#fragments ch.2

[lifesver]

@johnnysslaughter said: you can’t outrun the truth.

[cw for baseline dusk topics, dark themes bad toxic no good trauma thought processes. and also death.]

there it is, again. what he kept trying to tell you. what he drilled into your head. the truth about him, the truth about you. that one day you will. even if you don’t want to. anyone can do it.

one day you will.

leland scrapes his fingernails against his inner wrist. digs. his teeth are chattering, despite the sticky sweat beading at his hairline. he’s filthy. blood-spattered. grimy and dirty and he can’t scrape it away.

johnny is leaning by the wall in his peripherals. like he knows better than to get in range of a frightened animal.

‘ how'd it feel, leland? ’

leland.

his head snaps to the side.

boy, pet, buck. never fucking leland.

with his hands coated in blood, he’s leland.

he feels like crying.

—

this wasn't a rabbit. wasn't an animal. this was different.

unlucky, unsuspecting prey, nonetheless. a couple — out traveling these backroads, just like he and his friends had. in the wrong place, at the wrong time. found themselves in this god-forsaken basement.

a boy with dark shaggy hair and glasses, and a girl with auburn hair, loose and falling from a bun at the back of her head. leland can’t remember what they said their names were.

and they had thought he was one of them. some poor soul trapped down here in the basement. not all wrong. not all right. he looked the part. they tried to save him, from his cell. as they worked off his restraints, the guy had told him it would be alright, if they just stuck together.

for a little while, leland entertained the fantasy that he was, like them.

he watched them struggle and fight and scramble like rats into dead ends. he watched his own story play out.

oh, of course he'd tried the old ladder through the cold room. oh, of course he'd gotten so close to getting that locked gate out back open. he had hidden, unable to breath, in the trunks of cars in the yard. each time, met with the monster with the chainsaw. or met with johnny, who was fucking worse. pulling him from his hiding place. dragging him back down into the basement.

over, and over. ad nauseum.

there was no point hiding, from johnny. you could run, but he'd track you down before you got far. leland was trapped from the moment johnny set eyes on him. he was trapped in that sunflower field. in that cold room. he wasn't ever getting out of here.

these people, who were here at the wrong time. they would find out, too.

‘ please — please, you don't have to do this. ’ the victim tries, voice quaking.

leland was sick of hearing it. they all said that.

he had said that, again and again, until it lost its meaning altogether.

please, please. fucking please —

and all it had taken was one hard crack of the boy’s face into the ground. it had dazed him enough for leland to get over him, pin him down with a knee against the base of his spine. the boy hissed, cursed, struggled. but quickly realized he wasn't going anywhere.

realized he had been wrong. wrong to trust leland.

leland’s eyes fixed on the other one. the girl. how she had frozen there wide-eyed in the middle of the tunnel. how johnny’s shadow had come up from behind, eclipsed her.

his eyes flicked up, sharp. locked against johnny's.

because leland knew what happened now. knew that johnny would ask him to use that knife he has, gripped white-knuckled. leland would tell him no, i can’t, i fucking can’t.

would beg him. would tell him he doesn't need to do this.

and johnny would gut these people like deer, in front of him, anyway. he would make them suffer slow, and —

johnny would make it his fault. his fault these people didn't get a kinder death. a quicker, less painful death. all because he wouldn’t pick up the knife, himself, and do what needed to be done.

his fault.

johnny had once told him, you don’t help the family, you’re better off dead.

leland looked at the boy, pinned under his knee. gasping in the dust. maybe he knew he was dead, too. because he wasn’t begging, or pleading anymore. just drawing in these scratchy, laboured breaths.

leland realized he was speaking. rough, low. to the girl.

‘ it's okay — it's okay. i'm here. i'm right here. ’

the girl was just blurry lines of her ginger hair in leland’s vision. crying for the boy as johnny wrapped an arm around her throat to keep her still.

for a moment, leland thought he saw someone else. in this girl. in this boy.

leland— leland— help me

his ears were ringing. his head was just white noise.

' i'm right here. it's okay. '

his stomach twisted. cold, stinging bitterness. panic, pins and needles.

he tried to imagine it was johnny.

he imagined what it would sound like to hear that cruel laugh choke out into horrible, bloody gasps. would it feel good?

sees the boy again. sees a different boy, that makes his heart crunch inward like a ball of paper.

he counted to five in his head.

he forced an even breath.

( these people don't care about you. they would have left you here to die, anyway. just like everyone else — )

— leland’s eyes closed, opened. vacant.

he leaned over the body beneath him, jaw tight, breathing raggedly. hand curled in the boy's blood-damp hair, and he forcibly raised his head from the dust. the boy got out one more word.

the girl's name.

leland dragged his knife across the boy’s neck.

one cut. jagged, shaking. blood spattered up leland’s jaw. blood poured over his hands, into the dirt. leland’s eyes fluttered, dizzied. white noise, nothing. he let the boy’s head lower to the dirt, slowly. near gently. leland’s hand rested on his cheek, at the back of his head.

he listened as the boy had gurgled and gasped and reached for the girl one more time.

a shriek, a sob, in leland’s ringing ears. another choked sound.

leland didn’t look up.

he heard the distinct sound of blade-to-flesh. johnny drawing the knife across the girl's throat without fanfare, mirroring leland’s action. heard when she hit the dirt, knees, limp limbs. falling forward as she, too, let out a few last wet gasps, and went quiet.

really quiet.

disoriented, leland pulled himself away from the unmoving boy. the one he had—

killed. slaughtered, bled out, like an animal.

leland knelt in the dirt beside him. for some reason, he felt the need to fix the boy’s sleeve, where a button came loose at the cuff. staring without really registering.

he fixed the button. now he’d gotten blood on the boy’s shirt.

there was nothing at all, except for the sound of his own stilted breath.

then, all at once, he came back to earth. struck into reality.

— how did it feel? — like it was only a matter of time. like nothing. like everything. like he was alone, now. like he always had been, down here.

❝ i don't know. ❞

leland answers, honestly. empty as his chest cavity felt. his hands shake, and he stares blankly into the pattern on the boy’s shirt, at nothing.

❝ i wished it was you. ❞ he bites out.

he says it just to say it. to have something of his own.

he hears the grin in johnny's voice.

‘ how romantic. ’ low, drawling, amused. leland's skin crawls.

johnny's by his shoulder, now. stood over him. leland doesn't realize he's started shaking all over. started crying. soundless, just blinking back tears.

you had finally done what he had wanted, hadn't you? finally lost something in you you were never getting back.

johnny hums, looks over the body of the boy. then, he speaks more soberly. almost gently.

' it's alright, y'know. to feel whatever you're feelin'. ' like he fucking cared.

leland doesn't say anything. but like a good dog, he heels. the knife slides from his hand, drops with a clatter on the ground. fingers flex, curl into palms.

then, a gloved hand settles in his dirty, blood-stuck hair, as johnny bends to collect the relinquished weapon. fingers card through the dark strands.

affectionate, maybe. leland thinks. if this man had any concept of it.

suddenly he feels hot and cold, in his hands, in his face. those people — they weren't allowed to live — but he was.

leland fucking hates it. hates that it made some twisted part of him feel special.

he knows he isn't.

the hand in his hair moves. johnny's brought it down to grip his chin between thumb and forefinger. turning his tear-stained face to look up. leland’s eyes stay lowered, away.

‘ ... but y' can’t outrun the truth. i told you. ’

the truth.

the truth.

he knows what johnny is saying to him.

he's angry and monstrous, just like him. anyone can do it. you're no better.

he knows he should feel something else. about the boy who lays bleeding out in front of him. but all he feels is his own name, like a bullet lodged deep in his heart.

❝ yeah,❞ he rasps, small. far away. his eyes stick to the bodies. remembering the way the boy had reached out, gurgling and choking on his own blood. the girl with the red hair, and the watercolour of her motionless silhouette. thick, dark red is pooling under her head, a halo in the dirt.

they had died quickly. that was good. that was something.

he thinks about how no one will know what happened to them. he thinks about his mother. about his sisters. he thinks about connie, and danny, and maria, and julie, and sonny, and ana.

they would be disgusted by what he's done. they would never forgive him. he would never forgive himself.

johnny drops his hand away. the momentary anchor of his touch is gone, and leland feels just cold, now.

‘ c’mon, now. help me move ‘em. then we can get you cleaned up. ' johnny says, after a long moment. and leland blinks out of another daze.

oh. the blood. leland looks up at him, owlishly. like he doesn’t believe him. he's never been asked to help johnny, before. johnny’s eyes are glinting with something unreadable. there’s a smile there, too. but it’s not cruel. it’s not as mean as leland’s used to seeing on his teeth.

‘ you’d like that, wouldn’t you, leland? little bit of fresh air, too. ’

it feels like a backhand. his name, hammering an icepick in his broken fucking brain, somewhere. and the dangling of something other than a dark, dingy cell in front of him. like some kind of reward.

leland tries to stand, wobbles like a newborn deer. he feels like he might be sick. knees buckle slightly, but he stays on his feet. he doesn't want to look weak.

and he waits for johnny to tell him what next.

and johnny smiles, again, all sharp teeth.

[maddymoreau]

I love this running gag of Huggy Wuggy munching on a human arm ꉂ (˃̶᷄‧̫ॢ ˂̶᷅๑ )

It was referenced in the first Merch Drop video

And now the Project: Playtime Cinematic Trailer

[ketavinsky]

pros of returning to nz for my weird kids research trip: lots of awesome material, i finally feel at home in my home country again, i missed the bush, i missed the rain, i finally have a complete arc for carver, rasmussenisms, made peace with the rage, got to see the family cat even if he doesnt remember me, my childhood bed, my childhood stuffies, great inspiration for plot and setting, new horror devices

cons: the sweet spot in my childhood home is about 10 days and day 12 im going fucking crazy

[foreverdolly]

ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

word count: 4.5k

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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.

The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .

There’s you.

And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.

This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.

If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.

The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?

Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.

The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.

The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.

They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.

No one could save you.

“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.

How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.

“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.

Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.

“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”

You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.

The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.

“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.

He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.

“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.

You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.

“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.

“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.

A pause.

“Please.” And then he went back to eating.

So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.

“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.

Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.

“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”

Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.

“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.

For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.

“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.

He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.

“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”

He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.

“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.

Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.

“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.

“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”

That awful, ugly, no good- 

“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed. 

You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things. 

‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’ 

You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics. 

You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered. 

“Do all women take this long to get ready?” 

You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf. 

He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring. 

He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous. 

“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms. 

You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited. 

You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have. 

“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction. 

Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away. 

The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth. 

You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm. 

You waited. And waited. And waited. 

“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand. 

There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?  

“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far. 

You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket. 

You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack. 

“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm. 

“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce. 

“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement. 

“No.” 

“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.” 

Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest. 

“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . .  spineless.” 

You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he. 

“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him. 

‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you. 

“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred. 

“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice. 

You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together. 

“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . . 

Aimed at his throat. 

He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him. 

And then he leaned in closer. And closer.

“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.

 You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. .  . the natural musk of his skin. 

“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin. 

He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it. 

“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own. 

Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in. 

“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you. 

He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole. 

They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with. 

When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain. 

But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it. 

‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ‘Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’ 

His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft. 

“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair. 

Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire. 

And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood. 

“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now. 

“I wanted to.” You conceded. 

“Then you should have tried harder.”

Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused. 

There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone. 

And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably. 

There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land. 

He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now. 

Like the fact that he had almost kissed you. 

Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you. 

You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now. 

Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating. 

Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped. 

“Atreides.” 

The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized. 

No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . . 

Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger. 

‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier. 

He had been trying to warn you.

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the wonderful line “fear me, love me. do as i say and i will become your slave” is from the movie “the labyrinth”!

[birdie-ghost]

Alert the town

[first] [prev] [next]

[Ch.1]

My Ko-fi

Important update info under the cut!

Soooooo it's been like 2 years!! Hello.

Quick buncha stuff to answer questions: I don't know how often I'll update. Sorry :/

The style did change! Sorry if it looks weird for a little while, I lost all my brushes and found out tonight that I also no longer have ANY of my old comic files so I'm just kinda fucked there. So palletes and allat has to be redone

Where'd I go? Idk man I went into public high school and it's been a wild ride. I left an abusive household, no longer talk to my mom (FUCK yes I HATE her. This is a positive) but also adjusting schedules for that was a pain.

Story is going to be slightly more fragmented because I have to recompile it! But yeah. Feel free to ask more spoilor-y questions due to my lack of update being guaranteed!

this is what the page was originally gonna look like about a year ago, but the person I was dating made fun of me so much so I felt like shit drawing this. Good news I no longer date him!! It doesn't have this composition anymore cus I simply Hate Redrawing Things I've Already Drawn.

I'm also now an adult! Which is weird to think about cus I started this comic when I was 15!!! lovely how time works.

Thank you all for your patience :]

<3

[mariasont]

Our Minds Entwined-----------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9, ch 10, ch 11

MDNI-----------------------------------------------------------------

pairings: aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid

summary: in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest, youngest member

warnings: wet dream between 2 men, evelyn needs to be spayed or smth, fainting, creepy men

A/N: hiiiii gorgeous, lovely, beautiful human beings thank you so much for the support on this fic, I LOVE YOU ALL!!!! <3 let me know if you want to be adding to the tag list

ALSOOOOOO my requests are open for aaron hotchner and spencer reid!!! I would love to write some drabbles/one shots so shoot me a message! <3

HAPPY READING!

Chapter Ten:

Gasping for air, Evelyn emerged from the depths of her dream, the vividness of it lingering like a second reality. She swiftly pressed her back against the headboard, her fingers weaving through her sweat-soaked hair. The dream's details were smeared in her memory, but the visceral ache it left behind was crystal clear. Hotch and Spencer--their hands that were insistent upon her, their mouths that explored every inch of her. She scolded herself for the image--what is wrong with her? She felt like a pervert, imagining both men in such a way.

Her legs brushed against the fabric of the sheets, her actions freezing as she became aware of the dampness enveloping between her legs. Her mind turned to Spencer--his hair a soft curtain on her skin. His hands, always in motion, leaving no fragment of her unexplored. His mouth, the way his tongue felt inside her.

Evelyn's fingers instinctively started to play with the waist band of her pajama shorts, moving closer to the swollen bundle of nerves. Her thoughts drifted to Hotch--his shoulders and build, how easy it would be for him to overpower her, and she secretly wished he would. This was crazy, she thought. Despite her mind's protests, her fingers continue to wander, tracing gentle circle against her clit. 

She let out a puff of air, her back arching slightly off the mattress as light began to seep into the room. She thought of Hotch positioned behind her, showing her no mercy, finally pounding her attitude out of her. She pictured Spencer before her, his cock working its way into her mouth. Her fingers pushed into her gently, her gasps coming out short and desperate as she pictured her own fingers being replaced by Hotch's.

The imagine coaxed a moan from her, a sound that seemed too loud in her own ears. The knock at the door was abrupt, freezing her in place, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. Evelyn's heart hammered against her ribs, panic seizing her as she scrambled out of bed. Her feet barely touched the carpet as she rushed to the door, flinging it open with a force that echoed through the silent hallway.

Hotch, a study in precision, stood there--impeccable in a charcoal-gray suit that made her want to drool. And his tie, a navy silk affair that lay flat against the white shirt, hinted at meticulous order. But it was his face that betrayed him--a subtle furrow of his brow, the pinch of annoyance around his mouth that suggested he'd been waiting longer than he card to admit.

Evelyn's heart did a clumsy somersault, her cheeks betraying her, turning a shade that rivaled a traffic light. One-half of her fantasy--or rather, the less enthusiastic version--stood there. "Hotch," she managed, "what are you doing here? And, um, what time is it?"

Evelyn's heart-shaped pajamas clung to her, the soft fabric revealing more than it concealed. Her cheeks flushed with urgency, mirrored to disarray of her hair. The hallway light caught the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, delicate constellations that bloomed when she eschewed makeup. 

Hotch's annoyance ebbed, replaced by a reluctant fondness. What had she been doing? Hotch's gaze lingered on her--no makeup, no artifice--just raw, unfiltered beauty. He was unsettled by how much the sight affected him. The flush in her cheeks, the softness in her eyes. 

Hotch willed his demeanor to snap back into place, his voice clipped. "Evelyn," he said, each syllable a warning. "I've called you five times. We need to be downstairs in 15 minutes."

Her pulse raced, and her tongue tripped over her words. "Oh, shoot, sorry," she blurted out, her voice echoing in the narrow hallway. The disheveled room behind her seemed to mock her--sheets tangled, alarm clock blinking accusatorily. "My alarm must've never gone off." She gestured toward the half-open door. "Do you want to come in and wait? I promise I'll be super speedy."

Evelyn's cheeks were ablaze, a canvas of mortification. She could feel Hotch's scrutiny lingering, a laser beam that could dissect her every flaw. She ushered him inside, the hallway suddenly too narrow, too confining. She slipped into the bathroom and shed the pajamas. Her fingers waged a silent war with buttons and zippers, a clumsy ballet of haste. Each click and snap was a resounding echo of the dream that clung to her thoughts. She tried to shove the images aside, to bury them under layers of fabric, but it seemed inescapable. Because now, he stood outside, annoyance etched in every line of his impeccable suit.

"Hotch," she began as she waved at the alarm clock, its digital numbers blinking like a guilty accomplice. She pulled her hair into a hasty ponytail, the elastic snapping against her skin. "I'm convinced my alarm clock is broken." The words tumbled out, a desperate attempt at distraction. "But hey," she continued, her eyes meeting his, "I think I just won that bet--the one where the team bet you'd never get mad at me." Her lips curved into a half-teasing smile, her nose scrunching at the action. "Soft spot, my friend."

Hotch said nothing as his gaze followed the hurried sway of her movements. Stepping closer, he surveyed the bed's solitary disarray amidst the room's order. The blankets lay in a tangle of turmoil. How much does she move in her sleep? he wondered. His eyes honed in on a small corner of fabric peeking out from under the pillows.

There, nestled among the tangled sheets, sat a small teddy bear, its pink bow a splash of color against the tan. Hotch's expression softened as he lifted the plush toy, turning it over in his hands, a smile tugging at his lips. Of course she slept with a stuffed animal. 

The warmth of mortification spread across Evelyn's face. "Oh, um," she mumbled with a forced chuckle, plucking the bear from Hotch's grasp. "That's my... strategic sleep ally. Because, you know, every good agent needs a backup. Totally standard-issue."

"We'll circle back to your... bedtime tactics," he said with a hint of a smirk. "For now, conference room. Let's go."

Evelyn and Hotch made their way down to the conference area. The room hummed with anticipation, bathed in the soft glow of fluorescent lights. Rows of round tables faced a raised stage, where a large screen displayed the conference logo. Agents in crisp suits mingled with academics in tweed jackets. Some wore glasses, other carried tablets or leather-bound notebooks.

A spark of excitement ignited within Evelyn, her gaze darting from face to face, recognizing those who were like celebrities of their field. 

"Hotch, do you see who that is?" Evelyn's voice was on of awe as she nudged Hotch, her gaze fixed on the figure across the room. 

Hotch's eyes followed her line of sight and landed on a distinguished-looking woman who, upon noticing Hotch, raised her hand in a casual wave. "I do," Hotch confirmed with a nod, acknowledging the silent greeting with a subtle nod of his head.

Evelyn's mouth fell open slightly. "You're actually so cool," she said, the words slipping out before she could filter them, a smile spreading across her face.

Hotch's mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. "I'm going to choose to not take that as an insult," he replied, his eyebrow arching in mock offense. "Stay here, I'm going to check us in."

Evelyn acknowledged Hotch's departure with a quick nod and an 'okay boss'. She was still orienting herself in the conference's bustling atmosphere when two familiar faces approached from the crowed. Mr. Weller, his suit a bit worn at the elbows, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a practiced gesture. Dr. Reeves, his hair slightly disheveled, was animatedly discussing some policy change in data privacy. He quickly roped Evelyn into the conversation who listened intently, interjecting only with thoughtful nods.

Evelyn's muscles relaxed slightly as Hotch returned to her side. His hand rested momentarily on her back, a professional gesture by all accounts, but Evelyn couldn't help but feel a spark of awareness ignite. She fastened the name tag he handed her with fingers that suddenly seemed less steady, the metal's chill doing little to dispel the soft heat that had settled between her shoulder blades. 

As Professor Lewis swept in, she bypassed Evelyn's attempted greeting as if it and her were invisible. The professor's laser focus cut her off with surgical precision as it landed on Hotch. 

Her voice carried an urgent edge as she addressed Hotch. "Aaron, can I pick you brain about something?"

Evelyn's greeting hung suspended, and a familiar twinge of frustration pricked at her--the kind that came from being eclipsed again by the professor's selective attention. With a quick nod, Hotch vanished into the crowd with Professor Lewis, leaving Evelyn grappling with a sudden, unsettling sensation in her chest. She exchanged pleasantries with the two men before her, their words weaving through her consciousness without taking hold. 

Her gaze, however, was glued to the sight of Hotch and the professor, their heads bowed in earnest conversation. A surge of jealously, uninvited and irrational, twisted inside her. It was a confusing betrayal of emotion, given her casual relationship with Spencer. But she realized if it was Spencer in that Hotch's position, she'd feel the same about the professor, if not worse. The dream from last night was the culprit, she decided.

Left alone as Dr. Reeves and Mr. Weller departed, Evelyn sank into the chair at her table. The sight of Professor Lewis, so at ease with Hotch, gnawed at her. Why did it bother her so much? Maybe she just needed a nap.

As if summoned by the sheer force of her thoughts, Hotch appeared, his presence a sudden weight beside her. The question erupted from Evelyn before she could stop herself. "What did she want?"

His eyes took on a discerning quality, the subtle narrowing revealing his assessment. "She asked for my opinion on a theory."

"Hmm," came a soft murmur from Evelyn, her lips briefly pressing together in contemplation.

Hotch's gaze drilled into hers, probing. "What?"

"Nothing," Evelyn dismissed, her shoulders lifting in an indifferent shrug.

The morning's panel had unfolded with a deceptive ease, allowing Evelyn to shelve her simmering jealously. Yet, as the shadows shifted to signal the afternoon's approach, her anxiety crept back, an unwelcome companion. 

In a separate room, she paced, her fingers tracing over her notes, each word etched into memory. "You've got this, Evelyn," she murmured, a mantra against the fatigue that seemed to drape over her. "You are prepared. You are intelligent."

Evelyn's grasp to the chair became white-knuckled as a sudden dizziness swept over her, unannounced and unwelcome. The room swirled into a blur, the ground beneath her seemingly shifting as her breathing became uneven and rapid. She looked up to see Hotch. Caught mid-affirmation and near-collapse, a rush of warmth flooded Evelyn's face. She righted herself with a silent plea, willing the black dots to vanish from her vision. 

His eyes locked onto hers with a piercing intensity, studying her--the subtle shift in her posture, the way her hands trembled. "Evelyn," he said, reaching out to steady her with a firm hand. "What's wrong?"

Her words stumbled out, a clumsy cascade of denial. "Just nerves," she claimed, offering a faltering smile and a brittle laugh to conceal the tightening in her throat. Hotch's steady, searching gaze didn't waver, his disbelief hanging silently in the air.

His voice held a note of insistence. "Have you eaten today?"

Evelyn blinked, realization dawning. "It slipped my mind," she admitted. 

Hotch's next words were lost on her as darkness seeped into her field of view. She felt the world tilt, her knees buckling as she was swiftly cradled in a secure, urgent grasp. Blinking away the disorientation, Evelyn found herself cradled in Hotch's panic-stricken gaze. His eyes were wide with alarm, his cool facade shattered as his hand hovered over 911.

"Hotch," she managed, her voice soft but her sarcasm intact. "Impeccable timing as always."

There was a softening in Hotch's gaze, a subtle shift from concern to mild exasperation. "Evelyn," he chided softly, his finger's tap on her hip a punctuation to his words. "You're anemic. You can't just skip meals like they're optional."

Evelyn's effort to sit up sent the room into a dizzying tailspin, each movement threatening to yank her back down. They found themselves grounded in an intimate proximity--she, half-laying in a disoriented haze, and he, crouching by her side, arms wrapped around her in a secure hold, one hand cupping her head to shield her from the hard ground, the other laid upon her waist. 

"Didn't event cross my mind," she confessed, her voice a fragile thread. "Been so busy."

Hotch's hand emerged from his pocket, clutching a compact, foil-wrapped package. "Here," he urged, extending the snack towards her with a gentle authority. "It's good for anemia."

She squinted at the package. "Do you always carry this around?" she questioned, her voice tinged with genuine surprise.

He nodded, no-nonsense. "Yes."

Inside, her heart did an unexpected leap, touched by his silent care.

"You're a sap, Hotch," she teased, her voice light. "Who knew? I bet you've got a whole stash in that suit."

His eyes bore into hers, and for a moment, the room dissolved and the air thickened. And despite her playful words, Evelyn's fingertips tingled, her skin hyper-aware of every pore. The anemia-induced weakness faded into insignificance all because of a stupid snack he carried around. A snack he had thought to carry for her, based on a single, fleeting confession. 

"Stop talking and eat."

And so, she did.

Evelyn's body protested with each step towards her room. She'd argued, of course--pleaded about missing her speech, about the importance of being present. But Hotch, with his hands guided her with a careful touch, wore an expression that left no room for debate. The lines of his face were drawn tight, a clear reflection of the worry that silenced her objections. 

"Rest," was a firm directive, and though Evelyn balked, she ultimately yielded to his authoritative concern. Promptly, room service materialized at her door, courtesy of her favorite unit chief. The tray was abundant with foods rich in iron, and she'd devoured it with an eagerness, only pausing for sips of water.

As the sun made its descent beyond the horizon, its lingering rays casted a golden spotlight on the outdoor hot tub. Evelyn's silhouette blurred against the steam rising from the water, her skin kissed by the fading light. Her hair, a cascade of disobedient curls, crowned her head and softened the contours of her face. The night air nipped playfully at her heated skin, a refreshing counterpoint to the liquid warmth that welcomed her as she dipped into the water.

As her gaze lifted, her room came into view--the curtains drawn, the soft glow of lamplight seeping through. But then she turned her head, and there he was.

Hotch stood on his balcony, his gaze fixed on her. His expression was inscrutable, and for a moment, Evelyn's heart raced. She could sense it--the unspoken command that she should be in her room resting. But her half-wave was genuine, a flicker of happiness at seeing him. He acknowledged her with a curt nod. Evelyn's gaze returned to her book, her fingers tracing the book's creases, her focus slipping. 

A stranger's appearance disrupted her quietude. He had a tailored physique, the kind that hinted at gym memberships and expensive cologne. His eyes, though--too probing--made her uneasy. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, easing into the water.

Evelyn's responses were polite, but she kept her distance. Yet, he persisted, inching closer with every comment. Evelyn's spine prickled, a frosty warning that crawled from nape to tailbone. The book now lay abandoned on the tub's edge. The distant city lights blurred as she feigned interest, but his nearness--his breath, his questions--made her skin crawl. 

Evelyn's eyes scanned the balcony, hoping to see the reassuring figure of her unit chief. But it was empty--the moon's glow casting eerie shadows on the tiles. 

And then, as if summoned, he materialized. Hotch stood there, his expression unreadable. The moon's glow painted his features--sharp jawline, a hint of stubble. But it was the swimsuit--a sinuous second skin--that stole her breath. The fabric of his shorts traced every contour, leaving little to imagination. Evelyn's gaze lingered on his chest, the hair that spread across of it, the rugged masculinity that defied office walls. Her mouth went dry, pulse racing.

"There you are, babe," she murmured, her tone laced with artificial sweetness. Her pulse raced, her eyes seeking Hotch's with an intensity that begged him to read between the lines.

Confusion creased Hotch's forehead as he processed the scene, his eyes flitting from Evelyn to the stranger, the gears turning. "Sorry honey," he said, his voice a low rumble as he approached the water's edge. "Had to take a call. Work stuff."

The word 'honey' lingered in the air, sweet and potent, leaving Evelyn lightheaded. She felt a flutter in her chest, a realization dawning that with the use of such a word, she'd gladly drawn in paperwork if he asked.

With Hotch's arrival, the water created ripples that reached Evelyn. His eyes, deep and searching, locked onto hers with an immediacy that bridged the distance between them. As he settled next to her, the subtle heat of his presence enveloped her. She nestled against him, her whispered explanation cut off by his lips grazing her ear. 

"I know," he murmured, his breath sending shivers down her spine. Evelyn's heart stumbled over itself, a drumbeat out of sync. "You look so good tonight, honey," he announced, ensuring the words reached beyond their intimate circle. His eyes darted to the supple swell of her breasts on display, a quick, silent exchange that left her heart fluttering wildly, even as her mind reminded her it was just an act.

The man's eyes widened, bouncing from Evelyn and Hotch like a pinball. "Oh," he stuttered, a hint of embarrassment coloring his tone, "I didn't realize you were with someone."

"Yeah," Evelyn said, her voice a soft murmur as she settled into the curve of Hotch's lap, her ass planted firmly against his front. The warmth of his body seeped through the thin veil of her bathing suit, causing her cheeks to set flame. Her heart skipped, reveling in the proximity she knew was off-limits. Hotch's arms, both protective and dangerously intimate, encircled her waist.

"This is my husband," she introduced, the word foreign on her tongue. "Aaron, meet...?" His first name rolled of her tongue, a sweet liberty taken in a moment of pretense, as she left the space open for the stranger to introduce himself. 

The barest hint of a smile threatened to disrupt the stoic lines of Hotch's mouth, a silent admission of pleasure of the sound of his name from Evelyn's lips. The intimacy of the act, hidden behind the guise of necessity, wasn't lost on him. He should have been irked by the ruse, yet he found himself savoring the moment. He cleared his throat, a quiet struggle for detachment, even as her voice echoed in his ears.

"Nathan."

Hotch extended his hand with a blend of authority and subtle warning, introducing himself, "nice to meet you," with a tone that cloaked none of his conviction.

Meanwhile, Evelyn's touch traced a path over his chest, a touch that betrayed the unfamiliarity of the act. Her other hand tangled gently in the hair at his nape, a tender exploration that drew an involuntary shiver from him. 

Hotch's voice was hushed against her ear. "You're laying it on thick," he murmured, his breath a warm caress that belied the sternness of his words. His grip on her hip tightened imperceptibly.

Evelyn's lips quirked, a silent acknowledgement of her tactic. "Necessary," she whispered back, her voice a playful lilt. "For my safety." 

Nathan persisted, undeterred. "So, what are you two down here for?"

Hotch's face remained impassive. "A work conference," he stated, the intensity of his eyes fixed on Evelyn.

"So you both work together?" Nathan asked, his tone probing. "Is that how you met?"

Evelyn's smile unfurled like a victory flag. "Oh, yes," she purred, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "He's my boss actually--totally inappropriate, I know. But bless him, the poor man never stood a chance from the moment he laid eyes on me. He just couldn't help himself. It was a HR disaster, of course, but it all worked out."

Hotch's brow furrowed in disapproval, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curling into a reluctant grin. "That's true," he conceded, his voice gruff. "She's... something else, a handful to say the least."

"That's what hands are for!"

Nathan fidgeted uncomfortably as he gave the couple a tight-lipped smile. "Well, I ought to head out," he declared, darting glances between Evelyn and Hotch. "Aaron, you've hit the jackpot, my man."

Hotch's voice was tight, barely containing his exasperation. "No doubt," he managed, "I'm living the dream."

Once Nathan had disappeared, Evelyn leaned closer, her voice a soft, playful murmur. "Guess I owe you one," she teased. "You really sold that doting husband role."

Hotch's response was a single raised brow, his face a mask of feigned solemnity. "Necessary," he echoed, the word rolling of his tongue with a hint of irony. "For your safety."

"You caught the weird vibes he was giving off, right?" she prodded, her elbow gently jabbing his side. "I mean, talk about strange, huh?"

"You're like a magnet for guys like that," Hotch observed, his mouth curving into a half-smile "but, yes, you made the right call."

Her grin was infectious. "Always do," she said with a wink. "You know we make a pretty good team, don't you think? Maybe we should look into undercover work."

"A good team, yes," Hotch agreed, his tone dry. "But undercover? I'd have to start practicing my 'shushing' gestures now."

"Aaron Hotchner, did you just make a joke? Where's my notebook?" Evelyn's giggle rang out, loud and unrestrained as she clutched his shoulders. "And if I talk too much, it's only to balance out your brooding silence."

Her laughter was a living thing, wrapping around Hotch, nudging at the corners of his usually impassive facade. The sheer delight in her voice, planted a seed of contemplation in Hotch, a consideration that maybe, just maybe, a joke here and there wouldn't be such a bad thing, especially if it elicited such a reaction from her.

For a fleeting moment, a genuine, toothy smile flashed across Hotch's face, an uncommon display that he quickly concealed with a downward shake of his head, not wanting to boost her ego any more than necessary. 

"You know, aren't you supposed to be resting up in your room?" 

Evelyn's gaze lingered on him, savoring the rarity of his wide smile. She couldn't help but marvel at the sight and it stirred in her an urge to see it again and again.

"I don't know, Hotch," Evelyn replied, her voice as light as the air around them. A stray lock of hair drifted across her face, and she huffed it away with a puff of breath. "I'm quite content right here."

Hotch raised an eyebrow, disbelief playing on his words. "Oh, really?"

Suddenly, Evelyn's casual demeanor crumbled, replaced by a flustered clarity as she realized her position, perched unceremoniously upon his lap. "Oh, um," she murmured, her voice trailing off into a stammer as a warm flush of embarrassment spread across her face. "I mean, not in an inappropriate way! That came out wrong, sir. I just meant the hot tub is relaxing--like a warm hug for my muscles. Not that I'm hugging you. I mean, I am, but not intentionally. It's just the--"

The shrill ring of Hotch's phone sliced through the air, a timely interruption to Evelyn's frenzied monologue. He leaned subtly to the side, his hand extending towards the intrusive device, his movements fluid and composed. Meanwhile, Evelyn's departure from his lap was anything but graceful; her cheeks burned with a fiery blush as she mumbled an apology, her limbs betraying her as she hastily disentangled herself.

"Sorry," she stammered, her words trailing off into the chaos of her movement. "I'll just--"

With a simple lift of his hand, Hotch stilled her spiraling apologies, his attention shifting seamlessly to the caller on the line. Evelyn perched beside him, her cheeks still painted with the flush of embarrassment, feeling the residual heat from their embrace. His voice was the epitome of calm and control, his gaze lingering on her as he spoke into the phone.

"Hotchner," he announced into the phone, his voice a steady command. Evelyn breath steadied, her hands playing at her bikini strings as she willed calm to wash over her. The call ended with a decisive click, and she tensed anticipating his next words. "We have a case. We're going to meet the team in Somerville, Massachusetts."

NEXT

taglist: @aceofspades190 @nonamevenus @lukesaprince @doigettokeepyou @tequilya

[simplygojo]

The Devil He Made Me - Masterlist

ꨄ︎ author's note: I've decided to make a masterlist for the series I am writing called "The Devil He Made Me" which is actually inspired by the song Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin, well at least one chapter (one of the final chapters) is based off this song.

ꨄ︎ series status: ongoing - updated 1-2x per week

ꨄ︎ series warnings: violence, eventual smut, angst, alcohol use (once), mentions of d*ath,

ꨄ︎ pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!reader (24 y/o)

ꨄ︎ wattpad link

SERIES SUMMARY:

After being discovered by Satoru Gojo and his first-year students in a dangerous situation-and with only fragmented memories of her past-y/n is taken under Gojo's watchful supervision at Jujutsu High. As she adjusts to her new life, an unspoken bond between her and Gojo grows, intensifying as they work together to unravel the mystery of her past and how she ended up in such peril. But as they dig deeper, a darker truth within her cursed energy is revealed, drawing unwanted attention from dangerous forces. Has this sinister power always been inside her, or is it something new? With time running out, y/n must uncover the truth-before it's too late.

CHAPTERS:

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6;

all chapters should be available under #tdhmm

BONUS BLURBS:

Gojo’s POV: Moment on the Bench - Ch 6. Extension

SERIES TAGLIST:

@mawhoreagaa; @peqch-pie; @blue-serendipity; @simplyyyuji; @starrnai; @sorcerersseestars; @n1vi; @angryglitterperfection; @krak-jj; @coweringbear; @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni; @cococola-cocaine; @sdv98o; @theendx888; @dvmb4ssbiatch; If you’d like to be added to the series tag list, leave a comment below:)

[tokoyamisstuff]

Fragments Pt. 2/3

Homelander / GN! Reader

Ch. 2: Lab Rat

Summary: Unfortunately Homelander's powers reawake earlier than his memory of how to control them.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of HL's past, PTSD, DID, cussing, blood, unhealthy relationship dynamics, death of animals

A/N: as a little treat for you guys, this chapter got extra long (: tbh I still haven't watched the show, let me live

The following weeks passed by rather quick and uneventful - albeit it wouldn't calm down your nerves at all.

You had been on high alert for a while, fearing the worst case scenario: That whoever did this to John would come and finish the job. It did not happen in the end, so the enemy either believes him to be dead already, or was certain the lethal environment would do the rest.

What worried you right now however was the fact that nobody seemed to be searching for your acquaintance.

Locals would come to deliver supplies occasionally, and at some point you handed them a USB with a photo and the little data you knew about John. Hopefully the old - and only - shared computer in the townshall had a good enough internet connection to spread the missing person report for as many people as possible to see.

John had been joking a lot recently, about how he might've been a terrible person and people would be glad that he disappeared - but you knew deep down, he feared there might actually be some truth in his words.

One thing was sure: He could be irritating to a point where one wants to punch his pretty face in - and he's not even aware of that fact.

Over time, you noticed a lot of subtle hints to his former personality: Like his almost neurotic need for praise and attention. It seemed like he didn't even know how to simply exist by himself - for example, sometimes you came home from an expedition, and he just sat at the same spot you've left him, awaiting you almost a little too excited.

To his defense, it was hard to avoid each other in a single-room apartment. And since you had brought only the most essential things for your survival, there wasn't really that much to do either way.

Most of the day he'd follow you around, insisting that he wanted to be useful despite his condition. He was touchy - not in an indecent way, but rather starved for closeness. Always accidentally brushing his hand against yours, leaning his chin atop of your head or hugging you if he was feeling particulary happy about something.

And while hesistant at the beginning, the more you tolerated it the more he dared.

Also, his almost nonexistent empathy and lack of emotional maturity in general was infuriating. You really felt like talking to a giant toddler sometimes -but as odd as it sounds, he reacted to your scolding and listened to instructions surprisingly well.

And oh, he sure loves the sound of his own voice. His opinions unnerved you to no end, yet the way he was talking about certain topics sounded awfully like he was just repeating things someone else had drilled him to believe, without ever understanding or even caring enough to verify.

You really wondered what kind of life John had led before all of this.

Curiosity kills the cat, or so they say.

A doctor had already arrived at your remote location two days after the initial snowstorm had settled. He had complimented you for properly caring for the wounds despite your limited knowledge and ressources, and John gladly joined him in enskying you.

Since then, there wasn't much more to do than continuing treatment until his wounds would heal - which they did surprisingly fast, much to your mutual relief.

The drug John inhaled had eliminated a great portion of the Compound V in his system, but not completely. And as you could now observe first hand, the residue was able to multiply again.

That could only mean the rest of his powers would slowly but steadily return as well, right?

"NO! It burns, it burns please STOP!"

John's desolate scream made you bolt up from your sleep, instantly rushing to his side. He was experiencing nightmares very frequently, and after the past couple of tries to wake him up, you knew better than to touch him.

"John..." you whisper to not startle him, hesistantly approaching the man cowering on his bed. "It's not real. You're dreaming, you're safe. Nothing can hurt you! Follow my voice. Please, wake up..."

He was sobbing frantically, heartbrakingly even. A perfect image of misery, hugging himself in a desperate attempt to erase that awfully vivid sensation of being burned alive.

Whatever had happened to him, the suffering was imprinted so deep inside of his soul that he was forced to relive it even after alledgedly losing all memories.

You repeat the affirmating words like a mantra, tears involuntarily creeping to the rim of your eyes as well. Eventually his breaths would even out and he was able to come down to reality again, recognizing you through wettened lashes.

Shame washed over him, now feeling as if he'd drown rather than burning. He was pathetic, even without this creepy psycho shit already - a nuisance to you who had given him nothing but kindness.

"I'm sorry." His eyes darted around the room - anywhere but your face - but he was certain that you were shooting him that damn pitying look again "Didn't mean to wake you..."

John's voice was hoarse from screaming, his coughing prompting you to hand him the water on the nightstand. "No problem, really. Don't worry about it."

"You're being too naive" he mumbled, his hand lingering on yours for a bit longer than necessary as you handed him the glass. "Nursing a stranger to health...I mean, I could as well be lying about my anmnesia."

"And there I was thinking you had a way with words" you snorted, defendingly crossing your arms in front of your chest. "No offense, but you don't seem like the bright type. Besides: If you wanted to do something awful to me, you had all the time in the world and no witnesses, so..."

Eager to prove your trust, out of a whim you hopped next to him, the springs of the mattress creaking under the additional weight. Until now, despite his protest, you chose to sleep on a very uncomfortable sofa, offering him the bed since he was still not fully restored.

"You're incorrigible..." he sighed, a little taken aback by the sudden invasion of personal space, mentally adding "...but an amazing person."

"I'm not even sure if I want to remember" he tells himself rather than you, mumbling into the pillow. Whenever he tried there was a mental block, some kind of tug in his heart that felt like regaining it would cost him greatly. "Those dreams...I'm terrified to find out what they truly mean."

"Your past only defines you if you let it." Wow, that sounded way less corny in your head. "Whatever happens, you won't get rid of me that easily, I promise."

"Sounds more like a threat" he smirks, daring to shuffle a little closer.

After a while of comfortable silence between the two of you, John was the first one to look away from the ceiling, staring at you instead. He was still shaking, unable to decipher whether the lump in his throat was caused by his night terror or something else.

"...I mean you could stay here." John's voice was barely audible, as if to test your reaction first. "Better than that goddamn brick of a sofa."

You glared at him, eyes shooting daggers. "Next time we're in the field, you get a snowball right into that handsome face." He snickered at your attempt to be strict, his smugness returning already. "Oh, so you think I'm handsome, huh?"

Gosh, that man was obnoxious - and yet, even though you'd rather die than to admit, he made you jittery beyond belief. "That doesn't give you the right to do or say whatever you want, you know?"

"Didn't deny it" he winked, yet raised his hands in defense. "C'mon, I'm not trying something shady. It's just- forget it."

"...talking about incorrigible" you uttered, after looking at him dumbfounded until you finally understood. "If you feel more comfortable this way, then sure."

John nodded mutely, cracking an embarrassed smile that you couldn't help but mirror. You slid under the covers with him, the dimmed lights only worsening this awkward situation.

"Y/N?" You hqd almost dozed off already when you heard his voice again, yet it was too dark to decipher his features. "Mhh?"

"...thank you. For everything, really."

Asides from his healing factor, his heightened senses were the next thing that had returned - and they made him notice things you probably weren't even aware of yourself.

Just like right now.

That mixture of pheromones in your scent, together with an increased heartrate whenever you were close...it was unlike anything he had ever perceived, even without knowing his history he was sure of that fact.

Was this chemical reaction equal to what people called love?

And yet you never acted on those desires, for it would be terribly wrong in every way. The man next to you was in a vulnerable state no one should take advantage of. Not to mention that you didn't really know this person. He could as well be having a partner or family somewhere, and you had no intention to become a homewrecker.

So you continued reminding yourself about his negative aspects, tried to convince yourself that anyone would be feeling like this after being isolated together for so long.

Shit, can't he just hurry up and remember?

Much to your shock, you wake up entangled in both the blanket and John's embrace the next morning. He had an arm and leg wrapped around you, effectively trapping you in his hold.

Instead of freaking out or kicking him off the bed, you decide to simply close your eyes again and enjoy this blissful state. His breathing was warm against your skin, and he also seemed very peaceful in his sleep in huge contrast to usually.

After a few more minutes, his soft snores disappeared. John was confused, never having felt this well-rested in forever.

"Ah shi- I'm sorry-" before he could retract his arm, you held onto it and snuggled even closer against his chest. "Who said you could stop?"

"Oh...oh." he grinned cheekily, jawning as his head nuzzled against your neck. "Well, good morning then."

"You sure this is a good idea?" Turning to look at him, you get some messy strands of hair out of his face. "Coming with me today, I mean."

Up until now, you had avoided taking him to your laboratory, even though the two buildings were connected via a tunnel. Usually he only helped you carry stuff, do the household horribly wrong or assist you collect specimen in the wild.

But for someone who was having nightmares about a strange laboratory to come with you..."just stay here, watch a movie or something. I won't take long."

"Ugh, you don't even have any supe movies that could help me remember" he grimaced, "just some boring woke stuff."

There's no telling what this man thinks sometimes. "You just don't have any taste. Supe movies are brainless cash-cows."

"Nerd" he purrs, leading your hand to his head again, looking at you pleadint to continue massaging his scalp. Ugh, how can someone this unnerving be so great at making you do whatever he wants? "It might not be the best idea, but maybe confrontation will help me make sense out of it."

What's the worse that could happen? You've seen him having a mental breakdown several times now, and you handle it well. "...okay. Just don't complain if I make you work overtime."

"Sure thing, boss."

A quick breakfast and several discussions later, you unlock the door that led to your laboratory. Observing his reaction, you saw how his mannerism had shifted unnaturally even for his standards.

"Why are they caged in here?" You stiffened at his question, at the accusation in his tone. "What, don't tell me Mr. Conversative suddenly became an animal's rights advocate?"

No answer, instead he stared you down even more sombre. "It's not like they're locked in here forever. Climate change makes it harder for them to find food, so I take their measurements for comparison. Some I feed a while longer, and when they're strong enough they're released. I swear!"

"S-Sorry, I- fuck..." He couldn't even put his finger on why this enraged him so much, trying to tear the trapped polar fox away from his field of view.

"Hey..." you wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away from you. "Maybe you should go back, alright?"

Fuck it, you were right, that was a stupid idea - he'll never hear the end of it. John's head was spinning and he felt sick, thinking that maybe he should sit down...

...but when he opened his squinted eyes again, a sheer coincidence would turn out fatal: The heavy steel door, an emergency exit, it was red - looking awfully alike.

"You tricked me" he gritted, logical thinking overshadowed by flashbacks. "Huh?"

"You put me in The Bad Room again!" John's eyes were wild, furious even as he violently shook your smaller frame. "How could you?!"

He then pushed you away, sending you flying and proceeding to run in circles like a coyote in a trap.

"John..." The impact made you dizzy, any yet you tried to stay conscious with all might. "The door's open, you can leave anytime." You made the grave mistake of grabbing his wrist, wanting him to stop in his tracks or at least distract him...

...but he slammed his fist right next to your head, making a huge dent in the wall. "Don't fucking touch me, or I'll fucking kill you!"

It all happened so fast, you couldn't even tell why it went downhill from there - but when you saw his eyes gleaming red, you made a run for it.

Having listened to your gut and fleeing outside, the next thing you knew you were standing in front of a completely destroyed building.

John fell to his knees in between the rubble, covered it blood and viscera of the animals you had formerly kept inside. You inhaled sharply as his eyes found you, fighting against the urge to screech - and yet, he could hear your heart practically hammering against your chest, made out the scent of adrenaline even through the dust and smoke.

John knew that scene all too well, vivid images flashing in front of his inner eye: People running away from him, terrified...and his hands covered in blood, just like right now.

You were afraid of him - and you had every right to be. He was a dangerous freak! No wonder they've kept him locked away somewhere before.

"John!"

Your voice made him snap out of it, screaming your lungs out calling for him. Without second thought you ran straight at him, wrapping your arms around his neck despite your instinct to stay away. "Shit, John, I was worried! Are you hurt?!"

"W-what kind of question is that?!" he sobbed, tears streaming down his face that froze as soon as they dropped to the ground. "Are you dull or just insane, coming back after what you just saw?!"

"But you're the victim here!" He looked at you like a kicked puppy - if the situation wasn't so severe it would certainly be adorable. "I-I'm just glad you're alright."

You sank to the ground too, simply cradling his head against your chest. "I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..."

"Hey, plea- can't breathe-" The fleeting image of his past, the lifeless body of a woman dropping to his feet flashes before his inner eye, making him finally release you from his suffocating hug.

"Come" you beckon, trying to pull him from the ground but he was too exhausted - mentally at least. He might not be affected by temperature anymore, but it was minus 50 degrees out here. "Let's go home."

Gladly your flat didn't get caught in the impact of John's breakdown, and you managed to seal the broken airlock that had connected the two buildings.

Damn, this laboratory had eaten up all of your savings - and now the whole progress was simply gone. So it was only naturally that after the first shock subsided, it was you who started crying your eyes out. Not in front of him, though - as understandable as your frustration was, he was going through something way worse right now.

The bottom line was: Both your lives were now in ruins, and he was responsible.

This whole day, John wouldn't utter a single word. Instead he shunned himself from you, staying god knows where. As you were looking out of the window before sunset, you saw him just standing there, staring at the horizon. He might not be harmed by the cold, but you were sure he was still able to freeze.

Did all of this at least make him remember something? Maybe that was exactly the problem.

"You can't ignore us forever."

John clenched his fists, looking over to the house and spotting you in the window. You shouldn't be worried for him of all people - hell, you shouldn't be near him at all!

"Heya champ, talk to me."

The voices he was hearing all evening were clearly imaginary. He was probably losing his mind...or he was insane all along, who knows?

All he knew was that he didn't want the answer.

"Oh c'mon, you're even worse than the usual guy!" His reflection on the lake was talking to him in his own voice, finally snapping. "Another sniveling pussy, obsessed with affection. Fucking pathetic."

"What the fuck do you want from me?!" he spat back at himself, or rather a part of him. "Don't you get it? I am you, but stronger - better! I've got us through The Bad Room back then, and I can help you again. You're still fighting to remember...just stop resisting and you can finally become who you're truly meant to be."

There were other, more different versions of his voice, all mixing up in his mind. Some were cussing you out, others mocking himself or drowning in self-pitying...

...and worse ones made him even more afraid of what his twisted mind would be capable of...

"Really?! You care for that bitch? God, what a fucking disappointment. Believe me, she's not the first one that'll abandon you. Eventually, you'll always ruin everything. Just like back then, when you-"

"Silence! Leave me alone!" John was slamming against his own head when you rushed outside, initially wanting to drape a blanket over his shoulders. It took you forever pleading with him to at least talk things through...

...but when he reluctantly aggreed to come inside, the voices made it clear that this wouldn't be the last he had heard of them.

"I will leave" he informed you of his decision, clutching the mug of coffee you had just handed him. Those words made your heart clench, but you always knew it was inevitable. "Why so sudden? And how?"

"Apparently I can fly. Fast." Shit, what powers doesn't he have? That's unusual, even for a supe. "So you got your memories back?"

"Nope" he pops his lips matter-of-factly, looking anywhere but your eyes. "But I think we got enough proof that I'm unstable and should be, I don't know, in an institution or something." You purse your mouth, anxiety raising in the pit of your stomach. "John..."

"Oh don't 'John' me, Y/N! I'm a fucking monster!" That was the first time he had ever raised his voice at you, slamming on the table which he instantly regretted as he saw your doe eyes widen. "S-Sorry, but...I feel like I've been lonely all my life, and for a good reason. What if I use my powers unintentionally, the next time I got a nightmare? What if I hurt you? Shit, Y/N, I could never forgive myself if that happened..."

You choked on a sob, bottom lip trembling as you simultaneously tried to find the right words without crying. "Stop talking about yourself like that. I refuse to belive you'd be able to hurt me."

"But you don't know me! Not really. Hell, I don't even know myself-"

"Oh yes I do!" you cut him off harshly, cupping both sides of his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. "You're many things, but you are not a monster. You are a kind and funny and wonderful man, and you brightened every single one of my days here ever since you stumbled into my life!"

"Y/N-" he wanted to object, but you wouldn't let him. "No matter what happened that you turned out this way, you didn't deserve any of it. If you leave, you need to promise me to never give up on yourself. You deserve to be happy, okay?"

John leaned into your touch, tears long since broken free. "Why do you care so much about someone that caused you nothing but trouble?"

"Because I'm in love with you, damn it!" you blurted out without thinking first. "Does this finally go through your thick skull, or do I need to be even more obvious?!"

That sentence alone was enough for the dam to break.

John kissed you with an urgency that was frightening, as if he needed it more than air. He had pulled you onto his lap, hands demandingly roaming your body, unwilling to ever let go. "Again" he breathed out when your lips parted, "Say it again."

"I think I'm in love with you, John." Oh, he already knew he was addicted. Another kiss, quicker and more playfull this time, smiling against your lips. "One more time."

"I love you, you blockhead!" you declared proudly, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off your chest. And you were not the only one relieved to finally be able to act upon all those pent up emotions.

"Gosh, you have no idea how long I wanted to do this" John admitted almost a little bashful, covering your face in pecks. "I never thought you'd feel the same."

You tasted his tears on your lips, and he wiped yours away with his thumb, looking at you with so much adoration in his eyes, it made you wax in his hands. "I may have planned confess after your memories return, but now..." you pause, rubbing the back of your head as remorse hit you like a train. "I guess we'll have to figure it out as we go."

Yeah, there's truly no going back now. May as well enjoy it while it's lasting.

Another handful of weeks passed since your relationship blossomed, and you secretly hoped his past would never catch up on him again.

Since you had no way of finishing your research without the trashed equipment, it was about time to temporarily give up on this dream.

The two of you already made plans for the futue, had prepared to leave all this behind move back to build a life somewhere. He on the other hand was determined to do whatever it takes to repay and give you the chance to continue your studies...

...that was until shortly before your departure, when you had another unexpected visitor.

John stayed in bed as it was still early morning, admiring you from afar. He did not understand a single word you were exchanging with one of the locals in their native tongue, just hoping no matter what it was about, you would quickly come back into his arms.

A wide, infatuated smile stretched across his face as you briefly locked eyes, staring at him in awe. "What's the matter?" he inquired, noticing how dramatically you slammed the door shut.

"They've- hey!" you couldn't help but laugh as the carefree man pulled you back under the covers with him. "Continue, sweetheart."

"They've brought news from the village." Turning to face him, you indulged in one last kiss, selfishly fearing this would be the last tender moment you shared - way too soon. "People who claim to know who you are."

"Really?!" John softly clutched the sides of your shoulders, shivering ever so slightly. "Wha- who?!"

"A company, I think. Weird. What was the name...Vought?"

Unable to look at him due to your fear of losing him to his former life, you didn't notice his obvious distress, the way his eyes darkened at that cursed name. "They say you're some kind of superhero, just as I thought."

"No wonder with your kind of power, honestly" you continued at his lack of reaction, distracting yourself with a thoughtless banter. "So what, should I call you 'Homelander' from now on?"

Suddenly you felt a sharp pain in your back, way before the sound of something clashing could reach your ears. You couldn't even fathom what had happened until you grasped the situation: John had you slammed against the wall, his hand firmly wrapped around your throat.

"You fucking normie bitch..." He applied some pressure to your trachea, enough to be uncomfortable but not cutting off your air supply...yet. "Shit! How much time did I waste here?!"

You helplessly kicked with your legs, clawed at his relentless grip on your trachea, but to no avail. "Wha- John-" you stammered but his tone was callous, a manic smile stretching across his face. "Just said it yourself - that's Homelander for you."

A cracking sound filled the room as he moved his head from left to right, taking in your plain appearance for the first time after the fog in his brain had dissolved.

"I should crush you like the insect you are to me!" His stare was so unlike you had ever seen him before - the usually composed man full of spite and disgust. Regaining all of those terrible memories sure was agonizing, so right now he felt nothing but pure rage.

You were completely at his mercy, yet you were still so trusting, confused at max - and sympathetic. "Do you think I need your damn pity? I am the peak of evolution, a god, and you are...nothing."

Of course he could do it easily, snap your neck like a toothpick. You were aware, and it honestly felt like he was doing it already, the lack of oxygen making you see stars...

...and yet you stopped resisting, your palm instead wandering up to his cheek, using up the last ounce of strenght to say his name.

"Jo-ohn, plea...se..."

Even though his grip would not falter, his face fell at the genuine affection dripping from your voice. He seemed bewildered, desperate even, a multitude of emotions playing on his face - before his lips ultimatively crashed over yours.

In spite of all logic you reciprocated the kiss, wrapping your arms around him like you had done so many times before. But it didn't feel as familiar, as safe and right as before.

There was nothing either of you could say or do now that the illusion you both had created was scattered.

Homelander shook his head, trying to ground himself. He was done playing pretend, he decided internally, letting you down exceptionally gentle. As he headed for the exit, he turned to look at you one last time.

"You're not even worth killing."

[val-cansalute]

PICKING UP THE ———- PIECES -———

ch. 5

ch. 1

ch. 2

ch. 3

ch. 4

ch. 6

a/n: 😪 banners by cafekitsune and saradika-graphics

Snow still lays thick upon the soil once you’re gone. Along its boundless surface, specks of silver glisten, basking in the gentle glow of the moon, smothering the town’s bustle.

“You sure?”

The wind is cruel, lashing auburn locks erratically about Ellie’s face, numbed by the frigidity. In spite of the burning cold overtaking her limbs, her grip on the straps of the saddle tightens and her eye contact with Tommy turns ever so slightly hostile,

"Tommy, it’s been less than a day. She can’t be far. You comin’ or not? ‘Cause I’m doing this with or without you.”

He looks back at her wordlessly with a furrow in his brow, piercing through the tense silence laced with the distant bustle of Jackson,

“Alright… Let’s set off quick then.”

“Okay.”

Something compels her to silence, an impulse to keep her lips sealed over restless secrets. Maybe she knows that going after you is illogical, that it was a choice you made on your own. But she can’t bring herself to indulge in those realisations – all she knows is that she has to find you; there is no hesitation. Thankfully, the urgency in her tone was explanation enough for Tommy.

With a rushed onset, they split up to cover more ground, venturing onwards into the overrun territory encompassing Jackson with eyes vigilant, searching for signs of you, but seconds turn to minutes, and minutes turn to hours of vacillating between trot and gallop, losing sense of direction and fragments of determination to the exhaustion that mutinies her mind.

Thank god the hoofprints come into view when they do - as if by magic or a blessing, the impressed snow shows itself clear as day, juxtaposing the sea of white bordering it,  darkened by dirt and grime. Ellie perks up with desperate intrigue so she pulls the reins and crouches down beside them, muttering to herself,

“Huh, what do we have here?”

And then her heartbeat quickens in anticipation of relief,

“She's close.”

Verily, she follows, the tracks guiding her further into the dense vegetation with senses working overtime to accommodate the fact that it is winter and hordes are rampant. She fucking prays you didn’t run into one, but the forest is deafeningly silent, seeming to hold its breath tonight.

She’s fast on your track; in this moment, the path is hope, a lifeline steering her along.  Every now and then, a rustle of leaves, or the distant echoes of infected throw her mind into disarray, but she scans the area rapidly, shaky grip tightening on her firearm, before pushing on.

Just under an hour, the prints become faded and scattered, and the apprehension makes her stomach twist before she lifts her head to greet the destination - a desolate clearing.

“Fuck me.”

Dim moonlight hangs over Ellie and Tommy’s exhausted figures. The night has been relentless. The trail resulted in nothing more than wasted time and the discovery of a empty clearing, devoid of any sign of you.

Frustration and fatigue etched on her face and lingering in the air around her, Ellie kicks at a loose stone on the ground like a little kid, the full regret of having set off hurriedly with no real plan or navigation overcoming her. They’ve gotten nowhere.

In a see-through attempt at remaining pragmatic, Tommy pats her shoulder and states with a tone of reassurance, though it’s betrayed by the wearied rasp in his voice,

"We'll figure it out, Ellie. We just need to rest for a bit and rethink our strategy. She couldn't have gotten far."

But Ellie's resolve is fixed and her jaw is set in determination. It’s too late to turn back now, she knows that.

"I can't rest, Tommy. Every minute wasted is another minute she's further."

He sighs heavily with complete sincerity, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

"Ellie, she’s probably asleep right now, or some shit. And pushing yourself like this won't help anyone."

Their intermingling voices rise, threaded with increasing aggression until the tension has thickened beyond salvaging, and the rift between their convictions seems insurmountable in the darkness of the night.

Finally, unable to find common ground, Ellie announces,

"I'm not waiting. I'm going to keep searching. You wanna go back? Fine."

And, without waiting for a response, she takes off, leaving her horse and Tommy, who mutters quiet cusses into the heavy stillness of the night. She moves with purpose, the flashlight attached to her backpack tearing through the darkness.

She refuses to let the ache in her feet claim her; every step she takes echoes the silent plea for you to be found. Even as the hours wear on, Ellie's determination refuses to wane in spite of the fatigue gnawing at her bones. She can’t let herself think, she can’t let herself dwell, she has to keep searching, even if she can’t tell herself why.

However, the moon, as always, gives surrender to the encroaching dawn. Ellie's flickering hope of finding you dims as her steps grow heavier and her eyes wearier, and the first light of sunrise bleeds into the sky from the horizon.

Eventually, shattered and running on sheer god-like willpower, Ellie stumbles upon a vantage point, and stands over the landscape, large enough to swallow her whole millions of times over, like she’s the last person on Earth, staring into the face of impending destruction.

But it’s just dawn, and the overcast warm glow showers upon her as the realization that she has been searching through the night hits her. The screeching thought of you inevitably having gotten hurt plagues her mind. Deep breath, in and out, she lets the weight of it all settle upon her weakened shoulders, yet there’s still no time for rest.

The search is far from over.

You strain your neck to squint up at the skeletal structure that has born the brutality of the post-apocalyptic world, barely making out the details past the overgrown foliage seeping out of its broken windows and destroyed walls.

You enter with caution and heightened senses, searching for any signs of danger. The creaking floorboards beneath your feet shatter the palpable silence in the damp air.

Shifting through the shadows, your senses remain sharp and attuned to the slightest noise, scanning the objects illuminated by the dim light of dawn filtering through the cracks in the abandoned building. Shadows loom outstretched along the corridors.

In a shadowy corner, a man is crouched over a bag, and you watch him with a racing heart before you emerge, your silhouette a silent spectre against the dilapidated walls.

Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment before you both jump into action instinctively, but you swiftly disarm him. The struggle is brief but intense, and he is overpowered, because, if there’s one thing fear has taught you, it’s that each movement has to be calculated and purposeful.

And when he’s on his knees, trying to plead for mercy, when he’s scraping pathetically at the scruples of humanity left in your soul, you remain resolute - just don’t think. Your grip is firm as you subdue him.

A few blows leave him incapacitated, and you leave it at that because you have never been able to succumb to gratuitous violence. He lets out a muffled groan with his cheek pressed against the cold stone floor.

Swiftly, you bind is wrists and ankles taut, ensuring he can’t pose a threat before confiscating his meagre supplies and rifling through them. Food, water, anything that could sustain you on the journey ahead, you take, and then you drop his bag my his side and arise.

You turn to leave, but you glance back at the man over your shoulder, meeting his eyes with a solemn expression. You haven’t done this in a while, not since you arrived at Jackson, and your penchant for showing no mercy has been buffed down.

There’s so much you have to beg your mind to steer itself away from, beg it to not to linger on the helplessness in his eyes as he looks back at you, or how you would’ve slit his throat without a doubt when it was just you and Soren.

With the stolen supplies secured, you walk through the entrance. You have to convince yourself of one last thing.

Mercy takes on different forms.

Out into the muted light of dawn, the air is brisk, and the horizon enlightening drags the worry of not making it out of the treacherous night you endured off your shoulders. A new day. A momentary respite washes over you; you’re only a little scathed.

With the first light of dawn illuminating your path,

“Only an hour or two away …”

It is a small victory in the grand scheme of things, but it’s enough for someone with your past.

Mounting her horse, the familiar weight of the saddle grounds you as you set off once more into the unknown. The rhythmic, muffled thump of hooves against the snow-blanketed floor, and the shadow of the horse and rider stretched long over the ruins, a lone traveller navigating the remnants of a world.

You ride on, your mind numb to the thought of returning to Soren. Back to the old house, to the doorstep where your heart lies dormant.

Crestfallen, the fruitless landscape stands before Ellie, as if to mock her hunched over figure, bathed in the warm hues of the noontime sun. She has been traversing since the wee hours of the morning after stopping momentarily to map out a journey in her relentless pursuit of you, trying to stay determined, but the urgency that keeps her moving forward is dulled by the incessant pangs of hunger and the desperate struggle to keep her eyes open. Doubt creeps in as the vast emptiness erodes her resolution.

Just as thoughts of turning back infiltrate her sleep-deprived mind, a faint sound carries along a whistling gust of wind, drawing her fading attention. Pained noises, barely audible, leave her instantly alert, and Ellie follows the source of the sound with a subtle limp in her step. Though her senses are sharpened by the urgency of the situation, everything still seems blurrier and muffled.

Guided by the haunting echoes, she carefully weaves her way through the silent surroundings, every step weighted with anticipation, into a derelict building.

She approaches cautiously, entering a room where the sound is amplified and she comes face to face with the source: a man, bound and gagged, his eyes shut as he lies, weakened by his restraints. Without hesitation, Ellie kneels beside him, pistol pressed to his pained temple, her gaze unwavering,

“Who did this to you?" she demands, her voice edged with a fierce determination. His eyes fly open, looking up at her fearfully.

“Shit! Some fuckin’ girl – I don’t know!”

“… When did she leave?”

“Like ten minutes ago! I haven’t got shit, she took everything! I’m begging you, please untie me!”

She stands, contemplating it for a moment, before she kicks him over so that he can contort his body into a sitting position, eliciting a sharp groan. He wasn’t tied up beyond hope of managing to undo the knots, you made sure of it,

“You can figure that out on your own, I got shit to do.”

With a sense of exhilaration, Ellie jogs out and circles to the back of the building, her eyes scanning the snow-covered ground for any sign of movement where she notices a fresh set of foot and hoofprints, meeting at a point along the line where they become one trail of hoofprints, a delicate dance littering the frozen canvas.

Hope surges within Ellie as, once again, she follows the tracks. She has to move fast; you have a horse and she has only her feet. The air is tense with anticipation, but she somehow manages to power through the all-consuming exhaustion and hunger with the promise of getting closer to the elusive figure she seeks.

The sun dips lower on the horizon; the bitter cold forgotten in the warmth of purpose.

Nothing is left of your house but the gnarled bones of the home it once was. The memories of all you left behind seep through the cracked walls – the good and the bad, a silent witness to the passage of time.  You hold your breath captive in your tightened chest and push open the door, its rusty hinges protesting your return with a shrill creak.

The air is thick with dust dancing in the slivers of dim light that manage to pierce through boarded windows. Everything surrounding you, once thriving and familiar, is now reduced to mere echoes, whispers. Your fingers gently trace the life left in the fray, your gaze sweeping over the remnants of all you lost to the destruction. There’s nothing but blood left to salvage, to hold onto.

You lay in the centre of what used to be your bedroom, save for the actual bed, beside the shadow of the place where Soren used to lie, but there is no reprieve. You can’t look at it, your gaze pointed to the damp-stained ceiling, rust-coloured organic forms scattered across it.

If there’s one thing you can trust to remain a constant in your life, it’s that memories flood your mind no matter when or where you are, unbidden and unwelcome. Here, you can let them play out wholly, succumb to the deserved guilt that you cannot let yourself escape.

Trace the mustard outline of the leakages in the wallpapered walls with the movement of your weary pupils, stop trying to battle the thoughts as they influx from the depths. Turn your head to look at the ruined wall – no matter how hard you scrubbed, droplets of what once was his blood, and his blood only, taken over by that cruel evil, seeped through and infected it just as the clicker infected him. They still burn as hot and bright as they did that night, staring back at you.

You had been splayed out on the floor, over tattered blankets, similar to now, waiting for Soren, who had heard a noise beyond the gate. The worry was becoming an annoyance, so you got up and ran out into the night to find him, further out than you usually would on your own.

You should’ve stayed. Never should’ve wandered. It was your fault he had to fight off that clicker, the scar etched into his back for all eternity, evidence of your fatal error. Even though you made it home with adrenaline pumping through your veins, the nagging sting eventually became an undeniable ache, and from that point, Soren was already dead.

He begged and begged, eyes glassed over for the first time since your mother died, but your pathetic selfishness left him shrinking beside the new force overcoming his body, till he became what he prayed he would never become.

Then, and only then, did you do it. Coward that you are, bashing his obliterated skull over and over in the haze, blood and brains sent adrift, consuming all the surfaces they landed on, your mind, body, and soul, for the rest of your life, and anything that lies beyond.

There’s a violent shift and you jolt back to the surface, gasping for air like you were drowning with sharp, shallow, greedy breaths.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Ellie's urgent voice cuts through the remnants of the memory.

"I got you," she whispers, a breathless relief in her voice. You, disoriented and still caught in an intersection between past and present, struggle to hold back the already fallen tears and even in spite of the glaring truth that you came here wilfully, the sight of her brings sweet relief.

“Ellie-”

“Shimmer.”

“Huh?”

“The horse’s name is Shimmer.”

[infamous-light]

Captured Part IV

Dark! Wandanat x Villain/Mutant! F! Reader

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3

AO3: Captured

Summary: You and your mutant friends have been in hiding due to the havoc you all wreaked over the past few years. One day, you all decided to make your presence known and rob one of the largest federal reserve banks in the U.S.

Unfortunately, things did not go as planned for you.

Word count: 2.3K

Warnings: Mind manipulation, kidnapping

The soft rays of the first morning light, like a delicate brushstroke, filtered through the curtains, creating a mesmerizing dance of shadows on the walls. The bedroom seemed to come alive with subtle warmth as if the sun itself was gently caressing the entire space. As you gradually opened your eyes, the bedroom came into focus, and the events of the past day lingered in the air like a dream, though their details were veiled behind some sort of invisible haze.

The beginnings of a headache had crept in as you tried to piece together the fragments of your recent memory. It was as if a fog had settled over your thoughts and each attempt to recall any details brought forth a dull throb across your temples.

As you continued to awaken, the ambient sounds from outside the bedroom window seeped into your awareness – the distant chirping of birds, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the liquid melody of a nearby stream. The bright colors of the bedroom took on a dreamlike quality, with the pastel hues of the walls and furnishings appearing more vibrant.

Once you sat up in bed, the door creaked open, and Wanda entered with a warm smile on her face.

“Good morning. I hope you had a restful night." Her voice was pleasant but there was a subtle undertone of amusement that went unnoticed by you.

Your response was hesitant, your mind still grappling with the fog of confusion. "Good morning." You managed to mumble.

Wanda moved across the bedroom and sat down next to you on the bed.

"Such a sleepyhead," she teased, playfully tousling your hair. "Come on, rise and shine. There’s breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen, and I thought you might want to join us. Natasha’s currently setting the table.”

You blinked a few times, attempting to shake off the remnants of sleep. “Uh, yeah. I’ll join you two in a few minutes.”

“Ok, but don’t take too long. Breakfast won’t wait for you forever.” With that, she leaned in and planted a sweet, unexpected kiss on your right cheek.

The tenderness of it left you momentarily breathless as a cascade of emotions played out within you – surprise and a hint of vulnerability. Wanda’s lips curled into a smirk as she observed your reaction. Her fingers trailed over your cheek for a moment before she pulled away. She left the bedroom and closed the door on her way out. Only the subtle scent of her perfume lingered behind.

You snapped out of the daze you were in and swung your legs over the side of the bed, making your way to the bathroom. Once inside, the mirror revealed a face still marked by sleep. As you gazed at your reflection, something uneasy overcame you, a mysterious force shrouding the edges of your consciousness.

With a hesitant hand, you reached for the faucet, allowing a stream of cool water to spiral into the sink below. Your eyes met their own reflection once more, seeking answers to the discomfort that had settled low in your gut. You splashed water on your face, but it did little to dispel the nagging feeling that scraped against your mind like talons.

After finishing your morning routine and with your undergarments in place, you selected a plain navy blue shirt from a neatly organized wardrobe. Its soft fabric embraced your skin as you slipped it on. Next, you opted for a pair of comfortable grey sweatpants that you had stumbled upon while rifling through the drawers. Its snug fit provided the perfect balance between casual and relaxed.

Heading toward the kitchen, the savory aroma of sizzling bacon wafted through the air, its enticing fragrance mingling with the rich, buttery scent of eggs. It made your stomach growl in anticipation. Upon entering, your eyebrows rose at the spread before you.

On the porcelain plates, golden-brown pancakes were stacked high while each layer was adorned with a pat of melting butter. The edges of the pancakes boasted a perfect crispness while the centers promised a fluffy tenderness. Nestled beside the pancakes were eggs cooked to perfection – sunny-side up, their yolks like liquid sunshine ready to burst forth at the slightest prod. The bacon was also expertly prepared. Each strip exuded a smoky aroma that mixed well with the rest of the food. Completing the breakfast set, there was a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice placed in the middle of the table.

Wanda motioned for you to take a seat. "Come on. Sit with us.”

"I hope you like your eggs sunny side up." Natasha said, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

Grateful for the unexpected treat, you gave them a small smile as you sat down at the table. "This looks amazing. Thank you."

As you took your first bite, the eggs melted in your mouth, and the burst of flavors from the seasoning complemented the dish perfectly. You couldn't help but express your delight.

"This is incredible.”

Natasha smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

After finishing a fulfilling breakfast, Wanda and Natasha exchanged glances with each other, seemingly satisfied that you had eaten everything on your plate.

Wanda, with a cheerful demeanor, suggested, “How about we all watch a movie together?”

Your lips curved into a genuine expression of joy and you nodded in excitement.

“Wonderful.” Wanda remarked.

The rest of the day settled into a subdued ambiance as the three of you found yourselves in the living room, nestled together on the plush couch that was littered with an assortment of cushions and throws.

Wanda sat on one end of the couch, leaning against the armrest while Natasha sat to your left, leaving you in the middle of the couch.

As the plot of the movie thickened, Natasha edged closer to you. Her movements were smooth and unassuming, yet the warmth emanating from her presence was palpable. In a tender moment, she playfully nudged your arm, silently expressing a desire for a closer connection.

You turned your head to face Natasha, meeting her eyes with a questioning look. Without a word, she scooted even closer and draped her arm around your shoulder, pulling you into her side. The comfort of her body drew you in and your head instinctively nestled in the crook of her neck, a position that felt surprisingly natural despite the unfamiliarity of the situation. Her fingers threaded through your hair and in that moment, time seemed to slow down.

Wanda noticed and couldn’t help but smile. Seizing the moment, she shifted closer, joining the cuddle session. Her touch added an extra layer of warmth.

Just as the movie reached a suspenseful climax, the room was interrupted by the sudden ringtone of Natasha's phone. The sound caused you to jump, your attention torn away from the TV screen. Natasha frowned, reaching for the phone in her jeans pocket. Its bright screen cast a brief glow against her features.

Without uttering a word, Natasha exchanged a knowing look with Wanda that left you puzzled. Natasha sighed and turned her gaze toward you.

"Stay here," Natasha said, her tone carrying both reassurance and a sense of urgency. "We'll be right back."

Wanda disentangled herself from you but not before giving your hand a quick, comforting squeeze and rose to her feet. They left the living room, leaving you alone on the couch. As Wanda and Natasha ventured down the hallway, their voices became muffled whispers.

With the movie still playing in the background, you made a valiant attempt to focus on the plot unfolding on the screen. However, your attention wavered, and an insatiable curiosity about the secretive phone call tugged at your thoughts. Unable to resist any longer, you kicked the many blankets off yourself and got up.

You made your way to the door, your hand grasping the cold metal handle. The hinges let out a faint creak as you eased it open. Silently, you stepped past the threshold, carefully closing the door behind you to avoid any unnecessary noise.

The soft carpet beneath your feet absorbed the slightest of sounds, turning each step into a near-silent dance across the floor. The hushed voices became more distinct as you approached the source. The sound seemed to originate from a room at the end of the hall, drawing you closer with each carefully placed step. Straining your ears, you could have sworn that your name was being said.

As you reached the partially open door, you peeked past the doorframe, catching a glimpse of Natasha engaged in a seemingly intense phone call. Natasha, her brow furrowed in concentration, held the phone to her ear while gesturing emphatically with her free hand. Wanda, on the other hand, leaned against a table, her keen eyes focused on a distant point in the room.

“I know, Steve!” Natasha’s tone was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. “As for now, Wanda and I have her under control. She’s not an immediate threat to anyone. Once we find out where the rest of her friends are, we’ll send her over to you, alright?”

You stand frozen in disbelief as Natasha's words rang in your ears, her voice slicing right through you like an icy blade. The revelation sent shivers down your spine, and a knot tightened in the pit of your stomach. You searched for some sign that this was all some twisted joke, but Natasha's unwavering gaze and the gravity in her words crushed any hope of that.

Your mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. Just then, a wave of disorientation hit you like a two-ton truck. Your immediate surroundings, once stable, seemed to warp around the edges. It was as if reality itself was playing tricks on your mind.

Wanda's face materialized right before you. A cruel smirk aimed directly at you.

Swirling magnetic red emanated from her eyes. The intensity of her gaze pierced through the very fabric of your being.

Then, in the shadowy backdrop, a black mass shifted behind Wanda.

Natasha now stood above you, her presence casting a chilling shadow. Her gaze was cold, devoid of any warmth as she stared down at you.

“You’ll never break me!”

A voice rang out. It sounded familiar but you struggled to place it.

“We’ll see.”

The response was murmured. Calculated.

The hallway around you seemed to spin as you were brought back to the present. The abrupt transition had you struggling to regain your bearings and you clung to the nearby wall for support. The relentless surge of pain that radiated from your skull intensified with each passing moment and you clamped a trembling hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the pained groan threatening to escape.

You didn’t want to alert Natasha and Wanda of your presence, uncertain about how they would react to you eavesdropping on their conversation.

A frustrated huff sounded from the room and your attention snapped back to the two women once more. Natasha placed the phone back in her pocket as she began to pace back and forth.

“I should’ve known Steve was going to find out sooner than later.” Natasha muttered, her voice tinged with a mix of exasperation and concern.

“I’m guessing someone at HQ snitched on us.” Wanda said with a roll of her eyes.

“Yeah, and he’s pretty adamant about having her confined under their supervision. His reasoning is that he wants to expedite her trial.” Natasha explained, her irritation palpable as she paused in the middle of the room.

“We can’t let that happen.”Wanda asserted as she took a step closer to the assassin.

“I know.”

Wanda's brow furrowed as she stood there, deep in thought, the gears of her mind turning with a cunning intensity. A few seconds had passed before Wanda's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as a devious idea took shape in her head.

“I have an idea,” she said. "Let’s fake her death.”

Natasha, intrigued, arched a curious eyebrow at her. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

Your eyes widened at her words and apprehension began to churn in your gut. The air felt charged with an unsettling energy.

"How about we arrange for her to be transported in one of those high-security prisoner trucks. During the transfer, we stage a crash – nothing too crazy, just enough to make it look fatal. We'll have emergency services and the media involved, creating a narrative that she died in the accident." Wanda continued, her mind already working out the intricate details. "We can use the chaos and confusion to discreetly move her to where we want, away from prying eyes.”

Natasha sighed as she folded her arms across her chest. “They’re not going to buy that. S.H.I.E.L.D is too skeptical and you can bet they'll dig deep into the details.” The room fell into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against her bicep.

“Then what should we do?” Wanda asked.

"What if we let her escape?" Natasha suggested, her gaze narrowing with intent. “You could use your powers to create an illusion, make it look like she died by your hand.”

"That's risky." Wanda said in a measured tone. "But it's doable."

“Good. We can discuss the details later.” Natasha concluded. “We should get back to her and see how she’s doing.”

A sense of uneasiness lodged itself in the pit of your stomach as you moved away from the door. The hallway seemed like it was closing in on you. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe.

Natasha and Wanda weren’t what they seemed. It became evident that their sweet demeanor was a mask, concealing intentions and motives that were far from benevolent.

A decision loomed – you needed to get out of here.

[wardenparker]

The King's Queen - chapter 3

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Prince Javier of the Balearic Islands has always known that one day he would have to follow in his father's footsteps to be the caring and steadfast king that his people deserve. What he did not know is that he would be stepping into the next phase of his life alongside a woman he has never met before - and amidst a rocky sea of unusual circumstances of every kind.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 8.4k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: arranged marriage, age gap, classicism, cursing, food and alcohol, mentions of American politics, deceased parents* Illness/cancer, not the world's best father/son relationship, abusive relationship (in marriage). Summary: The selection of your ladies in waiting is far more dramatic than you had expected...and it is still not the biggest event to happen today... Notes: Introducing our story's villain! Booooooooo Hissssssss

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2

Waking the next morning in a plush bed with linens more luxurious than the finest hotel is a little disorienting, considering you barely remember how you got here. It comes back in fragments as Frederica bustles about the room, opening your curtains and pulling back your blankets, and the image of Javi’s face swimming over yours as he placed a gentle kiss good night on your forehead comes back most strongly. You fell asleep at the cliff, that’s right…

“I have a tray for you, señorita. The king and the prince are busy this morning.” Frederica motions to the carved wooden tray on your bedside table. Crusty bread has been toasted and lined up on a plate with thinly sliced meats, and small containers that look like butter, jam, and some kind of tomato spread are all sitting ready for you along with an espresso drink and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Gracias, Frederica.” You sit up gratefully, and she dutifully sets the tray over your lap so you can eat breakfast in bed. “Is it alright that I call you by your first name?” You know that you ought to know the rules already — that most women in this position already would. But you don’t think the woman would judge you for asking a question.

“Técnicamente, señorita?” Technically, miss? On the move once again, she is at your closet pulling out clothing for you. “A lady’s maid is called by her family name. The household and the family – including you – should call me Flores.”

“Flores.” You nod and file away the information as you sip your coffee. It’s only mildly sweet and just warm so that it doesn’t burn your mouth, and you love it. “What does one wear to interview ladies in waiting, Flores? Do you have any ideas?”

She hums thoughtfully, looking into your closet again before looking back at you. “Something that will not crumple,” she advises, putting away the linen dress and silk blouse she had been considering. “You will be sitting most of the day. It will look messy.”

“What about that one?” She has pulled a blue wrap dress with flowers delicately printed on the light fabric and it strikes you as the sort of thing that Javi might like. “Would that be appropriate?”

“This?” She appraises the dress for a moment then nods and shoots you a mischievous grin. “We will find you a hat and you can interview your ladies in the garden. You will look like you belong in a painting.”

“Perfecto.” There cannot be any shortage of hats in a royal palace, you’re sure, but you have a few of your own and one is bound to work. “What is the prince busy with this morning?” You ask after a moment, deciding that the tomato jam and a few slices of the cured ham sound delicious in your first slice of toast. “Do you know?”

“Sí.” She nods as she starts to look through your things for an appropriate pair of shoes to match the dress. “They say some of the Crown Jewels have been brought out of storage. Though no one seems to know what for.”

“Oh, I see.” You know. You know very well. Javi must be looking at rings with his father this morning. And that gives you a certain twist of nerves and excitement that has you remembering the exact, delectable pressure of his kiss from last night. “I’m sure we’ll know soon enough,” you murmur with a smirk tucked away in the corner of your mouth. He had asked if you wanted to be able to pick out your ring. Perhaps he is narrowing down a few favourites — or perhaps his father has already decided for you both. It could easily be either.

******

“I must admit that I am surprised that you are so eager to pick out a ring.” The king’s brow arches as he tries to mask the pain of moving in the discreet motorized chair that had been secreted through the halls of the palace.

The room where the selection of jewels had been brought this morning is well-hidden, an extension of the library that was once used as a private prayer room for medieval kings. For the last few centuries it has been more of a place for meetings that the crown wishes to remain under wraps. Or, like this morning, official business that is to be kept quiet. A dozen brilliant rings of all shapes, sizes, and origins have been selected for the prince to choose from for his bride-to-be.

Javi’s eyes speculatively contemplate the rings and dismiss several heavier sets outright. He doesn’t want your hand weighed down by something too ostentatious. “I want my father to see me settled before the end of his time.” He had stayed up most of the night thinking about everything after he had put you to bed. It was quite possibly the most internal reflection he has had in a long time.

“I will be announcing my abdication the week after your engagement is made public.” The king has never been accused of being a sentimental man, but he most certainly believes there is a correct order to things. “The people will see you settled as well.”

Javi swallows and nods seriously. The heaviness of the comment making his heart clench and he realizes that despite their differences, his father is dying. By next year, he will not have his father’s council to guide him. It makes him wish he had spent more time with him. “As you wish.”

“It will prevent the beginning of your reign from being overshadowed by my death.” Having given it a great deal of thought, he and his advisors have agreed on this being the best course of action. It is unconventional, which is not a word that is normally used to describe King Miguel, but it is in the best interest of the nation he has dedicated his life to.

“And it will allow you to have some peace for your last days.” Javi’s heart breaks as he touches the ring his mother had worn when she was alive. He wonders if his father had put it back recently because it had been in their bedroom safe the last time Javi had seen it.

His father ignores the idea that peace or rest should be thought of at all, but leans closer to see Javier touch his mother’s ring gently. “It would not be unheard of for a son to offer his betrothed the mother’s ring,” he admits. Although it is a terribly trendy thing to do at the moment. The English princes have cornered that market.

“I think she would like it.” Javi admits, a small amount of moisture building up in his eyes. “Did you put this back recently?”

"I did." He had been reluctant to part with the gem considering his late wife's fondness for it. The emerald cut diamond had been selected by his own mother for his bride-to-be and the setting was created specifically for their engagement. "The connection between your mothers is important. It was appropriate to return it to the collection for you to choose from."

“I think mama would approve.” The choice of ring is appropriate and he picks it up and tilts his head. “Perhaps the infinity band with it.”

Sitting sometimes helps with the pain that the king faces near constantly and sometimes it does not, right now being one of the instances where the pain is stronger no matter what position he is in. "Your mother—" He clears his throat to cover a wince. To draw attention to his pain will help nothing. "Enjoyed choosing her own band." Of course, his own bride had made the choice with her mother at her side, but that will not be possible for his son's bride.

“Then I will leave it up to her to choose.” Javi decides, kneeling down beside the chair and looking up at his father. “Would you like to be present when I propose?”

"I will be present for the photographer to take your engagement portraits." The date, time, and place of which have already been decided, though the king doubts his son has viewed his appointments with any regularity. "The choosing of her was what was important. Ask her how you will, so long as it is appropriate and private. None of these public declarations. They are undignified."

“Yes sir.” Javi agrees. “We went to the cliffs last night to look at the stars. I might take her back to ask her there.”

"Remember she will be asked numerous times how it was done." Miguel warns his son. An arranged marriage may not be the most romantic option – much to Javier's chagrin – but it will still be anticipated and talked on by the entire nation. "If she can be happy to tell the story, so much the better."

“I will arrange to have a candlelit dessert on the cliffs.” Javi decides. “Perhaps I can find her favorite one from the States and have it flown in.”

"Our chefs can make anything." Dismissing the idea that Javier's American attraction could yield anything positive, the king waves one hand dismissively. "But do as you will. She will need to begin the wedding planning immediately so plan your date accordingly." He still thinks the idea unnecessary, but his son is a sentimental sort of man. "The less delay we have in everything, the better."

“Then I will do it tonight.” It might not be on his timeline, but he will not disappoint his father.

"Good." Checking his watch, the king looks to his son once more and the ring that he is holding. What once was the boy's mother's will now be his wife's and that is not a path through sentimentality that Miguel is equipped to walk himself. "I have a meeting," he announces gruffly. "Whatever you decide to do, let her keep her appointments today. I expect to know the names of her ladies in waiting before lunch and have a report from her dressmaker before dinner." The latter is not usual, but he needs to make sure the American will be dressed appropriately. She will be an important face in the kingdom in no time at all. She should look like it.

“Of course.” There is the thread of cold civility that Javier expected. The need to conform to the schedules and demands of the crown. He nods. “Have a good meeting, your Majesty.”

******

Having Flores nearby for this entirely odd interview process is your only source of comfort at the moment. The ladies who have been announced and curtsied before you have spanned several decades in age and experience. Some of the younger ones have been nauseating suck-ups. A few of the older have been merciless snobs. At this point you're grateful for the good weather and the mid-morning tea service that was provided by the kitchens for you to have some kind of polite activity to engage in while speaking to the numerous noblewomen who have come through the gardens.

"Dama Gabriella Gutierrez." The next lady is announced and your head tilts slightly with interest. This would be the woman that married Javi's cousin when he was refused permission to propose to her. This is your almost-fiancé's ex-girlfriend. Just when you thought today could not get more surreal.

"Buenos días." You have learned that it is not expected for you to stand for each lady, so you keep your seat when you nod to hear and put out your hand to offer her the seat across from you at the small table. She's stunningly beautiful and closer to Javi's age than you are, immediately making you feel more intimidated by her than maybe you ought to be.

Gabriella comes in and executes a deep, perfect curtsy. Nodding her head respectfully since your own station will be so much more elevated than her own. Jealousy tinges her vision as she looks up, seeing the woman who would be queen instead of her. “Buenos días.” She murmurs demurely, surprised to see that while you are lovely, there is no air of pretense surrounding you.

“Hablas inglés?” You have checked with every single one of the ladies before switching over to your own native language, finding that while all of them have been fluent not everyone seems fond of the idea that their queen will be American born. By the time they have made it to your table they all know who you will be to them. At least that is one topic you do not have to broach yourself.

“Sí, yes.” Gabriella nods. “Javi— Prince Javier,” she corrects herself, “prefers to speak English causally.” She explains, feeling the urge to shift guiltily since she was in love with the man you are going to marry.

“Please join me.” This will be an insightful conversation if nothing else, and the nearby footman pours a cup of cold lemonade to set in front of her. The kitchen had been perplexed when you had asked for iced tea with lemon to sip on and sent up hot tea and lemonade separately. Apparently America really is the only place you can get iced tea. “You…know the prince well…as I understand it?”

“I am….old friends with the prince.” Gabriella wonders why you have not already dismissed her as a candidate. The only reason she was here was because Lucas had demanded that she make sure that it was known that she had been interviewed for it. A preverbal slap in the face, but that was nothing new with her husband.

“That is a very polite way of putting it,” you smile though, because you have definitely been the ex-girlfriend on the other side of the table more than once. Never to this magnitude, but you know it can be hard. “Would you tell me a little about yourself?”

She frowns slightly. Aware that you should have all the information on her in front of you. “I am married to the Count of Ibiza.” She murmurs, her hands folded in her lap and tightening slightly. “Prince Javier’s eldest cousin.”

“Yes.” The sheet of information about her that you received says that already, but you offer her a smile. “But I wish to know about you. Not who your is husband or where you fall in the line of succession, or what title your parents had.”

“Forgive me.” She pauses and calculates what she wishes to ask. “I do not understand what you would like to know?”

“Well…” The other women that you had asked this of had trouble with it as well and you don’t blame them. You have lived your whole life as a congressman’s daughter and a future queen. You, of all people, understand. “Have you been reading anything interesting lately? What are your hobbies? The way I see it, the ladies that I end up spending my time with ought to be ones that I have something in common with. Otherwise this will be a truly tedious time for all involved.”

It is refreshing in a sense to imagine that someone would take an interest in her own hobbies. “My favorite books are not appropriate for a queen to be reading.” She admits, her cheeks burning with shame. “It has been a long time since I have been able to indulge, but I enjoy baking and experimenting with new dishes.”

“I find myself deeply interested in your reading habits, Contessa.” The embarrassment in her face means she either likes what your stepmother calls ‘beach books’ or she reads smut, and either way you already like this woman much more than the others. The one who said she was too mature to read novels had been dismissed almost immediately. “But first, what cuisines do you enjoy? And what is your favorite thing to bake?”

“I—” she flusters and does the unladylike thing of shrugging one elegant shoulder. “I find everything interesting. Trying to make things that I see on TV.” She admits, wondering if you would find it as ridiculous as Lucas does. “I enjoy making…how do you say? Fritters? Fruit fritters?” She tilts her head, wondering if she has messed up the word.

“Like the fried batter with fruit pieces in it?” You nod right away and end up smiling a little wider. Without realizing it, you had expected her to be classically trained or at least have her interests mean that way. “Any kind of fritter is always worth it. But that’s probably a very American thing for me to say.”

“They are so simple and yet they are so delicious!” She insists, leaning forward happily for a moment before she realizes who she is addressing. She sits back and nods. “Yes.”

“Oh please, if you want to get excited about something I wish you would do it,” you admit with an unladylike sigh. “I have spent all morning with women afraid to offend me if they have so much as a different favorite color.”

“That is how it is done.” She murmurs quietly. “We are here to be a friend to you. Not to have our interests returned.”

“I am not in the habit of forcing my interests or beliefs on those around me.” She is right, of course she is. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it or even agree with it. “I have seen plenty of so-called friendships between women that work that way and they are not beneficial to anyone.”

“You do not want me for a friend. I am not good at it.” She blurts out before biting her lip. She had come here expecting to hate you and yet you seem so kind.

“If that is really how you feel, then I won’t keep you.” Although you have to admit that you’re a little disappointed about it. Gabriella Gutierrez seemed to have had her happiness stamped out of her and a person like that deserves a friend. “But if that is only what you have been told, then I will refuse to believe it.”

“I—” her hands clench together again. “I am…unsuitable for everything.” She admits. “This was supposed to be a lesson.”

“A lesson?” That makes you frown deeply. “From whom, precisely?”

“I should not have said anything.” Mortification rolls across her features and her chin trembles. “Please do not say anything. I will go. I will not say a word.”

“No.” It is the first time you have ever ‘pulled rank’ so to speak, and it is telling that you have done it when you are afraid for someone’s safety. “No.” You reach across the table and offer her your hand. “Was it your husband? Someone in your family? Why is meeting me a punishment?”

“It is a reminder that I was not good enough to be Javier’s wife.” She confesses quietly. “That I am a horrible wife, and that I would not even be a good lady-in-waiting for the woman who will be queen.”

“What absolute bullshit.” Even with your voice low the fury behind the words is obvious, and you feel like you’re seeing red instantly. “The king refusing Javi’s request to propose has nothing to do with your suitability. It had to do with a contract. I have no idea what kind of a man your husband is but if he is the one who told you this then I suddenly find I have a vested interest in helping you stay away from him.” It’s straight out abuse is what it is, and you feel more deeply about her safety now than any other issue.

Her eyes widen in fear and she glances towards the closed door. “I should not have spoken so…impetuously.” She demurs. “My apologies.”

"The last thing I want is to make you more uncomfortable." Fearing that you have certainly achieved that without any effort whatsoever, you sit back in your chair and try not to do anything outrageous like sigh or frown. "You are certainly not prisoner here. If you wish to go, you may."

“You are…different than I imagined.” She stands and curtsies again. “I apologize for my outburst and understand that you would not wish me to be your lady-in-waiting. We would spend time together and I have a history with the future king.” A small, polite smile is offered and she turns around to walk out.

Alone – to a point – again in the fragrant expanse of the garden, you turn to look at your maid with a frown. "Was I wrong, Flores? To be honest?"

“It is rumored that the marriage between the Prince’s cousin and his wife is a deeply unhappy one.” She confides, her own frown in place. “The count has flaunted their marriage in public, but the servants know.”

"Servants know everything." That seems to be one stereotype that is entirely true, and at least you can be thankful for having someone on your side in that way. "How many more interviews are there?" You ask after taking a moment to digest the idea that all it not what it seems within this family that you are set to marry into.

“There is only one more.” Flores tells you, wishing that she had mentioned that there was a bit of competition between Javier and Lucas when they were younger. For some reason Lucas felt he should be heir.

“Who is last?” Meeting Gabriella was surprising and has put you on your guard. Now you’re wondering if the last candidate for lady in waiting will be the same as all the others or be completely out of left field like she was.

“Dama Margaret Zurita.” Flores tells you. “She is closer to age for you than some.”

“I hope that signifies something positive.” You offer her a tired smile before nodding to the footman – this one is named Raul – and straightening yourself out in your chair. “Alright, Raul. One more.”

Margaret walks into the gardens and curtsies prettily but there is a sincere smile on her face when she looks up at you.

"Sientate, por favor." Beginning the way you have begun with everyone, you offer her the seat across from you at the little garden table. "Hablas inglés?"

“Sí.” She nods and tilts her head. “If you would prefer, I am known as Maisie amongst my friends, and I hope that we will be friends.”

"Maisie?" The only person you've ever known with that name is the actress from Game of Thrones, but it seems to fit the woman in front of you nicely. She is elegant and poised but doesn't carry the immediate air of pretention that some of the others had. "It is a beautiful name. Please, tell me about yourself, Maisie."

“Oh. I don’t know what to tell you.” She’s honest to a fault. “I enjoy reading and horse riding, but I also prefer to enjoy new experiences.” She hums. “What interest appeal to you?”

"Are you reading something currently?" The last thing you want to do is answer a question about yourself and have her start to simply agree with the things you say because she thinks that is what you are looking for.

“I am reading The Wife’s House.” She admits, flustering slightly. “I don’t care for non-fiction.”

"I don't think I've heard of it." The name doesn't ring a bell at least, but someone admitting to reading for pleasure and not being ashamed of it is delightful. "Would you tell me about it? I'm always in the market for a new novel."

“It’s a thriller.” She brightens slightly, animating as she talks about the book she’s engrossed in. “If you like Gone Girl, you would love it.”

"I love Gone Girl." You're going to have to get your hands on a copy of his book as soon as you can, and the idea of having something new to read brightens you. As much as you are a bookworm, you have never been the kind of person who accumulated a large personal library. Knowing that one day you would have to pick up and move at the drop of a hat had made that impractical, and instead the local librarians had known you extremely well. "What do you like to do besides reading and riding?" This entire morning has been a parade of women who had demurred and insisted that whatever you enjoyed, they would like. It is wonderful to have someone actually express their own interests.

“I am supposed to tell you that I enjoy charity work, and I do. But not the types that have press releases.” She admits. “Real help. I have helped rebuild a house that was burned down in a fire. The resident was elderly and he was going to have nowhere to go. His family had passed.”

"I wholeheartedly appreciate a person who would rather get their hands dirty and provide real help than discuss how to be charitable over a meal that would bear a three-figure price tag in a restaurant." At last, you can't help thinking to yourself. Someone with a personality. "Can I ask who it was that might have coached you on what you are supposed to say to me this morning?"

Maisie freezes for a moment, not expecting that question but then she remembers that she had said something about what she was supposed to say. Except now, she wasn’t going to lie to you. “The Count of Ibiza.” She admits quietly.

“Interesting.” That is now the second time you have heard that man mentioned, and you can’t say you’re fond of what it implies. “And who is the Count of Ibiza to you?”

“May I speak freely?” Maisie asks, her eyes floating towards Flores and then back to you.

Of everyone here you have the least fear of Flores being untrustworthy, and instead offer the nearby footman a smile. For all you know, he has been instructed to report back to someone – like the king – and if he hears nothing then he will have nothing to report. “Raul, you may leave us.”

Bowing respectfully, the footman quickly exits the gardens and Maisie waits another few beats before she speaks. “The count is not a man you should trust.” She confides quietly, but clearly.

"I am gathering that rather quickly," you admit, picking up your glass to have something to do with your hands. "But who is he to you? His wife left here not five minutes ago."

“Gabriella was here?” Maisie’s brow shoots up and her jaw ticks a minute amount. “I had thought that she would not put in for it.”

"It seems she was made to." And the fact that this count – Javi's own cousin – is ordering and abusing his wife in this way? It makes you livid on principle. "I take it that you were made to, as well?"

“There is a…hierarchy that is unacknowledged by the rest of the country.” She murmurs quietly. “After the immediate royal family, the Count of Ibiza is the highest-ranking member of the court. And knows it.”

"And he is in the habit of abusing his station?" You could remark about what or whom else he abuses but you hold back. "Ordering the other nobility around as he sees fit?"

“He calls it….’privilege of rank’.” She snorts before she composes herself, barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes.

"I take it the king is unaware of this habit of his nephew's?" Surely he would put a stop to it if he knew. Wouldn't he? Of course...there is a chance that this is just how things work in the Balearican Islands. And if that is the case you are not going to be terribly comfortable around any of these people.

“The Count is very skilled at hiding his true personality from those of importance.” She shakes her head. “King Miguel would never allow such an abuse of rank.”

"I see." This last conversation has been utterly enlightening in a rather unpleasant way, but you chew on the facts as you sip your lemonade. "Which naturally means he will hide his true face from me, as well. Unless he thinks he has the upper hand over me." When you look up again, you tilt your head at the woman across from you and hum softly. "Forgive me, I have met so many new people today that my mind is jumbled slightly. I can't seem to remember your title or who your husband is?"

“My husband is not a royal.” She admits with a small smile. “I am the daughter of the Count of Dragonera. Distant cousin to the Prince.”

“You are family, then.” Your lips twist into a smile. “However distant, family is powerful. What would you think of being a lady in waiting, Maisie? Spend time with me here at the castle and see what we can do together about the Count of Ibiza’s unfortunate habits?”

She is honestly surprised that you are extending the invitation to her, straightening slightly and a warm smile starts to break out across her face. "I would be delighted." She decides. One does not simply deny the future queen anything but the idea actually does hold tremendous appeal. She does not like her distant cousin and would like to see his hold on the family behind closed doors diminish. "Gabriella is a good woman." She adds, wanting to defend the woman who was Javier's interest before you. "Please do not judge her. There was a lot of pressure for her to marry Lucas."

“On the contrary.” Having made the decision, your stubbornness often turns to resolve. And in this instance you truly would not consider any other option. “I intend to extend the invitation to her as well. It seems to me that she could use a friend, and perhaps it will help her to spend a little less time under her husband’s thumb.”

Maisie’s expression lights up with delight and admiration for your kindness. “Ladies-in-waiting are at the whims of the queen.” She agrees with a conspiratorial smile.

Your own mischievous grin comes with a nod as you sip your drink again. “And with the wedding coming so quickly I am feeling particularly whimsical.”

“A wedding does take a lot of time and dedication to put on.” She agrees. “Especially a royal wedding to the future king.”

“My only fear is that it would be cruel to make the Contessa a part of that planning when she is so unhappy in her own marriage.” You admit, deftly not tacking on the fact that Gabriella Gutierrez almost gained her surname through marrying the man you are betrothed to.

“Gabriella would not feel any ill will. She is in love with the idea of love.” Maisie tells you. “She would be thrilled. Maybe a little heartbroken.” She admits quietly.

“I don’t want to cause her any pain.” In fact, that is sort of the motive for the entire plan in your mind. Sparing the woman that Javi had loved from the obvious pain of her situation. “If she is uncomfortable I will make sure she sees as little of the wedding planning as possible.”

“She has made peace with her fate to not be Javier’s wife.” Maisie smiles sadly. “It is a matter of pride that she be happy for him. Especially if he is happy.”

“I intend to do everything I can to ensure that he is.” Even before meeting him you had been resolved to keep your future husband happy. But now that you’ve met him? It brings a soft, smitten smile to your lips.

“He has charmed you.” Maisie sighs softly, happy to see it. She has always cared for the softhearted prince.

“Very much.” And you’re not afraid to admit it. In fact, it’s a relief. “He seems to be a sweet, sincere man.”

“He is.” She nods, happy that you seem to understand him. “I have always felt he was far too good to be royalty.”

"Or is that exactly the kind of person we want to have in charge, in a world where depersonalization and insincerity run rampant?" You shrug, not wanting to launch a full-scale debate. "I'm here to be the support he needs, whatever that ends up meaning. And for right now, that means making sure that the country is focused on happy news."

“Then I would be delighted to be your lady-in-waiting.” Maisie springs to her feet and rushes over to embrace you in a hug.

It's such an unexpected gesture that you almost laugh, accepting the hug wholeheartedly and squeezing her back before gently letting go. "Would you be willing to stay for a few hours today?" You ask, eyebrows pinched and raised with earnest hope. "I have to meet with a dressmaker today and I have a feeling that the things that American politician's daughters wear is a bit different than what future princesses and queens are supposed to wear."

“Of course.” She nods and shoots you a small grin. “I serve at your whim.” She reminds you with an arch of one perfect brow. “Perhaps we also need more assistance as well?”

"Did you have something in mind?" The idea that people serve you is something you don't know if you'll ever get used to. Even asking the palace staff for something makes you feel demanding – like a Karen ordering around restaurant staff.

“Gabriella as excellent taste.” She smirks and winks at you, “and I am sure she would love to get out of whatever is happening right now.”

"How terribly disappointed the count will be to discover that his wife's presence is required at the palace." Returning her smirk, you nod in agreement and look back to your maid who is standing nearby. "Flores, do you think you could ask the kitchen to prepare two more plates for lunch today? It seems I will be bringing the Contessa back to us after all." At some point you will have to report your choices to the king, but you can do that with or without Gabriella present.

“Yes, my lady.” She nods her head and rushes off to do your bidding. Happy that you are going to help poor Gabriella out. Even if she and the prince could never be what they wished, she was a kind soul who deserved happiness.

"Is there anything you would like to know about me?" It might be an unusual question, you don't really know. But as you and Maisie start to walk back to the palace, you find the need to fill the air with something other than schemes. Since you have done the royal equivalent of walking up to her on the playground and asking her to be your friend, you feel like you should offer something of yourself.

“Tell me something shocking.” She demands, giggling slightly. “Something that you have done or wish you could do.”

The number of things you have done in your life that could be considered acting out in any way is slim, but you hum slightly as you try to think of something good enough to divulge. "I...actually slapped the first boy who ever kissed me," you admit with a sheepish grin. "It actually caused some drama between our families for a while."

Maisie smirks and nods. “Good for you.” She hums, crossing her arms over her chest. “He stole a kiss and learned some manners.”

"My brother backed me up. He was there when it happened, and I think if it wasn't for him being a witness, my father would never have believed me." Your father's penchant for believing his son over any of the women in his life is only one of his many misogynistic traits that you had taught yourself to ignore or gloss over so you didn't go insane at home as a teenager.

“That is a shame.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “I don’t know if my father would ever not believe anything that I told him.” She had a wonderful father who believed that women were much more resilient.

"I think he sees my mother too much when he looks at me," you admit, though it pains you slightly. "We lost her to cancer when my brother and I were twelve. And it hurt him far more than he has ever been able to say."

“I am very sorry for your loss.” She tells you, giving you a sympathetic smile. “A parent that young is hard for anyone.”

"Thank you." Her kindness is more than appreciated, and you nod to the footmen who open the palace doors to allow you inside without having to even pause in your steps. "She was a wonderful, kind woman, and I think he loved her much more than he will ever admit. Mostly because he has my stepmother now."

“It is hard to be the second wife.” She had seen many of her friends’ mothers and fathers replaced by new spouses over the years and the difficulties of the dynamics. “Most seem to think that love is measurable. If they still love the lost spouse, they don’t love the current as much.”

"I prefer to think that all loves are different." Maisie has a point though, and you nod in acknowledgement. "A first love will always feel different than a second or third. You could fall in love fifteen times in one life and no two of them would feel the same. What matters is that you cherish them when they come along."

“It’s the guilt of the living.” Maisie nods. “King Miguel has spoken of it. Privately, of course.”

"My mother was friends with the queen." Somehow, of everyone you have met so far, Maisie is the easiest to talk to besides Javi. Opening up to her doesn't feel forced or disingenuous. It just feels like talking to a friend. "They were at university together. That is...how I was chosen for the prince. Because of our mothers."

“Ohhhhhh.” Her hands clutch her heart and she practically melts in front of you. “That is just so…sweet. I like that. So very much.”

"I wish they were still here, but we'll find a way to make sure they're with us when we get married." It's something you've already promised yourself, and you mean to stick to it.

“That would be very lovely.” She nods. “It is something that could be very tasteful, a memorial table.”

“I’m sure the king will have some preference of how his late wife is honoured.” And whatever it is, you’ll honour it. Because there is no sense in going against a dying man over something that you have no stake in. That would be cruel, plain and simple.

“Yes, he will.” She smiles, appreciating how you already understand that portion of the dynamic. “He is a good man.” She promises.

The halls of the palace are busy today, and though most people do not yet know who you are, those who do – and those who recognize Maisie – pause in their paces to pay their respects before hustling on. The general commotion seems to be headed in one direction, though, and you recognize it to be the wing of the palace where business is taken care of. Not the wing where people live. “Flores.” Seeing your maid amongst the people walking by, you manage to catch her attention. “Is everything alright?”

“I am not sure, my lady.” She admits quietly, her own observations making her frown. The palace is a busy place, but it normally seems very effortless. Now, there is a sense of haste that she is unused to. “Did the prince indicate there would be any event in your honor tonight?”

"He didn't, but I haven't spoken to him yet today." Heading with her in the direction of all the fuss, you are relieved to have Maisie right beside you without effort. In fact, she seems to just glide along in the crowd - you'll have to learn how to manage that to look as elegant as she does.

Maisie's eyes widen when she sees a discreet uniform, one that is never a good sign in the royal halls. "I fear there is an issue." She whispers quietly to you. "Do you see the two people with the very tiny stars on their cuffs?"

Instead of saying anything you just follow the direction she is indicating and nod slightly when you spot the embroidered insignia on the uniforms up ahead. God forbid you say something wrong and it is overheard, but you know there is fear in your eyes instantly when Maisie indicates there could be a problem.

"They are doctors for the palace." She confides. "Emergency doctors."

It only takes a moment for your mind to kick in to high gear, and you're ready to push through the crowd instantly. The only problem is that since no one knows who you are, they aren't inclined to move for you. "Maisie," you take her arm tightly in yours and remind yourself to breathe. Panicking now will do no good. "We are going to walk straight through this crowd together. I need your royal blood for a moment. Mine is not blue enough for them to let us through just yet."

“Of course.” Maisie takes the lead, wrapping her arm around yours and clears her throat. “Please excuse us.” She speaks clearly. “Coming through.”

The sea of people parts for the noblewoman, albeit reluctantly, and lets you through to the end of a corridor where four people in subtle uniforms are bent over a figure being guarded resolutely by palace guards. There doesn't seem to be a prayer of getting by to find out what is going on until you catch a glimpse of chestnut curls a few feet away. "Javi." Trying not to cause more commotion than is already happening, you and Maisie push your way to the edge of the group of guards as quickly as you can. "Javi!" You try again to get his attention, this time more insistently.

Distraught eyes turn toward you and he leaps up from where he is kneeling down a few feet away from his father. “Let her through!” He shouts, rushing towards you as if a moth drawn to a flame.

He reaches for you like a lifeline, locking you into a tight hug that you return reflexively. "What happened?" Your hands immediately come up to his cheeks, holding him still when it seems like he might vibrate away or dissolve into a pool of his own tears.

“H-he collapsed.” Javi shudders, having been walking next to him when it happened. Shouting for help and fearing the worst until he could be told that his father was at least still breathing.

The medics and guards had been shielding the figure on the ground from view, but on the other side of the line it is very obvious who it is who has collapsed on the parquet flooring. "Oh god..." Swallowing any other exclamation or even any other sound, you nod your understanding and look back to Javi with wide, sympathetic eyes. "We have to let them do their jobs, querido." The term of endearment falls so easily from you, so naturally that you don't even realize it. "We can follow them to the hospital unless there is something else you need to be doing?" For all you know there is a speech or statement to be made to the people over this. The protocols aren't exactly ingrained in your brain because you were never made privy to any of them.

Javier shakes his head right as a tall, handsome man with silver hair and startling blue eyes walks up. “Primo. He oído. Yo me encargaré de todo.” Cousin. I have heard. I will handle everything. His hand slaps against Javier shoulder almost bruisingly and he barely spares a glance at the king.

You frown in confusion for barely half a minute before you catch a glimpse of Gabriella out of the corner of your eye. So this is Lucas, you think, the furrow in your brow deepening. He looks...oily. Not as in the use of oil, but slippery. Snake oil salesman kind of oily. In a Western he would be twirling his mustache and tying a damsel to the train tracks. "How could you possibly have heard?" You ask, lowering your voice and slipping your hand into Javi's to lace your fingers together. "It's only just happened."

Brows knitting instantly, his wild eyes turn towards you and then drop down to your fingers enter twined with his cousins. “I was in the throne room.” He lifts a brow at you dismissively. “You are?”

"Not going away." Javi's understandable shock keeps him from responding, but you are very used to standing up for yourself. Being American does come in handy once in a while – including moments when you want to make yourself a bit bigger than you really are. Bombasity, your brother calls it. "I am the woman currently standing beside the Crowned Prince, who will remain standing beside him."

His smile is charming, but it doesn’t reach his glacial eyes. “The American intended.” He coos, glancing towards Javier. “It is a good thing you are here. Primo, do not worry. I will take care of things so you can be with him.”

“It will be best to let the doctors do their work.” You decide, instantly not trusting a single hair on this man’s head. Even if you didn’t know what little Gabriella and Maisie had told you, you still wouldn’t trust him. He has the blankest, coldest eyes you’ve ever seen. “I am sure that some guest quarters can be assigned to you while Javi and I find out what is happening.” Glancing back at Maisie, you nod to her as well. “You, too, my friend. I’m sure Flores can see to having a room arranged for you.”

One perfectly groomed brow arches and his eyes flicker over to Javier again, expecting him to say something. But the prince doesn’t, too focused on his father and not even paying attention to the conversation around him. “I see.”

“I am sure your contributions to the situation will be appreciated in coming days. But let’s first find out exactly what is happening before we move too boldly.” Obviously this man has not expected you to have a backbone, but you understand the terror of seeing a parent you love be very ill. It either makes you bold or weak, and neither is a judgement call. “Gabriella?” Motioning past him to his wife, you beckon them woman closer as gently as you can.

“Sí?” Lucas despises when she speaks English, due to her connection with Javier and she clasps her hands together to force a smile on her face.

“Whatever you need to get settled, we will see taken care of,” you promise her with a reassuring smile all your own. “It seems I will need my ladies in waiting very nearby, so it may be some time before you return to Ibiza. I hope that will not be too disappointing for you?”

“You have selected Gabriella?” The surprise in her husband’s voice is unmistakable, along with the expression on his face. “Is that wise?”

“I certainly think so.” The smile on your face never falters. “Is it not an honor for her, count?”

He’s been backed into a corner and he does not care for it. “It is.” He purrs, reaching over and taking his wife’s arm. “I only hope she appreciates it.”

“I am certain that it will be a wonderful opportunity for all.” If you could never speak to this man again you would be more than happy about it, but you grit your teeth and smile all the more broadly. “But right now, it would be best for you to situate yourselves comfortably and wait for news, I think.”

His brow raises again and if looks could kill, Javier would be planning your funeral. Lucas despises being told what do to. “I’m afraid that I have more connection to the family at this moment.” He insists. “I am family.”

“Which is why it will be so reassuring to have you here at the palace.” An instinct, something primal in the pit of your stomach, tells you to keep him away from the hospital and you’re not sure why but you listen to it fully.

“I can be better use helping Javier.” Lucas insists. “There is the matter of running our country.” He shakes his head. “I know that as an American, you are unaware of how things work, but our people look up to the monarchy.”

“And they will continue to be able to look up to their crowned prince without hesitation.” The emergency medics are moving the king now, and Javi is right with them as his father is being taken away. “You can be of such help to Prince Javier. It is dearly appreciated.” Barely having enough time to nod to Maisie, you are off and striding toward Javi to take his hand. You have just made an enemy of the Count of Ibiza and you both know it, but there is no way you are letting that man near the ailing king. Instinct tells you not to.

“I don’t know what is going on.” Javier is nearly in tears, biting his lip to keep from breaking down. “I was just— he just helped me pick out- pick out your ring.”

“For now just hold my hand and nod if you make eye contact with anyone.” You’ve been through a health scare as a political child before, and although he has too you doubt that he was in the spotlight then like he is now. “We’ll find out what is happening when we get to the hospital.” Looking up at him, you have a forced if pleasant smile painted on your lips but your eyes are full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, querido. But we’ll get through this. I’m right here with you.”

Grateful to have you with him, Javier clings to your hand and manages to compose himself. Making sure that no one sees the devastation in his eyes and weariness in his spirit.

A member of the king's guard rides in the ambulance with the medics and you and Javi are ushered into a car to follow behind it. Basic rules dictates that Javi and his father never travel together because of the line of succession, and right now that counts more than ever. As soon as you are in the back of the car and another guard is in the front with the driver, you take off after the ambulance at an appropriately speedy rate. Javi looks like he's going to break down any second but you haven't stopped holding his hand.

______

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[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 8

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 8.3k previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Eight: The Mouse's Gambit

You can't compromise with evil, it always profits in the end.

“Well, well, looks like the mouse has made herself quite at home in the fox’s den.”

Raphael expected you to wake with a start, eyes pinging open with urgency, heart thundering as you realised your surroundings, noticing the devil before you, stumbling over yourself in a rushed apology and feeble explanation as to why you had taken the liberty to let yourself into his rooms, undoubtedly look through his things, then fall asleep on his chair.

But you did not so much as twitch in your sleep.

He frowned, stepping closer, examining your serene visage, looking only slightly uncomfortable contorted into the tight spot. There was no sign of awareness, no suggestion that you were registering anything that was going on around you. How long you had been passed out here for, Raphael was not sure. He knew you had crossed the threshold into the Devil’s Den a couple of hours ago, and thought it strange he had not sensed you leave, but now he could see why.

The exhaustion had finally caught up with you. Your delicate, fragile mortal form was entirely spent, unable to do much apart from rest.

With a sigh he snapped his fingers, transporting you from the rather uncomfortable loveseat to the plush sheets of the bed in the adjoining room, smoothing out the fabric on the chair wrinkled by your sleeping body once vacated. Still, you uttered no sound, gave no sign of stirring, so he busied himself with refreshing the room, filing his contracts, and straightening out his things. He had to smile to himself when he opened his wardrobe, seeing his coat hung neatly in the back, his scent mingled with yours in an enticing aroma. Slowly, he ran his hand over the fabric, remembering how you looked grasping it around your shoulders, bracing against the fresh night air.

In the bedroom, you sunk into a sleep so deep it felt like a temporary death. Raphael watched you from the archway for some time, leaning against the frame and looking for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders, evidence that you had not wandered too far into that beckoning abyss. He became somewhat fascinated, watching you sleep so soundly. Rarely having a need for it himself, and with no logical day and night cycle in Avernus, he could not remember the last time he had slept. There had probably been a few occasions he had dozed off, even his life had its dull moments of course, but to lay down his head and cocoon himself between crisp bedsheets, closing his eyes for hours at a time? No, he could not recall that ever happening.

Drawn closer by the pull of the tide of your breathing, he stood over you and tilted his head. Your sleeping body, lax and unaware, betrayed all the thoughts your mouth would not say. When he lifted his hand to your cheek, ever so delicately brushing the tips of his fingers across the sun-kissed skin, your lips curved into a tiny smile. When he retreated, it disappeared, replaced by a quivering confusion and idle displeasure. He had half an urge to sit beside you, run his hand across your hair, stroking gently like a doting mother, humming an old lullaby to settle your unconscious mind, but he did not.

A fragment of a memory struck him all of a sudden as he regarded your sleeping form, images of bare, tangled limbs in the dead of night, a bed of dew-laden grass, silent stars twinkling overhead, tender, wandering hands and a devastating fall from grace.

Winded by the pain the sudden intrusion wrought from his chest, he choked it back down, banishing those images, scenes he had sworn never to think on again, from his mind. Unsettled by the memory, he withdrew from the room, tearing away from your bedside, relegating himself to an armchair tucked into an alcove by the door. He could just about still see you from this new position, keep an eye on you just in case, and made sure to give you one last glance before he settled in to idly compile his latest business dealings, distracting his addled mind, waiting for you to wake.

Meanwhile, the combination of the feather-stuffed pillows cushioning your head, the comforting warmth of the lavish sheets beneath you, and the smell of Raphael and his things drove you deeper into unconsciousness, deeper into your dreams.

“Let us flip for it, then. Heads, I’m white, tails, you’re black?”

“Very we— hold on, that’s not how that works.”

You grinned at the devil before you, approaching the table with a soul coin humming in your hands, rolling it skilfully across the backs of your fingers as you slid into the seat across from him.

“Alright, you call it.” With a flick of your thumb the coin shot into the air, spinning rapidly as Raphael declared “Heads,” watching as you caught it in the palm of your right hand, flipping it onto the back of your left, uncovering it to reveal who would get to play white in the game of lanceboard that was in the process of being set up between you both. “Ah, bad luck Raff. Maybe next time.”

“Hm, I suspect you have a biased coin…” Raphael sulked as you each began stationing your pieces, organising them perfectly in the middle of their respective squares.

“You’re a sore loser, you know that?”

He frowned at you, delicately placing his last pawn as you readjusted your queen.

“Just start.”

With a smirk you obeyed, advancing the pawn in front of your king two spaces, a move that Raphael mirrored. Next you moved your kingside knight to f3, trying not to smile as your opponent took his queenside knight to c6. Then it was bishop to c4, knight to f6, a quick trading of pawns and you were threatening his queen with your knight on the sixth move. With a small frown he claimed your knight with his king, allowing you to place him in check with your queen.

“I see you’ve been practising. That was ‘The Fried Liver Attack’, no?” He asked, resting his cheek against his fist, annoyed he had not foreseen the move and instead played right into it. But, then again, it was not one you had played before, and he could not remember encountering it previously. You nodded enthusiastically as you watched him peruse his pieces, deciding what to do.

“Yes. I read about it in the book you recommended.” You explained, folding your arms as you watched with baited breath to see what he would do. Perhaps it was the surprise of your new opening, or maybe he was not on form that day, but he made a blunder, uncharacteristically retreating his king to g8, allowing you to pursue checkmate in three.

“Perhaps I should revoke your access to my library…” He teased, growing increasingly frustrated at his lack of options as you pressed.

“You would not dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

You narrowed your gaze at him, a thrum of deadly, divine power surging from within, rippling beneath your skin and behind your eyes as you silently challenged him to try it. He cocked an eyebrow, shifting his gaze back down to the board with a nod, telling you to get on with your next move. With slightly excessive force you made your last one.

“Checkmate.” You announced, leaning back in your seat as Raphael sighed deeply.

“Well, that was a quicker game than I was hoping.” He observed, looking forlornly at his pinned king. “…Another?”

For a moment you considered it, deciding to give him a chance to emerge victorious, aware that should you beat him again his mood would only sour more, so would it really be a win at all? He could sulk for days when he felt like it. Despite being nearly three hundred years old, he could still act like such a child.

“Alright.”

You each swivelled the board around, swapping sides and quickly resetting the pieces. Raphael, as usual, opted to move his pawn to e4, but instead of responding in kind you decided to try something different. Adopting the Cormyrian Defence , you moved your pawn to c5. Raphael seemed to have been expecting this, and countered you with Mystril’s Gambit , developing his attacks rapidly and putting you in a tricky spot, unable to adequately position your queen.

The game dragged on endlessly, his merciless attacks leaving you with few options to develop your pieces and make your own counter. Despite having an extra pawn and a central pawn majority, you could not find a way to gain the upper hand and maintain control of it. After some time of fruitlessly moving pieces back and forth, you offered your hand to resign the game.

“No. Keep playing.” Raphael said with a frown, swatting your hand away. He had ridded himself of his outer garments, crisp white sleeves uncuffed and rolled up to his elbows, betraying his growing impatience with the game. You sighed, rolling up your own sleeves, and went to make a deliberately bad move as to forfeit the game. “No.” Raphael’s voice was stern, warning, eyes drilling into you with such a fierce intensity that your heart stuttered in your chest. “Make a proper move.”

Slightly afraid of incurring his wrath, you removed your hand and made an effort to properly scan the board, settling on a more appropriate move. Raphael responded, and eventually you saw his plan: distract you from castling to reveal a hidden kingside attack. You took the opportunity to castle, saw Raphael’s eyes widen a fraction before a proud sort of smile settled on his lips.

“Very good.” He praised in a low hum, ashamedly causing the back of your neck to burn.

“Enough of the commentary. Just play.”

The devil chuckled, making his counter, his eyes flicking from the board to you as you traded moves. He adored watching you think, seeing your eyes shift over the pieces one by one, mentally mapping out their possible paths and laying out all of the options before you. You chewed on the inside of your lip as you thought of what to do next, but he could tell you knew there would be no victory for you. So, you went along with the only moves that made sense, until he had you in checkmate.

“Well played.” You commented, extending your hand for him to shake. He grasped it gently, giving you a nod.

“Likewise. Now, I would like to claim my prize for my victory.”

You quirked an eyebrow, looking at him with an amused expression.

“Oh? And what do you declare your prize to be?”

“A kiss.” He smiled almost sweetly, expression reminding you of the boy you had found by the river all of those centuries ago.

“Just a kiss?” You asked with a grin, moving to stand and round the table, placing yourself in between his legs as his hands trailed up your outer thighs to settle on your hips.

“Just a kiss.” He answered, voice low and quiet.

“Very well, then.”

You leaned down, capturing his lips with your own as your hand moved to cup his jaw, tasting fruit and wine and fire smoke. He smiled into the kiss, hands grasping you more desperately, as he murmured something in Infernal against your lips;

“Xe dajy haf.”

You awoke slowly, full of grogginess and a dark ocean swirling in your head. It took a moment for your surroundings to come into focus as a groan slid its way out of your throat, but you struggled to recognise where you were.

Sitting up slowly, you noticed the familiar red linens, extravagant furniture, and signature smell of the Devil’s Den with a sickening sense of dread.

Why am I on the bed…?

You did not remember falling asleep here and had no idea how long you had been out for. Looking to your right towards the window, it was getting late in the day, the sun hanging low in the sky and the brilliant hues of golden hour flooding the room.

With great effort you slid from the soft bed and onto your feet, wincing at the stiffness in your joints and muscles that had been asleep for far too long as you shuffled haphazardly towards the front room. It was not until you got within a few feet of him that you noticed Raphael sat in an armchair before you, tucked away into the wall, eyes fixed on you curiously. Frozen in your tracks, all you could do was stop and stare at him, mortified by the sound of your own heartbeat now ringing in your ears.

“So, you’ve finally decided to rejoin the land of the living, hm? I trust you slept well.” He closed the book he was reading, banishing it to another realm with a flourish of his hand as he reclined in his seat, eyes looking you over.

“…How long was I asleep for?” You asked, eyes still half-lidded, not yet firing on all cylinders. He smiled and lifted himself from the chair, moving to stand just a few inches in front of you.

“Practically the whole afternoon.”

“Oh.” You looked down, slightly sheepish all of a sudden. “Sorry. I came to return your coat but then…I must’ve fallen asleep.” Confused and disoriented, you rubbed at your temples, attempting to remember exactly how you had ended up on his bed.

“Yes, you did look quite exhausted when I returned. I moved you to the bed, I thought you might find it more comfortable.” He explained, watching your face as it shifted through a medley of mixed emotions.

“Ah…thank you.”

“It’s no matter. Was there any other reason for your visit?” Raphael probed, and for a moment you felt entirely too exposed, wondering if he knew you had sort of been hoping to see him again, before realising what he meant.

Ah. The contract.

“Um, no, not particularly…”

A hint of disappointment fell across Raphael’s face, quickly dismissed with a nod.

“Very well.” He looked at you curiously as you made no effort to move or respond, clearing his throat awkwardly to disrupt the silence. Your eyes held a vacant look, unspoken thoughts troubling you as you stood with a slightly unstable sway. “Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure your companions are expecting your return.”

Blinking a few times you nodded, rubbing some of the sleep from your eyes as you turned to look at the dark metal of the doors, the sacred barriers keeping your mind safe from prying eyes, keeping your thoughts your own.

“Actually,” you began without much thought, “is it okay if I stay a while? I’m not ready…to deal with this, just now.” You tapped a finger to the side of your head, a displeased look on your features that Raphael immediately understood. “But…I don’t want to talk about the contract at all, please.”

“Of course. What’s mine is yours, within reason. And no business.”

You smiled in thanks, stretching your limbs and taking a moment to properly inspect your surroundings, tracing slow footsteps across the room. You noticed for the first time the numerous rose petals scattered across the floor, adrift in the swirling water of the bath, the faint hint of rosewood incense on the air, the two sparkling, empty goblets arranged neatly beside an unopened bottle of Thayan red on the console table.

“Do you…seduce clients here?” You asked, brow furrowed, gaze distracted as your pace slowed, still evaluating your surroundings, already knowing the answer.

“I’m quite certain I have no idea what you mean.” Raphael replied evenly, voice laced with a teasing tone. You scoffed unintentionally and returned to your surveying. He watched your movements curiously, folding his arms and bringing a thoughtful hand to his chin. “You know, envy is a sin, my dear.”

You whipped your head around to glare at him, eyes fierce and voice exasperated, any hint of sleepiness now gone.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Oh, you didn’t have to.” He hummed. You cursed yourself silently. When did he catch on to that little secret of yours? You felt like you were barely even aware of it yourself. Perhaps you were just that easy to read, or maybe he was just teasing for the sake of it. Regardless, it was bad enough having the Emperor digging around in the deepest recesses of your thoughts every passing second, and it seemed Raphael’s company would provide you with little of the relief you had been looking for, merely trading one evil for another.

His lips tilted into a smirk, entirely too devilish for your tastes, although you supposed he could not really help that. Your lungs heaved a sigh as you looked to the Heavens, offering a silent prayer for the Gods to grace you with the strength to maintain your dignity in the devil’s presence.

“Would you like me to employ that line of persuasion? I wouldn’t want my favourite client to feel left out, after all.” He stepped closer, intentions entirely flirtatious, but realised his mistake as your nose scrunched up in response. You answered quickly, sharply, before you could think too much about it, let yourself be half-tempted by the offer.

“No. I’ve had enough of being manipulated with sex, thank you.”

Raphael tilted his head, felt a very brief pang of something in his chest (Was that genuine sympathy? No, surely not) before turning towards the table and pulling out the cork from the bottle of wine.

“Understandable. What about just a drink, then? No strings attached.” With an air of grace entirely at odds with his nature, he filled the cup on the left before extending it towards you. He watched you eye it, and then him, suspiciously, expression distrusting and arms tucked in closely, entire body guarded, ready to detect deceit. He let the smile drop for a beat, allowing you a peak at something more genuine. “You look like you need it.”

Gingerly you accepted, reaching a hand out slowly to grasp the stem, retreating a safe distance once it was in your hands. Raphael smiled, quickly filled his own cup, and raised it towards you.

“To our continued alliance.” He chimed. You smiled, raising your own goblet, simply said, “Sure,” and waited for him to take a sip first before taking your own, a gesture which highly amused him. In truth, it had not even crossed his mind to lace your drink with something.

The wine was soft and sweet on your tongue, full-bodied and silky with notes of blackberry and plum.

“Have you always had such a hard time trusting others?” He asked, smirk creeping back onto his lips.

“No, actually. It all started about two months ago when I met this insufferable devil.” You snapped, before launching into a rant about all the trickery, deceit, and enemies you had encountered on your perilous journey thus far in some pretty colourful language. The hag, the shape-changer, the Emperor, even the devil himself – you unloaded it in a glorious monologue that, were it not for the slightly unfavourable picture you had painted of him, he would have felt compelled to applaud. Afterwards, you took a much-needed breath, glanced at Raphael, then looked away quickly, a little embarrassed by your rant and worried for his reaction, particularly since you called him ‘insufferable’, which was not exactly true. You could suffer him well enough, you had learned.

Raphael blinked a few times, took another sip of wine, then added fuel to the fire as punishment for your poor manners.

“Oh, and do not forget the elven vampire spawn who manipulated you into liking and protecting him by bedding you, twice.”

You choked on your wine and let out an exhausted groan.

“Thank you for reminding me!” It was still a sore topic. Although you had now forgiven Astarion and remained friends, the ease with which he had played you still stung, the fact that you never noticed the disingenuousness of your entanglements bringing a great deal of shame to rest on your already weighed-down shoulders. “Wait, how do you know about that?” You suddenly asked, turning to throw an accusatory look his way. Raphael had the decency to look a little ashamed, but only a little.

“You of all people should know by now that I have eyes everywhere.” Korilla, you realised. A subtle blush bloomed on your cheeks and across your nose, wondering what detail your little trysts had been recounted to him in. You folded your arms and hugged them in close, taking a tentative sip of wine.

“I took you for many things, Raphael, but a pervert was not one of them.” You relished in the frown that fell across his features as he neared the edge of his patience. You were not always on your best behaviour for him, but to insult him twice in his own office? Now that was a level of insolence he would not usually tolerate.

He had more patience than usual for you, though, so he corrected his expression and presented you with something more amiable.

“Pray tell, little mouse, what other things do you take me for?” He asked in a highly suggestive voice. If you could roll your eyes with any more vigour, they might fall from your head and roll away.

“Point proven.” You gestured a finger towards him while he simply chuckled, the low, smooth sound rumbling in his chest. Your heart stuttered within your own, only just, only for a moment, before correcting its pace and resuming a more normal rhythm. Gods this creature vexed you so.

“My apologies, but you must allow me my fun now and then. My other clients are all so frightfully boring.” His mouth contorted into a shape of displeasure, eyes tired at the thought of all the other deals and contracts he had been working on in the background. In truth, there was only one thing he cared about: you. Or, rather, what you could do for him. What you could do for each other. That was what he kept telling himself, anyway.

“Does that mean you find me interesting, then?” You asked as you meandered past, attention now idly focused on the spines of the tomes lining the shelves in the corner of the bedroom, head tilting this way and that to read them.

“I thought that was self-evident.” Raphael stepped closer as you perused the books, turning his gaze downwards as you crouched to look at the lower shelves more easily.

“Well, perhaps I just wanted to hear you say it.” The balance of the conversation had shifted slightly, for once, and Raphael was not sure how to feel about it. Distracted by the way your eyelashes fluttered as you glanced across the row, he answered without thinking.

“I feel ‘interesting’ is too mundane a word, I find you to be fascinating.” That seemed to catch even you off guard, and he knew he had said something careless the moment your doe eyes landed on his, looking up at him from beneath those feathery lashes. He coughed lightly, clearing his throat, and prepared to try to rectify his mistake. “Of course, why would you not be? As I said, you have impressed me thus far, somehow accomplished the impossible more than once now, vanquished mighty foes, survived certain death, and avoided sprouting any tentacles along the way. Quite the reputation you’re earning for yourself as well, might I add.” You smiled at that ever-present flirtatious lilt in his voice, thought of all the other clients he had used it on, how many others had fallen for it.

“My, my, you’re feeling very generous today. Any reason for the excessive flattery?” He did not fail to notice the way you mimicked his tone. He did not want to admit, even to himself, how much he enjoyed it.

“Excessive? You do yourself a disservice, my dear. Any flattery from me is entirely deserved.” You stood slowly, deliberately, now just a whisper away from him. He could smell the faint hint of fresh mint on your breath, the cedar and vetiver that lingered on your hair and skin – was that a perfume or was that just your natural scent? Either way, it was utterly divine. He felt his fingers twitch towards a loose strand before he stopped himself. “Besides, must there be a reason? Perhaps I simply enjoy it.”

You turned to face him, dragging your eyes away from the books as if they were more worthy of your attention, before casting your gaze across his face, examining every crease and line, every hidden thought, until your eyes met. For a moment your attention drifted south of his eyes, lingering for just a beat too long somewhere near his chin before snapping back up. Had he imaged that? Did you just so brazenly look at his lips? He had lost track of who was toying with whom.

“I suppose that’s reason enough, then.”

For once, the devil was at a loss for words. You were mere inches away from him now, one deep breath and your chest would press against his, one quick move and he could have you just where he wanted you, flush against his body, burning skin against skin. He swallowed those thoughts down and took what he hoped was a sure-footed step back, putting a safe distance between you both, pretending he needed to refill his wine which was barely half drunk, just for an excuse to tear himself away from your unnerving gaze.

He was flustered, he realised. Something that he could not recall experiencing within the last century. How had you, a mere mortal of no extraordinary origin, managed to unsettle him so? How had you crawled your way into his thoughts, his life, his musings in his most private of moments? Why did he bother to check on you at all hours of the day, why was he concerned constantly with your whereabouts and your comings and goings? Why had he made it his business to know all of yours? He could try and convince himself his interest was purely of a professional and diabolical nature, that he was merely protecting his asset, but then why did his heart thrum wildly when he sensed you at his door at Sharess’ Caress? Why did the sight of you admiring him in the waning moonlight the evening prior flood his chest with warmth? Why had you done what no ordinary mortal had ever done before? Somehow, you had made him care for you, in his own way, and despite his nature he prayed you would never find this out.

He was unusually quiet as he laboriously filled his cup, eyes not meeting yours as you stepped closer. You had half an urge to try to detect his thoughts because you were just aching to know what was going through his head, but he would definitely not take kindly to that. In what you thought had been playful, flirtatious banter you had touched upon something, a nerve, an unspoken desire, and the devil was unravelling before you. You could seize this opportunity, you realised, take a step and pull at that thread until he came undone, until he was at your mercy, until you could make your own demands assured they would not fall on deaf ears. You would enjoy every second of it, too, seeing the usually so calm and collected Raphael brough to ruin beneath you.

But, it was not in your nature to manipulate and exploit, even when it came to him. Besides, it would be a double-edged sword anyway. One wrong move and he could easily flip the tables and take the upper hand, have you agreeing to sign away the Crown of Karsus and Hells know what else with the promise of undoubtedly ungodly pleasures. It was a fine line to tread, and you had to consciously remind yourself several times of what you had heard at the Blushing Mermaid, how upset that had made you.

“Care for another?” He asked, voice velvety and even once again as he extended a hand for your goblet which was now nearly empty. Surprised you had already a finished a glass, you handed it over and allowed him to refill it, aware that it was probably not a good idea to dull your senses too much in his company but also craving the numbness, itching for something to just take the edge off of all you had waded through so far.

“Thank you,” you said earnestly as you took the now full cup from him, fingers brushing his as you did so, sending a not entirely unpleasant tingle across the back of your hand. His smile, lacking its usual mirth, took you by surprise for a moment, and you hesitantly returned it.

“My pleasure. Now, for my gracious hospitality I do require something from your fine self…”

Your heart plunged into your stomach with a sickening gravity, colour momentarily drained from your face. How could you have been such a fool to think the devil would welcome you with open arms, provide some respite from your weary travels, and ask for nothing in return? Karlach and Wyll were right – would he make you sign the contract here and now? No, surely not, but then…what was he after? Raphael almost felt bad for causing the obvious distress that was written across your face, and put you out of your misery quickly.

“No need to fear, I merely ask you indulge me with a game of lanceboard. You play, do you not?” You watched him move past you, saunter towards the two armchairs in the corner of the bedroom, summoning an extravagant specimen of a board on the table between them with a flick of his wrist.  

“I dabble…” you followed, lowering yourself into the seat opposite him. “Though I’m no master by any means.” It was not a lie, you were not a lanceboard master, but you played well, back when you actually had time to play. Though, you had never faced an opponent quite like Raphael before.

“Do not undersell yourself my dear, the suggestion of the Theskan Double-Counter Gambit at the Last Light Inn was no small feat.” He began setting up his pieces, having given himself black, a curious decision since you felt like you knew he preferred to play as white. You would not argue, though, and slowly followed suit, positioning your white pieces in their correct spots.

“Perhaps, although I suspect you intentionally left that move open to throw the game.”

Raphael gasped dramatically.

“Now, that’s quite the accusation! I would never do such a thing. I am, if nothing else, an honourable opponent.” He said with a smirk, pushing his last pawn into place and taking a sip of his wine. You shook your head, unable to help the small smile that crept onto your lips.

“Alright, just don’t go easy on me. I don’t like to lose, but I absolutely hate a false victory.” You expressed, giving him a serious look.

“Noted. Please, begin when you like.”

You started with pawn to e4, a standard opening for white. Raphael thought for a second or two, and you wondered whether he would go for the Cormyrian Defence, before he mirrored your move and met your pawn head on. This gave you a chance to employ a variation of the Two Knights Defence, a favourite but infrequently used opener of yours. You advanced your knight, and he followed suit. You brought out your bishop, his other knight followed. You pushed, he brought forth another pawn. After trading pawns, you moved your knight to f7, in line to take his queen, and watched his face as he scrutinised the board. With a small frown, he reached for his Cyric, aiming to take your knight and remove the threat when suddenly he stopped, lips parting slightly, fingers just shy of committing to the move. You watched with baited breath as he declined taking your knight, opting instead to move his queen to e7, abut to your knight. You slumped your shoulders, a little disappointed but not too surprised. Raphael had probably encountered every opening, defence, and gambit possible in his time playing lanceboard, in fact he had most likely even created a few himself. Still, yours was not a common opener, since it required sacrificing a fairly valuable piece, and you had been hoping to catch him unprepared.

“The Fried Liver Attack…it’s been some time since I’ve encountered that opener. You almost had me.” He commented, running his fingers across his jaw thoughtfully.

“That was the aim…” You mused as you made your response.

“Where did you learn that?” He asked, considering his options.

“Read about it in a book once, I think. I know it’s not the strongest move, I just like the name.”

Raphael chuckled, nodding in agreement.

“Perhaps, although any move can be a strong one against an unprepared opponent. The first time I encountered the Fried Liver Attack, it was checkmate in under ten moves.”

“No chance of that today, I fear?”

“Hah, no such luck. You’ll have to try something else.”

Conversation flowed naturally while the game developed. He asked where you learned to play, you told him how your father taught you the basics and the rest you learned from books, and from playing against vastly superior opponents when the chance would arise. You recounted some of your favourite games in extraordinary clarity, able to remember each move as if you were playing them now, a fond smile on your face as you reminisced on your childhood. The way you described it made it sound rich and bright, warm and fuzzy around the edges and overflowing with a childlike, naïve sort of joyfulness that brought a mournful feeling to your heart when you thought about how long ago that was, and how much things had changed. You would give almost anything to return to those nourishing and easy days, relive a carefree childhood void of pain, tragedy, and heartbreak. To be a city kid again, roaming the familiar streets of Baldur’s Gate without crushing responsibilities, with loving parents to return to at the end of the day. But you were not a child anymore, and your parents were long dead.

You finished the last of your wine, now onto a third bottle, and decided to shift the focus of the conversation.

“Do you remember what it was like…to be a child? Is it different for devils?”

Raphael thought long on your question, so long in fact you started to wonder if he had even heard you. After a lengthy silence, he opened his mouth to reply.

“It is different, yes. I…do not remember it as well as I thought.”

There was a distant, sad look in his eyes as he tried to recall something now irretrievable, like trying to catch the light with his bare hands.

“What do you remember?” You asked softly, hesitantly, watching his face carefully for signs you were prying too callously.

“…It was lonely, until it wasn’t.” He paused to collect his thoughts; eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. “I had to learn to survive by myself on this plane, a wretched, bestial creature by all accounts. My father, Hells curse him, let the world have its way with me, and the world was not kind.”

“What about your mother?” You asked without much thought, watching as his expression tightened into a mild frown, shaking his head with a melancholic sigh.

“Mortal mothers of cambions do not survive childbirth.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

To have never known the true, unrequited love of a mother, to have never been cradled against her breast and softly sung to sleep, to have never been cared for; the thought of it broke your heart. You wondered; did he miss his mother? Can you miss what you have never known?

“How did you survive? How did you make it here?” You were curious to know how anyone, even an immortal fiend, could make it through such an ordeal. To be completely alone from birth, to not only survive by oneself but to eventually thrive – how could such a thing be possible?

Raphael smiled stiffly, averting his eyes.

“Trust me my dear, you do not want to know the specifics.” He answered in a low, grave voice, conveying an implicit understanding that he would not divulge much more. “But eventually, I made a friend of sorts. They helped me and I helped them, and when it became clear he might have a use for me yet, my father brought me to the Hells and gave me my station in Avernus. The rest is, very dreary, history.”

“How generous of him.” You scoffed sarcastically, which Raphael nodded at with a smile.

“Indeed.” There was a brief pause. Raphael lifted his gaze to meet your own, not prepared for the sincerity swimming in your eyes, the genuine look on your face that said, ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that.’ It occurred to him no client had ever before cared to ask about his life, not that he usually felt inclined to speak on himself anyway. As with many things, you were the first. “Anyway, enough of that. I suspect you to be stalling from making your next move.”

You glanced down at the forgotten lanceboard between you, thoughts of your game having been entirely replaced with thoughts of Raphael and his ghastly childhood.

“I would never do such a thing…” You teased, refamiliarizing yourself with the pieces and their positions, as well as your own plan, but you were far too distracted to remember what you had been intending to do next. Not wanting to keep the devil waiting much longer, you made the move that seemed the most sensible to you.

The Cheshire grin that broke onto his face alerted you to your blunder immediately.

“And so, the mouse falls into the trap…”

By forcing a trade of queens, Raphael opened up a direct line to your cornered king, his unsuspecting pawns preventing you from making a move to avoid the now inevitable checkmate.

“Hells…” You grumbled, making the only move you could before he struck his final blow.

“I believe that, my dear, is checkmate.”

With a sigh you accepted his extended hand, shaking it half-heartedly because, despite it having been a good game, losing to him had now put you in a bad mood.

“Well played, Raff.”

He looked stunned for a moment, his hand freezing around yours uncharacteristically.

“What did you just say?” He asked with incredulity and confusion. You made a face, looking away, painfully embarrassed.

“Sorry, Rapahel, I have no idea why I called you that…” You offered, waiting for him to remove his hand, but he did not. When you looked back at him his face was still frigid with shock, looking somewhat troubled. It was rare that someone ever felt comfortable enough in his company to call him by anything other than his full name, especially something as common as ‘Raff’, and he could only think of one other.

No. I will not entertain this foolish hope again!

“…Raphael?” You leaned forwards, peering into his eyes that were focused on something you could not see, distracted by thoughts you would never know. You squeezed his hand very gently, almost imperceptibly, but it brought him out of his trance immediately. He withdrew from you suddenly, ripping his hand away as if he had been burned, leaving yours to hang limp and empty in between you both.

“Apologies…you must excuse me; you merely caught me by surprise.” He explained as you slowly removed your hand, settling it in your lap where it pulsed with the absence of his contact, the scorching shame of what felt like a rejection threatening to solder your throat shut. Had it really felt so vile to hold your hand longer than what was absolutely necessary? And why could he now not look at you?

Raphael had turned his attention to the window towards the darkening sky, the hour having grown late. The candles in the Devil’s Den had slowly burned down, last flames clinging to puddles of wax, and your cheeks were aglow with the hue of the bruised rose petals littering the floor. Wine-stained lips, luminous eyes, soft, warm hands…you were eclipsing Raphael’s mind in a way he could never have prepared for, and he felt that he had to put some distance between you, reclaim some semblance of control, remind you who you were dealing with, what your purpose was.

You were a means to an end, nothing more, nothing less.

“While I have you here, what say we revisit your contract?” He suggested, summoning the dreaded parchment with a snap of his fingers. At the sight of it your expression immediately contorted into a displeased frown.

“I said no business.” You reminded him, barely able to bring yourself to look at the contract, giving it disgusted sort of side glances as it floated ominously in the air before you.

“Then why are you here, little mouse?” Raphael asked mildly, watching you with a mix of curiosity and slight frustration. You were about to respond with something no doubt distasteful when a line on the contract caught your eye.

“Hold on, what’s this…” You grasped the parchment, eyes scanning the Infernal symbols written in a diabolically small font, so small you had to bring it right up close to your face to stand a chance of reading it, the meaning of the glyphs coming easily to you, easier than they had done in Astarion’s tent when you had translated some of his scars. “Clause eleven, subsection a: ‘Fulfilment of the details of this contract does not equate to its end. If able and willing, The Beneficiary agrees to provide ad-hoc services to The Benefactor for the remainder of their mortal life as and when called upon, including but not limited to provisioning of intelligence, participation in battle, and personal protection services.’ What the fuck…” Your eyes continued scanning the contract, finding numerous sneaky subclauses littered amongst the previously discussed terms that would ensure you would be tied to the devil in some way, shape, or form for years to come, yet there was nothing about providing you or those important to you the protection he had implied he would give.

Then there were the lines concerning your soul. It seemed any violation of any term, no matter how small, would result in you surrendering it to the devil for him to have his way with, a situation that looked more likely than not. As far as you were aware, he had only mentioned your soul as collateral if you signed the deal yet failed to deliver the crown, not if, in say twenty years, you failed to report some scheme you became aware of to overthrow him.

It was what you had known was coming the entire time, what you had been dreading; waiting for the other shoe to drop. It all came crashing down in dazzling clarity; his extracurricular activities with other clients, everything that Karlach and Wyll had said, even his infuriating victory earlier. You may have lost one game of lanceboard tonight, but you would be damned to lose another, you decided.

Raphael had not expected you to be able to understand the contract at all, sat dumbstruck as you made sense of a language he had no idea you could speak, and felt his simmering blood almost run cold as the situation dawned on him, enraged by his own carelessness. Pure, unadulterated anger fell across your face before he could try to placate you, convince you that this was what he had wanted to discuss, that he wanted your input on the specifics, that this was just a standard template that needed tailoring to your situation, which was not entirely dishonest.

You stood from your chair suddenly, surprisingly steady on your feet given the strength of the multiple bottles of wine you had both drunk, and stalked across the room to place some distance between you, abandoning the contract on the table.

“I can’t believe this! Just when I was starting to think you…that you might…”

Raphael stood to take a few tentative steps towards you, afraid (but of what?), half-reaching for you as you attempted to gather your composure, your temper hot and palpable in the dwindling light of day.

“Dear mouse, allow me to explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it! I’ve had enough of this, giving you the benefit of the doubt, thinking you were actually not all bad, thinking that we were somehow even. Fuck,” you laughed, a sound entirely devoid of amusement, “I actually thought you cared about me for a moment there. I’m so fucking stupid!” You brought your hands up to cover your face, scared that you might cry if you did not laugh, and you would not allow yourself to cry in front of him.

“You are many things, but stupid is not one of them. Please, you must listen—” Raphael felt his breath leave his body as your hands suddenly grasped his collar tightly and your body collided with his, pushing him back to stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed, yanking him down to beneath your eye level, a silent threat held in the tempest of your face.

“Shut. Up.” He dared not move, nor breathe too heavily should he enrage you further. He tried to think of a way to recover the situation, but could only conjure sweet words that would just fall on deaf ears and only escalate things even more. He had made a grave error with the contract, and the likelihood of seeing your lovely signature on the bottom of it had dwindled to near zero.

Fool! Why didn’t you remove those terms before?

Before he could say anything, you did something so outrageously unexpected that, at first, he wondered if he had fallen asleep at some point during the evening and was instead having a very vivid dream. You kissed him, hard.

Your lips came crashing against his, hungry, desperate, yearning, and he hesitated for just a moment before he kissed you back with the same burning passion, savouring the way your lips slotted so perfectly against his, how soft they were, how eager. His hands quickly grasped your hips, pulling you closer and down into his waiting lap whilst your hands snaked into his hair, nails grazing his scalp in a way that felt heavenly and sent goosebumps rising across his shoulders. The inside of your legs pressed against the outside of his thighs, and he unashamedly pulled you down harder as he lifted his hips to grind against you, letting you know exactly how much he needed you, how much he had wanted you, all this time.

With a tug on his hair and a well-timed burst of friction where your bodies met, you were actually able to draw out a moan from his mouth, a noise he was immediately ashamed by. He did not think on it for too long, though, now only concerned with ridding you of your clothes, but before he could even try you seemed to come to your senses for a moment, ripping yourself away from him and retreating a couple of feet, chest heaving, mouth parted, and eyes wild with a hundred different emotions, namely contempt.

In that moment, Raphael could swear you looked more devilish than himself, but Gods did you look a vision. You took a moment to devour the sight of him, shoulders rapidly rising and falling with the sudden need for breath, lips bruised and hair in disarray. Thighs slightly parted and eyes glassed over with unbridled lust. You had done that.

Shaking your head with a sigh you tried to gather your thoughts, interrupt the silence before he could speak first.

“Forget the deal, I won’t be signing it. If that concludes our business, we have no need to meet again. So, please, leave me alone from now, and I shall do the same.” You watched your words sink in, saw his eyes soften as his lips parted to say something. You did not let him. “Goodbye, Raphael.”

You turned to look out of the window somewhere far in the distance, and before he could utter a word you took a step enshrouded in mist and disappeared from the room, ending the conversation on your own terms for once.

The Devil’s Den fell silent save for the sound of Raphael’s own laboured breaths, the rustle of bed sheets as he shifted against them, the deep, hollow sigh that spilled from his lungs as he watched the space you had occupied moments before. Full of shame and defeat, he hung his head in resignation, the ghost of your lips against his just shy of torturous, the aching familiarity of it muddling his already clouded mind. Behind the taste of berries in the wine that lingered on your tongue, there had been something else, something seraphic that unhooked the latch on a harrowing pain Raphael had kept tightly sealed deep within the farthest shadows of his being. He tried to force it back shut, will it to subside, to spare him, but he sensed it was too late.

You had won this round, and he was not sure there would be another. As the coldness of the night drew in, room now void of your warmth, he wallowed in his defeat, bitter and sore. He shook his head, muttering into the silence.

“Touché, little mouse.”

[creative-caramel-coffee]

The Bear ch 4

Pairings: Wanda x R || avengers (platonic) x R

Word count: 3.8K

TW: flashback, torture, themes of death, panic attack, concussion, nonverbalism, brain washing, mind control, trauma, abuse, violence, needles, restrains, bruises, injuries, guns, medical malpractice, human experimenting, tears, insanity (implied), headache, (damn thats a lot of warnings.)

Summary: You join your uncle tony in the avengers, it wasn’t your original plan but you never planned for your powers either so here you are. Now your at the avengers tower and falling for the girl of your dreams. With a haunting past and interesting abilities can you navigate your way through the challenges of being a hero? After a mission gone wrong and a cruel twist of fate the team starts digging for answers. Can tony keep them from finding out the truth?

A/n sorry this took so long to publish I might have broken one of my fingers im getting an X-ray in three days. Also the sign language I describe is auslan (Australian) sign language so … yeah. Also im not great at it so it might be wrong sorry.

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7

When your mind awoke the dull headache still sat behind your eyes which you had kept shut. You wiggle slightly and Wanda knows your awake.

“Hello sweet girl. How are you feeling” she asked rubbing her thumb over your cheekbone. You were in her lap and quite comfortable. You let out a content hum and Wanda chuckled slightly. The vibrations of her chest were soothing on your head as you had your face nestled into her chest.

“Baby?”

“Mm?”

“If your feeling good enough natty and i wanna ask you something my love.” Wanda asked taking note of your muscles as they stiffened. You knew this was coming, they wanted to know why you had frozen on the mission. You fought back the emotions that bubbled in your chest and nodded.

“You want to know why i froze.” You said in a small voice. Wanda wiped the baby hairs from your eyes and looked down at you softly. Nat laid a comforting hand on your thigh and you almost had forgotten she was in the room. Wanda and nat were sat against the headboard on your bed and you were curled in Wanda’s lap.

She began to run her hands through your hair and you let out a content sigh.

“Baby we just want to know so we can help you and keep you safe.” She said softly and nat nodded her agreement.

“Alright, but i-i c-cant t-talk about it.” You stuttered clearing your throat at annoyance at the nervous habit.

“Baby thats ok, can i look and show natty then?” She asked your consent and rubbed her thumb over your cheek again with her hand cupping your face. You suddenly felt small and nodded, words becoming too hard for you.

“Ok if you need me to stop or it gets too much at all i need you to tap twice on my thigh baby girl. Can you do that for me now so i know you can do it?” She asked still speaking softly. You used two fingers and tapped twice on her thigh. She smiled down at you. “Perfect baby your doing so well. Let me know when your ready ok my love?” She asked and you drew a shaky breathe and looked into her eyes and nodded your consent.

“Words baby. I need to hear you say its ok.” She said. You looked slightly stressed and signed ‘no talk’ with your hands. Bringing your middle and pointer finger to your thumb to say no and then bringing your finger to your mouth and drawing circles to say talk. Wanda understood and began storing your hair.

“Ok baby no talking. Are you nonverbal baby?” She asked and you nodded and sniffled slightly. She cooed and asked you once more if you were ready. When you signed yes she hummed and began to project from your mind to her own and Natashas.

As she sifted through your memories her brow furrowed. They were fragmented and many were repressed, the trauma distorting the images. She saw many things. A damp cold cell with white chalk drawing of tony and the outside world covering the walls. The drawings were magical and intricate. She saw a small room with nothing in it but a chair, a man and a tray of what looked like torture instruments. She saw the lights of hospital but it was unlike anything private or government, more like a run down covert facility. She saw the man from the mission standing over you as you writhed in the restraints that kept you strapped to a table. He held a long needle filled with black liquid. She saw you standing over a man, a bear skull mask on your face and a black suit on you body. You had a gun pressed to his temple and sick grin on your face. She knew that suit. That grin. That gun. She recognised the cold sadistic chuckle as you drew the trigger. The crack of a bullet firing ricocheted throughout the ally and she watched the body fall limp on the floor with a sickening thud. But despite the cruelty of then action she saw the lacquer in your eyes. The gloss that told her you weren’t in control. She saw the light in your eyes flickering as you fought for control. She watched as the scene changed again and you were laid beaten on the floor of a cell cradling a bruised abdomen as you wore nothing but a ruined and bloody rag. She saw a man, the man from the mission again land hit after hit across your already broken and bruised body.

She watched you be broken and bled in every way possible before you were thrown back into your cell. She saw the kind scientist sneak you chalk that you covered the walls with. She watched you cry alone and broken. But the last thing she saw, was the logo of hydra printed on the door of your cell. The red ink bleeding down the walls.

She found nothing else. Careful not to damage your mind further she withdrew her controls. Looking down at you in her arms she pulled you tighter to her despite the shock. Your body shook with sobs as you wailed slightly still not speaking. In a surprising display of strength you pushed yourself away from her chest and sprung from the bed. Natasha looked dazed as you curled into a ball in the corner. Shielding your head with your forearms and rocking back and forth. The sound of your broken cries permeated the room and broke Wanda’s heart. She slowly came over to you seeing the panic in your eyes as she tried to stop the flashback. She pulled you into her arms and rocked you slowly as you sobbed. Slowly the sobs slowed as your hand gripped her shirt in fists.

As you began to recognise who was around you and where you were Wanda held you tighter.

“Baby we understand you weren’t in control. That wasn’t you. I remember fighting you but i know it wasn’t you. You couldn’t ever be that cold.” You howled and Wanda squeezed you again.

“Baby we love you the same as always and now we know just how strong you are and we love you even more.”

You sniffled and began to move your hands as you began to sign that you wanted to explain.

Wanda placed her hand over yours. “Baby you don’t have to do that just now.”

You signed back ‘I want to or i know i never will be able to.’

Wanda hesitated but nodded. Carefully she stood with you in her arms and walked back to the bed where nat sat and offered you a smile. You knew she didn’t care about your past the same you didn’t care about hers. Wanda held you as you explained. Hydra took you in the early days of tony being Ironman. You, behind the spotlight helped on missions and when you were captured one day things changed. They tortured you amongst other things and brain washed you to do their bidding. When tony rescued you he hid you away when he saved you from hydra and you and him faked your death. When you told him two months ago your powers returned after hydra suppressed them and made sure only you could use them when told, he panicked and made you come to the compound. The drugs they gave you to control your powers finally wearing off. You had always loved your powers, they made you feel safe and you quickly regained full control but the damage hydra did made some of them dissapper. Tony wants to keep an eye on you to make sure your ok if they come back also. But now hydra knows your alive and your powers are back and stronger, and they have almost certainly ordered a hit on you.

Wanda sat back and sighed running her hands through her hair as she took it all in. She was quick to comfort you as you took her silence as a bad sign. Tears formed in your eyes. And your loud thoughts told Wanda you thought she was mad. You began to struggle in her lap. She quickly pulled you into her chest again and shushed you reassuring you everything would be ok.

After all the stress and crying your head felt even worse and the familiar nausea returned. You thrashed in Wanda’s arms who pulled you from her neck to look into your eyes. They looked frantic and you quickly signed the word for throw up. Nat was quick to understand and grabbed another sick-bag. She had half expected this to happen after the stress this had put on you and the pain of crying that hard with a concussion.

She carefully placed it under your chin and you put your hands over hers as they shook. Wanda rubbed circles between your shoulder blades. You hunched over your hands clinging to Nat’s wrists for dear life she she held the sick-bag for you.

“Its ok baby. Let it out. We’re here. Don’t hold it back bubs.” Wanda said seeings you gagging and struggling to keep it down. Tears formed in your eyes before you ducked your head lowered towards the sick bag. The sound of you throwing up filled the room as all the food you had eaten in the past few hours was violently expelled.

“Shh sh sh your doing so good for us Detka. So so good baby girl.” Wanda said.

“It’ll be ok y/n/n its alright love.” Nat said. When you stopped gaging nat went to take away the sick-bag but your grip on her wrist tightened and you shook your head slowly.

“Going to go again?” Nat asked raising a brow and her question was answered as you threw up a second round. When you stopped you pushed her hands away and nat nodded to Wanda who pulled you into her as nat went to dispose of the sick and grab some more mouthwash for your sensitive tastebuds. You sniffled and buried your face in her neck.

“Aww bubs your ok. Your ok now love.” Wanda soothed. After a bit your sniffles died down and you simply laid curled in her arms. Nat returned and you rinsed out your mouth and then began to drift off to sleep.

“Its ok baby you can close your eyes. You must be exhausted after all that my sweet.” Wanda said and you nodded and curled into her chest. After a little your soft snores sounded throughout the room.

When you woke up the room was dimly lit still but the headache was lesser. You signed to Wanda you wanted a snack and you were hungry. She stood getting ready to leave but you signed that you wanted to come with. Nat who had been watching the conversation over the top of her book frowned. After a series of quick hand movements from you you made it clear that you were coming with. Nat stood pulling some sunglasses out of a drawer.

“If you come with you wear these. You don’t need to loose the progress you have made in recovering.” Nat said and you pouted but let her slip them onto your face regardless. After a second you blinked and then turned grabbing nat and Wanda’s hands before dragging them out of the room.

Nat snagged a sick-bag on the way not knowing how your stomach would react to the lurch of the lift. You raised a brow but didn’t comment. After a successful trip down to the kitchen you realised it was mostly empty. Clint stood by the toaster making bagels with cream cheese and looked up smiling at you when you walked in. Nat waved and went over to talk to him. But he frowned and nat paused. Looking sheepish he signed to nat he broke his hearing aids while training and nat laughed. Quickly signing back she told him it was ok and she would tell fury to send more. Clint looked up from his conversation and noticed you signing to Wanda about what you wanted to eat. He frowned.

‘I didn’t know she knew sign language.’ He signed. Nat froze and Wanda swooped in.

‘She’s got a sore throat so she’s resting her voice’ Wanda said and you smiled shyly. Clint smiled, happy he had someone else he could sign with. The toaster dinged loudly and you flinched still slightly on edge from earlier. Wanda took you hand rubbing her thumb over you knuckles to smooth you.

You sighed softly and gave her a look of thanks.

‘Are you alright y/n?’ Clint signed not missing the way you had flinched.

‘Yeah toaster startled me’ you signed back and Clint nodded in understanding. He shot a questioning look to nat who shook her head and indicated he should just drop it. He nodded and pulled out his bagels which nat pointed too seeing he couldn’t hear the ding.

“Wanda once you got y/n/n’s snack head back up to the room and I’ll join you a bit later. I need to call fury to get more of Clint’s hearing aids sent to the compound. Clint signed thanks after reading her lips and nat waved him off. He wouldn’t be able to make the call himself because he couldn’t really talk right now.

Earlier you, nat and Wanda had decided on how to tell the team about your issues but decided to start small. Clint would be the first one to tell he would understand the best. But you hadn’t had the courage to tell him yet.

Wanda and you headed back to the room and after around a half hour of relaxing and listening to Wanda read to you you had been dozing lightly when Jarvis startled you into fully being awake.

“Director fury is asking for everyone to meet him in the conference room.”

The AI said.

“Alright tell him we are on our way.” Wanda said slipping the sunglasses back on your face rubbing her thumb over your cheekbone as you basked in her touch. She grabbed you hand and softly pulled you from the bed.

Fury was waiting in the meeting room. Nat and the rest were already there and Wanda pulled you into a chair next to her and Natasha.

“Nice of you to join us Maximoff and L/n” fury said and you made yourself smaller in your seat as the team looked at you.

“Alright getting straight to the point.” Fury said. “Operative has confirmed that hydra has put out a hit on y/n.” Wanda, Natasha, tony and you tensed but stayed quiet. “L/n will need to be accompanied by another member of the team at all times and is not to leave the compound unattended.” Fury said and you groaned quietly. Whenever similar things had happened in the past it had made you feel trapped. And as you explained to Wanda and nat earlier that often led to you disappearing for a couple hours to be alone. “This is not up for discussion L/n.” Fury said when he heard you groan. You slouched but didn’t protest not wanting to talk still or make a scene by using sign language in front of the team who still didn’t know.

“Everyone else you are to be going to this hydra base here” fury tapped a spot on the map behind him that was being projected on the screen. “This meeting will brief you all on what will happen and i trust tony to brief the rest of you with more details on y/n later.” Tony, Wanda and nat stiffened knowing the truth about you. “Only a handful of you will be staying behind. Clint seeings you can’t hear right now which would make using coms a nightmare.” Clint frowned crossing his arms and sounding in. The chair but knowing fury was right. “Y/n for obvious reasons and a concussion. Bruce will stay here in case y/n requires medical attention and Wanda and nat seeings you have taken a liking to young ms L/n will stay behind to protect her. The rest of you will be going to the base. You leave in three days. Tony you have three days to tell the team about y/n or I will be. Alright now lets get into the details of what’s happening on the mission. L/n, Barton, Maximoff and Romanoff you all stay for this as well, you might be needed as backup at any point so stay focused here.” You deflated in your chair, feeling yourself getting overstimulated. It was a mix of the constant flow of information and the fact your concussion was making everything around you seem ten times louder than it was. Nat was taking note on your left and Wanda sat doing the same on your right. Even though they wouldn’t be going on the mission they wanted to stay informed.

You drummed your fingers on your thigh and fidgeted softly trying to lay attention. You felt the headache begging to worsen and you winced, luckily hidden by the sunglasses. After another five minutes you were struggling even more. Even through the sunglasses the light was hurting your eyes slightly and the noises had blurred together to create an endless stream of overstimulating pain. You couldn’t tell nat or Wanda because you couldn’t sign in front of the team. Quietly you took a pen from the cup of them in the centre of the table. Uncapping the black biro and starting to draw up and down your arms. You drew and octopus to start and were putting the details on the tentacles when you felt a hand on yours. Looking up you see nat offering you her notepad. She slides it to you across the table indicating to draw on it instead. With slightly shaky hands you take it. Nat frowns seeing your tremor. You glanced around before moving your hands below the table and signed “what about your notes?” And she points to Wanda who is talking notes as well and she gives a finger wiggling wave with a cheeky grin. You chuckle and when you realise the room us quiet you see Steve glaring at you.

“Y/n? Are you even paying attention.” You swallow nervously.

“Yeah thats what I thought. Please listen this is important or we will have to. Bench you on the next mission.”

when nat saw the tears collecting in your eyes she stood up for you knowing it was too much and you couldn’t talk or leave. You felt trapped. Steve was still lecturing oblivious to you going a deep shade of red from the teams eyes on you.

“Alright thats enough Steve you made your point now get back to it.” Natasha said sounding very annoyed. Steve paused taking note of the authority in Nat’s voice and swallowed before returning to the briefing as fury had left to deal with more important matters. Wanda’s eyes lingered on you for a second before meeting Nat’s as they silently and possible mentally conversed thanks to Wanda’s powers. You were a little annoyed because you knew they would be talking about you. You huffed and fixed your gaze on the screen trying to get your buzzing brain to pay attention to the details. After what felt like hours Steve dismissed the team and you made a beeline for the door. Quickly retreating to your room and despite the silence, slipping on your noise cancelling headphones and starting to draw in your sketchbook. You were chewing on your pinky finger absentmindedly as your pen flew across the page when two short raps came on the door. Wanda and nat wanted to make sure you were ok. They knew something was up. Of course with the headphones on you didn’t hear them. Only realising when then door cracked open spilling light into the dimly lit room. Wandas head peeked in cautiously and you gave a small apologetic smile and signed for her to come in, looking sheepish. She smiled wildly and pushed the door open the rest of the way as her and nat entered. Shutting it after them, the room returned to its previously dimly lit level of light but the two girls didn’t seem to care. Nat eyed your sketchbook complementing your art before Wanda pulled you into her arms.

You buried your face in her neck and drew in a heavy breathe pf her calming scent.

“Baby girl was that meeting a bit much for you?” Wanda asked softly and felt you nod into her neck.

“Im sorry my love. The reason we didn’t come find you straight away is natty here chewed out Steve for calling you out like that in front of the team.” She heard you sniffle into her chest and felt small sobs wrack your form.

“Aww sweets don’t cry we’re here now.” Wanda said and you pulled away still straddling her with her hands on your hips. You signed ‘too much’ and nat carefully slipped the noise canceling headphones back over your ears. You sighed and Wanda pulled you into her again and drew circles on your back with the palm of her hand. It soothed you like the presence of the two women. After a bit you fell asleep and Wanda quietly talked to nat about telling the team. They would find out sooner or later and right now them not knowing was making things harder on you. Stressing to keep it secret was taking its toll on you. Nat knew the team the longest and knew they would be fine with it. Helpful even.

When you next woke they posed the idea and tired and sad you agreed. Pointing at them and signing that they would tell the team for you. Nat chuckled. “Sure thing kiddo whatever you want squirt.” She said ruffling you hair with a smile you batted her hand away grinning and poked your tongue out at her.With mock offence she placed a hand over her chest and gasped. Wanda rolled her eyes at your antics.

“Honestly you two are such children.”

“Yeah but you love us.” Nat said and Wanda sighed.

“I do. I love you both very much” she said peppering your face with kisses as you giggled slightly the sound warming Wanda’s heart.

“Right we have a meeting to call.” Nat said standing up.

MASTERLIST

[moeitsu]

fanfic update! + sneak peak

I'm making good progress with Ch.15, it's up to 8k words now and I got through a major milestone in the story! Not to spoil anything, but Arthur has finally revealed his feelings for Kate :)

I'm thinking of breaking this up into two parts...I know I just did a 2-part chapter but I don't wanna overwhelm anybody if I suddenly drop a lengthy 15k words. I'm still not sure yet, guess we'll have to see. It's never my initial intention to make these chapters so long, but sometimes I get so carried away I just can't stop.

I still have so much planned for the rest of the chapter, I'm trying to divide the events by "day 1" and "day 2" to give it some structure. Like I've said before, its still a filler chapter (filler as-in I am not following the video game plot atm) but its loaded with fluff and comfort. And just general relationship development. There's also going to be some hot and heavy moments, as well as some angst. Bc who doesn't love angst.

Anyways, here's a sneak peak of what's coming!

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Needing an outlet for his swirling thoughts, Arthur reluctantly opened the journal, the pages heavy with memories. He flipped through drawings, entries, and little notes, each one a fragment of his life. Portraits of Kate mingled with sketches of flowers and scenery, their delicate lines capturing moments of fleeting beauty.

His fingers paused on one particular page, the image stretching across both sides of the journal. On the left, a tender depiction of Kate laying in the grass, sleeping against her saddle. Her face was serene, her features softened by slumber. Lorena, her loyal mare, had her head nestled on Kate's chest, equally deep in sleep. The scene was a perfect snapshot of peace and companionship.

On the right side of the page, Arthur had sketched the familiar rocky shoreline of Clemens Point. The sun was setting, its rays kissing the horizon and casting a glow over the water. The waves lapped gently at the rocks, the rhythmic motion almost audible through the drawing.

In Arthur’s print, a simple note read: My world.

[atinycafe]

LIME SORBET — ch 02 [g-wagon]

PROMPT; reader finally comes back to s. korea as she finished her training in los angeles, ready to debut as a solo artist under kq ent! exciting right? well her sunbaes seem to like that idea too.

FEAT; alpha!ateez x omega!idol!reader, platonic!beta!maddox x reader (joong + san + woo focus)

IN THIS CHAPTER; reader has to share a ride w teez, stuck between san and woo, she tries not 2 suffocate

WRD COUNT; 2.2k

NOTES; joong is a dramaqueen, woo is touchy nd sani is a bby

TAGLIST; @marievllr-abg @cookiechristie ; lmk if you want 2 b added 2!

The trio of alpha companions stood in close proximity to the yawning trunk of the vehicle, their gaze fixated upon the back of the omega's head. Serene and patient, she awaited her place in the backseat, engrossed in conversation with Maddox as he ignited the engine. A somber twinkle danced in the depths of their eyes, signifying their solemnity as they prepared for what lay ahead.

"All right, rock-paper-scissors!" Hongjoong proclaimed, his hand forming a resolute fist. This was the sole manner in which they could determine who would have the privilege of sitting beside her. Convincing any one of them to surrender their place in favor of occupying the front seat was an insurmountable task.

Wooyoung and San mirrored his determined stance, poised to partake in the timeless game.

"On the count of three," Hongjoong intoned, his voice thick with anticipation. "One, two, three!"

The air crackled with the swift clash of hands, each alpha unveiling their chosen gesture. With scissors deftly slicing through Hongjoong's paper, San and Wooyoung reveled in their victory, their smiles radiating triumph. Meanwhile, Hongjoong's heart fragmented upon witnessing their exuberant high-five, leaving him defeated and crestfallen.

"Siuuu!" both Wooyoung and San exclaimed in unison, punctuating their triumph with raised fists, brimming with animated delight.

With the verdict reached, the inseparable pair eagerly claimed their positions on either side of the omega, nestling themselves comfortably in her midst. Wooyoung bestowed upon her a captivating smile, his eyes aglow with gentle warmth. "Looks like it's you and me, Omega. Buckle up for the ride."

Barely a moment passed before San playfully swatted Wooyoung's head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What do you mean 'you and me'?" he chided from the opposite side of the vehicle, leaning towards the omega to snatch Wooyoung's attention. "I'm right here too!~" Their teasing exchange filled the air, infusing the scene with an air of playful mirth.

The omega's cheeks flushed at the proximity, a swirling concoction of excitement and bashfulness enveloping her. Swiftly securing her seatbelt, she stole fleeting glances at both alphas, captivated by their presence.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung and San engaged in playful shoves and nudges, oblivious to the omega's heightened blush and the way she nestled herself inward, seeking solace within her own shell. Their lively interactions caused a lighthearted dance of pheromones within the confines of the car, a playful struggle for dominance.

Hongjoong, attuned to the surge of her anxiety, twisted in his seat to face the mischievous pair. His voice took on a commanding growl as he declared, "Settle down." The forceful tone left no room for doubt, conveying his seriousness to the alpha companions.

Upon hearing Hongjoong's authoritative growl, both Wooyoung and San immediately halted their playful antics, their expressions shifting to a mix of contrition and concern as they took in the hints of restlessness in her scent. They exchanged sheepish glances, realizing the unintended effect of their boisterous behavior.

"Shit sorry," Wooyoung stammered, his voice laced with genuine remorse. "We didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Are you okay?"

San nodded in agreement, his eyes filled with earnest apology. "Yeah, we got carried away. We didn't mean to invade your personal space like that."

"No, oh my God!" She swiftly waved her hands in front of her, her eyes gleaming with sincerity. "You guys didn't do anything wrong. It's just that I'm quite the fan of your group, and being in such close proximity to all of you is making me feel a bit overwhelmed. I don't want to do anything embarrassing. I don't really know where to put myself." With a soft awkward giggle, she delicately pressed her hands against her rosy cheeks, as if hoping to gently suppress the ever-present blush that adorned her face since the moment she laid eyes on the idols she'd been hoping to meet for the past two years.

The boys almost combust, she was way too cute. And to top it off, she was a fan of theirs? It was simply unbelievable. Ain't no way bruh.

San found himself fighting the urge to lean in and kiss her cheeks, desperate to be as close to her as possible. His face adorning now a blush of its own matching the pretty omega sitting next to him. His gaze sharpens softly, his eyes almost closing, making his gaze too attractive (reader's words not mine!) she had to look somewhere else. Her words had an intoxicating effect on Woo, rendering him speechless. Wooyoung, known for his quick wit and sharp tongue, could only stare at her with his mouth agape. It was a rare occurrence for him to be left without words. Yet, the other alphas in the car could hear his thoughts racing with adoration for just how adorable she was.

Hongjoong, who was seating away from her, silently thanked his divine providence. He knew that sitting next to her would be a test of his self-control. The desire to hold her in his lap and bury his face in the crook of her neck, where her scent glands resided, would be too strong to resist. He would content himself with clutching his thighs so firmly that the fabric of his jeans might strain and fray, unintentionally giving birth to a new trend.

"'Quite the fan,' huh? I'd say you're obsessed," Maddox's words sliced through the air, shattering the tension that had settled in the car like shards of glass. "You literally told me the only reason you auditioned to KQent was because of the KQfellaz show." Maddox, comfortably positioned in the driver's seat, cast a sly glance at her through the rearview mirror, unable to resist the temptation of disclosing her secret, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

"Moon, what the fuck!" the omega exclaimed, her voice hushed, her cheeks ablaze with embarrassment.

Maddox chuckled, his mischievous grin refusing to be contained. "Oh come on, guys," he teased, diverting his attention to the alphas."You won't believe it. Our rookie here is an atiny. Like the whole package photocards, posters and shit"

San and Wooyoung turned their heads simultaneously, their eyes widening with a delightful blend of surprise and delight. While they had been taken aback by her being a fan, the revelation of her deep-rooted and longstanding dedication added an unexpected layer of connection, surpassing the boundaries of their mere mate link.

Overwhelmed by the sudden attention, the omega's shyness reached its peak, causing her to instinctively kick Kyungmoon's seatback, a momentary release of pent-up emotions. However, before she could register her action, Wooyoung's reflexes kicked in, his hand swiftly gripping her shin in a protective gesture. With a soft tsk, he uttered the endearing nickname, "Be careful, baby," as if it were a natural extension of their dynamic. His thumb tenderly caressed the top of her leg, leaving her bewildered by the intensity of his gentle touch. Puzzled, she wondered why he was focused on a part of her leg she hadn't even used to strike the car. What the fuck was he on, like— The enigma of his actions swirled in her mind, amplifying the impact of his tender gestures, making it a challenge to resist the melting sensations that threatened to engulf her.

I mean, Wooyoung was caressing her leg! What the fuck! The realization hit her like a sudden rush of adrenaline. As a fellow member of the same entertainment company, she had anticipated some level of interaction with the boys, but nothing could have prepared her for the intimacy she was experiencing now. The way Wooyoung's fingers delicately grazed her leg sent shivers down her spine, a sensation she couldn't quite explain. It wasn't just a friendly gesture between colleagues; it held a subtle, electrifying energy that made her heart race.

Caught between a mix of excitement and uncertainty, her mind raced with questions. Was this their usual behavior with fans, or was there something more behind Wooyoung's gentle touch? Did he even realize the effect he had on her? The conflicting thoughts swirled in her mind, creating a storm of emotions she struggled to contain.

"He's gonna be the death of me," she whispered inwardly, her voice laced with a mix of amusement and trepidation. Wooyoung's carefree personality was renowned within the group, always exuding an infectious energy and playful nature. But this newfound closeness, the tenderness of his touch, was driving her to the brink of insanity.

With every caress, it became increasingly difficult for her to ignore the growing attraction to him. The way he moved with such ease, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin, sent a surge of warmth through her veins. It was as if he held the power to awaken a dormant part of her being, a part she had never dared to acknowledge before.

Lost in her thoughts, she allowed herself a stolen glance at Wooyoung, whose eyes sparkled with mischief and a hint of something more. Was he aware of the effect he had on her? Did he feel the same inexplicable connection that had ignited within her soul? The uncertainty gnawed at her, simultaneously thrilling and terrifying her.

Not being able to hold eye contact any longer, her eyes shifted to his hands again. Only know noticing the intricate network of veins that traced their way across Wooyoung's hands and forearms. (i had 2 mention woo's veins at least once grr)

San, witnessing the tender exchange unfolding before his eyes, couldn't resist the magnetic pull drawing him closer to her. With a surge of longing coursing through his veins, he reached out and gently captured her hand, their fingers intertwining seamlessly in a harmonious union. His touch, roughened by the challenges they faced as idols, delicately intertwined with her dainty, perfectly manicured fingers, creating an electric current that danced along his skin. The sensation ignited a wildfire of desire within him, a deep-seated longing to explore the depths of their connection.

A soft smile graced San's lips as he leaned in closer, his eyes filled with genuine curiosity. "Tell me more," he whispered, his voice tinged with a mixture of intrigue and mischievousness. "Who's your favourite one among us?", his dimples adding a touch of playfulness to his words.

"Oh it's—" Before Maddox could interject, his words were met with a low, but soft growl that rippled through the air. Her firm frown, paired with the intensity of her gaze directed at the driver, sent a clear message. She was a force to be reckoned with, a fierce protector of her own secrets, omega or not.

"Don't you fucking dare," she uttered, her eyes drilling into the back of Maddox's head.

Yet, even in her assertiveness, her inherent charm couldn't be concealed. Hongjoong, feeling his heart ache with a bittersweet longing, let himself succumb to the weight of his emotions. He closed his eyes, allowing his head to rest gently against the cool windowpane, seeking solace in the fragments of her presence that lingered within his thoughts (he's such a dramaqueen omg). The memory of her subtle growl, the way her eyebrows knitted together and her nose adorably scrunched up, etched itself into his mind, fueling his yearning to embrace her in a tender, everlasting bond.

She possessed an ethereal beauty, a delicate presence that captivated his attention. However, he understood the fragility of her position as a newcomer in the cutthroat entertainment industry. The challenges faced by solo artists to establish themselves in the realm of Korean Pop were immense, and he didn't want to add to her burden with his own alpha bullshit.

"Oh, come on, tell us~," Wooyoung playfully whined, his hand still firmly planted on her leg, inching up to rest on her knee. His eyes held a mischievous glimmer, conveying his genuine curiosity. "I promise I won't be mad if it's not me."

Her laughter bubbled up, a delightful melody that filled the car, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of warmth in his chest. Her fingers delicately covered her mouth, inadvertently highlighting the curve of her lips and the way her eyes crinkled with mirth. The alphas found themselves enraptured by the sight, their gazes softening in response to her radiant joy.

With a soft smile, Wooyoung leaned in closer, his voice a mere whisper. "Just one hint," he urged, his anticipation palpable. He held his breath, waiting with bated longing for the words that would reveal her favourite among them.

She hummed playfully, her eyes flickering upwards as if considering his request. Her long lashes almost grazed her arched eyebrows, casting delicate shadows on the light blue eyeshadow adorning her eyelids. The air crackled with suspense as she granted him a single hint, her teasing nature adding an extra layer of intrigue.

Wooyoung nodded eagerly, his eyes fixed on her. He awaited her words like a devoted pet, his loyalty and curiosity intertwined.

"He's pathetic" Hongjoong shared through his mind with a big smile on his face, his thoughts transmitting directly to San's mind.

San couldn't resist the urge to chime in, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "She's got him hooked," he added, recognizing the power she held over their hapless companion.

"It's not you." she smirked, the playful mischief dancing in her eyes.

Silence engulfed the car, the other occupants momentarily frozen, before a wave of laughter erupted from everyone except Wooyoung. The sound filled the space, a chorus of amusement and camaraderie, as they relished in the light-hearted banter and the unexpected twist she had delivered.

[next]

[reignsan]