world you should be able to count on would answer. and an excruciating 30 seconds later, you heard a coarse “what?” come over the line. “matt, my car has a flat, i need you to come pick me up.” you held your breath as you heard him let out a terse exhale. “i’ve got shit to do, call your mom or something,” he says. it’s my turn to breathe out. “are you serious? i’m like 5 miles from your house, can you please just come get me, it’ll take you 10 minutes, tops.” a beat of silence. “yeah, whatever, sure.” and then the line goes dead.

you pull open the passenger door and slide in, dropping your purse by your feet and clicking your keys once more to make sure your car is locked. you’re abruptly knocked back into your seat as matt accelerates, merging back into the steady line of cars on their ways to work. “jeez, matt,” you gasp, putting a hand to heart, startled by the sudden sure of momentum. you rebound, looking over at the man you love with your entire heart. “thanks for picking me up,” you start, “i know you’re busy-“ a hand cuts you off. “-but you called anyways. ruined our entire schedule today.” the interruption takes the wind out of you faster than matt pressing the pedal down did. your bottom lip finds its way in between your teeth and your gaze turns to the window. fidgeting with your fingers in your lap does nothing to stop the tears in your eyes from threatening to fall. neither does matt’s muttered “sorry,” or the hand he tries to put on your thigh but moves away at the last second. the silence spreads like a quilt of steam over the car for what seems like the eons it takes to get back to the house you share with matt and his brothers. the turning of keys and cut of the engine draw you out of thoughts you would pay a million dollars to never have again. and there you both sit. a minute ticks by, then two. your eyes stay on your lap and his on the steering wheel, acting like the pebbled leather that covers it is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. you think that maybe he’ll finally say something, explain what’s going on, tell you he’s sorry and that he’ll be better. instead, you get the sound of the driver door opening and closing as matt gets out. you sit in silence as you watch him walk up the driveway, feeling the last piece of your heart be stomped on with each step he took.

-i needed a change, so we wouldn’t fall out of love

the short phone call you intended to have with your mom about your car turned into a hushed conversation in the garage about how matt was acting recently. “mom, i’m so scared of losing him, i need this to get better.” you’re whispering, desperate not to be heard by any of the boys in the house. “why don’t you come home for a bit? a little distance might help you clear your head,” she starts, “plus, dad’s making his famous popcorn tonight.” you sigh, chuckle, and slowly agree. “pick me up in 30?”

the walk upstairs to your shared room with matt feels like it’s made up of eggshells. you feel the need to make yourself small, to try to take up as little space as possible. walking into the room, you’re surprised to see matt on the bed, scrolling mindlessly on his phone. he glances up at you and offers a small, pursed-lip half-smile before he goes back to whatever he was doing. slowly, you make your way over to the closet to pull out a duffel bag, hesitant to leave if he’s here, in the room, with you. but the dismissive look he gave you when you had walked in sealed the deal. you were going to your parent’s house tonight. matt no longer felt like home. and so the bag was opened and placed on the chair in the corner, toiletries and clothes made their way in. “are you going somewhere?” you were surprised to hear his voice, but you steeled yourself and remembered why you were doing this. “my parents’ house…” you trailed off, but picked it back up, “i don’t know when i’ll be back.” you held your breath for what felt like the hundredth time that day, watching as he seemed to tense. “why?” he finally asked. “because, matt. i’m tired of being the last choice and being neglected by my boyfriend of two years and never seeing you. i can’t remember the last time you smiled at me.” the tears were threatening to escape, and your voice started to wobble. “you’re just going through the motions of being in a relationship, you’re not actually in it. i just need time.” you whisper the last sentence, lowering your head towards your chest to take a deep breath before raising it again. “i want you to have space to decide if you want me anymore or not.” you hover in the doorframe, watching his face and trying to decide if the furrow in his brows meant he was thinking about how serious you are, or how much he wants to come out and tell you he wants to break up. “of course i want you.” it was barely audible, rushed and out of his mouth in a singular breath. “then you need to show me, matt.” the last thing you saw before you turned and walked away was his phone fall out of his hand as his knees drew into his chest. 

-i couldn’t admit i was crushed by the weight of being strangers

two weeks later at the supermarket, there he was. you hadn’t heard from him over those two weeks, and you were equally upset and thankful. you knew that any call from him would have you running back. you wanted to be strong. but then your eyes met across the aisle and you simply couldn’t look away. you weren’t sure who moved, but suddenly you were only a foot apart and you could smell his cologne if you strained hard enough. your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and you were sure that anyone who spared a glance in your direction would think you were insane. “i’m sorry.” matt’s eyes fell to his feet, shuffling from one to the other. “i know.” you say as you observe him. his hair is unkempt, and he hasn’t shaved in a while, something that he forgets to do when he’s stressed. his cuticles are chewed and he’s wringing his hands. “no, you don’t. i’m so fucking sorry. i messed up, and i didn’t prioritize you the way i should have. i was taking you for granted, just keeping you as a constant that i could depend on. and i shouldn’t have. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and i don’t tell you that enough-“ “or ever,” you cut him off with a half-scoff, half-giggle. “or ever,” he concedes as he meets your eyes, “and i know i don’t deserve it but i want to have you back. i love you and i miss you so much.” he pauses. “please come home to me.” you let out a long exhale, flitting your eyes around the space that surrounded you, before finally landing back on him. “we can try,” you began, and your heart missed a beat as you saw hope flood his face, “but i have some conditions.” he nodded, the lopsided smile and twinkle in his eye never leaving his stupidly gorgeous face. “can i hug you?” he asks, his arms twitching like he was fighting an invisible force to not touch you without consent. you offered him a small smile and nodded, promptly being squeezed and almost dropping your groceries. “matt!” you exclaim, stifling a laugh into his shoulder. “i love you,” he whispers into your hair, “i promise that you will never be a stranger to me.” 

a/n 2: so i couldn’t resist a happy resolution. whatever. love you guys xoxoxo

[ingek73]

Personal History

May 15, 2023 Issue

Notes from Prince Harry’s Ghostwriter

Collaborating on his memoir, “Spare,” meant spending hours together on Zoom, meeting his inner circle, and gaining a new perspective on the tabloids.

By J. R. Moehringer

May 8, 2023

A portrait of Prince Harry composed of scribbles that evoke writing on a yellow piece of binder paper.

Work with Prince Harry on the book proceeded steadily—until the press found out about it.Illustration by Simone Massoni

I was exasperated with Prince Harry. My head was pounding, my jaw was clenched, and I was starting to raise my voice. And yet some part of me was still able to step outside the situation and think, This is so weird. I’m shouting at Prince Harry. Then, as Harry started going back at me, as his cheeks flushed and his eyes narrowed, a more pressing thought occurred: Whoa, it could all end right here.

This was the summer of 2022. For two years, I’d been the ghostwriter on Harry’s memoir, “Spare,” and now, reviewing his latest edits in a middle-of-the-night Zoom session, we’d come to a difficult passage. Harry, at the close of gruelling military exercises in rural England, gets captured by pretend terrorists. It’s a simulation, but the tortures inflicted upon Harry are very real. He’s hooded, dragged to an underground bunker, beaten, frozen, starved, stripped, forced into excruciating stress positions by captors wearing black balaclavas. The idea is to find out if Harry has the toughness to survive an actual capture on the battlefield. (Two of his fellow-soldiers don’t; they crack.) At last, Harry’s captors throw him against a wall, choke him, and scream insults into his face, culminating in a vile dig at—Princess Diana?

Even the fake terrorists engrossed in their parts, even the hard-core British soldiers observing from a remote location, seem to recognize that an inviolate rule has been broken. Clawing that specific wound, the memory of Harry’s dead mother, is out of bounds. When the simulation is over, one of the participants extends an apology.

Harry always wanted to end this scene with a thing he said to his captors, a comeback that struck me as unnecessary, and somewhat inane. Good for Harry that he had the nerve, but ending with what he said would dilute the scene’s meaning: that even at the most bizarre and peripheral moments of his life, his central tragedy intrudes. For months, I’d been crossing out the comeback, and for months Harry had been pleading for it to go back in. Now he wasn’t pleading, he was insisting, and it was 2 a.m., and I was starting to lose it. I said, “Dude, we’ve been over this.”

Why was this one line so important? Why couldn’t he accept my advice? We were leaving out a thousand other things—that’s half the art of memoir, leaving stuff out—so what made this different? Please, I said, trust me. Trust the book.

Although this wasn’t the first time that Harry and I had argued, it felt different; it felt as if we were hurtling toward some kind of decisive rupture, in part because Harry was no longer saying anything. He was just glaring into the camera. Finally, he exhaled and calmly explained that, all his life, people had belittled his intellectual capabilities, and this flash of cleverness proved that, even after being kicked and punched and deprived of sleep and food, he had his wits about him.

“Oh,” I said. “O.K.” It made sense now. But I still refused.

“Why?”

Because, I told him, everything you just said is about you. You want the world to know that you did a good job, that you were smart. But, strange as it may seem, memoir isn’t about you. It’s not even the story of your life. It’s a story carved from your life, a particular series of events chosen because they have the greatest resonance for the widest range of people, and at this point in the story those people don’t need to know anything more than that your captors said a cruel thing about your mom.

Harry looked down. A long time. Was he thinking? Seething? Should I have been more diplomatic? Should I have just given in? I imagined I’d be thrown off the book soon after sunup. I could almost hear the awkward phone call with Harry’s agent, and I was sad. Never mind the financial hit—I was focussed on the emotional shock. All the time, the effort, the intangibles I’d invested in Harry’s memoir, in Harry, would be gone just like that.

After what seemed like an hour, Harry looked up, and we locked eyes. “O.K.,” he said.

“O.K.?”

“Yes. I get it.”

“Thank you, Harry,” I said, relieved.

He shot me a mischievous grin. “I really enjoy getting you worked up like that.”

I burst into laughter and shook my head, and we moved on to his next set of edits.

Later that morning, after a few hours of sleep, I sat outside worrying. (Mornings are my worry time, along with afternoons and evenings.) I didn’t worry so much about the propriety of arguing with princes, or even the risks. One of a ghostwriter’s main jobs is having a big mouth. You win some, you lose most, but you have to keep pushing, not unlike a demanding parent or a tyrannical coach. Otherwise, you’re nothing but a glorified stenographer, and that’s disloyalty to the author, to the book—to books. Opposition is true Friendship, William Blake wrote, and if I had to choose a ghostwriting credo, that would be it.

No, rather than the rightness of going after Harry, I was questioning the heat with which I’d done so. I scolded myself: It’s not your comeback. It’s not your mother. For the thousandth time in my ghostwriting career, I reminded myself: It’s not your effing book.

Some days, the phone doesn’t stop. Ghostwriters in distress. They ask for ten minutes, half an hour. A coffee date.

“My author can’t remember squat.”

“My author and I have come to despise each other.”

“I can’t get my author to call me back—is it normal for a ghost to get ghosted?”

At the outset, I do what ghostwriters do. I listen. And eventually, after the callers talk themselves out, I ask a few gentle questions. The first (aside from “How did you get this number?”) is always: How bad do you want it? Because things can go sideways in a hurry. An author might know nothing about writing, which is why he hired a ghost. But he may also have the literary self-confidence of Saul Bellow, and good luck telling Saul Bellow that he absolutely may not describe an interesting bowel movement he experienced years ago, as I once had to tell an author. So fight like crazy, I say, but always remember that if push comes to shove no one will have your back. Within the text and without, no one wants to hear from the dumb ghostwriter.

I try not to sound didactic. A lot of what I’ve read about ghostwriting, much of it from accomplished ghostwriters, doesn’t square with my experience. Recording the author? Terrible idea—it makes many authors feel as if they’re being deposed. Dressing like the author? It’s a memoir, not a masquerade party. The ghostwriter for Julian Assange wrote twenty-five thousand words about his methodology, and it sounded to me like Elon Musk on mushrooms—on Mars. That same ghost, however, published a review of “Spare” describing Harry as “off his royal tits” and me as going “all Sartre or Faulkner,” so what do I know? Who am I to offer rules? Maybe the alchemy of each ghost-author pairing is unique.

Therefore, I simply remind the callers that ghostwriting is an art and urge them not to let those who cast it as hacky, shady, or faddish (it’s been around for thousands of years) dim their pride. I also tell them that they’re providing a vital public service, helping to shore up the publishing industry, since most of the titles on this week’s best-seller list were written by someone besides the named author.

Signing off, the callers usually sigh and say thanks and grumble something like “Well, whatever happens, I’m never doing this again.” And I tell them yes, they will, and wish them luck.

How does a person even become a ghostwriter? What’s the path into a profession for which there is no school or certification, and to which no one actually aspires? You never hear a kid say, “One day, I want to write other people’s books.” And yet I think I can detect some hints, some foreshadowing in my origins.

When I was growing up in Manhasset, New York, people would ask: Where’s your dad? My typical answer was an embarrassed shrug. Beats me. My old man wasn’t around, that’s all I knew, all any grownup had the heart to tell me. And yet he was also everywhere. My father was a well-known rock-and-roll d.j., so his Sam Elliott basso profundo was like the Long Island Rail Road, rumbling in the distance at maddeningly regular intervals.

Every time I caught his show, I’d feel confused, empty, sad, but also amazed at how much he had to say. The words, the jokes, the patter—it didn’t stop. Was it my Oedipal counterstrike to fantasize an opposite existence, one in which I just STFU? Less talking, more listening, that was my basic life plan at age ten. In Manhasset, an Irish-Italian enclave, I was surrounded by professional listeners: bartenders and priests. Neither of those careers appealed to me, so I waited, and one afternoon found myself sitting with a cousin at the Squire theatre, in Great Neck, watching a matinée of “All the President’s Men.” Reporters seemed to do nothing but listen. Then they got to turn what they heard into stories, which other people read—no talking required. Sign me up.

My first job out of college was at the New York Times. When I wasn’t fetching coffee and corned beef, I was doing “legwork,” which meant running to a fire, a trial, a murder scene, then filing a memo back to the newsroom. The next morning, I’d open the paper and see my facts, maybe my exact words, under someone else’s name. I didn’t mind; I hated my name. I was born John Joseph Moehringer, Jr., and Senior was M.I.A. Not seeing my name, his name, wasn’t a problem. It was a perk.

Many days at the Times, I’d look around the newsroom, with its orange carpet and pipe-puffing lifers and chattering telex machines, and think, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. And then the editors suggested I go somewhere else.

I went west. I got a job at the Rocky Mountain News, a tabloid founded in 1859. Its first readers were the gold miners panning the rivers and creeks of the Rockies, and though I arrived a hundred and thirty-one years later, the paper still read as if it were written for madmen living alone in them thar hills. The articles were thumb-length, the fact checking iffy, and the newsroom mood, many days, bedlam. Some oldsters were volubly grumpy about being on the back slopes of middling careers, others were blessed with unjustified swagger, and a few were dangerously loose cannons. (I’ll never forget the Sunday morning our religion writer, in his weekly column, referred to St. Joseph as “Christ’s stepdad.” The phones exploded.) The general lack of quality control made the paper a playground for me. I was able to go slow, learn from mistakes without being defined by them, and build up rudimentary skills, like writing fast.

What I did best, I discovered, was write for others. The gossip columnist spent most nights in downtown saloons, hunting for scoops, and some mornings he’d shuffle into the newsroom looking rough. One morning, he fixed his red eyes on me, gestured toward his notes, and rasped, “Would you?” I sat at his desk and dashed off his column in twenty minutes. What a rush. Writing under no name was safe; writing under someone else’s name (and picture) was hedonic—a kind of hiding and seeking. Words had never come easy for me, but, when I wrote as someone else, the words, the jokes, the patter—it didn’t stop.

In the fall of 2006, my phone rang. Unknown number. But I instantly recognized the famously soft voice: for two decades, he’d loomed over the tennis world. Now, on the verge of retiring, he told me that he was decompressing from the emotions of the moment by reading my memoir, “The Tender Bar,” which had recently been published. It had him thinking about writing his own. He wondered if I’d come talk to him about it. A few weeks later, we met at a restaurant in his home town, Las Vegas.

Andre Agassi and I were very different, but our connection was instant. He had an eighth-grade education but a profound respect for people who read and write books. I had a regrettably short sporting résumé (my Little League fastball was unhittable) but deep reverence for athletes. Especially the solitaries: tennis players, prizefighters, matadors, who possess that luminous charisma which comes from besting opponents single-handedly. But Andre didn’t want to talk about that. He hated tennis, he said. He wanted to talk about memoir. He had a list of questions. He asked why my memoir was so confessional. I told him that’s how you know you can trust an author—if he’s willing to get raw.

He asked why I’d organized my memoir around other people, rather than myself. I told him that was the kind of memoir I admired. There’s so much power to be gained, and honesty to be achieved, from taking an ostensibly navel-gazing genre and turning the gaze outward. Frank McCourt had a lot of feelings about his brutal Irish childhood, but he kept most of them to himself, focussing instead on his Dad, his Mam, his beloved siblings, the neighbors down the lane.

“I am a part of all that I have met.” It might’ve been that first night, or another, but at some point I shared that line from Tennyson, and Andre loved it. The same almost painful gratitude that I felt toward my mother, and toward my bartender uncle and his barfly friends, who helped her raise me, Andre felt for his trainer and his coach, and for his wife, Stefanie Graf.

But how, he asked, do you write about other people without invading their privacy? That’s the ultimate challenge, I said. I sought permission from nearly everyone I wrote about, and shared early drafts, but sometimes people aren’t speaking to you, and sometimes they’re dead. Sometimes, in order to tell the truth, you simply can’t avoid hurting someone’s feelings. It goes down easier, I said, if you’re equally unsparing about yourself.

He asked if I’d help him do it. I gave him a soft no. I liked his enthusiasm, his boldness—him. But I’d never imagined myself writing someone else’s book, and I already had a job. By now, I’d left the Rocky Mountain News and joined the Los Angeles Times. I was a national correspondent, doing long-form journalism, which I loved. Alas, the Times was about to change. A new gang of editors had come in, and not long after my dinner with Andre they let it be known that the paper would no longer prioritize long-form journalism.

Apart from a beef with my bosses, and apart from the money (Andre was offering a sizable bump from my reporter salary), what finally made me change my no to a yes, put my stuff into storage, and move to Vegas was the sense that Andre was suffering an intense and specific ache that I might be able to cure. He wanted to tell his story and didn’t know how; I’d been there. I’d struggled for years to tell my story.

Every attempt failed, and every failure took a heavy psychic toll. Some days, it felt like a physical blockage, and to this day I believe my story would’ve remained stuck inside me forever if not for one editor at the Times, who on a Sunday afternoon imparted some thunderbolt advice about memoir that steered me onto the right path. I wanted to give Andre that same grace.

Shortly before I moved to Vegas, a friend invited me to a fancy restaurant in the Phoenix suburbs for a gathering of sportswriters covering the 2008 Super Bowl. As the menus were being handed around, my friend clinked a knife against his glass and announced, “O.K., listen up! Moehringer here has been asked by Agassi to ghostwrite his—”

Groans.

“Exactly. We’ve all done our share of these fucking things—”

Louder groans.

“Right! Our mission is not to leave this table until we’ve convinced this idiot to tell Agassi not just no but hell no.”

At once, the meal turned into a raucous meeting of Ghostwriters Anonymous. Everyone had a hard-luck story about being disrespected, dismissed, shouted at, shoved aside, abused in a hilarious variety of ways by an astonishing array of celebrities, though I mostly remember the jocks. The legendary basketball player who wouldn’t come to the door for his first appointment with his ghost, then appeared for the second buck naked. The hockey great with the personality of a hockey stick, who had so few thoughts about his time on this planet, so little interest in his own book, that he gave his ghost an epic case of writer’s block. The notorious linebacker who, days before his memoir was due to the publisher, informed his ghost that the co-writing credit would go to his psychotherapist.

Between gasping and laughing, I asked the table, “Why do they do it? Why do they treat ghostwriters so badly?” I was bombarded with theories.

Authors feel ashamed about needing someone to write their story, and that shame makes them behave in shameful ways.

Authors think they could write the book themselves, if only they had time, so they resent having to pay you to do it.

Authors spend their lives safeguarding their secrets, and now you come along with your little notebook and pesky questions and suddenly they have to rip back the curtain? Boo.

But if all authors treat all ghosts badly, I wondered, and if it’s not your book in the first place, why not cash the check and move on? Why does it hurt so much? I don’t recall anyone having a good answer for that.

“Please,” I said to Andre, “don’t give me a story to tell at future Super Bowls.” He grinned and said he’d do his best. He did better than that. In two years of working together, we never exchanged a harsh word, not even when he felt my first draft needed work.

Maybe the Germans have a term for it, the particular facial expression of someone reading something about his life that’s even the tiniest bit wrong. Schaudergesicht? I saw that look on Andre’s face, and it made me want to lie down on the floor. But, unlike me, he didn’t overreact. He knew that putting a first serve into the net is no big deal. He made countless fixes, and I made fixes to his fixes, and together we made ten thousand more, and in time we arrived at a draft that satisfied us both. The collaboration was so close, so synchronous, you’d have to call the eventual voice of the memoir a hybrid—though it’s all Andre. That’s the mystic paradox of ghostwriting: you’re inherent and nowhere; vital and invisible. To borrow an image from William Gass, you’re the air in someone else’s trumpet.

“Open,” by Andre Agassi, was published on November 9, 2009. Andre was pleased, reviewers were complimentary, and I soon had offers to ghost other people’s memoirs. Before deciding what to do next, I needed to get away, clear my head. I went to the Green Mountains. For two days, I drove around, stopped at wayside meadows, sat under trees and watched the clouds—until one late afternoon I began feeling unwell. I bought some cold medicine, pulled into the first bed-and-breakfast I saw, and climbed into bed. Hand-sewn quilt under my chin, I switched on the TV. There was Andre, on a late-night talk show.

The host was praising “Open,” and Agassi was being his typical charming, humble self. Now the host was praising the writing. Agassi continued to be humble. Thank you, thank you. But I dared to hope he might mention . . . me? An indefensible, illogical hope: Andre had asked me to put my name on the cover, and I’d declined. Nevertheless, right before zonking out, I started muttering at the TV, “Say my name.” I got a bit louder. “Say my name!” I got pretty rowdy. “Say my fucking name!”

Seven hours later, I stumbled downstairs to the breakfast room and caught a weird vibe. Guests stared. Several peered over my shoulder to see who was with me. What the? I sat alone, eating some pancakes, until I got it. The bed-and-breakfast had to be three hundred years old, with walls made of pre-Revolutionary cardboard—clearly every guest had heard me. Say my name!

I took it as a lesson. NyQuil was to blame, but also creeping narcissism. The gods were admonishing me: You can’t be Mister Rogers while ghosting the book and John McEnroe when it’s done. I drove away from Vermont with newfound clarity. I’m not cut out for this ghostwriting thing. I needed to get back to my first love, journalism, and to writing my own books.

During the next year or so, I freelanced for magazines while making notes for a novel. Then once more to the wilderness. I rented a tiny cabin in the far corner of nowhere and, for a full winter, rarely left. No TV, no radio, no Wi-Fi. For entertainment, I listened to the silver foxes screaming at night in a nearby forest, and I read dozens of books. But mostly I sat before the woodstove and tried to inhabit the minds of my characters. The novel was historical fiction, based on the decades-long crime spree of America’s most prolific bank robber, but also based on my disgust with the bankers who had recently devastated the global financial system. In real life, my bank-robbing protagonist wrote a memoir, with a ghostwriter, which was full of lies or delusions. I thought it might be fascinating to override that memoir with solid research, overwrite the ghostwriter, and become, in effect, the ghostwriter of the ghostwriter of a ghost.

I gave everything I had to that novel, but when it was published, in 2012, it got mauled by an influential critic. The review was then instantly tweeted by countless humanitarians, often with sidesplitting commentary like “Ouch.” I was on book tour at the time and read the review in a pitch-dark hotel room knowing full well what it meant: the book was stillborn. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand. Part of me wanted to never leave that room. Part of me never did.

I barely slept or ate for months. My savings ran down. Occasionally, I’d take on a freelance assignment, profile an athlete for a magazine, but mostly I was in hibernation. Then one day the phone rang. A soft voice, vaguely familiar. Andre, asking if I was up for working with someone on a memoir.

Who?

Phil Knight.

Who?

Andre sighed. Founder of Nike?

A business book didn’t seem like my thing. But I needed to do something, and writing my own stuff was out. I went to the initial meeting thinking, It’s only an hour of my life. It wound up being three years.

Luckily, Phil had no interest in doing the typical C.E.O. auto-hagiography. He’d sought writing advice from Tobias Wolff, he was pals with a Pulitzer-winning novelist. He wanted to write a literary memoir, unfolding his mistakes, his anxieties—his quest. He viewed entrepreneurship, and sports, as a spiritual search. (He’d read deeply in Taoism and Zen.) Since I, too, was in search of meaning, I thought his book might be just the thing I needed.

It was. It was also, in every sense of that overused phrase, a labor of love. (I married the book’s editor.) When “Shoe Dog” was published, in April, 2016, I reflected on the dire warnings I’d heard at Super Bowl XLII and thought, What were they talking about? I felt like a guy, warned off by a bunch of wizened gamblers, who hits the jackpot twice with the first two nickels he sticks into a slot machine. Then again, I figured, better quit while I’m ahead.

Back to magazine writing. I also dared to start another novel. More personal, more difficult than the last, it absorbed me totally and I was tunnelling toward a draft while also starting a family. There was no time for anything else, no desire. And yet some days I’d hear that siren call. An actor, an activist, a billionaire, a soldier, a politician, another billionaire, a lunatic would phone, seeking help with a memoir.

Twice I said yes. Not for the money. I’ve never taken a ghosting gig for the money. But twice I felt that I had no choice, that the story was too cool, the author just too compelling, and twice the author freaked out at my first draft. Twice I explained that first drafts are always flawed, that error is the mother of truth, but it wasn’t just the errors. It was the confessions, the revelations, the cold-blooded honesty that memoir requires. Everyone says they want to get raw until they see how raw feels.

Twice the author killed the book. Twice I sat before a stack of pages into which I’d poured my soul and years of my life, knowing they were good, and knowing that they were about to go into a drawer forever. Twice I said to my wife, Never again.

And then, in the summer of 2020, I got a text. The familiar query. Would you be interested in speaking with someone about ghosting a memoir? I shook my head no. I covered my eyes. I picked up the phone and heard myself blurting, Who?

Prince Harry.

I agreed to a Zoom. I was curious, of course. Who wouldn’t be? I wondered what the real story was. I wondered if we’d have any chemistry. We did, and there was, I think, a surprising reason. Princess Diana had died twenty-three years before our first conversation, and my mother, Dorothy Moehringer, had just died, and our griefs felt equally fresh.

Still, I hesitated. Harry wasn’t sure how much he wanted to say in his memoir, and that concerned me. I’d heard similar reservations, early on, from both authors who’d ultimately killed their memoirs. Also, I knew that whatever Harry said, whenever he said it, would set off a storm. I am not, by nature, a storm chaser. And there were logistical considerations. In the early stages of a global pandemic, it was impossible to predict when I’d be able to sit down with Harry in the same room. How do you write about someone you can’t meet?

Harry had no deadline, however, and that enticed me. Many authors are in a hot hurry, and some ghosts are happy to oblige. They churn and burn, producing three or four books a year. I go painfully slow; I don’t know any other way. Also, I just liked the dude. I called him dude right away; it made him chuckle. I found his story, as he outlined it in broad strokes, relatable and infuriating. The way he’d been treated, by both strangers and intimates, was grotesque. In retrospect, though, I think I selfishly welcomed the idea of being able to speak with someone, an expert, about that never-ending feeling of wishing you could call your mom.

Harry and I made steady progress in the course of 2020, largely because the world didn’t know what we were up to. We could revel in the privacy of our Zoom bubble. As Harry grew to trust me, he brought other people into the bubble, connecting me with his inner circle, a vital phase in every ghosting job. There is always someone who knows your author’s life better than he does, and your task is to find that person fast and interview his socks off.

As the pandemic waned, I was finally able to travel to Montecito. I went once with my wife and children. (Harry won the heart of my daughter, Gracie, with his vast “Moana” scholarship; his favorite scene, he told her, is when Heihei, the silly chicken, finds himself lost at sea.) I also went twice by myself. Harry put me up in his guesthouse, where Meghan and Archie would visit me on their afternoon walks. Meghan, knowing I was missing my family, was forever bringing trays of food and sweets.

Little by little, Harry and I amassed hundreds of thousands of words. When we weren’t Zooming or phoning, we were texting around the clock. In due time, no subject was off the table. I felt honored by his candor, and I could tell that he felt astonished by it. And energized. While I always emphasized storytelling and scenes, Harry couldn’t escape the wish that “Spare” might be a rebuttal to every lie ever published about him. As Borges dreamed of endless libraries, Harry dreams of endless retractions, which meant no end of revelations. He knew, of course, that some people would be aghast at first. “Why on earth would Harry talk about that?” But he had faith that they would soon see: because someone else already talked about it, and got it wrong.

He was joyful at this prospect; everything in our bubble was good. Then someone leaked news of the book.

Whoever it was, their callousness toward Harry extended to me. I had a clause in my contract giving me the right to remain unidentified, a clause I always insist on, but the leaker blew that up by divulging my name to the press. Along with pretty much anyone who has had anything to do with Harry, I woke one morning to find myself squinting into a gigantic searchlight. Every hour, another piece would drop, each one wrong. My fee was wrong, my bio was wrong, even my name.

One royal expert cautioned that, because of my involvement in the book, Harry’s father should be “looking for a pile of coats to hide under.” When I mentioned this to Harry, he stared. “Why?”

“Because I have daddy issues.” We laughed and got back to discussing our mothers.

The genesis of my relationship with Harry was constantly misreported. Harry and I were introduced by George Clooney, the British newspapers proclaimed, even though I’ve never met George Clooney. Yes, he was directing a film based on my memoir, but I’ve never been in the man’s presence, never communicated with him in any way. I wanted to correct the record, write an op-ed or something, tweet some facts. But no. I reminded myself: ghosts don’t speak. One day, though, I did share my frustration with Harry. I bemoaned that these fictions about me were spreading and hardening into orthodoxy. He tilted his head: Welcome to my world, dude. By now, Harry was calling me dude.

A week before its pub date, “Spare” was leaked. A Madrid bookshop reportedly put embargoed copies of the Spanish version on its shelves, “by accident,” and reporters descended. In no time, Fleet Street had assembled crews of translators to reverse-engineer the book from Spanish to English, and with so many translators working on tight deadline the results read like bad Borat. One example among many was the passage about Harry losing his virginity. Per the British press, Harry recounts, “I mounted her quickly . . .” But of course he doesn’t. I can assert with one-hundred-per-cent confidence that no one gets “mounted,” quickly or otherwise, in “Spare.”

I didn’t have time to be horrified. When the book was officially released, the bad translations didn’t stop. They multiplied. The British press now converted the book into their native tongue, that jabberwocky of bonkers hot takes and classist snark. Facts were wrenched out of context, complex emotions were reduced to cartoonish idiocy, innocent passages were hyped into outrages—and there were so many falsehoods. One British newspaper chased down Harry’s flight instructor. Headline: “Prince Harry’s army instructor says story in Spare book is ‘complete fantasy.’ ” Hours later, the instructor posted a lengthy comment beneath the article, swearing that those words, “complete fantasy,” never came out of his mouth. Indeed, they were nowhere in the piece, only in the bogus headline, which had gone viral. The newspaper had made it up, the instructor said, stressing that Harry was one of his finest students.

The only other time I’d witnessed this sort of frenzied mob was with LeBron James, whom I’d interviewed before and after his decision to leave the Cleveland Cavaliers and join the Miami Heat. I couldn’t fathom the toxic cloud of hatred that trailed him. Fans, particularly Cavs loyalists, didn’t just decry James. They wished him dead. They burned his jersey, threw rocks at his image. And the media egged them on. In those first days of “Spare,” I found myself wondering what the ecstatic contempt for Prince Harry and King James had in common. Racism, surely. Also, each man had committed the sin of publicly spurning his homeland. But the biggest factor, I came to believe, was money. In times of great economic distress, many people are triggered by someone who has so much doing anything to try to improve his lot.

Within days, the amorphous campaign against “Spare” seemed to narrow to a single point of attack: that Harry’s memoir, rigorously fact-checked, was rife with errors. I can’t think of anything that rankles quite like being called sloppy by people who routinely trample facts in pursuit of their royal prey, and this now happened every few minutes to Harry and, by extension, to me. In one section of the book, for instance, Harry reveals that he used to live for the yearly sales at TK Maxx, the discount clothing chain. Not so fast, said the monarchists at TK Maxx corporate, who rushed out a statement declaring that TK Maxx never has sales, just great savings all the time! Oh, snap! Gotcha, Prince George Santos! Except that people around the world immediately posted screenshots of TK Maxx touting sales on its official Twitter account. (Surely TK Maxx’s effort to discredit Harry’s memoir was unrelated to the company’s long-standing partnership with Prince Charles and his charitable trust.)

Ghostwriters don’t speak, I reminded myself over and over. But I had to do something. So I ventured one small gesture. I retweeted a few quotes from Mary Karr about inadvertent error in memories and memoir, plus seemingly innocuous quotes from “Spare” about the way Harry’s memory works. (He can’t recall much from the years right after his mother died, and for the most part remembers places better than people—possibly because places didn’t let him down the way people did.) Smooth move, ghostwriter. My tweets were seized upon, deliberately misinterpreted by trolls, and turned into headlines by real news outlets. Harry’s ghostwriter admits the book is all lies.

One of Harry’s friends gave a book party. My wife and I attended.

We were feeling fragile as we arrived, and it had nothing to do with Twitter. Days earlier, we’d been stalked, followed in our car as we drove our son to preschool. When I lifted him out of his seat, a paparazzo leaped from his car and stood in the middle of the road, taking aim with his enormous lens and scaring the hell out of everyone at dropoff. Then, not one hour later, as I sat at my desk, trying to calm myself, I looked up to see a woman’s face at my window. As if in a dream, I walked to the window and asked, “Who are you?” Through the glass, she whispered, “I’m from the Mail on Sunday.”

I lowered the shade, phoned an old friend—the same friend whose columns I used to ghostwrite in Colorado. He listened but didn’t get it. How could he get it? So I called the only friend who might.

It was like telling Taylor Swift about a bad breakup. It was like singing “Hallelujah” to Leonard Cohen. Harry was all heart. He asked if my family was O.K., asked for physical descriptions of the people harassing us, promised to make some calls, see if anything could be done. We both knew nothing could be done, but still. I felt gratitude, and some regret. I’d worked hard to understand the ordeals of Harry Windsor, and now I saw that I understood nothing. Empathy is thin gruel compared with the marrow of experience. One morning of what Harry had endured since birth made me desperate to take another crack at the pages in “Spare” that talk about the media.

Too late. The book was out, the party in full swing. As we walked into the house, I looked around, nervous, unsure of what state we’d find the author in. Was he, too, feeling fragile? Was he as keen as I was to organize a global boycott of TK Maxx?

He appeared, marching toward us, looking flushed. Uh-oh, I thought, before registering that it was a good flush. His smile was wide as he embraced us both. He was overjoyed by many things. The numbers, naturally. Guinness World Records had just certified his memoir as the fastest-selling nonfiction book in the history of the world. But, more than that, readers were reading, at last, the actual book, not Murdoched chunks laced with poison, and their online reviews were overwhelmingly effusive. Many said Harry’s candor about family dysfunction, about losing a parent, had given them solace.

The guests were summoned into the living room. There were several lovely toasts to Harry, then the Prince stepped forward. I’d never seen him so self-possessed and expansive. He thanked his publishing team, his editor, me. He mentioned my advice, to “trust the book,” and said he was glad that he did, because it felt incredible to have the truth out there, to feel—his voice caught—“free.” There were tears in his eyes. Mine, too.

And yet once a ghost, always a ghost. I couldn’t help obsessing about that word “free.” If he’d used that in one of our Zoom sessions, I’d have pushed back. Harry first felt liberated when he fell in love with Meghan, and again when they fled Britain, and what he felt now, for the first time in his life, was heard. That imperious Windsor motto, “Never complain, never explain,” is really just a prettified omertà, which my wife suggests might have prolonged Harry’s grief. His family actively discourages talking, a stoicism for which they’re widely lauded, but if you don’t speak your emotions you serve them, and if you don’t tell your story you lose it—or, what might be worse, you get lost inside it. Telling is how we cement details, preserve continuity, stay sane. We say ourselves into being every day, or else. Heard, Harry, heard—I could hear myself making the case to him late at night, and I could see Harry’s nose wrinkle as he argued for his word, and I reproached myself once more: Not your effing book.

But, after we hugged Harry goodbye, after we thanked Meghan for toys she’d sent our children, I had a second thought about silence. Ghosts don’t speak—says who? Maybe they can. Maybe sometimes they should.

Several weeks later, I was having breakfast with my family. The children were eating and my wife and I were talking about ghostwriting. Someone had just called, seeking help with their memoir. Intriguing person, but the answer was going to be no. I wanted to resume work on my novel. Our five-year-old daughter looked up from her cinnamon toast and asked, “What is ghostwriting?”

My wife and I gazed at each other as if she’d asked, What is God?

“Well,” I said, drawing a blank. “O.K., you know how you love art?”

She nodded. She loves few things more. An artist is what she hopes to be.

“Imagine if one of your classmates wanted to say something, express something, but they couldn’t draw. Imagine if they asked you to draw a picture for them.”

“I would do it,” she said.

“That’s ghostwriting.”

It occurred to me that this might be the closest I’d ever come to a workable definition. It certainly landed with our daughter. You could see it in her eyes. She got off her chair and leaned against me. “Daddy, I will be your ghostwriter.”

My wife laughed. I laughed. “Thank you, sweetheart,” I said.

But that wasn’t what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was “No, Gracie. Nope. Keep doing your own pictures.” ♦

[mostlymaudlin]

#8 for the fic writing ask 🖤

i just answered this but ill do another !!

i've always wanted to put andrew in a time loop

hold on tw suicide a lil bit lmfao

BUT i just kinda think that andrew's will to live is such a tentative thing but you can't kill yourself in a time loop lmfao. at least not in a way that lasts. but that's kind of the ethos of why i want to put andrew in a time loop because i think it would force him to find more reasons to live! my original idea around this was actually just a normal day post-canon so he does have reasons to live but he's still so wrapped up in his duties to others, and the loop would just inherently isolate him from his people which would be excruciating -- and also he would have no one to put up fronts for. i think that level of independence and shamelessness would be really interesting to explore with him. and also he would kill himself so many times sdkjngksjn

i'm also fascinated by how neil would react in the repeating timelines, because he's so attuned to andrew's moods and up in his business. once i actually wrote a lil bit of this kind of thing but from neil's pov. the idea was that andrew is pretty far into the loops and he just doesnt care abt anything. so he tries to spend the day in bed. but to neil, andrew is just rly depressed out of nowhere!! and ofc neil always always always tries to take care of andrew...

i'm not sure if i'll ever write the big andrew pov version, but here's the lil snip of neil pov:

Neil doesn’t know what to do when Andrew doesn’t get out of bed. 

He leaves him be at first, trusting him to make decisions for himself. But they’re really going to be late for practice, so Neil crouches on the floor next to Andrew’s bed. He’s awake — Andrew never sleeps through this level of movement and noise. 

“Hey,” Neil says. Andrew, facing the wall, does not react. “Are you coming to practice?”

Nothing. 

Neil looks to Kevin, who stands in the bedroom doorway, but he looks as lost as Neil feels. 

Andrew’s head is not an easy place to be. The evidence is on his skin. But still, Neil has never seen him shut down quite like this before. Regardless of how wound up or closed off Andrew gets, he always gets up. He might move through the day stone-faced and silent, or irritable and violent, but he moves. Something is very wrong. 

Neil grimaces. “Get a ride with Matt and tell Coach we’re sick. I’ll call him later.”

Kevin tries to argue, but Neil shakes his head firmly. Kevin snaps his mouth shut with a look toward Andrew’s blanketed figure, then stomps out the door. Neil waits for the slam that signifies Kevin’s exit, then turns back to Andrew. He watches the subtle rise and fall of Andrew’s back for a few breaths.

“It’s just me now,” Neil whispers. “What’s wrong?”

Still no reaction. Neil sighs, then gets to his feet. In the kitchen, he pours the last of the coffee into a mug and makes a bowl of cereal, carrying both to the bedroom. He sets them on the floor near Andrew’s bed, then sits down next to them.

“Will you eat?” Neil asks, this time expecting the non-response, though it doesn’t ease the churning worry at his core. “If you want me to go, I need at least one sign that your brain hasn’t turned into a vegetable.”

Neil decides to give Andrew five more minutes before he starts considering seeking outside help. He sets his forearms on the edge of Andrew’s mattress, resting his cheek against one arm as he stares at the silky, sleep-mussed hair at the back of Andrew’s head. It’s been four minutes when Andrew finally rolls over. 

The action puts their faces only inches apart, but Andrew’s stare is distant. Still, the movement is a relief. 

“Hi,” Neil whispers. “What do you need?”

Andrew closes his eyes. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he rasps. “Go to practice.”

“You want me to leave?”

Andrew looks at him again, and this time his gaze is more focused. “No.”

Neil exhales. He reaches out a hand toward Andrew’s face, waiting for a subtle nod before he brushes Andrew’s hair off his forehead. 

“Breakfast?” Neil asks softly. Andrew shakes his head. 

“Kuefsteinstraße,” he says. 

Neil’s eyebrows shoot up.

“The street you lived on,” Andrew says. “In St. Pölten. You said it was the nicest place you lived in Europe, and that you’d believe me if I mentioned it.”

Neil swallows, racking his memory. “I don’t remember telling you about St. Pölten. I haven’t thought about that place in years.”

Andrew closes his eyes again. “You wouldn’t remember.”

“I don’t understand.”

Andrew slides back on the mattress until he’s pressed against the wall.

i'm not really sure where it goes from here other than andrew would tell neil he's in a time loop and neil would believe him! i don't think neil could help him get out of the loop, but having him believe him would at least give andrew comfort. and andrew would probably only tell neil in loops where he really needed that 😭

[mystic-blue]

in all but blood - chapter two

AO3 Link

Everything was chaos. Shouting, running, fighting, building to a crescendo that composed a wash of war and terror that was near deafening. April tuned it all out as she stared at the glowing, golden portal in the air before her.

“Casey,” April said as she stepped up beside him and dropped a hand on his shoulder. He turned large, frightened eyes up to April and she once again swallowed the acidic burn of guilt on her tongue. He was just a kid, the same way April and her brothers had been kids when this whole mess began.

“Remember what I said. You aren’t alone on the other side. Find the guys, find me, and they’ll help you. You’ve got this.”

“Okay,” Casey said, exhaling shakily. “I’ve got this.”

April studied his face for a moment, hyperaware of the way they were running out of time. The hounds were still closing in, Mikey needed her, and the portal wouldn’t stay open forever. She had to send Casey through now. But her chest ached with the longing to pull him into a hug and fix everything herself.

“Here,” April said, reaching for her pocket in a split second decision. “I have one more thing for you before you go. Something to remember us.”

“Watch out!” Mikey’s raspy voice called out urgently from the ground. April and Casey turned in unison, ready for a fight. April’s hands fumbled and suddenly the war was gone, the noise was replaced by a rushing sound in her ears, and worst of all Casey Junior and Mikey were gone. April reached out desperately in the direction she had come from, calling out desperately for her remaining family.

A spectral, three-fingered hand reached back, glowing the same color as the portal around her. The fingers stretched closer to April’s hand and she strained to reach back. As it grew closer, the color turned purple, a bit brighter from the contrast. Then it shifted and was a faint crimson among the wash of orange portal. April refused to look away even as her eyes watered with the brightness of the portal. The hand kept reaching and shed red for blue.

A painful sob built in April’s chest and she strained as hard as she could against the invisible force pulling her through the portal. She couldn’t parse out her thoughts enough to understand why she needed to reach that hand so desperately, but she strained to anyway. Something in the back of April’s head whispered that if she didn’t reach the hand, she was going to lose something irreplaceable.

Her fingertips were centimeters from the hand when it changed color again, sprouting two extra fingers and taking on a distinctly human shape. The blue gave way to green before the spectre lunged forward at the same time as April. Incorporeal fingers latched onto April’s wrist as April willed her fingers to make contact with the glowing green figure.

Familiar warmth and comfort surged in April’s chest and she exhaled shakily. Somehow, it felt like getting her family back.

April tumbled through the portal faster, the glowing orange surging brighter before everything abruptly went dark.

--

Waking up was excruciating. Not because April was in pain – she was actually pretty numb – but because she didn’t wantto wake up. There was a heaviness weighing on her eyelids that came with a good, long, overdue slumber – a full body reset, as her mother used to call it.

April missed her mom. She missed her brothers, New York, a home cooked meal, the movies – hell, she even missed school. April missed the ambition she had felt for her journalism classes, the things she had wanted to do, to write. It had all slipped from her grasp, wrenched away with the end of the world.

Her brain felt fuzzy, now that April was slowly beginning to accept that she was awake. Her thoughts felt both puzzle pieced and hyper-focused all at once. There was a soft, rhythmic beeping coming from nearby, and it was as familiar as it was annoying. April’s recent memories were blurry when she reached for them, leaving her to guess at events. Knowing herself, she probably took a hit during a mission and ended up in the med-bay. Again.

Donnie and Mikey were never going to let her hear the end of it this time. They had made that perfectly clear during her last stint here.

Sighing gustily, April shifted experimentally as she tried to pinpoint where her pain was. This was far from her first go-round, so she knew to proceed cautiously with her motions as she started digging for the right memory to fill herself in. But moving greeted her instead with a numb ache throughout most of her body, a sensation more like over exertion than injury – which was weird.

“I wouldn’t move too much if I were you. You’ll pop the stitches, and they’re pretty perfect as they are, if I do say so myself.”

April hummed, eyes still closed and sighed again, pushing the air out through her nose.

“How bad’s it?” Damn, even her tongue felt sluggish. She was also struggling to identify which brother was talking to her. What the hell happened? It was rare that she was this out of it, even after being knocked around. April liked to think she was better at bouncing back than this.

“Not as bad as we thought, in all honesty. You must have taken a pretty hard hit to your abdomen, and it was probably bleeding for a while before everything caught up to you. Thank your sympathetic nervous system for that, I guess.”

“Sure thing, Don,” April muttered. Her thoughts were still scattered, and where she still couldn’t recognize her brother by voice at the moment, she did with vernacular. April had never heard Mikey say ‘sympathetic nervous system’ in her life.

“Uh,” her brother spoke, much closer than before. “Wanna try that again?”

Try what again? Did April miss something? She wracked her brain for a hiccup in the conversation and came up with nothing.

Damn it, she was going to have to open her eyes now, wasn’t she?

Blinking against the crusty, glued-shut feel of her eyelids, April squinted against her already poor vision at her brother hovering over her.

Her heart stalled in her chest when she finally recognized the colored blobs and markings smearing together a rough approximation of a face. Everything came rushing back to her the way a brick hit someone in the head. The final fight, the portal, leaving Mikey and Junior behind only to be dumped at the feet of her family from the past. Then feeling exhausted and pained before blacking out.

“Leo?” April croaked, immediately trying to coordinate her arms to her will so she could sit up and reach for him. “Oh fuck, how long was I out?”

Leo stopped her before she got very far, his breath hissing out of him in alarm.

“I just told you not to move! You’ll start bleeding again!” Leo’s arm stretched out of April’s view before his blurry hand moved closer to her face and settled something across the bridge of her nose. “Here, we found these in your jacket. And obviously I’m not Donnie, so I didn’t set a timer or anything, but you’ve been unconscious somewhere between 48 and 72 hours.”

Everything around her slid into focus, sharpening through the lenses of her glasses as Leo spoke. She processed everything he said, but she stayed silent, and still couldn’t bring herself to look away from Leo. The logical part of her knew this was real, but the frantic big sister in her refused to blink away, in case Leo disappeared again.

“You keep looking at me like that,” Leo said, trying for faux pouty and missing the mark abysmally. At least, April easily saw through it. Someone less knowledgeable on Leo-isms might have bought it. Instead, she saw the discomfort and uncertainty in the line of his shoulders and heard it in the pitch of his voice.

Her chest tightened and April huffed a shaky laugh.

“Sorry,” she said by way of explanation. “Everything is kind of fuzzy right now. If I promise to listen to you, can you help me sit up a little?”

Leo studied her for half a heartbeat before he snapped on an easy smile and went about getting April settled in a reclined position so they could actually have a conversation.

“I guess the pain meds are doing their job, then,” Leo commented as he checked April’s stitches. “If everything is feeling fuzzy, that is.”

Ah. That was it.

“I’m not used to them anymore, I guess,” April chuckled, rubbing the bed sheet in her lap between her fingers. Shit, had sheets always been this soft?

“What do you mean?” Leo asked, pulling her attention back to him. April looked up and shrugged one shoulder casually.

“It was the apocalypse. We didn’t exactly have the best stash of medicine, so unless it was life threatening, most of us made do.”

Leo stared at her for a heartbeat, two, before nodding and muttering, “badass.”

April laughed and immediately regretted it.

“Ow,” she groaned as Leo laughed at her. “I’ll punch you if you do that again.”

Leo looked at her the way Mayhem used to when he had a paw next to an object that was about to end up on the floor. April had a very clear vision of spraying Leo in the face with a water bottle. She pointed a finger at him instead and raised one eyebrow threateningly. Leo held up his hands in surrender, giggling like the little shit April knew him to be.

God, she had missed him.

“Alright, alright, I won’t. Promise.” April half believed him. “Oh, do you want to see the guys? They’ve been bugging me about when you were gonna wake up.”

April smiled, face softening with fondness. “Yeah, sure.”

Leo turned to leave but stopped at the sudden frown on her face.

“What?” he asked hesitantly.

“Have you told me yet? Or…wait. Other me? Mini-me?”

Leo snorted a laugh and looked delighted at her use of ‘mini-me’. April let him simmer in his mischievous delight, overwhelmed and overjoyed by the vibrancy of his presence.

“Have we told her about the buff apocalyptic grandma version of herself who has been unconscious in our med-bay for the last few days? No,” Leo said after he collected himself. “Raph and Donnie wanted to after you collapsed, but Mikey and I held them off. We figured it might go over smoother if it was you explaining the whole thing – especially since wedon’t even have the full story.”

April squinted at him from over the rim of her glasses and raised an eyebrow again.

“You didn’t want her to yell at you, did you?”

Leo looked affronted for all of two seconds before he dropped the act and spread his hands wide.

“I mean, of course not! How the heck are we supposed to explain any of this? She would have probably blamed Donnie!”

April grinned, wide and genuine. Leo knew her well.

“I’m surprised you actually managed to keep Donnie from telling mini-me anyway. I thought he would have snitched on you all by now.”

Leo’s playfulness dipped at her comment, brow furrowing in thought. “Yeah,” he said, glancing to the side. “I'm kind of surprised he hasn’t either. Maybe he actually agreed with me for once.”

Leo ducked out to find his brothers after he said that, leaving April with her IV and her thoughts. Donnie not informing present-April was surprising, but far from the first thought on her mind. She tried to imagine how pre-apocalypse, decades younger, and not-yet-a-commander April would react to…this. It was hard to recall everything she had been doing when the world ended. She had definitely been in school…but what else? Her memory was so stocked up with safe routes of travel, escape plans, battle tactics, patrol schedules, headcounts, and a hundred other things she suddenly didn’t need anymore. What had pre-apocalypse April worried, wondered, and dreamed about?

Where had her memories gone? Had she really allowed them to become so buried that it took effort to get them to resurface?

Taking her glasses off, April set them in her lap and dug the heels of her hands against her brow bone. The pressure was grounding, and April pressed more weight into her hands, blowing out a shaky breath.

She couldn’t stop thinking about how she wasn’t supposed to be here.

But you’re here now, the voice in April’s head reminded her. And the whole family is here – together. You are not alone.

April placed a reverent hand over her sternum, fingers shaking minutely. Some things were still familiar, at least. Picking her head up and putting her glasses back on, April pulled in a steady breath through her nose. She held it for a moment, and then pushed it out slowly. She could only move forward from here.

Not like she had much of a choice.

“April!” Mikey crowed as he burst into the med-bay, eyes bright and wide – his smile even brighter and wider. “You’re awake!” He moved to jump on her bed and was caught mid-air by a mechanical arm from Donnie’s battle shell as he followed Mikey into the room.

“Probably not the best idea at the moment,” Donnie said flatly. The arm set Mikey back on the ground with an absent pat to the head as Donnie moved around April’s bed to the machines beside it.

“Right,” Mikey grinned sheepishly before bouncing onto the foot of the bed.

April smiled at them and shook her head with a fond chuckle.

“It’s good to see you, too, Mikey.”

Mikey beamed as Donnie stared critically at the numbers displayed by the machines beside April. From what April could recall, he wasn’t yet well versed in the medical field. But he understood what constituted ‘normal numbers’ on a machine.

“Leo said you’re doing a lot better,” Donnie commented briskly, not looking at her. “And not to completely ignore that fact, but you promised us a lead before passing out. I haven’t been able to get very far in my search without your information, so sooner rather than later, if you please.”

“Donnie,” Mikey said chidingly, shooting a glare at Donnie’s back.

“No,” April said, straightening up as much as she could against her pile of pillows. “He’s right. If you have something for me to draw on, I can show you what the key looks like. As for where it’s at, I’m as in the dark as you are. We never knew where it came from, just what it looked like and what it could do.”

“The picture will suffice,” Donnie said, producing a pen and paper from somewhere. “I can get started right away.”

April was halfway through drawing the key out when Leo and Raph entered the room. Both of them looked tense when April glanced up as they walked in, and they failed spectacularly at hiding it. She ignored them for the moment to finish the drawing.

“Here,” April said after another minute, holding the sketch out to Donnie. He scooped it up from her hand with a nod and was gone seconds later. Something about that interaction stung, but April didn’t have the words to put it into the open. In the moment, where stopping an apocalypse took precedence, it also didn’t matter. April tried to make her heart understand that. The silence in the med-bay stretched and chewed at April’s insides as her brothers stood around, refusing to look at her or at each other.

Finally, Mikey leaned forward, eyes sparkling and voice bright.

“What was our family like in the future?”

April’s gaze shot to her little brother, wondering why that had to be the first question. She supposed it made sense, though. Either way, what was she supposed to tell him? How was she supposed to tell them? Should she even tell them? The truth wouldn’t serve them, it would only hurt them, would only terrify them into recklessness.

Steadying her resolve, April smiled at her brothers, a carefully constructed thing that neither told the truth nor gave her away.

“What kind of question is that, little man?” April said, her voice strained but jovial at the same time. “We stuck together – just like always.”

She had gained Raph and Leo’s attention by answering Mikey’s question. Raph’s expression was hard to understand, but there was something that looked like relief in his eyes. Leo on the other hand, looked quietly unconvinced.

Shit.

“It wasn’t always easy,” April admitted, ensuring her tone turned more genuine. This part was true, after all, so it wasn’t as hard to do. “But we stuck together and survived as best we could. We even lead a small resistance.”

Mikey’s eyes were shining with awe, and April felt a pang in her gut over it. Clearly he didn’t understand the weight of her words. He could only imagine the horrific future April had endured through the lens of imagination and movies. April hoped it would stay that way this time around. She would do everything in her power to make sure Mikey never had to live the life of the brother she left behind in her future.

“We sound so cool! Were we cool? What were we like in the future?”

Something metallic and bitter swelled against the back of April’s tongue with the question.

“Yeah, you guys were pretty cool,” she said, voice soft and gaze trained on her fingers resting in her lap.

April looked up, smiling as best she could and trying not to wince at the ache in her cheeks with the unfamiliar action.

“You were especially cool, Mikey,” April said with as much sincerity as she could manage. Again, that part wasn’t a lie. But she had to sell this, had to appear unaffected so they wouldn’t pick up on the pieces of the truth she wasn’t ready to talk about. She forced her body to relax against the pillows and shifted her smile more into smirk territory, pulling forward the self-assured older sister they were expecting. “Your magic was incredible, and besides being able to send me back in time, you could also fly.”

“What?” Mikey screeched, leaping up from the bed with wide eyes and whirling on Raph and Leo. “Did you hear that? I can fly!”

“No fair!” Leo cried as he pushed away from the wall he had been leaning on. April’s statement seemed to have temporarily banished whatever tension was brewing between Leo and Raph. Plus, now Leo was distracted with this revelation and wasn’t staring at her like he could see right through her. Small victories. “What about me? What was I like?”

Ah. Here’s where April faltered. He could not know any piece of this truth.

“You were pretty cool, too,” April said through her teeth. The words tasted like sulfur. “Mikey was the only one who could fly, but you were fast, and good at thinking on your feet. It was amazing to see it happen in real time.”

Leo looked impressed with himself as he and Mikey started comparing future feats, taking guesses at what they could do. April met Raph’s eye over their heads and she had to stifle a laugh at the eager, curious expression he was giving her. “You were big, big man,” April said as he ducked around Mikey and Leo to stand closer to her. “There was a year we thought you might not stop growing, actually. Then you would use your ninpo and you looked like a giant. It was pretty sick, if I’m being honest.”

Raph whirled on Leo and Mikey, joining their friendly shouting match about how cool they were going to be in the future. April sagged back into her pillow mound with the attention off of her and watched on silently. In some ways, reality had set in – but in other ways she still wondered when she would wake up from this dream. It was all too good to be true – a second chance, time to figure out a plan, her family safe and whole. April wondered when the other shoe would drop, and how far-reaching the effects would be.

She glanced away from her brothers, eyes tracking down to her hands in her lap. April felt the same from before she went through the portal, if not numbed by the pain meds. Everything felt the same…but she worried anyway. Would time travel have changed anything about her? Was she going to fade away from this timeline like in movies when she started to fix things? Curling her fingers shakily into the palm of her hands, April exhaled quietly. No matter what happened to her, so long as she saved her brothers and the world, April would do anything.

Eyes shifting back to her brothers, April’s lips twitched into a smile. They looked absolutely ridiculous as Raph held Mikey off the floor while they collectively tried to figure out how to make Mikey fly. April wasn’t sure she could make this last, but she would try.

You’re here, the voice in her head whispered, a sudden and soft reminder. This is real.

April’s smile softened, the tension in her shoulders uncoiling as she reclined further into her pillows. She laid a hand over her chest again with a quiet acknowledgement and fiercely hoped she could see this mission through.

Donnie appeared in the doorway to the med-bay, knocking sharply on the inside of the doorframe to gain their attention. His brothers’ chattering faltered as they looked around at him curiously. April looked up as well, expression turning wary almost instantly. She hated the expression on his face, the conflicted furrow to his brow and the attempted apathy in his eyes.

“We have a visitor,” Donnie said flatly. “Or more specifically, you do.” His gaze tracked to April and she raised an eyebrow curiously.

April had never actually been inside of a fun house at a carnival because she thought they were dumb. But her classmates used to laugh about how weird it was to see their reflections looking wider or stretched out or comically shorter. April understood that acutely the moment her younger self stepped around Donnie and into the med-bay.

[thirsty-boba-fett-posts]

Part X of The Princess Saga, a therapeutic exercise in fiction writing. If you’re here it’s because you want to be on this journey with me.

tw: smut, frank discussions of torture and PTSD, an unmitigated ass whoopin’

Zobrapus pending arrival was an all-hands-on-deck situation. The Mods (and Drash in particular) having grown fond of the Princess, readied their grafted weapons and sparred with Krrsantan in the palace courtyard. Fennec cleaned and inspected her sniper rifle. The Daimyo sent word to the heads of the other crime families of Mos Espa and Mos Eisley that they should not interfere should representatives of Brao seek their aid in a matter that he referred to as “strictly personal,” and he advised the Freetown Marshall that the Daimyo Boba Fett would rain fire on any Brao emissaries who attempted to intimidate Freetown residents.

Cobb Vanth, for his part, offered to be present for the meeting and whatever violence may occur afterwards. Ever the gunslinger, Fett thought.

Ideally, threats masquerading as negotiations would be enough to put Zobrapus in his place. Fett was not eager to spill blood, but should his Princess safety require it, he would spill enough blood to make an ocean of the Dune Sea.

…

The night before the scheduled conference with Zobrapus and whatever sycophants and hangers-on he planned to drag along with him, Fett sat on the Bantha hide with The Princess in his lap. The tension around the palace, all of it centered around her, was more pressure than she could tolerate and she’d regressed emotionally. His touch brought her back to herself, but otherwise she was distance and abstracted.

Fett knew that for The Princess, the opportunity to confront Zobrapus would be both excruciating and cathartic. She had not wavered in her desire to see this through, and Fett admired her commitment to rebuilding herself.

He kissed the back of her neck. She returned to herself once again, and Fett bit gently into her shoulder. She leaned back against him and sighed. Fett palmed her breasts and nuzzled her hair.

Initially, it surprised Fett to learn that tactile sensations brought her such comfort. To him it seemed counterintuitive, but he knew that any pathway into her fragile psyche could allow him to lead her out of anguish. He utilized touch now to soothe and reassure her. With her back pressed into his chest, he placed one hand on her throat and with the other, he reached between her legs to make gentle, slow circles on her clit. He whispered in her ear as he pleasured her.

“Cyare, you are the Dune Sea at twilight. You are the cool night winds and the heat of the campfire. You are the water of the black melon on my lips.”

She leaned her head back onto his shoulder and exhaled a low moan. She trusted him and for it, Fett adored her. She allowed him to touch her so intimately and illicit such intense responses. He felt honored. She was so reserved and fearful but for her Daimyo she was pliant and willing.

She moaned again and he praised her.

“Good girl, mesh’la. You’re such a good girl for me.”

Her back arched and she gripped his forearm. He held her tightly as she came and rocked her in his lap afterwards. She melted into him, almost limp in his arms. Her dread had exhausted her, but the orgasm has mercifully drained the tension from her body. She slept soundly in the arms of her Daimyo.

…

Fennec watched them approach through the scope of her sniper rifle. A small contingent, but heavily armed and led by a bird faced, sallow man a few years older than the Princess but without her practiced air of grace and nobility. The twin suns glinted off of ostentatious medals on his uniform. His confidence seemed spurious at best. Maybe he realized what a mistake he’d made coming here to take what doesn’t belong to him, thought Fennec. She signaled Krrsantan and The Mods to take their stations and have their weapons at the ready.

8D8 announced their entrance with more derision in his tone than was typical. Fennec, having made her way from the tower, stood menacingly at the Daimyo’s right. The Princess stood at his left, spine erect and head held high, in her green dress made to match the Daimyo’s armor.

That morning, the Daimyo had gifted his Princess a necklace and earrings of gold from a small vein on Neftali, Krayt dragon pearls, and - most extravagant of all - garnets originally mined on Alderaan. The opulent gift had taken her breath away. He kissed her temple as laid the necklace across her collarbone and fastened the clasp behind her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. Resting her forehead on his, she whispered “thank you, my Daimyo” and he knew in that moment that no force in the universe could take her from him.

Her three Dune Spiders hovered on the wall behind her. Fru crouched atop the Daimyo’s throne, looking as fierce as his wild ancestors. The Great Boba Fett, son of Jango Fett and Daimyo of Mos Espa, sat at ease on this throne with his forearms on the arm rests and his legs open.

“Come forward.”

He signaled for the contingency, led by what he assumed must be Zobrapus, to approach so that he may address them.

The Princess lifted her skirt, stepped boldly off of the great stone platform on which the throne rested, and approached Zobrapus. Before anyone could react, she brought her right arm back and with a powerful rotational swing beginning in her hips, she slapped him so hard the sound of the heel of her hand meeting his jaw in an upward trajectory echoed off the walls of the throne room.

Zobrapus rocked back and stumbled into one of his underlings. There was the sound of weapons being unholstered and safeties clicking off. The Dune Spiders bolted from the wall to stand next to The Princess and stood erect on their hind legs.

Only the Daimyo and his Princess remained still. He remained relaxed, she kept her shoulders back and her chin defiantly high.

“She has every right to slap the taste out of your mouth, boy,” said Fett coolly. “I have a hard time believing that women don’t typically greet you with hostility.”

Zobrapus rubbed the side of his face as he righted himself. “I came here to negotiate-“

“Ah, but my Princess has a score to settle with you and I’m inclined to let her,” Fett cut him off. “Are you not the reason she arrived at my doorstep in bloody rags. Are you not the reason she spent seven days in my bacta tank? Tell me, boy, how do you conduct yourselves on Brao? Is it not illegal under the laws of a civilized system to brutalize political prisoners under the guise of interrogation?”

Zobrapus blanched. “We had reason to believe she knew the whereabouts of her father, a criminal-“

“Once again I ask you, boy, is Brao not a civilized planet? Is it a lawless place? Perhaps you need a daimyo and a few strong families to whip your ungovernable planet into shape.”

Zobrapus expression was fiercely indignant. He was trembling with rage.

“Apprehend her!” he spat.

His entourage, men no older or wiser than him, seemed reluctant. In the space of their hesitation, The Princess spoke in a voice so clear and strong that it stunned the Daimyo.

“I am the Princess of Broa, High Souverain of the Brightest Sun of The Tolvin System, Heir to the House of The Black Rathgar, ordained by the High God Who Rules The Forests and Oceans and I command you, soldiers of Broa, my sworn brothers, obey your oath to protect me from all enemies both without and within the Tolvin system and sheath your weapons.”

Feeling the full weight of their true duty to their Princess, the men formerly under Zobrapus command lowered their blasters and holstered them. Zobrapus seemed to shrink, his face screwing in frustration.

He looked around himself at his men and hissed. “How dare you betray me!”

“No,” replied The Princess. “It is you who betrayed me. You beat me mercilessly for information that I did not have. You sentenced me to die for crimes I did not commit. You came into the house of My Daimyo and threatened his family. I’m still not entirely sure to what point and purpose to executed this foolish endeavor and I do not care.”

Her face was indignant now. Her Dune Spiders stood so close to her that they brushed her skirts with the hairs of their spindly legs. Fett maintained his easy posture on his thrown. His Princess had taken command of the situation and he need not worry, only provide her with support. Fennec fought to hide her disappointment. She’d hoped for an opportunity to crack Zobrapus skull against one of Jabba’s old statuaries or watch Krrsantan knuckle dust the lot of them into pulp to feed to the Dune Spiders.

“You father would not give you to me,” said Zobrapus through tight lips. “He seemed so disinterested in you, and yet when my own father attempted to negotiate for your hand, the king rejected his proposal outright. Our families fought alongside each other for centuries! I am of good breeding!”

The Princess screeched with laughter. From the shadows, The Mods all snorted. Drash could barely contain herself. Even Fennec chuckled.

“So you beat me within an inch of my life! You invertebrate! You pond sludge!” she shrieked through hysterical laughter.

She composed herself and addressed the Braoan soldiers graciously then. “Take him back to Brao. My brothers, do not let him embarrass himself further. Save him from himself.”

They bowed low and complied. Fennec followed them through the scoped of her rifle as they dragged Zobrapus out of the palace and back to their ship. They departed shortly thereafter.

…

@daimyosprincess

@ladytano420

@dukeoftheblackstar

@rexxdjarin

@nintendobl00d

I TOLD Y’ALL IT WAS GONNA BE WILD.

[promethea-silk]

The feeling of dread overwhelmed her senses when Cordelia had approached Highgate, her eyes scanning up the estate that loomed over her darkly. A shiver ran through her as the iron gates groaned upon being opened, the sound of the crunching snow beneath her boots settling her bones with just enough grounding to keep her focused and pushing forward inside. Despite the fact that she had not stepped foot in her childhood home since her marriage to Ambrose, Cordelia had ensured that the groundskeeping and the interior of the house had been well cared for after her father’s passing. All of the furniture and artwork within was covered in white sheets of fabric, adding to the foreboding and macabre atmosphere of the lifeless home. 

Cordelia spent far too long lingering in the foyer before a fire took hold in her belly, rising to her chest and causing her to continue forward. With Tilly at her side, she began removing the sheets, admiring that the inside of the estate had been kept spotless as she had requested. It would take some work to bring everything back to living order but for the time being she sought to ensure places to sit and feel comfortable before diving into her mother and father’s belongings to further uncover their secrets. The candles were lit for the first time in years, the manor finally looking habitable from the inside and out as Cordelia found her way to her father’s study.

Unaware of what was already occurring at Highgate, Ricard sat in the back of a carriage paying excruciating detail to every landmark and building as the carriage moved past, jotting down the notable details. One never knew when such information may come in handy. 

He traveled light, as he always did - partially out of necessity and partially out of habit - but he brought no staff and only what could be carried in the small bag settled in next to him. Delwyn, who had returned from the far east several weeks prior,  had been left behind to oversee day to day tasks in his absence.

Ricard exhaled, slipping the book he’d been writing in away into the bag beside him as the carriage slowed, indicating their arrival, before glancing out at the building, once again, noting any distinguishing features, anything that would cause Highgate to stand out from other Ishgardian structures - and the first thing he noted was the lack of staff, which didn’t come as a terrible surprise. 

He stepped out of the carriage, tipping the driver before sending him on his way, and then letting himself into the building, wandering around a bit, and eventually calling out, his voice echoing down the halls. “Cordelia? I feel like a little direction here wouldn’t be remiss…”

The sound of the familiar voice rang through the hallways and found its way to her within her father’s study. Lashes fluttered as she lifted her gaze upward and smiled to herself for a moment. Pushing from the desk, Cordelia began her way down the hall, calling back to him. “It is hardly a labyrinth, Ricard!” Her tone was perhaps oddly playful and as she rounded the corner to greet him, her demeanor was noticeably different from the last time they were together. Still darkened and devoid of the bright and chipper personality most noblewomen adorned, as typical.

“Labyrinth, no. Unfamiliar, yes.” He tilted his head, gaze raking over her for a moment with a roguish grin. “I mean, I could take my time and wander, explore every nook and cranny without ‘adult’ supervision, if you like. Or is that for later?”

She offered a narrowed gaze at him with his jest, shaking her head softly. “Later perhaps.” Her reply came quiet, muted even.

Her arms outstretched at her sides just slightly as she approached him, gesturing at their surroundings. “My apologies you were not greeted at the door as usual, I’m sure you can tell already there is not a regular staff here currently as it is just Tilly for the time being.” She glanced around with furrowed brows before calling out for the other woman in hopes she’d arrive. “I believe she is working on some lunch in the kitchen…well, nonetheless-“ turning back to him, she lifted a hand in offering to take his coat and any belongings. “- welcome to Highgate, my childhood home.” 

“Ah.” He shook his head, shrugging out of his coat easily. “Just tell me where to put these - I’m perfectly capable of hanging up my own things, thank you.” Ricard took a moment to scan his surroundings, taking in the front hall in a bit more detail. 

“It’s quite the estate, a ways outside of the city proper though. I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so far out.” Blue eyes shifted back towards her. “How long has it been in this state? Empty, I mean.”

Cordelia sighed and gestured toward a nearby door where he could hang his belongings. As he would do so, her voice carried through the spacious foyer. “Thank you, my family tended to prefer to keep to themselves as much as possible, opting to have a bit more space and not having to worry so much about having society in their business.” Waiting for his return, she would offer an arm to guide him toward one of the hallways as she continued. “I had the staff transferred to the Grey Estate once my…father passed, nearly four years ago now. Even still, I made sure it was maintained despite the emptiness in case I ever chose to do something with it.” 

A curious hum left him as he took his time hanging up his things, the wheels in his head already turning. There were hundreds of reasons why he could imagine a family wanting their privacy - having a child to keep out of the public eye was certainly one of them. He shook his head quickly, putting on an easy grin as he returned to her, taking her arm and tugging her close as he followed her guidance. “I could see this as a get away from the city if one wanted it to be - there’s just enough distance. But a topic for some other time.”

His gaze moved over the various details of the halls and the structures before falling on the woman beside him. “How well did you know the estate as a child? I mean - I was almost always in trouble for sneaking off to places my parents didn’t want me to go, but did little Cordelia go sneaking around to find hidden rooms?”

She settled in next to him as they walked, her own gaze moving about the details of the walkways despite it having been a familiar setting. “Most of my time was spent with my mother, nearly always at her side learning this or that and otherwise I was holed up in my room reading. That’s not to say that I never explored estate.” As they approached an upcoming door, her footsteps slowed as she gestured toward it. “Often I found myself sneaking around my father’s study, which of course caused me to find myself in quite a bit of trouble. I think I was always trying to learn about what he was doing so I could impress him…” 

Her words trailed off briefly but her demeanor soon returned to the stoic stature as usual before she pushed the door open to said study. “I figured this was as good a place as any to start.” 

Ricard quirked an eyebrow, guiding her through the open door and releasing her arm once they were both in the room. He quickly moved back behind the desk, eyes scanning the room looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might give him a hint of where the man who once occupied the space might have kept things he didn’t want anyone else to find. 

As they entered the room, Cordelia stepped aside and simply watched on for the moment while Ricard went about sifting through her late father’s desk. 

“So…out of curiosity, why here rather than a location more associated with your mother? She was the one with more ties to Adrian Cress?” He asked the question as he sank down into the chair behind the desk, now assessing the piece of furniture before him critically, pulling drawers one by one to see if anything remained within - any hint of a false bottom or anything that might leave a clue of where to look.

The question poised at her brought about a moment of reflection, brows knitting together in thought as it seemed to not have been something she had originally considered. A soft hum reverberated from her, she glanced off at a portrait hung on the wall of the family. “I hadn’t actually thought to do that, I really had little thoughts at all when I arrived. I just ended up here.” She approached the desk where he continued to rifle through whatever belongings or documents remained inside, leaning against the side. “We can certainly adjust.” 

His hands paused their exploration as he leaned back in the chair, head tilting. “Well, then maybe there’s a reason you ended up here, hm? I imagine we’ll end up exploring a majority of the house anyway and if we fail to locate anything…then there is one remaining option for information but we can discuss that as a last option.” He motioned for her to come closer, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the top of the desk lightly. “You’ve been in here many times before, I imagine - and you knew the man who resided in this office - the things he wanted to keep close to the vest, where would he keep them?” 

Her lids narrowed slightly, gaze held downward as she looked at the expensive woodcarved desk while he spoke. She nodded with a gentleness as it seemed her thoughts churned, that typical demeanor of hers fading yet again for a glimmer of a moment before Cordelia lifted her chin with a hmph. As he gestured for her, she pushed from the desk and rounded the corner to meet him on the other side. Hands rested on the edge of the wood as she clicked her tongue in thought. She chuckled, reaching for a small portrait of her mother that rested among the belongings on top of the desk. Flipping it over, she pried the framing from the back and grinned at the small key that glimmered from the backing of the frame itself. 

“Now to find what this goes to…” Steel gray hues slowly scanned the room before returning to the larger painting of the three on the nearby wall, nodding toward it and offering the key to Ricard. “On the outside to everyone around him, his family was important to him, despite there being a different song sung within these walls behind closed doors. But if I were a betting woman, I would check there.” 

“Are you a betting woman, Cordelia?” He quirked an eyebrow with a smirk before plucking the key from her fingers. His gaze raked over the item for a long moment before tucking it into his vest pocket as he turned towards the portrait of the family on the wall. 

“Well…let’s see what’s hiding behind the picture, shall we?” He pushed himself up out of the chair, giving her a quick wink before slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her around the desk and over towards the portrait. Standing before the picture, he released his hold on her before crossing his arms over his chest - his tongue moving slowly across one of his canines as he assessed the size of the frame, trying to determine the best place to grip it. He unbuttoned his vest before stepping forward and reaching up to grip the edges of the frame, mindful of the size of the portrait as he pulled it away from the wall - muscles visibly tensing and moving under his shirt, as the portrait had no small amount of weight to it. Carefully, he set it down on the floor - leaning it against the wall as he stepped back to assess the wall and what was left behind.

Cordelia had waited behind for the time being, allowing for Ricard to do his investigations and only joining at his side once more after he had removed the painting from the wall to set it aside. “Seems I should be, hm?” She asked rather rhetoric in nature as they both gazed over the safe that was built into the wall having been hidden behind the Gray family portrait. With a quiet chuckle under her breath, she gestured to the safe. “I overheard my father mention the safe when I was younger, my luck will hopefully come from whatever may be inside.” 

“See, if you hadn’t told me I would have gone on assuming that it was just a good guess on your part.” He grinned as he pulled the key from his vest, “But amazing what adults let slip when they don’t think little ones are listening, hm? Let’s see what’s been ‘hidden’ away by good ol’ adoptive daddy dearest, shall we?”

The grin fell away as he turned towards the safe, focused once again as he slipped the key into the slot and carefully opened up the safe, brow furrowing as he opened up the front to see what was within. A low hum escaped him as he reached within the confines of the container and stepped back holding a small stack of papers, which he offered to her as he turned back around. “Seems like the entire house wasn’t cleaned up after he died.”

She took the papers in hand as they were offered, eyes glancing over them briefly before she turned away to cross the distance back to the desk where she laid them in front of her as she took a seat in her father’s chair. Fingers splayed over the papers, a pause taking over her as Cordelia prepared herself for whatever else she might find among them. Finally, she began going through them, brows knitted together as her lips pressed into a thin line. “I think you were right, Ricard…” Cordelia took a soft breath as her gaze lifted to him. “The Cress’ wanted me dead.” 

“Thinking and knowing are two different things.” Dark eyes focused on the papers laid out on the desk as he moved back behind the chair, setting a hand between her shoulder blades. “Was it all the Cress’s or just a handful? The details of the story make all the difference. Especially in ones full of twists and turns.” 

He scanned the details of the documents - who the letters were between, what they were about, what they possibly implied…and trying to determine who might have known about them.

The initial feeling of his hand to her back caused her posture to straighten just enough to be barely noticeable. Without adjusting her head, she glanced toward him with the flick of her gaze quickly before returning back to the papers. She lifted a hand to pluck the silver rimmed monocle from her eye and placed it aside with a soft sigh. “I believe all of the ones that knew, though it is hard to say who that is.” 

Narrowing her eyes, she hummed quietly before tilting her chin upward to look to him now. “Odd how it seemed in the letters to my mother that Adrian took an interest in my wellbeing as well as hers, though these are callous and devoid of any care at all.” She shrugged and looked back to the desk covered in papers. “Not that it matters in one way or another, I’ve no connection to this man and I highly doubt things would have changed much for me even if I had. This really changes nothing.

Ricard tilted his head from side to side before meeting her gaze. “Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you? That there would be such an abrupt shift in the tone of the letters - from the ones to your mother to these? Even if in the end it changes nothing - the story itself seems incomplete and wrong. Like we’re still missing pieces of the puzzle.” He exhaled sharply. “Don’t misunderstand - What I know of Adrian Cress is not flattering and would lean into the idea that he had penned these letters calling for your removal - but I’d rather gather all the information we can before we move to draw any conclusions.” He shrugged one shoulder easily as he grinned down at her, motioning towards the desk and the papers. “And this is what we found in one room, there’s still others to explore - and…as I mentioned earlier…one other option to explore once the house has been searched from top to bottom.”

Folding her arms over one another as they rested to her chest, Cordelia leaned back slightly in the chair to look up to him. “Yes, it does seem odd, but again, it really makes little difference.” She took a breath, narrowing her gaze over Ricard for a moment in thought before continuing. “However… if I were to play along with your way of thinking, I suppose the next place to look would be my mother’s belongings.” 

“It makes little difference to the end result, but to the story itself it could have significant implications. The full story is important, Cordelia.” The easy grin fell away as his gaze turned back towards the papers laid out across the desk. Something about them just didn’t sit right.

She tilted her head as her attention lingered on him a moment longer before adjusting so she could push  from the desk to stand. “I am curious of this other option you keep mentioning. Though, I suppose let’s see what mother dearest kept hidden in her room, hm?” 

Her voice drew his attention from his thoughts and he turned, offering her his arm. “Indeed, nothing like discovering your mother’s long lost secrets to make the day interesting.” A quick wink was given as he led her towards the door. “Not that I’ve ever engaged in such behaviors…” He trailed off as the pair entered into the hallway, exhaling slowly as if to gather his thoughts as his breath left him. “...the other option I keep mentioning - that I don’t particularly want to name - is talking to Vahalia.” 

Ricard swallowed roughly, before glancing down at the woman on his arm. “...There’s no love lost between her and her father, especially after what the man did to her mother and attempted to do to her sister…but if anyone might have information about her father and the Cress family…it would be her. If we don’t find everything that you’re looking for here, speaking to her about the situation would be the next logical option.”

His suggestion caused her brows to raise in surprise, lashes fluttering with curiosity. Her attention remained forward even as she spoke, guiding them through the hallways of her childhood home. “Words I would have never expected from you, Ricard Blythe.” Her tone took on a lower octave, lips curling just so in a hardly noticeable smirk. It was true that she and Vahalia Cress had been growing acquaintances and business partners, though her trust for the woman still had yet to take root deep enough to be considered stable and considering the circumstances with her brother-in-law and the Cress sister, that was a complete other demon to tackle. “While admittedly I had foreseen a possible growing friendship with Vahalia, I have been on the fence about allowing my trust to rest with her seeing as, truthfully, I know very little of her.” 

His head lowered an ilm, appearing sheepish for the briefest of moments. “I don’t offer the suggestion lightly, and it’s certainly not one I ever thought I’d be providing to you. But I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t, at the very least, give voice to all of the available options.” He exhaled through his nose as he lifted his head once more. “That’s reasonable - but as I said, she could be a veritable fount of information, particularly on Adrian.” He licked his lips quickly. “I would - for obvious reasons - not be accompanying you on that particular excursion, should you choose to pursue it. I’m pretty sure Bruce would snap me in half on sight.”

They rounded a corner and Cordelia shifted toward the first door on the right where she would grip the handle tightly for a passing moment before finally pulling it downward and pushing the door open. This room had yet to be turned down, sheets still covered the furniture and artwork, the curtains were closed causing just small slivers of light to beam through the tiny space where the fabric did not meet completely. “Though an option it is, all the same…” She whispered softly as her eyes adjusted to the change in lighting as she slipped her arms from his and approached the windows to pull apart the curtains with a loud whoosh. 

Ricard paused, watching her for a moment before allowing his gaze to shift to the interior of the room. Bedchambers were always an interesting puzzle of sorts - they helped him in understanding a person, providing little details about who they were without intending to. He ran his tongue across of one of his canines as light filled the room and slowly, methodically started his search. “You said you spent a majority of your time with your mother, correct? She have a favored piece of literature…an area of the room she spent more time in?”

It was odd being back in this room, Cordelia hadn’t been there since her mother had passed many years ago. The space functioned as more than simply a bedchamber, it was somewhat designed so that Elsbeth had her lounging and resting area but also a space for her to enjoy her favorite pastimes. A soft smile graced her lips as she looked around the abandoned items in the room, from books stacked in small piles throughout the area to where her mother spent much of her time embroidering and tinkering with her jewelry making. There was so much of the woman that could be seen in her daughter including their interests. 

“Hm?” She blinked back into reality after having a moment of reminiscent silence. “Oh, you can check the desk over by that window and anything by her workstations. If she wasn’t baking in the kitchen, she spent most of her time there working. I’ll check by her bedside, I know she kept her favored books in the drawers there.”

Ricard watched her for a long moment, a curious look crossing over his features before he offered a nod “As you wish.” 

He moved over to the desk in question, scanning over the items that littered the top, trying to get an idea of the woman who once occupied the space before beginning to slowly, methodically, open and search each drawer, checking for false bottoms, for any papers or letters hiding within items already stored in the desk itself - anything that might have seemed out of the ordinary. 

“Did you pick up any particular habits from spending so much time with your mother?” He glanced back over his shoulder for a moment before sitting down to flip through a small stack of papers he’d managed to find.

Cordelia had crossed the room to her late mother’s bed, sitting on the edge gently as if the abandoned blankets were frail and fragile. Carefully, she picked up a book on the bedside table, thumb flitting through the pages. “Quite a few, actually. I got my eye for jewelry crafting and stitching from her, my affinity for writing everything down…” She paused, smiling to herself as memories of her mother flashed in her mind before she shook her head and continued looking through the books. “She was not the warmest of people or even the most maternal, but she did her best and that was more than Archer did.” It was the first time Cordelia referenced her ‘father’ by his name, it was odd and yet she hardly stumbled over it. 

With a soft and thoughtful hum, she pursed her lips as she reached into the drawer to pull out a small and worn tome, the page edges were torn and frayed, pieces stuck out of place here and there. It was her journal. Slowly, she went about moving through it until finally coming across a few pages that felt thicker than the rest. Tucked inside were loose pieces of parchment, which she pulled out carefully and went about unfolding after setting the book back down. “If it was true that the Cress family wanted Adrian’s bastard removed, I don’t believe he shared the same sentiment.”

“Oh? That’s a drastically different viewpoint from the one you found in the previous documents.” Ricard tossed the stack of papers he’d been flipping through back onto the desk, abruptly standing up before making his way over to the bed and easing down next to Cordelia - paying little mind to her personal space as he looked over her shoulder at the parchment in her hands. “Adrian and Elsbeth were sharing a bit of private correspondence behind the scenes, were they? Just what did the former Lord Cress have to say about his long lost oldest child that he couldn’t acknowledge?”

The question fell on deaf ears it seemed as Cordelia had become rather quiet, eyes quickly moved over the scribbled words over multiple creased pieces of parchment. 

Ricard’s eyes narrowed as he peered over her shoulder. “Coooordelia?” Getting no response, he shifted, settling in behind her, one leg on either side of her - arms wrapping around her waist and his chin on her shoulder. “You know - I was thinking once we find what we’re looking for that it might be a good idea to go break in that desk in your ‘father’s office’. I’m betting it never had a real good ‘workout’ and could use a good stress test or two…”

Instead of flinching at the unexpected feeling of his touch behind her, Cordelia instinctively settled and relaxed into him as her eyes continued scanning each word exchanged from her blood father to her mother.

Still getting no response he huffed, turning and pressing a kiss to her neck, in a last ditch effort to draw her attention from the papers. “Care to share with the class what mommy and daddy were writing about?”

Her skin bristled with goosebumps at the gentle gesture placed to her neck, turning her head just slightly as to finally be cognizant enough to respond to his curiosity. “I’m not sure what the responses look like from my mother, but whatever she was telling him, Adrian was agreeing. I think he’s the main reason I’m even still alive, they seemed to actually care for one another, surprisingly?” Cordelia lifted the papers a bit, allowing him even better access to be able to read along with her. 

“I told you earlier something was off.” He drew her  back against him as he scanned over the contents of the letter, brow furrowing. “People change their minds all the time, sure, but  the number of abrupt changes in this family are absolutely astounding if one were to take them at face value. This is  why we don’t take things at face value. If I were to guess, someone higher up than daddy dearest was probably pulling strings - but I don’t know that we’re going to find the answers to that here.” He turned and nipped her neck playfully. 

“Any other juicy details in these little scandalous letters your mother decided to keep hidden away in her bedchambers?”

She chuckled softly under her breath, the feeling of her skin falling between his teeth gently returning a bit of the devious nature they shared between them. “If there are, I’m not sure I would want to be privy to those details. Though, I suppose you’re right, seems there are at least two sides of this story depending on how you’re looking. ” Cordelia scrunched her nose, folding the papers over themselves as she shifted to be able to turn and face him a bit more. Resting her hands with the letters in tow into her lap, she fell silent as eyes narrowed on him before the inevitable inquiry finally came. “Ricard… considering what little I do know of your history with this family, I do hope you understand my concern here. I am able to trust you with this, yes? Admittedly, it is a bit late for me to ask for this reassurance, but here we are.” 

He’d lifted his head from her shoulder, allowing her to move, his head tilting curiously as she spoke, fingers teasing the fabric of her dress as he quirked an eyebrow at the question. “My history with this family can be more specifically narrowed down to my history with your newly discovered half-sisters. But what makes you think you wouldn’t be able to trust me with this?”

“Nothing particular, but it’s a necessary base to cover. It’s not that I distrust you-“

A hand reached up, fingertips lightly trailing along her jawline before gripping her chin as he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a brief - but less than chaste kiss. “Your secret is safe, Cordelia. This information goes nowhere you don’t want it to go.”

Her eyes closed as briefly as the kiss lasted, leaning against him further. “I trust you.” She finally remarked shortly though offered an addition soon after. “I think more than I was even aware of considering the fact that reaching out to you regarding this simply happened out of second nature.” Cordelia turned again just enough to set the papers aside having seen enough of what had been written to date her curiosity for the time being. Unfortunately, she would never find all the answers as those holding the secrets were all long gone now. She knew this would have to be brought to Vahalia, if anything to be sure that there was no chance that it traveled to her from someone other than Cordelia herself.

“I think we’ve done enough reading for now.”  She twisted again toward him, lips turning upward at the corner in a faint smirk, her hand running fingertips over his chest. 

Ricard’s gaze followed the path of the papers for a moment before shifting to her fingers against his chest, meeting her smirk with an easy grin of his own before leaning back against the mattress and drawing her down against him. “Have we now? It is true that all work and no play makes me a very dull boy and we’ve been working very hard these last few weeks. I do think a bit of a break is in order.”

A hand reached up to cup her cheek as the other trailed along her spine, coming to rest on the small of her back.

“Mm, and you have become rather boring,” she replied in jest as she adjusted to reclining down with him comfortably. Pulling away from his touch just enough to lift her upper half, ruffling her skirts and hiking them upward as she contorted her body so she now straddled him. “Now, give me something better to fill my attention.”

( collab with @ricard-blythe-ffxiv

@sanguinecourt-ffxiv @house-cress)

[football-and-fanfics]

The injury, part 1 - Trent Alexander Arnold & Alisson Becker

Who: Trent Alexander-Arnold, Alisson Becker Request: a fic based on the photos below, and Trent's injury vs. Arsenal. Warnings: mentions of injury and anxiety A/N: as I was writing this, it actually turned into a two-parter. The second chapter will drop either tomorrow or Tuesday (depending on me finding the time to type it out 😁)

Trent wasn't one to fake an injury, nor make theatrics for time-wasting purposes. He usually took the brunt of it, ground his teeth together, and got back up again. That was why Alisson immediately knew something was very wrong when Trent didn't get to his feet after a hard tackle on him. Alisson heard his teammate's initial yelp and following pained whimpers even over the noises of the crowd. His instinct told him to go check up on Trent at once, but the referee hadn't stopped play and Arsenal's attack was still very much alive, so Alisson had no choice but to stay put in his goal. From the corner of his eye, Alisson could see Trent lying curled up on the grass. He had to keep his focus on the game, but his heart screamed at him to go check on his obviously injured teammate. Finally, the referee blew his whistle and halted the match. Alisson immediately hurried over. Trent lay on his back by now, hands covering his face and taking rapid breaths. Each of his shuddering exhales was accompanied by a panicked, excruciated whimper. Alisson lowered himself onto one knee by Trent's side. He easily recognized the panic in Trent. The raw fear and pain were so very visible in Trent's trembling hands and breaths close to hyperventilation. "That bad?" Alisson rested a gloved hand on Trent's ribs. He didn't need to ask if Trent was alright, because he obviously was not. Trent nodded feebly under his hands covering his face. "It h-hurts so m-much..." His voice quivered.

The medical team had rushed over, too, and quickly turned their attention to Trent's injured ankle. One of them carefully wrapped his hands around the joint to stabilize it, but no matter how gentle and careful they were being, Trent still cried out in pain. "D--don't..." He gasped, choking slightly on his own erratic breathing. "Please... please, don't move it. It hurts too bad." Alisson still had his hand resting on Trent's heaving chest. He was well aware that Trent might completely lose it, if someone didn't do something fast. "Trent, look at me." Alisson gently pried Trent's hands away from his face. He hovered over his teammate, so Trent could only focus on him. "I know this is painful and hard to deal with, but you can do it. You need to take it easy, though." Trent slowly met Alisson's gaze. His dark, brown eyes held so much fear and pain that it actually left Alisson speechless for a moment. The fact that Trent was truly hyperventilating now, snapped Alisson back into action. "Deep breaths, mate," he guided, "calm down. I know it feels impossible, but try not to lose control." He moved a hand to rest on the top of Trent's head, the keeper's gloves cupping all of his teammate's dreadlocks. It was the movement that finally made Alisson get through to Trent. Trent took a shuddering, whimpering breath, before his breathing fell back into an easier, calmer rhythm. Alisson didn't move. Afraid he might disturb Trent's delicate control over himself, Alisson remained as he sat. "That's it, you're doing great," he continued to sooth. He could easily see Trent's line between somewhat calm and full-blown panic was still wafer-thin, and he wouldn't allow the young Scouser to fall into a panic again. "Trent?" The medic tried to catch Trent's attention. Alisson moved, allowing Trent to slowly sit up and talk to the medic. He kept a watchful eye, though, and remained close by. "I don't think you broke it," the medic started, "but I do think you thoroughly overstretched something." Trent vigorously shook his head. "I don't care what you have to do, but I have to continue. I'll play through the pain." The medic frowned. "I have to strongly advice against that." "Noted," Trent answered, "but I'm not following up on that advice. I'm not getting substituted." Alisson caught Trent's words, and lowered himself onto his haunches again. "Trent, are you sure? This sounds like it could be a serious injury." "I can do it." Trent winced loudly as the medic sprayed a generous amount of icing spray onto his ankle. "I'm not giving up." "No one is saying you're giving up," Alisson tried one last time, "are you really sure about this?" Trent bit his lower lip, doing his best to deal with the pain and find a way for himself to push through it. "I'm sure." Alisson held out his hand, and carefully pulled Trent to his feet. In one fluent motion, he pulled Trent into a bear hug. He still felt Trent was making a bad decision in playing on, but there wasn't much he could do about that. "No one is asking you to torture yourself like this," Alisson spoke softly into Trent's ear, the words intended only for the young Scouser to hear. "You don't have anything to prove to us. You know that, right?" "I know." Trent wrapped his arms tightly around Alisson's tall frame. "Thanks for being there for me just now, Ali." "Just look out for yourself, okay?" Alisson gently patted Trent's back. "And you looked like you needed a bit of support back there." Trent chuckled wearily. "I definitely did."

Part 2 coming either tomorrow or Tuesday! 😇 Tags: @evie-pr, @auawdo, @meteora-fc, @de-geas, @stonesyyyy, @drizzyreese, @hbstre, @liverpoolfanfiction, @sternennebel2001, @scuderiavettcl Trent tags: @footballffbarbiex, @sanchoj7 PL tags: @ella33 Liverpool tags: @candlelitutopia Add me to the tags list, too! For more of my TAA imagines, click here For more of my Alisson imagines, click here General masterlist