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livinginshambles · 1 year

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You're ridiculous, you know | James Potter

Pairing: James Potter x fem!Reader

Word Count: 4.0k

Summary: Part one Masterlist

James sees you in a new light and wants to try to change the way you see him too, moment by moment. He is trying to win you over but understands that you're having a hard time believing that he's genuine about his feeling because of his sudden switch of focus from Lily to you (even though it gave him whiplash as well, but I guess he just accepted it faster.)

Notes: Best friend!James, he's less stupid, Lily is a sweet friend, fluff, pining, misunderstandings, (best) friends to lovers I guess, spelling mistakes probably because I typed this out on my phone.

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With the hatch buried between you and James, you felt like you could finally properly breathe again. James had apologized again, of course and told you that he supported your new style.

Trying to balance your two friends groups however, did prove to be much more difficult than you thought. Neither of the two seemed very entertained by the thought of hanging out together as one group. Besides, James had become rather clingy as well, becoming his very own one man group to balance hanging out with.

"I now have abandonment fears," he jokingly defended when you raised your eyebrows at his arm, wrapped around your waist instead of your shoulder like usual while you two were walking down the open court yard.

"Right," you replied, seemingly not very impressed. You knew what he was trying to do, especially after your rejection. After all, save from Lily, he'd never actually been rejected. You assumed that this too, was a matter of pride. "You have nothing to prove you know," you told him and he merely hummed in reply.

"And anyway, you'll have to let me go now because my mum sent over some dresses for me. I'm planning on trying them on with the girls."

The grip on your waist tightened.

"No," he pleaded, "Don't leave me." He dramatically leaned his entire weight on you, dragging you down as well. Was he always this heavy? You incredulously thought.

"James, you'll make us both fall! Get up you're-"

"The earth is dragging me down. I can't help it, Love," he said in a playful, strained voice.

"Unless you want to spend the afternoon giving your opinion on dresses, I suggest you fight back against the earth, oh brave Gryffindor." You retorted, amusement clear in your voice.

James immediately straightened up. "Sure, I'll review your dresses," he happily replied.

‘Well’, you contemplated. You supposed it’s not as if you've never gotten dressed around eachother.”

Your mum had been very delighted at the news that she could go ahead and send over a dress through the mail. She went a tad bit overboard though, you thought as you looked at the heap of clothes on your bed.

James was sitting next to the said heap, waiting patiently for you to get changed in the bathroom. A pit formed in his stomach at the thought that he'd made things weird enough for you to want to get dressed in the bathroom. 'I mean, you've seen eachother naked before?' He thought. Not that he was aiming to see you naked of course.

His hands weaved through the beautiful clothes. He was sure they'd all look splendid on you. Would you go with him to the Yule Ball? His heart clenched. Probably not. You rejected a date with him to Hogsmeade. No way were you going to accept going to the ball together.

James stared out of the window, a lost feeling washing over him. How could he turn this around? Would you ever look at him that way?

The door opened and James' breath stopped, literally. It was simply perfect.

Mesmerizing, he thought.

'Merlin this was only the very first dress, how would his heart survive the dozen other dresses? You looked radiant. Like actually radiant. The dress made you glow with beauty and confidence. The color was what he could only describe as your color and made you look like bloody royalty.' He knew his opinion was biased, but it was still the truth, he thought.

And so his mind started racing. You were going to go to the ball, looking like that, with a date who was someone else. Jealousy flared up at the thought. He had to internally slap himself to shake him out of it.

You had taken his long silence as a negative opinion and quickly brought your arms to fold over your middle, covering yourself. "Not this one then?" You asked.

"No. I-I mean yes, sorry. I was distracted."

You felt slight disappointment at his words. Another sinking feeling in your stomach, but you reasoned with yourself that he just wasn’t used to doing this sort of activity with you. "You don't have to do this you know." You gently said and sat down next to him.

"Do you have a date to the ball?" He blurted out in response.

You were taken aback by the change of subject but shrugged. "There's been a few people who’ve asked, but I don't know. I've never talked to them before and it feels a little superficial that they only now would ask me out, just because they noticed I look and dress differently."

James could feel his heart plummet even lower if that was possible. Did you think that about him as well? You wouldn't be wrong of course. He'd only started to view you in a different light when you decided to go for a different style, and stopped only hanging out with the marauders after all. Guilt started to weigh his mind.

"Are you going to ask Lily out?" You tentatively asked.

"Of course," he automatically responded, without having processed the question. Your face fell a little. A confirmation, you thought. You were right. Maybe you'd have to accept one of the student' proposals for the Yule Ball after all.

James’ eyes widened and he quickly averted his eyes when you unzipped your dress right next to him. "The bathroom?!" He sqeaked out in panic.

You put on a grin. "Well, you look like you're bored and me taking my time in the bathroom will take too long. I guess I could just very quickly change here. Besides, you've seen me naked before."

James was somehow feeling more hurt at the prospect of you getting changed in front of him, than hiding in the bathroom. It meant that you really only saw him as a friend, he sighed.

You on the other hand, decided that you were hellbent on refusing to let your dynamic with James change because of unrequited feelings.

James was lying on his bed, wide awake. He couldn't sleep, mind wandering off to you, and he rolled around in frustration at himself and yelled into his pillow. Ashamed, he looked around if the he'daccidentally woken anyone up. He didn't.

He was restless. None of his subtle advances had apparently been noticed by you. And if they had, then you'd blatantly ignored them. James wasn't sure which option he liked better.

Tears of frustration and misery welled up in his eyes. He'd seen you get asked out by three different people today, and every time, his heart would stop, scared that you'd say yes.

The past few days, his eyes couldn't leave your figure as you went off to hang out with Lily, and he cursed himself for never having noticed you, too focused on Lily. He groaned and turned around again in his bed. "You're the perfect best friend," is what you had told him this morning when he had saved you from an awkward conversation with a seventh year Ravenclaw. His stomach had dropped.

'But you agreed to hang out with just him,' he kept telling himself in reassurance. Tomorrow was finally weekend and an off day which meant it was time for your not-date. At the thought, his heart lightened, and he managed to finally fall asleep.

You really weren't complaining at all. If anything you couldn't help your body from completely leaning into James who had once again wrapped his arms around your waist. Arms that were firmly holding on to you as if to not let you leave his side.

A week had passed since he asked you out on a date, and you and James were finally off to Hogsmeade together, your own heart both seering, as well as clenching at the thought that this was merely considered 'hanging out'.

Yes, you'd very much wanted it to be a date. Exactly like James had described it. Just the two of you, together on a date, which in a way was kind of what you were doing right now, even if you denied calling it that.

And if you weren't absolutely sure that you were setting yourself up for disappointment and heartbreak at the prospect of not working out because of his feelings for Lily, you would've definitely agreed with the biggest grin on your face.

But you were sure that that's what you'd be setting yourself up for. And having conflict avoiding tendencies had you make rational decisions such as then. Besides, the fact that he was going to ask Lily out to the Yule Ball confirmed that you had made the right decision.

'Could've been a date though', your mind seemed to whisper, and you grimaced. 'And then what,' you thought. 'Even if he settles for me, it would just be unfair for both of us. He never gets to be truly happy and I never get to be truly loved.' You scoffed.

"You okay, Love?" James shook you out of your train of thoughts, a concerned look on his face and he slowed his pace to a stop to properly look at you. His hands found their way to the sides of your face, his eyes searching yours.

You turned your head to the left and stuck out your tongue. He jerked away in surprise with a loud laugh. "That's foul!" He yelled. He was about to wipe his hand on his trousers when he stopped and then looked contemplatively from his hand to you and back.

Your grin was wiped off your face at the sight of the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and wasted no time to sprint off.

"You keep that hand to yourself Potter!" You shouted with a laugh.

"Absolutely not, you get back here!"

"This is a new dress, no way I'm letting you wipe your hand on it!" You quickly shot back and looked behind you to see him quickly catching up on you.

You watched with a face of disdain as he calmly wiped his hands with your sleeves, holding you in a headlock. "So unfair", you muttered.

James childishly stuck his tongue out and released you from his grasp.

It had you tumbling to the ground. "Hey!"

"Alright truce?" He asked and he stuck his hand out, both to seal the deal as well as help you up.

When you moved to shake his hand, he smirked. 'Oh so naive. You should know better.'

You noticed the trap far too late and weren't able to pull your hand back fast enough-

"James! Now that's foul!" You shrieked at his wet hand. Undoubtedly, because he'd spit in it moments before.

James was doubling over in laughter, and you took the opportunity to wipe your hands on his sweater. He let you.

“You’re ridiculous you know,” you shook your head.

“And you not at all,” he grinned. James wrapped his arms securely around your waist again, and you continued to head to Hogsmeade.

James looked at you from the bar counter. He was waiting for the drinks he ordered and admired you from afar. You were already sitting at a table in the corner for two and were munching on some snacks you had fished out of your bag, waving at him with a warm smile when you caught his gaze.

Sure, up until recently, he’d always seen you as the cool best friend that he could share everything with, tackle to the ground, tell gross jokes to, or get shirtless around when changing clothes. He was used to not at all treating you differently than Sirius, Remus or Peter, because in his eyes, you belonged to the same category.

But now, even though James also absolutely didn’t want your dynamic to change, he was conflicted because he finally saw you in a different light. He just had to try and make you see him in a different light as well.

The bartender gave him his drinks and he walked over to you with a grin. “Pick one,” he told you, still standing next to you and holding the mugs behind his back.

“Left,” you chose without hesitation. He put the mug in front of you and you looked suspiciously in the mug. At the sight of the green liquid you squinted your eyes at him. He put his own mug down and you leaned over the table to peer into it as well. Blue.

“Are you trying to poison us both?”

James snorted and sat down in front of you, “You got me.”

You kicked his leg under the table and he pretended to be in excruciating pain. “You wound me, Love,” He groaned exaggeratedly, all the way slouched down his chair and gripping his leg to sell his point.

“Want me to kiss it better?”, you teased and then immediately awkwardly paused. See this would’ve been a normal thing to say if you said this a month ago, but now it just made things weird. James however was grinning from ear to ear, absolutely soaking in the thought and cheekily replied, “Oh, darling, you must.”

‘Alright cheeky bastard’, you thought. Shaking your head with a chuckle, you moved your chair back and ducked under the table. James' eyes widened in shock, especially when you grabbed his leg.

“Drinking all by yourself?” Frank’s voice had both of you freeze up.

You moved to get up from your crouched position, planning on using a fallen hair tie as an excuse when James blurted out a different excuse. “No, just waiting for Y/N, she went to the bathroom.” You groaned and hit your head repeatedly against James’ knee.

Great, now it would be weird if you just crawled out from under the table.

“Y/N? I was actually looking for her, I mean we’re partners for potions class. You know what, I’ll just wait with you then.”

‘No!” James said, a little too loud, before he could help himself. He cleared his throat. “I mean uh,” James leaned in towards Frank and quietly, as if he was telling a secret, gleefully added, “We’re actually on a date.”

You playfully slapped his leg in a scolding manner.

Frank immediately seemed to get it and wished him good luck before leaving the table.

You scrambled out quickly and when your eyes met, you both burst out in laughter.

Despite your fear that dynamics would change and your resolve that you wouldn't allow it, you didn't mind the change so much if this was how it was going to be from now on, you thought to yourself. James had dramatically thrown himself half on top of you, head buried right under your breasts.

"Rough Quidditch practice", he'd mumbled before collapsing and absolutely melting like snow for the sun into you when you weaved your fingers through his curly locks, the other hand rubbing at the nape of his neck.

When you had tried to pull your hands away to retrieve your book from the bag next to you to pass the time while James seemed passed out, James had whined in protest, grabbing your hands and placing them back on his head.

"Prongs," you tried after a long time but received no answer. you lifted your hands from his head again and finally got a grumbled "What."

"Supper,' you softly spoke.

"Five more minutes, please?"

As if you could deny that request. After another few 'five more minutes' you finally gently pushed him off, both of you sitting up. He looked around, dazed, his eyes drooping and hair messy.

You entered the great hall with James trailing behind you, holding your hand. Peter spotted you and waved you over. James squished himself between Sirius and you, ignoring the other spot front of you that the marauders had saved for him.

"Blimey Y/N, what have you done with Prongs?!" Sirius asked, a horriefied expression adorning his face when James lazily rested his face in your neck. You laughed at his antics and shrugged, getting complaints from James at your movements.

Remus handed you two plates of food. "We saved these for you two."

"Thanks Moony," you gratefully accepted them and poked James with a fork. "Eat, you big baby," you said and pushed the fork in his hand. James internally groaned. But he was so comfortable like this. Why couldn't he just stay like this forever? He reluctantly sat up straight and started eating. He was hungry after all.

"Hey Potter, mind if we steal Y/N for a second?"

"Go away McKinnon," he was quick to respond and stuck out his tongue pettily. "She stays with me, you already had her the entire day."

You amusedly watched them banter. "I think you'll find that I will choose myself where I go, Prongs." And got up from your seat, moving down the long table to sit next to Lily.

"So what the hell was that Prongs?" Sirius inquired as soon as you were out of hearing range. Peter and Remus curiously looked at him.

"Oh, did I forget to tell you guys that I fancy Y/N?"

"Yeah that too, even if it was absolutely obvious," Peter shrugged.

Remus laughed at James' gaping expression. "What Padfoot meant was are you guys like a thing now? Like did we miss something? I thought you said she kinda rejected a date with you?"

James sighed dejectedly. "Yeah, she did." He straightened up again. But I'm working on it though."

Lily nudged you. "So I don't know if I should thank you or pity you."

"Huh?"

"I mean, thank you for getting James to stop pursuing me, but I'm sorry you have to deal with him now," she laughed.

Marlene wiggled her eyebrows at you. "Unless you don't mind having to deal with him of course," she smirked. "You looked pretty comfy," she added.

Alice nodded her head in agreement. "Frank told me you two went on a date last week apparently."

Your friends gasped dramatically and you were quick to deny it. "No, James just said that so Frank would leave us alone," you said and swatted Dorcas when she suggestively wiggled her eyebrows at you. "Ugh, you guys, be nice to me," you complained while laughing. "We're just friends hanging out, besides he still likes you Lils, look he's still staring at you," you said that last part with a sigh.

Lily raised her eyebrows. "Not at me, he's not." She nudged you again. "Look," she urged you.

You turned your head to look at James and your eyes met. He couldn't help but wink and felt very victorious when you looked away flusteredly, a big smile on your face.

'Could it be?'

Over the course of the next few weeks, James and you had gotten a lot closer. By now, you and James walked through the hallways, his hand always touching you somehow, whether he was holding yours, had his arm slung around your shoulders, waist, or lower back.

You also found yourself hanging around the boys dormitory alone with James more often than ever before. You were laying horizontally across his bed, your head hanging off the side of the bed. James went to the bathroom and you were passing the time.

You kept sliding forward bit by bit and when you were hanging low enough to look under James' bed, a brilliant plan to jumpscare him popped up in your brain. Perfect. You quickly moved to hide under his bed. Your hands ready to grab his ankles when he returned.

The door opened and you held your breath in anticipation. You peeked from underneath the drapes, covering your body and saw him look around surprisedly before a mischievous grin appeared on his face.

He called out your name to be certain and when you didn't respond, he pumped his fist excitedly and hurried to hide inside the wardrobe on the other side of the room, undoubtedly having the same idea as you and you couldn't suppress your laugh anymore. You rolled out from under the bed grinning like an idiot.

James joined you on the floor, although he did seem a little bit bummed out that he hadn't been able to prank you. "I guess genius recognizes genius," he admitted with a laugh.

"I have to go to the library to study," you bit your lip while you said it. Disappointed at the thought of breaking the peace.

James turned his head and looked over at you. You were so close. For a moment, he closed his eyes, relishing in the moment of having you within arms reach like that.

When he reopened his eyes, they flickered over your face and rested a little longer on your lips. It wouldn't take more than him leaning in to easily capture your lips and it took everything in him not to. It almost pained him literally. You turned your head towards James due to the lack of response, checking if everything was alright and if he had heard you when you said you needed to go.

"You're mesmerizing," he whispered softly, the words always on the back of his mind since he saw you in the first dress. You chuckled at that. "Using big words now, huh," you whispered back teasingly, a fond expression on your face.

"No, really."

Those two words left you speechless in surprise. You don't know what it was. Perhaps the sincerity on his face or in his tone. Perhaps the way he emphasized that he really meant it. Or maybe even the way he was looking at you right then.

Whatever it was, it made you throw your reservations and resolve straight out of the window.

Rational decisions were the last thing on your mind when your eyes locked with James' and then you were both leaning in, meeting each other halfway in a soft, fleeting kiss.

"I think you're mesmerizing as well," You murmured against his lips and you could feel them curl up in a smile.

"You're such an arsehole," you laughed, slapping his ice cold hands away. You ended up not going to the library to study. After all, who needs studying anyway? Instead you and James had curled up against each other on his bed, entangled together and James decided to slide his freezing hands under your shirt, resting on your stomach.

"No, I'm mesmerizing," he huffed and attempted to warm his hands again.

"Did you even wash your hands when you returned from the bathroom?"

There was a long pause and you stared up at him incredulously. "James Potter! You are disgusting," you exclaimed.

“Oh don’t tell me you’ve never forgotten to wash your hands after going to the toilet!”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to hold the- the thing.”

James laughed loudly.

“You suck,” you huffed.

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "I can't be that bad, I won you over in less than a month," he wore a triumphant smile on his face and you wanted nothing more than to smack it off. You didn't of course, and instead buried your face in his neck in embarrassment while grumbling about arrogance. You two hadn't really talked about the kiss that happened 10 minutes prior.

Absolutely refusing to let you pull back mentally and physically, James had been quick to mention how uncomfortable your position on the floor really was, and he proposed to lay down on his bed instead where he changed the topic while still getting comfortable with you. It was his way of letting you know that he wasn't trying to skim over the fact that you kissed or ignore the fact that it happened, but rather that he wanted to ease the tension by doing so.

You were relieved and thankful for him, knowing that that tension would have absolutely made things too awkward for you, and that you would've definitely fled from the room in denial.

"I think I fancy you, James," you eventually quietly admitted to him, your voice muffled as your face was still hidden away.

His grip on you tightened and he pulled you even closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah?" he breathed out, his heart soaring.

"Yeah."

"I fancy you too, Love." And with that you tilted your head up far enough to place your lips in a firm kiss right under his jaw.

There was another comfortable silence and then, "So, how about a proper date. You and me, us, together." He quickly clarified the last part.

You laughed out loud. "Yes please, Hogsmeade?"

"Actually, I was thinking maybe the Yule Ball."

#james potter x fem!reader #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter #james potter fanfic #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter angst #jmarauders era #marauders #marauders fanfic

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justagirlwholikesadam · 1 year

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Realm's Delight

Summary: You were the twin of the dark haired child Cersei had with Robert. While fever took your twin, you survived. You are known throughout the seven kingdom as the realm's delight. The years has passed and your younger brother Joffrey wants something you have. Sandor Clegane x Baratheon! Reader

A/n: Let me know if you enjoy this. Likes and comments are appreciated. Enjoy -L

Warning: NSFW, being the it girl, Joffrey being Joffrey, Robert is nice to us, manipulation at its finest, daddy's girl, princess wants princess gets, territorial!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“It was a miracle.” Robert Baratheon, your father told you. You had survived the horrid fever that took your twin brother away. It was a secret that was kept among the Lannisters and only Robert. While Cersei was in mourning of the loss of her son, Robert’s was cut short. Cersei always resented him for that and that he gave you his undivided attention. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew how Robert adored you. Some had even said that he loves you more than his own wife, Cersei and as you grew, he practically gave you whatever your heart desired. Your father wasn’t the only one to give you gifts. Fur straight from House Stark, jewels and the finest dresses from House Martell. Seafood freshly caught by House Greyjoy. The list of gifts went on and on. You were named the realm’s delight among the people.

When Robert learned about the nickname that you have been given he feared that you will have the same fate as Lyanna Stark. Robert decided to do what was best, keep you protected at all times. Robert declared for Sandor Clegane to become your personal guard. Cersei had cried out to Robert about it. He is a monstrosity and hideous beast, she ranted. You heard of the Clegane’s brothers. Lord Baelish always been somewhat kind enough to keep you up to date about the accomplishments Ser Gregor had done along with Sandor’s.

“A flower like you shouldn’t be guarded by such an animal.” Lord Baelish exclaimed as his wandering eyes looked up and down that you. You grabbed a hold of his hands. Lord Baelish blushed from the sudden contact.

“I will grow to be the most beautiful flower because of that animal.” You whispered to Lord Baelish who honestly wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying.

You were so close to him, his mind was in the gutters. Rolling your eyes when you turn away to leave Lord Baelish, you wipe your hands on your dress while walking away from him. Men, they will always think with their cock. Cersei had told you after she had too many cups of wine. Your uncle, Jamie had laughed at her and tried to take her back to her chambers before she said anything else. That’s how you used Lord Baelish to tell you about the gossip going around. A praise, batting your eyelashes at him or giving him a smile was all needed for him to tell you what you wanted to know.

When Sandor was presented to you for the first time, you were surprised. He was the second tallest man you ever seen, his brother was the first. He had lowered his head as he entered the chambers so he wouldn’t hit the door frame. Robert had taken your hand and pulled you towards Sandor. You noticed Sandor had the most beautiful brown eyes you've ever seen. Brown, like the earth and as the light hit his eyes, they looked like honey. You got a closer look when he knelt in front of you and vowed to keep you safe. You knew about the story of his burn scars. It took you an afternoon with Lord Baelish, drinking tea to learn about it. You had taken a liking to Sandor when he became your guard. He was too silent for your liking but that meant you had to break his walls down.

Sandor stood and waited with you outside of your mother’s chambers. She was going to give birth to her second child. Sandor had mumbled to you to keep still since you kept walking back and forth, worried every time you heard your mother’s screams. You were about to say something when the screams stopped. Joffrey was born, and he was healthy. King Robert had his heir to the iron throne. Cersei had two other children after that and your relationship with her became unsteady. Sandor would cast a look at you whenever someone mentioned to you about Joffrey’s and your siblings' golden locks as they grew. You gave them a smile and answered. “They have been blessed with the Lannister’s golden hair.”

He knew you weren’t an idiot, he ignored when people said you were and sometimes when in a bad mood he slayed them whenever they expressed their opinions about it to him loudly. All beauty but nothing in your head. He wanted to tell them how wrong they were. He had spent hours with you in the dusty library of the castle. Seen you excelled in your studies. The winning smile you gave them disappears the moment they leave your sight.

“Something to say, my beloved Sandor?” The tips of Sandor’s ears grew hot by your affectionate words. You had a habit of calling him all sorts of names after both of you grew closer. You didn't want to admit it to Sandor but you like seeing him squirm after calling him those sweet names.

“No, princess.” He croaked out when you gave a cheeky smile. He immediately looked down at the ground.

“Do you think father will ever notice?” You ask Sandor and he looks back at you. You were being serious.

Sandor shook his head, no. “Maybe if he stops drinking and catches a break from his whores, I reckon he might see it. Unfortunately I can’t say anything. As much as father loves me more, I fear I will be punished if I say it.”

Sandor was right you weren’t the dumb princess everyone seems to think. As the time passed, Joffrey and the rest of your siblings grew; it's been nearly 16 years. You had finally managed to get out of a marriage proposal that your father mentioned to you. Sandor was waiting outside as he heard your voice behind your father’s chambers door. He couldn’t help but grin when he heard the hearty laughter from the King.

“Thank you, father. I knew you would be able to understand. That’s why you are the most wonderful King to ever live.” Sandor heard you say before walking out.

Sandor watched as you shut the door behind you and pointed at the staircase nearby. Sandor looked around his surroundings, making sure no one was in sight. He walked a few steps down and turned to see you walking towards him. He lets out a huff when you jump on him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Seven hells.” Sandor cursed when kissed his cheek, attacking him with kisses. Sandor moved to capture your lips with his.

“I take it. It went well.” Sandor said, pulling you close to him. You nodded with a grin.

“Father can be very kind when he’s drunk out of his mind.” You told him as he put you down on the steps. Both of you froze at the sound of Joffrey’s voice, he was coming up the steps. Sandor immediately took a few steps away from you.

“Oh look, it’s my dear sister.”

“Hello, my dear brother.” You greeted Joffrey in the same sarcastic tone. The blonde stood a few steps down from you with Ser Meryn Trant behind him.

“Dog.” Joffrey said. “My-.”

“You mean Sandor.” You cut Sandor off. Your harsh tone wiped the smirk off Joffrey's face. You crossed your arms over your chest. This was an ongoing thing. Joffrey would call Sandor a dog to get a rise out of you.

“His name is Sandor. Have you forgotten?” Joffrey can’t help but smile wickedly at you. It irritated you, Joffrey grew to be more ill and filled with a horrible attitude. He was a spoiled child, that’s all you had to say about your brother. His words and remarks were vile and you wouldn’t stand for it especially when it came to Sandor or to your servants.

“He’s a dog, my dear sister. There’s no changing that. He is The Hound.”

“You’re a dog as well. You even act like one and yet people still call you prince.” You answered back.

“You little-.” Meryn Trant stopped mid sentence when he saw Sandor walking down the steps to get next to you.

“Finish what you were saying. I fucking dare you.” Sandor threatens Meryn Trant and gives him a cold stare down. Sandor’s reputation grew as the years passed. Killer, monster, perhaps even worse than his brother, the names and the fear of fighting against him grew. They all knew no one is safe when he’s protecting you.

“You are so kind to the people below us.” Joffrey said, making your eyes roll. You wished for the day when Joffrey realized that he is a bastard. It was called a rumor but you knew the truth. Cersei has always been a bit sloppy when she was drunk. You had seen your mother and your uncle, Jamie getting cozy.

“I will be so heartbroken when you finally leave King’s Landing and join those filthy people from Drone.” You smile at your brother. Plans have been changed.

“I’m surprised that you know about my marriage proposal with Drone.” You said knowing him and your mother had conspired this marriage proposal.

“Let me be the one to deliver this good news to you, dear brother.” Joffrey frowned as you approached him closer.

“There is no need to be heartbroken, for I am staying. There is no proposal.” Joffrey's blonde brows rose up and his shocked expression turned into an angry one.

“It must be hard not being father’s favorite.” You whispered.

This dispute, the rivalry between you and brother began when he was able to see how Robert favored you more. He reached out for Robert but Robert was busy being King or being drunk. Joffrey was always envious of you, you had your father wrapped around your finger along with the entire realm while you got cheered and praised. He got concerned looks from the people of King's Landing.

“Shall we go, Sandor? Agatha said she was preparing chicken for prandium.” You looked over at Sandor who nodded at you.

“Yes, princess.” Passing by Joffrey, you ignored the look from Mery Trant. Sandor bowed his head to Joffrey and followed you. You can hear Sandor’s heavy footsteps behind you as you continue to hold your front. You wouldn’t let Joffrey know that his little plan to get rid of you didn’t work. Thanks to Lord Baelish and Lord Varys who gave you a heads up about it again, this wasn’t the first time. Joffrey wanted to get rid of you again and now he had even gotten your mother to play along.

Night came and you welcomed the warmth Sandor provided you. Even though the weather of King’s Landing was already warm you still preferred the heat from Sandor’s body.

“I heard something.” Sandor spoke after a moment of silence. You played with the soft hair on his chest while you laid your head on his arm, his arms tightening around you.

“Speak, Sandor.” You softly said, growing anxious every passing second.

“The servants overheard Joffrey asking Cersei about taking me as his own guard.” You raised your head off his arm and looked down at him.

“What?”

“He wants me as his guard.” Sandor answered you. You shook your head.

“That little cunt.” You whispered under your breath and you realized Sandor wasn’t even looking at you. He kept staring up at the ceiling of your chambers. His eyes had become dull and his face was emotionless. Pushing the sheets off your body, you moved to sit in his lap. Paying no attention to the soreness between your legs, you felt him hold on to your legs as you cupped his face with both hands.

“He won’t take you away from me.” Sandor let out a strain chuckle.

He knew what he had with you won’t last. He had made a promise to himself when he first met you. He wouldn't fall in love with you but he broke it. He was utterly in love with you after being your guard for many years. He had convinced himself in the beginning of your relationship that you guys can be together but reality was hitting him straight in the face, you were a princess and he was just a second born son. You would be married to someone else, someone better. You would leave him.

“I swear it.”

“Might be for the best if I do switch. It will be for the best.” Sandor said, making you frown.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to watch you marry some lord or a king and give him kids.” Sandor traced the skin of your legs as he spoke.

“Your father won’t decline the next marriage proposal. He did it for the last two but not the third one. He won’t, I know it. The realm wants to see you married and have children. If I keep guarding you and you get married, I’ll kill your husband.” Sandor said sincerely. You dropped your hands from his face and brought it down to his chest.

“Do you love me?” You asked.

Sandor’s jaw clenched and his eyes grew hard. “Yes or no?”

“You know I do. I have killed for you.” Sandor responded with no remorse. He had spilled blood for you and had lost count on how many people he killed to protect you and your honor.

“If you love me then never say those words again. Promise me?! Promise me that you won’t say that it’s best.”

Sandor said your name softly but you yelled at him. “Swear it to me! Please.”

Sandor nodded, raising his hand up to cup your cheek when he saw you on the verge of tears. He couldn’t bear seeing you cry. You grabbed on to his wrist, kissing his palm.

“I promise. I swear it.” He told you. You leaned down to kiss him. Enjoying the tender moment with him, there were a few times when Sandor showed his soft side with you. It was mostly in bed, both of you would be wrapped around each other and sometimes the aftermath of many orgasms.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He told you and you began to kiss him harder moving your hips, your cunt humping against his cock. Whining loudly when you felt him pull you to his chest and wrap an arm around you. His free hand touches your bare ass. Sandor takes a deep breath as he feels how warm and wet you are.

“I won't let Joffrey take you away from me. I have a plan.”

Sandor’s hand freezes on your ass and looks down at you.

“A plan?” You nodded as you pressed a kiss on his chest.

“Yes. You’re mine, Sandor. No one is going to take you away from me.” Your words were like a shot of adrenaline to him. He gripped your ass harder, he wanted to believe you.

He didn't want to ruin this moment with a fight. He wanted to remember this night with you incase this would be the last night he gets to spent with you. Naked and curled up together. He wanted to enjoy it, so he moved to his side, taking you with him. Facing each other now, Sandor drapes your leg over his waist, your right arm under his head while his arm goes under you. In a thirst position, he can hold you close to him. You bump his nose softly and kiss his scared cheek. He gripped your waist pulling you closer to him.

You shut your eyes and moan when his thick fingers touch your slit. Gather the reminiscence of your cum and his dripping from your hole and rub it on along the swollen lips of your cunt. The tip of his fingers gliding over your clit making you cry out, your cunt was sensitive from earlier. Your toes curled up and legs tensed up when you felt his finger inside of you.

“Fuck.” He groans as he holds you close to him. Moaning his name as you felt him finger you for a moment. He shifted and moved your legs higher so he had room.

“Sandor.” You cry out his name as he slips inside of you. You held on to his arms as he gripped your waist while pumping into you.

His face hidden between your neck and shoulder, you can feel his hand on your back, nails digging into your skin. You held on for dear life as you heard him growl against your skin.

“I’ll kill him, Y/n.” He moans to you as he fucks you, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt. His thrust was growing faster and harsher. The thought of you married with some prince made him angry. Even if people didn't know, you were his and he would keep it that way.

“You hear me?” He said with a moan. He moves his face towards you. You nod at him letting out a pitched whine when he hits that sweet spot.

“You belong with me. You’re mine.” You kissed him trying to mask your moans but nothing in the world would mask the squelching sound of your pussy being fucked.

Sandor held on to you as he moved his hips back and forward. He feels his balls tighten when he feels you cum on him, you’re trembling, skin slick with sweat. Sandor is grunting as he manhandles you. Your hands are on him, touching him, you can feel the muscles and his scars from his battles on his back and his arms.

Sandor cries your name and you shut your eyes as he presses his hips against you, slamming his cock deep inside of you. His hand on your hips goes down your ass, cups your cheek. He squeezes it as he cums deep inside of you. You whimper feeling stuff, your pussy keeps clenching and unclenching around him. He shifts his hips and you moan at the feeling of your clit being ticked by his pubic hair.

You feel his lips on your cheek, pressing soft kisses as he huffs out of breath.

“Sandor.” You whispered as you nuzzled against his face. You didn’t mind the feeling of the scars against your face, you kept close to him enjoying the aftermath of your orgasm.

You didn’t want this to end, you wouldn’t allow it. Sandor was yours first, Sandor belongs to you just as much you belong to him. You weren’t going to give him up without a fight.

Morning came and you were woken by your ladies in waiting. The flock of ladies knocked and waited for you outside to respond. You rose up, finding yourself alone. You wrapped yourself in a blanket and invited them inside. One by one they walked inside, picking up the sheets from the floor, one went to your closet to get your clothes for the day and one opened the doors to the balcony.

“Here, my princess.” The eldest came by you after you covered yourself with your robe. You thanked her for the tea and waited patiently while one warmed your bath water.

One of the ladies was brushing your hair after your bath. They stopped when there was a knock on the door, opening the door. Sandor came walking in, he had a concerning look on his face.

“Good morrow, princess. The king demands your presence in his chambers at once.”

You walked to your father’s chambers with Sandor behind you. He sensed how nervous you were. Before going around the hall, you felt Sandor grab your arm. He gently pulled you back. You were pushed softly against the wall. Sandor stood in front of you, towers over you as he looked down at you.

“Worried?” You whispered to him. You feel one of his hands cup your face.

Sandor doesn’t reply, he simply presses his lips against yours. “Go on.” He tells you and steps away from you.

Sandor has a habit of never expressing his feelings out loud. Sandor followed you quietly. He wasn’t worried at all, he was scared and he hasn’t felt this way since he was a child when Gregor disfigured him.

You walked down the hall and came to a halt when you saw Ser Meryn Trant standing outside of your father’s chamber. It meant that Joffrey was inside. You felt bile rise up. Clearing your throat, you took a deep breath to calm your nervousness.

Meryn Trant saw you and opened your father’s chamber door for you. You looked over your shoulder and gave Sandor a look of nervousness. You took one last look of his brown eyes. It calms you for a moment and you’re able to walk inside your father’s chamber. You noticed Joffrey sitting down along with your mother while your father sat behind his desk. The door shut behind you as you walked towards your father.

“Mother. Brother.” You greeted them and walked next to your father. You leaned down to kiss one of his pudgy cheeks. Robert gave you a smile and greeted you. You can smell the wine coming off your father.

“Sit, we have been waiting. Joffrey and your mother wish to discuss something with us.”

You sat on the empty seat next to your mother. “Joffrey has told me that he would like Sandor as his personal guard.” Your mother said.

So this was about Sandor. “What's wrong with Ser Meryn Trant?” You asked Joffrey.

Joffrey wasn't expecting for you to say something. He thought you would obey instantly. You stare at Joffrey, you weren't going to let Sandor slip away from you. You were going to fight for him.

Joffrey looked over at his father who was also staring at him. “Well, since Y/n is going off in Dorne. I want Sandor.”

“I'm not going to Dorne. I told you.” Joffrey clenched his jaw.

“You had refused your last marriage proposal. Father, are you going to accept this?” Joffrey asked Robert.

“She isn't going to Dorne.” Robert said, making Cersei sit up. “Why not?” She asked him.

“You dare to question me, woman.” Robert eyed Cersei.

“Our daughter has not been wed, people will talk.”

“You think I care what people say about her. She is my daughter. My word is law and final. She won't be shipped to Dorne.”

You dislike how sometimes your father would speak to your mother. Robert was a down right misogynist but when it came to you he was different. You knew it had to do with Lyanna Stark, everyone told you how there was a resemblance between you and her. It was confirmed when Ned Stark and his family came to King's Landing to celebrate your name day. Ned couldn't take his eyes off of you and had even stuttered his sister's name after drinking with your father.

You felt bad for Ned after so many years the death of his sister still had a hold over him just like Robert. He had begged forgiveness to you the next day. “Nonsense. No need to forgive, Lord Stark.”

“He’s a good man.” Sandor told you after Ned left. You had finished a walk with Ned in the garden after you told him if it would be alright to share some stories about Lyanna. He gave you a smile and accepted. You learned a lot about her and intend to use this information.

“He is.” You replied to him.

“It will get him killed one of these days.” Sandor’s words made you sad. You didn't want to see the Lord of Winterfell dead. Unlike Joffrey and your mother, you enjoy their presence and have grown fond of his wife, Catelyn.

“Our daughter should have been married and had babies by now. We can use her as an advantage, a leverage.” Cersei stood up from her seat and walked to the corner of the room where the cart of wines and cups were at.

“I believe it has to be that atrocious dog always behind her. His face scares off any suitors. She will be married soon and doesn’t need him anymore.”

“He protects me, mother.” You said folding your hands on your lap. Cersei looked over her shoulder at you. You looked over at your father because at the end of the day, he has the last day.

“Father, remember the riot. Those men would have killed me. Sandor was there and killed them all. He killed those men.” Robert nodded remembering all too well about that horrible riot that broke out.

You stood up from your seat and walked towards the desk. You kneel down near your father ignoring the tsk sound from Joffrey. You decided if Joffrey and your mother wanted to play dirty. So will you.

“I do not wish the same fate as the lovely Lyanna Stark. May she be at peace.” Your father’s eyes shifted at the mention of Lyanna.

“I know. I have refused two marriage proposals now but I must tell you the truth, Sandor didn’t trust them. He had seen him, heard them speak ill behind my back.” You knew the words you were about to say will be a low blow to your mother and it will create a shift between you two but you had to do it. You didn’t want Joffrey to have Sandor. Sandor Clegane is yours.

“You might think this is ridiculous, father.” You grabbed your father’s hand.

“I want to be loved. The type of love you and Lyanna shared. Ned told me stories about your love with her and it warmed my heart. I crave for that love you both shared.” You flinched at the sound of Cersei throwing her cup of wine to the ground and walked out of the room. No one said anything for a moment. You just watched as the red wine from Drone stained the carpeted rug. This was your chance, your moment to seal it. Joffrey won’t take Sandor away from you.

Sandor stood straight up when he saw the queen running out of the room. The door was opened and he looked ahead. He saw you kneeling by your father, looking up at him.

“Don't take Sandor away from me. Don't let me have the same fate as the woman you loved.”

Robert smiled down at you and cupped your face. “No need to worry. Clegane will stay by your side.”

Robert looks towards Joffrey. “Stay with Ser Mery Trant. If you wish for a more depraved guard. Perhaps we can ask The Mountain to fill in.” Joffrey quickly shook his head. He sent a glare at you before standing up and walking out of the room. Sandor moved away from the door when he saw Joffrey with a pout on his face. Ser Mery Trant followed the prince.

Sandor looked back at the doorway. Robert had helped you get up on your feet and gave you a hug. Sandor gave you a small smile when he saw you staring back at him with your own smile as you hugged your father. It worked.

Sandor knew he would have to beg forgiveness for not believing in you. Your plan worked. Shame on him for ever doubting you, Princess Y/n Baratheon, the realm's delight.

Chapter 2 ->

#sandor clegane #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane fanfic #games of thrones x reader #games of thrones fanfiction #rorymccann #sandor clegane smut #sandor the hound clegane #prince joffrey #robert baratheon #reader baratheon

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evilminji · 1 year

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:T Hello there, Thought(tm) of the day...

I? Just remembered that Constantine's "Laughing Magician"(?) title is... f*ckin HEREDITARY?

Like?? As in The Constantine Meances have been out here, harrasing divinity and demons alike for GENERATIONS on behalf of a Good Time, the Lols, and probably Humanity if they can be arsed and you make a good case.

W... What chance would there even BE of at least like? HALF those f*ckers(conflicted but affectionate) NOT becoming Realms Ghosts? With the sh*t they're exposed too? With THEIR luck??

You think DEATH can trick them? Take them away for good? Take away the local Rat B@stard, Tricks Gods Just To See If He Can, Fate Is My Second Mistress and I Cuckold Glory On Your Mother's Bed, Constantine?

They run down main street, *ss in the breeze, wearing someone else's shirt and two shoes that don't match, not a stitch else, like run away lovers. Let Death TRY and catch them. Sorry, Luv, it's not them, it's definitely you.

..........I bet they're the wooooorst~~✨️

No joke, I bet they set up a whole *ss TOWN of Constantine.

Where the odds are in THEIR favor, gods fear to tread, and reality straight out stops working right. Like Diagonal Ally for B*stards, extended to a whole floating island. Everyone's related. It's Chaos. They can barely stand each other. Would sell each other for a toothpick.

Mess with ANY off them... and you can kiss your afterlife good bye.

They have NO neighbors because both no ones dumb enough to get NEAR them AND no one can stand to be around that many Constantines at once. The physical Manifestation of Fate wants to take the whole LOT of the handsy F*CKS to court for child support and a restraining order.

Somehow... they keep getting Earth Booze.

They SHOULDN'T have access. It's been anywhere from decade to centuries since they died. Millennium for a few. Howms't The F*CK, do they keep getting cheap gin and vodka? Bourbon and beer? Even the odd fruity cocktail for funnies.

Please... PLEASE! Tell the Zone at large, that their innate birthright powers STOPPED at Death. They... they are just REALLY good at smuggling right? Excellent con men?

Tell us they can't f*ckin PREDICT AND INFLUENCE Natural Portals!!!

*smug sipping noises from a large room full of Dead @ssholes*

Okay... They Won't Tell You~ 🍺🍺🍺🍺🍺 *siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip*

Now! I hear you ask? Why are John's Terrible, Terrible, God Awful Ghostly Relatives relevant? Absurdly powerful as they are... they seem to take the afterlife as an extended "Ha! GET F*CKED, DEMONS WHO WANTED MY SOUL!" Vacation/Family get together.

Minded their business and expected everyone to mind THEIRS, or ELSE.

Didn't give two solitary SH*TS that Pariah woke from his little nappy-poo to cause a tantrum. After all, in their family? When DOESN'T some "great and terrible Power That Be" get itself in a snit? Meh... it's baby Johnny's turn to clean sh*t up. Best of luck to 'im~!

But THEN!

They must've been drinking... making out with their equally terrible and bamf trainwreck significant others... sitting around playing "who can cheat best at cards"... when? Huh.

Never seen the Fate and The Odds... STRANGLE like that.

Billions of billions of What-Ifs, Maybes, Could-bes, and more... suddenly YANKED towards a single spot. The allowance of Only One Outcome. Almost like what they can do, but... not, WRONG, per say...

Just... impossible.

There's NEVER.. JUST one way this plays out. You can control the big notes. The script. But the details and set dressing will always decide themselves.

NO ONE can just... Decide What Will Happen. And yet?

...............was....... was that Little Johnny? Has to be. Right? Where's his old man? Oi! Was that your Kid??! John's closest relatives are baffled. Nope. They can still feel him laying a beat down on some demon in Norway. So then? Who?

How?

Well mark them CURIOUS(tm).

They decide to actually get up. Put their various drinks and cards down. Put pants on. Somebody's done something... INTERESTING(TM) and they want to know what's up. So? Off they trot.

It's traumatizing for everyone who sees them. The Constantines have breached f*ckin B*stard Containment and are spilling into the Zone. On this! The DAY Pariah Waged A War! THEY JUST GOT RID OF HIM!

And Danny? His everything hurts. The Eyeballs are starting to come out of the woodwork and ARGUE about him like he's not even there. He's DANGEROUS blah blah blah. Give them the crown. Right now! Etc etc.

Somethings telling him not too.

It's... it's HIS isn't it? Has been for centuries and seconds. And... and... everyone one of him is King. There is only one of him. The Zone covers all the multiverse and all of the Hims that were and aren't here and helped and... and...! His head is starting to hurt.

But the more they try to push him to hand it over, the less he feels like unhanding the dang gaudy thing. No. His now. He'll use it as a DOOR stopper if he dang well feels like it! Stop yelling.

Then all these blonde ghosts saunter in... and all he can think is "F*ck. I think they noticed."

Huh?

@stealingyourbones @cyrwrites @bjurnberg @the-witchhunter @hdgnj

#dc prompt #dp x dc #dc x dp #danny phantom #john constantine #minji's writing

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the-thing-inside-your-closet · 2 months

Text

The Colosseum

I started writing this and have no idea how to finish it or where to take it from here. I had an idea but lost it halfway through 😅

Valerie had had it with all of the ghosts in Amity. She could hardly sleep, was missing schools as a result because she was either too exhausted to stay awake long enough in class, or another ghost attack was forcing her to miss the entire period to go deal with that day’s trouble maker. Almost every part of her body hurt in one way or another. Bruises that should have faded by now but haven’t because every day she was out collecting more. She couldn’t blame Phantom either. He seemed just as tired and beat up as she was even with his healing factor.

With the number of ghost attacks having nearly tripled in frequency, they’d both come to the mutual decision that working together would be the best course of action to deal with the constant onslaught. And reluctantly, Val had to admit that Phantom might not be as bad she first assumed. She hadn’t anticipated actually getting along with the ghost as well as she had been. Much less the realisation that they could almost be considered…fiends now. Maybe. She refused to laugh at his god awful puns though, he didn’t need anymore encouragement.

But even with Phantom’s help, she was so tired. So, so, so very tired. And so one could say Valerie was well within her rights to say that this situation, was just more bullshit she didn’t need right now.

She had been trying to cram for the next upcoming test when there was a sudden flash of light, so bright it was blinding and she had to shield her eyes with her arms from the fear that this light might burn through her eyelids. Her body tingled, and she felt something wash over her. When the light subsided, just as quickly as it had appeared, she slowly opened her eyes.

“Where the hell am I?”

She was in a colosseum. The stone of the structure was a deep purple with intricate glimmering gold details carved into the walls and pilasters. There was a magic in the air that felt different to the sensation she would get in the Ghost Zone. The sky above was pitch black with more stars than Val had ever seen visible in Amity, and two moons.

So, not Earth then, she concluded.

“Hey Red, where are we?” Valerie spun around to see Phantom floating over to her, his eyes scanning the area around them. Then Val looked down at herself to see that she was in her Red Huntress suit. She couldn’t remember putting it on. Maybe that was what the full body sensation from earlier was about.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Val checked herself over, making sure she had all of her weapons on her should she need them. When she was satisfied she did, she put her hands on her hips and let her gaze wander over the arena.

“I don’t think we’re on Earth anymore,” Phantom muttered as he took in the sky above them. For a split second Val swore she saw his freckles glow a soft green as he was taking in the stars above them.

“We should start looking for a way out of here, or at least figure where here is,” Valerie had just turned to start walking when the ground rumbled and shook, “What-”

Another blinding flash of light appeared behind them. And once again, it had vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.

“What the hell was that?” A new voice asked from behind them.

Val and Phantom turned in unison to stare at the group in front of them. All of them were dressed in some sort of hero ensemble. It seemed the voice had come from a man donning a brown leather jacket over an armoured suit with a red bat symbol across his chest, an assortment of guns and other weaponry strapped to his body, and most notably a red helmet. He and the rest of his group seemed to be taking in their surroundings the same way Val and Phantom.

“Who are you? Were you the ones who summoned us?” Came a new voice, from a young man (or was he a teenager?) dressed in black leggings with a red tunic, utility belt, and a chest harness connecting to the symbol on the centre, a black cowl and a cape. In his hands was a bo staff. He and the others had all dropped into combat ready stances the moment they became aware that they weren’t the only people in the colosseum.

And from here I couldn’t figure out how to continue

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absurdthirst · 9 months

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A Marriage of Convenience {Regency!Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 20.5k

Warnings: Dying parents, arranged marriages, mentions of dying in child birth, fear, anxiety, panic attacks, poor Pero has PTS, virgin reader, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), conversations about birth control, mentions of spousal beatings, pregnancy, childbirth

Comments: When your dying father sends you to Spain to wed Don Tovar, you know nothing about the man besides that he is a widower with two small children who will never love you. Finding your place in his household will take a stiff spine and a loving heart, making peace with your marriage of convenience.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Father, you cannot send me away.” You shake your head, dread welling in your stomach and you press your hand to the silken material of your day dress, the stays of your corset the only thing keeping you upright at this moment. Not that your stays are as tight as most of the noble ladies that come and go on the marriage mart. You have no desire to be married, to be chattel to a noble man and birth his children. Even though your father has just informed you that the man you are to marry already has children. A widower who is not so choosy as to a new wife that he is willing to take on an old maid who is nearly set upon the shelf and discarded at every social function during the season.

Pero Tovar is the name of the man you are to wed. Not only are you to be married off, but you will be shipped away from your home. Sent to Spain with no one that you know around you. Completely without allies and unable to easily go home if you are unhappy. Your father had met him in London and arranged your marriage before returning home to inform you. “Please.” You beg softly. “Do not make me marry a man I have never laid eyes on.”

“You have no choice. I am dying, daughter. You heard the doctor. I have months left. I do not wish to leave you without stability. The time has come for you to marry. I cannot allow you to delay it anymore. Tovar is a wealthy man. He has a large estate and two children from his late wife. He doesn’t need some young maid to birth children for his heir. He is stern but he has very strong morals. You’ll be safe with him and that’s all that matters. Please do not argue with a dying man.” Your father begs and you choke, tears stinging in your eyes as you embrace him and he rubs your back, knowing these moments before you go to Spain will be the last you spend together.

The day has come for you to leave your father, and despite your best efforts, you weep. Over the course of the month, he had grown more frail and could not even accompany you to Spain to see you wed in person. Embracing him in his sickbed, you know word would come that he had passed, your cousin inheriting the home you had grown up in, and all the wealth your father had accumulated. Your dowry is carefully packed into a large trunk, generous enough that if it had been known, several in London would have made you their wife. Instead, you will be Lady Tovar. “I love you.” You murmur, wishing you could stay until he had left this earth. “I love you father, I am sorry I was not the boy you wished to carry your legacy forward.”

Your father tuts, “don’t be silly, child. You are my life. After your mother died…you are everything to me. My world. I love you. If you could have everything, I’d give it to you.” He promises and cups your cheek, his hand shaking.

Your eyes sting with tears and you grip his hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “I know.” You promise, reluctantly pulling back.

“Go. Go live your life. Just promise me you’ll be happy.” He orders and you sniff, wiping your cheeks and you nod. It takes everything in you to leave his chambers but you do and you make your way down to the carriage to begin the start of a very long journey to Spain.

The trip to the ship takes nearly a week. A broken carriage wheel, a broken axle, and a thrown shoe from one of the horses. It seems as if the entire trip is cursed. You occupy yourself by writing letters and reading a few of the books you had packed into your reticule. Wondering if your father has passed already and praying that he has not. When you finally reach the ship, you sigh as you stare at the sails. Rather than just a short journey across the channel, it will be another week, sailing up the coast of Spain before you disembark. Your betrothed’s men should meet you there to carry you to his summer estate in the country.

When you step foot on land, you are relieved and exhausted, anxious and ready to be in your new home. Your husband to be doesn’t come to greet you, not that you expected that anyway but you are greeted by his secretary. “Señorita, I am Carlos. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Come this way, the carriage awaits us.” He says, gesturing to the horses behind him as the staff begins to gather your things to secure them for the final leg of your journey.

The carriage seems to be sturdy and soon you are pulling away. “Tell me about your lord.” You beg, having heard very little from your father beyond the rudimentary information. You want to know more about the man you are supposed to wed. “What is he like?” How a man treats his staff says a lot about him. That is what your father always told you.

Carlos looks at you, appraising you for a bit until he answers. “He is stern. Unforgiving but fair. He knows wrong from right and is only violent when the need occurs. He loved Maria, his first wife, but after she died, he has become a recluse. His children are cared for by the staff and he rarely interacts with them. If you want my honesty, señorita. The house needs life and love once again. It’s cold and lacking happiness.”

You bite your lip, repressing a small shiver. He sounds…..austere. Unyielding. You feel for the children who seem to have lost both their mother and father at the same time. “How old are the children?” You ask politely, aware that if he was not giving love and attention to his children, it would be your job. You remember how terribly you had missed your own mother, though your father had been your rock through grieving.

“They are five and seven. They do not remember their mother. Both too young. Luis - the youngest - was the child born when Maria lost her life. She doesn’t remember her mother. Alejandra, she - she doesn’t remember her either. They are - needing love and attention as all children do and their father - he is a busy man. That’s why he wanted a wife who was capable of nurturing his children when he is unable to.” Carlos explains and you glance out of the carriage as the Spanish port city turns to countryside.

“I see.” You wonder if the children are too painful a reminder of his late wife. If that was the reason he could not be around them. “And his holdings?” You ask. “He is a lord, is he busy with his lands?”

Carlos nods and sighs. “My lord works long hours to make sure that the estates and the lands that are used by his people are properly maintained.” He tells you, making you feel a bit better about the situation.

“Then I will make sure that he has a comfortable home and well behaved children to come home to.” You promise.

Carlos nods, appreciating your compliance and he watches you as you look back out of the window. You are beautiful, have an air of maturity the other girls, the local ones, had lacked. His lord has been searching for a wife for a while, but no one has fit his criteria. He doesn’t want a simpering girl who wants romance, he needs a partner who can assist him with his home and his children. Carlos knows that Pero’s heart is cold, iced over after the death of Maria and he doesn’t know if anyone can melt it.

The good thing about you is that you know that love and romance are not expected, nor required in most marriages. You aren’t a starry eyed little girl who will wish that her husband falls desperately in love with her. From everything you are hearing, that would be quite impossible. You will settle for mutual respect. The rest of the journey is spent quietly thinking, making plans for your new home that could be tossed out the window the moment you arrive. You do not even know if your future husband will be there to greet you.

When you pull up outside of the summer home of Don Pero Tovar, it’s beautiful and instantly takes your breath away. It’s picturesque and grand but when you have a closer look, you can see the cracks, the work that needs to be done. The shutters are crooked and need new paint. The flowers are gone and the paint is peeling everywhere. “Oh. I- it’s beautiful but-” You start and Carlos finishes your statement, “it needs work. After Señora Maria died, Don Tovar just let the place go, too preoccupied to maintain it.”

You nod, understanding that he might not have had the heart to continue to look after the details that make his estate a home for his family. “Then I will hire workers to restore his home to its former glory.” You decide with a smile, eager to get to work and contribute.

Carlos hums as the carriage comes to a stop, “if he allows it. He - it’s - it’s almost like he is stuck in the past, never moving forward.” His eyes widen and he shakes his head, “please señorita, don’t - he mustn’t know I said that.” He murmurs and you nod, “it’s our secret.” The secretary exhales and reaches out to open the door to the carriage, stepping out and holding out his hand to assist you down.

There is no staff lined up to greet you. No betrothed waiting at the door to introduce you to his household. The pots next to the large double doors of the house are empty, filled with dirt and sticks. Providing an unwelcoming air and you try to think of it as some kind of omen. “Well, it is late.” You excuse, biting your lip as you look around.

Carlos looks guilty as he opens the door to guide you inside to find the housekeeper, Señora Garcia. “Come, let’s take you to your quarters and we shall start fresh in the morning, you have had a long journey and I’m sure you’d rather meet everyone after resting.” Carlos says and Señora Garcia nods, “also, your lady’s maid, Carmen, will be waiting in your room to help you prepare for tonight. We will bring dinner to your room.”

You tilt your head. “Prepare for tonight?” You ask, confused by what he means. “What is happening tonight?” Surely he does not mean that Lord or Don Tovar meant to wed you tonight after you’ve only just arrived? You have not even met the man, you had hoped to have a conversation before he becomes your husband.

“The wedding.” Carlos says like you should’ve known. “Did no one inform you that Don Tovar wanted to be married as soon as you arrived?” You shake your head and Carlos sighs. “You are to be married tonight. Carmen will help you dress and we will bring your trunks up to your quarters. The wedding will be at eight. We will bring food to your room beforehand and a bath. You’ll be the lady of the house tonight.”

Closing your eyes, you try to suppress the tremble that races through you. Stiffening your spine and taking a breath before you open your eyes and nod. “I will be ready when Don Tovar says.” You agree, making Carlos nod in approval. “I would also like a cup of tea to be brought up, right away.”

Carlos nods, “sí, señorita. I’ll make sure you get your tea.” He assures you and you sigh, following Señora Garcia up the stairs to your quarters. The house is dark and damp and there seems to be no sign of life anywhere. You immediately feel alone and cold, regretting leaving your home, your dying father for this pitiful estate.

****

By the time your tea arrives, it’s accompanied by your meal. Cold and unappetizing, you wonder why the cook would send you a plate such as this. Investigating your room, you find that it has not been properly aired out, dust still sitting on the window sills and the candle holders not refreshed with new candles. It seems as if you are to be un-welcomed or the staff who works here is completely unskilled in how to run a house.

“Señorita, bienvenidos.” Carmen says as she walks in, “I am sorry I am late. I am your lady’s maid and I am here to assist you with getting you ready for your wedding to Don Tovar. Was your dinner acceptable, señorita?” She asks and notices your frown, “what is wrong?” She prompts, wanting to be there for the soon to be lady of the house.

“The meal was cold,” You explain, understanding that she is not to blame for that. “As was my tea.” You tilt your head and look at the lovely young woman. “Have you worked for the household for long?” You ask. “Is this how meals are normally delivered?” If it is some kind of custom, you would try to be more understanding, but you don’t think that it is.

Carmen shakes her head, “absolutely not. I- you shouldn’t have had a cold meal and cold tea. Please, señorita, let me get you a new, hot -”

You interrupt her, “no. It’s not - I’ve eaten it now and I do not have time to waste. I need to bathe and get ready for my future husband.” You inform her and she nods, “I will go fetch the hot water and we will get you ready.” She promises and rushes off.

You are grateful that your trunks have been delivered, your dress you had made clean, if slightly wrinkled from being packed. Airing it out, you had hoped you would wear this while marrying a man that you had met before, but it seems unlikely to happen now. You had not even heard any movement in the large house.

Carmen works diligently to clean you up, washing your back and making sure the dirt from the journey has been washed off prior to your wedding. Once you’re dry, she works on styling your hair and soon enough, it’s time for her to help you into your dress. “What’s he like?” You ask her as she buttons your dress and Carmen bites her lip. “He’s…direct but fair.”

“That seems to be what everyone says about him.” You hum. “Is he a handsome man?” Carmen glances at you nervously. “He- some think him handsome. But-“ she glances around your empty bedroom and lowers her voice. “He has a - a scar. Over his left eye.”

You inhale sharply, wondering how a man like Tovar got a scar over his eye. You’re worried now, scared that he is going to be a rough man. “He’s a good Don, fair and harsh but I think you will be good to have in this house. We need light, we need love. It’s been missing for far too long.”

It doesn’t take much longer for Carmen to declare that you look perfect. Your nerves flutter in your stomach and you press your hand to it in a meager effort to calm them. “Then perhaps you can show me a little of the estate while we walk to the chapel?” You assume that there is a chapel on the grounds that you will be married in. Giving your maid a weak smile, you try to hide the fear.

Carmen nods, “of course, señorita. Come, let us go now. Your intended will be waiting.” She says and you exhale shakily, trying to gather yourself to get married to a man you’ve never met before.

The estate is beautiful, the ground neglected like the house, although you can tell someone had once cared for them a great deal. You wonder if that was your soon to be husband's late wife. It doesn’t take long for you to see the stone chapel, overgrown and yet the soft candlelight coming from the windows gives it an enchanting glow. You take a deep breath and glance at the maid for some reassurances.

Carmen squeezes your arm and winks at you, “everything will be fine.” She promises but you both know she has no way to assure that. You stand in the entrance of the chapel when the violin starts to play and you swallow harshly when Carmen gestures it’s time for you to go. You exhale shakily and step foot into the main hall of the chapel.

****

When you step into the chapel, Pero keeps his back turned. Your father had shown him your miniature so he knows you are a beautiful woman. Not that it makes a difference. He has far exceeded the socially acceptable grieving period for Maria and now he’s expected to get a wife. He needs a mother for his children and a woman to maintain his estate. The music plays as you walk down the aisle and when you approach him, he turns around and inhales sharply when he sees your face. You’re gorgeous. A woman most men would kill to wed but he doesn’t care about looks, he cares about you filling the position that has remained empty in his home. He wonders if you like the look of him.

Your steps forward stumble briefly, but you recover. Catching your breath and smiling softly, you find him to be most handsome in a visceral, viral way. Rough and not exactly tamed, although many would say that you were possessed to think that way. HIs eyes are dark and watching you, making your skin heat and you wonder if your future husband approves of you. Stepping closer to him, you stop directly in front of him and take another breath. “Don Tovar.” You murmur, curtsying prettily.

You curtsy so perfectly, it’s almost enough to make him smile but he doesn’t. He hasn’t since Maria died. His life is now black and white, his love taking all of the color in the world with her when she died during childbirth. “Señorita.” He greets you and takes your hands, turning towards the priest who was called to marry you. Pero’s secretary and Carmen are to bear witness to the marriage and Pero is glad there’s no audience to see him remarry a woman he doesn’t even know.

The priest recites the vows in Spanish and you follow along closely. Listening as he proclaims that marriage is a sacred duty to your husband and you can barely look at your intended. Sneaking a glance and trying not to fidget. “I do.” You murmur quietly when you are asked if you take the Don as your husband. Your eyes meet his and you bite your lip, wondering if he is unhappy. He is frowning, he must be unhappy with his decision to marry you.

Pero remembers his wedding day to Maria. How excited he was. Young and eager before the days of war to marry the woman he loved. He was ready to have a future with her and it was ripped away from him on one fateful winter day. Tovar recites his vows and when the priest declares you husband and wife, he leans in to kiss your cheek. “Welcome, mi esposa.” He whispers once you are married.

A kiss on the cheek was not what you expected, turning to find his lips when he pulls away leaves you flustered. “Gracias, husband.” You murmur quietly. His secretary and your maid clap quietly and you turn back to them with a smile, thanking them for witnessing your vows.

Pero takes your hand to guide you out of the chapel and to the carriage awaiting to take you back to the main home. Pero doesn’t say a word as you are carted back and when you arrive, the housekeeper takes your hand to assist you inside. “There’s no need to arrange our bed chamber. My bride will be spending the night in her own room.” Tovar reveals with a grunt.

“Yes, Don Tovar.” Carmen nods and you are left feeling rejected even if you had been nervous about the wedding night. It is silly to think of, but you hope it’s because he wishes to get to know you before you become intimate.

“Then I wish you a good night, husband.” You nod politely to him and wait for him to speak.

Pero turns to look at you, reaching for your hand and he bends down to kiss the back of it but it’s cold and emotionless. “Buenas noches, señora Tovar. I will see you tomorrow so we can discuss your duties. Carmen, escort her to her room. Garcia, vamos. We have much to discuss.” Tovar says to his secretary who nods and steps beside him as he strides over without a glance back towards you.

“I see what you mean.” You murmur to your lady’s maid as she starts to guide you back up the stairs. “He is devoid of much emotion, although at least he is polite.” It is better than some men that you had met. “Is there a library in the house?” You ask curiously. “I fear that I had brought many of my own books when packing my trunks.”

“There is a library, señora. It- it needs organizing. It has been neglected for many years but the children do study there during the day. It needs a refresh. Perhaps you may ask Don Tovar if he will provide you with the tools to refresh the room where the children learn.” She says and you hum, letting her escort you back to your chambers.

****

“She is beautiful, no?” Carlos asks his employer who grunts as he sits down in the chair, working on removing his shoes and his wedding attire, wanting to be comfortable. “She is but you know I don’t care for beauty. I need a woman to run the house. To show those fools in society that I have fulfilled their requirements. I don’t need her company, I just need her presence. Her father was desperate to marry her off before his death and her dowry was enough to keep her without spending my coin. She’s suitable for the role and I’m hoping the children will attach to her.” Pero says and Carlos nods, “we shall see.”

You wake up shrieking as a pitcher of cold water is tossed on your face while you lay in your bed. Bolting upright, you flail your arms, hearing giggling as you try to blink and see what or who is attacking you. Finding two children grinning at you in defiance as the oldest holds the empty pitcher in his hands. It is still dark outside, at least you think it is, for the curtains are still drawn over the large windows. Pero’s children. Your husband’s children have woken you up by throwing water on your face. You leap from the bed right as you hear the pounding of footsteps and the door to your room bursts open.

“Alejandra! Luis! Mierda!” Pero growls as he storms into the room to find his children standing there with their hands behind their backs. “What is wrong with you?” He growls, turning to face you when he sees you are soaking wet, his eyes dipping down to the white gown you’re wearing, now see through and he swallows harshly at the sight of your nipples. Carmen rushes in and he turns towards her. “Gather water for a bath to warm her up and get her a robe.” Pero demands and turns back to his children. “I was walking past when I heard the commotion. You cannot do that. Why would you do that?” Pero hisses at his children who stare at him defiantly.

“We thought it would be funny.” Alejandra answers and Pero inhales deeply.

“That is not acceptable. You will miss breakfast and today, you’ll be writing lines - saying you will not abuse your new mother.” He says lowly and Luis shakes his head, “she isn’t our mama. We don’t want her. We want our real mama.” Luis stomps his foot and Pero pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Go to your rooms before I get the belt.” He threatens, knowing he wouldn’t actually hit them but every day they test him and push him closer to physical punishment.

“Papa-” Alejandra chokes and Pero hisses, “do not test me girl. Now get out of my sight.” He hisses and the children rush out of your room.

“I am sorry.” You murmur quietly, covering your arms over your chest and shivering in the cold. It is chilly in the room since there is not a fire laid in the grate and you wish that you did not feel so exposed with his eyes on you. “I- I do not know what happened.” you shake your head. “I was sleeping and then - I just - they do not wish for a new mother?” You had expected that the children were accepting of your new husband marrying again, but it is apparent they do not want you here. That will make things more difficult for you if you expect to forge any kind of bond with them.

“They are loyal to their mother.” He answers curtly, wanting to add that he is too but he feels that would be too insensitive. “They will come around. They have been troublesome and I am hoping a female presence will help them adjust.” He says and Carmen rushes over with your robe to help you cover up.

“Thank you.” You wrap the robe around you and find that your husband does not seem to care for you being here any more than his children and you swallow harshly, feeling incredibly alone. “I see.” You nod and decide that you might as well broach the subject since he is here. “Then I have permission to discipline the children?” You ask him. “If they are to respect me, then they need to see me as an authority figure as well as a motherly one.”

“Yes, but I do not physically punish them. You are welcome to discipline them as you see fit. I have struggled to control them. They do not seem to want to be around me and I - I must admit I am a little hopeless about how to handle them.” He confesses, “if you can control them, you’ll have my admiration.”

You nod, thankful that he will allow you to curtail his children’s rambunctiousness. “I also wish to reorganize the library and freshen up the house to make things more homey.” You add. You do not tell him that his home is desperately in need of repair, but that would be something that you would be able to tackle with a good scrubbing and a good airing out. “Would that be acceptable to you?”

Pero nods, unable to argue with you when you are doing exactly what he wants to be done. He needs his home to be returned to its former glory and his children to be nurtured and loved in ways he has failed. “Very well, señora. I will let you prepare for the day. Breakfast will be brought to you and you are permitted to explore the house as you see fit. It is your home now.”

“Thank you.” You murmur quietly, wondering if you would ever have a meal with the man you call your husband. “However I will order dinner to be served in the dining room this evening.” It will be the first time you will have imposed your will and you wonder if he will dismiss your wishes. “Perhaps the children can join us?”

Tovar nods, “very well.” He doubts he will eat dinner with you. That implies that you are having some kind of relationship and that isn’t what this is. You’re here to fill a position like if he were to hire a new housekeeper. Pero stares at you for a moment before he steps back and makes his way down the hall to his office.

You blow out a breath, happy and yet slightly discontent with his answers and you feel like he has no intention of trying to get closer to you. It’s like he does not actually want you here, but needs you. “Well, good morning to you as well.” You huff sarcastically under your breath.

Pero continues on with his day, attending to the finances due at the end of the month for the tenant rents and salaries for the staff, signing off on the accounts for the food and necessities. It’s a laborious job but Carlos can only do so much. Your presence here will alleviate the household requirements from him but the estate needs maintenance. The day gets away from him and he is soon preparing for lunch.

You sigh, exhausted and wipe your brow as you collapse into a dusty couch and look around the room. The library will be days in the making to turn into a lovely place to read and teach the children. Who have been watching you warily and not paying attention to their tasks. They are seated at a table, their books open, but neither one of them has completed an assignment. “How do you like the gardens?” You ask, looking over at them. “Is it lovely to have picnics there for lunch?”

Alejandra glances at her brother before she answers you, “we don’t have picnics in the garden. Papa doesn’t really like for us to go outside.” She tells you and Luis nods his agreement, making you frown. “He says it’s dangerous to go outside in the gardens.”

You purse your lips, not remembering any kind of warning about staying out of the gardens. “Perhaps your papa means that it would be dangerous for you to go out there by yourselves?” you offer, standing up and wiping your hands on your apron that you had covered your day dress with. “Why don’t we see about having the cook make up some picnic food and we can take lunch out there? Explore and take in the fresh air.” It was obvious the children were bored and isolated, running around in the gardens would be good for you and them. Perhaps it would even help them like you.

Alejandra is cautious as she watches you, placing her pencil down so she can look at you properly. Luis tugs on her sleeve, shaking his head, and she pushes him off. “The garden, Luis.” She says pointedly and the little boy giggles, making you tilt your head. “What’s so funny?” You ask and Luis shakes his head. “Nothing.” Alejandra answers, “a picnic would be lovely.”

You frown but nod. “Alright. Put your books away and we will venture into the kitchen.” You smile. “Perhaps the cook has made cookies for us to have.” You shouldn’t bribe the children with sweets but you want to break through their prickly exteriors. They are still young and it has been a long time since their mother has been lost to them. “How does that sound?”

Luis nods, cautious but easily swayed by cookies. Alejandra is more reserved, offering you a look as she closes her book and you smile at her, trying to disarm her cautious nature. The children soon have their books stored away and they rush towards the kitchen, calling out for the cook who has become a mother figure for them. Señora Lola. “¡Ay niños!” She exclaims as they practically slide into the kitchen.

You can’t help but smile as the children greet the cook with obvious affection and your complaints about your first dinner being cold are forgotten for the moment. They hug the cook excitedly and both begin talking at once, turning and pointing to you. When the older woman looks up at you, you nod your head politely. “The children and I would like to have a picnic luncheon in the gardens.” You explain in Spanish. “Would we be able to put together a suitable fare for this?”

Lola nods, “of course, señora. I can prepare a basket for you and the children.” She assures you, “would you like a cup of tea while I prepare lunch?” She asks and you nod, moving to sit down at the kitchen table while the children tell Lola about their lessons. You can sense that she’s like a mother figure to the young ones and you’re glad they have had someone since their mother passed. Lola works fast to get you a cup of tea and the children a glass of milk while they wait.

“Thank you.” You watch as she moves about the kitchen, finding her to be quick and decisive as she gathers her ingredients. This is not a woman who is sloppy or resentful it seems. It makes you wonder why the food was so horrible the day before. When the kids are busy drinking their milk, you smile. “Tell me about yourself, Señora Lola. It is obvious you have been with the Don’s household for many years.”

Lola smiles, “my mother was the cook before she retired. My father was the Tovar’s butler and they fell in love and had me. Mi mamá taught me everything I know and we have been in the Tovar household for three generations. My son is a gardener. My husband is the groundskeeper. Maria - bless her soul - was the heart of the home. She lit up every room she was in.” Lola sighs and glances at the children.

“I understand that I am new.” You venture softly. “And I cannot replace Señora Tovar, but I would like to bring some comfort and happiness to her family.” You know that you can’t just force these people to accept you. Not when they had lived for so long with the ghost of the woman who had left them broken. You bite your lip. “Will you help me do that, Señora Lola?”

Lola nods, “if you can bring hope and light back to this home, you will forever have my admiration and gratefulness, señora. You are Señora Tovar now.” Lola tells you and you bite your lip as she prepares the lunch.

Once the lunch is packed away in a basket along with a large bottle of lemonade, you have Carmen bring you a quilt to spread on the grass to sit on. Guiding the children out of the large, glass doors into the garden, you smile at the bright sun and fresh air. The weather is beautiful and you can see yourself bringing the children out here often. “Where would you like to sit?” You ask, looking around the neat but barren gardens. It’s obvious Lola’s husband keeps them up but there has not been any new flowers or plants added for some time.

The children point to a spot near the pond and you allow them to guide you towards it. Carmen spreads out the blanket and you settle down with the children. Pero is standing up to stretch when he sees you and the children on the lawn. He tilts his head and wonders how you managed to get them to sit down for more than five minutes. Maybe he did make the right decision.

Eating outside seems to have been a magical treat for the kids. They ate politely and minded their manners after the promise of running around after they finished was made. You can tell they enjoyed it and by the time you had to pack up to go back to the house to finish their lessons they were sleepy. Making you smile at the way they leaned against one another.

****

“Señora, is this the color you prefer for the drapes?” Carmen asks you as you appraise the different materials and pattern samples. It’s been a month since you’ve been in Pero’s home and you have been slowly working on bringing the home back to its former glory. The children have grown closer to you, wanting their meals in your company, yet still no sign of your husband.

Pero walks down the hall, the portraits of his ancestors lining the walls and he notices the change of the decor. Everything seems dusted and shiny, and the rugs are pristine. It’s fresher and brighter. He knows it’s your doing and that makes him smile, assured he made the right decision to marry you.

“I think it will look lovely in the breakfast dining room, don’t you?” You ask, finding Carmen to be a wealth of information and a good judge of character and design. As the two of you had grown closer the more time you spent going through the house room by room. Even the kids were helping when it was time to scrub walls and beat rugs out in the garden. You had turned it into a game where you covered their eyes and spun them around before they whacked the rugs with a broom. They had giggled and fallen down, but it was worth the extra time it had taken to freshen the rugs. “Perhaps, even if he does not dine with me, Don Tovar might enjoy reading his paper and drinking his tea in a bright and cheerful room.”

“Papa! Papa!” Alejandra rushes up to her father who is shocked at her cheerful greeting.

“Sí, mi tresoro.” He answers and she grins, “we are going into town today.” She declares and Pero frowns, not liking the idea.

“Whose idea is this?” He asks lowly and Alejandra says your name. Pero sighs and tells his daughter to lead him to you. She takes his hand and guides him to the kitchen where you are sitting with Lola. “Hola.” He greets his cook who smiles at him and says “hola señor.” His dark eyes turn to you, “Alejandra tells me you are taking the children into town today?”

“I am.” You nod as you set down the book you are making notes in. Carmen hustles to put the fabrics away and you send your husband a small smile. “The children need new shoes and I have several merchants that I wish to visit.” You glance at Alejandra with a proud look. “The children have assured me that they will be well behaved, and they are excited to spend their own pin money.”

Pero frowns, “I do not like them going into town. I do not want you going into town. It is dangerous.” He says, remembering when Maria went into town while with child and was knocked over. She went into labor early with Luis and that’s the night that she died. His hands shake a little and he shakes his head, “you are not going. I forbid it.”

Your brow arches and you look towards Carmen and Lola. Both women quickly bow and disappear. “Alejandra,” you urge his daughter. “Go and find your brother.” You urge her as you stand up and brush your dress down. If you are going to disagree with your husband, you are not going to do it in front of the staff or his children.

Pero meets your defiant gaze and he clears his throat, “I will not allow you to go into town. It’s dangerous. If you need something, you can tell the staff and they will go and get it.” He compromises and you glance around to make sure no one is around.

“Don Tovar, I appreciate your concern for my well-being but I am not a child and I will not be held hostage on your estate.” You declare. “I will take a footman and a driver with me, and exercise all caution. But I am going to town. Now….is there anything you wish for me to get while we are there?”

Pero clenches his jaw, remembering that moment Maria was carried into the house, her screams still echo through the halls of his mind. “No. I forbid it. You won’t be leaving this estate. That’s an order.” He growls, reaching for your wrist to grip it, his hand shaking as he remembers the night Maria died.

You wince when he grabs your wrist, squeezing it hard enough that your breath catches in pain. You wrench your wrist away from him, yanking your arm down and stepping back, your eyes wide with both fear and anger. "I am your wife. Not your servant." You manage to keep the fear from making your voice tremble.

“You can’t go. I - I can’t - Maria - she- please. You cannot go.” He shakes his head, his chest starting to heave and he hates how anxious he’s become at the thought of losing more from his life. He has barely spent a moment with you since the wedding but the idea of his children losing another woman from their lives makes his chest tighten.

Fear turns to worry, making you step forward and reaching for his arm. “Pero?” You do not use his Christian name often, but you use it now. “What is wrong? Take a breath.” You urge him, frowning at the way that your husband has turned from cold and demanding to panicked. “Talk to me.”

He pants, unable to calm himself down, and he clings to you, pulling you close and he can’t control his thumping heart, remembering the night he lost Maria, the night he lost the light of his life. He closes his eyes, trying to control himself but he’s failing.

You nearly stumble, but you don’t resist him. Holding onto your husband’s waist while he trembles. He’s obviously horrified by the idea and you can’t understand why but you don’t want to make him do this. “Alright, alright, I will not go into town.” You give in, hating that you are but perhaps you can talk to him and come to agreement later on when he has calmed down.

Pero inhales deeply, remembering what his doctor told him to do, and he tries to calm himself down, grounding himself with your touch. He takes several moments before he opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours. “I- I’m sorry, esposa.” He murmurs, his hands still gripping you.

"It is alright." You murmur soothingly, wanting nothing more than to make him feel comfortable around you. You are supposed to be here to help him, and it seems like he needs help with this. "I am here, I am right here." You assure him with a smile.

When you smile at him, he jerks back and lowers his hands, the shield back up as he gathers himself and clears his throat. “I, uh, I am going to go - go back to my office. I trust you will send Carmen in your place to town.” Pero says and quickly turns to rush back to his office, away from you and the children once more.

You stare after your husband, completely flabbergasted and frustrated. The man dictates that you must stay at the estate, not go to town and has an apoplexy before fleeing back to his study without giving you a reason why you must be a hostage. Blowing out a frustrated sigh, you turn and curse your husband's stubbornness. You need to know what happened to Maria and why town is forbidden.

Alejandra and Luis shake their heads when you tell them you are no longer heading into town. “Please. Tell Papa we must go!” Alejandra whines, clinging to your skirts.

“I’m sorry, amor. He won’t allow us. We must listen to him.” You say and she shakes her head and looks up at you to stomp her foot.

“I hate him!” She cries and runs off, followed by Luis. You sigh and sit down just as Carmen comes over with a tea tray.

“Señora, I do not wish to speak out of turn.” She says and you shake your head, “when do we hide our feelings and thoughts, mi amiga.” You smile at her and she smiles back, glancing around when she takes a seat beside you.

“Don Tovar has - has a lot of fears about you going into town because that was the night he lost Maria.”

You frown, unsure of why going into town would cause a woman to die in childbirth, but you take your tea and listen. “I do not understand.” You shake your head. “Maria died giving birth to Luis, I thought?” You frown, knowing you will need to soothe the children’s feelings later on, but you want them to be able to calm down before you try. If you know why your husband fears it so, you can explain better to disappointed young children who don’t understand why they cannot have fun.

Carmen glances around again, “Maria was far along with Luis when she wanted to go into town to fetch more yarn for knitting. She - she was an independent woman and Don Tovar, he - he worshiped the ground she walked on. She loved him and he loved her. When she went into town, she was robbed for her jewels and coins and thrown to the ground and it sent her into early labor. The thugs were never apprehended and she was rushed home and the doctor was called. That was the night Luis was born and Maria died. They thought Luis was going to die too but he survived. Don Tovar was never the same.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders slump and you can understand why Pero is fearful of his wife going to town now. Even if he does not love you, the children have grown close to you and it would hurt them to lose you. “That is so sad.” You look down into your tea with a sigh and wish for a moment that this had been explained to you sooner. “I better understand why he is so hesitant, but he cannot think that the children will be kept here forever, does he?”

“He has…attacks when he has concerns about the children’s safety. I think - I do not wish to speak out of place but I think that’s why he has pushed the children away.” Carmen says and you nod in understanding. “I think he wishes he could connect with them but it’s hard since all he sees is Maria. He loved her. She was his childhood sweetheart and they married young before he left to fight in the war.”

You sigh softly, knowing you would find it romantic if he didn’t push his children away. To close himself off from pain. “Then I will make him.” You decide with a firm press of your lips. “I will go talk to the children. Inform Lola that the children and I will be taking lunch in Don Tovar’s study.” You decide. “Since he refuses to take his meals in the dining room, we will come to him.”

Carmen won’t argue with you, knowing it is futile, so she nods. “Very well, señora. I will tell Lola now and will let Carlos know.”

You shake your head, “not Carlos. I want it to be a surprise.” You say and she nods, “sí, señora.” You smile and she stands, bowing her head before she exits the room, leaving you with the news to tell the children.

****

Pero looks up from his papers when there is a knock on the door and he calls out “come in.” When you enter followed by the children, he’s shocked. “Señora?” He frowns, setting his pen down.

“Husband.” You send him a smile and guide the children over to the table that sits in front of the sofa and they sit down. Alejandra is still pouting, but her tears have dried and she is not so angry when she was told her papa feared for her safety. “Carmen will be bringing in our lunch soon.” You explain with a cheerful smile. “I thought that since you work so hard and are so busy, we would join you here to have lunch together.”

Pero’s frown deepens, “lunch together? Are you not able to have lunch in the kitchen?” He asks and you raise your eyebrows at him.

Pero bites his lip and you answer him, “the children would like to spend some time with their father seeing as we are no longer going into town.” You say and Alejandra stands up to walk over to Pero, reaching for his hand, “please papa. Let us have lunch together.” Her pout is Pero’s unraveling as he nods, standing up from his desk chair to walk towards the sofa.

Luis grins, unaware and still too young to understand his father’s hesitancy, but he begins to tell his father about the Spanish Armada that the governess is teaching the children about lately. “Sí, mijo. The English defeated us.” His dark eyes meet yours as he answers questions Luis excitedly asks him and he seems to relax a little. Lola and Carmen bring the meal in and the four of you begin to eat.

“I have decided to ask Carmen to direct any traveling merchants to our house when they are going through town.” You take a sip of your tea and look at your husband. “As well as inquire about children that are near Luis and Alejandra’s age that might wish to come play with them. Soon the house will be ready for visitors.”

Pero frowns, “why would we require merchants to come to my home?” He asks as he picks up his glass of wine. “And for the other children…I suppose it will be good for them to mingle with others.” He concedes that point, glancing at you and he’s taken back once again by your beauty, especially when the light hits your face.

“We require merchants to come to your home because the children need new shoes, their own are pinching their feet and the cobbler cannot make their shoes without measuring their feet.” You point out. “Also, I enjoy socializing and since I am not permitted to go to town, I will simply have town come to me.”

Pero sets his wine glass down, “I suppose that is for the best. I want the children to have everything they need, I want you to have everything you need. You - I am guessing one of the staff told you about Maria?” He asks, curious if anything has been said about his behavior.

You could lie to him, but you don’t. “I was told about the night Luis was born.” You admit softly, understanding how such a thing could haunt the man, especially since he was a soldier in the war. You wonder if the poor boy you have come to love even gets any acknowledgement on his birthing day, or if grief is too overwhelming. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

Pero swallows the lump that always forms in his throat when he thinks about Maria and that fateful night. In a way, he’s glad he didn’t have to discuss it with you, to relive that horrid night, but another part of him knows he needs to discuss it with you, to tell you why he brought you here and has yet to consummate the marriage. That time is not now though with the children here. “Gracias, mi esposa. I- I would like to have supper with you tonight…if you want.”

Your head tilts in surprise but you don’t voice it. “That would be lovely, Don Tovar.” You murmur softly, aware that he is asking for a dinner that is apart from the children. “I will ask that Lola makes your favorite dish.” You offer, smiling slightly. “Do you have any preference for dessert?”

Pero’s gaze dips down to your cleavage. You are a beautiful woman and he has not indulged in pleasure since Maria died apart from a few times where he had spent his coin and then felt incredibly guilty after when he felt like he was betraying his beloved wife. Tonight is about giving your marriage a chance, giving you a chance when he’s been so closed off from you since your wedding night.

You don’t miss the way that your husband's eyes dip down to your breasts and you wonder if he has finally decided to acknowledge that he has a wife. You aren’t ignorant of the relationship between man and wife and yet you have still retained your chastity well into your marriage. Pero mumbles something about a sweet and you nod. “I will make sure that is what you get, if you so desire.”

He nods in appreciation and Luis takes his attention by handing him a cookie from the tray. “Gracias, mi amor.” Pero smiles at his son.

“Papa, will you come and ride with us tomorrow?” Alejandra asks, wanting him to join them for their riding lessons.

“I- I am busy, mija. I-”

Alejandra shakes her head, her lower lip trembling. “Papa. I want - please.” She begs and Pero looks at you, a little lost.

“Your Papa is a very busy man, sweetheart.” You remind her gently. “Although, I believe that he should be able to join you for at least one hour? Yes, Don Tovar?” You ask, glancing from Alejandra to your husband. It will allow the children to see their father and still not take too much time away from his busy work. Although you feel as if he spends much of his time working so he does not have to grieve. “How does that sound?”

Alejandra nods, “please papa. Just an hour. Por favor.” She pleads and Pero nods, not wanting to see his daughter so pouty.

“Sí, mi amor. An hour. Let’s go riding for an hour.” He compromises and she surges forward to hug his arm, “¡gracias, papa!”

You smile at your husband’s shocked face when his daughter smothers him in affection. Nodding when he looks over at you, asking if he is doing things right or perhaps seeking help. He’s doing something that will make his children very happy and it’s a good thing. “Now we need to finish eating.” You tell the children. “Papa needs to get back to work, so finish your lunch so we can leave him to it.”

Pero nods, rubbing Alejandra’s back and he leans down to kiss her head. He can’t deny the way his heart twists at how much he’s missed out on with his little girl and his son. He knows he needs to be a better father to them. “Let’s finish eating.” He says and Alejandra nods, letting go of her father to settle down to eat. Lunch is finished in companionable silence and Pero is soon kissing his children on the head, promising them he will have dinner with them tomorrow.

“Go start your studies again.” You tell the children, smiling when they rush off and you turn towards your husband, slightly flustered to be alone with him for the first time. “I will clean up and get this mess out of your hair.” You promise. “Thank you for not turning them away. They talk about their papa every day and want to spend time with you.”

Pero smiles, watching the children rush off after kissing his cheek then yours, and Pero watches them with his heart thumping. “Gracias, señora. You - you brought me back to my children and I- I never knew how to bridge the gap. I- I cannot repay you for that.”

“There is no need for repayment, Don Tovar.” You assure him, still calling him by his formal title since he has never permitted you to use his Christian name. “That is my job.” You know that he would rather be quit of your presence so you nod and quickly turn around to gather the meals up onto the trays to be carried back to the kitchen.

Pero swallows harshly, “please…call me Pero.” He says and reaches for your hand. He squeezes it, and his heart twists as he thinks about you and how beautiful you are yet he feels like he’s betraying Maria.

“P-Pero.” you murmur, feeling shy now that he has stopped you from your task. You bite your lip as you stare into his dark eyes, wishing that you could tell him how handsome you find him. “Is there - something else you wished for, Pero?” You ask quietly.

Pero stares at you for a moment before he withdraws his hand. This is progress but he knows he shouldn’t venture into his attraction to you. It will only lead to heartbreak, either his or the children’s. “No. That is all. I shall see you later for supper.” He says and clears his throat.

You are disappointed, knowing that he wanted something else but you don’t push him. He had shown that he had no wish to have a relationship with you. “Yes, Don Tovar.” You revert back to your formal politeness and you pick up one of the trays and you will send Carmen in to gather the other. “Good afternoon.”

Pero frowns, wishing to hear his Christian name from your lips and when you carry the tray out of the room, he leans back against the chair, sighing and rubbing his face. He wants this to work. He needs this to work. For the children’s sake. Dinner tonight will be his chance to redeem his terrible behavior.

The rest of the day is spent with the children. After asking Lola to make the Don’s favorite meal, you had finished their lessons and then took them down to the kitchen for both their dinner and their baths. Laughing when they pouted when getting into the water, and then pouting when they had to get out. Once they are clean and in their nightclothes, you chatter and joke with them as you take them back upstairs to put them to bed. Leaving you little time to get ready for dinner with your husband, but it is for the best. You had no time to think about why he wanted to have dinner with you now, so long after your marriage.

Pero adjusts his jacket - not the latest trends but well made, none the less- and he paces in the dining room, wondering if you aren’t coming as the minutes tick by. When you finally appear, you look beautiful and his heart flutters in his chest after laying dormant for so long. He strides forward, taking your hand in his and leans down to press his lips to the back of your hand. “Esposa, you look beautiful.”

“Forgive me for being late, Don Tovar.” You curtsy for him and hate how handsome he is in his evening jacket. “The children were begging for another story before bed and I could not say no.” Your own preparation for dinner had been rushed and you hope that he is not disappointed by your appearance.

Pero shakes his head, “don’t be silly, esposa. The children come first. I trust they are in bed?” He asks and you nod, “they are asleep and in bed.” You smile and Pero keeps your hand in his so he can guide you to your chair. He pulls it out and helps you sit before he makes his way over to his own seat.

Once you are seated, Pero sits across from you and Carmen immediately marches into the dining room with the first course. “Don,” you venture, smiling your thanks to Carmen as she sets down the soup. “I believe that we should hire more staff.” You tell him. “My maid also acts as the housekeeper and now she is serving our dinner. I believe that we need a butler and perhaps a full time housekeeper. That way we are not overworking our staff.”

“You are in charge of the household. If you wish to have another, I will have Carlos and Lola ask around in town.”

You lift a brow in surprise, your soup spoon nearly to your mouth and you take your bite and swallow before you respond. “Thank you, I will have them ask immediately.” You smile at him again and Pero glances back down at his own soup as if he is shy. “The children are excited about riding with you tomorrow. I was surprised they had not learned already but they have come so far in their lessons.” If it is a rebuke, it is a small one. The children had been very far behind in their lessons and some had not started at all. You had been working diligently to get them on track to where they should be. “They are very bright children. You should be very proud of them.”

Pero’s stomach twists with guilt. He barely knows his children. He doesn’t know that they are behind in their studies when you mention they have much to learn. The guilt twists in his stomach again and he knows he can’t hide from them anymore. “I am.” He answers softly, offering you a rare smile. You are so kind, he doesn’t want to tarnish you with his sins.

Surprised by the smile, you offer one of your own and hope that he is starting to care. You continue to eat in silence, waiting for Pero to talk to you but the silent sounds of eating settles between you. It’s sad, really. This man doesn’t have more questions about his children and doesn’t seem interested in them. When you are done, you set your spoon down and quietly wait for the next course.

Carmen brings in the next course and Pero is struggling to find the words to make conversation. It’s been so long since he had dinner with someone and he’s a little out of practice with his etiquette. “Are you liking Spain or do you miss your home?” He asks you after rubbing his hands together.

“Truly?” You shrug one shoulder and look down at the plate in front of you. “I have not seen much of the country since the carriage ride to your estate.” You remind him, trapped here by your husband’s wishes. “But what I have seen is beautiful. Carlos is very hopeful we can restore the gardens and the greenhouse to their former glory.” You had learned that Pero had ordered that the garden not be planted, just maintained. As flowers would die off, they would not be replanted. At least until you had arrived. You suppose it was because Pero’s first wife had loved spending time in the gardens. The little pond of water had apparently been her favorite spot.

Pero wants to bite out that the gardens are not to be touched but then he remembers why he brought you here to marry him. He needs someone to maintain his home. “Perhaps we can take a ride soon, I would like to show you my country.” He says softly and looks up after he cuts into his meat.

“I would like that.” He might not mean it. Might not ever do it, since he seems to blow so hot and cold, but you smile. “I have missed riding.” You haven’t gone for rides since the children would want to come with you and they were not accomplished enough to go so far and you do not know the area. “But there has been plenty to keep me busy. Have you any opinion on the changes, Don Tovar?”

Tovar looks out of the window to the beautiful gardens, now full of flowers after your dedication to the garden, and he turns to look back at you. “The gardens looks gorgeous, mi esposa.” He says and turns back to his meal. “You are bringing the estate back to its former glory.”

“Thank you.” You feel proud that even if he is a man who does not interact with you much, that he sees your improvements to his home. “Was there anything that you wished to discuss with me?” You ask quietly. “I thought that might be why you asked me to have dinner with you?”

Pero sighs, setting down his cutlery. “I wanted to discuss…if you were looking to have children of your own. We never got a chance to discuss it and I wanted to address the matter as it would mean us…consummating our marriage.” He says, trying to be as matter of fact as possible.

“I had hoped to one day have children.” You confess setting your own cutlery down and hate how handsome he is despite how aloof he acts. “I have put those dreams aside, now.” You look away, back down at your food and you aren’t hungry anymore. “It does not seem that you are interested in….consummating our marriage.”

Picking up his glass of wine, Pero knows he has failed in your marriage already. He’s been selfish and he isn’t sure how he can fix it. The thought of betraying Maria in this final way has his stomach twisting. “Are you- are you interested in consummating the marriage?” He asks softly.

You need to be honest with him. So you are. “I am not interested in being used.” You admit bluntly. “I have no experience with intimate relations, but I do know what to expect.” You assure him. “However, I would not accept being used to fulfill your needs and then ignored until the next time you have use of my body.” You could very well ruin your chances of any kind of relationship with Pero, but he asked. “You are a very handsome man, and I have found myself thinking about you often, but if you have every intention of satisfying your lust and then pretending I don’t exist until the next time you want to touch me, I would rather you just leave me untouched.

Pero nods, appreciating your candor and the way you hold yourself. It makes you more attractive to him. He sips his wine as he contemplates his answer. “I do not wish for you to feel used and I am not capable at this time of more than physical release. If you wish to experience pleasure, I will ensure you are satisfied with our marital bed. However, if you yearn for an emotional connection, then I would suggest we permanently place any relations on hold.”

You smile, albeit sadly. “Don Tovar, I have never expected love in an arrangement. I am not a silly, romantic girl. However, I will require you to respect me if we were to share our marital bed. Take your meals with me and perhaps some evenings beyond our pursuit of pleasure. I don’t require your heart, I know your first marriage was one of love and your affections still lay with your late wife.”

Pero is taken back by your refute to his offer but he appreciates your directness. “Very well. I assure you that I will try my best to ensure you are satisfied physically. Shall we - would tonight be appropriate or do you wish to wait until it happens naturally?”

You hum, amused by the idea of physical relations happening naturally with a man who has not spent more than two hours in your presence since you have been married to him. Perhaps it is foolish, but you want to know what it is like to be touched. “Tonight is fine.” You assure him and pick up your cutlery again. “Do you have any preference for physical intimacy? I do not have any reference, so I will need to be told if there is something I should not do. Or should do.”

Pero nods, “very well. Let us finish our meal and I will allow you as much time as you require to get ready for our consummation.” He assures you and continues to cut into his meal so he can finish eating. Dessert is soon served and you eat in companionable silence before the dishes are cleared away. “Take your time.” He tells you as he stands and waits for you to gather yourself from the dining room table.

You nod. “Give me twenty minutes.” You ask as he takes your hand to walk you to the stairs. “Then I will be ready.” You noticed that he did not answer you about his preferences but figure that he would just show you tonight. After all, it is a husband's job to teach his wife about how he prefers love making.

Pero watches you walk up the stairs and he exhales shakily, realizing that this will be a big step towards cementing your marriage as husband and wife tonight. He clears his throat and makes his way to his chambers to clean himself up. It’s been a while since he’s been intimate but he remembers that women do not like being with men who smell like a long day. He washes and dresses in his linen nightshirt, deciding to keep things simple for the act. Inhaling deeply, he makes his way down the hall to your chambers.

Tovar knocks on the door, heart thumping in his chest, and when you call out for him to come in, he slowly opens the door. “Hola, esposa.” He murmurs after he shuts it behind him. He takes in your figure, glowing in the firelight and his cock twitches under his shirt.

“Hello, husband.” You bite your lip and wonder how he will approach you and this. “What- what do you want me to do?” You ask, watching him carefully, more nervous than you had expected to be. You don’t think he will hurt you, but you had been told the first time is painful and that you would learn to enjoy it. “Do you wish me to get on the bed?”

Pero shakes his head, walking over to you to take your hands in his and he exhales shakily, suddenly nervous. It’s been so long since he’s been with a woman, especially his wife. His heart clenches when he briefly thinks of Maria but he pushes that aside. “Esposa, eres hermosa.” He murmurs, letting go of your hand so he can reach up to caress your cheek. You are beautiful and any man would be lucky to have you as their wife. You deserve better than him, than some half shell of the man he used to be. He slides his hand down to caress your neck and your collarbone, his fingers playing with the edge of your gown. “Can I take this off?” He asks, his dark eyes meeting yours, burning like embers in the flames of the fire.

Mouth dry from that simple touch, you nod. Watching him as his eyes seem to shine like a dark flame and you can help but to think that he is most handsome. His hands skim down over your waist and he tangles the material of your nightgown in his fingers and slowly starts to drag it up. Exposing you to the warmth of the fire and it makes you even hotter as your skin starts to burn from the simplest touch. Tonight you will just let him touch you, hopefully show you what he likes. Maybe you can help him by letting him find pleasure with you.

Pero tosses your gown to the floor and steps back, his dark eyes running down the length of your body. His eyes focus on your tits, swallowing harshly as his gaze lowers to the thatch of curls at the apex of your thighs. “Hermosa.” He murmurs, stepping closer to you, and he reaches out to caress your waist, pulling you up against his body. “Tell me if you want to stop. Or you don’t like anything.”

You nod, wanting to touch him but you don’t ask. Knowing you would hate feeling rejected if he pulled away. Your breathing stutters as his fingers slide up and brush the underside of your breast, nipple hardening and you bite your lip so you don’t moan wantonly. “Pero….” Your whisper is soft, pleading and you wonder why you are so eager to have this man touch you.

His hand squeezes your breast until he notices that you want to touch him so he reaches for your hand, bringing it to his chest. “You can touch me, esposa.” He assures you, inhaling the scent of your bath oil as he leans in to run his nose along the length of your neck.

His own dressing gown is hanging open at the neck and your fingers slide inside to touch hot, tanned skin. Biting your lip and trying to concentrate as his fingers brush over your nipple and make you gasp. Looking down, you see the gown tenting over his cock and your cheeks burn, but you are curious to see what it looks like, reaching down and brushing the fabric close so you can see better.

Pero hisses when your innocent fingers brush his cock. He reaches down, guiding you to wrap your fingers around him. His skin is hot and velvety and you explore him with utter lack of knowledge but he enjoys it. He likes that you have no expectations of him. He can just feel. He murmurs your name and his hand lets go of yours, letting you explore him while his palms continue their own adventure, palming your ass in his grip.

It feels wicked and yet you know that it is perfectly natural to touch him. You need to learn how he feels since he is perhaps the only man you would ever sleep with. Unless you remarry and your husband is obviously a hale and hearty man. “It is so hard.” You murmur in wonder. “And yet so soft.” You gasp when you feel a wetness on your skin and look down to see a smear of liquid on your finger.

He refrains from chuckling at your virginal observations. “Take your time, esposa. We are in no rush. No rush at all. I want to make sure you feel good.” He assures you and he slides his hand down between your legs, finding you wet and wanting him. He loves that and he is going to make you cum. From his fingers, from his cock. He finds your clit and loves the gasp that escapes you as he starts to rub the bundle of nerves.

Your eyes flutter closed and you hand to cling to his shoulder before your knees buckle. “Oh…ohhhh my….” You whimper, your grip on his cock loosening. You don’t know what he’s doing to you but you need more of it. “Pero.”

Pero grabs your waist, keeping you upright and pressed against him while he works your clit. His lips brush your neck by accident and you shiver against him. He rubs your clit a little faster, wanting you to cum for him for the first time. “That’s it, esposa.”

He doesn’t seem to mind touching you, increasing how fast he is rubbing but he’s groaning against your ear and encouraging you. For what you don’t know, you just know that your stomach is fluttering and clenching right up until stars burst behind your eye and you gasp as your cunt clenches on its own and a wave of heat floods your core.

Pero keeps you upright, working you through it and groaning when you bury your face in his neck. He groans your name softly and slides his finger back to gently push it inside of you, wanting to stretch you out so you feel less pain when he finally fucks you.

“Ohhhhhh.” Your eyes wide, mouth hit against his skin as you moan. Surprised to feel his fingers inside you and your body jolts when he pushes them up and presses against something inside you, “oh Pero.” You whimper, closing your eyes and unable to help yourself, you kiss his neck.

He curls his fingers, knowing he needs to make this good for you. He pushes his fingers a little deeper, loving the way you kiss his neck and he knows he should stop you but the intimacy makes his heart twist, his stomach clench. It’s been so long since he enjoyed the touch of someone else. “Fuck.” He curses, his cock twitching.

“Is this- is this how it feels?” You pant softly, your hips rocking up to his hand. Chasing the feeling that he pulls out of you. “All the time?” You are surprised that there aren’t more babies in the world if sex feels like this.

“Sometimes.” Pero chuckles softly, adding another finger, “sometimes it feels good, sometimes it’s just a physical release to relax. Quiero - I want you to feel like this all the time we are intimate, mi esposa.” He murmurs, his hand squeezing your ass to encourage you to rock down onto his fingers.

You feel so good, rocking on your feet as you wantonly move in your husbands arms. Kissing along his neck every time you grind down onto his finger, you feel that sensation start to build inside of you again. “Pero.” You whimper, clutching his shoulders and clenching around his fingers. “Pero- I- again- it’s- it’s-“ you cut yourself off with a small cry, another wave of pleasure and heat flooding you and making you forget about everything but the bliss of his fingers.

The way you clamp down on his fingers has his cock leaking. To hear you so unabashedly enjoying yourself has him groaning and he works you through it. His fingers soaked and he knows you are ready to take him. “Mierda.” He hisses, pressing his cock against your hip as you come back down to earth. Soon enough, he’s withdrawing his fingers and he wipes his fingers on his nightgown. “Come on, esposa. Lay down. I want to fuck my wife.” He says with a slight smile, knowing it’s taken way too long to get to this point in your marriage.

You hum, nearly floating on a cloud as you walk over to your bed and pull the covers back. Climbing into the bed and knowing that you will come out of it properly wed is thrilling and you lay back amongst the pillows. Watching as he walks towards you. “Are you going to remove your shirt, husband?” You ask softly, wanting to see your husband as fully as he has seen you. There is no love between you, but there will be passion and you wish to know what he looks like.

Pero bites his lip, wondering if he will be good enough. If you will like the scars on his body from his battles won in the war. He exhales shakily and nods, reaching for the hem of his shirt so he can lift it over his head, fully exposing his body to you as you lay in your bed.

He is strong, you can tell that from the corded muscles that spoke of your husband doing much more than just being an idle lord. Bunching and rippling as he stands still for you inspection, you don’t hesitate to let your eyes roam over him. Widening slightly when you get your first look at his cock without some fabric blocking your view. “You are…handsome.” You admit breathlessly. “It- you make my core throb.”

Your words surprise Pero and he smirks, slightly cocky that you are satisfied with his appearance. He shifts closer to the bed until he is kneeling on it, his fingers caressing your ankle bone and up your leg. “That’s good. That’s lust, esposa. Do you desire me? Do you want me inside or you?” He asks, kneeling between your thighs and he doesn’t touch you so you can make the final assessment before he consummates the marriage.

Even though you are innocent, you are aware of what should happen. Feeling bold by the lust that is in his own eyes, you spread your thighs to reveal the thatch of curls covering your core. “Please, Pero.”

“Mierda.” Tovar mutters and caresses your thighs. When he looks into your eyes and sees your certainty, he nods and reaches down to grip his cock. Shuffling closer, he notches himself at your entrance and slowly, so slowly, pushes inside of you. “Fuck.” He pants, trying to control himself but you’re so wet and tight. He exhales shakily and pushes deeper, wanting to make sure you are as comfortable as possible despite him taking your innocence.

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling a pinch but it is not the painful experience that you had been led to believe that it was. Moaning softly as you feel him deep inside, seemingly deeper than his fingers had been, and throbbing. Your fingers dig into his shoulders again and you slowly open your eyes as you breathe out. “Pero.”

The urge to bury himself inside of you is strong but he remains in control, slowly rocking his hips so he can work his cock deeper inside of you until he is settled inside of you. He knows you are a keen horse rider so your innocence was likely taken during a saddling but he doesn’t care. He’s damaged goods himself and he knows some men would want you to be intact but this is kinder to you and to him. He closes his eyes once he’s fully inside of you, his fists clenched as he tries to not spill his seed before you can experience the pleasure of sex.

“I- I feel so full.” You whimper, your fingers dragging across his skin and your legs shuffling slightly. He’s so still on top of you and it makes you want to move, need to move. To chase the same sensation you felt when you had his fingers inside you. You gasp when you think of what you heard your maids back home giggling about. Riding a man as if he were a horse and you clench down around him thinking about riding Pero like that, his cock deep inside you.

Pero hisses when you clamp down on his cock and he inhales deeply. He reaches down to grab your thigh and he lifts it higher so he can sink deeper inside of you. “Fuck.” He pants and starts to move slowly.

You moan again, eyes widening at how well you feel him. “I- oh Pero.” You whimper, trying to roll you hips down but he has you nailed to the bed with his cock. “I-f-fuck.” You stammer out, the curse unfamiliar on your tongue but it feels like it is necessary for what you are feeling right now as your husband moves inside you.

Your curse has his cock twitching inside of you and he groans when your walls squeeze him. “Fuck, esposa. You feel - it’s - perfect.” He allows you a minute access to his thoughts and that seems to make you wild. Clamping down on his cock and arching your back to egg him on. He starts to move faster, lowering his hips and groaning your name as he tries to make this good for you.

You enjoy the rough sound of his voice. Moaning again as he starts up a rhythm to his movements and making you nearly gasp every time he pushes deep. You slide your hands down your back, playing over scars and working muscles rippling under the skin. You feel like he approved of your curse so you do it again, followed by his name. “It’s so intense.”

He likes to hear that because it’s a lot to him too. To be intimate with his wife. He never imagined he’d remarry but he starts to think it’s possible to have a marriage with you, to be able to survive without Maria…perhaps even be happy. He enjoys your touch and slides his hand up to cup your breast, squeezing and he shifts so he can lean down to take your nipple into his mouth.

You hadn’t expected his mouth. Wrongly assuming that kissing being too intimate meant any part of your body and not just your lips. “Pero!” You cry out loud enough that the servants might hear and arch your back up, wanting more of the pleasure of his mouth at your breast. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.” You whimper, shivering.

He loves hearing you curse, his cock twitching inside of you, and he switches over to your other breast. He bites down on your flesh, nipping and sucking, and he moves inside of you, grinding deep. “You like this, hermosa?” He asks, lost in the pleasure of being inside of you.

“Yes, yes Pero.” You moan, closing your eyes and lifting your legs to wrap them around his waist. You know that you are making him feel good. At least you hope you are. Feeling his thrusts start to build faster, his breathing catching and starting to pant against your skin. “So much.”

He grunts when he feels you starting to clench around him and he drops his hips so he can press his pelvis where you need him more. “Cum for me.” He pleads with a groan, needing to feel you cum before he finds his own high. “Por favor, esposa. Cum.” He demands and drags his tongue along your sternum.

You shiver at the feeling of his tongue on your skin. “Ohhhh Pero!” You cry out, body starting to shake underneath his with the next thrust of his hips as you start to fall apart. Pleasure whipping through every inch of your body as you moan.

He clenches his eyes shut when you clamp down on his cock and he bites down on your shoulder as he barely manages to pull out of you, his hot seed spilling on your thigh. “Fuck.” He pants, cock twitching against your hip as he rides his orgasm.

Your eyes open and you frown in confusion as you feel the wetness of his seed on your skin. “I- is something wrong?” You pant quietly, wondering if you’ve somehow disappointed him.

He frowns, pulling back to look down at you. “What are you talking about? I- nothing is wrong.” He’s trying to catch his breath and he shifts to lay down beside you. “It was good.” He assures you, “did you not enjoy it?”

“You-“ You bite your lip and look up at the ceiling. “You spilled your seed on my thighs.” You murmur quietly, wondering if there was something wrong with you that caused him to do that. He was supposed to finish inside you. That’s what everyone said.

Pero closes his eyes, trying to conceal the pain. “I know - I know we aren’t - tonight was our first night but - but I can’t risk you being with child so soon.” He admits, reminded once again of Maria dying during childbirth.

“I-I am so sorry.” You close your own eyes, mortified that you had brought up something so personal to him. “I understand. Forgive me for being so thoughtless.” You know you have ruined things and you swallow down a sigh.

Pero shakes his head, shifting to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Don’t worry, esposa. I- I’ll leave you to clean up. I have work to attend to.” He declares as he stands and reaches for his nightgown. “I shall see you tomorrow.” He says, turning to look at you after he edged towards the door.

You nod. “Yes.” You know he wants to leave and you sit up, his seed cooling on your skin. “I will clean up and then choose another book from the library before I go to bed. Goodnight, husband.”

“Buenas noches, esposa.” Pero says and swiftly leaves your room. Tonight, he gave in to his desires and left you upset after he pulled out of you. He knows you will urge him to have a child soon and he isn’t sure he is ready for that conversation but for now, he will retire to his quarters to read over the accounts before he falls asleep. He’s not entirely sure how long he can continue keeping you at arms length but he has to try. He cannot lose another wife.

****

The next morning, you are surprised to find your husband in the dining room when you come in. “Buenas días, husband.” You see that he is reading some papers, so you move to your normal seat with the cup of tea you had retrieved yourself when you had gone in to see Lola. “I hope your night was restful.” You had decided that you understood where Pero stood on getting you with child and you wished to speak with him about it. “Have you ever used a- a condom before?” You ask him. “My maid back home said they can be purchased from the chemist. Perhaps that would be a good solution?”

Pero raises his eyebrows over his newspaper, watching you for a moment until he chuckles. “Is that what you wish for us to use? I am happy to let you manage our…situation if you wish.” He trusts you and he isn’t sure when that changed.

“You said that you did not wish for me to be - to have a child.” You don’t add the ‘yet’ portion because you feel like he would rather that be ‘at all’. “So a co-condom would help.” You shrug, slightly self conscious now. “We don’t have to use one.”

Pero nods, understanding what you are saying and he appreciates your planning. “Let us have Carmen fetch us some things and then we have the choice.” He says, knowing that it will be hard to keep away from you now that he knows how you feel. The passion inside of you scares him and he knows if he allows it, he will lose himself in you. He can’t put his heart back on the line and the children need a mother. With a nod, he goes back to eating his pan con tomate and knows that you will take care of the issue of birth control.

Carmen brings you a plate of food and you thank her, eating in silence with your husband. You had not expected grand conversations with him, at least at the beginning, so you do not try to disturb him with idle chit chat and when you stand after finishing, you give him a small smile. “Have a good day, husband.” You wish him softly.

Pero watches you go and realizes that maybe he doesn’t just want this to be a marriage of mutual benefit. He finishes his breakfast in peace and decides to spend the rest of the day near the children.

****

“Where is my wife?” Pero asks Carmen, who frowns, “she’s in her chambers, Don Tovar.” She answers and Pero frowns, making his way to your rooms and he is even more confused when he enters and calls your name, only to find you aren’t there.

Biting your lip, you urge the horse faster. Knowing that you are breaking your word to your husband, but it cannot be helped. Luis is feverish, and Carmen and Lola had been nowhere to be found when you had gone searching for them. Frantic about your husband’s son, you know it would destroy Pero to lose the last bit of his wife that she had given him. So you broke your promise. Currently racing to town to fetch the doctor, you pray that the instructions you had given his sister were working and that you will be able to bring the doctor back from town in time.

When Pero finds the children, he’s frantic when he’s told that Luis has a fever and you have left to go to town to find the doctor. He can hardly contain his anxiety, his hands shaking, and he growls at Carlos, “I’m going to fucking find her!” He feels like he’s losing control, his heart pounding and his breathing is heavy. His legs feel like lead and his brain focuses on you and his children. Is Luis dying? Is this his punishment for his time in the war? Is he going to lose you? He pants and collapses to his knees, Carlos reaching out to steady him as his vision goes cloudy. “I- I - can’t save them.”

It is to your detriment that you haven’t been to town, wasting precious time to find the doctor and demanding that he come with you back to the Tovar estate. Shaking with fear and praying that you make it back in time to help your little boy. You didn’t give birth to him, but you have grown close to the children and you have come to love their personalities now they are being taught and challenged, time being spent with them. The mischief of your first meeting was long gone. Rushing to your horse and as soon as the doctor is mounted on his own, racing for home.

Pero manages to stand up, shoving Carlos away as he demands to know where you’ve gone. “I - Alejandra said she’s gone to the town.” Pero doesn’t waste a second, rushing to the stables and swinging his leg over his stallion, no saddle, he pushes the horse to the limit as he gallops towards town. Images of you injured or dead flash in his mind and he realizes how you have wiggled his way into his mind and heart. Your kindness and the feel of you beneath him have his heart twisting at the thought of anything happening to you.

Frowning, you spot a rider in the distance on the road. Unsure of who it might be, you glance back at the doctor who is on your horses heels and then forward again. Recognizing the haste in the way you see the horse being pushed, dread knots in your stomach, realizing that it must be your husband. Lifting a hand, even though he is too far away to shout to, you wonder if he will beat you for disobeying him.

Pero sees you as he gallops and he nearly falls off of the horse when he pulls on its hair to slow it down. “You - what the fuck do you think you are you doing?” Pero yells as you approach him and the doctor’s horse skids as he comes to a stop.

“Luis! Luis has a fever!” You cry out, panting for breath as your horse stomps and shakes underneath you, “I- I had to get the doctor.” Your own mother had died from a fever sickness and the idea of losing his little boy on your watch makes you want to be sick. “I- we must hurry Pero! He cannot die, not like mama!”

Pero nods, knowing that now is not the time to have this argument. “You’re unharmed?” Pero asks and you nod frantically. His heart is pounding but you are safe and unharmed from what he can tell so he turns his horse around and the three of you gallop back to his estate, back in front of the sick little boy in record time. Pero kneels beside Luis, watching the doctor and he swallows harshly, “por favor. Just - do something.”

You twist your hands, knowing that Pero is worried and you start to pray yourself. Carmen has Alejandra in the other room and you can hear her comforting the older child. The doctor works and you worry, pacing the floors continuously, eager to bring the doctor anything he might need and bringing in the basin of cold water that Lola brings up.

Pero holds his son’s hand while the doctor assesses him and murmurs prayers as you kneel beside him. He reaches for your other hand, squeezing it as he prays and the doctor starts to drain the boy’s blood in hopes of bringing down the fever. “Bleeding should help the fever break. If not, I have some bark I think will help.”

Pero swallows, his throat is dry, “whatever you can do. I- I can’t lose him.”

You try to be there for him. Sitting strong and praying as the doctor continues to bleed the boy until he claims that it is enough. Wiping him down and checking his forehead again with a small frown before he moves over to the teapot he had requested with boiling water. You squeeze Pero’s hand and glance at your husband’s worried face.

Pero doesn’t know how long he lays there, his heart and mind weary as he watches his son. The doctor gave him the tea and left, stating it “is in God’s hands now.” He’s not eaten, he hasn’t slept. He just sits there and watches the little boy breathe. He doesn’t know where you are, he sometimes wonders but he’s too concerned about his son.

You watch. Waiting for anything and everything that Pero or Luis might need. Often leaving the room to comfort Alejandra and to let her know how her brother is doing. You don’t want her to feel forgotten and eventually you allow her to come into the room after promising to be quiet. The two of you sit in a chair behind Pero and eventually curl up together and fall asleep together from exhaustion and worry.

Pero isn’t sure when he fell asleep, perhaps the exhaustion got to him and he simply rested his head on the cool sheets, his eyes closing without his knowledge. “Papa.” He doesn’t hear the weak murmur at first. “Papa.” A small hand touches his hair and Pero’s nose wrinkles. “Papa.” The voice is stronger and wakes Pero up, his head shooting up to see Luis lucid and awake.

“Luis” He gasps, reaching for him to check his views. His eyes are clear, his forehead cool but not cold. He’s okay. “Mi amor.” Pero chokes, wrapping his arms around the little boy to pull him into his arms.

You wake up, rousing Alejandra in your arms and nearly sob with relief that Luis is awake and alert. “Mama, is Luis okay?” Alejandra demands, her own worry for her brother causing her to not think about what she calls you. Your eyes widen and you try not to tear up at the honorary name, nodding and brushing her tangled hair back from her face and holding her close despite being on your lap. “It looks like he is.” You hum. “Go hug him and your papa.”

Alejandra nods, rushing over to her papa and her brother and she wraps her arms around them. Pero shifts, gathering the children into his arms and he sniffs, trying to ignore the tears that sting in his eyes as he embraces them. “Te amo, mijos.” He murmurs and looks over at you, “come here, esposa.” He gestures for you to come over to them.

Standing up, you are happy to see such a touching moment between the small family. You know you are a part of it now, but they are reminders of his wife and very dear to him. Walking over, you ruffle Luis’ hair and smile. “You gave us all a fright, Luis.” You hum, sliding your hand to your husband’s shoulder.

Pero reaches up to grip your hand in his, his terror at losing you or one of his children now subsided and in its place is joy that he doesn’t have to suffer another loss. The four of you embrace until Carmen comes in to attend to Luis, wanting him to eat something and drink. Pero tells Alejandra to stay with her brother and she nods. “I need to speak with you.” Pero says to you, his voice deepening as he reaches for your hand.

You swallow, aware that he will now punish you. You had disobeyed him and you know from everyone that Pero is a stern man. You follow him quietly, wondering why he is still holding your hand as he guides you out of the nursery towards your bedroom.

When Pero opens the door to your chambers, he pushes you inside. “What were you thinking?” He hisses, dropping your hand as he glares at you, “I told you to never go into town.”

“I was thinking that Luis was in danger.” You won’t apologize for your actions, but you understand his anger. “He needed the doctor and I could not find anyone.” You stand straight and stiffen your spine. “If you punish me, that is you right. But I would do it again. My mother died of fever and I did not want you to lose your last gift from your wife.”

Your words take Pero back and his jaw drops, staring at you as he absorbs your words. Your kindness knows no bounds it seems and that’s the moment it clicks for Pero. Unable to stop himself, he surges forward and you think he’s about to hit you but he doesn’t, instead, his lips press against yours.

You had flinched, you could admit that yourself but then you are gasping against Pero’s mouth, shocked that he is kissing you. He had told you that he wouldn’t do that again; it was too intimate for him. Yet his lips are warm and soft against yours and you cannot help but melt into him.

His hands grip your waist and his mouth moves against yours, his tongue sliding along your lower lip as he pulls you up against him. You moan into his mouth and his hands reach down to tug your skirts up, his hands soon pulling his cock free from his breeches, hard and aching. He needs you and he hopes you want him too.

You had expected a beating, not for your husband to fuck you. But you aren’t going to push him away. Your fingers tug on your petticoats and you quickly push them down. “Husband.” You gasp out when he pulls his lips away. “Please.” You whimper, enjoying his apparent need for you.

His hand grabs your thigh, lifting it over your hip so he can position his cock at your entrance and he pushes inside of you with a groan. “Fuck, hermosa.” He murmurs, caressing your thigh as he pushes deeper.

“Oh god.” You would probably collapse if he didn’t have his hand on your waist and use his strength to keep you upright. Wanting to kiss him again, you wonder if that was a fluke and he wouldn’t kiss you but you turn your head to kiss along his jaw while he throbs inside you.

He turns his head to kiss you, pressing his lips against yours as he starts to move inside of you. You’re so wet and tight and alive. You’re alive. He focuses on you and your touch, his mouth moving against yours as he presses you against the wall.

You had never considered that your husband could fuck you against a wall, and yet, it’s thrilling. You moan into his mouth and cling to him, not caring that his hips push you back against the wainscoting every time he thrusts into you. Your own tongue touches against his and your entire body shivers with pleasure.

“Fuck. Mi esposa. I- Don’t want to lose you.” He murmurs, kissing along your jaw, and he kisses down your throat as he lifts your hip a little higher so he can push deeper inside of you. “Fuck. Please. I need - I need you.”

“Pero.” You whimper, closing your eyes and letting him do whatever he needs to you. You are starting to fall for him, especially with how he worried for Luis.

It’s hard to imagine his days without you now. Cold nights alone have turned into passionate escapades scattered throughout the day, touches leading through the night. He has tried to stay away but you’ve drawn him in. He continues to work his cock in and out of you, groaning as he presses his lips to yours again.

Closing your eyes, you give yourself over to him completely. Clinging to him as he fucks you so deeply you know they you will be feeling him for days after. Even though he’s not wearing a condom, you expect him to pull out and spill his seed outside your body. The condom had been great and you loved the feeling of him pulsing inside you.

Pero kisses along your jaw, breathing you in and he needs you to clamp down on his cock. He grabs your other thigh, lifting you up completely as the adrenaline surges through him and he grunts as he lifts you up and down his cock, still pressing you against the wall.

Gasping, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and try to wrap your legs around him, your skirts bunched between you. “Fuck, Pero, I- I love you.” You moan quietly; needing to at least whisper it even though he doesn’t feel the same way. “So close.”

He hears it but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he presses his lips to yours and when you whine into his mouth, he groans against your lips when you clamp down on his cock. He should pull out but he doesn’t, too focused on you and how you feel and how he could’ve lost you. He grunts and keeps thrusting you through your orgasm until finally, he’s pushing deep and filling you full of his hot seed, painting your walls.

Your eyes widen and you are too busy worrying about the feeling of his hot seed inside you. Knowing he will regret it you are savoring this one moment. “Pero- Pero you have to let me- I have to bathe.” You whimper.

He doesn’t release you, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pants again at your chin, enjoying the feel of you surrounding him. “Don’t.” He murmurs, not wanting to let you go just yet. He can’t lose another person from his life that he cares for.

You frown but you don’t push him away, deciding that he knows what he is doing. “Okay, husband.” You pant softly, feeling him throb inside of you and start to soften. “Is-is this my punishment?” You ask teasingly.

Pero chuckles softly, pulling out of you and lowering you down to the floor. Your skirts settle down and he reaches down to tuck his cock back into his breeches. “No punishment.” He assures you and reaches for your hands, “please…just do not go into town unless you are escorted.” He compromises, knowing that it will be hard to overcome his anxiety surrounding town but he cannot keep you prisoner.

You bite your lip, aware that your husband is compromising. “Yes.” You murmur softly, leaning in and pressing your lips to his cheek. You don’t want to push him for more than he will give you so you won’t kiss him on the lips unless he kisses you first. “Thank you, Pero.” You hum, smiling as you pull back to look into his dark eyes. “I will have an escort.”

Pero nods, letting go of your hands and he is pleased that he could compromise. The idea of you going into town terrifies him, he doesn’t want to lose you. The children clearly love you and he - he has affection for you.

****

Pero looks up at you as you enter the dining room. He stands up, walking over to pull your chair out for you, taking over the job from the footman. “You look beautiful, esposa.” He murmurs, caressing your cheek as you stand before him and he helps you sit down.

“Thank you.” You give Pero a smile, but you’re slightly nervous. Your monthly time has been missed for several months now and you woke up feeling nauseous and your breasts being sore. You are with child and while your husband has become warmer to you, you don’t know how he will react. It’s true that there have been several times since the day Luis was sick that he hasn’t worn the condom, he had also still worn it and never said anything about having children with you or your confession of your feelings. You’ve never repeated those words again. “I’ll just have some weak tea and toast.” You tell the footman before he disappears to let Lola know you are ready for breakfast.

Pero frowns, usually you order more at breakfast and he wonders if you are unwell. “Are you ill, esposa?” He asks and wonders if you are okay. He watches you as you eye the cup of tea with a grimace and he calls Carlos over to order the doctor to come to the house.

“I think that I might have some kind of stomach malady.” You admit with a small groan, covering your nose from the aroma of the tea. “It should pass.” You have an idea of what is wrong but you don’t wish to alarm Pero.

Pero is concerned but knows the doctor will help you and Carlos will ensure his swift arrival. Your breakfast is hardly touched and he will inform Carmen to let Lola know to prepare a light but generous lunch for you. He is concerned, knowing how Luis was and he’s terrified that you are going to end up with the same fate.

After breakfast, you still feel ill, laying down and resting even though you know you should be watching the children. You feel dizzy and nauseous and you wonder if all women feel this way when they are pregnant. You are sure that is what is going on, emptying your stomach of the tea and the few bites of toast you had managed into the chamber pot under your bed.

Pero greets the doctor, escorting him to your chambers. This is the same doctor who was present when Maria died and the midwife called for him after there were complications. The two men exchange a look before Carmen announces the doctor’s arrival. “I will leave you to it.” Pero says after everyone enters.

“Oh, I didn’t know Pero was calling a doctor.” You sit up, embarrassed and hoping that the nausea has passed. “I am afraid that I am not quite feeling myself.” You admit when he tuts and brings his bag over. “I think- I think I might be ….” You lower your voice. “Expecting.”

The doctor nods, “very well. Let us check and we can confirm, Señora Tovar.” He says softly and under Carmen’s watchful eye, he performs his tests. Feeling your stomach, he smiles. “Congratulations, Señora. You are with child.” He offers you a soft smile and Carmen grins, “congratulations.”

“Thank you.” It’s a relief to know that is what is wrong, but you wonder how Pero will take the news that you are expecting his child. “What can be done about the nausea?” You ask him softly. “My mother died young and I have never been around someone expecting.”

“I have a tea I can provide your cook with to assist with the sickness.” The doctor informs you and is soon bidding you goodbye. When the doctor exits your quarters, Pero looks up, eyes questions and the doctor pats his shoulder. “I believe your wife had good news.” Pero swallows, knowing what that means and he thanks the doctor before Carlos escorts him out.

Exhaling shakily, he walks over to your room and knocks, entering your chambers to find you sitting on the edge of the bed. He sits down beside you and reaches for your hand, “esposa.”

“I’m sorry, Pero.” You start quietly, looking down at your joined hands. “I know that you wished to wait, or to never have children with me.” You are worried that he will be upset, that it will ruin the closeness you have felt with him lately. “I do not know what happened. I’m - I am going to have your child.”

He squeezes your hand, “don’t know what happened? I think I do.” He chuckles softly. “And…and I’m not angry about it. I knew what could happen and you are an incredible mother to Luis and Alejandra. I think you’ll be amazing.” He assures you, “and I - I want to have a child that is half you and half me.”

You let out the breath you had been holding and smile. Relieved that he is not upset and you are able to be excited for the first time. “I think it will be wonderful.” You admit, although you frown after a moment. “I promise I will not go into town, even with an escort, when my time draws near.” You don’t want him to worry about another wife, even if he doesn’t love you, he would worry.

Pero nods his gratefulness, knowing you now understand his anxiety and reaction. Especially after you ran off to fetch the doctor. He knows he is going to be even more protective of you. “It’s good news, hermosa.” He promises, leaning in to kiss your forehead, brushing his nose against yours until his lips brush your lips.

You’ve found there is comfort in his kisses. A certain sense of home that you’ve not found anywhere else as the nights in his bed progressed. It was often you ended up sleeping together after your pleasure but you had never voiced that sentiment of love again. You desperately want to say it again, but you are afraid to, afraid of being reminded that you are not his late wife and he had warned you that he wouldn’t love you.

****

As your pregnancy progresses, Pero gets more and more anxious. He’s nervous of the birth, reminded once again of Maria dying after giving birth to Luis. He swallows harshly as he leans against the wall, trying to calm his racing heart. You’re going to give birth soon according to the midwife and each day makes his anxiety threaten to overwhelm him.

Every day that passes, you can see your husband slowly start to unravel. He is sleeping less and worrying about you. Not even allowing you on the stairs without someone. Making you ring a bell to have someone come help you. Most often he works from your chambers, moving his work to your writing desk. You sigh as you slide your hand over your stomach, panting slightly. The pains had started last night but you had kept it from him, knowing he wouldn’t sleep and he desperately needed the rest.

Pero sees Carmen rushing through the halls and she slows down when she sees him. “What’s happening?” He asks, frowning, and the young woman bites her lip. “Tell me.” He demands and Carmen knows she can’t deny him, “she’s having pains. The birth is happening. I must fetch the midwife.” Carmen rushes out and Pero’s eyes widen.

“Fetch the doctor too. I will take no chances.” He says and Carmen nods, rushing off. Pero drops everything he is doing and rushes to your chambers, “esposa. Is it true? You’re having pains?” He asks, eying you in the chair in the corner.

You would deny it, to spare him a bit more time but another pain makes you clutch your stomach. Bending over slightly as you start to moan quietly. It lasts for a long time and by that time you relax, you are panting. “I am.”

Pero rushes over to you. Guiding you over to the bed, “come, you must lay down.” He shakes his head, trying to take your shoes off. “Why didn’t you send for me?” He asks, caressing your ankle as you settle against the pillows.

“You have not been sleeping.” You remind him quietly. “I know you need rest and if I told you, there was not any rest in your future.”

Your whimpers make his heart clench and he shakes his head. “Mi - esposa. Come, do not worry about me. I will worry until the babe is in your arms and you are well and healthy.” His voice wavers for a moment and he wonders if you notice as he wipes your forehead of the beads of sweat.

“It will be well.” The midwife has assured you that you are carrying well for a first time birth and believes that it will be a simple thing. Reaching for his hand, you smile at him softly. “I have already asked that you be allowed in the birthing room if you need.”

Pero is surprised and pleased, kissing your damp forehead. “I won’t leave you.” He promises and brushes his lips against yours. “I’ll be here. Every single second.” He vows as Carmen comes back in with water and a flannel.

You get changed into a clean nightgown, Carmen helping you although you don’t mind your husband being there. He has seen you naked more than your own nanny when you were a child. Getting settled back down into the bed, you grip Pero’s hand and cry out when the next pain washes over you.

Pero lets you squeeze his hand as you try to ride the pain. You whimper and Pero frowns, “where is the midwife?” He asks, starting to get impatient. “And the doctor? I called for him as well.” He growls, looking over at Carmen.

“They are coming, Don Tovar.” She assures him, knowing that he is worried about his wife. Everyone has seen how much the Don has come to care about his wife and they are all happy for him. You are kind and loving and it will be good for him to love again. “The doctor is impressed with your wife and has already said he will come whenever summoned.”

“He needs to be here. I will allow no one to take a singular risk. I won’t have my wife’s health and the baby’s health put in danger.” He hisses and squeezes your hand when you groan at the pain. “Are you - you need anything?” Pero asks, wanting to make sure you have everything you need.

“Water.” You beg quietly. Labor is harder work that you realized and you feel parched from it.

Pero nods and squeezes your hand again. “Whatever you want.” He promises, kissing your hand and rushing over to the tray Carmen had brought you earlier.

Pero returns with the water, letting you sip it and he wipes your forehead with the wet rag Carmen hands him. It seems like the sun is setting when you are finally ready to push. The midwife checking you and announcing it’s time. Pero is terrified, this was the time Maria lost too much blood. He remembers the sheets being soaked with it as Luis cried. He grips your hand, sweat beading on his brow as his heart starts to pound

Clenching your teeth together, you try to make sure that you don’t scream during the next pain. It makes Pero uneasy every time, he pales when you scream and grip his hand as tight as you can. You know that he is scared and even though you are in pain, you’re worried about him.

Pero feels unwell but tries to stay strong, each clenched scream bringing you closer to having his next child and he is terrified. Terrified of losing you. During your marriage, he has grown close to you. Spending many nights in your bed, even if he hadn’t touched you. He can’t imagine his life without you now. “Come on hermosa, you can do it. Push.” He urges you on, wanting you to concentrate.

Nodding, you sit up slightly and start to push. Bearing down with all your might, you see the midwife between your thighs as you start to feel more pressure.

Pero watches you push, his eyes darting between you and the midwife and he’s worried, he’s so scared that he’s gonna lose you. His hand grips yours as he watches you push and he’s silently praying.

“I can’t- it is too much.” You gasp out, falling back against the sheets as you pant.

The midwife clicks her tongue and looks up at you. “One more push, señora, and the bebita will be in your arms.” She promises you. “Next time the pain comes you push as hard as you can.”

“You can do it, hermosa. You can do it.” He eggs you on, sweat beading on his forehead as he watches you struggle. “Come on, mi amor. Come on.” He says, wiping your forehead.

You close your eyes, tears leaking out of the corners as you barely hear the words that you have wished for far longer than you should have. Holding his hand, you nod, bearing down with all your strength and pushing your baby into the world. Feeling them slip from your womb with a rush of relief.

Pero watches the midwife cradle the crying babe, her smile wide and Pero starts to cry, relieved and so happy at seeing his child born. “Felicidades, Don Tovar, it’s a boy.” She announces and Pero leans in to kiss your head.

“A boy, amor,”

“A boy.” You sob, exhausted and relieved and more than a little emotional about hearing ‘amor’ again. Almost terrified that he is thinking of his late wife and reliving that horrible night with a happier ending through you. “We have another son.” You pant, reaching for the baby when the midwife hands him to you.

Pero looks down at the screaming babe in your arms. His eyes sting with tears and he looks at you in awe. “A boy. Another boy.” He murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Amor.”

“He’s beautiful.” You murmur quietly, brushing your hand over his wet forehead. “Perfect.” His ten little fingers are curled into fists and he has ten perfect little toes. “Isn’t he?” You ask, looking up at your husband after you manage to tear your eyes away from your new baby.

Pero leans in to rest his forehead against yours, loving how you are cradling the baby and he knows Luis and Alejandra are excited for his arrival. “He’s perfect. So is his mother.” He murmurs, caressing the baby’s head.

You hum, not sure how to take that and look back down at the baby. He’s turning his face towards you and crying, searching for your breast. “Put him on the breast.” The midwife tells you. “Your milk will come.” You nod, opening your nightgown and guiding him towards your breast and gasping when he latches into your nipple.

Pero watches in awe, the midwife working on helping you with the afterbirth and the baby mouths at your nipple. Pero kisses your forehead again, he’s so perfect. You’re perfect. Hermosa, I- I love you.” Pero chokes, never imagining that he’d fall in love again but he couldn’t help it, you’re too beautiful and kind. The children love you and you’ve made his life so much better.

Your eyes widen and you look up at Pero in shock. “You- you love me?” You ask in astonishment, sure that would never happen for you. He nods and you start to cry. “I love you too Pero, I love you and our three children.”

Pero leans in to kiss you, “I love you. So much. I- I didn’t think - after Maria - you’ve brought this home, my children…me…back to life.” He murmurs and kisses your forehead. “Mi esposa, hermosa, amor. You are everything to me. I owe you the world.” He murmurs, looking down at the little boy.

Your smile is watery, but overjoyed. You had come to Spain to marry a man you didn’t know and was told that he could never love you. Now you have a beautiful son, two other children that adore you and your them, and a loving husband. Your father had chosen right. You were a family.

#pedro pascal #pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar smut #pero tovar fanfic #pero tovar the great wall #regency pero tovar x reader #regency pero tovar #tovar x you #tovar x reader #tovar x f!reader #tovar smut #tovar fanfiction #tovar imagine

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forzaferraris · 8 months

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UH OH ! — cl16. [ series masterlist . part ii . ]

CHAPTER ONE / gorgeous.

❛ you should take it as a compliment, that i got drunk and made fun of the way you talked. ❜

summary : usually, birthday parties are supposed to be a close friend's and family celebration, so why on earth are you being dragged along as your friend's plus one?

warnings : implied references to cheating. food mentions. vomiting mentions but not explicitly written. sexual themes, inuendos. a purposeful choice to refuse to write without capital letters. too many taylor swift references. google translated french. no use of y/n but reader is referred to as soleil by charles and that transfers on through all the fic. charles leclerc's toxic relationship. alcohol consumption, drink responsibly. suddenly charles leclerc is actually decent at flirting. inaccurate storyline of pierre's birthday. 2023's silly season just got sillier. live laugh love kika gomes. word count : 1.7k

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[ caption one: hot girls always do skincare 🧖🏻‍♀️ / caption two: i fear i girlbossed to close to the sun, how did i end up here ⁉️🤨 ]

THE STREETS OF PARIS , were lively enough that you could blend in seamlessly, everyone else dressed essentially to the nines in their finest attire, walking in and out of all the restaurants in the vicinity. you want to cower, wrap the shall around yourself tighter and hide away; you'd never felt more insecure and out of place in the entire month you'd been vacationing in france, until this very moment.

everyone around you exudes the amount of confidence that comes naturally to them that you wished you had, even if you felt genuinely good in the outfit Kika had practically forced you in when you'd briefly mentioned having nothing to wear to the event she'd asked you to tag along to. a part of you wants to remind yourself that you knew better than to expect things to play out differently, it wants to ridicule you for going back on your usual stance of always expecting disappointment to no longer feel disappointed.

you wave off a taxi that pulls beside you, you're already at your destination, and a fleeting wave of nausea makes you want to clench your gut, and hurl what little you'd eaten earlier throughout the day into the hedges beside you; you don't, thankfully. instead, you resort to the safety of your phone, back-and-forth bickering between your best friend and Kika to work up your nerves to get yourself inside the building.

you feel wobbly on your feet, something you will also plan to blame on Kika when you find the courage to get yourself to walk in through the door of the Laperouse, a considerably more elegant spot to eat at than you would have picked, you only dread the fear of looking over the menu and bearing witness to the prices of the food.

the ding of the bell above the door pulls your head out of your phone when you're met with the silhouette of quite possibly the most attractive man you'd ever had blessed your gaze — excluding that one time you'd run into lorenzo zurzolo on a girls trip to madrid and fumbled the whole ordeal so embarrassingly you had to block him on instagram to keep from ever seeing him.

his actions are almost more exaggerated in frustration than you'd plainly described to your friend, his hand is constantly dragging down his face when he pulls the phone away from his ear, promptly allowing you to hear the snippets of french being, basically, screamed through the phone at him. yikes. the phone call seems to drag on and the amount of time you've been staring at this man can be somewhat considered borderline stalking if he wasn't uninterested in the world outside the french screaming match on the phone.

deciding you'd done enough oogling to satiate for the brieft maladaptive day-dreaming you'll experience during mundane errands. with the very little courage you had, you wipe your hands on your dress, pitifully, and tuck your phone into the clutch before making your way inside. you're blissfully unaware of the way the man had turned towards the noise the heels of your shoes had made against the pavement, his attitude doing a complete 180 had him disregarding the remainder of the phone call before finally giving up, a defeated sigh follows the silence of the call being ended.

'i told you so. . .' your brain supplies when you feel even more out of place being inside said restaurant than how you were simply just standing outside of it, you felt both over and under-dressed watching the mass of patrons standing at the front bar along with the glimpses you could get inside the dining room from where you wait at the hostess stand.

"can i help you?" the hostess asks, words sleek with her french accent as she flicks her gaze up towards you before down at the booking book in front of her. you fiddle with your fingers, white-knuckling the black clutch, suddenly unable to find your own words. the woman rolls her eyes, and taps her perfectly manicured finger against the book and you visibly shake.

"elle est avec moi et la réservation Gasly" a voice speaks, standing behind you, close enough to be flush against you, but remaining a finger length away from you, refusing to lift your head, you don't dare look at who's just saved yourself from any more bouts of unwavering embarrassment for the night.

"profite de ta soirée" the hostess grins, it doesn't shine in her eyes and it's clearly a put-on customer service smile, forced to maintain a friendly atmosphere within the restaurant, you're allowing yourself to be lead through towards the private dining room, stepping away from the man, you mumble a simple thank you in your own butchered french pronunciation as you spot kika and find yourself attached to her hip for a majority of the night.

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[ caption one: @yourusername spotted arriving at pierre's birthday party / caption two: @yourusername wearing the monot black maxi cutout ]

now, see if you weren't the type of person to be so easily persuaded into joining in on the drink festivities, you wouldn't have ended up with kika as one of your closest friends. you were never one to turn down alcohol, especially open bar alcohol; which is perhaps why you'd found yourself in a state of being a social butterfly, you'd floated around the room, meals long since eaten and cleared by the wait staff left people standing around and conversing.

mixtures of english, french and portuguese filling the room, bits and pieces of conversations you were picking up, but with your minimal understanding of french you found yourself avoiding anything beyond "hi how are you?" and introducing yourself, aside from that you smile and nodded before politely excusing yourself to float around once more.

"are you purposely ignoring me?" there it is, the sound that would haunt your best dreams and your worst nightmares; the shiver that runs up your spine makes you inadvertently cringe at yourself, how were you this reactive to a voice, you're going to blame the entire thing on the amount of sparkling moscato you'd been drinking by the glass.

"hm? no, no i'm not ignoring you?" you mock his accent, turning around to finally make eye contact with him, lips pursed into a line to keep yourself from giggling, the bubbles in your stomach is either your own nerves, the bubbly alcoholic beverage you'd consumed or a mixture of both — either way you feel content enough to be less than self-aware of the situation.

you can almost see the way he visibly lights up at the interaction, the way can't hold himself back from laughing at your attempt to mock his accent, the way his eyes crinkle and the laughter that follows the expression leaves you virtually speechless, you'd never been in a situation where someone, especially not a man. had ever laughed at you in a way that didn't feel the least bit mocking towards you; his laughter subsides and you feel yourself mourning the noise, head tilting to the side before he's taking a sip from his own glass.

"how do you know pierre?"

"through kika, she's the sole reason i'm here" you explain, gesturing with your hands as you talk, the conversation carries on throughout most of the night, new drinks replacing old ones all whilst the distance between the two of you closing inch by inch and shamelessly, perhaps even a little selfishly you allow it.

you allow more than just close proximity, you allow his knee to knock against your own, the hand to graze your waist as his arm moves around you to put his empty drink on the bar. you allow yourself to meet his gaze, hold it and find yourself lower and lower your own inhibitions. the good, the bad and the ugly of a man who hasn't asked for your name and whose name you hadn't bothered to ask for either.

perhaps, it's the events of the night that led you to here, in this heat of the moment pursuit of pure guiltless drunk happiness, lips against the nap of your neck in the back of a taxi, a hand dragging dangerously up your thigh, closer and closer to a spot you hadn't known longed to be touched until now. you're mutual shouts of laughter are shared through the streets of paris, leading into the hotel room you'd been staying in for the week, you're set to check out the next morning, but realistically, what's one night of parisian fun to end your trip with a bang, literally.

"soleil, fuck, the things you are doing to me right now" his voice comes out like a growl against your ear, his teeth dragging along your ear lobe and further down your neck, never biting, just allowing the feeling to pull the breathless noises out of you. your hand finds its way to nestle into his hair, grip tight and pull him away, the way he looks at you, a gaze you're all far too familiar with, lust.

god, had you wished you knew life wouldn't feel so horribly if you'd felt like this the entire time, the way the man finds himself home between your thighs, even as they clench around his head as soon as his tongue flicks against your abused and overly sensitive clit, fingers working their way in and out of your as you're pushed to complete your third orgasm — your hands griping the pillow behind your head, back arching as you moan out breathlessly, the needy coil in your stomach untangling once more as he pulls the orgasm out of you; your left breathless and shaking as your ride out the orgasm on his fingers.

his face is glistening with your juices; god if you were brave enough to take a picture you would have, he looked effortlessly pretty as he wiped his face with the back of his hand and finally pulled his fingers out of you to lick them clean.

you were royally screwed. even after you woke up in the morning, he was still asleep, but check-out was soon and there really wasn't any need to actively remain in the hotel room bed any longer, even if the man sleeping beside you was dreamy, even asleep, you knew alcohol-influenced one night stands were less than impressive to boast about the next morning. so you do the easiest thing to bypass awkward morning conversations, you leave a note with your number and leave.

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liked by francisca.cgomes, yourbestfriend and 489 others yourusername are you happy to have been in paris? oui! tagged francisca.cgomes

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user girl, what is that on your neck in the second pic?? ⤿ yourusername the question is are you a narc?

francisca.cgomes paris couldn't handle us for longer than a week ⤿yourusername where too next gf x

yourbestfriend i miss you come home ! ⤿yourusername i think i might find a new home ⤿yourbestfriend you're really gonna abandon our kids like that?

user since when have her an kika been friends? ⤿user since like forever, they grew up together

yoursisteruser look at you being a slut pookie, we love to see it ⤿yourusername get out of my comments blocked and reported ⤿yoursisteruser can you answer my facetime now, you got a lot of catching up to do, this is new name lore !!!

authors note : hi oh my god, so i'm absolutely nervous to actually have this be posted, it's not been beta read so i apologise in advance trying to edit this myself was the longest task i've come to find myself tethered to. i really like the plot of this story, the smut a lil dry because my smut writing is dry, we gotta work ourselves up to that, later chapters pookies, later chapters. i would have added more to the story, i'm like super inspired by this, but alas the 30 image limit said, no. so we gotta listen !

add yourself to the taglist here !

taglist : @iluminaya @greenbaby12 @therealcap @marshmummy

#𐙚 paige’s works #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #f1 xreader #formula one x you #formula one x reader #formula one imagines #f1 imagines #opla sanji x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x you #charles leclerc #𐙚 uhoh fic

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azrielslittleslut · 3 months

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"The Lost Queen"- Chapter 4

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: A magical incident causes Azriel to unexpectedly tumble through a portal into modern-day Earth. Confused and injured, he is discovered by a compassionate human woman with a hidden past. She takes care of him and helps him discover the complexities of the modern world, completely unaware of who she truly is. Meanwhile, Azriel struggles with his conflicting desires: his duty to the Night Court and his growing love for the woman who saved him.

Their journey unfolds amidst ancient prophecies and the looming threat in Prythian. As they uncover the truth about forces conspiring against them, they must confront their deepest fears and make choices that will change their lives and the world forever.

Warnings: language, mentions of alcohol (nobody gets drunk), a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff

Word Count: 5.7k

series masterlist

Enjoy!

The last twenty-four hours had been so whirlwind crazy that you had completely forgotten that it was your weekly pizza and movie night with your parents.

Every Wednesday night for the last four years, the three of you would gather around your TV with your favorite pizza as you explored movies of various genres. Your father always chose action and thriller movies, your mother preferred romance, and you tended to select anything that had to do with science fiction or fantasy.

It was a cherished ritual, one that brought you a sense of comfort and normalcy. These nights were by far your favorite part of the week, and you silently cursed yourself for being so forgetful.

“Mom… Dad,” you said, trying desperately to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation. You couldn’t say you had forgotten about the night- because you had never done such a thing- but you didn’t exactly know how to explain your forgetfulness. “Is it already eight o’clock? Work was insane today, so the time got away from me.”

Azriel slowly started to back away from you, walking backward toward the bedroom, the bag of clothes still in hand. “I- I um,” he stammered, his brown face turning a deep shade of red. “Need to put clothes on,” he finally got out as he rushed for the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang.

If your parents had not been standing there, their faces still frozen in shock, you would have laughed at his stuttering. He was so broody and stoic, all dark and mysterious, so it was amusing to see him so flustered. You faced your parents again, willing your face into a neutral expression.

Louis and Celeste Fontenot were the best parents anyone could ask for. Your father was a mechanic, a hard-working man who had always made sure to keep the bills paid and food on the table. Your mother was an English teacher at one of the local middle schools, and she had been the solid rock you could always lean on when life was difficult.

They had always done their best to ensure that your life was easy and carefree, always supporting you during your different, and sometimes strange, interests. As a child, they encouraged you with soft smiles when you declared you wanted to be an astronaut when you grew up. They had taken you to the beach when you decided that instead, you wanted to be a pirate. You still had fond memories of your father building a small wooden boat for you to float in, riding the waves as they crashed along the shore.

Your parents had even backed you up when you had concluded that you wanted to be a queen in a faraway kingdom, riding horses in front of her castle, charging into battles on the frontlines. They had bought you frilly dresses and plastic crowns, always playing into your active imagination.

They had been rather surprised, to say the least, when you had applied for nursing school a few years ago. As you grew older, you developed a love for healing and helping people, and your parents stood by you every step of the way. They had been ecstatic when you graduated at the top of your class, and they had been beyond themselves when you had gotten hired at Tulane Medical Center as a trauma nurse.

“We’re sorry. We should have knocked,” your father said, walking up to you to press a kiss on your forehead. His signature scent of oil, fuel, and cologne filled your nose, and you smiled up at him. “We didn’t expect you to have company tonight.”

You sighed, wanting to steer the conversation away from the half-naked man who had been standing in your living room. “It’s alright. You know you’re always welcome in my house.” Though you had purchased the home and surrounding land with your own money, your parents had insisted on helping with the furniture, even though they lived paycheck to paycheck most months.

For a middle-class English teacher and mechanic, it was hard to be financially stable in this economy.

Your mother walked up to you with a kind smile on her face, pulling you into a tight hug despite the pizza box in her arms. “How are you, sweetheart?” she asked, pulling away to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. She could read you like a book, and you knew she had picked up on your desire to change the topic of conversation.

Stressed out. Angry. Upset. Lost. Have you ever heard of a place called Prythian? You wanted to tell your parents everything, to unload your burdens on them, just like you always have. Everything you thought you knew about life and the world had started to fall apart at the seams, and you desperately wanted your feelings to be validated.

As you looked at them, their faces so open and trusting, the words threatened to spill from your mouth, but you pushed them down and said, “I’m good. Work has been chaotic, and I’m tired all the time. But I’m good,” you said, steering them toward the small kitchen connected to the living room.

Though it was compact, it was meticulously organized and well-stocked with modern stainless-steel appliances and dishware. The cabinets were crafted with traditional wood, and they were painted in a light color that correlated with the warm, earthy tone of the walls. At the heart of the kitchen stood a small dining table encircled by four rustic-looking chairs.

Your father set the bag on the table, pulling out some sodas and beer. He moved your copy of The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas as he asked, “Have you been sleeping well, mon ange?” Your father, being born and raised in New Orleans, had called you “my angel” in Cajun French for as long as you could remember, and the nickname warmed your heart.

You sighed as you watched your mother place the pizza box on the table. “Yeah. I’ve been having those weird dreams again, but I’m able to sleep most nights.” You pushed aside the quiet voice in the back of your mind whispering that sleep would be a rare visitor now.

Until you figured out what the hell was going on with Azriel, at least.

You hadn’t gone to work earlier. You had told your supervisor that you were sick with the stomach flu and unable to leave the bathroom. You had even faked some gagging sounds to make it believable.

After you dropped off Azriel, you went to Crescent Park, wandering aimlessly along the Mississippi River. You had sat on a bench all afternoon, staring at the New Orleans skyline as the sun dropped below the horizon.

Your whole life, you had felt out of place, feeling as if you didn’t belong where you were. You had tried everything to fit in, to belong in the “in crowd.” After countless failed friendships and many awkward encounters, you had given up, accepting your role in this society as an outcast.

Of course, you had some friends, but you didn’t have a group of people with whom you could share your secrets with. You didn’t have anyone who could understand your deepest desires and the shadowed places of your heart.

But after hearing everything today from Serena about Prythian, you had felt unsettled but… seen. After thinking about those strange paintings, you realized that you too had seen those landscapes in your dreams. Your dream self had flown over those mountains, had walked in that city of starlight.

After hours of silent staring and contemplating, you still didn’t understand any of it, but you were willing to listen. You had been willing to let Azriel explain everything about his world, about Prythian.

Until your parents had showed up. Now, you would have to hound him with questions later.

Your mother brought you back into the conversation with a gentle hand along your back. “If you ever want to talk, honey,” she said, pressing a kiss to your temple, “we’re always here to listen.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but you were cut off by your bedroom door opening. All thoughts left your head as Azriel, now dressed in a pair of black pants and a white tee shirt, walked into the kitchen.

You had misjudged the size of the clothes when you bought them on your way home from the park. To you, they had looked big. So big that they would have swallowed you whole if you were to put them on.

But on him… the pants were tight around his thighs, and your eyes were glued to the muscles moving there as he walked. And the shirt… it was so tight on his body, you could count each one of his abs underneath, and you could see the black lines of those strange tattoos covering his chest.

What the hell did he eat to look like that? You tried not to think of what he looked like without clothes on, how that muscular chest had felt under your palm…

Your father cleared his throat loudly, obviously seeing where your eyes had wandered to. He stuck his hand out to Azriel as he said, “Nice to meet you. I’m Louis. But please call me Lou. Everyone does.” He shook Azriel’s hand, not even flinching at the brutal scars that covered them.

You wondered how he got them. What brutal encounter had he suffered for his skin to be so marred?

From your side vision, you could see that your mother’s hand had gone to her chest, her eyes wide as she looked at Azriel. She had never, not once in her life, looked at a man besides your father.

But Azriel, you supposed, was no ordinary-looking man. Especially not with that toned body and beautiful face of his.

Your mother blinked rapidly, forcing herself to recover from her stupor. “And I’m Celeste.” She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him, a kind smile blooming on her face. “And you are?”

Azriel’s eyes slid to you for a moment, as if he were asking for your permission to speak. He looked uncomfortable and lost, kind of like a fish out of water.

You stepped into the conversation, walking over to place your hand on his shoulder. “This is Azriel. He’s a… new addition to my life.” You honestly didn’t know how else to describe his sudden arrival on your front lawn.

“Ah. I see,” your father murmured, his eyes raking Azriel’s body from head to toe. A protective father’s scrutiny. “Well. I hope you’re hungry Azriel. We brought a lot of pizza with us.”

Azriel leaned his head down, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his breath as he whispered, “I don’t know what that is.”

Would this day ever end?

---

It turns out that Azriel was hungry. Starving, even.

You had laughed silently as he had picked up a slice of pizza, his eyes wary as he watched the toppings nearly slide off. He had nibbled at it, barely getting enough in his mouth to taste. Then, he had taken a bigger bite, his eyes rolling back slightly as he groaned, “So good.”

That had been four slices ago. You were thankful your parents had thought ahead and gotten an extra-large pizza, or there wouldn’t have been enough for anyone else.

Your mother had been watching with her own amused expression the whole time, no doubt used to seeing strange behavior from her students. “Beer?” she offered, placing a glass bottle in front of him.

Azriel swallowed his pizza as he raised the bottle, taking a giant swig. You laughed out loud as he nearly spit it out all over the table. “By the cauldron, this is disgusting,” he said, pushing the bottle away from him like it was poison.

You were still giggling as you pushed a can of soda toward him. “Here. Try this instead.”

He cautiously took a sip, his eyes locked onto yours as he did so. He grimaced at first, but after a few seconds, he nodded. “Better.”

Your father placed his pizza crust on the plate, his eyes moving over to you. “So, why didn’t you tell us you had a boyfriend, Y/N?”

You choked on your drink, throwing a hand over your mouth as you coughed. From beside you, Azriel placed his hand on your back, patting it gently. Not a good time, you wanted to say, but you couldn’t stop coughing.

Azriel looked at your father with a confused look, his hazel eyes bright. “I am…” he started, his eyebrows creasing, “a friend that is a boy.”

Oh God.

After a few more seconds of coughing, you were able to breathe again. You pushed Azriel’s hand away as you said, “Azriel is just a friend, Dad. We met at a bookstore, and I thought he was nice.”

Your mother, who shared your love of literature, shook her hands excitedly. “Oh! What kind of books do you read, Azriel?”

Please say something normal for once.

Azriel pondered for a moment, his fingers playing idly with the can of soda. “Well, I’ve recently gotten into a book called The Art and Illusion of Espionage. It’s very insightful.” He smiled up at her, but it didn’t meet his eyes.

Damn it.

But he was trying to act like he fit in here, despite everything he had experienced today. The realization warmed your heart, and you placed a hand on his arm. “Azriel reads all things, really. It’s one of the things that makes our friendship so great.” You put heavy emphasis on the word “friendship.” You continued, “It keeps the conversations interesting.”

Your parents knew you had no interest whatsoever in espionage, or whatever the hell Azriel said, but they didn’t press on about it.

Your mother nodded, while your father’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well, I’m glad to see you have a friend who you can talk to,” your father said at last, and you knew he meant it. You knew he would rather you talk to someone about spying than seclude yourself in your house, which is what you do most days.

“So where are you from, Azriel?” your mother asked as she finished her slice of pizza. “For the life of me, I cannot think of where that accent could be from.”

Shit.

Your mind scrambled as you tried to think of an answer for him. You would do anything to shield him from your parent’s innocent curiosity, but you were saved from answering as Azriel said, “I’m from a little-known region, far away from here. It’s rather isolated and small, so I doubt you’ve heard of it. I’ve also traveled quite a bit, so it’s a mix of the accents I’ve come across during that time.” His tone was firm, signaling that was all he was going to say on the matter.

But you had to give the man credit. At least he was thinking ahead, it seemed, instead of blurting out the first answer that came to mind.

Your father hummed as he leaned back in his chair. He drank the last of his beer, setting the glass down on the table. “What about your family, then? Do they live around here?”

Azriel’s face paled, his eyes darkening. He looked down at the table, gripping the empty can of soda so tight that it started to crumble. “No,” he said, his voice low. “They don’t.”

His tone was sad and distant, and the bleak look in his eyes broke your heart. You looked at your father, rolling your eyes at him slightly. “Dad, stop interrogating him.”

Your father held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just want to know who my daughter is hanging around,” he mumbled, clearly upset that you had called him out. You knew he was just curious and that he wanted to protect you and keep you safe. “No more questions. I promise.”

The tenseness that you hadn’t noticed in Azriel’s shoulders loosened. Under the table, you could feel his hand drift over to your thigh, squeezing it affectionately. The gesture said what he wouldn’t dare to say out loud. Thank you.

“Well,” your mother said, once again sensing your desire to change the topic of conversation. “We have family dinners every Saturday night. You are more than welcome to join us, Azriel. We would love to have you.”

Azriel’s eyes softened as he nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and you smiled at the warmth that had returned to his voice.

The conversation flowed easily after that; the movie long forgotten. You were thankful for the diversion. You didn’t feel like having to explain to Azriel what a TV or a movie was, and you definitely didn’t think you could manage it without your parents noticing.

Azriel sat there in contented silence, no doubt thankful that the interrogation from your parents was over. He would take part in the conversation at random intervals, usually giving one-word answers, as if he were used to making people believe that he was listening in the first place.

The sky outside the kitchen window was completely dark, the stars bright in the sky. “It’s late,” your father said at last, looking out the dark window and then down at his watch. “We should get going.”

Your mother stood and pushed her chair back. “It was so nice to meet you,” she said, smiling over at Azriel. “We hope we get to see you again soon?”

Azriel’s eyes slid over to you, searching your face for an answer, knowing that things between the two of you needed to seem normal. You smiled and gave him a small nod. “Yes,” he said, noting your movement. “I think you will.”

“Wonderful!” your mother responded. She reached her hand out to take yours and you moved around the table.

You took her hand, and, for a moment, you found yourself staring at your parents, noticing how much you didn’t look like them. You had your mother’s compassion and gentleness and your father’s stubbornness, but when it came to looks…

It was so obvious that as a child, you had asked them if you were adopted. They had laughed, assuring you that you were indeed theirs. “You look a lot like my sister,” your mother had said. “You have her coloring and build. I guess her genes decided to come out in you instead of mine.” At the time, it had been a good enough answer for you, but you still questioned it sometimes.

It didn’t help that you had still not met her sister, the one that she claimed you looked like.

“I’ll walk you guys out,” you said, moving to usher them from the kitchen. You wanted to make sure they were gone before you started questioning Azriel about everything.

Your father shook Azriel’s hand again before following you and your mother through the house. You cringed as you heard him say in a low voice, “In the future, make sure you wear clothes around my daughter.”

Protective bastard.

You could almost see Azriel’s beautiful face fill with embarrassment as he muttered, “Of course, sir.”

His formal and polite tone made you smile as you opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, thankful for the humid air as it masked the flush in your own cheeks.

---

As you walked with your parents out to their car, Azriel found himself wandering toward the glass door situated along the wall in your living room. He slid it open, letting the warm summer air wash over his cold skin as he walked outside.

The patio had wooden floors, and it was filled with small potted plants sitting on tables. Most of them were dying in the heat, their leaves wilted, their stems sagging low. But some of them bloomed, their petals vibrant in the darkness, as if those flowers refused to let anything disrupt them from living on.

Would he be able to bloom here, in this world, even though everything around him was falling apart?

Azriel pondered that sobering thought as he walked over to one of the chairs sitting on the edge of the patio. He sat down and leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Dinner with your parents had been an awkward experience for him. Az tried not to think about the fact that your parents had seen him almost naked. He didn’t understand the strange phrases or slang here, and he felt an overwhelming wave of homesickness fill his chest.

Azriel leaned his head back against the chair, sighing up at the stars that shone brightly above him. Their little lights twinkled and danced in the night sky, completely oblivious to the problems of the people who dwelled below.

Though they were beautiful, they were nothing compared to the stars back home. He wondered if he would ever see the stars of Velaris again, if he would ever be able to stretch his wings out and fly across the mountains with the feeling of the wind beneath them.

He felt his eyes begin to water slightly, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t care if tears fell from his eyes. He hadn’t felt this lost and lonely since his childhood, locked away in his father’s dungeon.

But tonight, with the stars as the only witnesses, Az let them fall down his cheeks and onto the soft fabric of his shirt.

Azriel didn’t bother to move or hide his crying as he heard the patio door slide open. He kept his gaze on the stars as you walked over and sat down silently in the chair next to his. He could feel your eyes on his face, no doubt noticing the wetness on his cheeks. You leaned back in the chair, and from the corner of his eyes, he saw you look up to the stars as well.

“They are beautiful,” you murmured, your voice soft as night. “It’s nice to come out here and sit when life is hard.”

He couldn’t think of a response that wasn’t filled with pain and self-pity, so he stayed silent.

You crossed your legs gracefully as you said, “My parents seem to like you. They think you’re a little odd,” you said with a chuckle, “but they believe that means you’re better than most guys nowadays.”

That caught Azriel’s attention, and he suddenly remembered a strange word that had been said earlier. He looked over to you, the tears drying on his cheeks. “What is a boyfriend?”

You tipped your head back as you laughed, and he found himself captivated by the way your cheeks dimpled. “A boyfriend is sort of like… well, it’s someone you are with because you have special feelings for them- more than just a friendship. It’s not formal or anything. It’s someone you enjoy spending time with, someone who makes you laugh, and it might even develop into love.” You looked at him and offered him a smile. “A girlfriend is the same concept. Does that make sense?”

Azriel hummed as he thought about what you said. “Do you have one? A boyfriend… or a girlfriend?” He hadn’t heard you speak of anyone special in your life.

But then again, he supposed, there hadn’t really been time for you to speak about such things.

You shook your head as you sighed. “No. I’ve had them before. Boyfriends and girlfriends, actually. But I’m single right now. Have been for a long time,” you finished with a chuckle. “Do you have a special someone in your life?”

“No, not really,” he said, looking back up at the night sky. “It’s- it’s complicated.” His love life was in shambles, and it had been for a while now.

You clicked your tongue. “That’s a shame. I would imagine all of the men and women of Prythian would be tripping over themselves trying to get with a pretty boy like you.”

Azriel laughed, unable to help himself. Your boldness was something he had come to admire. It was a rare occurrence that someone took him by surprise, but you seemed to do it constantly. “You think I’m pretty?” he asked smugly.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get full of yourself. I’m not saying I would trip over myself to get with you, but I’m not blind.”

Then why is your face so red? He wanted to ask to keep teasing you. Talking with you was… easy. He had never liked being involved in long conversations, but it was as effortless as breathing with you. The realization shocked him, but he focused enough to say, “Your parents are nice. They love you.”

You looked up at the stars again, running your fingers idly across the arm of the chair. “Yeah. They’re great. They’ve always supported me, loving me no matter what hell I put them through. I was a… rebellious teenager, to say the least.” You paused for a moment, as if you were contemplating on what to say next. “What about your parents?”

Azriel ground his teeth, not wanting to start that conversation. “I’m not close with them,” was all he said. He hated his father, and he didn’t want to bring up his sweet mother. He hadn’t been able to go see her before he was brought here, and now his heart shattered at the thought of never hearing her gentle voice singing to him again.

He wondered how his mother was doing, if her mental state had improved in his absence. Az doubted it. His mother had been spouting nonsense and blabbering at walls since he had saved her from that wretched war camp four hundred years ago.

“Do you have siblings?” Azriel asked, genuinely curious about your family situation. Plus, he wanted to steer the conversation away from his own horrible family circumstances.

“No. It’s just me. My parents always said I was enough to handle,” you said with a laugh, but your tone was warm and affectionate. “What about you?”

He stopped for a moment, thinking about how much of his life he wanted to disclose. “I have two brothers. We’re not related by blood, but we’re brothers all the same.” He was unable to keep the sadness from his voice as he said it. The thought of Rhys and Cassian sent a sharp pang through his chest, and he closed his eyes, trying to fight off the memories that washed through him like a flood.

After that, the conversation died off, and the two of you sat in silence as the stars shone brightly overhead. Azriel focused on the sound of the wind blowing through the trees, the water lapping against the bank of the bayou. He gripped the chair in his hands as he concentrated on his breathing, keeping it steady.

Breathe. In. Out. Repeat.

“I need to get home,” he said at last, his voice ragged. “I can’t stay here. They need me.” He tried not to think about the unstable magic, about whether or not Rhys had fallen into a magic-induced insanity.

Was Prythian still there or had his world descended into madness, swallowed up in the darkness of whatever evil magic was at work?

Az was so caught up in his thoughts that he jumped slightly as he felt your warm hand grasp his, wrapping itself around his palm. He tried not to think of your flawless skin being so close to his ruined flesh. “We will figure this out, Azriel. Together,” you said, your voice firm and full of confidence. “I will help you.”

He smiled softly, moving his head over to look at you. Though it was dark, he could see the intense gleam in your eyes, the light of the moon reflecting in them. “You can call me Az, if you want. That’s what everyone calls me.”

You smiled back at him, and his heart stuttered in his chest as your dimples made an appearance again. “Well, it’s not special if everyone calls you that, now is it?” you asked, sitting up straight in the chair. You pulled your hand away as you looked at him, a wicked smile forming on your full lips. “I think I’ll come up with my own nickname for you…” you trailed off, still smiling at him. “Azzy.”

Azriel’s eyes widened in horror as you said the nickname, but he couldn’t deny the feeling of pleasure that rushed through his body as the name fell from your lips. “Do not call me that,” he said, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Whatever you say… Azzy,” you responded, still smiling at him.

Stubborn little human.

Azriel turned away, the effort of pestering you drained by an overwhelming tiredness. His eyelids grew heavy, drooping under the relentless assault of exhaustion that washed over him in waves. Though his body was mostly healed, he couldn’t ignore the persistent ache that clung to his bones- a silent reminder of what had been taken away from him.

He was almost asleep, swallowed up in that blissful darkness, when he heard you murmur, “What did the artist say about me?”

He fought to open his eyes as he tried to remember the conversation with Serena. It all blended together in his brain, the words about paintings and Prythian and the person she would talk to. He struggled to form the words as he mumbled, “She said she would contact someone who could help us, but we have to wait for them to get in touch.”

There was something else, though, but he couldn’t think past how tired he was.

“Oh, okay,” you murmured as you stood from the chair. “You need to get some sleep.”

“Hmm,” was all Azriel could get out as you hauled him up from the chair, pulling him by the arm as you walked back inside the house. He wanted to protest, as he was perfectly content to sleep outside beneath the stars.

But it was hot out here, and there was an ungodly number of bugs swarming around his face.

You paused as you dragged him into the living room, pulling your hands away to lace them behind your back. “Uh…” you stammered, looking up at him sheepishly. “This is only a one-bedroom.”

Azriel focused his tired eyes on you as he forced himself to say, “It’s fine. I can sleep on the couch.” He had slept in worse places, and he was so exhausted, he would probably be able to sleep on the floor at this point.

“Alright,” you said as you walked over to a small door on the far wall. You opened it and pulled out a blanket and pillow. You offered it to him and said, “Here. If you need more, you can grab some from that closet.”

He took the bundle from your arms and stumbled over to the couch, situating himself amongst the cushions. It was small, and his long legs hung over the edge as he lay there, but it was comfortable. So comfortable that he struggled to say, “Thank you.” His voice was so quiet and full of sleep that he wasn’t sure if you heard him.

“For what?”

“For saving me.” Az truly was thankful. He didn’t want to think of where he would be if he had landed somewhere else in this world instead of on your front lawn. If he had landed with someone else instead of the compassionate human woman standing before him.

He waited for a few moments, expecting some snarky response that would no doubt take him by surprise. But you only said, “You’re welcome.” Your voice was tight, filled with an emotion he couldn’t place due to his fatigue.

As he nestled himself deeper into the plush cushions, the soft rustle of your footsteps toward the bedroom door caught his fading attention. “Goodnight,” he attempted to say, but the word tumbled out slurred, sounding more like “moodmight” than anything recognizable.

“Goodnight, Azzy,” you said with a laugh as you closed the door behind you.

Azriel closed his eyes, listening to the faint sounds of water running, a sign that you were also getting ready to sleep. He pulled the blanket up, ignoring the feeling of his bare feet being exposed to the cold air of the house.

As he drifted off, he thought back to the conversation with the artist, suddenly remembering what she had said about you.

I’ve seen Y/N in my visions and dreams. They are… foggy to say the least, but it’s her.

That was what he needed to tell you. Oh well, he thought as his exhaustion overwhelmed any form of common sense. The peaceful darkness of sleep called to him, and he fell into it with open arms.

There was always tomorrow.

---

Somewhere in Prythian, Present Day

“I know it is her,” the female said, her voice full of venom and hatred. She looked over at her companion, a wicked smile forming on her face. “What shall we do?”

The male offered a malevolent smile back, his face contorting into a picture of malice and evil. “We must deal with her.”

The female hummed as she ran her finger along the edge of the mirror. Through the glass, she could see the city of New Orleans, the wretched humans walking along the streets, carrying on with their useless lives. “Yes,” she said, her voice growing distant. “We should.”

The male rolled his shoulders back, his grip tightening on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. “Would you like me to kill her?” he asked. “I can get rid of her. Once I’m done with her,” he said with a depraved smile, “no one will know she even existed.”

The female pulled her hand away from the mirror, and she watched as the scene within the glass faded away. “No. Bring her to me.” She faced her companion, her armor rustling as she walked toward him. “I want to be the one to kill her. If I do not,” she said, her lips forming into a sneer, “that bitch will take everything from me. Everything we’ve been working for… It will be ruined.”

The male nodded once, but she could see the flash of anger in his eyes. “As you wish.” He started to turn away, focused solely on his new task.

“But,” the female called out, stopping him in his tracks, “deal with the shadowsinger. He could become a… problem.”

The male turned around and offered a graceful bow. “Consider it done, your grace.”

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

Text

Idée Fixe.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Some not SFW elements, yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, emotional manipulation, depictions of general & social anxiety disorder, depictions of a panic attack, mentions of anxiety medication, Chrollo administers medications to Reader without her consent, and mentions of religion. Also Chrollo just really, really sucks. Word count: 12.3k.

You met a strange man at the arboretum today.

Perhaps you aren’t in a position to describe others as ‘strange’, considering your latest proclivity for expressing earnest thanks to any honey bees you happen across for their service. After much contemplation, however, it’s ultimately the word you arrive at. ‘Strange’ not in a disconcerting sense that inspires fear, but just being out of the ordinary enough to exude an undeniable allure. A raised panel on the floor you stumble over yet suffer no serious injury from.

Well-kept gardens might be the closest imitation to heaven on earth. That’s what brought you to this little oasis hidden in the desert that is urban life. It’s the type of day romanticists wax poetic about: baby blue skies, puffy clouds, and moderate temperatures with a light, forgiving breeze.

You situated yourself strategically, so you’d be beneath the shade of a magnolia tree whose pink petals kept fluttering down as if in greeting, and near a patch of daffodils that matched the shade of your gingham dress. Blades of grass tickle your legs, but not unpleasantly so, they scratch an itch found only in nature’s loving reprieve. There’s no thought of upcoming assignments, what to eat for dinner, or if buying that purse you thought was a steal at 30% off was a good idea or not.

It’s just you and your book.

Until it isn’t.

Every woman is connected in the experience that is trepidation whenever a man randomly approaches. There’s no telling his intentions, if he has any. You’re left to smile awkwardly and temporarily realign yourself with religion by praying to a higher deity for his hasty departure. You map out potential escape routes and recall the pepper spray situated in your impulse-bought purse. He gently calls out “Miss”, confirming that he hopes to speak with you.

At least he has the propriety to stop a few paces from where you sit, electing not to intrude on your personal space. This causes your shoulders to relax. In the few seconds you’ve been made aware of his existence, you recognize his appealing features. He has loose, dark hair, along with wide and seemingly unassuming eyes. His outfit of a dark gray turtleneck accompanied by a black jacket and pants somewhat strikes you as odd, considering spring is in full bloom. Two other details steal your attention away from this; those being the beige wrapping around his forehead and his spherical, turquoise-colored earrings. It’s like he was caught undecided between wanting and not wanting to attract attention.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he begins. You try not to think about how pleasant his voice sounds. “I’ve been trying to make sense of the directory, but I’ve never been the best with directions. Do you by any chance know how to get to the Starling House?”

You nod. It’s a quaint, centuries-old mansion, maintained by the non-profit that oversees the flora here. Getting over the initial apprehension from his approach, you try verbalizing the most efficient path to get there. This proves more difficult than you expected since the arboretum is vast and has few waypoints that can be used for reference. Still, throughout your explanation whose unhelpfulness you grow painfully aware of, he patiently nods and makes no attempts to rush you through.

This willingness to put up with your scattered description wins over your sympathy, pushing you past your sheepishness.

“I guess I’m not good at giving directions. I could just show you the way, if you’d like.”

“I’d hate to disturb your reading, but… if it isn’t a bother, I’d certainly appreciate it.”

You’re already setting your bookmark into place. “It’s no bother. This is my second time reading it, anyway. So don’t worry. I’m not being left off on a cliffhanger or anything.”

He smiles at that. When you’re preparing to stand, he extends his hand, a gesture that gives you a momentary pause. Well, you are wearing a dress. You suppose it’s the polite thing for him to do. You accept his unspoken offer and he hoists you up without the least bit of exertion on his part. His hand is warm and bigger than yours, slightly coarse too, surprisingly. His immaculate presentation gave you the impression of a trust fund kid or something in that vein. He’s tasteful in ensuring his touch doesn’t overstay its welcome.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

You catch a hint of his cologne. Sandalwood, amber, and leather blend together to form a delightfully woody fragrance. As amazing as he smells, you create a little distance, walking ahead motioning for him to follow. His longer legs have no trouble catching up, yet he never creeps too close.

The short journey that you expect to only be accompanied by the sounds of cardinals chirping and house finches singing is interrupted by the man speaking up again. Oddly enough, you don’t mind.

“Do you find your thoughts on Prince Myshkin’s initially endearing simple heartedness changed, knowing how the book ends?”

You pause, taking a moment to realize he must be familiar with the work. This revelation fills you with a tentative giddiness. It isn’t often you have a chance to delve into your literary thoughts to a willing audience. There’s plenty more you could say on the subject, but you try to exercise restraint nonetheless.

“I thought I might, but I found myself more critical of the other characters instead.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

He appears genuinely interested, otherwise, you would’ve kept it at that.

“Ah, well, maybe it’s that they serve as proof that innocence is never meant to last. Or if it does, it’ll inevitably be punished. There are moments where I feel frustrated with the Prince’s naivety… but then I stop and wonder why it’s so bad to want to see the best in people. Does that speak to a flaw in his character, or to a flaw in the character of others? Maybe it’s both. I can’t help but feel the Prince’s case is more sympathetic.”

His eyes never leave yours while you give your answer. Heat rises to your cheeks and you internally groan over the prospect of making a stranger listen to your ramblings. He was probably just looking to make casual conversation, not everyone wants an existential crisis on a Saturday afternoon.

“You must be someone who wants to see the best in people as well,” he surmises. There’s no hint of mockery in his tone — he’s oddly sincere. He says it with a hint of bittersweet nostalgia.

Before you can hazard a response, you come across a sign displaying information for an event at the Starling House. The building itself lies in waiting atop a hill less than a quarter of a mile ahead. He stops to read it, as do you, operating under the assumption he came here for the event. It seems that they’re displaying historic artifacts from around the area. You suppose this will be where you part ways. You’re about to wish him well when he sighs, the miffed noise stopping you.

“I got the time wrong,” he frowns, staring at his wristwatch.

The sign says the event begins at 6:00 p.m. and a quick tap of your phone reveals it’s 4:00.

“If you’re looking for a way to burn time, there’s a nice garden behind the House that’s always open to the public,” you explain. This piques his curiosity. “If the sage is in bloom, you might get lucky and see some hummingbirds.”

“That does sound lovely,” he says. Then, his lips quirk up, promising the start of a smile. “Would you care to join me, Miss…?”

You give him your name and he nods, as if deciding it fits you.

“[First]. I understand if my tour guide wants to get back to her reading, though.”

Bashfulness creeps up your back and threatens to sink its fangs into your neck. Your heart’s rhythm takes an erratic cadence. He’s posing the proposition in such a lighthearted way, offering an easy out if you want to take it. You internally weigh your options on a scale that’s worn from overuse. He’s being friendly, you tell yourself. That’s all it is.

“Well, I guess I’d be a shabby tour guide if I didn’t show you where the gardens are.”

On the brief walk to the gardens, the man introduces himself as Chrollo. You both situate yourselves on the same stone bench. You sit on the right, he sits on the left. Once again, he leaves you plenty of space, never testing boundaries. The scent of nascent sage wafts in the air. While you scan your surroundings for hummingbirds, he tells you that his work often necessitates travel, hence his unfamiliarity with the area.

“Does it ever get lonely?” You ask, not thinking much of it. He gives you a look you can’t quite place, so you elaborate. “Traveling all the time, I mean.”

He tilts his head, more inquisitive than offended. “What makes you think it’d be lonely?”

“I just think I’d get homesick after a while, always being in an unfamiliar place. I’d miss my family and friends.”

When he continues staring at you in silence with those unreadable eyes, you swear you want to slam your head repeatedly against a wall. Not everyone has a good relationship with their family or people to call their friends. The weight of your potential insensitivity comes crashing down on you like a tsunami.

You move your hands around wildly, rushing to correct your discourtesy. “Uh, I mean, that isn’t to say you need those things!”

“You don’t think I have any friends?”

Your face must be radiating more heat than a furnace. Still, the embarrassment doesn’t reach a point where you’re unable to notice his omission of the word family. “I didn’t—”

Contrary to the reaction you were expecting, Chrollo laughs. Not a little chuckle, but a genuine laugh, hearty in a way that stands in stark contrast to his otherwise reserved demeanor. The smile it imprints on his face somehow feels different than what he’s displayed before. Those were always so well timed, lasting as long as necessary and never a second more. It hits you then just how handsome this man is. Alabaster skin, soft and glossy hair, lips as rosy as the blush on his cheeks from his outburst of laughter.

It doesn’t last long, he’s quick to school himself. The speed he does so is almost unnatural. “I apologize, I’m only teasing. You’re very expressive, [First].”

You let out something between a huff and a sigh. “God, I felt so awful…”

“I can tell,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender when you send him a non-threatening glare. “To answer your question… I’ve never thought about it much. I suppose it is lonely at times.”

This revelation pours a bucket of ice-cold water over the embers of your indignation. Your face softens and a stinging pain shoots throughout your body. You can’t bring yourself to remain miffed when you’re the one who dredged this topic up. People use humor as a means to cope, that may be what Chrollo does.

“Enough about me, though. I’m far more interested in you.”

You shift in your seat. Did it always feel so warm out?

“Here, let me guess. You’re certainly a student. Hm… of the humanities, perhaps?”

“You got the student part right,” you agree. “I’m majoring in criminal psychology.”

There’s something like a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh? Is that so? You want to catch criminals, then?”

“Er… not exactly. It’s more that I want to help them.”

He blinks. “Help them?”

“Not, like, as an accomplice,” you earnestly reassure, to which he smiles, “How do I explain it… take the city around us, right? It’s considered one of the most dangerous in the United States of Saherta.”

As if on cue, a cacophony of police sirens begins blaring in the distance.

“In the 80s and 90s, there was a surge of incarceration, yet crime as a whole set higher records each year. The policy at the time was ‘build more prisons, give longer sentences’. Obviously, that didn’t work out very well for anyone… except for private prisons maybe… that’s a whole different beast. Anyway, you reap what you sow. Crime rate is going down, but communities were gutted by these policies. There’s still a lot of work to be done. I want to understand ‘deviant’ behavior so I can see what safety nets would benefit them the most.”

Chrollo is such an excellent listener that unlike before, you no longer feel the pressure to remain succinct and have little qualms completely delving into your passion. His body language suggests total engagement.

“Ah, so you view crime as a result of societal shortcomings.”

“It’s more nuanced than that,” you shake your head. “Hell, even when there were only four people on earth according to the Bible, Cain went ahead and committed murder anyway. That’s like… killing 25% of the population… how messed up. Wait. If there were only four people on earth, who did Cain go on to marry? How does that work…? Asexual reproduction…?”

“The Quran says Cain and Abel both had twin sisters,” Chrollo offers.

“Alright, that makes more sense than asexual reproduction. Okay! Enough about theology! Back to crime. There’s no totally eradicating it, but there is circumventing it. That’s what I want to help do.”

You’ve been so preoccupied with verbalizing your thoughts, you failed to notice he’s scooted slightly closer to you. There’s enough room for decorum yet you can’t help feeling slightly flustered. Why this cute guy is still hanging around despite the fact you casually mentioned asexual reproduction not once, but twice, is a phenomenon that transcends human reason.

This is so going to be one of those interactions that haunts you periodically at three in the morning for the rest of your life.

“It’s a noble pursuit,” Chrollo comments. Then, he places a hand to his chin. “Forgive me if this comes off as pessimistic, but… what if you put in all that work, only for nothing significant to change?”

You shrug. “I’ve considered that plenty, trust me. It’s fine if I don’t kickstart a utopia. So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.”

“One person, huh?”

It seems more like a rhetorical musing on his part, so you allow yourself to be momentarily distracted. In your peripherals, there’s a flash of colors, shades of green and red bleeding together. A low buzz accompanies the sporadic sight. The blur moves erratically, high to low, then low to high.

You cover your mouth to stifle a gasp, then whisper to your companion, “Chrollo! Look! A hummingbird!”

The thrum of nature is a wonder you’ll never tire of. It inspires awe that reflects in your eyes like a mirror, enchants without needing to cast a spell. You wrongly assume that Chrollo must be partaking in the same miracle that has stolen your attention. He’s fixated, yes, but not on the right subject matter. He’s still staring at you. This disruption of your expectations can only be explained away by the possibility he hasn’t spotted the creature yet. To remedy this, you slowly point in the hummingbird’s direction. Finally, he breaks his gaze from your form, acknowledging what it is you find so fascinating.

By then, it’s too late. Your newly made acquaintance departs as swiftly as it arrived.

“Aw, that’s a shame,” you lament. The disappointment you’d feel if you were in his shoes would be immeasurable. “You didn’t get to see it for very long.”

You have no concrete proof, but you swear every smile he wears is different than the one before it.

“It’s alright. I saw something far better.”

Curious, you glance to your right, searching for whatever it is. You must’ve misinterpreted whatever he was looking at before. “Something better than a hummingbird?”

“You could say that.”

The remainder of the time you spend together is relatively uneventful. Chrollo asks you a great deal about yourself, ranging from your hobbies to book recommendations. You try to return the favor — as is only polite, in your opinion — yet the conversation never lingers on him long before circling back to you. It isn’t until you say you feel vain talking about yourself so much that he offers some morsels of knowledge. Aside from traveling for his occupation, he’s something of an antiquarian, hence his interest in the Starling House’s event. He also reveals he has colleagues coming into town soon, the aforementioned ‘friends’ you questioned the existence of. The way he teases is so devoid of malice, you can’t bring yourself to be upset.

The hour flies by. Good looks aside, he’s a remarkable conversationalist. There’s never an awkward silence or social misstep. One could even call him perfection incarnate. His steady cadence, command of language, meticulously formed ideas… they’re reminiscent of cogs in an automaton turning together in complete harmony. Paradoxically, this immaculate image speaks to some underlying defect in his character he mustn’t want anyone to see. There is such a thing as being too perfect.

For whatever reason, this draws you in closer rather than repelling you.

Chrollo’s disappointment is palpable when he glances at his watch. It’s then you’re reminded that all good things must come to an end.

“I—”

“It—”

You both start and stop talking at the same time. When it’s made obvious you intend to stay silent until he speaks his piece, he motions to you with his hands, insisting you go first.

“It was very nice meeting you, Chrollo,” you say, your voice softening. It’s amazing how you can feel your previously discarded sheepishness returning in real-time. Amazing and annoying. “I, uh, hope you enjoy the event.”

“Please, I should be the one thanking you,” he insists. Then, for such a well-spoken man, he goes uncharacteristically quiet. Deliberating on some issue you’ll never be privy to. “You’ve already helped me a lot, but could I possibly ask for one more thing?”

You give a nod.

“May I have your phone number?”

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You continue staring at him.

He continues staring at you.

His request echoes through your head like it was spoken in a vast cavern. Phone number… phone number... you have one of those. He is asking for it. He wants to remain in touch. Indeed, that is what the statement normally means. Ah, it must be in a platonic sense! It’s nice to have someone to talk to, especially since you both share many interests. Not many of your friends are chomping at the bit to discuss if obtaining the philosopher’s stone was a literal practice or meant to be interpreted metaphorically.

Whoops, you left the poor guy waiting for a response.

“S-Sure!”

He hands you his phone without delay. You put in your contact info, then hold it up for him to take. His fingers brush over yours when he picks it back up and you shiver.

Well, that was certainly nice. You’re forming a blossoming friendship. You love making new friends. The word repeats in your head as if it were a broken record. Friends, friends, friends. Don’t look too into this. Put your magnifying glass down, brain. The stupid three pounds of gray matter delight in tormenting you with outrageous ideas and conclusions. There’s nothing flirtatious happening here.

“Also, I hope you don’t mind my saying so…” he trails off, weaving a web you willingly allow yourself to get trapped in, “But you are very beautiful, [First].”

…

Ohhhh, he’s been flirting with you this entire time, hasn’t he?

Going on a date is a harrowing experience.

For some unknown reason, your traitorous amygdala regards going to a café at noon with the same severity it would if a lion were actively chasing you down. Your flight or fight response raises the banners of war. The army it amasses digs its trenches, readies the cannons, its matches lit to fire off the artillery on standby. Who is the dreaded opponent, one may ask? No one. Absolutely no one. Incredibly enough, you can actively recognize this fact, and still, your physiological response claims it knows better.

Social anxiety is so stupid. You thought you and your body were supposed to be on the same team. Whatever inspired this mutiny, whether it be serotonin deficiency or some other science-y term you can’t pronounce, you most certainly don’t appreciate it.

To be fair, your parent’s reaction didn’t inspire much confidence. Your dad was asking for information on Chrollo you’re 90% sure could be used to conduct a background check, whereas your mom posited the idea he’s a human trafficker. You felt like a lawyer trying to plead your case for why it’s okay that an adult such as yourself may go on a date (sacrilegious, you know, premeditated murder would be more excusable). With some solid arguments and a few instances of stretching the truth (this sounds far nicer than the word lying), the tempest was dissipated. If Chrollo ever were to meet your parents, you’ll have to tell him he’s actually a sensitive, poetic soul that donates to orphanages and saves kittens from burning down buildings. He’s also celibate. More important than any of those things, though, he’s a political centrist.

Suddenly everything in your closet either felt prudish enough to befit a woman entering the convent, or raunchy enough you’d need to wear a trench coat to leave the house unobstructed. In the end, you find a skirt that’d pass your middle school fingertip test and a cute blouse that shouldn’t land you in purgatory.

Your hands are shaking when you go to do the winged eyeliner on your left eye. Then you sneeze while applying mascara, granting a raccoon appearance you could’ve done without. You feel wound up so tight there a mere poke could shatter you into millions of pieces. This is great. Millions of years of evolution led up to this. That selfish, inconsiderate fish should’ve never grown legs and stepped on land. Everything’s gone wrong since then. Fuck that fish.

Ultimately, you succumb and take one of your ‘stage fright’ medications. If it’s doing anything to help, you can’t tell yet.

You have to beg your dad to stop staring out the window with a pair of binoculars.

Eventually, a sleek black car pulls in front of your house.

Following the theme of the day, you almost trip over yourself walking out the front door. Your phone buzzes — no doubt it’s Chrollo telling you he’s here — but you decide to just go to the car rather than text him back. He must’ve spotted you, for he exits and gives you a wave. You’re grateful he did that while a considerable distance away. There was a time a guy waved at you and you thought he wanted a high five. Needless to say, that was a traumatic incident no amount of therapy could help alleviate.

“You look absolutely lovely,” he compliments. Your Broca’s area temporarily malfunctions at this bold declaration. Fortunately, you gather yourself fast enough to stop yourself from saying “you too”.

“Thank you,” the phrase comes out as smooth as butter. You silently congratulate yourself for your immaculate delivery of two words. “Wow… you have such a nice car. And here I thought you were a fellow member of the middle class. Am I allowed to touch this?”

Chrollo chuckles, having gotten used to the peculiar way you word things after all your electronic communication. No matter how you expressed yourself, he still texted you back, so you figured he must be okay with whatever it is you’re doing. He would’ve blocked you by now otherwise.

His reply comes as he holds the passenger side door open. “Ah, don’t worry. There was a bit of a mixup at the car rental place. I wasn’t expecting something of this quality either.”

You tuck this piece of knowledge away for later, should any sugar daddy-esque allegations be thrown your way. One can never be too prepared.

Sinking into the leather seat is a luxurious experience, although it's cold against the exposed area of your thighs. Chrollo slides into the driver’s seat not long after and sets the car into drive. You silently wonder if your neighbors think you’ve gotten into an Uber.

The short trip to the café soothes your electrically fried nerves. You’re once again reminded of how good he is at making you forget your anxiety, he could put SSRIs out of business. Or maybe the propranolol is finally working. Whichever it may be, by the time you both order your drinks, you feel more giddy than nervous. Is it a good idea to drink a caffeinated beverage when anxiety threatens to drag you into limbo at any second? Probably not. Does that mean you’re going to wisely choose a different beverage? Nope.

The sunlight is harsher in the afternoon, but you find this is offset by an occasional breeze. No one else is present in the outdoor dining area except for you and Chrollo. You choose the seat facing a row of bushes so you can observe the house finches and house sparrows fluttering about. One little fella is helping itself to a dirt bath in the freshly spread-out mulch. You coo at the adorable display, pointing it out to Chrollo who admits it is a precious sight. You’ve made it your raison d'être to convince him that every bird is equally fascinating, whether it be a rainbow lorikeet or a common pigeon.

He takes the first sip of the drink you recommended.

“Well? What do you think?”

“It’s good,” he decides with a smile. “I can see why you get it so often.”

“Right? I’ve thought about conducting an Ocean’s Eleven type heist to get the ingredients they use to make it.”

“Oh? Do you grant a moral exception to thievery?”

Despite how lightheartedly he phrases this, his eyes have a certain intensity to them. You mull over the question for this reason.

“Hm… it depends, I guess? Some people need to steal to survive. I probably wouldn’t care if a rich person or mega-corporation got stolen from either,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow at your last statement and you hastily add, “A-As long as no one gets hurt, of course.”

He doesn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “Your reasoning is very cute.”

You groan and shrink back into the garden chair. “I know, I know, that probably came off as terribly naive and self-contradictory… the issue is complex. Giving a one-size-fits-all type of consensus feels impossible. How about you? What do you think?”

“Coveting is mankind’s original sin,” Chrollo begins. He’s using a tone that tells you to prepare for an in-depth explanation. “It’s a theme that’s recurrent throughout history. David and Bathsheba, Hades and Persephone, Heathcliff and Catherine… we always want what we cannot have. This dilemma never leaves us entirely. We either ignore it, despair in it, or succumb to it. The desire to steal is as involuntary as the diaphragm contracting for us to breathe or the electric signals that cause our heart to beat.”

A house finch begins its soulful serenade in the background.

“Wouldn’t you say that calling it involuntary implies we can’t control it, though?” You query.

“The only way to exercise total control over it is to kill it.”

“Some parts of us are better off dead,” you decide. “Getting what you want doesn’t guarantee satisfaction. The examples you listed… maybe they were happy for a time, but ultimately, their transgressions caught up to them.”

“Is a moment of bliss not worth a lifetime of anguish?”

“Maybe, if I was a sensualist.”

He rests his chin on his fist, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Is that what you’re saying I am, darling?”

Your eyes widen and you almost choke on your drink at the unexpected pet name. Warmth floods your cheeks and you take a long second to recompose yourself. Your blatant display of embarrassment further fuels his amusement, he actually chuckles. You consider kicking him under the table, but decide that isn’t very ladylike. Then you remember it's the twenty-first century, and to honor your feminist ancestors, you scrunch up a napkin into a ball and fling it at him. Although the aerodynamics of your makeshift projectile are questionable, it almost hits him. Until he catches it with admittedly impressive reflexes.

“You have a good throwing arm.”

“And you should consider retiring from your white-collar job to join a baseball team,” you take a sip of your delicious drink. This is definitely the most memorable date you’ve been on. “But no, I don’t think you’re a sensualist. I honestly don’t know how I’d classify you. You’re jaded… almost misanthropic. You acknowledge the world for what it is, but it’s like you once thought it could be better. You don’t care to be proven right or wrong about it anymore, you want something else.”

“Ah… when put that way, I must seem pathetic,” he muses, his casual air hardly matching the severity of the words spoken.

“Not at all!” Your passionate outcry appears to momentarily take him aback. “If you’re still looking for something, that means deep down, you have hope you might eventually find it. To me, that’s admirable.”

He regards you for a few moments, before closing his eyes, his countenance strangely content. “You’re a very interesting woman, [First].”

“Pfft, not really.”

“I’m afraid this a point I’ll have to insist on,” or so he says, but you both know he secretly relishes his contrarian ways. “I have to wonder, though. How is it you came to gather any of this about me?”

“Your opinion on books.”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“We interpret media through a lens that’s formed by our experiences, so… I dunno. You can just infer a lot from what a person gets caught up with in a story.”

In Chrollo’s case, what he doesn’t pay attention to is equally telling, although it took you a while to notice his unique display of apathy. He’d brush on certain themes while giving a rather surface-level commentary. Playing it safe, almost. He still had such an excellent way of weaving his words, that telling it came from another person's loom was difficult. It wasn’t until you hit on a subject he truly cared for that you could tell the difference. He’d give insights so particular to him that they must contain the true essence of his character.

Even if it is a mere glimmer.

He speaks your name.

“Hm?”

“About what I’m searching for…” he unwraps the napkin you unceremoniously threw his way earlier, smooths out the wrinkles, then returns it. “I think I may have found it.”

Everything has a way of escalating faster than you anticipated.

You’re about thirty minutes into the movie Perfect Blue. For some time now, you’ve been praising its merits to Chrollo, who recently said you should watch it together. This begged the question of where. In the months since you’ve begun dating, while your parents have taken a liking to him, you didn’t think the subject matter of the movie should be proudly displayed in your living room.

To remedy this, Chrollo suggested watching it in his hotel room.

You couldn’t fully explain your initial apprehension if you tried. You felt comfortable around him and have been alone together plenty. Yet for some reason, being alone with a man in a hotel room produced this mental image you weren’t sure you were ready for. He never pushed you or asked why you seemed hesitant to take things further than kissing and some light petting. His lack of questioning had the unintended side effect of birthing different doubts.

Does he not want anything else? Is he only acting like it doesn’t bother him? Will a day come when he tires of your squeamishness and simply moves on?

It’s this taunting mantra that haunted you in the lobby, the elevator, then the long, impersonal hallway to his room.

Your chest feels heavy enough that you wonder if lead has filled your lungs.

When he sat next to you on the couch, you barely registered his presence, much less his question if the temperature in the room felt agreeable. At some point, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Then his hand began to meander, although his attention never left the screen. He played with your hair. Gently stroked your forearm. His hand wandered down, down, down, to the hem of your skirt. He straightens the lightly bunched fabric out. Your heart pounds.

Chrollo’s fingers stay there, seemingly placated.

During the scene where Mima sees her reflection as her idol persona, his hand creeps onto the exposed skin of your thighs. He gives it a gentle, tentative squeeze. A soft gasp leaves you and your attention turns to him. Immediately, your eyes meet his in the dark. The side of his face is lightly illuminated by an array of cool tones. He uses his free hand to cup your chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing your lower lip.

“Can I kiss you?”

He speaks the question with such rapture, low and quiet.

Your heart violently hits your ribcage like it’s trying to burst free.

Silently, you nod. He tilts his head to the side and slots his lips against yours. There’s a pleasant buzz that tries so hard to overpower the frantic adrenaline pumping through your veins. Your body is at war with itself; indulgence or indignance. It’s a conflict that’ll never have a winner. You want to enjoy it — and you are, you think — so why does your biological makeup hold you as a prisoner without ransom? He tastes nice, feels nice. He did everything right. You don’t want to tremble at what’s a normal aspect of a relationship as if it were death itself hanging over your head.

It’s this mounting frustration at your condition that spurs you into action.

While maintaining the languid kiss, you situate yourself on his lap, a gesture that causes him to inhale sharply. He may be as surprised at your boldness as you are. You snake your arms around his neck and intensify the kiss. Humming, he reciprocates your ardor. His tongue runs along the seam of your lips and you grant him entry. He tastes of dark chocolate and mint, a combination you wish you could get drunk on, if only to put your tense body at ease.

One hand squeezes and massages your thigh, the other cups your feverish face. In this position, you’re afforded no modesty. You can feel your skirt hiking up, exposing more of you. His fingers explore the new territory. They venture dangerously close to your panties, though he doesn’t go beyond there, as if respecting an invisible barrier. The cocktail of emotions this invokes is impossible to properly sort through.

Can he feel the heat emanating from your body? Your pulse which finds new highs every minute? You want to lose yourself, but you can’t, your anxiety always drags you back kicking and screaming. It is an unforgiving warden that thinks you’d be better off in a cell.

Chrollo admires you when you pull back, in desperate need of air. You’re starting to feel dizzy and you don’t know if it’s the right kind. There’s something hard forming beneath where you sit. His lust for you is apparent, and you want to please, want to be normal. It should be fun. Your friends regale you with stories of taking strangers home and never feeling more than butterflies in their stomach. That’s what you want. Not this contortion of the aforementioned organ that makes you think your insides are slowly liquifying.

You still haven’t fully caught your breath, each one growing more shallow, more panicked. He finds other ways to entertain himself, namely, by lavishing your clammy skin with kisses. Your jawline, neck, then collarbone. He’s so calm you think you might be envious. Finally, he works his way back up, teasing your earlobe with his teeth, his breath warm as it fans against you.

Thump, thump, thump.

“[First],” his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Garbled, distant. “Should we take this to the bedroom?”

You break into too many shards to fix.

You get up. Straighten your skirt. You think you mutter something about needing a moment. Your legs don’t feel right. They move anyway. The bathroom’s door knob is like ice. You grab a hand towel. Turn on the faucet. Soak the towel until it drips water down the sink basin. Sit on the floor. The tiles are almost as cold enough to help. You place the towel around your neck. Your ears are ringing and you wish they’d stop. You hug your legs to your chest. What is it you’re supposed to do? Breathe?

It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass.

It always does.

Just hold on a bit longer.

Feeling comes back in your hands first. It spreads throughout your body, though the antidote is far too late. Exhaustion is the next thing you register. The kind that seeps into your cells, makes your limbs feel like dead weight. Cognition returns as well. You remember where you are, who you’re with, what you’ve done.

It’s been a while since you’ve experienced one of these. Somehow, it’s worse than you remember. Infinitely worse.

A shiver runs down your spine. Has it always been so cold? You wonder what temperature your body was running at for you not to have noticed sooner.

How nice it is that your homeostasis decided to return. Is your sympathetic nervous system giving itself a pat on the back? Celebrating and popping champagne bottles at yet another job well done? We’ve done it successfully again, folks, you imagine it cheering. We’ve stopped her from doing something completely normal and harmless!

You’d laugh, but this time, you can’t bring yourself to.

As tempting as it is to stay here and pray for the tile floor to swallow you whole, you sincerely doubt that’ll happen, so you’re left with the far less appealing option of being an adult and facing the predicament you’re in. Getting back up, you’re treated to a glimpse of your reflection.

The change in your complexion would make any onlooker think you’ve seen a ghost.

Abruptly, you’re fourteen again, trying to get your mom’s attention so you can beg her to take you home because the social gathering of ten or so people is just too much. Next, you’re fifteen, talked into some weekend youth getaway because saying ‘no’ makes you feel guilty and the car ride has another two hours remaining. You feel sick, terribly sick, but you don’t want to get sick, because then your peers would think you’re strange, so you sit there and endure. Then you’re sixteen, locked in the stall of your high school bathroom, trying not to pass out because you think it’d be an inconvenience to anyone that happened upon you.

You thought you were over this. You’ve done the therapy, read the self-help books, and taken your medication every day like clockwork.

What’s left for you to do?

Why does it always come back?

Chrollo asks if everything’s alright when you walk back over to the couch. You say yes. He then asks if he can get you anything. A glass of water, please, is your reply.

You can tell he’s examining you when he hands the glass over. Your face warms — not in a fun way. The television screen is dark and yet you’re fixated on it like it’s the most intriguing thing in the world. Going from feeling as if you’re a stranger in your own body to being hyper-aware of everything never fails to give you whiplash. You can hear the low thrum of the air conditioning, footsteps coming from the hallway, the steady drip of the sink he filled your glass from. You think to rub your eyes then stop yourself; that’d smudge your mascara. It’d be nice if he could at least think you’re pretty as you struggle to hold yourself together.

“Was it something I did?” Chrollo questions. He almost sounds… curious, a concept you furiously scrub from your head. You’re exhausted and your brain is waving the white flag. Attributing false interpretations to his words is not going to help.

“N-No, not at all, I, um,” you have the words, you just don’t want to say them, so you opt for taking another drink instead. The glass runs out of water, your safe haven disappearing with it. “Just… a panic attack. It happens… sometimes.”

“Entirely unprompted?”

You gnaw on your lower lip. “Kind of…? It— nothing about it is exactly logical. I can know I’m fine, believe it too, and still, that doesn’t matter. It’ll happen anyway. I guess I have some reservations about that level of physical intimacy, but what my body decides to do is completely overkill.”

“You always minimize the role your anxiety plays in your life,” Chrollo points out. You’re grasping the glass tight enough that your knuckles hurt. “You can’t mention it to me without making light of it in some way. Is there a reason for that?”

Well, he’s got you there.

You’re about to joke and ask if he’s the one studying the behavioral sciences, when you realize that’d just be proving his point.

So uncharacteristic acrimony bubbles to the surface instead.

“A reason? I can give you more than one. It’s stupid, it’s annoying. The most simple things become like a fucking life or death experience for me and I can’t stand it,” you feel tears gather at your lower lashline but you’re too far gone to care. It’s a good thing your mascara is waterproof. “And then I… I think sex sounds nice, but when it actually gets to the moment, I feel so guilty and anxious and wrong that I leave my partner frustrated or thinking they’re some sort of monster.”

Usually, Chrollo's countenance is difficult to read, but there’s this raw emotion that makes itself known. Understanding? Relief? You don’t know for certain. It disappears without a trace, leaving you no way to confirm or deny your intuition. It’s probably too fried to be reliable, anyway.

“Hm… you must think all this would put me off, then. Make me want to move on to someone else.”

A knife stabbing you in the gut and twisting its blade until your viscera turned to mush would hurt less.

“Sweetheart, I was already aware that it was worse than what you let on,” his voice sounds so kind and near, you marvel at it, the gravitational pull drawing you in. You barely realize he’s brought you into an embrace. Your cheek is against his chest, right above his heart. His has a calm, steady rhythm, whereas yours is picking back up once more. “Your avoidance of talking on the phone, how soft your voice gets when interacting with strangers, the way you act like you’re an inconvenience by asking for the slightest assistance.”

The tears you tried holding in break free, soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

“I find these qualities of yours very endearing. You can go from passionately speaking about your interests over dinner to going shy the second the waiter walks over. You care so much, feel so much… it’s a wonder to me. You experience this life in the exact opposite manner I do.”

With the hand he isn’t using to keep you secure against him, he rubs your back up and down.

“Ah, my poor, sweet girl. What a tender heart you have,” he whispers. His grip on you tightens. That’s when you hear it — the undeniable sound of his heart beating a bit faster than it did before. “I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Not after all the effort I put into stealing it for myself. No, I’m almost hurt you entertained the thought. Have I ever treated you with anything less than the utmost care? Hm?”

Chrollo starts to pull you away from him, yet you refuse, clinging adamantly to his torso in an attempt to hide your face. He ignores the way you shake your head and by exerting the slightest force, achieves his original goal. His fingers find purchase on your chin, which he tilts upward, allowing himself an unobscured view of your puffy eyes and runny makeup. He smiles, wiping away your tears with such gentleness, he must think you’re made of porcelain.

Sniffling, you remember he asked you a question, and attempt cobbling together a coherent response. Such is the polite thing to do. “I guess not.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“... The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to conduct an in-depth case study for your future dissertation on GAD and SAD?”

His visage lands somewhere between mild bemusement and exacerbation. “I know you’re smarter than that. Try again.”

“My winning personality, once you wade through all the mental illness?”

“That certainly plays a role.”

“I know I’m cute, too. I suppose that helps. Otherwise, I’d be completely and utterly fucked.”

“Yes, yes — you are terribly cute.”

Sensing your hesitancy to land on a definitive answer, he decides to spell it out himself. “I’m fond of you, to a degree I previously thought myself incapable of. I have a… callous disposition, for lack of a better word. Yet for whatever reason, this doesn’t seem to bother you. I’ve never cared for subjective terms like ‘good’ or ‘evil’, but… if there is goodness in this world, it’d be found in you.”

Chrollo’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone as he speaks, seemingly bewitched by the glittering stream your tears left behind. Tangible proof of your emotions that tumult like a tempest, whereas his often remains an unmoving body of water.

You take his cheeks in your hands and glare at him. This time, when your lower lip trembles, it’s with righteous anger, not sorrow. “Why do you always talk about yourself like you’re the world’s biggest villain?”

His eyes slightly widen — you’ve never used a tone like this with him before, or anyone else, for that matter — though his composure doesn’t wane for long.

“So what if you don’t think everything is sunshine and rainbows? You aren’t heartless; you just know the dangers of putting your heart on display for everyone else to see. I can’t blame you for that, from what you’ve told me.”

He’s never been particularly forthcoming about sharing details from his past. What you do know is that he grew up in extreme poverty, without parents or a guardian, scraping by with some other children in a similar situation. You never pushed to learn more. There was this quiet melancholy that possessed him in the rare moments he shared glimpses of his childhood. The specters that haunted him could almost be felt lingering in the atmosphere, turning the air heavy and thick.

“You lost a precious friend in such a cruel way. That loss of innocence, it’s unforgivable, it’s completely unfair…!”

This time, your tears aren’t for you, they’re for a little boy you’ll never know and a girl that you couldn’t if you tried. “I don’t get why you’re so harsh on yourself. You act like you’ve done something unforgivable.”

He parts and closes his lips. Whatever he intended to say, he must’ve decided against it. Instead, he pulls you back against him, almost greedily. He presses kisses atop your head then murmurs a few words you can’t quite catch. Your body is deprived of energy, having flickered through almost every major emotion a human being can experience. If your parents wouldn’t have fussed over the act, you could’ve fallen asleep on him for the night.

The person who inadvertently caused your blistering anxiety is also the best balm for it.

It’s unexplainable, teetering on the edge of delusion, this sentiment that he could shield you from all harm. He’s always so sure of himself when you remain plagued by indecisiveness. He can talk you out of any irrational thought, anchor you when a stressful situation is beginning to be too much, and understand you almost eerily well. He’s able to piece together your chaotic thought processes with next to no context. He listens to you, remembers everything you say (and you mean everything), and genuinely values your input, even if he disagrees with your opinions.

This level of an intimate connection is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.

“No one’s ever cried for my sake before,” he thinks aloud. He’s stroking your back again, almost mindlessly. You swear there’s something magical about his touch.

“Do you think I’m weird?”

“There are a lot of words I’d use to describe you,” he decides. As always, he’s clever at avoiding questions he doesn’t wish to answer. “Currently, the one that stands out to me the most would be…”

You feel his lips curl into a smile against you.

“Warm.”

The arboretum is far different in autumn. Green leaves have transitioned into rich auburn and golden shades, hesitant buds nowhere to be seen. The grass beneath your feet is crunchier, the foliage dry and scattered, almost as if it were trying to form a protective sheath for the earth. No longer can you hear the melody of grasshoppers and buzzing from busy bees. The wind whistles when it blows, the underlying frostiness biting at your cheeks and ears.

“Ah, would you look at that, it’s a junco,” Chrollo points out. You cover your mouth to muffle a gasp. Thanks in part to your guidance, he’s gotten better at identifying different types of birds. While you’d like to think it’s because he appreciates them too, you’re convinced he finds your excited reaction far more interesting.

The little blob of black and white hops to and fro, using its feet to rummage for anything edible. You silently lament your lack of birdseed. You’ll have to settle for cheering the tiny friend on from afar.

Hand in hand, you both traverse the area of your original meeting. Sweet nostalgia swirls in your chest. You’ve always found it befuddling how a single chance encounter can permanently change the trajectory of your life. In the moment, you have no idea how your actions will go on to form ripples that influence the future. Whether this is chaos theory or some other fancy metaphysical-sounding concept, you haven’t the slightest clue.

What you do know is that meeting Chrollo was a catalyst for something greater.

A wave of chills cascades over you.

“Are you cold?” He inquires, his tone having this ‘I told you so’ quality to it that you don’t appreciate. You’re wearing a light beige, plaid fitted blazer, that while chic, doesn’t have much insulation. You waved off his initial concern by saying you’ll warm up once you both get to walking around. So much for that.

“Cold is a mindset,” the chattering of your teeth doesn’t do much to help your cause. He raises an eyebrow. “Mind over matter… mind over matter…”

Chrollo shrugs his coat off and drapes it over you. “I wouldn’t want you to get sick, dear.”

“You sound like my grandma.”

“The one who tried taking my head wrappings off, or the one who kicked me?”

“A combination of the two that coalesces their tendency to fuss over me.”

“You’re very easy to fuss over,” Chrollo chuckles at the face you make at him. “You’re absolutely precious. It’s a mystery to me how you make the smallest acts endearing.”

At this, you strike a dumb pose, winking at him all the while. “Aha, it’s no mystery. You have my irresistible charm to thank for that.”

He sighs wistfully. “Indeed I do.”

Although the sage gardens behind the Starling House are no longer in bloom, you decide to swing by anyway. The plans for the remainder of your day follow a similarly simple yet pleasant precedent. You’re going to go window shopping in a quaint commercial district, grab something to eat at a pub, then end the night off with a movie. Chrollo’s trying to convince you to watch some indie flick that’s in black and white and uses a 1.19:1 ratio. You want to watch Alien, a classic he’s never seen like the weirdo he is.

The walk isn’t long or monotonous. It’s so idyllic that you could believe you’re the only two people in the world.

However, that isn’t the case. Upon entering the garden, you’re quick to note the presence of another.

A young woman is kneeling down, murmuring under her breath. She’s acting as if she’s lost something and can’t find it. Frowning, you detach yourself from Chrollo, approaching her with the intent to offer your assistance. She doesn’t lift her head upon hearing the obvious sounds of your footfall. She just continues blindly grasping at the ground.

“Miss?” You ask, to which her entire body freezes. “Did you drop something? I could help you look for it.”

She mutters another incomprehensible jumble of words.

“Hm? What was that?”

You lean over in an attempt to hear her better.

Then, much to your confusion, she enunciates your full-given name. Even while doing this, she doesn’t spare you a single glance.

“Have to… have to…” she’s back to being difficult to make sense of, “I have to…”

A strange sensation possesses you.

Have you met this woman somewhere before? You do a quick mental scan of her disheveled appearance and come up with nothing definitive. Her hair is matted, her complexion sallow and her cheeks sunken in. Her disoriented state stirs concern within you. It’s a good sign that she’s still conscious and exhibiting motor functions, but the longer you examine her, the more you can tell she isn’t in a proper state of mind. You don’t want to leave her out here alone in such a vulnerable state. You try to push aside the uncanny feeling that came from her apparently recognizing you when you’re certain you’ve never met.

Chrollo speaks your name. Turning around, you face him just in time to catch a surreal expression forming on his countenance. His eyes widen slightly, his lips part, then he’s reaching out for you.

The passage of time grinds temporarily to a halt.

And then there is a visceral burst of energy.

It’s as if a blizzard manifests from the direction the woman is hunched over in. There’s this thick, harrowing tension that causes your legs to buckle at the knees. Swirls of negative emotions wrap around you in shadowy tendrils. Grief. Hysteria. Rage. Bitterness. Most notable, however, is the sickening yearning to inflict harm. How can a human being produce and project such raw feelings? It’s like hatred itself has been given a palpable form, submerging you in a swamp of mire.

You don’t understand what’s happening to you, but you do have this primal foreboding that the longer you’re exposed to it, the more endangered you’ll be.

In the millisecond it takes for you to blink, Chrollo is no longer in your line of sight.

It’s strange, you think. There are no knives, guns, explosives; or anything that could hurt you in the traditional sense. In a way you could understand and reliably assess the threat level of.

And still, despite this uncertainty, you have this unshakable premonition that death isn’t far away.

You wake up in a bed that is not your own.

Your body is drenched in sweat, your muscles sore, and your head feels as if it’s being clamped in a vice-like grip. Trying to get up proves to be a poor decision. Nausea and dizziness force you to lie back down. You take shallow, frantic breaths, wincing at yet another wave of throbbing coming from your temples. Your senses aren’t reliable either. The first few times you open your eyes, dark spots dot your vision. Then there’s your hearing, or lack of. There’s this distant ringing that while slowly fading, isn’t replaced by anything better. Your hearing grows so muffled you almost think earplugs have been jammed in your ear canal.

Groaning, you manage to lift yourself off the mattress with trembling arms. The dark spots fade away enough for you to make out your surroundings.

You’re in Chrollo’s hotel room, lying on his bed.

It’s nighttime. The digital clock sitting on the bedside table reads 3:40 a.m.

The next thing you do is feel around for your phone. It should be in the back pocket of your jeans, but it isn’t there.

The brisk air takes your breath away when you tug the comforter off. Your body groans with protest at all the movement, yet you ignore its request to lay back down, the situation at hand far too perplexing. Your outfit is the same as the one you put on this morning, aside from your boots, which sit together near the wall. You then assess your body for any physical injuries, finding nothing visible to explain your current malaise. Are you hungover? Frowning, you dismiss the idea. You know your tolerance well and never try pushing it.

Taking small steps and using the wall as leverage, you make your way over to the adjoined bathroom. You fill a dental cup with water and down it instantly. After satiating your thirst, you call out for Chrollo, your voice gravelly with sleep.

No response.

Sighing, you slink over to the closed bedroom door. Your equilibrium steadies itself enough that you only need to grab onto something every few steps. The handle doesn’t budge. You try again, exerting more force — still nothing. The subsequent attempts end in the same manner. There’s no denying it, it’s been locked. That begs the question of why. Safety, maybe? It’s possible Chrollo stepped out for whatever reason and wanted to ensure no one could get to you. Then again, that’s what the deadbolt on the door leading to the hotel hallway is for.

You don’t want to start rattling the door and making a scene when you’re certain there’s a solid explanation for this. He has to come back eventually, his stuff is still here. Although, you can’t help noticing how sparse his personal belongings are. The book he was reading no longer sits on the bedside table, the framed picture of the two of you gifted by your parents isn’t on the wardrobe either. Next, you check the closet, finding it in a similarly desolate state. You once pillaged a shirt of his when you grew tired of wearing a dress, so you know its usual presentation. The hangers remain on the rack yet everything else is gone.

Chrollo told you his job had placed him in this city indefinitely. Is he planning to move to another hotel?

Not knowing what else to do, you sit on the edge of the bed. The former pounding in your head has soothed into a far less egregious dull ache. You must’ve been asleep for a decent chunk of time, this initial grogginess is what you experience upon first waking up in the morning. You hope you weren’t unconscious for too long. It's an unsettling thought, being in that vulnerable state, totally shut off from the world.

A few minutes of absentmindedly admiring the twinkling lights that make up the city skyline’s pass.

Then you hear the door handle jingle.

Chrollo silently examines you. It’s almost as if he’s gauging your entire being, anticipating what is to come. His mouth is set in a straight line and he’s standing unnervingly still. There’s this intensity to him that has you breaking off eye contact. Your mouth goes dry and you temporarily forget how to form words. You had so many burning questions in his absence, why is it that they've been wiped clean from your head now that he’s here?

When you find the courage to look up at him again, there’s not a vestige of his former expression. The grave lines have smoothened out and you no longer believe you’re face to face with a stranger.

“How are you feeling?” He’s quick to close the distance. The mattress dips, adjusting to his presence by your side.

“Oh, uh, not the best, but… I don’t think it’s anything serious,” you say. Silvery moonlight shines into the room, illuminating him in an otherworldly veil. Goosebumps line your skin when he takes the side of your face into his hand. He’s cold. “I’m mostly just confused. Is— is everything okay? Why am I here?”

“How much do you remember?”

Remember, remember… that’s right, you hadn’t given that much thought. You pick through your hazy memories aloud. “Well, we were at the arboretum, just walking around. I remember heading to the gardens behind the Starling House. Then… um…”

You squint and furrow your eyebrows together. It’s as if your recollection was a film reel that had been trimmed after that point. You try piecing together a mental image of the garden. Hummingbirds? Sage? No, that isn’t right, you’re thinking of its spring appearance. The colors would be more muted, there’d be less shrubbery. The image grows sharper.

Then there’s a shadow.

Vaguely human-shaped, situated right in the middle of the mosaic you’re trying to form. Their outline isn’t solid, it’s splotchy, like water paint left to run on a canvas.

Finally, something clicks.

“That woman!” You exclaim. The corner of his lips twitch downward. “That’s right! Is she okay? She seemed so out of it.”

“I’m not sure.”

“How is that possible? You were—”

“Let’s focus on you for now,” he cuts you off. There’s a finality in his voice you can’t bring yourself to challenge. “Can you tell me what symptoms you’re experiencing?”

“Um, some disorientation and a headache.”

“I see. I’ll get you some painkillers, then.”

You grab his wrist to stop him when he starts getting up. “I’d really prefer you told me what happened first.”

When he doesn’t immediately acquiesce to your request, you quietly add, “Please.”

His eyes soften at your gentle, uncertain timbre. He intertwines his fingers with yours and gives your hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Earlier, when we arrived at the garden, you grew lightheaded and fainted.”

You take a moment to process the information. It seems plausible enough, yet the more you mull over it, the more little details start to catch your attention.

“Okay…” you trail off, pursing your lips. A vengeful throb from your head causes you to wince. He notices — frowns — then places a featherlight kiss against your forehead. The thoughtful gesture doesn’t invoke any pleasant warm fuzzy sensations. “So I fell unconscious for over ten hours and you didn’t… call an ambulance…?”

“That is correct.”

You shuffle in your seat, momentarily taken aback at how easygoing he’s acting about the entire ordeal. “Why?”

“I’ve been monitoring your vitals,” he reassures. Sensing your growing apprehension, he adds, “I can promise that you were never in serious danger. I would’ve acted accordingly if you were.”

The phrase ‘acted accordingly’ doesn’t tell you much either. What does he mean by that? Is there some threshold you needed to enter for him to have taken you to the hospital? Your various volunteer experiences with the city’s vulnerable communities taught you that if a person is unresponsive for over a minute, an ambulance should be called, just to be on the safe side. Besides, isn’t that just common sense? Chrollo is an intelligent man. You can’t fathom any line of reasoning that’d justify not erring on the side of caution.

You glance at the clock again. 4:03 a.m. glows in the dim light of the room. It’s late. You wonder what your parents—

Holy shit.

“Do my mom and dad know?” You glance around as if expecting to find them. There’s no way they wouldn’t have insisted on calling emergency services if you were unconscious for that long.

“I didn’t inform them, no.”

“What?” You make no attempts to tone down your incredulity. “Then— they must be out of their minds with worry! My phone, where’s my phone? I need to tell them I’m okay!”

You shoot up off the bed too fast and your body doesn’t take kindly to the rushed movement. Debilitating lightheadedness causes you to lose your balance. Chrollo steadies your swaying form and helps sit you back down. You scoot away from him as far as you can, your thoughts an absolute mess. Nothing here is making sense. It’s not even a puzzle that’s missing a few pieces, there’s almost nothing to work with at all.

He’s staring at you in that strange, anticipatory manner again. It makes your stomach churn.

“My phone, Chrollo,” you hold your hand out. “There’s no way you don’t have it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t give it to you,” he sounds apologetic too, which makes your subsequent temper flare up even worse.

“What is wrong with you?” You hiss, exasperation winning out. You were trying to be reasonable, but that is over and done with. “You’re acting like— like there’s nothing weird happening! Can you please take this seriously? You’re really starting to freak me out.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. I knew this wouldn’t be easy for you, so I wanted to remain calm for your sake.”

Your tongue couldn’t properly form words if your life depended on it. Sure, remaining calm in a crisis is helpful, but he isn’t acting like this is a crisis. He’s treating it as if he was burdened with sitting you down to relay bad news that no one else had the heart to share.

You’re starting to think you don’t know the person you’re talking to.

“For my sake,” you repeat in a wry deadpan. “If that’s true, then tell me what’s actually going on, Chrollo. Because I know you’re bullshitting me.”

Not calling the ambulance or informing your parents, withholding your phone… then there’s the matter of how he got you here in the first place. Did he carry you through the lobby? No good samaritans thought it was unusual to see a man carrying an unconscious woman up to his room? Hotel staff these days are trained to have a vigilant eye for these situations too. Not one person thought it might be a good idea to ring up law enforcement over such a blatantly suspicious act?

Nothing is adding up.

“I’m being more forthcoming than you think,” Chrollo says, as if he’s doing you a favor. He tries reaching out for your hand again, only this time, you don’t allow him. “Everything I’ve said and intend to say is the truth, even if you don’t particularly like it.”

That’s a hell of a creative way of putting it!

“Who was that woman earlier? What did she do to me?”

“I have someone ironing out the details, but from what I’ve gathered, she was sent with the intention of killing you. I don’t believe she was aware of the fact herself until you entered her vicinity, triggering the necessary condition for the true culprit’s ability to activate. Otherwise, I certainly wouldn’t have allowed you to get so close.”

Someone was sent to kill you? You? A run-of-the-mill college student who has no enemies to speak of? It’s not like you’re a part of the fucking mob. That can’t be right, not to mention the bizarre jargon he’s using. There’d be no plausible motive. If he says she was sent, and you choose to believe he isn’t making this all up, that implies it was premeditated. Not a spur-of-the-moment decision. That’d almost make more sense.

That is, unless…

You stare at him, eyebrows knitting together.

“If you’re telling the truth — and right now, that’s a big fucking if — does this have something to do with you?”

“That’s my clever girl,” he praises, entirely devoid of condescension. The pure fondness in his voice makes you sick. It’s almost as if he’s delighting in watching you piece this nightmare together. “Yes, you haven’t deliberately done anything to earn the wrath of the wrong people. They simply know getting to me is near impossible, hence their decision to go for the next best thing instead. That’d be you, dear.”

“Oh my god,” you bury your head in your hands. “Why… why am I not freaking out more? I should be hysterical, or, or— I don’t know…”

“Beta blockers,” he reveals. You look at him like he’s speaking another language. “In anticipation of how… touchy this conversation was going to be, I thought it might be best for you to be in a good headspace while receiving this information for the first time.”

“You drugged me?”

“If that’s how you want to look at it.”

“Because that’s how it is!”

A lump forms in your throat and lodges itself there. Are you stuck in a hellacious dream? Or hallucinating, perhaps? Visual hallucinations aren’t supposed to be this cohesive or clear. There has to be another explanation. Something you’re missing that’d make this all go away. The beta blocker admission certainly holds weight. Your heart rate, while slightly elevated, isn’t anywhere near as chaotic as it should be. It’d explain the general malaise, fatigue, and lightheadedness too. That, and you doubt you’d be able to think this clearly if there wasn’t something heavy pumping through your system.

Your eyes hesitantly settle on Chrollo, who sits there perfectly still and almost relaxed. He’s observing you like a hawk.

“Listen,” you try using a mellower voice. He raises an eyebrow at your drastically different approach. “You had ample opportunity to hurt me and you didn’t. That must mean you have my best intentions at heart, right? Why don’t we try to work something out, because this isn’t sustainable. My absence isn’t going to go unnoticed.”

Chrollo sighs, heavy if not unsurprised. “Sweetheart, I’m not suffering a break from reality, although I’m sure you’d prefer to rationalize it that way. I assure you I’m lucid and everything I’ve done is intentional. You’ll come to accept it eventually.”

It isn’t going to help, yet you feel your remaining grains of patience slip through your fingers.

“What’s this talk about a ‘condition’ and ‘ability’, then?” You challenge.

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d mention that,” he doesn’t sound like you landed on a reason that’d prove him wrong. “How to explain it… you once told me you think there are phenomena in this world that can’t be explained by empirical evidence. Consider this an example of that. I’m sure you must’ve felt it before you fainted. An intense, concentrated sensation that awoke your primordial fear. Bloodlust.”

You want to argue until you run out of breath, but this description does strike a chord. Reality itself feels as if it’s drifting further and further away. In an awfully cruel twist, Chrollo and his collected disposition is the most grounding factor you have to latch onto.

“I’m sure it’s a lot to take in,” he finally replaces that matter-of-fact tone with something resembling compassion, “But know this: you’re not in any danger. Neither are those you care about, so long as you act sensible.”

Shivering, you hug your arms around your chest. “How can you say that to me so easily? I thought… I thought you…”

He’s enveloping you from behind. You didn’t even see him move. Weakly, you struggle against his hold, but you’re not in any condition to put up a fight. In the event you were, it’s doubtful it’d make much of a difference. He’s strong. It goes beyond physical strength, into some esoteric realm you’ve become forcibly acquainted with. He’s exerting this slight pressure that makes your heart skip a beat, despite the medication. It isn’t comparable to what you experienced in the garden — there’s no malice — it feels more like a warning.

“You’re surprisingly sensitive to Nen,” he murmurs, humming contentedly when you go limp against him. His chin rests atop your head and his arms ensnare your midriff. “How interesting. No matter. Whatever your fascinating brain concocted is still true. You may think me merciless, but if you knew me, you’d find this to be my greatest act of mercy yet.”

“I thought I did know you,” is your weak reply. You don’t recognize the sound of your voice.

“The parts of me I wanted to show you, yes,” he moves your hair aside so he can press a kiss to the nape of your neck. “And a few glimpses you gleaned in your own way. Really, you are such a sweet girl. Willing to overlook discrepancies to see the ‘good’ in me.”

Heat rises and ignites on your cheeks. “I-I could scream, you know.”

“You could.”

That’s not the reaction you were expecting.

“You’re… not going to try and stop me?”

“No,” he responds. “I’ve always found experience to be the best teacher.”

“You really,” you heave a humorless laugh, uncertain of what else to do, “You really don’t see anything wrong with this?”

He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, marveling at how your pulse remains steady, thanks to his intervention.

“‘So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.’”

“What?”

“It’s what you said the first day I met you,” Chrollo explains, nostalgia evident. “I’ve thought about those words often. Your effulgence, your desire to do right by others. It made me wonder if there could ever be anyone more perfect for me than you. You, whose pretty neck I could snap before you’d ever realize what happened, stirred up a sentimentality in me I thought myself incapable of.”

Sandalwood, amber, and leather. His scent is the same as that day.

Are his intentions?

Is this a prophecy he himself ordained and always intended to see fulfilled?

“You stole my heart, and as recompense, I will steal you. Think whatever you want about me, dear. Just don’t think I’m selfless enough to ever change my mind.”

#chrollo x reader #chrollo lucilfer x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #hxh x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #chrollo lucilfer #yandere hxh x reader #not sfw #my stuff

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moremaybank · 10 months

Note

🍸 with dark!rafe maybe? 👀

COME HAVE A DRINK WITH ME ! || 18+, fem!reader, dark!rafe, knife play, unprotected sex, language (0.7k)

The cool metal of the knife in Rafe's hand remained slotted against the side of your neck. He dragged it downward, not scraping but gliding down your hot skin.

"You better stay still, princess. One little movement and I could nick your carotid. You'd bleed to death."

His eyes searched yours, looking for any fear. He was happy to find that for the most part, you were calm. There was the slightest trace of worry, but you masked it well.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. You know I'd never hurt you. Not unless you wanted me to."

Rafe pressed a searing kiss to your lips, one that you fought hard not to return. Your mouth betrayed you, though, subconsciously melting into his. Despite your anger, even when you couldn't stand the man in front of you, your body still called out to him. Yearned for every last touch he would grant it.

"This is the last time, Rafe. I deserve better. You need to let me go."

The words scalded your tongue as they left your lips. There wasn't any universe in which he'd take those words well. Or at all.

"I am better. I'm the best you'll ever have."

As if his answer wasn't enough, you're proven right once again when his free hand grabs you by the throat, pulling you a hairsbreadth away from his stern face. "How many times do I have to tell you, huh? You're not leaving me. You're not goin' anywhere, you got that?"

His breath fanned over your lips as he pants, the anger rising in his chest. The blade of his knife ran down to the straps of your bra, slipping beneath them one by one and pulling until they're each sliced in two. The fabric snapped against your skin, stinging harshly and growing heated.

"Take it off."

He stepped back only slightly, allowing you to shrug your now useless bra onto the floor.

"Drop your skirt 'n panties. Then get your ass on the table."

You didn't want to. You knew the minute he saw those panties, drenched with excitement you couldn't drown out or push aside, a shit-eating grin would plaster on those pink lips. But Rafe left no room for you to take anything other than the order he gave you.

"I'll make it hurt if you don't do what I say."

The low growl only made your core flutter, your stomach doing backflips as you begrudgingly shimmied the clothing around your hips onto the marble tiles. You scooted onto the dining room table, the glass cold against your bum.

Rafe wasted no time pulling your thighs apart and slotting himself between them. His fingers worked quickly to draw his cock out from his briefs. He spat onto your core, watching it slither down your folds. He gripped himself, rubbing the head against you and coating himself in the saliva. Once he pressed himself against your entrance, his eyes found yours, and the knife in his left hand found home on the side of your throat again.

"There isn't a single place on this earth you can run to where I won't find you. You'll never be able to hide from me."

He impaled you with his cock right then, watching your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open. He started to move, hard, deep thrusts knocking the wind from your lungs. You couldn't help but cling to his sides. You pulled at the black dress shirt adorning his torso, nearly enough to tear it as you bit your lip to keep quiet.

Rafe presses to blade against your skin harder, threatening to break it open. "You know you like what I'm givin' you. Let me hear it before I force it outta you."

You glared up at him. "I hate you."

"That why your pussy's squeezin' me so good? 'Cause you hate me?"

Your eyes fell from his scorching stare as the guilt washed over you. He was right. It didn't matter how much he drove you up a wall. He could do it every second of every day, but it would never be enough to erase the way your body craved him. Maybe it even craved him more than it did your next breath, and that was dangerous. But it was Rafe. That danger and insurmountable thrill shouldn't have been a surprise.

"You might hate me, but you'll always fold for this cock. Like I said, I'm the best you'll ever fuckin' have."

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twistedbloodstain · 1 year

Text

marquis de gramont x assistant!reader: i breathe flames each time i talk | love’s not supposed to be easy.

plot: the one where he has you but at what cost?

warnings: kidnapping, coercion, dubious consent, guys this has went for a dark turn :(, none of them gets any peace

masterlist

shards of glass fly through the wall behind him, vincent bites his tongue from cursing, a slightly frustrated frown slowly making its way to his face. he stops himself from visibly sighing or showing any sign of his genuine worry over another expensive irreplaceable vase broken on the floor.

instead, he worries about the best possible way to diffuse the situation in front of him.

which is you.

you, who he is irrevocably in love with. the person he wants most more than anything in this world, you’re the sweet heaven placed on this earth that was meant to be cherished by him, you who gave him the captivating feeling of affection.

you taught him to know what it was like to find a piece of himself he’s yearned for in years, a part that he denied to have existed in fear of being weak and vulnerable oh but no, you make him feel the other way around. when he feels your presence and grace, he feels like salvation and strength has entered the room itself.

you make him feel safe, in a way. he feels at peace when he’s with you. all his heedless ambition stood no chance against having you in his life the moment you almost died for him in that fateful night. he felt the need to immediately shelter you from the cruel world, he wouldn’t offer the universe a chance to take you away from him ever again. vincent swore he would cherish you, make every second of your life a sweet memory for the rest of your lives together. he took you to keep you safe and happy, he swears even if you don’t realize that you need it.

which is why what faces him, hurts him as much as it hurts you.

you’re standing at least a few meters away from him next to the table filled with saccharine fruits and decorated cakes, your form shaking from fear. earlier you had just grabbed the nearest vase and threw it at him the second he stepped into the room to join you for a quick snack. tears were already slipping down your cheeks as small sobs escaped your lips, the soft satin gray dress wrapped around your body made you look like a goddess on earth. it was the first thing that entered his mind before he noticed the projectile being flung to his face, thankfully he managed to dodge it in time and the vase smashed into the wall behind him.

he doesn’t know why this is happening.

or maybe he does. vincent is not a blind man to the truth, he does not relish in the bliss ignorance offers. he thinks anyone who enjoys that form of bliss is a coward who refuses to deal with reality. after all, if you’re dealing with a rather difficult predicament you wish to resolve, you need to face the hard truths and all plausible cards at hand. ignorance cannot play a part into it.

but when he looks at you, he realizes why people place themselves into that situation. he asks the same questions and pretends he doesn't know why you’ve thrown vases at him, why your tears only seem to drip when he’s in the room for the past two weeks. all truths he spurns to know.

“my love? what’s wrong?” he begins, vincent takes a step forward and reaches his hand out to you, a shard cracks as it was crushed under the weight of his foot, you eye him warily and instantly flinch to step back.

“no. stay away from me.” you scream. “don’t come any closer.”

“you know i can’t even if i wanted to.” he whispers looking into your eyes, he doesn’t listen to your words and takes a step closer. it makes things worse as another sob leaves your body.

“don’t bullshit me! in all my years i’ve worked with you, i know if you wanted to, you would.” you reply, “you just won’t try hard enough!”

“why do you find it so hard to accept?” he questions, frustration getting the better of him. he walks straight to you, startled by his sudden movements, you stammer on your feet but he gets to you quick, he grips your arms and holds you close.

“mon amour, every man on this earth could attempt to pry you away from me but i would burn this world to the ground if it meant i could return to you. i want you, i love you.” he confesses.

probably for the 20th time of the week.

“stop. stop it.” you struggle in his grip as more tears collect on your face.

“why? you have no reason to refuse me-“

“you kidnapped me! you took me from my home and locked me into your estate, i can’t even move a single finger without the guards or the maids reporting everything i do!” you struggled.

“all to keep you safe, there are people out there who want you dead. i am protecting you, mon amour.” he reasons.

“i don’t want it, i want to go home.” you beg. this is what the both of you go through everyday, sometimes it occurs during meal times like right now, but more often than not it happens the moment he comes forward to greet you a “good morning” in bed or before the both of you get ready to sleep at night.

he prefers to deal with you like this when you’re both in the confinements of his bedroom, it’s much easier to lull you with his sweet words and hold you because for a minute or two you don’t twist against and grip but rather lean into it. you don’t spit out those incomprehensible thoughts of leaving him or begging for him to let you go.

he would rather die than lose you.

“please…vincent just let me go. i want to go home, you have to let me go.” you plead, you’re now holding his wrists close up to your body. in a different scenario, he would’ve been fucking delighted to have this, to have you touch him with such softness but your words do the opposite effect as the idea of being without you sink into his sick head.

vincent takes control of his hands and brings your palms up to his lips, placing a soft kiss. he watches your reaction slowly, tears weren’t as present as it was before on your face, he likes it when you look calm it reminds him of the days the both of you spent together as boss and employee. serenity was always a good look on you.

“you are home, you’re right where you need to be…with me.” he states, “what i have to give you, my love…it shouldn’t trap you. it’s meant to make you feel the same way you make me feel but i can’t love you if you won’t help yourself.”

“if you would just let me love you, you’ll see.”

your face contorts back to your former anguish. teardrops begin falling down again but you don’t fight to get away from him, his arms snake behind your waist as he guides you into an embrace with him.

no matter how big of a fit you throw or how expensive of a vase you fling at him, this is how it always ends. for the two weeks you’ve spent here, hopefully you’ve realized that there is no force in this world strong enough to separate you from him. not even your tears and not even you.

you fold the velvety blanket in a slow but precise movement, your gaze locked on the person asleep on the other side of the room, suddenly hearing a loud roar of thunder crack outside your vision redirects to the large window. you hold your breath in fear of the storm abruptly waking him, thankfully it doesn’t happen and you stop mid-chore to trudge your way to the window so you could shut the curtains.

“everything is okay.” you shakily whisper to yourself.

your voice betrays you with that statement, you keep telling yourself that everything is alright, that you should be grateful that he isn’t cruel to you, that even in your rebellious and distasteful behavior for the past year he still showers you in finery and love.

it’s been awhile since you’ve thrown a fit at him.

you took some of his words into your behavior ever since your last squabble, you tell yourself that what he has to offer is good. that maybe you’re in the wrong in this one, so for the past months no matter how much you want to resist, you don’t swat his hand away when he touches you, you don’t shove him away when he holds you and you keep your head in place when he kisses you to please him.

and god it certainly did. he already seemed to glimmer brighter when he took you back to his estate but when you stopped shoving him away, his presence was impalpable, he looked like was a king that finally had his queen.

but you? oh dear.

all your reevaluation for your mindset did seem to work, there were moments when you enjoyed being with him. the late night dinners and touches that sometimes make your heartbeat a little too fast for your liking, his sweet words that move you which makes you think that it was too good to be true sometimes it makes you forget that he’s keeping you here against your own will.

oh.

it’s moments like these that make you stay still and cling to your fucking sanity, you want to get out of here. you do, but how? you are isolated in his home, no one in the staff treats you the same anymore they don’t listen to you unless you have a simple request. you have no one but the marquis, who is the last person that probably wants to hear about your desire to get out of here. your days are filled with him and only him, from the moment you wake up in bed he’s beside you, either in slumber or kissing you for the morning. you see him for meals three times a day until the sun sinks into the horizon where he makes love to you in the shadow of moonlight. not to mention the gallery viewing, watching operas and other superficial shit he likes.

you have no ally in here.

your form shakes and you cling to the table beside you, you want to leave so bad but every time you come up with an idea to leave it seems impossible. your former escape route has been rendered useless, you tried that the moment the marquis left you alone for the first time and it was barred shut with a guard stationed nearby. soon the marquis found out, he was livid and kept you locked in your room for a few days.

any chance of escape is hopeless even if you have no reason to want to stay here.

the storm brewing outside roars another loud burst of thunder, much louder than the previous one, the rain outside begins to shower even stronger. a cry erupts from the other side of the room and you sigh. you stare at the crib at the corner, a lamplight illuminating the dim room, you take a deep breath to compose yourself and make your way towards him.

your son.

with him.

it still makes you sick thinking about it.

you lift him into your arms and he immediately snuggles into your neck, his chubby arms slightly flailing around to feel your warmth. you shush him to sleep, whispering sweet nothings to soothe him. thankfully, his cries instantly die down and mumbles gibberish, slowly falling back to slumber. you found out you were pregnant around the time, you threw the vase at him. you felt frustrated and trapped, because how could this happen to you?

you hold him tight, and softly swaddle him around to calm him even more. you know the saying “if there’s a will, there’s a way.”, well you had so much of that if it weren’t for the child you brought out into this world you would’ve been insistent on getting out of here. you love your son, you do. but you find it so hard to go on when the weight of a child is pulling you down from what you want.

this is the only reason why you were willing to try being with him. as if things weren’t hopeless enough for you, maybe things shouldn’t be so bad for your child. after all, vincent was quite cheerful when he found out.

you press a soft kiss to his head, whispering a gentle affirmation before tucking him back into his crib.

pushing the door to enter the inside, you reluctantly walk in. you’ve done this several times before, yet when you do it, it still doesn’t feel natural. the room was dim, little illuminessence was present and the light from your bed lamp was the only thing keep things seen.

you walk towards the bedpost and something inside you makes you stop, a figure moves beneath the satin sheets and you hold your breath. he opens his eyes and sees you, confusion staining his expression. he immediately sits up and urges you forward.

“cherie? is something wrong?” vincent murmurs, his voice still hoarse from sleep. you don’t say anything but instead you abandon the bedpost and sit on the foot of the bed. you give him an empty stare and he stays quiet awaiting your reply.

“the storm woke him up.” you reply.

“oh? i’ll call for the nanny.”

“don’t. i already put him back to sleep.” you mutter.

“then what seems to be the problem?” he raises his eyebrows.

you eye him like he grew a second head, matter of fact he might as well have with what he did to you.

“how-“ you start but a cry leaves your throat. tears begin to gather on your eyes, vincent alarmed with your state leans forward, “how could you do this to me?”

“what do you mean, my love?” he asks puzzled.

“what do i mean? i meant how could you do this to me!” your voice gets louder but not loud enough to be yelling, the rain outside pours even harder.

“a year ago, i was just your assistant dealing with your meetings and setting your finery. you wouldn’t have even spared me a single glance unless you wanted a chef from monaco to cook you dinner considering i wasn’t significant enough to be known by you. i have to admit working for you was frightening but it was okay. i was alright with that.” you sob.

“this again.” he sighs.

“now, you locked me up here. a few months ago i was pregnant with your kid. mind you, even if you won’t say it i know you never wanted children. do you know how stupid this looks? how irrational and insensible this all seems? i’ve always known you to be cruel but this…this is torture. you’re playing house with my life like it’s some sick game” you reason not giving him a chance to speak.

“going through all these lengths because something in your sick head is telling you that you’re in love with me, acting like you wouldn’t discard me the moment you find me unworthy of your attention. ” you finish. he stays quiet from your little rant, dare you say a bit shocked. truth be told, it had been a while since you did this.

“what do you want me to do? tell me what to do, so i can make it better.” he demands, “i want you to be happy. i dislike seeing you miserable like this when you should be having the happiest time of your life. recently, we just had a child-“

“then let me go.” you cut him off, scooting closer to his side of the bed. you reach for his hands and he lets you, even when the expression on his face seems bitter.

“let me go home. i don’t want to be here, i feel trapped. at some point, you know that i don’t want you the same way you claim to want me. i don’t love you, i don’t think i can even if i tried my best. you need to let me leave, vincent.” you beg with all your heart.

vincent stays silent and wipes the tears on your face. he leans forward in resignation and delicately grazes his hand on your jaw making you look into him.

“my love. i don’t care how long it takes to make you realize that my feelings are genuine, that my acts aren’t based on flights of fancy, i’d spend the rest of my life proving it to you with a few more children around. you need to understand that i’m never letting you go, because i would simply die.” he whispers.

“you are mine. i am yours. not even you can deny that, you belong to me and i, you. you are my love, i am too far gone to lose you. how many people are lucky enough to say that?”

he kisses you after that, his lips softly envelop yours and it shocks you but the feeling and taste are so familiar to you know. you don’t get the chance to say anything in return as you feel his hand dancing around your nightgown, you could feel it slowly slipping down. vincent’s hand dances around your skin, going through your curves that he’s felt before.

“and this is alright with you?” you mumble as he guides you to your back, pressing kisses on your neck.

“what is?” he pauses slightly looking up at you before continuing to leave a mark on your neck.

“that i’ll never want you…ever.” you trace your palm up to his jaw, caressing it while giving the poisonous blow.

this makes him halt all his movements and looks into you as if you’re serious. you might be.

“then i’ll have to simply have to live with it. love is never supposed to be easy.” he chuckles before kissing you again.

author’s note: this was short but enjoyed it lots bc there’s drama hehe. assistant!reader getting her licks before he goes down on her was a last minute thing…anyways if you were expecting peace and hugs from this fic hell to the nah i want angst. marquis is relentless afff. thanks for reading and pls like and reblog :)) also send some of ur requests!!

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the-californicationist · 8 months

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Good Fences (Fluffuary #11)

FEB11: First "I Love You"

You and John fell into a sort of routine. You slept at yours, or sometimes his. You shared his bathroom, and cooked in his kitchen. It was like your two apartments had become one home, and you were juggling the space, trying to figure out how to make it work.

You were just finishing up with dinner, cleaning your plates and putting them away, and he was helping you dry. He nodded to the den,

“You wanna watch your show? That one with Attenborough that you like to fall asleep to?”

He was talking about your recent obsession with the Planet Earth docu-series. It was so relaxing, listening to David Attenborough talking about birds and bats and God-knows-what. You had been on a bit of a tear with it lately, keeping it on in the background while you worked.

“Yeah,” you smiled, “Sorry I’ve been so obsessed.”

“I just like it when you doze off on me, love. Makes me feel…” he shrugged, looking for the words and coming up short, “I dunno. Makes me feel good to take care of you.”

You knew what he meant. Falling asleep in John’s arms on his big, warm sofa was strangely hypnotic. It made you feel relaxed and safe and… more than a little horny. It had led to a bit of fooling around once or twice. Moving from bedroom to bedroom had been fun, but there was something liminal about the couch. No man’s land.

After all the dishes were squared away, you grabbed the blanket and curled up with him, nesting into your favorite spot. The television was set to a low volume, and as you watched, you felt John’s hands begin to wander. He was rubbing your bare thigh. You were barely dressed, having spent all day doing chores, wearing his big tee shirt like a gown, letting the soft fabric hide your curves, but it was doing little covering now that you were seated. It had hitched up to your hips, pulled tight around your thick ass cheeks, showing off almost all of your leg to him.

You could see his hand moving under the blanket, tracing little circles up your thigh until he got closer and closer to your warm center. The documentary was playing softly in the background, but you couldn’t concentrate on anything except his deft fingers. His hand ventured higher and higher, traveling as slowly and gently as it could, until it reached its destination.

It was as if his goal was just to pleasure you, but he wasn’t looking to make you come from his ministrations, necessarily. He touched you almost languidly, driving you to the point of near insanity, writhing against him and mewling like a wounded animal.

“Bloody hell, love. Those sounds you make…” he purred under his breath, trying not to talk over the television, “Drives me mad.”

“Please, John…” All you had to do was ask, and he was your devoted servant, refocusing his attentions to draw you up over your peak.

You clutched at his chest, holding onto him for dear life as he made you fall apart. He put his forehead on yours, keeping his eyes closed, whispering to you with a deep hunger in his voice,

“Tha’s it, pretty girl. Just relax. God, I love…”

He stopped himself, but you both heard his confession. You could see him trying to backtrack, his eyes still closed but squeezed tight now, trying his best to cover up his sudden admission.

“John,” you said, and he looked straight at you, obviously still worried. But, you assuaged his fears, “I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you, too,” he looked as if a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, and he kissed you deeply, pulling you in to his body, making you feel as if you were one living, breathing being; like you’d never be apart.

You didn’t make it to the bed, but the couch suited you both just fine.

Check out the schedule here.

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#the californicationist does fluff #fluffuary 2024 #fluffuary #john price fluff #john price #captain john price #captain price #john price x reader #john price x you #captain price x reader #captain price x you #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #cod #cod fanfiction #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mwii

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moondirti · 1 year

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12. PUSH COMES TO SHOVE

CHAPTER TWELVE OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter eleven / chapter thirteen ⇀

summary: you cross a line you can't turn back to. miguel takes you up on a joke.

explicit (18+) | 5.6k words warnings: smut, female masturbation, sexual fantasies (including unprotected p-in-v, breeding, biting, paralysis, bondage, aftercare), everyone is bad at feelings, insecurity, fear of heights, mentions of death notes: nothing i wrote sounded right so i just had to publish before i decided to scrap it all and reqrite

It’s a shameful, awful thing to do.

One with no excuse for it – not really.

You were just bored. Pent up on an endless routine; familiar people, recurring places. Your night and day mirror images of one another. Even in the post-apocalyptic landscape of your old home did you have something to do with your spare time – wandering wrecks and cleaning the devastation left in the wake of your mistake.

But here, visiting an Earth where the expectations for your stay had never been clearly defined – where you can go, who you can talk to, what freedoms you’re permitted – you’re technically no more enriched than a prisoner, peering listlessly from their window at the bustling lives outside. And with a track record of dragging chaos along no matter your intentions, you’re much too afraid to push the hang fire state in which you live in.

So, containment or self-sabotage, it doesn’t really matter. Not when both have the same, invariable conclusion. This. Dangerous boredom; the type that always, always feeds into thoughts of him.

They’ve gotten worse too. Of late, your previously honed scorn and resentment for the futuristic spider-man has ebbed into something more… mellow. Understated. It’s a peculiar condition, hard to name. Fuzzy in the places it once stung and barrelling down an unmarked path. Confusion, maybe. Indecision. And while your chest twinges with the not knowing of it all, you’ve already decided that you hate this more than the antagonism you felt before. At least it had been logical, founded on a bank of valid evidence, with bruises and scars to show for it. This is bolstered by nothing; vague impressions of his smirk and strict approval. A pulse between your legs. Sweaty palms before seeing him, wondering what state you’ll be greeted with.

(You always hope it’s washed, snugly dressed and wounds tended to. He’s in a significantly better mood when refreshed, you find. Enough of a difference from post-fights to make you wonder whether you’ve ever known him at all.)

And it’s pathetic because Miguel has a life where you don’t. You’ve disproved your theory on his marital status, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is his home. A world where every possibility is open to him – walks in the park, ice cream from a quaint corner shop, a group of highschool friends, maybe, who he sees on occasion. Kids – you’re certain of that, the reality imbued in everything he does. The man has to be the father of at least one darling angel, someone he can dedicate all his work to. He’s too committed not to be.

So, every hour he spends outside of your meetings, he’s probably off doing something worthwhile. Daycare pickups. Stopping crime. Running a building full of spider-folk. And you–

Well, that’s the mortifying point.

You’re here, leaning against your shower wall, soaked to the bone while two fingers work your cunt. And you’re thinking of him.

Broad shoulders, packed with ineffable strength, curving down to tree-trunk arms. They man-handle you in the best of ways – clamped around your thighs, upturning you onto his plump, magical fucking lips. That mouth had been expert, quick or slow when need be, much like his touch. He’s good at working them in tandem to make a mess of you, searching for devastation somewhere in your core. He’s good at finding it, at rendering you pliant enough to spill it onto him.

Are you crossing a line?

It’s been pseudo-professional so far; sex in favour for another milestone crossed. Encouragement on the only degree you respond well to. But now you’re fingering yourself to mere notions of him, alone, for no reason other than what his imagined presence does to you.

Fuck. You’re perverse. Worse than that. There’s no verbiage available to capture how depraved you are – you’ve just never gone through this before. Everyone you’ve ever wanted, you’ve taken and promptly abandoned the next morning. One night stands. Fleeting flings. No one has ever stuck around long enough to make things complicated.

Of course he would, though. You have to laugh at the irony of it. Miguel’s always made life hard for you, whether intentionally or not. And now he’s taken root in your mind, forcing you to face all its flowering consequences.

Like how he simultaneously sates you and leaves you wanting more. You’ve had his fingers and tongue – a great deal more than you can attribute to yourself in the past year. And they’re great, brilliant. But it isn’t enough. Not when you’ve seen his cock; thick-set, throbbing, splitting your jaw open with brutal efficiency. He was big and eager and much less restrained that day than he has been since you established your new dynamic. He’d come closer than he dared to before.

Or again.

(Whatever’s changed, you’d give everything to reserve it. To feel him – not down your throat, but in you. Mushroomed head spearing you open, imprinting itself on your walls. Ramming your cervix, made easy as his large hands fold you into a mating press. The position would give him the added benefit of watching you come undone, every miniscule expression laid out to spur him on. Or maybe he wouldn’t like that – maybe he’s the type to grab your hair and pull your head back so his tongue can lather over your neck.

You’d take whatever you can get, no hesitation.)

Your index and middle sandwich your clit, scissored open as you rub the swollen bud. Blood rushes downward, fattening under pressurised pleasure. The wet smeared on your thighs is slippery, much too slick to be a product of the hot water beating down on you. It points to what you already know; that, no matter what you do to scour it off, all you’ll ever be is a wanton idiot.

Vapour latches onto oxygen, the bathroom air growing suffocating, humid, heady with the scent of sex. Nerve ends prickle at the drag of pruned skin, your orgasm on a never-ending approach. No matter what you do, you can’t seem to beckon it. You’ve been here for far too long, cycling through every trick in the book, testing sweet spots that’ve become accustomed to another’s manipulation. You’ve pinched yourself, used the shower head until its pipes hissed, stuffed your slit full and curled forward, looking for that patch of spongy tissue.

None of it works. Nothing helps you see stars, unable to drag you to the heavens you’ve reached with your mentor.

(Wanton idiot is a tolerant title, too lenient for you. At least one would be able to satisfy themselves.

But now, in the wake of your frustration, you’re reduced to a roll of drenched cotton, numb to everything but the fire at Miguel’s fingertips.)

Still, you try. You anchor a foot to the faucet, plastering yourself on the glass pane that separates the shower from the rest of your bathroom. It’s frigid, a stark contrast to the water heating your flesh, and the temperature drop strikes your senses awake, flooding you with new vigour. If it’s possible, the proof it offers to your fever – the gooseflesh that erupts at your waist or the blurry line between where sweat begins and soap-buds end – only eggs you further, hardening the truth to startling clarity:

You’re crossing a line and drawing it out with a frustration that benefits no one. Cum, that’s all you need to do. To finally be done with it and put this whole blip behind you.

Spread open, your hand returns to your cunt. You’re wet enough to do so without fuss, the fingers that had been at your clit plunging in until they’re sheathed to the knuckle. It’s a tight fit, walls greedily sucking you in, vacuum-sealed and clenching. The stretch burns and you find solace in it, the tender skin of your hole straining to accommodate another digit once the two find their rhythm.

How much better would his dick be? Would it cleave you apart like his fingers do? You imagine it so well, the reverie blossoming like second nature.

(Miguel, planking above you, hair flopping onto his forehead after being ruffled out of its usual push-back. It’d be a sight of your own doing, your nails combing through dark waves on their way to his shoulders. He’s marked you several times over now – claw wounds above your wrist and a deep scar on the back of your arm. Would he let you mark him, in turn? Scratch red lines down his muscled back, rolling as he fucks into you. Or suckle his neck, leave it purple and angry to pay back for the punctures at your collar? It’s been weeks and they’re still there.)

Your free hand finds them, smoothing over the pocks left by his fangs. The heel of your other presses on your clit, kneading the sore centre. It buckles with the abuse, pouring into your rising orgasm. The tide promises violence for when you eventually let it loose.

(In this crude fantasy, he isn’t much of a masochist. He gets irritated with your wandering hurt, turned off the pursuit in pumping you full of his seed. Maybe he pins your arms over your head, holds them down with ease to get you to stop. But he needs his palms free, your bouncing tits all-too tempting not to squeeze, so he uses his webs to bind you to the headboard. Or–)

Your core grows sloppier with every passing second. It weeps, slurping whatever you give it – the feral force of your fingers. Your knees tremble. Your pelvis aches. The amalgamation of your effort knots your organs together, weaving an impossible pattern out of desire and desperation.

(– he bites you again, injects you with venom so you stay nice and still for him regardless.)

God, it’s perfect. It’s the tart, slightly-salty pour of caramel over toffee pudding, topped with vanilla and the memory of his paralytic essence ballooning through your veins. It’d been cold and graceful, so bloody efficient you wonder how he didn’t think of it as a means of incapacitation sooner. Perhaps it’s tough to measure – how much is too much before you kill your victim, or something along the lines. But back then, despite hating no one more than he did you, he kept you alive.

Would he risk it again, if you asked?

Does he think about you? Like this, when the day drags and there’s no adequate excuse to see you through it. You quiver with the thought. Holed up in his own bath, spacier than yours, pumping his cock slick. He wouldn’t trail it out. Miguel has his own life, and if you somehow manage to worm your way into it, he’d spill himself quick. Not for disgust – it’s clear that he’s at least attracted to you. No. Just because he’s a better man than you can hope to be.

Rough around the edges but decent. Moral.

(There it is again – the apollonian. If he’s the olympian deity for the Sun, of truth and prophecy and order, then you’re Dionysus while you bring yourself to ecstasy, caught on the tip of his sharpened arrowhead.)

You groan, letting your head fall back as your efforts gain traction. The bottom of your stomach lurches, making way for the combustion taking space in your chest. It sputters, gorging on a kindling flame, and travels downwards to the pocket between your gut and pubic bone. The fulfilment borders on painful, skinned raw by your relentless assault on it. Once-warm water adds to the overstimulation, turned bitter by its prolonged use. Hair clings to your brow, obscuring your eyesight. Your orgasm snowballs, knocking everything in its determined path.

(And afterward, wrapped up somewhere in your pipe dream, he would empty himself inside you, drunk off the pleading whine that clawed its way out from your throat. He’d made you cum several times – the only addition you can guarantee would be fact – but it wouldn’t end there. Not while you remain still, all wandering eyes and diving comedowns, looking at him in your peripheral.

He’d linger, his cum dribbling out of you in thick globs, waiting by your side as the paralysis wears off. Gaining control of your body would be a slow process, as it was before, and he’d have a wetted towel to clean you off in the meantime. The room would remain quiet – founded on that same limbo state from after he ate you out – and neither of you speaking a word until you nod off, drowsy and properly fucked. If only to exchange hummed goodnights. An appreciative pat on the head, maybe. Detached praise, stunted communication.

Because even in your wildest fantasies, Miguel does not stoop to kiss you.)

You’re a wreck when it finally hits. Seized muscles release, disgorging the built-up tension of the last hour. You cum – not as powerfully as you might’ve done had he been here – though that’s trivial. He’s present in your mind, praising you through it, working you despite encroaching sensitivity. And you break down not at the thought, the sheer salacity of it all, but to the tenderness you can only imagine. Unrestrained. Given freely. Not because you earned it, but because you're worthy even when you haven’t.

A sob captures your lungs. Your skin prickles.

Phasing right through the glass partition, you fall backward to smack your temple on the edge of your sink. A throbbing pain immediately engulfs the site. Black speckles your vision.

And if it isn’t the perfect illustration of your concurrent dopamine crash, then you’ll be damned.

Curse him.

“You… You’re kidding, right?”

You don’t necessarily need an answer, but you ask to give yourself a distraction from the anxiety torrenting through you. With the way he leans on the glass railing, self-satisfied against the backdrop of Nueva York at noon, you can glean every bit of genuineness from his expression alone.

Miguel gives a vague gesture to the rooftop you stand upon. “You said it yourself.”

“First of all, no. I said I would climb up buildings, not jump off one. Second of all, it was a joke. I hope you know what a joke is, O’hara – otherwise I have a list of situations that make much more sense with hindsight.”

“I’m not asking you to jump off.” He ignores your barb, pushing off the edge to usher you closer. Your heels dig into the ground, an obstacle proved to be done in vain when his hand skims the small of your back. The heat of it penetrates your shirt, weaving its way to your dimpled flesh like it knows how much you crave it. One would think he’s burnt you with how rapidly you move to brush it off, and by the end – whether you like it or not – you find yourself peering over the palisades to the four-foot drop below. Bile spikes the back of your gullet.

“Are we here to sight-see, then? It’s an apartment complex, nothing special about that.” Breathing, you try to suppress the nausea that overrules your systems. The descent isn’t that high – about fifty feet, give or take your own height – but that does nothing to combat the fear gradually creeping up your nerves.

“Very funny.” He says, rolling his eyes at something you refuse to see. You’ve no energy to decipher it, either, zeroed in on the task expected of you. “Leaving your room got me thinking–”

“That’s dangerous.” You snap.

The man must be used to your little tantrums by now, for he continues like you hadn’t interrupted him, delineating the perplexing logic that lured him into thinking this was a good idea.

“– about what you meant by your suggestion. You’d pitched it instinctively.”

(‘If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.’

You remember. Somehow, it infuriates you that he does too – that even raptured in the throes of pleasure, his tongue buried between your folds, he’d been stewing over ways to better you. It pokes a fresh sore spot – like the maturating bruise on your temple, consequence of your scene in the shower – that reminds you you’re not good enough.)

“Okay, smart ass. Since you think you know everything, allow me to explain to you the definition of hyperbole. I was–”

“Exaggerating, yes. But I figured, to make that specific example during such… unsober circumstances, it must’ve originated from a sincere place.” He joins your observation of the street below, flicking over the trimmed bushes, surveying for wandering pedestrians. He’d picked somewhere secluded – a neighbourhood two blocks down from HQ, whose residents are likely employees at the bustling base. If anything, it explains their absence at twelve o’clock on a weekday. “So, here we are.”

You blink up at him, incredulous. He still hasn’t explicitly stated what he wants you to do. If this conversation had taken place on the ground, then perhaps you would’ve caught on quicker. Find your way to the top, just like he’s implying. As it stands though, you’re teetering on the crown of a stubby building that still seems too tall given your aversion to heights, with nothing but a stubborn spider-man and a locked stairwell for aid. It only dawns on you now why he made the conscious decision to close it after coming up here – to prevent your cheating.

Another strike towards his lack of faith. Charming.

In the bout of bewildered silence, Miguel sighs and spells it out for you.

“I want you to scale down the side of it.”

You could choke on your heart with how high it skyrockets.

“With what?” You squeak. The protest is weak, ungrounded as your bones start to give out. You’re not sure whether it’s mental, your brain tricking you into distrusting your body, or if you’re truly about to collapse. In either case, your distress threatens to unman you. Sickening. You’re green to your stomach.

His eyebrows raise, humoured. It’s a call to land on the solution yourself – like it’s obvious, like you’re not losing yourself just picturing it.

Quaking, you return to an age-old mantra. Miguel doesn’t know you, no matter how good he is at reading the bits he’s privy to. You’ve never highlighted to him the extent and end of your abilities – and yes, that’s partly for lack of understanding them yourself. But as it so happens, you do know a few, indispensable attributes; ones that should be considered before you’re made to defy gravity and saunter down the face of a wall.

Like how you can’t control your powers, the reigns ever-elusive, slipping from your grip whenever you actively try to run them. Or that your super-strength and enhanced healing are fickle things, arising only in impractical episodes. How your spider-sense is unpractised, severely underutilised by the mundane life you lead, and, perhaps most relevantly:

“I have no webs to harness me.” You emphasise. “And my hands can’t stick to surfaces to make that a negligible factor.”

He listens, contemplative, digesting the latter piece of information and what it means for his lesson plan.

“If they did, then I wouldn’t have been in nearly as much trouble at that quarry as I was, hanging on with just my fingers. But…” You wave your palms at him as if to punctuate your point. “Unfortunately for me, I’m normal below the wrist.”

“Below the wrist.” He repeats, picking up on the contrivance in your choice of phrase. Cringing, you scramble for an excuse, looking to get off the road he leads you on. It’s frenzied, unbecoming of this arrangement. You’ve learnt to lend your begrudging trust to his methods, their validity proved over weeks of training – but something about his current tone, the interrogative way with which he singles out faults in your diction. It sends you back to an era where all you worried about was his pursuit, about a capture made inevitable by your clumsy side steps.

You won’t forget, either. At the pinnacle of it, he was ready to step on your hold to a crane and send you plummeting to supposed death.

(If push comes to shove, would he force you to descend this hurdle – worried about a more forgiving yet just as terrifying end, given you should trip and lose pace on the right-angled wall?

But then you think of food shared over a makeshift dining table – navigating the new peace found between your legs. He’d allowed your skipping class. He took concern for your health in spite of it – and you’re reminded of another thing. One more constant, there since the beginning too.

Miguel O’Hara does not want you dead.

That, at the very most, is consolation that he won’t throw you off this ledge.)

“My feet can, from what I’ve tested. I can tread on steep slopes and hang upside down. Just… not very well.” You elaborate, then feel the urge to grant him less room for argument, just in case. “I don’t know what kind of scientists you are, O’Hara. A biologist, maybe, which would explain a whole ton, but take it from me. Physics won’t agree with this. You’re asking me to walk down a wall completely perpendicular to the ground, reliant on a weak abdomen and capabilities I haven’t taught myself to use properly.”

And when your words run their course, feeding into the husk of an alarmed echo, you can’t stop warmth from pooling behind your cheeks, or when your pulse flutters, feeble as the flap of a baby bird’s wings. You’re dangled over a branch you’ve known your whole life, nest torn out from under you. A condition of your own doing, of course, seeing as he stays quiet, compliant to your rant.

A moment later, he adds. “Geneticist.”

“Huh.”

“I was a geneticist.” The nugget of background he offers flares like a treaty, a temporary campaign for goodwill. And, as if intentionally building upon your theory of armistice, Miguel tips away, popping out your personal space. The afternoon breeze hits you then, chillier without his immediate presence. You don’t voice your wish for him to come back. “Why haven’t you?” He seeks, testing his luck now that you’re placated.

It works.

“Pushed my potential?”

He hums in the affirmative.

“I have. It helped nothing but my upchuck reflex.” You evoke. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten my doomed history with hard drops. We don’t work well, particularly not when you’re around.” Beyond the quarry, he’d witnessed your misfortunate swinging around Earth-15 too. You’d phased right through his arms, bound to solidify before splattering onto the pavement below. It’d been peaceful then only because you had so much less to lose. “Besides, I don’t see the point. I won’t be going back home to fight crime, in any case. And scaling apartment complexes won’t magically lend me enough virtue to want to return.”

When he speaks next, it’s tacitly, an intrusion to jog your memory like you did his, however subtly. “You’re okay now, though.” He says, and implies a truth too heavy to audibly assert. I caught you. Every time. The understanding lingers, oscillating between you two, before he starts again. “But I get it.”

You scoff. In turn, he sounds his question – hm? – rumbled deep from within his chest. If you focus, you can sense the way it vibrates the particles separating you.

“I doubt it, is’all.”

“That’s condemning.”

“Please, as if you need the ego boost.” Ducking from his scrutiny, you rest your elbows on the glass lining the rooftop to look out on the cityscape before you. It glitters, contemporary blue architecture slated on fields of green. This world is utopia compared to the many you’ve visited; amongst them, you’re hit with the vivid memory of your own – peppered with red fires under a perpetual cover of smoke. Blown to unrecognisable bits by a product of your ignorance.

You swallow to shake the tangent off. He’s still staring at you. You can feel his solemn study, dimmed from its previous challenge, severe enough to penetrate the marge of your skull.

“Are you really going to make me say it?”

He shrugs, not in the least bit teasing. It’s the straw that finally breaks your back – the integrity he regards you with. Sighing, you smother your pride before it can change your mind.

“Fucking look at you. You’re like… the peak of spider prowess. All muscle and righteousness. And I don’t even know where to begin, scared to even cash in on the powers I've been handed. What kind of hero is nervous of heights, for God’s sake.”

The admission escapes as hushed, warbled by string-plucked insecurity. You don’t attempt to assess his reaction to it, following the motions of a cirrus cloud instead, swaying like tufts of hair on a cerulean scalp. It makes his next course of action jarring – frightening for all you don’t expect it.

Miguel’s hand appears before you, face down so the digital suit-patterns on his palm are exposed. You half-think he’s offering you hold it, or wants to pinion you to something before he pulls you off the roof. But his body turns to overlook your side, and with a sudden schwip, his talons protrude from the pads of his fingers. Before you can fully process it, you stumble back, phantom pain pounding where he once gripped you with them.

He notices it, though doesn’t comment on your misgivings, waiting patiently until you steel yourself and return to your post. He must be used to the hesitation.

“Do you know what these are for?”

To claw run-away anomalies – you’re compelled to say, but decide against the low blow. You shake your head no.

“I didn’t either. Not when I first developed them. They seemed inconvenient and hard to handle. Got in the way of everyday life.” You struggle to picture it. Miguel, younger, troubled with defects he never asked for. Did it hurt, you wonder – the ingrowth of fangs and talons?

Does it still?

“Biology isn’t a lesser science though, despite what certain physicists may believe.” He continues, raising a brow at you. You can’t suppress the sheepish expression that threads the corners of your mouth. “I remembered the spiders I worked with, what features of theirs might come to be represented by this. The fangs I realised the purpose of much faster.”

“To paralyse.”

“Right.” His gaze flicks to the slip of neck exposed by your loose collared shirt, finding the bite marks bridged over your clavicle. You’d been good at ignoring your masturbatory fantasies thus far, yet at his cue, flashes of them occur to you. Your knees knock together, timid that he can perhaps smell the shame on you. “My claws weren’t so obvious. Not until I met another spider-man who could climb walls. It occurred to me then, the microscopic setules on the end of spiders’ legs. They create an electromagnetic charge with any molecule at their nanometric radius. And while he, like many others, gained a figurative interpretation of it, I got something more literal.”

“So, they adhere to anything.”

“No. But they help me hold on.” Miguel corrects. “I’m not guaranteed proper fixture, so climbing buildings – scaling any surface – is a labour entirely dependent on me.”

You trail over his wide shoulders – the top heavy form you’ve spent so much time revering. You’ve never so much as considered why he’s built so differently from other spider-heroes, burly in contrast to their lithe figures. (For good reason, maybe – you would’ve assumed incorrectly as recently as three minutes ago.) It’s not to set himself apart, or being that he was blessed with it. But because it was necessary. Pure proof of the effort it took to hone his skills.

Guilt is swift in sweeping you off your feet; you feel foolish for ever suggesting it was talent that got him to this point. And–

“That’s… tough.” Is the only response you can conjure.

It’s so stupid you want to punch yourself over it. Miguel, on the other hand, just chuckles. A brief huff from upturned lips.

“Sure.” He takes one last look down the verge of the rooftop before turning his back on it. You keep facing forward. “The crux is – we don’t always see the point of things, or why they are the way they are. Sometimes, we might even refuse to when all seems unfair. But the second mark of a hero, as I’ve come to know it, is having the courage to address them despite your ignorance. Firmness of mind when confronted with danger – or, in your case, a burden of great difficulty.”

And piece by piece, it starts to come together. The small revelation of his backstory as nothing more than an allegory. His bringing you here, to start from the top and not the bottom, instilling in you the fear of falling. And what it all means – courage being the point of this little exercise, a step up from resilience now that you’ve proved your tenacity. Priming you for the eventuality of returning home – a burden of great difficulty.

“Of course you’d turn this into a philosophical seminar.” You deride, rubbing the wariness from your expression. “And here I believed we were bonding.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” He says. You don’t have it in you to disagree, searching for the pluck to get this over with. Yet what he adds next takes you completely off-guard. “You don’t have to do this.”

A compromise – you thought you’d have to fight for one.

“I’m a few plank-sessions short of having the core strength to walk down a wall.” You circumvent, not ready to admit your failure.

Miguel nods, yielding now that he’s gotten his opinion on the matter across. Nothing about him betrays disappointment, but you somehow still squirm, distressed at the very notion that you let him down.

As he breaks away, you catch sight of the platforms protruding from the windows below you, and a haphazard idea forms.

“But… if it’s courage you want, then maybe we can start smaller?” You raise, worrying the inside of your cheek. It’s rushed, not expertly planned through, but he cocks his head, and you’re forced to toss it out now that he’s all ears. “I can hang from the bottom of a balcony – upside down – until I’m better at trusting my powers over gravity. And, y’know, there are still the odds that I fall, just onto the deck below and not four stories. Less fatal that way.”

There’s hardly a spark of deliberation before his eyes narrow, cheekbones projecting with a smile. It has to be your insatiable itch for praise, consequence of anything over what he actually thinks – but a bright glint streaks upon those red pupils and, remarkably, it feels a lot like pride.

(You’ll take what you can get.)

“Yeah. That works.” He approaches, sinking closer once more. It’s warm again and you stand self-assured, regardless of the trepidation still bubbling within you. “I suppose not everyone has a death wish.”

“Wishful thinking on your part, maybe.” You taunt. “Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but you’re stuck with me for the time being.”

What feels like hours later, your head throbs violently, and under the novelty of it all, you learn of three new things.

One – an observation most idle yet, embarrassingly, the first to be made – is that Miguel looks just as handsome the other way around as he does proper side up. Elevated, too, given that you’re finally at his level like this. Staring him down, nose-to-nose, able to capture his face outside the forced perspective that comes with being shorter. He occupies the balcony below while you stand, hang, on the belly of the one above. There’s a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mole by the corner of his mouth. He’s still smiling at you.

Two – a facet you haven’t stopped imprecating since you started, one that technically isn't even new to you – is that, while your external body seems to defy gravity, fastened in place by your feet, your internal systems aren’t granted the same luxury. Gallons worth of blood pools to your brain, distending the soft tissue until it weighs like lead on your crown. You never thought your organs would be this heavy, especially the ones that stack on top of your lungs. Your stomach, liver, kidneys, intestines. They make it hard to breathe. You can barely feel your hands anymore.

And three – perhaps your proudest realisation yet – is that this isn't so bad once you get the hang of it. Sure, your mentor is a few paces away, ready to grab you should you spontaneously collapse. And if he didn’t, then yes, the worst that could come of it is a broken arm. You certainly need more practice before you test it on taller heights, and you don’t think you trust your abilities yet to walk down building planes, but–

It’s easy. Bodily effects aside, it’s easy. Supernaturally so. In a way that bends every one of Newton’s laws and you’re left reeling trying to string together mechanical equations that could make sense of it. The tension between you and the ceiling and how great it must be to combat your weight. The equal and opposite force perpetually acting against gravity.

Because you’re upside down, despite having no cable or chain to keep you situated, no hooks on your heels. You’re stuck to a surface by just the soles of your shoes, and when you walk around, lift one to put in front of the other, you stay fixed. You don’t – can’t – fall.

(Secretly, you thank him for pushing you to this stage. The euphoria of it is just enough to supersede any nausea you worried about before.)

“How’s that?” Miguel asks, tone low and smooth like velvet. Something tugs your heart – your arteries, perhaps, shrivelling around it.

“Weird. Great. If I didn’t feel like throwing up, I’d stay here forever.”

“Try to refrain from projecting it on me.”

“Copy that.”

“But,” He says, tipping his head so he can assess you the right way around. “You’re doing it.” “Yeah.” You giggle. The bloodrush must be making you loopy. You’d have never been so animated on the ground. “I’m doing it.”

chapter thirteen

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