#like i put this into word and it /just barely/ made it onto a seventh page long

[aparticularbandit]

i have thought of something

Considering how a lot of things have become more accepted nowadays, as they always have been, how far would toon rights have gone by now?

Also, eventually there would be a human who marries a toon, when toons have the right, how would Jessica feel about that marriage?

OKAY TOON RIGHTS ACTIVISM LET'S GO.

This is gonna get long, so I'm gonna put it under a cut.

Also heads up, because we're talking about what would have been a civil rights movement, we're going to be talking a lot about politics. So general trigger warnings for that, particularly since we're going to be dealing with, ah, voter fraud as a discussion topic.

Oh, also trigger warning for mention/discussion of suicide.

Alright, here are some links re: Toon Rights Activism and what I already had posted re: timeline canon for Jess just as refresher course (I went and checked them because I honestly didn't know what I posted and what I didn't).

Toon Rights Activists - this talks about the origins (and also mentions TWO BITS (the Toon Welfare Organization and Bureau Investigating Toon Safety)) of general Toon Rights activism as well as precursory mention of the radical split off from them. (tw: police brutality)

The Genie - this is more about the lengths the radical Toon Rights activists went in their search for said rights (and has nothing to do with the Genie from Aladdin. This is a different Genie).

Also, honestly, read the TWO BITS link posted above, too, because it gives a sort of timeline in terms of TWO BITS started in 2000, so the radical Toon Rights activists had to come after it.

Beyond that, if I remember correctly, because Jessica and Regina met in what should have been roughly 2011 (because Henry was still ten but Emma hadn't shown up yet, so it had to be pre-OUAT but not by much and OUAT s1 took place in 2011), and that was after Jessica's year of Default post-Roger's death - this means that Roger died in 2010, my verse write-up for at the seams (which was the verse where he was a rabbit and Jess was a human) states that he lived for ten years as a rabbit, which means that Jess became a human and Roger became a rabbit in 2000.

That's a bit compressed of a timeline, given that it's mentioned in The Genie above that it took many years for the radical Toon Rights activists to be able to create the Genie in the first place, which means they must have been crafting him since probably the late eighties/early nineties for him to reach completion around that same time. But given that Toon Rights activism began roughly around the end of the Vietnam War and it took almost thirty years before even TWO BITS was instituted, it would make sense for the radicals to have gotten fed up earlier. TWO BITS is great and all, but it didn't give Toons actual rights, etc.

At least Toons in America. Toons in Japan are treated differently. That's an entire other set of meta, and I'm not going there right now.

Anyway - the general idea that apparently never got posted is that eventually, due to the let's turn politicians into Toons and see how they like it aspect of the radical Toon Rights activists' plans (when, you know, turning Toons into humans didn't play out the way they wanted), that did eventually lead to Toons getting some rights. This is all stuff that would have gone on in the background of at the seams and as they fall (which was the verse post-Roger's death and post-Jess's default because I didn't have a verse for her Default year) and I think I'd planned on...roughly the rights happened during the Jess/Regina stuff? Potentially right before Jess committed suicide (not the attempt, the actual suicide).

I don't have a specific date on that.

To be honest, I don't think Jessica would have been around more than a few years at that point. The suicide attempt would likely have been within two years of meeting Regina (I hesitate on this - I feel like one year is too short but am not sure) and her actual suicide would likely have been within a year of that. So - 2013/2014, roughly, the Toons Rights activists would have succeeded in terms of Toons being recognized as a sentient species of their own with free will and deserving of bodily autonomy.

Ish.

There would have been caveats, of course. You couldn't just make a Toon and suddenly they get all the rights to all the things, just like a newborn baby doesn't get all the rights to all the things automatically (voting, drinking, driving, etc.), and you run into the complications of who is allowed to make Toons and so on and so forth. Even with licenses to make Toons being even more constricted by the legal stuff in 2000 surrounding the establishment of TWO BITS, a licensed artist would basically be creating a new being. Laws around that would probably get even stricter - and ownership would become even more complicated because of course a newly created Toon would need someone to teach them how to act and etc. in the world, make sure they wake up from their Default (because Toons in Default have no rights - they're acting on their Default, they aren't exercising free will, they technically under Default do not have free will or sentience - and if they shove themselves back into Default, they're choosing to give all of that up, which is why Defaulting is an equivalent to Toon suicide).

...we don't need to talk about the last administration to understand why future rights might have stalled.

However.

We run into the peculiar issue of if Toons are sentient beings and are acknowledged as such, then they should be allowed to vote.

Except.

Toons aren't humans.

I mean, duh, obviously.

But Toons can be created by anyone with enough money to get an artist with a license to create a Toon for them with a specific Purpose - and they can make that Purpose whatever they want: good, bad, nefarious, insidious, so on and so forth. And because Toons are being created by imperfect people--

Say someone wanted to run for Senator and knew they wouldn't get enough human votes. Say someone had enough money and enough networking to have hosts of Toons created just to vote for them. Immediately. Then you would have hosts of Toons and hosts of Toon voters who exist only to pad the vote for one politician or another and said host of Toons and Toon voters would overwhelm and overrun actual human voters--

It would be a mess. It would be a huge mess.

So, of course, despite the fact that Toons technically now have rights (and did vote for the mayor of ToonTown, where the movie is concerned, but even then, Judge Doom won because he paid off the voters (pretty sure this is actual movie canon that they discuss - and my concern is whether or not the Toons themselves voted for Doom or if there were humans making decisions for the Toons, but regardless it's still a human as mayor of ToonTown, which makes me wonder if a Toon could even run for mayor in the first place - and that would be another legal issue with Toon rights because a Toon's Purpose is to entertain humans and if they were running for political etc. and won, even outside of Default--))--

So there are still laws in place in terms of what Toons can and can't do, even if they have more rights than they did in the first place.

And it's possible that, at least initially, there was talk about how to address the Toon voting problem so that Toons could vote. Tighter rules on licensing, more than there already are. Maybe a set period on how long Toons have been around before they can vote (like how people don't get to vote in the US until they're 18).

...and now we really do need to bring up the previous administration and all of the discussions of voting fraud and you'll understand exactly why all of those in-roads and thought processes got extremely stalled.

So things are better for Toons, roughly. But not as good as they could be. It's...it's so complicated the idea of Toon rights. They're people and should be treated like people. But they're also not.

Which brings us to the discussion of Toon/human marriage.

This is different from other analogies we could draw with interracial or queer marriage because Toons are drawn, not born. A human - with enough money or connections, again - could have a Toon tailor-made to be their spouse. Or...think they would be tailor-made and then find in the process that they really aren't and something went wrong, and then that's a whole living Toon who was made to be in love with them that now gets to Fade away because no one knows who they are and the one person they're supposed to be with for the rest of their life...doesn't...love them.

And the argument - politically would be that if humans could just make a Toon to be whatever they wanted, then that would interfere with human/human relationships. Humans would just end up choosing Toons over each other, and then we'd have even fewer babies (-coughcough-), and that's not even getting into the issues of Toon/human children (it's possible, Nonnie Montgomery proves that it's possible) and what their rights are - would they be counted as Toons under the law? Would they be counted as humans?

So I'm not sure that Toons would get that right.

Even with the very long legal battle that would probably eventually get brought up before the Supreme Court because the Constitution doesn't cover Toons - it's all men are created equal and Toons aren't human beings - and I don't think they would succeed at that point.

But if they did while Jess was still around, to address the rest of that question--

It really depends on--

Well, this is timeline canon we're talking about, right?

Or, at least, a version of it where Jess doesn't commit suicide, anyway.

Because here's the thing - if Roger was dead and Jess survived that last suicide attempt and Regina offered, if Jess was better and thought that her being there wasn't making Henry hallucinate, if she allowed herself to move on, yeah, if asked, she would have married her. (That one's half up to @notoriousjae, though, because idk if it ever would have gotten to that point. Just, from Jess's standpoint, she would have, if she got to a mentally stable enough point where she would have. If that makes sense.)

Like - Jess, even now in human form, has now fallen in love with two humans (at least), and that's not a result of her suddenly being a human instead of a Toon, if she'd been a Toon in the same circumstances, she would have fallen in love with both of them, and being in a position where she knows 1) that neither of them created her and 2) she fell in love with them quite independent of her Purpose, she would want....

No, that's not how I want to say that.

Jess knows what it is to be a Toon - even wrapped in a human body - and be in love with a human...and to have that human love her back.

She would be grateful that the courts would allow for people - and Toons - to marry the people that they love, regardless of etc.

I just don't think the courts would allow it.

Not without some of the very strict legal etc. to keep people from tailor-making Toons for their own purposes, among other things.

[0nmykne3s]

sick cuddles | l. Williamson x teen!reader

(just pretend youre the dog haha)

summary: you go to training sick, leah takes care of you

(i'm not that good at summaries)

a/n: hi guys!! this is my very first time writing any form of story outside of school, so some feedback and constructive criticism is appreciated! also keep in mind that i don't know anything about pro footballers schedules, so i'm just guessing. english isn't my first language so please keep that in mind <3

1064 words

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After snoozing your alarm for the seventh time you finally decided to wake up. It felt like you had woken up from the dead, you had the most dreadful headache ever and your throat was so sore, it felt like there was a literal porcupine inside your throat. You tiredly reached for your phone to check the time, and it read 09.52 “OH SHIT, I'M LATE, LEAH’S GOING TO KILL ME!” you exclaimed, which you quickly regretted once you burst out into a coughing fit.

-

When you first joined Arsenal at 16 years old, it was Leah who first took you under her wing. She let you live with her until you found an apartment you could move into, despite her protests of you being too young to live alone you decided to move. The first four months of you living there Leah always came over to check on you, she would have kept doing it if you hadn't complained about it all the time. She agreed to stop coming over, only if you would call her immediately if something happened.

-

You quickly dressed yourself and made some toast, and ran out the door. It was 10.14 when you finally got to the arsenal training centre. Luckily for you the girls didn't notice you coming in, since they were busy cleaning up breakfast. “Hey y/n! Where have you been? I didn’t see you coming in earlier” Beth asked you once she saw you. “Oh, i was just… sitting over there” you say awkwardly as you waved your hand to a random area. “Weird, anyways..” she said as she started rambling on about Myle and how cute she is. You were honestly not paying attention and just throwing in a random mhm and awe once in a while. You felt someone looking at you, so you looked around a bit, until you saw Leah looking intensely at you as if she was trying to figure something out. 

Leah felt like something was a little off with you, your voice was a little hoarse and you looked a little pale. She made a mental note to keep an eye on you throughout training. Beth was still rambling on about Myle and showing you pictures of her, until Leah came and interrupted “Y/N come on you’re going to be late”,  “Okayy” you sighed. 

You were walking to the pitch with Leah until you abruptly stopped as a wave of dizziness came over you, “Hey, are you alright? What happened? She asked as she put her arm around to steady you. “Yeah, I just suddenly got a little dizzy, but it's alright” you responded. Leah brushed it off, knowing you wouldn't tell her anyways.

-

You were trying to dribble the ball past Katie, until Katie went in for a tackle, which was 100% clean, but since you were sick and a little unstable you fell over onto the grass, face down. “Ey, mate you good?” Katie asked you, “Yea.. just give me second” you groaned. “Hey! What's going on?” You heard Leah yell. “I don’t know!” Katie said defensively. You heard Leah running over, and when she got to you, you felt her bend over and put a hand on your back, “Hey kid, what's wrong? Where does it hurt?” she asked softly, “My head” you whispered in a barely audible voice. “Okay” she said worriedly, she put her hand on your head, “Jesus christ, you're burning up!” she said, sounding quite distressed. She lifted you up from the ground, “Alright good girl, let’s get you inside. Okay?” Leah said softly, as she was basically carrying you, as you were barely able to stand on your own. “Okay” you mumbled, not really paying attention to what she was saying because of how much your head was pounding.

-

“She has a high fever, and is quite dehydrated. She can't train for the rest of the week and she needs lots of rest and make sure she drinks enough water..” the doctor said. “Alright, you hear that bub. Lots of rest and water” she said, while rubbing your back.

By the time you were done at the doctor, training was over. “Y/n/n training is over so i'm going to drive us to mine, okay?” Leah said. “Yeah, okay..” you said tiredly. You were in the backseat while Leah was driving. Every once in a while Leah glanced back to see how you were doing, when she looked back at you she smiled fondly at the sight of you sound asleep leaning against the window. When you made it home you were still asleep so Leah carried you inside deciding that you needed the rest. When you made it inside Leah put you softly down onto the couch, so she could keep an eye on you while she made food.

“Hey sweets wake up, I made your favourite pasta.” she whispered softly, while rubbing your back. “Mmm okay” you mumbled half asleep. After you and Leah finished eating, she took the plates and started washing them. “Thanks for the Le, it actually tasted good” you joked in your hoarse voice, “Ha ha” she said sarcastically, just as you were about to laugh you burst out into a coughing fit. Leah turned around alarmed, “Hey, hey, it's okay” she said comfortingly while she rubbed your back. Once you had settled down, she went to get something. When she came back you saw her carrying a cup of tea, “Here, it's tea for your throat”, “Thanks Leah” you mumbled.

Once you had finished your tea, you yawned and rubbed your eyes, “Let's get you to bed, alright?” Leah said, in which you just hummed in reply. You walked into the bedroom and changed into the clothes Leah lent to you, which was an old Arsenal hoodie and a pair of pyjama shorts. “Le, snuggles please?” you asked shyly when you were done changing, “Alright bub, i'm just going to change then i'll be back” she said chuckling. When she was done changing you both laid down in bed, with you laying against Leah with your head in her crook of her shoulder, and Leah hugging you while tracing aimlessly around your back. Just like you guys used to do after you had a nightmare and came into her room, when you lived together. 

Shortly after you were sound asleep in her arms.

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hope you guys enjoyed! a comment or some feedback would be greatly appreciated <3

[h0unds-of-h3ll]

The reporter

You’re a journalist in the 50s. You were fortunate enough to have known the king. However, you were not wise enough to not be swayed by his temptations.

Elvis Presley x Virgin! Reader smut.

Word count: 9k

Viewers beware you’re in for a scare with the: angst, language, explicit content, making out, groping, dirty talk, corruption kink, innocence kink, daddy kink, spanking, choking, unprotected sex, hickeys, talk of breeding kink, biting, dry humping, voyeur kink, fingering.

A/n: I’m not going to defend myself for writing this. It is written for Elvis but can be imagined with Austin’s! Also I made all of this up it’s fiction!

   You’re walking into a venue. The venue was a high-end joint that had people bursting out from the seams. People of all different backgrounds. Kingpins to teens who snuck their way in. Elvis had really outdone himself with this one. The last time you had seen the showman was back in ‘54, at the Louisiana Hayride.

    He was just a growing kid at that point, nineteen in a pink suit who was scared out of his mind. His huge aspirations overpowered his jitters. He just made the trembling a part of the show. In all honesty, he’s surprised that no one called him out. He was otherworldly and ‘hip.’         

    You were barely grown enough to attend, but your newspaper begged you to get an interview with the upcoming boy. It wasn’t easy sneaking back into his dressing room. If people asked you about your identity, you just walked like you didn’t hear. You admired the flashing lights and the labels. It was pure beauty. 

   You fixed yourself up in the rectangle bulbed mirror. Plastering a customer service smile on and waiting on the couch. You tap your feet to the show going on outside. It’s loud with the women screaming. Deafening with his singing. The last song plays, and you hear the shuffling of feet. Your heart thumps and blood rushes. 

  The man of the hour is ushered inside, people pat him on his back with huge smiles. He’s dripping sweat, makeup smeared and hair messy. You saw him perform in a jacket, but he is missing it. He puts the guitar in its holder. He struts to his mirror fixing his hair with a wide-tooth comb. In the few seconds he walked in, he didn't notice you. 

  You hold your breath. You’ve met a few rising stars in your years. Heard of the stories of girls passing out from seeing them. You thought it was just exaggerations but as you stare at his back. It makes sense. A small waist with big shoulders. Those hips are the seventh wonder of the world. You nibble on your bottom lip in a daze. You can hear the talent playing on stage. His dark blues lock onto yours staring at his backside in the reflection. Eyes narrowing. 

   “Well, I’ll be damned.”

   A low rumble in his chest. His voice is guttural. Fried from giving his all. He shakes his head as he grins wide. Perfect white teeth glaring. He turns around leaning back onto the vanity with his gigantic hands. Your heart thrums and the fireworks in your stomach burst. You feel you’re set on fire by the way you’re sweating. You wave your notebook to fan your face. 

   “George said he’d do it, but I didn’t think he would.”

   He scratches the back of his neck. You’re confused by who George is and what he did. But when you go to talk, you can’t speak. He does it for you. 

   “Surprised he got such a pretty little thing.”

   Your cheeks go red and you bow your head. You’re embarrassed to be called pretty by someone so handsome. You play with the hem of your dress. 

   “Thank you, sir.” 

   That does something to Elvis. That sir from your mouth. His Ma's teachings are being put to shame. He’s not a gentleman. He’s a sinful man who needs to repent. He feels the devil on his shoulder, the one from those cartoons on Saturday he used to watch. 

   “Mhm.”

   He mumbles. 

   “I like the reporter outfit.”

   He takes one of his indexes and circles it around where you’re sitting. 

   “It’s cute.”

   He says cute the way you tell a child. He means it to be demeaning. You’re offended that your hard work to achieve this level of Journalism is taken into a joke. You smooth out the skirt of your dress and sit straight. 

   “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Presley. But I think that there’s been a misunderstanding.”

   He nods, squinting his eyes.  

   “Sure, Mrs. Reporter. How’d you get back here?”

   He gestures to the surrounding space, then plants the hand on his hip. You bite your tongue knowing if you answer you’re screwed. You take a deep breath in. 

   “I’m with the Wall Street Journal. We’re looking for new and upcoming talent that deserves recognition.”

   You lied. You were a rat and a snake. The newspaper company you were with was growing fast. He didn’t need to know that. He nods and takes his bottom lip between his index and thumb. 

   “Mhm.”

   He nods. Jaw clenching. 

   “Ask me some of those Yankee questions.”

   He leaves the vanity. Taking a few long steps to stand in front of you. You look up at him. He’s so tall and big and dominant. Those deadly blues stare down at you. He takes your cheek into his palm. Warm and inviting. Slightly clammy but it adds to him. He tucks his fingers under your jaw, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. You’re absolutely absorbing his energy. You’re being fried from his touch. All that fight and that ‘man eater’ behavior has fled you. If you looked straight ahead, you could see the beautiful curve of his hidden cock becoming more prominent. You cross your legs tighter. He can see your pupils dilating. Cute. 

“An’ after you’re going to strip for me.”

_______

   After explaining to him that you were actually a real reporter. And that you needed to ask him those important questions, he budged. Still, he thought you were one of the escorts that George had hired. But the man loved foreplay so he bit. He was taken aback by how diligent and bright you are, along with how young. A dangerous thing. Elvis liked to feel alive, and he didn’t have crushes but he looked forward to seeing you at his next show. 

   That three-minute only slightly intimate interview changed both of your lives. Since then the rest between the both of you has been history. You and he had a business associate relationship. Just friends. You told yourself that every single time you went to see one of his shows. 

   He knew you were going to be here tonight. You always knew which shows were going to be breakthroughs. Although, he loved to see someone so refreshing. You made him feel alive, and had his heart pumping. The worst type of addiction. Elvis also seethed seeing you. He hated the aftermath of talking to you. The Colonel says any publicity is good publicity, but the judging stares as he walks down the street. Makes Elvis think otherwise. You’re a sight for sore eyes to him. A piece of home that follows him like a stray. It revives him and kills him wrapped in a pretty red kiss. 

   It’s ‘57, and he still remembers every time you’ve been there since ‘54. Always in the shadows pushed to the back or balcony and working your way to him. It’s romantic and a tragedy. 

  It’s like a square filled with a few thousand people, some crammed into tight spaces. Others climbed onto the stage that Elvis wasn’t even on. The curtains were drawn closed. His emblem was on the satin. 

   Somewhere a countdown begins among the people, and that’s your cue to swim through the sea to the back. You clutched your notebook and pen. Your black swing dress only was held by straps tied around your neck. The skirt swayed as you walked. Your heels stuck to the dirty tile. Curls bobbing with each step. You’re a seductress. You muttered apologies as you shifted your way past people. It’s dark and dimly lit. There’s a bar that hoards people. A balcony that’s stuffed. A floor that is making the entire building breathe in anticipation. 

   You nibble on the inside of your lip, looking for a way into the back. There are photographers lined up everywhere, bound to be a hundred reporters disguised. It’s going to be a show of strobing lights if not less. You feel proud of your work. To know that you have ties with the talent, makes your life less miserable. 

   You shuffle quicker, as the count nears three. All you can do is barricade yourself against the front and center of the stage and whisper. Shit. 

   To say that Elvis was loud and amped was a joke. The twenty-one-year-old almost literally broke his knees while performing. He fell to them, glitter dripping off him. He grips the metal mic in his jewelry-clad hand. Black hair slicked back and gleamed with pomade. A few hairs stray out to touch his forehead, slipping out of the pushed-back mop. He’s soaked in sweat. He finally finds you in the sea of people and smirks. His top lip arching, taunting you. He watches you shiver. 

   “It’s gold.”

   The girl beside you says, amazed. She was in an utter stupor. She wasn’t yelling or having a psychotic break. She was wide-eyed and her mouth slack open as she gawked. 

   The suit was in fact sparkly and yellow. Every time he turned, he looked like a disco ball. He crawls to a woman, youthful and face painted not a hair out of place. He reaches out and so does she. The electricity crackles, extending to her finger. A touch from the king is petrifying. Time is frozen still as he reaches back in slow motion. He leaves the girl in a dissolved puddle in front of the stage. 

   Hound dog turns into a possession of a spirit in desperate need of an exorcism. He shakes and cries out while looking like an Angel. He pants as he walks to the middle of the stage. With a shaky smile, he regained his breath. He quiets the crowd and they hush after a few moments. 

   “Now I don’t know much about anythin’”

   Thick Southern drawl poisoning his words with incoherence. 

  “But I do know one thing.”

   He grows closer to the mic, his voice dropping to a small growl. 

   “Seems like you folks can’t get a ‘nuff of me.”

   He smiles lopsidedly. His nose scrunching and the audience roaring under his amusement. 

   “Ain’t that right?”

It’s complete and utter chaos. You’re dizzy and stunned. Flashing lights and other flourishing things arise. He’s working the crowd, making them fall even more in love with him. You shake your head, ridding the spell. There is a mission and business that you have to tend to. You weave yourself to a door that’s below a neon sign blaring ‘VIP’ perfect. 

   You pin it to be a lounge of some sort. You guide (push) a few people out of your line of stride. Moving with the mayhem that a single man controls. You look over your shoulder to sneak a peek at the disco ball. The stage is absolutely full of things that people have thrown at him. Articles of clothing, along with other intimates. He catches some things tossed, like flowers. Other such things he makes a mental note to simply not. 

   Feeling your hips squeezed and groped made you snap back to reality. It plays to your advantage because the people just push you farther to your destination. Your hand grazes the handle and just like Elvis teasing the girl. You’re ripped away from your hopes. The audience breathes and you’re being pushed back into the hoard. They breathe again and you unstuck yourself from the amoeba. 

   You open the door and quickly whisk yourself inside. The room is a lot bigger than the first dressing room you snuck in. A huge lavish couch sitting next to the wall is plush. The vanity is the largest section in the room. The expensive rectangular mirror had fluorescent bulbs lined up on the sides. It’s blinding. A minibar is in a corner. Someone could live here if they wanted. An electronic box sat on a round coffee table in the middle of everything. 

   You go to sit on the most oversized couch in the world. It’s cotton. And you’re being eaten alive into the sinkhole that is the cushion. You sigh, closing your eyes. Soft as a bed. You could fall asleep and never wake up. As you open your eyes you think you’re dreaming. The wall that looked like brick from the outside is see-through. Like those interrogation rooms in jail. You’re floored at such magic. There is a clear view of the crowd and Elvis. You were behind a brick wall, but you can see through it. Your head throbbed in confusion. The world was advancing at such a rapid pace that you weren’t sure how you could keep up. 

   Hearing a few scattered voices, you look over to your left. The people behind the show are like mice. Running to pull ropes, handing instruments back and forth. They were getting things arranged like clockwork. Going through the minutes with precise ease. 

   The room you’re in smells like cigars and alcohol. Intoxicating with each breath. The ceiling is stained, your hunch was right. You feel like a mob boss. You dared to put your notebook and pen on the table. Leaning back and spreading your legs open wide as men do. The skirt of your dress hides the obscenity, and you smile. 

   The black and white static on the box’s screen, plays a live feed of what’s going on in front of the brick wall. He has the mic stand straight between his long legs. One hand on the mic, his lips brushing against silver. The other goes from being flat on his chest down to the metal stick. His extensive fingers stroke the thick cord. He’s teasing the stand with heavy petting. Agony spreads throughout you as he kisses a young broad. Maybe you should’ve just skipped work and gone to the show for fun. To kill this overlong tension and get it over with. Your thighs burn and your breathing turns heavy. You cross your soft legs to rub your thighs together. 

   After forty minutes came to pass. Elvis slowed into the last half of his performance. His hips are pressed firmly against the mic, he goes on about an appreciation speech and how they’re such a wonderful audience. 

   You were in such a stupor, that you hadn’t noticed a large man wobbling his way down two stairs to over where you sat. 

   “You.”

   He snarls with a thick foreign accent lacing over his words. Your head whips up and you feel like you gave yourself whiplash. You’re seeing things. You thought he died years ago. The ghost of The Colonel is cutting daggers. 

   You and The Colonel had a funny relationship. You’d press his boy, free of charge for your little paper and during that exchange, he’d learned that you were grooming his talent. Grooming his boy by putting false promises into his head along with the lead of lust. His boy already had problems with his temptations. Elvis had a weak heart. Couldn’t say no to defend himself, hell, the boy couldn’t even manage himself. And you. You were a rat in his mansion and The Colonel didn’t like rats. So, he had to simply eliminate you from his empire. 

   “You’re a leach, little girl.”

   He wobbles over to the side of the table. A good three feet away from you and the man is a raging bull. He puffs smoke as he breathes. 

   “Slithering into places you don’t belong.”

   He stomps his cane punctuating his anger. Instilling it into your stubborn skull. 

   “Now I told you what would happen if you wedged your ugly little head into my presence.”

   He steps a long way out. Grabbing your bicep and pulling you upwards. His breath resembles a toad. 

   “I’ll send you postcards of my boy's success to you in prison.”

   This is when you start to panic. You understand that you’ve crossed boundaries, but now that you look at it. He could pin you as a stalker with ill intentions. You didn’t cry. You didn’t plea for forgiveness. You just stood there blurry-eyed and in the clouds. Body as rigid as a board, unmoving. You don’t cower under his gaze; you look at him with the same disgust. 

   “Do your worst.”

   You spit at him with venom. He starts to tug you out of the room. His fingers tighten around your arm. He grows more aggressive as he nears the door. However, neither of you noticed that the show had ended. Was your little tussle really twenty minutes long? You’re not surprised, The Colonel loved his little tantrums. Elvis yells thank you and good night into the mic. You watch as the blood from The Colonel's face drains. Maybe he could fake a stroke and look like it’s just a big misunderstanding. Elvis’ voice booms along with telling his band how well they performed. They part ways and he rounds the turn. Your knight in shining armor with a guitar. He’s met with the scene of you being handled by his manager. His cheeks and neck burn red with embarrassment. He furrowed his eyebrows and his mood turned sour. 

   “The hell ya doin?”

   He wasn’t mad, just upset at what he was witnessing. He watches your face look back and forth from him to the man who’s holding you captive. Little one is scared, and it makes his stomach churn. He’s had it with his so-called manager, but he remains calm and controlled. 

   “Let her go.”

   The Colonel’s sausage fingers are deathly around your arm. 

   “But son she-“

   The Colonel tries, but Elvis sets his guitar down and steps closer. He tilts his head to the side, seeing if The Colonel wants to test him. His liner and mascara smudged against his skin. He narrows those blue eyes. Raising one of his thick eyebrows. He clenches his jaw and his hands turn into fists at his side. Knuckles turning white. 

   “I’m not goin’ to ask ya again.”

  One of the things you learned about Elvis is that he hated repeating himself. He became irritated when people questioned him. The biggest thing of all is that Elvis absolutely lost his mind when people wrote him off as a fool. The Colonel opens his meaty claw and frees your arm. He walks to the door, pausing like he wants to say something. He rids the thought and lets it go. 

    Elvis takes deep breaths trying to regain his composure. You look up at him, giving him a toothy grin. He notices that you painted your lips a dark ruby color. Batting those lashes with that makeup on. He’s happy you didn’t wear gloss, it always makes his lips sticky. 

    “I could press charges, you know.”

   You declare while wiping off The Colonel from your arm and pointing a manicured finger to his face. Feisty as ever. Elvis takes back what he said out on the stage of not knowing anything. He did know something, and that it was you are trouble. 

_______

   A few arguments and promises later. Elvis finally got to walk you back to his hotel just you and him. No photographers and a few stray fans, but it was personal. He walks by your side on the long street. He gives you his jacket, as he takes you back to his hotel. You pat yourself on the back for missing your flight back home. You put up a fight about leaving your (blank) journal back at the venue, but he just promised to buy you another one. Envious of such disposable income. He feels like his jacket and buying you something nice will help him get over the guilt of The Colonel's behavior. 

   He looks down at you to see if you are okay. Your head was empty of thoughts, you were in outer space. Only thinking of Elvis, he just had that effect. Even off-stage, he was hypnotic. His shoulder brushes against yours. He walks by the street and you walk by the buildings. His jacket shines under streetlamps and neon signs. It’s quiet for most of the walk, it’s peaceful. He’s always loud and bouncing off the walls, but that was just Elvis the showman, not the man you started to know. You follow behind him like he had a leash on you. He appeared to know where he was staying so you walked with him. 

   “‘M sorry ‘bout The Colonel.”

   He scratches the back of his neck, frowning a bit. He’s antsy and nervous. 

   “Don’ know why’d he do such a thing.”

   He sighs. You don’t know why he’s apologizing for something he didn’t do. But you shrug. 

   “I’m sorry that you have to deal with him for a living.”

   Elvis nods in acknowledgment. If he had known back then what he knows now, his life would pivot. For the better or the worst, he couldn’t decide. If he never played at Hayride, never met The Colonel. He could’ve loved freely, and did what he loved freely. He runs a hand through his full head of hair. 

   “‘M happy you showed even with what happened.”

   He mumbles, but his voice has dropped an octave. Deep and gravelly. Send tingles down your spine. Your throat closes, and your heart is heavy. He’s happy to see you. Your insides twist. 

   “It’s always somethin’ with you.”

   He stares dead ahead, watching cars fly. People swinging in and out of breweries. Friends hanging on each other. Lovers taking in each other. He hears your little scoff, and he smiles to himself. He’s so ornery. You cut him a deadly glance. 

   “Me?!”

   You squeal in shock. 

   “Yes, you. Always makin’ my life hell.”

   You scrunch your nose as he whips around in front of you. You go cross-eyed as he takes his index and presses it to the bulb of your nose. He smiles and grabs your hand after as if nothing happened. His hand is so warm and calloused from playing guitar all those years. He’s wrapping his fingers around yours and you’re dying. After going insane you chuckle. 

   “You’re wrong, I make it interesting.”

   He shakes his head, smiling softly. 

   “If that’s what you want to call it. Sure, doll.”

   Doll slips off his tongue with such ease that he doesn’t even realize the effect it has on you. He squeezes your hand and departs from you to open the door for you to enter. He walks behind you as you walk in. 

   The place is worn down most likely from the 20s that they “remolded.” You stand still enamored by the crystal chandelier that looks like rain. He moves your hips slightly to walk ahead of you. The feeling of his hands on you is riveting. You catch up to him. He’s talking to a receptionist, an old man with an array of keys behind him. Only a few are gone and you wonder if this place is for the rich or just unknown. 

   “Room number?”

   The man doesn’t look up from his music magazine, where Elvis is plastered along with the older article that you wrote. It makes your heart race, seeing you and Elvis tied together. The old man holds his head up with his knuckles. 

   “Long night?”

   Elvis asks earnestly. The old man peeks his head up with curiosity. The young man’s voice sounded awfully familiar. He looks up, and he’s remarked with a mood resembling winning the lottery. He points out like he’s seen a ghost. 

   “You’re the king!” 

   Elvis smiles bashfully, head bowing as he scratches the back of his neck. 

   “That I am, 210 please.”

   The man scurries behind and takes the key. He opens a dusty log-in book and writes the date and asks for Elvis to write his name down. You feel a pang of jealousy because he doesn't ask you to. He pockets the key, and you bid the old man farewell with a small smile and Elvis takes your hand back in his. You’re happy that this became a normal thing for him. He walks you to the elevator and presses the room’s floor. 

   “You get that a lot don’t you?”

   You ask, but you already know the answer. 

   “It seems to be happenin’ a lot more lately.”

   He says absently; he doesn’t care that he’s noticed often. But it makes him sad that he can’t do normal things like he used to. His Ma calls every night (she called before the show) to check up on him. He’s getting more comfortable as the days pass. You’re his rock and every time he sees you it makes him remember where he’s from. He smiles. Looking down at you staring back up at him. He could kiss you right now. 

   “I’ve got a pint of ice cream up in my room. You can have it if you’d like.”

   He says humbly, his Southern upbringing making him have hospitality. Your eyes gleam with brightness and you smile. 

   “Can we share it?”

   Your little voice shrinks in and he nods. He thinks about the other things he can share with you. The doors chime open and he looks back and forth for his room number when he walks out with you. The carpet is shag, and the paper is falling. 

   You’d think he’d have a better hotel, but he probably opted for something quaint. You feel alone when he removes his hand from yours. He gets the key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. He opens it for you (again.) He watches your skirt dance when you walk. He bites his bottom lip. Wishing that his blood wasn’t rushing. 

   The room is luxurious and vast. The ceiling is..odd along the stretch of the ceiling is mirrors. You stare up in awe as you did in the lobby. Below you can see yourself. You watch him enter and lock the door again. He turns on the lights and the mirrors are even more dreamy. You see his suitcases open and his things thrown around. Fast food is open all around the place. It’s a pigsty and his Mother would lose her mind. The bed takes up most of the room, gold bed frame, and thick blankets. A couch was pushed to the center in front of the bed and positioned in front of the couch was a small television box. There are no windows, only mirrors and you’ve never felt so exposed. Elvis walks around you to turn on the small box. The chatter of Casablanca plays. He gives you a half smile. 

   “I can sleep on the couch if that makes you comfortable.”

   He tugs the collar of his shirt open, unbuttoning the first few. Your throat closes up seeing his sternum. He tilts his head over to a small fridge. 

   “Ice cream is in there, sweetheart. I’m going to head to the bathroom to clean up, but make yourself at home.”

   He gives your shoulder a squeeze of assurance and walks away to the left to a door to the bathroom. A few seconds later you hear the spray of the faucet turn on. You blush softly thinking of Elvis naked. 

   You grab the pint and a plastic spoon and you take off your heels and his jacket on the floor. You sit on his bed by the headboard. God, the pillows smell like him. It makes you insane. You kick your feet under you and eat the delicious treat. Watching Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman kiss and waltz. Another spoonful in and you hear a loud moan and your head whips around so fast your neck hurts. Spoon stuck in your mouth and tub sat in your lap. You narrow your eyes. You hear it again louder and more of a rumble. He isn’t. Is he? You burn from the inside out. The moans grow faster and louder and then it stops with a low growl. You can’t breathe. 

   The shower turns off and the wet slapping of feet is heard. His skin is damp as the door opens. The plastic spoon falls from your mouth. His skin is glistening. Broad shoulders hold a crimson robe, his emblem is on his right pec. The dip of the cut shows the unruly hair on his chest. His hair is drenched and soaking wet. He leans on his forearm, perching himself on the door frame. He gives you a wolfish grin. 

   “Starin’ is rude, sweetheart.”

   He runs his hand flat over his chest, then points at you, circling his finger. 

   “Have to teach some manners.”

   He laughs softly, walking to the edge of the bed and sitting on his side. Legs spread wide. It’s quiet, just the pounding of your heart is heard. He takes the spoon from your lap, digs a scoop, and takes it to his mouth. He makes you deranged; he has your DNA on his tongue and you’re going crazy by how good he smells. Patchouli and grapefruit. He pushes his elbow to yours and puts the spoon back in the tub. He leans over to you. 

   “What are we watchin’?”

   “Casablanca.”

   You whisper back, and he nods going back to sitting up straight. He leans back with his hands clasped in his lap. 

   “It’s an excellent picture.”

    You agree with an ‘mhm’ and another scoop of ice cream. You practically kissed Elvis and your thighs feel damp. He stares at the side of your face, admiring you. Your lipstick is almost gone from your eating, but it makes his heart skip a beat. He places the pads of his fingers on your knee. Rubbing soothing circles on the bone. 

   “You look awfully purty tonight.”

    You snicker and snort a laugh. 

   “Purty.”

   You laugh harder as you mock him. He opens his mouth, faking shock. 

   “Knew you were a little minx.”

   He kisses your shoulder. 

   “Ever since my first show.”

   He kisses the same spot again. You shiver and put the spoon back into the pint and set it on the nightstand. 

   “You’re such a liar.”

   His brows furrowed in confusion. 

   “You don’t even know my name.”

   He huffs, putting his forehead on your shoulder. 

   “Of course, I know your name, it’s my sweet girl.” 

   You blush and cross your arms over your chest. He kisses your cheek. Soft delicate, plush lips bless your skin. He lays his chin on your shoulder. 

   “Don’t be like this, sweetheart.”

   He sighs deeply into your ear. You ignore the thoughts of jumping his bones. 

   “What do you want me to do Elvis?”

   He kisses your neck, slipping his large hand above your knee. His pinky ring dug into your skin. 

   “I want you to love me.”

   You stiffen, breathing slowly.

   “You’re capable of love?”

    You whisper painfully. 

   “I’ve only heard of the heartbreak you cause.”

   He moves away and stops touching you. He stays silent and watches the movie. You stare at the ceiling, willing yourself not to cry. This was so embarrassing for you to reject the king. Why did things have to be so complicated?

   “You know I hate you sometimes. My job depends on you, it’s just business I remind myself but it’s hard to remember when you treat me like this.” 

   He deflated, not looking at your confession. 

   “You don’ get to hate me, sweetheart.”

   He licks his lips. 

   “I don’ treat you anythin’ other than the people I love.”

   You grow frustrated.  

    “You remember the first time we met?” 

   He mumbles an ‘mhm.’

   “I asked you a few simple questions, and you told me to strip.”

   You glare at him. 

   “Who does that!”

   He runs a hand over his face. 

   “I thought George had hired you. I didn’t expect press on my first show.”  

   “Some friends you have.”

   You sob quietly. He grabs your hand and ties his fingers between yours. 

   “You’re my friend.” 

   Your eyes are wet, you’re a millisecond away from crying. You’re sniffling, and your face is burning and your throat closes. You don’t know why you can’t allow yourself to be with him. Are you scared of him? Of being vulnerable? You don’t know and you react before you can think. 

   “I don’t want to be anything to you anymore.”

   Elvis feels like he’s been shot. He nods accepting your choice.  He removes himself from you. Walking away. He’s learned that to walk away was better than to stay on most occasions. He squats and digs through his cases for some clothes for you to sleep in. He finds a black long-sleeved dress shirt. He lays it by you. 

   “I can’t imagine a swing dress is comfortable to sleep in.”

   He grabs his pillow and a spare blanket from a closet. He makes a bed on the couch and goes around to turn off the lights. He lies on the couch staring at the ceiling, watching you. You take his shirt and go to the bathroom. 

    “Thank you.”  

   You leave the door ajar. Watching to see if he’d leave. You watch him twist and turn trying to sleep and finally decide to shed the layers. You took off your pantyhose first. Then the puffy dress. You’re able to breathe from being freed. Your nipples peak up from the cold air, and panic races through you. The bra was knitted into the dress. You’re going to be naked above the waist, you breathe heavy. Surely, he won’t notice. You sigh. Cotton white panties are visible when you reach. The bottom of his shirt goes to your thigh, it’s baggy. You roll up the sleeves to your elbows. You button up the shirt leaving a couple at the top undone. Pivoting to the mirror you take one of the small towels and wash your face. Giving yourself a small pep talk before you walk out. 

   It’s pitch dark other than the television. You stump your toe on the banister and scream internally. Your grip on your dress tightens as you wobble back to your side of the bed. You leave the dress by his jacket and your heels. Bending over to place it on the ground. You lay with a huff flat on your back. Staring at the ceiling, admiring Elvis being passed out peacefully. You’re not surprised at how hard he went at his show. 

   You shuffle under the covers trying to sleep. But who are you kidding, how can you sleep when you can hear him snoring? You kick your leg up and lay on your stomach. Flipping to the other side, then lay on your side. Head running with ferocious thoughts of defiling the man. You give up, accepting your demise. 

   “Elvis?”

   You whisper loudly. No answer, except a louder snore. 

   “Elvis?!” 

   You say hushed but louder. He stirs, doing a sit-up. 

   “Mhm?”

   He grumbles while running his hands over his face. 

   “Can you sleep up here with me?”

   He groans as he kicks his leg out and grabs his pillow. His hair is matted to one side, strands sticking up everywhere. He shuffles to his side with a yawn. The sash around his waist is more open. His stomach is in full view. Laying back down, he holds his arms straight out. He welcomes you into his embrace. You wiggle backward and accept his offer. He wraps his arms tight around you. Your back is to his front, and he shoves his face into your hair, breathing you in. You smell pure and like a woman, and his mouth is watering. His hands are spread out on your ribs. He kicks the blanket up over your hips. 

   “Prettiest girl I know.”

   He murmurs into your neck; you play with his rings. He scoots his thigh up between yours, spreading you open. 

   “Have you ever thought of me?”

   You ask it to yourself, more than anything. You can feel his lashes on your neck. His lips brushed over your covered shoulder. 

   “All the time.”

   He mumbles groggily. He presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck. You smile, closing your eyes to focus on him. 

   “Saw you at the show.”

   A kiss. 

   “I looked away and looked back and you were gone.”

   Two kisses. 

   “Made me sad.”

   You push your hips backward, he hissed, grabbing your sides tighter to keep you in place. He buries his forehead into your shoulder. His hand ducks below your belly button. His pinky taunts the waistband of your panties. 

   “Makes me wonder where you’ve gone.”

   He plays with the elastic as he continues downward. 

   “Who you’re with.”

   He nibbles your neck, making a dark bruise form. He’s a mosquito, a monster of the dark. You turn your head smiling at the ceiling. 

   “You’re finally admitting to being jealous?”

   You poke fun at him. It’s nice to be the one in control. He’s always kissing those girls, getting the reaction he wants from you. It’s your turn now and he bites. 

   “Ain’t jealous, just worried.”

   His voice drops lower. His fingers dipped past the elastic, warming the top of your mound. 

   “Worried about how bad you’re getting to be.”

   His hand on your ribs goes to cup your breast through his shirt. Your nipple grinds into his palm as he squeezes. 

   “You and I both know that snatch of yours is trouble.” 

   His hand fully dips under the elastic. It’s boiling warm and the bite of his ring makes goosebumps on your skin. You grab onto his wrist with both hands. 

   “Elvis I-“

   He groans into your neck, continuing to feel you up. The whine of his name has his cock swelling on the bottom of your back. 

   “What, little one?”

   You debate about telling him, but then your fingers push into that wet cave of your cunt and you shake on his chest. He kisses your cheek when you push up. Your chest lifts into his hand. He moves his hand with such precision; it makes your head fill up with air. He mutters words of encouragement as he works you open. 

   “Knew you were good for me.”

   He’s drunk with lust, his words slurring together. You’re pushing him away, and he’s pulling you right back. He’s plucking you like the strings of his guitar. His palm circles on your clit and you bite your tongue to stop your wails. He still hears the moans coming up through your throat. Feeble and weak angel whines. His pinky with his chunky ring lies on the crevice between your thigh and labia. 

   A finger turns into two and you feel stuffed. Long and wide fingers swirl in your walls, your stomach twists and the pressure builds. You can feel his length growing harder on your tailbone. He gyrates his hips against you, stifling his own arousal. You such in a breath at how big he feels. You keep stiff with fear. How is he going to fit in such a small space? His fingers keep you dazed. 

   “I’ll treat you good, honey.”

   He kisses the side of your open lips. Your brows are furrowed, and your eyes are shut tight. 

   “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

   He pauses his moving fingers at a slow pace. Making you mewl. Your pleasure is delayed. He spreads his fingers out, feeling your velvet walls expand. Your back arches and he smiles. 

   “Unless you want me to.”

   He breathes heavily on your soft skin. Your insides become on fire. He curls his fingers and you’re whimpering. His hand is dripping with your arousal. 

   “Wish I could’ve had you back in January. Back of ol’ Sullivan's dressin’ room.”

   You remember it in perfect detail. You wore a lacy little black thing, just asking for a bruising. That was the day everything shifted. You stuck your manicured claws in him. He’s thought about you, fucked his hand on those lonesome nights every day. Since the Big D’ Jamboree in ‘55 and the Corpus Christi’s Memorial Coliseum in ‘56 and everything in between. He looked forward to seeing you every show. Every show you went to felt like he did phenomenal in it. His little lucky charm, his angel. 

   Your breath hitches. He’s wanted you since then. He wants you now. You mean something to him. You were special, not one of the girls he uses as a distraction because he needed the distraction from you. As he works you closer to your peak, you heave. He moves those extensive fingers deeper and kisses your cheek longer. 

   “Let go, baby.”

   Those three paltry words made your body tingle and spasm. Light and heavy at the same time. You moan loudly, and he continues to push you higher. You open your eyes and you think you see God, but as they focus, you see a man in a red robe grinning like the devil incarnate. He peppers your face in kisses, letting you lay there and take whatever he gives you. 

   “Look at the mess you’ve made, sweetheart.”

   You look down and you see the blanket has a huge black spot down your legs. You blush instantly. He smiles and you can feel his sharp teeth on your jaw. He slips his hand out of your panties, tracing shapes on your bare stomach. 

   “You’re evil.”

   You swallow thickly, batting your pretty eyes. He narrows his eyes, shaking his head. 

   “I can show you what evil really is.”

   He lifts to sit up straight, and before you can process what’s happening. He brings you over his lap. Flipping his now damp shirt around your waist. You yelp, eyes going wide as saucers. Your face is shoved into the expensive duvet, and you’re surprised to see the end of Casablanca. He traces over the middle of your panties where it’s absolutely drenched. Middle and index running through your covered folds. You squirm from the sensitivity and he places his hand flat on your back, pushing your front down farther. 

   “Don’t make me mad.”

   You bite your cheek down hard to keep a scream down. Your skin burns and you’re sweating like a slut in a whorehouse. 

   “I’ll make your ass seven shades of red, honey.”

   He says honey in such a degrading way that your pussy clenches around nothing and new darkness appears where his fingers are tracing. Your once-white panties are now a dark gray. 

   “Lord.” 

   He wills God above to give him the strength to not push your head down and fuck you into the bed. He can’t make love to you. You’re not the type for tender loving. You need a good old fashion fucking to get that whore tendency out of your system. He takes both of his fingers on each hand to tuck under the band and slide the fabric down your pretty legs. He tucks the article into the breast pocket of his robe for safekeeping. He sucks in a sharp breath, whistling lowly. He watches your thighs shine from your slick. You shiver from the cold air rushing to your core. He looks to the ceiling, watching your form wiggle in his lap. His meaty thigh pulls you apart, you sink your nails into his other. He groped the globes of your ass. Grasping then smoothing out your skin, spreading them apart to see your puckered ass then pinch. He smirks as you jump. 

   “Say that you’re sorry.”

   He says deeply under his breath. 

   “For what?”

   You whimper, pushing your head deep into the covers. 

   “For your teasin’”

   Before your bottom lip trembles, he raises his hand and barrels it down. He’s mesmerized by the ripple of your skin. The sound of your ass being whipped is loud and you jerk up. With your back arching and a high moan. He soothes your bruise. Your blood rushes. 

   “Say it.”

   His cock is pressed to the side of your stomach, you can feel him throb whenever he clenches his hands on your ass. Tears well up in your eyes. You won’t suffice for his pleasures. He’s teased you more than anything you’ve ever done to him. 

   “No.”

   He spanks you harder. You kick up your legs, but he just pushes them back down. He spanks you harder, his jaw is clenched. How much of a spoiled brat you are is making him angry. He spanks you once more on the same cheek. His ring, the symbol of his status, makes itself known on your ass. Like branding, you’re his property now and you do as he says, but what if you don’t? 

   “No?”

   You pause at his question, and you quickly nod. Affirming your doom. Tears slip down your cheeks. He grabs your hips, making you sit on his thigh like a little girl on her daddy’s lap. It’s much thicker than you thought. Your mind is boggled trying to figure out how he gets himself in those skinny suits. 

   You bow your head, not daring to look in his eyes. You cross your arms over your chest as you cry quietly. He clutched your waist, pulling you to his chest. You lay your burning head on his shoulder. You don’t know why you’re crying or why you’re horny, but that’s the thing about Elvis. Nothing makes any sense with him. His hands roam your back, as your heat spreads along his thigh. He kisses the side of your head. 

   “You did well.”

   Another to your forehead. 

   “I’ll teach you how to be better.”

   He grabs your jaw and makes you look into his dark eyes. His pupils are dilated. His eyes flick across your face for a trace of you. Your face is red, and your eyes are blurry. Tracks of old tears tread with new ones. His cock twitches. He’s turned you brain-dead. You poor thing. 

   “Okay?”

   And you nod. 

   “Okay.”

  He smiles, that familiar grin. He pushed your cheeks together with his fingers, making your lips pucker. He kisses you. His plush lips morph to yours. Those satin clouds. It’s different from the ones he gives to fans. This is passionate and meaningful, a promise of sanctuary. His hand moves to cup the side of your neck. Your small hands hold on to the lapels of his robe. You experience him. His tongue licks its way into your mouth. Tongue tying with yours. He’s mapping out your mouth. You’re too shy to put up a fight, so he asserts himself to take over. His hand drops to match his other on your hips. He guides your hips to drag along his knee. Up to his hip on his bare skin. The more you grind, the wetter his leg becomes. You tilt your head back, finally being able to breathe. 

   “Elvis, please.”

   You moan loudly. He licks his swollen lips as he stares at your pussy, thighs wrapping around him. Your tits trying to free themselves from his shirt. His stomach churns. 

   “Tell daddy what you want, little one.”

   He mouths at your jaw, guiding your hips back and forth. 

   “He can give you anythin’ your pretty little head can wish for.”

   You can’t think as you can feel your second orgasm coming rapidly. He kicks up his leg to see you bounce. Your eyes widen and you squeak. Grabbing onto his shoulders. 

   “I want you.”

   He shakes his head, black hair swaying. 

   “You’re too vague, little one.”

   You take a deep breath in and close your eyes. 

   “Your cock.”

   His breath shutters and his eyes roll back. There it is, little miss innocent becoming his dirty girl. Just for him and him only. 

   “What do good girls say?”

   “Please.”

   You spit out immediately, and he nods. He helps you swing your leg over his hips. He makes you turn around, so your back is to his chest. You laugh quietly as none other than Elvis’ Love Me Tender plays in the small square. He kisses the side of your neck. Your legs are bent at the knees, sat onto his lap. Both of his hands run up your sides to your breasts. He groped you through the fabric. Your nipples are being played with his fingers. 

   “You.”

   Kiss on the shoulder. 

   “Make.”

   On your jaw. 

   “Me.”

   Cheek. 

   “Crazy.”

   He bites the shell of your ear. He lifts you up, and unties his sash around his stomach. Grabbing the shaft of his erection he angles it to your entrance. The crown punctures you. Your hands shoot out to his. Your grasp is tight. 

   “Elvis!”

   He shakes his head in disbelief at how tight you are and how much wetter you’re becoming and then it clicks. You being nervous about his touches, how complicated you were tonight. 

   “Oh.” 

   He whispers against your hair. Elvis has done many things, but popping a girl's cherry was new. It only made him harder. 

   He pushed his head back with a thump as he watched you in the mirrors sink down his girth. 

   “I-I’m sorry I can’t.”

  You start to lift back off his length. He grabs your hips and thrusts up into you. 

   “You will.”

   He murmurs at the ceiling. He swallows thickly, straining himself to not just fuck you into tomorrow. Your face is pushed into agony. He pushes his hips off the bed to fill you up completely. You sob out his name, a silent prayer. He wraps his arms around your torso, pulling you back to his chest. He holds you there as he fucks up into you. His hips smacked up into your ass with a wet squelch. Your mouth falls open, and your eyes roll back. He huffs with each deadly thrust. He can feel your walls tighten around him and then release. He’s going to go insane over your hole. 

   “‘M gon’ make you have my kid.”

   Your calves crush his hips at the thought of him filling you up. One of his hands pushes at your abdomen. 

   “‘Gon’ make you swell. Make you need me.”

   He speaks incoherently. Voice dropping to the low rumble that you heard in the shower. You understood enough that you would not walk out of this room without being pregnant. Shot after shot, your body cries. You can’t take the abuse of your cervix anymore. You cry out for him to slow and he wants to. He doesn’t enjoy seeing his girl in pain, but the thing is. 

   He can’t. 

   Your pussy has been the only thing he’s had in a very long time, and he doesn’t have the strength to walk away. He watches you cry in the mirrors. Watch you bounce on his lap. A soft clap is his favorite drum. His finger goes around to your clit and he has you seeing stars. Your legs kick out and the position makes him go deeper. Now you’re sitting, he’s stopped pounding himself into you. His hot cum fills you to the brim. It spills out from your channels onto his lap. 

   “Gon’ make you my princess.”

   He’s plugging you up at this point. You can’t even feel your orgasm as it crashes through you. You’re passed out on his chest. 

   “You promise?”

   Your head is in a castle with your king who’s slaying dragons. You ask it delicately, barely even there. 

   “I promise you the world, little one.”

   Your face is red with sweat. He’s a bright shade of pink. Hair slicked back with sweat. He blinks hazily at the ceiling, watching you sleep. He kicks up the now-soiled duvet to cover you. He smoothed your hair from your forehead, to kiss your hairline. He breathes heavily and watches the last bit of his movie play. He watches himself get betrayed and die. Laughing softly, it was such a silly ending. He just hopes the next movie isn’t such a piece of work and that you’ll be on set. You stir and observe him. 

   “You’re coming to my show ‘marrow?”

   He asks, but he's essentially telling you that you're going without giving you a choice. You mumble an ‘mhm.’ He smiles, dozing off while listening to you snore. Dreaming of a bright future with you. 

_______

It’s been a month since your encounter with Elvis. Two things have happened since then. Your newest article has blasted into space, with people reading and supporting your choices. Second, you’ve had multiple more encounters with the king. His promise of making you into his princess has come true. You didn’t know how he manages to sway The Colonel into allowing him to continue your little alliance. However, you’re cleaning your shared home in Memphis. Nursing a growing babe in your stomach. You were worried that he’d lose interest since you were showing, but it seemed that it made him want you more. You watch him at the new gates that had just been installed. Signing autographs and saying and meeting new folks. You begged him to allow you to go with him, but he told you that your leisure and his kid were more important. So here you were, dusting the big window arches. You watch him bid farewell and walk back to the enormous doors with a paper in hand. He takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his black dress shirt. The one you wore a month ago has become his favorite. He finds you in the lavish black sundress he bought you. He made you match him every day, sometimes he listened to your fashion. Most times he picked out what he wanted you to wear. He finds you in the living room with a duster in hand. Pretty little maid. He leans on the banister with his forearm. 

   “A night with Elvis?”

   He shakes his head. Clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth. Wading up the paper, the way you do to discipline something. He tilts his head to the side, curious. 

   “Thought I told you, that you don’ need to write anymore when I’m supportin’ you.”

   He looks at his watch that you picked out. Your face drops. You panic, pleading that it was a mistake that you wrote it. (In all honesty, you thought it would be a one-night stand.) 

   “I didn’t mean anything from it. Elvis, please!”

   He counts the minutes on his watch. Not caring about your begging. It’s quiet and you’re confused as to why he’s just listening and not talking. Is he mad? Upset? You can’t read him when he’s quiet. 

   “I’d start runnin’ doll.”

   It clicks in your mind that he’s giving you a head run from him. He often gave you a head start. He was fair even when he knew he’d always win. You drop the duster. Breathing heavily and racing across the house with bare feet. He’s hunting you with a rolled-up paper with your article on the front page. He has a motive. The only thing you can think about is the fact that you’re going to be incapable of walking straight for the next few days. 

[misscheavus]

(( CELESTIAL ))

WE WERE MADE TO BE // NOTHING MORE THAN THIS // FINDING MAGIC IN ALL THE SMALLEST THINGS

Pairing: Lusher Lee x GN!Reader

Warnings: None :]

Length: 1,070+ words

This is a work of fiction and is in no way a reflection, description or depiction of any person(s) in real life. Images and names are merely used as placeholders in this work. You are responsible for the media that you consume.

Your eyes are barely open; the drama you’d put on to try and keep awake unfortunately becomes a great source of white noise for your brain to switch off to. Your phone rests at the tips of your fingertips, just barely clinging to the device as you fight to wait up for your girlfriend.

You know she’d texted you hours ago, letting you know that her dance practice would definitely be going overtime and for you to go to bed first… but yet here you were. Your eyelids droop as you check the time, your brain unable to properly read the numbers on the dimmed screen, eyes unfocused; but able to focus enough on your wallpaper – a beautiful candid shot of your girlfriend from a few months ago. Maybe… maybe five minutes of sleep wouldn’t hurt… right? She did tell you not to wait up for her… and it's not like you wouldn't hear her come in from where you are... Your body slumps against the plush fabric of the couch, phone quietly falling onto the carpet as you succumb to the warm embrace of sleep before you can even try to convince yourself for the seventh time not to.

Lusher enters your shared apartment quietly, assuming that by this hour of the morning, you’d definitely be asleep. She quickly toes off her shoes, stepping into her house slippers and letting her dance bag fall to the hallway floor with a dull ‘thud’. She could deal with her mess at a more appropriate hour of the day. Pulling her thick coat off and hanging it on the wall, Lusher is mentally prepared to see you all snuggled up in the blankets, looking so cute and peaceful as you rest... so she almost jumps out of her skin when she sees your figure slouched over on the couch, illuminated by the TV light.

Her hand rests over her heart, trying to calm herself as she stares at your unconscious body. “Honey?” Lusher whispers, creeping around to the front of the couch. You were fast asleep, neck bent uncomfortably as you curled into yourself, phone face down on the floor. Lusher holds back a squeal as she bends in front of you. You were still so, so cute to the woman crouched in front of your fast-asleep figure. As much as Lusher would love to leave you to get some well-deserved rest, she knows that if you stay like this any longer, your neck will be so sore tomorrow. The dancer gently shakes your shoulder, sighing as you mumble in your sleep, but don’t fully wake.

“Bub?"

No response.

She places a hand on your bicep, squeezing gently before stroking your arm. "Hey, pretty baby… c’mon, I’m home… let’s go to bed, hmm?” She whispers again, watching your eyelids flicker as you slowly wake. You whine, yawning before stretching out a little.

“Seoyoung?” You whisper softly, eyes still closed. Her hands come to cup your cheeks, giggling as you nuzzle into her warm touch.

“G’morning, pretty thing… I told you not to wait up for me…” Lusher murmurs, watching you stretch out once more, struggling to open your eyes.

“Mmmm… missed you. Don’t like going to bed without you…” you mumbled, eyes finally opening.

You blink once. Twice. Squinting a little at the woman in front of you. You shake your head, trying to figure out if your brain is really awake or not. Lusher smiles, cooing over how squishy you look between her palms.

“You…” Lusher hums as you don’t finish your thought, tilting her head and smiling cutely, her eyes forming those crescent moons that have your heart fluttering. Your hand comes up to her face, moving her curtain bangs away from her pretty face.

“You dyed your hair?”

Lusher laughs softly, stroking your cheek with a type of affection only you bring out of her. “Mhm… earlier this morning before I went to practice. Wanted to surprise you. You like?” She giggles at you. You look lovestruck, eyes glassy as you stroke her hair, twirling her now cool-toned grey strands between your fingers.

“You’re so pretty… Seoyoung’s so pretty…my pretty girlfriend is so... pretty.”

Lusher laughs cutely at your praise, gently propping her arms under yours, and lifting you to a sitting position.

“C’mere, hun. Let’s get you to bed, hmm?”

Your eyes are half-lidded as you look up at her, whining as she moves you but nodding nonetheless. You finally make it to your feet, stumbling forward and wrapping your arms around your girlfriend. Together, the two of you waddle into your shared bedroom. Lusher walks you back until your legs hit the mattress. She reaches around and pulls the sheets back, before tucking you in.

“I’ll be five minutes, okay, bub? Gonna have a shower and get changed.” She kisses your forehead before racing into your ensuite.

You whine at her absence and hear her giggle carry throughout the room. A fuzzy, warm feeling envelops your body as you snuggle into the pillows, surrounded by a mix of Lusher’s perfume and shampoo.

The shower stops running, and it’s only then you realise you must’ve dozed off. Before you can process it, your girlfriend reappears in the room, looking so cozy and cute, newly dyed hair pulled up into a half-hearted bun.

“You look so comfy, hun. Scoot over, lemme cuddle you.” You throw open the sheets, whining again at the cool air that hits your skin, before immediately being sated as Lusher slides in next to you and drags the covers back over the two of you. Pulled into her arms, she peppers your face with kisses, giggling. “You’re so cute. I missed you today.”

You smile at her words, cuddling into her embrace; trying to convey that you felt the same way, but your brain is so sleepy that no words come to mind. But she knows… you know she knows.

“I love you, baby…” you slur out almost incomprehensibly, but you must make enough sense to Lusher, as you can feel her lips curl into a smile on your skin. Her hands slip under your pyjamas, tracing little hearts on your back and cooing as your eyes start to droop once more.

She kisses your temple, feeling you relax in her arms and whispers back, “I love you too. Goodnight, honey.”

[adoringhrry]

New Parents

Notes: I wrote this based off of a TikTok my mother sent me lol. Also imagine Harry in like mid-2022!

Dad!harry<3

They say children, when you have them, will become the best things in your life. You endure a few minutes of pain to spend a lifetime of happiness with someone who’s a product of you and your other half. Your life will hold smiles, laughs and wonderful memories together.

They will have you on the floor, giggling like a crazy person. Spending months creating a room for them to stay in, making sure your home is suitable so they wouldn’t ever get hurt. Going to doctor appointments to hear a heartbeat, shaking your partner awake in the middle of the night to feel their first kick.

Heaven.

“It’s your turn, Harry!” She spoke, turning over and pulling the satin covers over her head.

“Fuck off,” Harry moaned, begrudgingly slapping his hands over his tired eyes. “But it’s your kid.”

“Yours too.”

No one prepared the new parents for the all hours of the night screaming. The sleepless nights created delusions of their mother’s cackles whizzing around their minds. How the hell could someone put up with these little demons?

Harry grumbled a curse under his breath, throwing the covers off his body and standing. His eyes were closed, hoping to get some sort of more shut eye before he’d be up for hours.

Walking with their eyes closed while still half asleep had become a talent of theirs, having to do it so many times within the last three months does that to people. The mapping of their home has become second nature to him, even in the pitch black of the night.

He would need a cup of coffee, desperately.

Screaming echoed from their daughter’s room, increasing with every zombified step he took. This was how it was the last few months, except for the first week.

The first week they brought their daughter Presley home was heaven, it was everything they had heard about. She was a quiet and peaceful little squished face baby, not a single ounce of fuss at all.

Like an excerpt of the bible, on the seventh day all hell broke loose. That was when the screaming started. As much as Y/n loved her wonderful husband, Harry got on her nerves. And the same would go for him, but he was a little better at hiding it.

His bare feet made it into the room, turning to the crib to console Presley. He held her like glass, something that could break if you made a simply wrong move. A high pitched scream shot through his ear and right out the other side of his head, a need to cry as well punching him in the heart.

“Okay Princess, daddy’s here. Shhh, you’re okay.” He soothed, rocking his bundle of love in his arms. Swaying to a gentle unheard rhythm, he willed her to fall back to sleep. “I understand you love me, but daddy needs his sleep. Please” His words were breathy, pleading not only with the infant but with whatever god could hear him.

Sadly, Presley’s love for her father overpowered his wishes of sleep. Screams and whines continued to pour from the infant's mouth, seemingly for hours.

It only took a few minutes of the gut wrenching noise for Y/n to clamor out of her bed and join her husband. Standing in just black boxers and a white tee with tousled hair, he still looked good enough to bite. Here’s to another sleepless night, she thought.

“Babe, give me her and let's go get some coffee.” She spoke slowly, reaching for the bundle held with his large arms.

“Coffee?” He asked, sleep evident in his husky voice.

Coffee was a safe haven in their home now. Harry wasn’t proud of it, though. He loved to pride himself on only his English breakfast tea and baby-chinos on the off chance he got coffee. He wasn’t a coffee drinker. Well, he didn’t used to be a coffee drinker.

Y/n hummed and grasped onto her daughter gently. She stepped aside so he could shuffle past, rolling her eyes as he hoisted his under pants up and burped on his way out.

“We need a bath.” She pointed out to the wiggling little monster in her arms. “You need to sleep.”

It had been almost two weeks since she had last had a shower, her own smell couldn’t repulse her anymore. That’s when she just knew it was bad. She probably had vomit in her hair, which itself made her wanna crawl into bed and never leave.

After another moment, Presley stopped screaming. She opened her eyes and peered up at her mother, chubby cheeks giving her a permanent fake-grumpy face. They decided to go join Harry, the thought of liquid gold the only thing present on Y/n’s mind.

The hallways were covered in ultrasound photographs and in every room were some sort of baby item. It had taken a month to babyproof the whole home with the help of Kid Harpoon and Lizzo.

Y/n walked into the kitchen to find her husband at the island counter, eyes still closed.

She walked over to him to offer a hand. Her steps halted when she made it behind his shoulder, peering down at what her husband was doing.

Using the coffee scooper, he was plopping spoon fulls of baby formula into the coffee maker. Holy shit. A smile crept up her face, which turned into a giggle. And giggling turned into a hysterical laughing fit of delusion.

When Harry opened his eyes and seen what was so funny, he himself started laughing. It had to have been the no sleep, but this was the funiest thing in the whole world.

Presley was confused as to what was happening, though. Both of her parents were laughing at seemingly nothing, slowly going mad.

[lya-dustin]

All is bliss

Chapter 22

Warnings: description of a hangover,vomit, implied attempted murder, mentions of pregnancy and menstruation, death, ghosts

Taglist:@mercedesdecorazon @aemondx @darylandbethfanforever9 @sweethoneyblossom1 @ewanmitchellcrumbs @watercolorskyy

Gif by @maggie-stormborn

The last thing he remembers is thinking the wine tasted wrong.

Before he could say anything, everything slowed down and no noise left his mouth as his tongue felt thick and numb.

Now he is awake in a strange room with a hangover from hell and his eye on a clean handkerchief on the nightstand.

Aemond struggles to sit up and barely registers himself in a nightshirt and, thankfully, his own underpants.

He hardly indulges this much, the last time he got this drunk he had woken up to Jena fresh as a daisy teasing him for being such a lightweight.

The prince hardly reaches the chamber pot before the wine repeats itself.

“There, there, brother, let it out.” Helaena’s hands are cool on his forehead and talks to him like he was a baby and not a man grown.

In his confusion he almost calls her mother.

“Where am I?” he asks, leaning on her for comfort as she wipes his mouth and continues to fuzz over him.

“Why, you are in Dragonstone. Sea Dragon Tower, to be exact.” Hel answers and has her attendants call the maester, and worse, Aemma.

“How did I get here?” he asks wincing at his own words.

He’s never drinking again, Aemond tells himself as he shuts his eye to stop the nausea and pain the light causes.

He is smelly and still struggling to even sit, yet he is fine.

A relief because whatever they put in the wine had him unconscious for the entire night and even most of the next morning.

“How in the seventh hell did I end up here, Aemee?” he asks after he has been seen to by Gerardys and given a fortifying hair of the dog.

“Do you remember the wine and how I told you Storm’s End was a trap?” she asks, hoping he does not remember the slight hinting to her pregnancy before that.

After he had fainted from the sweetsleep laced wine, Aemma had tried her best to get him to wake up. Somehow she had gotten him onto her bed and went as far as to throw water at his face to get him to wake up.

He had mumbled in his sleep, turned on his side and began to snore.

Had that not been a trap set to capture her, Aemma would have just left him in Storm’s End.

It was Baela’s idea to take him with them as both a hostage and in case Baratheon had meant to kill her with a wrong dose of sweetsleep.

Baela who helped her roll him into the sheet and convinced a half asleep Joffrey into carrying him to the courtyard through the servants corridors.

How they weren’t caught is a mystery she doesn’t care to find out.

Even worse, how Aemond survived being chained like luggage on her dragon all the way here, is something she has no way to explain.

“Where’s Vhagar?” he asks once she is done with the strange tale of how they kidnapped him.

“The Dragonmont or the beach near it, she was seen trying to entice the Cannibal away from Meleys, mating season has yet to end this year and she is making up for lost time by the looks of it.” She answered placing the cold cloth on his forehead, they were alone and with no audience the queen was free to sit at his bedside despite his smell making her nauseous. “She followed us here, was very annoyed with me until we un-swaddled you and she saw you were fine. When you didn’t wake, we feared you were dead or getting there.”

“Hmm. I suppose I can forgive that. You were only seeking to protect yourself ---” He said as if she had asked for forgiveness and then added as he moved his hand to her flat belly “ ---and our little one.”

She could lie and said she made it up to get Borros’ attention.

But she doesn’t.

Instead the young queen placed her hand over his.

Had been a fortnight since she had seen him let alone touched him.

Just having his hand on the low part of her stomach had her feeling butterflies.

“That is why you went there, to tell me.” He concludes despite how out of sorts he is.

“No one else knows, not even Gerardys. He believes my monthlies did not come from the grief.” Aemma confessed knowing it won’t be long before her delicate condition is discovered. “If anyone deserves to know first, it should be you.”

And after telling him that she was supposed to end things because she doesn’t want Cassandra to be hurt by their affair nor their child hurt by the Baratheons.

Cass was her father’s daughter, even if Maris was his favorite.

Cassandra was humiliated, and her family insulted so much they had to send Joff to Wyl and start with plan b, but she will recover from that.

She was young, pretty and anyone would be lucky to have the eight and ten year old girl as a bride, but thank the gods she is not Aemond’s wife.

Aemma couldn’t bear it if he belonged to someone else.

“That way I know why you wished to end things. To keep our child safe from them.” He concludes, his hand still on her stomach tracing circles with his thumb.

That was one of the reasons, but Aemond has never really cared about anyone beyond a handful of people.

“And now I am your hostage.” He drops his hand from her stomach, but keeps it on her knee as if she might disappear if he doesn’t touch her.

If he didn’t smell slightly of vomit, she would have gotten into bed with him.

It has been so long since she has felt safe and loved and comforted.

“I prefer honored guest.” She said just because he’d give a sensible chuckle at her words. “Hostage implies you’d be chained to a bed or thrown in the cells to rot.”

“I wouldn’t mind being chained to your bed.” He supplies with the smallest hint of a smirk. “Would make us even, come to think of it.”

Aemma feels her face heat up remembering with great fondness that time he tied her up in his bed.

“If you weren’t hungover, it would take more than my duties to get me out of your bed, dearest one.”

“Fear not, I am not dead.

Had I not gone to her rooms to give her my condolences for my sister’s passing, it is possible that my dear niece would have been the victim of a miscalculation in how much sweetsleep was needed to sedate her.

Fearing that had been an attempt on her life and I had been victim to it, she and her companions, the Lady Baela and Ser Joffrey Arryn, smuggled me out of the keep onto her dragon and brought me to Dragonstone.

Maester Gerardys confirmed the dose had been wrong and had she drank the wine, she would have died given the dose was too great for a woman of her measurements.

Save for the aftereffects of consuming such concoction, I am well and treated with all respect due to my station by my hosts.

I would leave, but Vhagar has been caught up in the last legs of this year’s mating season and until it is over, I am the Queen’s honored guest.

Given it has been seven years since Vhagar has coiled with any male dragons, it may be she is making up for lost time and I expect a sizable clutch of eggs to excuse her odd behavior.

From what I have been told, Lord Baratheon is far too busy with the Vulture King encroaching on his lands to join either side.

After violating the guest right by giving his royal kinswoman tainted wine, I have decided that my betrothal to his daughter, the Lady Cassandra, should be broken.

If you wish to wed Daeron to his younger daughters, I will not stop you, but do warn my younger brother to pass on any wine brought to his chambers or at least have the servant taste it first.

Your son,

Aemond Targaryen.

Postscript: send me my clothing, I cannot stand to be dressed in Daemon’s hand-me downs.”

Had Alicent not been forewarned by Alys that night, she would have been shocked.

She is shocked at how unbothered he is, however.

“The king has called for the council to meet, he has gotten the little queen’s list of demands.” Alys interrupts, coming with a dress for her to wear in her arms.

When the queen arrived to the Throne Room whatever had happened had been over, or came to an end when Aegon himself took her father’s brooch off his lapel and gave it to Ser Criston.

“My new Hand is a steel fist,” he boasted, angry and eyes red with drink. “We are done with writing letters.”

Ser Criston wasted no time in proving his mettle. His face growing harder as he clutched the brooch in his palm.

“It is not for you to plead for support from your lords, like a beggar pleading for alms,” he advised Aegon. “You are the lawful king of Westeros, and those who deny it are traitors. It is past time they learned the price of treason.”

“And if they kill your brother? Have you thought about that, my son?” Alicent asked knowing the answer and hoping it will be different.

“My whore of a wife is in love with him, she would never hurt him. Why do you think she stopped his wedding, mother?” Aegon laughed bitterly.

Why couldn’t she love me, it said.

“Send for the High Septon, have him end my marriage on the grounds of adultery.” He orders and the queen is the only one to stand against him.

“No. You need an heir now more than ever, once she gives you a son, you may expose her and send her away. I only ask that you think this through, Aegon.” She said buying the girl time.

Alys said she was with child at the last supper, that child is the only thing that assures this war will end soon and not let Aegon sacrifice his brother to get to his wife.

Aenys, she had said the babe would be named.

Until Aenys Targaryen is born, Aemma and Aemond are safe.

The next morning, Alicent sees Helaena, Aemond and Daeron in the pile of headless servants, knights and nobles Criston had executed in his first hour as Hand of the King.

“You knew what would happen when you made him king, Alicent, and you did it anyways.” A young Rhaenyra says over her shoulder as she holds a crying babe in her arms.

When Alicent turns the ghosts are gone and the bodies stop being those of her children and granddaughter.

"Now you shall pay the cost."

[scarletttries]

You Are In Love (Eddie Munson x Reader series)

Part Seven: You keep his shirt, He keeps his word

Pairing: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things) x F! Reader

Tags: There is an extended description of making out in this chapter, but nothing too NSFW as I am still keeping this series very fluffy :)

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's Note: This is the seventh part of an Eddie Munson series inspired by Taylor Swift's "You Are In Love". Links for other parts on my Eddie Munson Masterlist :) As always please feel free to send me thoughts and headcanons for Eddie Munson or any of the characters in this post <3

You keep his shirt, He keeps his word

While the phrase 'when it rains, it pours' is usually used as a metaphor for something deeper, in Hawkins it could be taken very literally. The clouds above the dusky town rarely watered the ground below, but when it had gone too long without rain and they decided to grant respite from the stifling humidity, the heavens well and truly opened.

"I can run to the van and pick you up from here." Eddie pleaded, the two of you hunched under the concrete awning outside the school entrance, surrounded by seemingly every high school student in town.

"Everyone'll be doing that, it take forever and then we'll barely have any time together before family dinner." You protested, watching heroic friends venture out into the torrential waters, soaked to the bone long before they reached their cars. "We'll just make a run for it, we can dry off when we get to yours." You nodded firmly, grabbing Eddie's hand and squeezing it tightly, trying not to resent him just a little for parking in the furthest possible spot from the entrance. He returned your nod, and readied himself,

"3,2.." You took off at top speed, immediately losing your footing on the soaked ground, Eddie's firm grip the only thing stopping you from taking a painful tumble. You both slowed to a jog, feeling the pelting rain run across every inch of your skin, your clothes stuck to you before long, Eddie's hair plastered down his face in a blinding mess. You shrieked as your foot plunged into a puddle, the aching cold creeping up your sock and taking any small morsel of warmth left in your body with it.

"Almost there sweetheart." Eddie called out, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of the relentless drops pummeling car hoods and a few other brave souls who had followed your lead across the lot. With the van in sight Eddie released your hand, sprinting just ahead of you and ripping the door open at the last second using his free arm to bundle you inside and slamming the door shut before disappearing back into the rain. The droplets bouncing off the windshield made it impossible to make out his dark shape amongst the storm, feeling yourself jump a little as the driver side door flew open and the near-drowned metalhead took his seat beside you. You both sat in silence for a moment as the van juddered to life, drenched to the bone and shivering in your seats. You looked over at Eddie as he tried to brush the hair out of his eyes, only worsening the state of his locks, wiping the water away from his face, and couldn't stop the laughter that escaped your lungs. Eddie grinned, glancing your way and taking in a similarly sorry picture of you dripping onto your seatbelt. Leaning over, he fought the chattering in his teeth the best he could to land a soft kiss on your forehead before turning his wipers all the way up,

"Let's get you home princess."

---

By the time you burst through the trailer door, freshly soaked from leaving the van, you could feel the cold damp penetrating every part of your body. The drive had felt like an eternity in the slow flooding traffic, and you were eternally grateful that the little trailer seemed to have been kept warm for your return. With Wayne absent from the shared home, Eddie took your frozen hand in his, leading you to his room and pulling open his drawers.

"I can put your clothes in the drier if you want to borrow something for a while?" He offered, pulling out a bundle of fabric he couldn't help but feel excited to see you in. Spinning around and fumbling in his closet he pulled out a towel too, leaving you to make yourself at home and get dried up in the trailer's little bathroom. Peeling off your soaked jeans felt like trying to escape a straight-jacket, every stitch of sodden material tightly clinging to your goose bump covered skin. Finally free from your icy uniform you wrapped the towel around you, holding up Eddie's offerings; A black band t-shirt, in better condition than a lot of his others so clearly one he cared for, and a pair of navy boxer shorts, loose enough to maintain a suitable amount of your modesty. It felt strangely intimate slipping into his clothes, his musk encompassing you with revitalising warmth as you brought the collar of his shirt to your nose. You gave yourself a final once over with the towel before using it to scoop up your hastily shed garments and throw them in the drier.

As you returned to Eddie's room you found the door only slightly ajar, pulled to while Eddie got changed himself, his own insecurities playing on his mind as you knocked gently,

"Can I come in?" you asked softly through the door, feeling a nervous stirring in your stomach as Eddie slowly opened the door, the air suddenly thick with more than the rain and humidity,

"Sorry, yeah, I was just..." Eddie trailed off, forming words seemingly impossible in the presence of your beauty. You've always been beautiful to Eddie, but the sight of you in his shirt and shorts, still damp from the rain and stepping into his bedroom, was something he couldn't have ever prepared himself for. His heart raced like it was his first time asking you out again, gulping nervously as he watched your gaze rake over his bare chest, black sweatpants replacing his own soaked jeans.

"I'd ask how I look but it can't be as good as you." You teased with a smile, snapping Eddie out of his clearly gormless trance.

"You look perfect." He said softly, finally understanding why Harrington liked it so much when a girl stole his clothes, before forcing himself to separate from you. "One second!" He shouted nervously as he pulled his own wet clothes off the floor, dashing to turn the dryer on and pausing to take a dramatic deep breath, trying to settle himself even slightly before rejoining you. It felt like his brain was entirely clouded with thoughts of you, his heart aching to bring his body close to yours, desperate to run his hands over the soft form beneath the shirt he now hoped would always be yours. As he forced himself to take deliberate steps back to his room he could hear his heart hammering in his ears, the potential of the situation starting to tighten in his chest as he pulled the bedroom door shut behind him.

He found you sat stiffly on top of his bed, the icy chill of the rain leaving you shivering even in the warmth of his little room. Eddie felt uncharacteristically uncertain as he pulled back the corner of the duvet,

"You can get in if you want. You're shivering.." He added, desperately not wanting to make you anything other than comfortable, sure you wouldn't be feeling the same aching need for touch that this situation was stirring in him. You nodded and wriggled your way under the sheets, sensing Eddie's unease and trying to reassure him with a playful smile,

"Can I tempt you to join me?" He laughed as you patted the bed beside you, feeling his nerves release a little as he spoke seriously,

"Well only because you're clearly very cold. No other reason." He shook his head as he stepped around the bed pausing at its foot and picking up the duvet entirely. He draped it over his shoulders like a cape worthy of the greatest hero before launching himself forwards. Setting a knee either side of your legs, Eddie leant forward until he was resting on his elbows, his chest hovering half a foot above yours, threatening to envelop you in his comforting embrace. His eyes looked a little wide as he took in his newfound proximity, the reality of his manoeuvre not clearly thought through.

"Is this too close?" He said softly, lifting his face slightly to take in your expression. You watched his muscles twitch, the sweet man above you trembling far worse than he had in the icy rain, his respectful distance usually not crossing any further than a sweet kiss or a warm hug. But in the confines of his bedding, the lure of his lips, his bare chest, his almost dripping hair felt inescapable, your stomach bubbling with warmth at the possibilities. The tip of your nose grazed his as you leant closer, wrapping one arm over his waist while the other hand brushed wet hair free of his face before setting at the nape of his neck.

"Not close enough." You whispered, using your leverage to pull Eddie's chest flush with yours, your lips capturing his in the same movement. His skin seemed to burn against you, every inch of you thawing as his lips moved against yours hungrily, all sense of caution thrown to the howling arctic wind. His trembling hands hovered close to your waist, eager to feel more of you, but instead they planted firmly allowing Eddie to lift himself off you momentarily,

"Just. one. second." He mumbled quietly to your confused expression, playing with the buttons on his cheap plastic watch before tossing it onto the floor beside him. "Better." He beamed, eagerly crashing his lips back on yours, grip finally encompassing your curves, his hold on your waist allowing him to pull you closer against his chest, the cold of the world outside long forgotten and replaced with a cosy, loving warmth.

You let your nails run along the back of Eddie's neck, feeling the deep hollow echo in his chest of an almost released moan. You smiled at the vibrations each of your gentle brushes drew from him, the way his body moved against yours, the tense reaction of his muscles to your tongue finding his. Eddie felt electricity emanate from every place your skin met his, so starved of affectionate touch he felt almost drunk from the contact, sinking deeper into your waters with every quick breath he drew before returning to your kiss, needing it more than the oxygen in his lungs.

Between his kiss and his touch and the homely scent drifting off his bedding, you felt completely and truly captivated by Eddie, engulfed in his everything and somehow still needing more. Your mind couldn't help but drift to all the chaste kisses at the end of a night, the respectful distance he usually maintained between you both, and how now that you knew what it felt like to have him all over you, that would almost certainly be a thing of the past. Gently placing a hand on his shoulder you pushed him back slightly, Eddie jumping away at the touch, assuming he'd done something wrong as always,

"Are you okay?" He asked nervously, retracting his hands and separating his body from yours, eyes wide, hair a mess, chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to take in a satisfying breath,

"Mhmm, just think I could be warmer." You replied with a smile that bordered on smirking as you used Eddie's retreated position to push him back further, rubbing your thigh over his as you moved to straddle his hips. Worried grimace turned quickly to beaming smile as you leaned over Eddie's chest again, his fingertips dancing along your hips before finally dipping under the hem of your borrowed shirt, the soft feel of your skin heaven in Eddie's strong hands. You struggled to free your lips from his, Eddie needily following yours until finally letting them dip below his jaw, letting a soft trail of kisses begin to form over his throat. You could hear his blissful sighing in your ear, feeling more than a little proud of the deeply content expression spreading across his face, the reaction to your touch noticeable in every part of his body. Everything beyond you and Eddie was long forgotten as you let your hips grind down against his, not sure how you'd managed to resist so much of Eddie for as long as you had. The strangled moan that crept from the bottom of Eddie's chest all the way up his glistening throat was almost loud enough to cover up the sudden beeping that erupted from the rug beside you. The next noise from Eddie was decidedly more disappointed, as he guided you to a seated position beside him and reached to the floor to silence the hastily discarded casio watch.

"I'm sorry sweetheart, as much as I want to stay here with you forever, we've got to go." He groaned, dragging himself out from beneath the duvet before he could convince himself not to. You furrowed your brow at his comment, mind a little empty as he dashed to the kitchen to retrieve your now much drier clothes, setting yours down beside you,

"Come on (y/n), I gave you my word I'd come to your family dinner this week and i'm not about to turn up late or shirtless." Eddie joked, the confidence in his voice betrayed by his slight breathlessness.

"Are you sure? I quite like you shirtless." You teased, collecting up your clothes and heading to the bathroom to change, Eddie calling after you,

"In that case maybe you should keep that shirt, make me more likely to run out?" You smiled at your reflection before you reluctantly removed the metal tee, comforted to know you'd have a piece of Eddie to hold on to after he left your house that night.

---

True to his word Eddie pulled up outside your house five minutes early, his forceful grip on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white as he glanced towards the front door he thought he'd finally stopped being nervous approaching. You placed your hands softly over his, watching his hold loosen as his fingers threaded through yours.

"You know they're going to love you right?" You comforted, watching a flicker of a smile cross his lips before his nervous frown returned.

"You really think so?" He stared intently down at your hands, not wanting to meet your gaze so he could live in ignorance of any well-meaning dishonesty.

"I know so. Because it's really hard not to." You added, planting a soft kiss across his now blushing cheek, and giving his hands a final squeeze before making a move for the door.

"Don't even think about it!" Eddie exclaimed, racing to leave his seat and get to your door from the outside before you could lay a finger on it. As you hopped down and let him shut the door behind you, you gave him a final thought,

"Also, it doesn't really matter what they think, because I already know how I feel about you. So if you don't want to do this, you don't have to." The look you gave him let those feelings go unsaid, the acceptance and understanding you showed him more than Eddie thought he'd ever receive in this small judgemental town. And so he took your hand and began the march to your front door muttering quietly,

"I promised."

It seemed like someone from your family was eagerly watching through the curtain as the door sprung open less than a second after the bell chimed. Before you could make any introductory comments Eddie stretched out his hand, voice calm and confident as he spoke,

"It's nice to finally meet you, I'm Edward Munson."

---

You Are In Love taglist:

@lacrymosa-24 @aftermidnightwriting @fluttergirl1202 @tayhar811 @souls-rain @neewtmas @kimmi-kat @wintrrrsoldier @dylanmunson @sidthedollface2

@eddiemunson95 @mistiatmosphere @singularattitudeofasafetypin @omgsquee2001

[esthermitchell-author]

[Part 5 of 6] "Rescue Me": Being the Story of an Angel, a Demon, and the Second Coming (Fan fiction based on Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett)

Part V: Averting Armageddon, Mark II

AZ Fell and Co. Bookshop, Soho, London -- 1 Week Later

Something was wrong. Crowley smelled the strangeness on the air, even though the day outside looked sunny and warm. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, worrying it between his hands as he battled himself over calling Aziraphale. Last thing he wanted to do was put his angel in danger by calling him if he was around any of the bastards up there who were looking for reasons to hurt him. Still, the strangeness he smelled made him uneasy and anxious.

A throat cleared behind him, and he turned from the window to find Muriel paused several steps away, worrying their hands nervously. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"For Satan's sake, spit it out already."

Muriel flinched, and Crowley reminded himself this angel wasn't used to ignoring his epithets. He would have to watch his mouth -- something he wasn't used to doing. But he'd do anything for Aziraphale's safety.

Sighing heavily, he rubbed his eyes. "All finished?"

"Um... Yes. What are they for?"

Crowley resisted the urge to swear and sighed, instead. He'd set Muriel to the task of blessing the bathtub full of water balloons and plant misters he spent the better part of yesterday filling. After all, best way to destroy a demon was holy water. He'd just have to be careful to stay out of the path of them when the humans got to lobbing and spraying shit around. "They're for the Damned, Muriel. How else you think the lot of you are going to deal with the Legions of Hell?"

Muriel fell silent for a moment, but he knew they hadn't left. He could feel them still hovering silently. He resisted the urge to sigh, this time. "What is it?"

"You sense it too, don't you?" Muriel sounded worried and confused. Nothing unusual, as far as Crowley had paid any attention to.

Then Muriel's words caught up to him, and his attention snapped to them. "What, exactly, are you sensing?"

"I don't know!" Muriel shrank backward, and Crowley barely resisted the urge to swear again as he snagged the dark glasses from the desk beside him and slapped them onto his face. He missed Aziraphale and being able to be himself.

Had his angel really only been gone for a week? It felt like years, and he questioned how he ever survived decades -- never mind centuries -- without his angel's company now that he knew without a single doubt Aziraphale felt the same as him.

Eyes closed behind his dark shades, Crowley tried to calm himself, to tell himself it meant nothing that a former thirty-seventh class scrivener could sense a change he sensed, too. No reason to call Aziraphale, and...

"Fuck it." He pulled up the number for the phone he gave Aziraphale and tapped the call icon.

"The angel at this number isn't taking calls. Leave a message." Crowley's own voice growled back at him, the voicemail he'd set up knowing Aziraphale wouldn't think to. His angel was a lot of wonderful things, but up-to-date on technology wasn't one of those things.

"It's me, angel. Call me back as soon as you can. Something's up."

Tapping the end call icon, Crowley dropped the phone on the desk and hung his head with a heavy sigh, resting his hands against his hips. Where are you, angel?

Aziraphale better be okay, or Crowley would burn Heaven out of existence. Snapping his attention to Muriel, he hissed, "Do you have a radio or television around here, now?"

Muriel swallowed hard, shaking their head.

"N-no." They brightened, then. "But I can go over the road and ask Nina. I believe she does."

Crowley nodded. "Go. Don't come back unless you hear something."

He wanted to be alone, right now, anyway. Well, not really, but if he couldn't have his angel with him, he didn't want anyone around. He could already feel the tremble trying to break loose.

Pacing around the floorspace near Aziraphale's desk, his gaze kept moving between the silent phone on the desk and the darkening sky outside the window. That wasn't normal cloud cover. He knew abnormal weather when he saw it -- he'd created enough of it over the millennia, himself.

A frown pulled at his features as he stared up at the sky and a tingle of celestial energy coursed through him, just before the sun started to fade and darken in a way it should never, ever do.

"Shit. That's not good," he muttered to himself, and instantly wondered if this was Heaven or Hell at work. No way would Aziraphale allow the angelic Host to play with the sun like this, so Crowley figured it was probably Hell. Still, he was left wondering who suggested the idea to them. After all, demons -- as a rule -- didn't have enough imagination amongst the lot of them to power a lightbulb, let alone think of something as catastrophic as putting out the sun.

After all, despite Crowley's erstwhile memos to the contrary, human beings had beat Hell to every truly evil global -- or even regional -- work in history, barring Armageddon -- which Crowley remained convinced reeked more of Heaven's doing than Hell's.

Before his eyes, the clouds started blurring, and he swore he could see the cosmos leaking through into the middle of the daytime.

"Well, that shouldn't be happening," he muttered to himself, wondering if he was just running mad. When he glanced at the people moving about on the street, they weren't reacting to the sky at all, which meant... Was he hallucinating, then?

"Huh. Haven't done that since 1827." He blinked, hoping to clear the vision, but it remained. His frown deepened as his gaze dropped to his mobile phone, still laying silent on the desk. "Where the deuce are you, angel? Why haven't you called me?"

Panic he tried to tell himself he didn't feel clawed at Crowley's insides, and images he was afraid to give in to played through his mind despite his wish. Sometimes, he wondered if God allowed him -- a demon -- to retain his imagination as an added curse for asking so many questions. That imagination sure got him into a steaming pile of trouble more than once over the millennia.

It wasn't being much comfort now, either.

"Mr. Crowley! Mr. Crowley!" The sound of Muriel's voice jerked Crowley's attention from his worried musing, and he instantly looked to his mobile phone, fear he'd missed a call from his angel tearing through him.

Nothing. His eyes closed with anxiety rather than relief. Come on, angel. Call me. Give me a sign you're all right. He was losing his fucking mind, waiting for Aziraphale to call him back. He knew Heaven wasn't kind to his angel.

"What in Satan's name are you running around yelling about, now?" he demanded of Muriel, his irritability bleeding through. He ignored their flinch, this time. Aziraphale could be angry at him for upsetting Muriel, later. At least that would mean his angel was back, safe and sound.

"S-s-sorry, M-Mr. Crowley. I just, you said to only come back if there was something happening. There is."

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, counting backward from ten. He did that a lot, lately. Funny kind of world, that.

"I can see that, Muriel," he gritted out, trying to hold onto his temper. "I have eyes."

"Huh?" Muriel looked perplexed.

"The sun. Sky. Whatever." He waved a hand toward the strange, cosmic-looking clouds and darkening sun outside the window.

Muriel frowned, still looking confused. Satan preserve him, was this angel completely clueless? He watched them squint as they stared out the window, before their gaze came back to him. "Are you feeling all right? I don't see anything."

Crowley frowned, and ripped the shades from his face, wondering if his glasses were playing tricks on him. But no, he could still see the dark sky, riddled with pinpricks of light and swirling with nebula he helped create, so long ago he should have already forgotten them.

He hadn't, though, and they were right before him, now, studding the sky like oddly-shaded clouds, moving slowly across a sun now closing in on grey. His attention flew back to Muriel.

"You're telling me you can't see that? You can't see the nebula in the clouds? Or the dark sun?"

Muriel looked again, before a cheery smile spread over their face. "Nope! Everything looks just the way it always does! Just the way it should!"

The panic he'd kept a tight rein on until now started to climb up Crowley's throat. Why was he hallucinating? He hadn't had anything -- not even alcohol -- in days. He'd been too stressed to do anything but sit or pace right where he was, waiting on contact from Aziraphale. There was nothing else he could do.

He was just reaching for his mobile phone when it suddenly began to ring. He pounced on it immediately, relief rushing through him at the sight of Aziraphale Mobile on the screen. Hitting accept, he shoved it against his ear with a rushed, "Angel. The sky is bloody fucked up."

"Yes, I know." Aziraphale's voice over the phone sounded far away for a moment, then louder as he said, "It's starting. I called Adam. He's on his way to London, along with the others. As soon as they arrive, bring Adam and the dog to the lift. I'll meet you there."

Crowley pulled the phone away from his ear to look at it, frowning, then put it back to his ear. "Let me get this right. You're planning to sneak a demon, a hellhound, and the bloody Antichrist into Heaven?"

"Yes. Now, I must go. I need to call Madame Tracy."

A burst of jealousy flared in Crowley. He wanted to demand Aziraphale stay on the line with him, but instead he managed, "Who the bloody Heaven is Madame Tracy?"

"The lovely woman who let me borrow her body."

"I'm going to ignore that," Crowley quipped, relaxing with a roll of his eyes.

"As you please. She's a more gifted conduit than she believes. I need her to perform a very special task down there. The Legions of Hell will sense Muriel and come there, first."

"You're using them as bait?"

"If you must be so crass, yes. Muriel won't be in any danger."

"Not who I'm worried about being in danger, angel."

"Madame Tracy will be just fine."

"Still not who I'm worried about."

A moment of silence descended, then a huffed-out breath over the line. "Right. I really must go. There's not much time left."

"Right. Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever happens: You're what's made the millennia bearable. I love you."

"Likewise, dear one. Always."

With that, silence filled Crowley's ear and he knew Aziraphale had hung up. Dropping his hands -- one still holding his phone -- to the desktop, he hung his head for a moment as he fought down all the emotions coursing through him.

"What did you have to tell me?" He finally asked of Muriel, whom he sensed still hovering in the background like an anxious puppy.

"It's the news. On the... telly, I think it's called?"

He clenched his hands into fists, listening to the quiet creak of his phone complaining of his grip. "What about it?"

He heard Muriel shifting around. "They... They said there's a h-hurricane in the Middle East. T-they said it's never happened before, and there was a man. He walked out of it? I guess humans don't do that sort of thing?"

Crowley released a bark of laughter. "Walk out of the middle of a bloody hurricane? Not likely, no."

"They're saying he's the Messiah."

That snapped Crowley's attention toward Muriel. "What?"

"The newsman... He said that religious leaders are calling the man from the hurricane the Messiah. How is that possible, Mr. Crowley? Is he the Antichrist?"

Crowley snorted. "Not even. We dealt with that nearly five years ago. You met the bloody Antichrist right here in this shop. Kid with the dog."

Muriel blinked. "A-Adam?"

"That's the one. Turned out to be a half-decent kid, you ask me."

Muriel paled. "Then who...?"

"Not a bloody clue. But I'll bet Michael and that lot will know. Not that I'd go asking them any questions if I were you." He let his head fall back, rolling it against his shoulders to abate the growing tension there. "Take it from me. That lot don't like questions."

******

Tracy Shadwell had left behind her maiden surname along with knee socks and school uniforms, round about the time she turned sixteen. She barely remembered it anymore -- the time or the name. She'd been Madame Tracy -- no surname required -- ever since she learned how easy it was to let others pay her way if she just offered them the chance to natter on to people they thought could hear them on the other side. Other side of what, she'd not believed in until four and a half years ago. She quickly dropped the title, along with the life of her sham Mediumship, and left London with the only man who'd ever been completely honest with her in her life.

He'd been adamant he wouldn't be caught dead living in sin with a reformed witch, so they'd had a hasty ceremony attended by young Newt and his girl, and the families of the children they befriended on that odd venture. Neither she nor her then-fiancé had been all too certain how to -- or indeed if they even should -- invite two supernatural beings to their wedding, and finally decided to just let that sleeping dog lay right where it was.

She'd been quite happy to forget her former life in London, until the day she received the unlikely phone call from Mr. Aziraphale, explaining that it was rather urgent she and her husband come to his bookshop in Soho and that Newt and Anathema would be, in his words "along to convey you to the shop, shortly." She'd admit to anyone who thought to ask how the invitation made her more than a little leery -- especially when Mr. Aziraphale revealed why they'd been invited to London and the part he wished her to play.

She still wasn't all that sure she wanted to be a conduit for anything, having already experienced that terrifying event and finding it most certainly not to her liking, but what was she to do? After all, it wasn't every day that an angel informed you that you'd be a conduit for some kind of important celestial energy.

She fidgeted nervously as they waited for someone to open the bookshop door. Mr. Shadwell, bless him, didn't comment on her nerves. Probably didn't even notice, the poor dear. Losing his place as a Witchfinder had been a difficult thing for him to adapt to, and he was rather shy about most things. She'd bought him a tank full of tropical fish for their first anniversary, in the hope of perking him up a bit. He immediately took to lecturing the colorful things on all manner of things Witchfinder and witch. Whatever made the poor dear happy.

The door to the shop yanked inward and the tall, lanky gentleman who'd been so upset about his car -- and yet so adamant about killing poor Adam Young -- all those years ago glared at them both with a simmering annoyance she could read even with those dark sunglasses on. Why did he need sunglasses inside? There was a reason, she was sure of it, but she couldn't recall all that much about him from years ago. Mostly just the back of his head, as he seemed far more interested in talking to Mr. Aziraphale at the time.

"What the Heaven-- Oh, it's you. Where're the rest of them?"

"Just parking the car," she answered as cheerily as she could. "Is Mr. Aziraphale about? He said it was most urgent we get here today."

"Don' be talkin' tae tha' Son o' the Devil, Jezabel."

"I think that's probably more me," came a voice, from behind them, accompanied by a yipping bark. Tracy turned to smile at Adam Young and his three friends.

"How lovely to see you, children." She turned back toward the scowling man in the doorway. "Do you mind if we come in?"

"Suit yourself." He stepped back and held the door open, letting them in. His hand fell on Adam's shoulder as the boy passed him, making Tracy pause, too, as he said, "You. Antichrist. Take your dog and go wait over there."

Tracy followed his gesture toward the opposite corner of the street and instantly bristled. "He shouldn't go into a pub like that alone..."

"Trust me, he's not. Going into the pub, I mean." He nodded. "Go on." He shook his head at Adam's friends. "Not you lot. Stay here with the... assistant bookseller, there," he gestured toward what looked like a young woman in ill-fitting trousers cinched tight about her waist and a loose blouse of some kind, her dark hair looking fit to topple out of its haphazard bun at any moment, before she disappeared upstairs, "until everyone else arrives."

"You can't tell us what to do," the lone girl in the group, Pepper, piped up.

"I can, I will, I did."

Tracy could see the irritation rising on the man's face and had a creeping sense angering him wasn't the way to go. "All right, everyone. Let's just go inside and wait for Mr. Aziraphale. I'm sure Adam will be just fine with Mr....um..."

"Crowley," Mr. Aziraphale's strange friend provided, then jerked his head toward the inside of the shop as Newt and Anathema joined them. "Inside, the lot of you. Except you," he settled his attention on Adam. "Get moving."

Mr. Crowley moved into the shop slightly, calling out, "Oi! Muriel! Keep an eye on this lot. Hand out the misters and start hauling down the rest. Call Maggie and Nina, too."

"I'm terribly sorry," Tracy stopped on her way past him. "But what's really going on?"

Mr. Crowley, on his way out the door, stopped to glance at her. "Oh, yeah. Expect Hell'll pop up, before long."

"You mean... Like last time?"

"Nah. That was Satan. This'll more like be the Damned. Ask Nina and Maggie. They remember." With that cryptic remark, he took off across the street in a saunter she assumed only the most confident of men -- or one who rightly didn't care what the world might assume of him -- might wear when moving about.

Frowning in concern, Tracy turned toward the bookshop, glancing up and down the street as a chill spread up her spine. If she'd ever thought she had any ability to channel the dead, she could really use it, now.

******

To anyone looking in from the outside, it might appear Aziraphale had gathered nothing more than a random collection of society's rejects -- people for whom the world worked in ways entirely foreign to most of the planet. And perhaps that was true. But the most important thing every single one of them -- with the possible exception of Sergeant Shadwell, whose seemed particularly limited -- possessed, which Aziraphale believed vital to winning a war against both Heaven and Hell, was a healthy imagination. They were capable -- right down to Dog -- of conjuring up ingenious ideas.

Aziraphale knew that ideas were something both Heaven and Hell lacked almost entirely. Heaven was too preoccupied with rehashing and repackaging the same old "Great Plan" they'd been peddling for thousands of years -- a plan Aziraphale had only recently discovered was a complete and utter sham, cobbled together by another very creative human thousands of years ago and repeated ad nauseum by the Metatron, Michael, and the like, until everyone just took it as a given it was supposed to be. And Hell... well, the only imagination to come out of Hell in over six thousand years was Crowley's, and it was Crowley's imagination, more than any other, Aziraphale was banking on to do the most damage.

But Aziraphale didn't share any of this with anyone. Not because he meant to keep it a secret but because, well, Aziraphale was, for all his steadying calm at times, quite excitable when devising plans. So, as the Legions of Hell began rising up all around the exterior of the bookshop, he sent a single text to the entire group in lieu of straightforward instructions -- he was quite proud of having figured out texting all on his own -- containing just three words: Use your imagination.

******

Crowley wasn't sure how he felt about this trip into the Up, he mused as he stood between Aziraphale and Adam on the ride up to Heaven, the former hellhound at Adam's feet eyeing him with vague suspicion. Last time he made this trip was during a desperate situation, calling for desperate measures. He'd needed to know why Gabriel had no memory while everyone wanted the Archangel's head on a platter like John the bloody Baptist.

This time, he had the distinct displeasure of knowing not only was he walking into what would most likely be a battlefield where he was at a distinct disadvantage -- show him a demon willingly walking into the place  that created holy water, and he'd show you a demon with a death wish -- but his angel was right beside him, in probably even more danger than his damned arse.

"Don't suppose I need a disguise, this time," Crowley mused aloud, forcing sardonic humor into his voice to cover his uneasiness.

"Why on earth would you need a disguise?" Aziraphale seemed put-out by the very idea. "They're going to know it's you, anyway."

"What would you disguise yourself as?" Adam wanted to know, his eyes alight at the idea of disguises and adventures as Crowley glanced his way. "Me, I think I'd want to be a pirate."

"In Heaven?" Aziraphale's attention turned to the boy in surprise. "What kind of disguise would that be?"

"We're going to Heaven?" Suddenly, the boy looked less enthused by this adventure. "Am I going to have to die?"

"How old are you, again?" Crowley rolled his eyes behind his dark shades. "Of course you don't have to die. That's what the lift is for. You think they let demons just pop in whenever we like, or something?"

Adam's gaze fell to Dog. "Hmm. Guess not."

Before the boy could come up with any other strange ideas, the lift opened into Heaven's expansive emptiness and Crowley grimaced as familiar tension gripped him. As he told Adam, he didn't belong here. Not anymore. Yet, for a reason he couldn't figure out, he always felt almost welcome.

"Back again, Crowley? You're becoming quite the regular visitor."

The sound of a voice jerked his attention from his thoughts, and a smirk that was pure bravado on his part slid over his lips as he looked back at the shriveled angel on a hovering chair. "Sorry. Still don't remember you."

The angel huffed out a breath and turned their attention to Aziraphale, even as Adam murmured, "Wicked! They have hoverchairs in Heaven?"

"I've been keeping an eye on things, as you asked. Michael and Uriel are up to something, but the rest seem unaware anything's changed, quite yet. Imagine that won't last long."

Crowley frowned at Aziraphale. "Angel, what's going on?"

"Oh, Saraqael's been assisting me in my preparations." Aziraphale beamed at him, looking totally pleased with himself.

"Oh, angel," Crowley muttered, lifting one hand to rub up under his shades at his eyes. "You really don't know how to stay out of trouble, do you? How do you know you can trust this one? They were part of Gabriel's trial, y'know."

"I can hear you, you know," Saraqael put in, clearly miffed.

"Have a gold star. Don't care if you hear me. I don't trust you."

"Well, I do," Aziraphale stressed. "They've had my back more than once, up here."

The unintentional implication being, of course, that Crowley hadn't been there to protect him. Crowley winced. Yeah, he deserved that one, even though the mere idea of being an angel again felt somewhere worse than the worst hangover he ever experienced. At least the hangover, he could miracle away.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Fine. Let's get on with things, then."

"Right." Aziraphale laid a comforting hand on Adam's shoulder. "You stay here with Saraqael. They'll take good care of you while Crowley and I collect something we're going to need for our friends down in the bookshop."

"Angel, this is lunacy," Crowley complained, sensing the tension radiating in the air farther away from them. They'd already drawn attention. "We should stick together. Who knows--"

"We'll be just fine," Aziraphale shushed him, grasping his arm and tugging, to indicate he wanted Crowley to follow. "This is important, Crowley."

"Of all the bloody half-arsed things I do for you," Crowley grumbled, but let himself be dragged along. Like he was letting his angel wander around in an angry hornet's nest -- so much for docile little bees -- without him there.

He followed Aziraphale, aware he should shake the angel's grip off his arm, but not the least inclined to give up that touch, no matter where they were. Damn place was a maze of wide-open rooms and constantly-shifting hallways -- all in shades of glowing white. Had it really always been this white around here? He swore he recalled a place full of vibrant color and every hue of the cosmos, once. God had adored color, praising him for his inspirations with the kaleidoscope of the nebula and other cosmos. She'd called him clever, the most creative of Her angels... Yeah, see how long that lasted, once he started asking questions.

Crowley snorted to himself, and blinked as he realized the blinding white was suddenly gone. Pitch darkness hung around him -- a familiar canvas he hadn't seen in so many millennia he actually thought it was just a dream he once had, until now.

"Angel, where are we? Where are we going?" Crowley's voice echoed in the vast darkness of the place they had entered. Until this moment, he'd been unaware Heaven housed anyplace other than the silver-white halls they'd first entered from the lift.

But no. Something inside him tickled with familiarity – as if he'd returned to a home he should know but had forgotten.

"Nearly there, now," Aziraphale's voice floated through the vastness, echoing softly, like the light around Crowley, growing brighter and more beautiful in soft pulses of color and light.

Then, with a gasp, he realized where he was, and why Aziraphale had insisted Adam stay behind with Saraqael, as he gazed into the very heart of a star and managed a choked, "The very first star."

While God had allowed the design of this star to be copied and strewn across the universe, long-lived but still capable of death, She had loved his first creation – cobbled from celestial dust and his own wondering light – so much She promised it would never know death and would inspire all life to thrive.

After his fall – well, push, really, but potayto, potahto – he forgot all about it. Forgot a lot of things, actually.

Now, flashes of that forgotten wonder streaked through him, and he reached out, feeling the crackle of energy dance over his fingertips.

"Why are we here, angel?" He thought he might know. After all, he knew his angel like the back of his hand.

"It's the strongest power without a body in the universe," Aziraphale explained. "I thought I might give our human compatriots a helping hand."

"You're gonna use that Medium as a conduit for a bloody star? How d'you know you won't kill her?"

Aziraphale sighed. "I just do. She's much stronger than she seems. I got the sense of that when she shared her body with me, before."

"That never sounds any less strange, no matter how you say it, you know." Crowley shook his head, his lips tugging with a smirk. "All right, angel. So how d'you propose we get this starlight into her? Don't suppose Heaven's got a post box in the past ten thousand years or so?"

"Don't be silly," Aziraphale huffed with a roll of his eyes, and it struck Crowley once again just how adorable his angel really was.

He attempted to cover the increase of his heartrate with a bored-sounding, "And just how long do we have until this Second Coming of yours starts?"

"It already has, Crowley." Aziraphale didn't seem inclined to pay him more than the most basic attention, at the moment. The angel was busy gathering starlight into some manner of celestial container. "And it's not my anything, Crowley. I'm trying to stop it."

"About that. You're the Supreme Archangel of all Heaven. Can't you just... I dunno... call it all off?"

"Call it off?" Aziraphale's bright, cerulean eyes snapped his way, full of annoyance.  "Crowley, really. You know what happened to Gabriel when he said 'no'. Besides, I've been trying. For six months."

Which meant, in Aziraphale's prissy way of avoiding coming right out with it, they were well and truly fucked on this one. Good thing he put his own plan into action back on Earth. At least they wouldn't have to worry about Hell, even if Aziraphale's plans for Madame Tracy went pear-shaped. "Right, then. How can I help?"

"For now, just let me know if anyone's coming. Last thing we want is Michael or Uriel catching us in here."

A frown stole over Crowley's face, even as the clenching certainty something wasn't right settled in his chest. Aziraphale shouldn't fear Michael or Uriel like this. He currently outranked them. So why was his angel so anxious about being discovered by subordinates?

That was a question for another time. For now, Crowley focused all his senses outward, actively hunting for signs of discovery or the approach of any other being. It felt good, in a way, to be back to what he felt most right doing -- protecting his angel.

Crowley hadn't a clue how much time passed since they'd come in here -- he'd forgotten just how turned around the absence of time could make any being, after all the millennia of structured time on Earth -- but he sighed in relief and dropped his active searching when Aziraphale turned toward him with a pleased smile on his face and a glowing container clutched to his chest.

"All done then, angel? Can we finally get out of here?" He wasn't going to tell his angel that being around his former creation was making him ache for what he'd once been. He already knew his angel knew him better than any other being in all Creation. There was no point highlighting the fact he'd been as much to blame for their six months apart as Aziraphale had.

"Yes, alright." Aziraphale's voice was quiet with understanding and acceptance, just as it always had been. Did it make him weak that he wanted to cling onto both so fervently, Crowley wondered.

Pondering his own unexplored feelings -- after all, he'd spent six months hiding from them in whatever bottle of alcohol he could get his hands on -- Crowley followed his angel silently as they returned the way they'd come. He was barely aware of the motion of his own feet, until Aziraphale came to an abrupt halt, jerking Crowley's attention back to his surroundings before he stumbled into his angel. They were back at the glow-y globe thing.

He blinked. Had he been lost in thought all that way? That was unlike him. Still... He sighed. "What've you got planned, angel?"

"Remember the portal in my bookshop?"

"Beneath the carpet? Yeah. What of it?"

Aziraphale looked utterly pleased with himself. "I thought I might use it."

"For wot?"

"To give our dear Madame Tracy a little boost in celestial power, for fighting Hell."

Crowley blinked at him. Was Aziraphale serious? "How, exactly?"

Aziraphale brandished the container of starlight. "With this."

Crowley's gaze narrowed thoughtfully on the container. "How do you know it won't kill her, instead?"

His angel tsk-ed at him. "I told you, I've been working on a plan. According to the Heavenly archives, it is possible to gift a receptive human vessel with Divine power, to do great works in times of terrible trials. It must be someone highly in tune with the spiritual realm."

"And we know she is because..."

"She's already been possessed by an angelic being." Aziraphale returned smugly.

"She's what?" Saraqael was looking between them as if trying to decipher one of those complex foreign films without subtitles. Not that it was very difficult for a being that spoke every language on the planet, but sometimes the nuance was lost, despite knowing the language.

"Yeah, Aziraphale here took the old girl for a ride to Tadfield, a few years back." Crowley flashed Saraqael a sly grin.

"Wicked awesome," Adam piped up. "Wondered about that."

"Yes, yes. Anyway, the point is, she's a far more receptive vessel to Divine energy than she knows." Aziraphale turned toward the globe. "Now, I just need to fine tune this in, and hope she hasn't stepped outside the shop, yet."

Crowley moved to peer over his shoulder, drawing in a breath of Aziraphale's comfortingly familiar scent in the process. He'd never admit how much he needed at least that much contact to reassure him, now they were here in Heaven. "How do you plan to get it in her, exactly?"

"I already told you. I thought I might use the portal."

"Got that part. But doesn't she have to be in the portal, with it active, to send anything like that?"

A small frown creased Aziraphale's brow. "To be honest, I don't know."

"Can you even activate the portal from this side, angel?"

"I don't know that, either." Aziraphale looked his way, a hint of worry but the familiar spark of excitement back in his blue eyes. "But we're about to find out."

Crowley chuckled to himself. Here they were, facing imminent Heavenly peril, and he was going all gooey inside just watching his angel's innocent -- albeit inappropriately timed -- sense of wonder return. He'd missed that spark.

Aziraphale gingerly tapped the glowing globe, spreading his fingers outward to bring first England and then London into view. One more swipe, and they were looking down at the bookshop. It looked so tiny from here. Crowley pushed his shades down his nose with one finger, to peer over the top of them at the image, fascinated in spite of himself.

"Now there's a bloody brilliant trick, angel. What now?"

Aziraphale glanced over at him. "I'm afraid I have no idea."

"You've been the Supreme Archangel of all Heaven for six bloody months, angel. You came up with this entire plan to stop the Second Coming. What the Heaven do you mean, you don't know?"

Aziraphale glanced away. "Michael... Well, and the Metatron. They didn't want me using it, yet. They thought I... might have second thoughts."

Crowley cocked one eyebrow, even as he felt the bubbling churn of hellfire stirring inside him. "Second thoughts..."

"About us."

The churning edged toward a full-on cyclone of hellfire, rising through him in protective rage. This wasn't the time for deep, personal conversations, but Crowley promised himself he'd get the answers he wanted from his angel, later. Just as soon as this current disaster was over.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Saraqael offered, drawing both their attention to the other angel in the room.

"Oh, that would be marvelous," Aziraphale noted with a happy smile, before informing Crowley, "No one knows how to use this thing as well as Saraqael."

"Right," the other angel put in. "Now move aside and tell me who you want to send that starlight to."

As Aziraphale began describing Madame Tracy to Saraqael, Crowley turned toward the open space around them, his gaze narrowing and a hiss winding its way through him. They weren't alone. He sensed varying degrees of curiosity, hostility, and downright malice closing in on them. He couldn't see it, yet, but it was getting closer by the moment.

"Better hurry it up, angel," he hissed to Aziraphale. "We're about to be too busy to send anything anywhere."

"There!" Saraqael let out a triumphant cry. "That's done it!"

"And not a moment to spare," Aziraphale agreed with a glance Crowley's way the demon read immediately. Their human companions and Muriel were about to be attacked, and this time, no embassy barriers were going to keep Hell -- or their no doubt thousands of zombified human agents -- out.

"We've got our own problems, angel," he told Aziraphale, unable to keep the edge of worry out of his voice as the Host of Heaven started materializing around them, led by the lesser Cherubim and Principalities, with the Archangels -- those cowards, Crowley hissed to himself -- hanging in the back.

"I've got this," Aziraphale murmured, and before Crowley could even absorb what he'd said, the angel was out in front with no concern for his own well-being, holding his hands aloft.

"Angel..."

Aziraphale ignored his panicked outburst.

"This is not the will of the Almighty." The angel's voice carried throughout the ivory walls, bounced from pillars like starlight spread in darkness. Crowley could only stare at him, let his gaze lovingly trace every inch of his angel's face and marvel that this beautiful creature could love something as broken and flawed as him. That his angel could forgive him everything he'd ever...

Fuck. All this time... Angel, I'm so sorry. I didn't understand.

"...you have been deceived by the grasping desire for power and control by the Metatron and the Archangels who follow him." Aziraphale's words dragged Crowley's attention back to his surroundings with a suddenness he was surprised didn't leave a snap in its wake. Had his angel known this all along?

They were going to have a serious talk about communication when they got back. Not that Crowley considered himself particularly skilled in that area, but still.

Aziraphale's words drew a murmur from the corps of lower angels, and several edged nearer to their side of the room.

"The Almighty has only ever required us to look up on Her creations with love, forgiveness, and favor," Aziraphale continued, either unaware or uncaring of the murderous glares sent his way from the likes of Uriel and Sandalphon. Crowley's gaze narrowed on the flash of silvery-white suit and chestnut hair disappearing around a corner at the back. Michael. No doubt off to inform the Metatron.

"Wrap it up, angel," he muttered. "Pretty sure trouble's headed our way."

"Who's he talking about, anyway?" Adam asked, glancing between Crowley and Saraqael.

"God, of course." Saraqael looked at him pityingly. "Don't you even know your own Creator?"

"I always thought God was an old man with white hair and a long beard."

Crowley couldn't help chuckling, as he always did whenever he saw a human depiction of God. To Saraqael he muttered, "'Sides, She didn't create him. Satan did."

The expression on Saraqael's face was priceless as they realized just who they helped smuggle into Heaven.

As an entire Choir of lesser angels broke free of the ranks and hurriedly fell into ranks behind them -- Crowley wasn't quite sure how he felt about that occurrence -- a voice boomed through the room, freezing everyone in place. "You dare to defy the Word of God?"

Crowley tensed, a serpentine hiss rolling from him, even as Aziraphale drew himself up and responded, "In Heaven, the Almighty can surely speak for Herself. Why are you interfering? If you truly speak for God, why are you siding with those who seek to destroy Her Creation?"

"It is not our place to question Almighty God. It is our place to do what has been written, that the End Times be observed and carried out as is the Divine Plan," Michael sneered, pushing through the lower Cherubim, shining sword awash in silver flames in one hand.

"And how do you know it's Her plan?" Aziraphale countered. "Because the Metatron told you it was? Or because the Almighty Herself whispered it in your ear?"

"The Metatron is the Voice of God. Who speaks to the Metatron speaks to God." Michael parroted the line well.

"Are you lot still recycling that dull old tripe?" Crowley interjected, scorn dripping from each word. "No wonder nothing ever gets done."

Michael now stood at the front of the opposing Army of Heaven, Uriel and Sandalphon flanking either side and all brandishing Heavenly weapons no doubt washed a precise number of times in the holiest of holy water.

"This is what you bring against the might of Heaven?" Michael sneered back. "A demon, a traitor, a mortal child, some... creature, and a group of brainless twits who are too easily swayed for their own good? You'll fall, just like his lot did." Michael jerked their head toward Crowley.

Raising their sword above their head, Michael let out a battle cry that flew with the speed of Heavenly trumpets, and lunged forward -- not for Aziraphale, thank Whoever might be listening just now -- but for Saraqael, who instantly miracled in a shield of blinding light, deflecting the blow.

Crowley turned his attention to Uriel as the Archangel rushed at him, brandishing a sword glowing with bright blue flames. Snapping his fingers, Crowley summoned lightning and gleefully watched Uriel light up from the inside, convulsing in the burst of electric energy.

He cast his gaze over the battle raging around him. Adam and Dog clearly found whatever Hell-born power they still possessed, bending and warping the fabric of Heaven's reality around themselves to blip in and out, Dog ripping into angelic flesh with what Crowley sensed was complete abandon, only to be whisked away by Adam in the blink before a Heavenly weapon could strike him. Saraqael and the rest of the angels who'd come over to their side fought as if their souls depended on it. They might, at that. And... Crowley allowed himself a momentary breath of relief as he spotted Aziraphale, moving among their side with a familiar grace, tending to the injured with healing miracles. Without his own flaming sword -- given up to humanity so very long ago -- Aziraphale was left defenseless, but obviously very capable--

A cry, to Crowley's right, dragged his attention that way even as he closed clawed fingers around Uriel's throat, squeezing with wild abandon as he recalled the Archangel's part in the attempt to forever end Aziraphale's existence not once, but twice. Saraqael was down, their shield broken, as Sandalphon stood over them, a maniacal grin flashing on his face as he raised his own sword.

Free hand outstretched, ignoring the angel grasping ineffectively at his arm, Crowley made a sweeping motion, sending Sandalphon soaring backward into a ivory pillar at the other end of the massive room. He grinned in delight as he heard the crunch of Sandalphon hitting the pillar, then the squeal of bloody body sliding to the floor. His grip tightened around Uriel's throat, and he felt the talons of his fingertips stretching out, pressing through not just flesh and blood, but into their soul, hellfire flowing outward along the tips of his fingers.

Uriel screamed, and Crowley dropped them just as they burst into flame, dropping to the floor in a fluttering pile of ash.

He turned to look for Aziraphale again. There he was, bent over Saraqael, tending their wounds. Crowley caught a flash of light, turned just in time to see Michael -- that sneaky, bloody bastard! -- heading toward Aziraphale's unprotected back, sword at the ready.

Crowley leapt into action, his dark wings unfurling as he dove toward his angel, intent on protecting the only thing in the entirety of Creation that gave his miserable life meaning. Even if it meant taking the blow meant for his angel. "Aziraphale!"

******

He'd heard Saraqael's cry for help, seen Crowley deal with Sandalphon, but knew instantly the other Archangel was seriously injured. They'd probably been fighting injured for some time, now.

Making his way across the space to their side, he dropped down to his knees. He was weary -- angelic wounds were so much more difficult to treat than human ones, even when inflicted upon other angels -- but he focused on Saraqael, determined to see to the worst of their injuries, at least. This angel had stood faithfully alongside him since his arrival in Heaven and had even been willing to say a kind word or two about Crowley, if only to him.

Every bit counted.

Focusing on the worst of Saraqael's wounds, he wove the intricate miracle needed to stem the flow of their incorporeal self from their corporeal being. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow, and he pushed through the waning of his angelic power. He'd been weakened, being in Heaven and apart from Crowley for so long.

He didn't have time to think about that. He needed to focus on Saraqael's injury...

"Aziraphale!" Before he could turn from where he knelt at the sound of Crowley's voice, Aziraphale felt the whoosh of air moving over him, then the soft brush of a wingtip, followed by the sound of hand-to-hand combat.

Finishing his task, he helped Saraqael back into their chair with a murmured, "There now. You've done marvelous. Best you go find somewhere away from here, to finish healing, now."

As Saraqael sped off to hopefully do as he said, Aziraphale turned, and a horrified gasp flew from him to find Crowley and Michael grappling over Michael's shimmering sword, rippling with silver flames, where the latter held it aloft. For the first time in millennia, Aziraphale heartily wished he had not given away his own sword, that he might have given it to Crowley, now.

"Get out of here, angel," Crowley gritted through his clenched teeth, his midnight wings flicking toward Aziraphale in a shooing motion, even as he glared at Michael with hellfire flickering over his now scaled skin and blood -- Aziraphale prayed it wasn't Crowley's own -- dripping down his arms. "Get Adam, Saraqael, and as many of the others as you can, and get to safety."

As he scrambled to comply, unwilling to be the cause of Crowley splitting his focus when up against such a strong opponent, he knew what Crowley intended to do. Rushing to Adam's side, he plucked the boy out of the midst of bending space with a grab of his arm and scooped up the dog, rushing them both toward the lift, where Saraqael already waited, fresh shield up in front of them.

"On the lift," Aziraphale huffed, weariness rising within him by the moment. He couldn't wait until this was over and he could go back to his quiet, peaceful life in the bookshop, with Crowley. He really wasn't built for war -- never had been. "Don't hit any buttons. Just close the doors and stay there until I tell you it's safe to come out."

Saraqael nodded, nudging a protesting Adam along. Aziraphale waited until the doors were firmly closed, then sent a thought to all the Principalities and lesser angels. If you don't wish to die horribly, go quickly to the starlight chamber. It may be the only place in all of Heaven safe for you.

As angels all around the hall dropped their weapons and took wing to follow his command, Aziraphale unfurled his own wings and flew straight toward where Crowley and Michael grappled.

"I... know... who... you... are!" Michael fought against Crowley's grip, though it looked like the demon was winning.

"Then you know how stupid you are right now," Crowley quipped back through gritted teeth. He released one hand from its grip on Michael's arm, and Aziraphale heard the hiss escape Crowley as Michael jerked away, spun, and the blade cut into Crowley's right side.

"No!" Aziraphale streaked toward them, pulling up short just seconds before the hellfire exploding from Crowley's hands rushed through the hall, and an entire Host of Heaven screamed in angelic voices. From his vantage point in the air above, Aziraphale saw the flame reach out to snare the Metatron, wrapping its way up around him like a snake intent on its prey, until his form was engulfed.

As the flames extinguished, all that remained were the flutter of ashes and, in their midst, Crowley, flat out, face-down on the floor.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale dropped instantly from the air to his demon's side, reaching out to roll Crowley over, not even caring that the heat remaining from the hellfire still racing along Crowley's skin singed his hands. "Anthony! Please, please, you can't die on me!"

"Raphael."

The soft, feminine voice rang through the now-empty hall of Heaven and he recognized it immediately, though it had been millennia since he had heard it with his own ears.

"Raphael. Arise."

"No," he defied, uncaring his defiance was in the face of his Creator, or what it might mean for him, even as he fought to miracle away the wound -- such a small thing, but so capable of destruction -- in Crowley's side. His celestial energy sparked against Crowley's exposed, blood-covered flesh, useless. He couldn't heal a demon whose body still ran with hellfire -- a demon who could die with the holy water slowly eating away at his wound.

He didn't care. He would do this if he had to die himself to achieve it. He wouldn't abandon Crowley. Not ever again.

If he could just get Crowley back to Earth, he could wash away the holy water. Then maybe Crowley could heal himself.

Instant hope danced through Aziraphale, and he glared up at the air shimmering around him. If God tried to prevent him from reaching that lift...

"Cast me out and let me fall, if winning wars with Hell is more important to You than all Your Creations. Crowley is more important to me than whether or not I remain an angel. No matter what happens to me, I will heal him. He's never known a single moment's mercy or love that didn't come from me. He's never known justice or truth, because he was cast out for asking questions. No matter what You do to me, he'll always know mercy, love, and truth from me. I'll heal him with the last breath I have, if I must." Aziraphale leaned over Crowley, his wings spreading wide to shield the demon from any further attack as he took Crowley's head between his hands and leaned closer, until his forehead pressed to Crowley's, and whispered, "I'm here, my love. Feel my heartbeat. Take what you need from me to heal. Nothing in all of Creation matters more to me than you do. You are my perfect, Anthony J. Crowley, just as you are, and I cannot abide a world in which you don't lsurvive."

"Raphael. My beloved son, you needn't ever fear falling." God's voice echoed quietly through the hall. "It has never been My will for you to be anywhere but at his side. Long before the universe was born, I created you both from the same first breath and whisper of starlight, to always be side-by-side, one heart divided between two forms, that you would know each other by your nearness.

"I gave you the power to save him before you even knew him. He has always been blessed by Me -- my beloved Baraquiel, tender always to My Creation -- and it was not by My will he was cast out, but by his own desire to defend what I could not from the vengeance of Lucifer and his armies.

"Who sent you to Earth in the beginning, and kept you there so long? Who made you of pure love and forgiveness? For as long as he knew your companionship and love, Satan could never truly have him.

"Baraquiel was made to protect you and all of humanity, just as you were created to heal him and lead My Creation to safety against those of both Heaven and Hell who meant it harm."

"Why didn't You stop them, then? You could have stopped all this!" Aziraphale screamed angrily, in a fury that would have mortified him, had he been in his right mind. With Crowley injured, his right mind had deserted him and all he craved were answers to the horrors he beheld -- to the terror of watching the only being he could not see the world, or eternity, without fall to Michael's holy blade.

God's chuckle flowed over him like soft starlight. "You have become so like him. So many questions, Raphael. But you know as well as I that I could no longer reach those of Heaven you fought here. They followed the will of My once-voice, rather than My own. I began granting Baraquiel visions of what must happen, back before the Antichrist's arrival on Earth, that he would lead you to help make My Heaven anew. I did not know the Metatron would attempt to thwart My will by removing you from Earth. There are some things even I cannot see before they happen, My beloved child. You and Baraquiel are both forever my Emissaries to the Creation you were so willing to sacrifice yourselves to save."

The words of the Almighty's approval flowed over Aziraphale, but he barely heard them, his entire attention focused on Crowley. For the first time, he understood his own little piece of God's ineffable plan, and why no matter how he tried over the millennia, he could not resist the pull toward the demon laying sheltered beneath his wings.

Pure love blazed from Aziraphale, lighting up the halls of Heaven and bringing those angels who had fled to safety in the starlight chamber to their knees, weeping.

"He doesn't want to be an angel. Don't make him be something he doesn't want to be," Aziraphale begged, paying the weeping angels no mind as he plead for the demon before him -- plead what he should have seen all along and was blinded to by his own need to show the cosmos Crowley's good heart. "Please, don't make him be what he doesn't want to be. Let him choose, as I have. He's beautiful just as he is."

His attention stayed on Crowley as the demon coughed, and his beautiful golden eyes opened, like two suns shining in the inky darkness of the cosmos.

"A-Aziraphale? What's... What happened?" Crowley's voice was shaky, and Aziraphale could feel the pain coming off him in waves, his corporeal form -- and even worse, his very spiritual essence -- still crackling beneath the touch of the holy water from Michael's blade.

"I very much believe we won, my love," Aziraphale answered sweetly. "Can you stand? I need to get you back to Earth, so I can treat your wounds."

"Good on us," Crowley muttered, his voice slurring slightly, his eyes drifting shut, before they popped open again. "Why the bloody Heaven does my side hurt? Feel like the bloody Witch of the West... that's a thing, yeah?"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale heaved a sigh somewhere between besotted and annoyed. "Can you stand?"

"'Course I can bloody stand." Crowley muttered, lifting himself to his elbows before he hissed in pain and slumped back to the floor. "Guess not. You'll have to help me up, angel."

"Come on, then." Aziraphale carefully folded his wings back in, looking over to find Adam by the globe, studying it in rapt fascination. Did the child have no sense of self-preservation? "Adam, please take Dog and go back to the lift. Crowley and I will be directly behind you."

"Not going there," Crowley muttered, clearly muddled by pain. Or maybe the effects of the holy water.

Shifting to Crowley's left side, Aziraphale gently looped Crowley's arm over his shoulder while lifting him carefully from the floor. Crowley groaned, but actively helped the process by steadying himself with his free hand, then shifting around to move slowly to his knees, then his feet, all with Aziraphale's steadying arm at his back.

Finally on his feet, Crowley groaned and leaned heavily into Aziraphale's side for a moment, before, "Right. I think I can manage this, with your help, angel."

"Of course." Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley's right hip, just below the angry, crackling slice in his side, and led his injured demon toward the lift back to Earth. Hopefully, their compatriots on Earth had met with equal success. Crowley certainly wasn't up to facing the Legions of the Damned. Whatever happened from here, it was Aziraphale's turn to rescue Crowley. He didn't intend to fail.

[thesongthesoulsings]

Bloodstained Silk

Summary: Silk is beautiful, as is the artful magical snow falling from Hogwarts' Great Hall ceiling. It takes malevolence to willfully destroy beauty and its ultimate form - Life. The poisoning of Aesop Sharp's Fiancée and colleague Katherine Salazar at the Yule Ball turns into a mystery. A short fanfiction for the Fictober 2023 Prompt - "Don't worry, I got you".

Link to Ao3

Pain, all she could feel was pain, while she coughed up blood. She had survived so many missions just to die from poison. Tears started running down her face; a hand pressed against her mouth, while another lifted the dress she was wearing, up enough from the ground to aid her running.  

She had to at least try to get her hands on a Bezoar – giving up without a fight was not an option. Aesop came to mind and a sob - accompanied by more of her red life force - left her. The thought of “I will be missing him” seemed so irrational, since she would not miss anyone once she was gone. Even if she, by God’s grace, would be welcomed into paradise, there would be no tears and no pain. Nevertheless, she could not let go of the pain she was feeling now when she thought about never seeing Aesop again.  

Struggling to breathe, she sought hold on the wall of the corridor. There was no way of reaching the Hospital Wing in time, she felt the nearing end. Having left the Yule Ball to get some fresh air, after the onset of uneasiness, had put her at a disadvantage. The smartest thing she could think of doing in that panic-driven moment was to run into the Great Hall – where the festivities were taking place – and throw herself at Headmaster Black’s mercy. He was the only one who could apparate in the Castle, holding the last glimpse of hope regarding her survival in his hands.  

It wasn’t far to the Great Hall anymore, but it seemed like an eternity. She felt like she would faint every second, while stumbling through the Castle. Red vital fluid found its way through the fingers at her mouth, falling onto the already bloodstained silk of her dress. What had been a beautiful light green piece of art, was now a horrifying tale of suffering.  

The students she saw, once she was close to reaching the gigantic doors of the Great Hall, screamed when they laid eyes on her – their voices mingling in pure chaos. She could barely speak and thinking clearly was becoming more and more difficult, not just due to her panic. It was an instinctive decision made within seconds, when she grabbed one of the students with pleading eyes.  

“Headmaster... Black... Get him...”  

Trying to get air to fill her lungs resulted in more coughing.  

The boy she had asked for help – a young man of the seventh year; Hufflepuff, if she remembered correctly – hurried back into the Hall. She saw a glimpse of his blonde hair while her body sank to the ground; all strength leaving her.  

The touchingly beautiful violin music coming from the Hall was accompanying her impending demise in a stark contrast of festive spirit, as if a villain had written the play she was partaking in, celebrating her doom. Concentrating on the mesmerizing composition of intertwining sounds she fell into an otherworldly sphere where everything was veiled in calm confusion and blurry sight. The spirit in her started laying down to rest, inviting her sweetly to close her eyes.  

Feeling unconsciousness stretching its arms out for her, she heard Black’s voice and confident hands on her shoulders. Everything seemed so far away – neither the blood running down her chin, nor the single tear leaving the corner of her eye, or the words spoken to her registered in her foggy mind. She barely felt something being pressed to her lips, before clarity started to return slowly like a spirit of light filling a darkened room to gift one knowledge that had been hidden before.  

Black’s serious face looked down at her, eyes betraying his usual uncaring mask. She heard Aesop speaking – Aesop! One last look at him, she begged internally, just one last look at him before I have to leave.  

Black left her field of view, making place for the Potions Master who gently cupped her face with one hand to probe her mouth open with his thumb, placing a Bezoar in her mouth with the other. Swallowing with the strength left in her she took in her fiancé. She noticed that his calm demeanor was a façade hiding the panic rampaging in him, despite her confused state. His dark eyes moved quickly, his jaw was tightened, his mouth pressed together bitterly. Now she felt tears leave her eyes. What a handsome man he was, even in distress. He should not suffer once she was gone, the thought alone was unbearable.  

“Don’t leave me, Katherine.” His words, a mere whisper, made her attempt to shake her head – she was unsure if she had succeeded. Lips touched her forehead, before they were replaced by his. His hair darkened everything in her vision, lulling her to close her eyes once more. This time it felt different – she did not feel as if life was leaving, or unconsciousness inviting her.   

“You won’t lose this fight. You cannot��lose this fight, Kate. I’m here and I’ve got you.”, he paused before repeating; his voice heavy, “Don't worry, I got you."  

His words tucked at her mouth, forming a tired smile. She noticed his very own scent once more – warm and masculine. Breathing was easy and the panic, as well as lethargy, was gone. Her hands found their way into Aesop’s hair, gratefulness and immense relief filling her. She had survived.  

“You did... you do.” Her voice was raspy – the coughing from the poison having taken a toll on her throat.  

Straightening, he looked down at her, the same relief she felt to be seen on his face. She corrected herself mentally – she could see it on his face, but she doubted others could. His face did not tend to give too much away in the presence of others. Taking a look at their surroundings, she noticed that she had been taken to the Hospital Wing. Black was standing nearby, talking to Noreen Bailey – the matron – sending looks her way with furrowed brows.  

“Take this.”  

Aesop’s hand helped her into a sitting position, holding up a glass of water with the other one. Taking a few sips, the witch looked down at the wizards’ hand resting on her bloodstained silk clad leg.  

“Thank you.” Sharp’s confusion was apparent, even though he nodded shortly. “Thank you for saving me”, she paused, “and for the water”, she paused anew, “and for your love.”  

His eyes glimmered with unshed tears. He had feared, she saw it now clearer than before.  

He swallowed visibly, his hand squeezing her leg as far as he could through the layered fabric.  

His verbal silence left her room to direct more words at him, her lips quivering.  

“I just wanted to see your face one last time and hoped you would not suffer once I was gone. Forgive me for not having fought more.”  

Something in him seemed to break. His head lowered, as if to hide the tears threatening to fall, and proud shoulders suddenly didn’t seem so proud anymore. Strong arms encircled her without care for the other two people present.  

The silence embracing them held for a while before he regained his composure enough to mutter into her elegantly curled hair – ensuring only she could hear him.  

“I would have suffered unbearably and I’m not willing to let you go, Katherine, I just cannot. The world without you is a place so dark I do not want to fight it on my own.” His arms strengthened their hold before letting go completely, a hand of his caressing one of her tears away.  

She looked up into his face – which seemed unmovable again. His whole demeanor appeared as if he was made of steel. She knew that posture: He was ready to kill.  

“I will find out who is trying to take your life, and I will take his instead.” 

[abbatoirablaze]

Tig's Daughter, Chapter 5

Word Count:  2k

Warnings:  slight angst, mentions of a strip club.

Alex’s POV Dumbass.

I pulled over to the side of the road where Juice had been walking, "Get in."

He stopped and turned to look at me, "shouldn't you be in school?"

"Get in."

He looked around, then sighed, and finally got into the car.

"I'm not okay with this, you know?"

"I'm not going to do anything," I growled, "don't worry."

We drove in silence for a few minutes before he gave me a look.

"Where are you going?"

"Dropping you off at the club," I replied dryly, "then I'm going to go to the strip club, clean up, and help them prep for tonight's shift. Don't worry. I'll be back in time to make it seem like I went to school. "

"You shouldn't have skipped."

"What are you?" I asked, shooting him a glare, "My father, now?"

He winced and turned away from me, not letting any part of him face me, "take me to my place.  Just turn left here. Take it a quarter mile then go down Walnut."

"And after that?"

"It'll turn into seventh. I'm the last house on the right."

I nodded, following his instructions. When I hit a light, I threw one of my hoodies on his lap to cover him up some. He didn't respond but I could see his body language get less stiff.

"Why are you being a dick to me all of a sudden?"

He looked at me. For the first time in a week, it felt like he actually saw me, "I'm not being a dick."

"Yes you are."

"At least I didn't lie about myself."

"Is that what this is about?" I asked.  He didn't answer me. I shook my head and returned my attention back to driving. At least I tried to, “I didn’t lie about myself.”

I couldn't help but find myself getting drawn to look at Juice. Take in his features. His toned arms. His dark brown eyes. He hadn't gotten down the perfect six pack, but the linework was there. He looked exhausted, but still hot as hell. Even if they had put him in that ridiculous diaper.

"Stop looking at me."

"What?"

"I can feel you staring at me," he groaned, "Just stop."

"It's not my fault they put you in a diaper," I growled, "what did you even do to piss them off that much."

"None of your business."

"Whatever Juice."

I pulled onto seventh and he began to look more agitated, "listen...just because you know where I live...don't mean you can come hang out."

"Don't flatter yourself," I spat, "If I had known you were such a dick the first time we met I wouldn't have bothered chatting you up in the first place."

"You fucking lied to me, Lexi," he growled as I put the car into park, "You're not 21. Hell, you’re barely even 18.. And you let me keep coming back. You made out with me. You let me do things to you...at the party-"

But he cut himself off.  He looked like he was going to be sick.

"What about the party, Juice?" I asked, "What do you think happened?"

"We fucked."

I couldn't help but laugh.

At first he looked confused. Then angry.

"Stop laughing," he growled, "I can go to fucking jail. Because I fucked you…”

“I am eighteen,” I reminded him, “you wouldn’t go to jail.”

“And that's not even the worst of it. Do you know what Tig will do to me for 'ruining his little girl'. That sick fuck thinks you are so innocent."

"We didn't fuck, you jackass," I laughed, shooting him another look, "You pulled me into your dorm room and we made out. You took your shirt off and when you went to take your jeans off you passed out on your bed.  Don’t flatter yourself."

"But the note. I had lipstick on my cheek."

"I kissed you goodnight," I replied, "I tucked you in and left you a note saying thanks for the good time. You always say that to me after I gave you a dance. We didn't fuck, Juice. The most we've ever done is make out. Yeah, things get hot and heavy when we do, but I'm not going to fuck you."

"Wait," he said quickly. His brows furrowed, "why not?"

"The more I get to know you, the more I realize that I'm not really that into you, you prick.  At least, not like that," I laughed, "You clearly only wanted to bone someone. And well that's all well and good that's not me. I've never even had a boyfriend, Juice. I'm not going to fuck some random guy that I don't know. What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"You work at a strip club."

"And as of two days ago, I'm now a bartender," I said, shaking my head, "I told the manager I started seeing someone and he didn't like the idea of me being a stripper."

"You're seeing someone?"

"No, you jackass," I sighed, "not that it’s any of your business, but I was talking to someone…and I don��t think he’d like me being a stripper."

“You’re talking to someone?”

“Damn…jealous much?” I joked.  He frowned and I shrugged, “it’s probably nothing…and it’ll probably blow over...why…you interested?”

He looked at me, and I could see the tears welling up in his eyes.

He didn't have to say anything. I knew what his answer was.

"Lexi-"

"You should go, Juice," I whispered, not entirely wanting to hear his answer, “go home.”

He nodded, getting out of the car. 

Juice’s POV

"Why won't you just talk to me, huh?"

"No time," I muttered, getting the bag packed. I'd dosed the meat earlier and now Tig was expecting me to be ready to go in a few minutes, "gotta run errands with your dad. Then we're going on a trip for a few days. I have to make sure I have everything."

"Well, he's having me drop you guys off," she said quietly, "I could help you pack. Where are you guys go-"

"NO."

She shrunk back and I felt bad.

Shit.

"It's shit you shouldn't be involved with, okay Lexi?"

"But my dad's having me drive you guys to some lot," she laughed, "he wouldn't put me into trouble or anything."

"Just stop," I sighed, finally turning around, "you can't help me, Lexi. You shouldn't even be anywhere near us. Let alone me. Do you remember the conversation we had in the car a few days ago?"

"Yeah."

I felt some sadness creep up in the tone of her voice.  There was no doubt in my mind that she remembered exactly what had happened.

I told her that we couldn't have a relationship.  I told her that she was too young.  I told her that it would never happen.  And she made it seem like she was talking to someone, but I could see through it all. 

She wasn’t.

The heartbreak in her eyes was real, and while I wanted nothing more than to ignore every word I had said to her, I had to think of what was best for me. What was best for her. And being with her would mean nothing good came of it.

Then I went inside, and she hadn't talked to me since.

But why now?

"Why are you even here then?" I asked, feeling like an asshole the second the words slipped from my mouth, "why aren't you just being a kid or some shit and doing homework or I don't know, having a slumber party with girls your age."

"Why are you-"

"Being a dick?" I asked cutting her off. She nodded. I laughed, "it's because you can't seem to get it through your teenage brain. This isn't some fairytale. There's no happily ever after, Lexi. Especially not with me. You need to find some guy your own age. You're eighteen. I'm twenty-six. I've got nearly a decade on you."

"But Juice-"

"LEXI!" Tig announced, "I've been looking for you everywhere sweetie. Where you been? We gotta go."

She turned around. Tig was standing there waiting.

"You ready to go, Juice?"

"Yeah."

"Lexi?"

"I-I'm not feeling too good," she lied, "I just came in here to tell Juice I don't think I can drive you guys to pick up your truck."

"Oh no, sweetheart," he sighed, looking at his daughter, "You alright? I don't need to take you to the doctor's or anything, do I?"

"I'll be fine dad," she sighed. She looked at me and bit her lip. Then she looked back to Tig. I couldn't pretend not to see the tears in her eyes, "you guys enjoy your trip or whatever...I'll see you when you get back dad."

Before Tig could respond she was out the door like a bat out of hell.

"She seem okay to you?"

"Probably just some high school drama," I shrugged, “kids these days are weird.”

"Hey, stop being an asshole," he growled, "that's my kid."

I nodded, not wanting to say anything more as we grabbed our bags and went towards the truck. While he was driving Tig said that Gemma would get the truck in a few days after everything had quieted down.

I shrugged, not really concerned with the details of the truck.

Instead, I was thinking of the girl who's been plaguing my mind since I met her.

"You know Alex got a job a few weeks ago," Tig said quietly, "she's been going a few nights a week. Sack usually picks her up at a diner. She's been coming home earlier though. Maybe her customers stopped hanging around so much."

"Kids will do that."

"You ever do that with your friends when you lived in New York?" he asked, "I don't remember ever hearing Colleen telling me about Dawn and Fawn doing that shit."

"Nope."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, "Normally you never shut the hell up! Do you and Alex have the same thing?"

"No!" I said quickly, "I just. I've been thinking about this girl."

"Oh, I don't want to hear about that shit," he growled, “I don’t do relationships.  Don’t want to hear about em or know about em!”

"What?" I asked, "a second ago you were trying to get me to talk, now that I want to talk about something it doesn't matter to you."

"I was trying to be nice," he muttered, "shit, I know you've been drifting around lately. Seems like your head isn't here. You need to get back in before anyone else notices."

"My head is here."

"Is it?" he asked.

I nodded, pulling out a cigarette, lighting it up from a match from the matchbook that Lexi gave me the second time I'd seen her at the club.

"Surprised to see you back!"

I smiled as she sat down on my left, a shot placed on the table in front of me.

"What can I say?" I chuckled, "I like the view."

"I could say the same thing."

I felt my cheeks heating up as she bit her bottom lip.  I took the shot and she smiled.  I licked my lips, "You flirt with every one of the guys you see?"

"Only the cute ones."

I smiled again.

God she knew how to work me over.

I grabbed a cigarette from my pack, and she pulled a book of matches out of her bra, tossing them on the table. As I grabbed the book, I couldn't help but admire her. Her perfectly tanned legs, lean and tight body that was decorated with lacey lingerie. Her practically see-through robe untied and draped around her.

She was fucking perfection.

What I wouldn't give. 

"You want a dance?" 

"More than anything," I smiled, pocketing the matches.  She took my cigarette, took a drag, then put it out in the ash tray.  Standing up, she grabbed my hand and started leading me back to the rooms again.  

"Hey, where'd you get those?"

"Huh?"

"The matches?" he asked with a laugh.

"Oh, this strip club," I shrugged, "girl gave em to me when I didn't have a light."

"Shit, didn't know anyone still made match books," he laughed, “that shits wild.”

I tucked the packet into my front pocket and took a long drag off my cigarette. I couldn't stop myself from going back to my mind, thinking of how she looked that night.  

Chapter 6

[outoutdamnspark]

The Serpent and The Hound

Some purely self-indulgent OC stuff this time, set in the D&D world @psidontknow have going on together. (Technically this is an AU of an AU, but ehhhhh, I don’t feel like boring anybody with specifics. XD)

The Hound of the Emperor is the bad-end au version of my D&D character, Gibrahltar (”Lysiri”) Seventh-Star.

Xikist is the Snake God of Knowledge; he and ‘Sister,” “Brother,” and the “Nameless Sibling” belong to my bro-bro and are borrowed with love~

(CW: Hella Daddy Issues™️, regret, anger, emotional hurt-no-comfort. heavy/dark themes. references to past god murder. Snake Dad fucked up and now they’re both paying for it.)

===

She sits, arms folded, staring daggers like the ones she used to carry at his back. He knows she's there, she knows he knows; he just won't turn around. She'd landed on his windowsill, in the office she can remember from her childhood - napping in his coils on the soft, soft carpet, stealing snacks with one brother to sneakily give to another, feeling loved and happy before it all went to shit and she closed her heart against the family that had apparently never let her into theirs. (And if they had, well, then they had a funny fucking way of showing it.) She'd landed, and she'd broken the lock with her bare hands and a spark of magic, pushed open the panes to climb inside. She'd stayed there then, cloaked in her spell of invisibility, not sure why she'd bothered in the first place when he'd know immediately where she was. 

But she'd wanted to see what he'd do.

(Did she still mean nothing to him? Had she ever meant anything to begin with? Turn around, turn around, turn around, Father, turn around and LOOK AT ME.)

She'd kept the shield, the invisibility, up like a cover over a frightened child's head - though her heart was filled with anything but - until the sun had started its descent and the air had begun to cool. 

And now, even as she drops it, he still doesn't turn. 

Why had she even come here in the first place? She'd had no clue, still doesn't; maybe it was a kind of bitter nostalgia, a foolish wish to appease the rotting part of herself that longed for all of the pain of betrayal to have been nothing but a bad dream. To sever loose ends, maybe. She doesn't know. 

She steps closer, footfalls muffled by the second spell enveloping her, the one she hasn't yet dropped, and comes to stand directly at his back, so close that should he turn his head he will touch her with his braid. 

"Rancid viper," she hisses, a habit adopted as a child that she still cannot shake, a daughter wishing to emulate her Eniri, now a soulless Hound staked through with memories of a life that never truly existed. "Turn. Around." Her lips curl over her teeth. "Face your mistakes for once in your  life."

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. He still doesn't turn, though his head tilts to the side, ear positioned now in her direction. "...I've made many mistakes in my lifetime," he says, and his voice fills her heart with both anger and childlike misery, pain and longing, until it overflows to fill her eyes with scalding tears. "You were never one of them."

"Liar," she rasps. She holds her volume low and it scratches at her throat on its way out, trying to be bigger than she allows it to be. "What was it you said to Sister after my second brother left? That you'd put too much time and effort into me to let me die just yet?" She spits to the side, onto one of his open journals resting beside the desk. 

He glances at it, and she can see the frown tugging at the side of his face in profile. Regret, her heart wishes; distaste, her head rebuffs. 

Ignorant of her thoughts, (though she wouldn't put it past him,) he lowers his head. His hands fold overtop the ledger in front of him, closing it and coming to rest daintily atop its leather cover. "...Words cannot express how many times I've wished I could undo having ever said that."

She laughs; a bark, mirthless, incredulous. "So that your experiment would have stayed where you could see it?"

"No." 

Finally, he turns. 

He pivots slowly in his chair, head lifting only after the rest of him has shifted in her direction. His eyes are the last thing to reach her, and even then do not fully meet her own. 

His expression is slack, closed off as she'd expected, emotionless, with lips down turned at the corners and lids heavy. Gone is his usual smugness, the smirk that has fueled her anger for centuries, and in its place is… nothing. He is as hollow as she remembers him, and yet. He is not. The lines around his eyes are sad, tired, giving him the look of someone who is lost, resigned. 

Sorrow, her heart wishes again; apathy, her head once again replies. 

"No?" she prompts, demands, when he does not continue. Her eyes burn directly into his own, daring (beseeching) him to look at her properly. 

He shakes his head. "No."

Her lips curl further, a bestial, canine snarl. The Hound growls. "Then why?"

His voice is an uncharacteristic whisper when he finally says, "Because it hurt you." He breathes. "Because it cost me my daughter."

She reels back as if struck, a cry of rage and anguish tearing from her throat. Instinctively, a knee-jerk reaction to pain, a substitution of violence so that nothing can touch her long enough to hurt, she reaches for the dragon-headed hilt at her side. With a fluid slice of her hand through the air she draws her sword and lets its tendrils dig into the flesh of her arm. Flames erupt from the mouth of the hilt, forming the blade of the ancient Dragon Buster Sword. 

She holds it to his face, now a barrier, an extension of an arm's distance between them. "Fuck you," she hisses again, ignoring the way her voice and breath both catch. "Fuck you, fuck you. Call me that again and I'll take your venomous tongue." 

The flames singe at the edges of his hair. He does not try to move away. 

A horrible sound crawls its way up and out through her mouth, and it's impossible for her to tell through the ringing in her ears whether it's a sob or a strangled scream - a cry for blood or a plea for help. "Your daughter is downstairs," she accuses, tries and tries and tries not to think of the twisting feeling in her gut that she'd felt upon seeing the little fiendkind girl playing among the books - the feeling that persists as she pointedly does not look at the girl's drawings on the snake god's office walls. "I saw how easily you replaced me." 

He sighs, shifting his gaze to finally see her, and for a moment she is thrown for a loop by the utter sadness with which he looks at her. 

(She has the sudden, powerful urge to throw herself into his arms and sob, to cry into her father's dress like she did over a dozen lifetimes ago, and to beg every god that remains, every one she hasn’t hunted and slain as the Emperor's Hound, for a path back from the darkness she's allowed to swallow her up.)

She feels a single traitorous tear slip free, sliding down her cheek. She hides it behind another hateful snarl. Call the Hound and it shall come. 

"Say something!"

He simply looks at her. "...What is there that I can?" he whispers. "The damage is already done." His gaze lowers to the sword fused into her arm. "...I'm so sorry, Lysiri." 

She screams. 

It is an ugly sound, one of torment and grief and years and years of both missing and hating her father; it rakes her voice raw and steals the warmth from her blood. 

Xikist's desk smolders as the Dragon Buster slices it neatly in twain with a single, mournful swing. 

She stands there, chest and shoulders heaving as she fights for control of herself. Her teeth are bared, a hunter's fangs, and her eyes clenched so tightly that behind her lids there are spots of light. Without looking at him - because she can't, not now, not right after her heart has overridden her hate - she pulls the sword free from the smoking wooden remains of the desk and summons the fire back into its hilt. The tendrils retract from her arm, but she keeps her hand gripped tightly inside. She turns her back to him then, and steps back towards the open window. 

She pauses, just for a moment, with her hand on the windowpane. She doesn't look back at him as she spits a bile-flavored lie. 

"The only reason you still breathe is because of your blood-tie with Sister," she tells him, and even to her own ears it sounds thin. "I will not take her life by taking yours." Her hand tightens on the windowpane. "Be grateful."

And before he can (or doesn't) respond, she leaps out the window into the desert air beyond. 

She almost lets herself hit the ground before she bothers to open her wings.

[faeties]

@kardiaerasti​ -  “⠀⠀please don't scare me like that again, i can take a lot of things, but not losing you⠀⠀”⠀⠀—⠀⠀cloud strife & aerith gainsborough OR tifa lockhart

Cloud wiped a smear of blood from the side of his mouth, mako blue eyes locked onto Tifa as she hovered over him. They had been jumped by guards on the way back to the Seventh Heaven after running some jobs. That alone wouldn’t have been a struggle for the two of them, but they had been drawn by what Cloud and Tifa had already been fighting-- a Cerulean drake far out of his usual territory. Instead of listening, Cloud had rushed ahead, attempting to take everything on at once,  mind filled with one directive: PROTECT TIFA. Tifa didn’t need his protection, not really... Yet it was hard to let go of that instinct from childhood.

Attention trapped Cloud like a deer in headlights. As it always did. Such things were usually easier around Tifa, but this was different. Her worry made things shift like a wind around them. As if someone was abusing an aero materia. But Cloud knew he couldn’t just stare at the ground.

A shaky sigh escaped him as he pushed himself up from the dirt, not bothering to brush off the dust from his clothes. Words failed Cloud more often than not. Instead of speaking, he stood there dumbly, merely letting out a grunt that sounded more animal than person.

That wouldn’t due. She deserved better than that. He nodded at her, “Sorry...” Still, he knew he would always jump to protect her. It was simply in his nature. Even though he was growing certain Tifa could break his arm if she wanted. Truly, he was lucky that they were friends.

Though the single word was barely any better. Still, it was an apology-- one that she deserved for making her worry. Yet, Cloud still didn’t regret his actions. No, he regretted that it accentuated the lines of worry on her face, the curve of her mouth, the tenseness of her body. He slung the Buster Sword to the magnet on his back in a single motion. “Won’t happen again,” he lied, poorly. The words were clipped tight and awkward on his tongue. While he did not stumble over them, he sped through them as if they were necessary. They were necessary. Cloud had made the critical mistake of attempting to cast Thundaga and then simply rush them all, Drake included, in one foul swoop which effectively cut him off from Tifa when the guards circled him. Had she not been there, carrying their strongest cure materia and a will that made Cloud lose himself to the overpowering nature of her presence, Cloud would have been a gonner. He had made her worry, he had been reckless-- he just wished he could be honest, but that would involve not putting her first when he cared about her above all others.

[suitk0via]

Hi, love the Bucky x Teacher series! Have they ever discussed kids of their own or will they?

Baby Fever

Pairing : Dad!Bucky x Reader

Word Count : 2.3k

Warnings : a little angsty + fluff

Synopsis : Bucky catches baby fever.

I got about three other anon requests just like this one! So, anon's I hope you enjoy. Apologies for any mistakes!

Teacher’s Favorite AU | Masterlist

Bucky had been a little odd recently.

You weren't exactly sure why, but you didn't question it really. He'd been sleeping in a lot more and generally seemed out of it. Naturally you pinned his behavior onto the fact he'd been working a bit more but it was beginning to worry you.

"James." You said in a very serious tone. Surprised he whipped his head around giving you a worried look. "M'not in trouble, am I?" He asked, looking up at you as you approached. He was spread out on the couch with his leg draped over the side - honestly he looked very comfortable. His blue eyes looked tired and he looked a little scruffier than usual.

Not that it mattered to you.

He was still your Bucky.

Putting your hands on his face you leaned down giving him a brief kiss. "I'm worried about you." You said honestly. He gave you a look like he wanted to argue but he knew better than to do that. You knew he was aware of his change in demeanor, but he didn't share the same worry as you.

"Oh. Sweetheart, I'm alright. I'm just tired."

Oh what an excuse.

It was hard to argue with that one, but you knew better. "James. You've been waking up at ten every morning for the past week, and you've barely had a conversation with me. That's not you just being tired. You're bothered by something." You said, no hint of malice in your tone. Letting out a gruff sigh he reached out pulling you down to lay on top of him. Of course you made no effort to pull away, only leaning further into him. His reaction only worried you more as you awaited his response.

"Is it something to do with Collin and Elaine?"

Bucky rolled his eyes viciously before groaning. "No. That's an entirely separate issue. Don't get me started." He said, slipping his hands underneath your shirt lightly scratching your back. Recently Elaine had been talking about a boy a little too much, and needless to say it made Bucky moody. He'd overheard her talking about Collin and how nice he was, and he walked around like a wounded puppy for the better part of the day.

He'd spent the rest of the night recounting all the times that she'd promised she'd never need a boy whenever she was little. As sweet as it was to see him be protective of her, it was also jarring to see him genuinely upset over the fact she was growing up so fast. The day she'd started seventh grade you thought you were going to have to scrape him off the floor of the building.

"If it's any consolation Collin is a sweet boy."

Bucky kissed your forehead with a sigh. "I'm sure he is. Doesn't mean I want him being buddy buddy with my baby girl." He said with a childish huff. Laughing you patted his cheek, returning to the main subject.

"Then what is it, Buck?" You asked quietly. His response was to hold onto you a little bit tighter, and you waited patiently.

He had trouble expressing himself sometimes, especially if he felt like he was being a burden. No matter how much you told him otherwise, he still would rather carry the weight himself. Resting your head against his chest you listened to him breathe for awhile, wishing you could just read his mind.

"What did you think about seeing Wanda's boys?"

The question was odd and you didn't quite catch the implication. Tommy and Billy were perhaps the cutest babies you'd ever seen. Just absolute dream children with their perfect little noses and bright eyes. Though it was quite the spectacle to watch Bucky fight back tears as he held the both of them.

"Oh, they're adorable. Why do you ask?" You looked up at him curiously. There was a little glimmer in his eyes you couldn't quite identify, and you tilted your head to the side. "I don't know..." He said, nervously reaching up to scratch his neck. You watched as his cheeks flushed and you nearly gasped at the sight. It wasn't often that he got all bashful, but when he did you cherished the sight of it.

"Bucky! You're blushing! Oh my god, what's wrong?" You laughed kissing him sweetly. His eyes looked everywhere but directly at you. There was an almost worried energy coming from him, and it was very out of character.

"I don't know...Elaine's making me feel old. She's not a baby anymore. Seeing Wanda's boys...just made me think a little bit."

Finally you felt like you were understanding the issue, but you weren't going to supply yourself with a false hope. "Think about what?" You asked, feigning some cluelessness. Shifting around he finally caught your eyes, most likely catching the anticipation in them. Still he couldn't seem to find the words to explain himself. "Because it sounds like you caught a vicious case of baby fever." You said teasing him a little.

Groaning he put his hands on his face clearly trying to hide his embarrassment. "Aw, Bucky! I love you so much." You pouted trying to pull at his hands. "I do not have baby fever. They were just cute babies, and I miss when Elaine was all tiny and told me boys were gross," he paused "and I wouldn't mind having one again."

There it is.

Finally prying his hands from his face you looked at him with a smile. This seemed like a natural progression of your relationship. You'd been dating for six years and married for two, but you'd never had a conversation about babies before. In your mind you assumed Bucky wasn't too into the idea of more kids, but clearly you couldn't read his mind. Still it was flattering to think that he'd even thought about having a baby with you. Not that either of you were strangers to the art of baby making, but he was always careful.

"Bucky, if you want a baby let's fuckin' make one."

His eyes went wide and he laughed. "That mouth will get you in trouble." He said giving you a look. Rolling your eyes you listened to him scoff at your false attitude. Rolling off of him you stood up stretching your arms out. "I can't tell if you're jokin' or not." He said, a nervous edge to his voice.

Straightening out your shirt you put your hands on your hips. The way he was looking up at you with pleading eyes mirrored his daughter a little too much. It must've been a Barnes' thing to pout like that. "I can't tell if you're joking or not. Why would you want a baby with me if you've already got a perfect daughter?" You countered, letting out that bit of insecurity you didn't even know you held on to. Bucky said your name in a very stern tone, furrowing his eyebrows together.

"Sweetheart, why wouldn't I want a baby with you? You're my wife. Whenever I look at you I see the love of my life and the mother of my children. Just thinkin' about a little you runnin' around makes me want to cry. I love you so much, of course I want a baby with you."

Ever the romantic your Bucky was.

The look in his eyes was nothing but genuine. Reiterating the fact that he did love you as much as you love him. There was no room for doubt when it came to Bucky. He made sure you knew what you meant to him. It was still hard to fathom that you were lucky enough to have him.

Holding back the urge to cry you leaned down kissing him sweetly. A kiss packed with the emotions you couldn't express verbally. "What are you waiting on Barnes?" You laughed against his lips before you were promptly swept off your feet and carried up the stairs.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It never occurred to you how stressful trying to get pregnant could've been. Movies make it out to be as if one wrong move during sex and you immediately get pregnant. You quickly learned that wasn't the case. In fact you now had a notebook in order to track your ovulation and then the respective results of a pregnancy test.

The both of you had been trying for two months, and you were slowly losing faith in yourself. Test after test seeing that same negative sign made you worry if something was wrong with you – if Bucky would be upset with you. He never was though. He would sit on the bathroom floor with you, somehow managing to make you smile despite the fact you were disappointed in yourself.

"Hey, we're gonna try again."

"Pretty girl, don't be upset. We're gettin' there."

"I love you so much, sweetheart. I know it's frustrating."

As much as his words meant to you, it was still emotionally draining. Elaine noticed almost immediately. Asking vague questions trying to get an answer from you, but it was too much for you to bare. The last thing you wanted to do was get her hopes up just to let her down.

Bucky ended up talking to her about it though, and she was nothing short of thrilled at the idea. She was never discouraged though. No matter the results she would give you a big smile and promise you the next time would be it.

This particular day you had an odd hope within you though. Bucky was lying in bed reading an article on his phone, while Elaine was staring in the bathroom mirror as you braided her hair. "Have you taken one yet?" She asked, motioning towards the box of tests on the counter. You shook your head tying off the end of her braid.

"Are you nervous?" She turned to look at you with bright eyes. Taking a breath you couldn't help but smile at the hopeful look in her eyes. You had to admit there was a little flutter in your stomach that was giving you a sense of excitement. "Always. I'm feeling a little lucky though." You said raising an eyebrow at her.

"What's with all the whispering? I feel left out girls."

Bucky leaned against the doorframe glasses perched on his nose. "No one was whisperin', old man. You just can't hear anymore." Elaine said laughing at her own words. Scrunching his nose he reached out pulling her into a bear hug just to make her complain. Rolling your eyes at their antics you opened up on of the tests, going over the instructions you already knew by heart.

Turning around you gave them a gentle push out of the room. "Hey! What about me?" Bucky said pouting dramatically. You just smiled at him before closing the door. The anticipation in you was a little too much to handle. You went through the process hearing the both of them whispering outside the door.

Waiting patiently you paced back an forth, counting down the minutes before it was time to see the results. You were nervous you were hyping yourself up for nothing, but you were unbelievably hopeful. You couldn't bring yourself to look either.

Opening the door back up they were both staring at you expectantly. "I don't wanna look." You whispered. Bucky reached out wrapping his arms around you kissing your forehead. "Can I look?" Elaine asked putting her hand on your shoulder. Bucky nodded holding you a little bit tighter. You could tell he was just as nervous as you, maybe even more so. Pressing your face into his chest you waited patiently.

"What? What's that face?" Bucky asked. The urgency in his tone made you turn around. Elaine was looking at the both of you with wide eyes. Bucky pulled you over to the counter with him, looking down at the test. "Holy shit." He said. Your heart must've stopped. Hesitantly looking down at the white strip, you nearly fainted at the sight of the positive sign. Everything was quiet for a second.

"You're pregnant." Elaine said giving you a big smile. You were stunned. Almost not even processing the fact that Bucky was smothering you in kisses while Elaine shook your shoulders shouting excitedly. What really struck you was the tears the ran down Bucky's face as he held your face in his hands.

"Aw, honey, don't cry." You soothed, wiping the teardrops away, amazed by the unbridled joy in his eyes. Elaine was practically jumping around the both of you shouting incoherently about how excited she was. Never had you seen someone look at you the way he was. He slipped his hands under your shirt, the cool feeling of his ring against your stomach. "Are you kidding me? Of course I'm gonna cry. That's our baby." He sniffled looking down at where his hands rested.

"I'm a sister now!" Elaine said wrapping her arms around you. The emotions were overwhelming. The three – no, four of you cramped into the bathroom overflowing with joy. "Thank you. Oh my god, thank you sweetheart. I love you so much. You're the most amazing woman alive." Bucky wrapped his arms around the both of you.

"Oh, stop. I love you Bucky." You sighed into his shirt.

"Daddy's still got it."

You gasped smacking his arm while Elaine pulled away from the both you gagging dramatically. "Way to kill a moment there honey." You laughed watching Elaine give the both of you a disapproving look.

You smiled listening to the both of them go back an forth about the appropriateness of his comment. Never in a million years did you think you'd be in this situation, but you were more than grateful for them. You weren't sure how this would play out but you more than happy to have another Barnes' running around the house.

[buckybarnesdiaries]

my sergeant

© credits to the author, i found it on pinterest. if you are the author, please send me a message to add your @.

bucky barnes x reader. ⎢ masterlist.

Bucky breaks into your house to make you keep remember one thing.

word count: 1.352 words.

warnings/tags: nsfw, +18!!! clothes on, unprotected sex, hair pulling, language, cursing, sergeant!kink, praise!kink, mention of bodily fluids, a little possessive!bucky, and i don't know what else.

author notes: i'm not sorry for this scene turning me on af every time i watch it. reposted because it didn't show in the tags. none of my stories contain reader’s body descriptions to be inclusive.

Join the tag list here.

Your eyes snapped open, sitting up on your bed barely breathing. You were agitated after having another nightmare you couldn't remember once you were awake. At least this time, you weren't covered in sweat, but your whole body was on fire. Tossing the sheets away, you got up bare feet to head to the kitchen and drink a very much needed glass of freshwater. You drank it in one gulp, gasping while leaving it inside the sink. With both hands on the edge of the counter, you inclined your head back, putting your eyes on the ceiling. Those bad dreams would be the death for you one day, you knew it.

As you felt more calmed and recomforted, you turned around with the intention of going to your bed again. But that was left in the background at the moment you glimpsed Bucky sitting at the dinner table. He didn't scare you, not at all. You were starting to get used to find him there, waiting for you, in the middle of the gloom. He looked exhausted too. Deadly tired. He was reclined against the chair, legs slightly spread and his arm made of vibranium over the table. The soldier didn't utter a word, following your steps walking closer to him with his shiny blue eyes. He didn't even move a muscle when you sat on his lap and placed both hands on the sides of his neck.

Leaning ahead, you pecked his rough and dry lips slowly, taking your time with no rush. Bucky just closed his eyes, slipping his hands down to your hips, nailing his fingers there. He couldn't help but growl quietly the second your mouth trailed a path of short, ephemeral kisses to his jawline till reaching his throat, forcing him to toss his head back. Unconsciously, he urged you to swing your body on top of his. You dragged your incisors on his Adam's apple, causing him to swallow a soft gasp, feeling his digits grabbing your hips strongly —probably, that gesture would leave some marks on your skin.

“I've missed you”. You purred coming back your attention to his lips, as the bulge under the rigid fabric of his pants became bigger and harder because of your dance. You were aware that he looked for you whenever he wanted to put his feet on the ground, feel loved, desired. “My Sergeant…”

Bucky didn't open his eyes, sliding his cold palm to your lower waist and landing the warm one on the back of your head to tangle it in your hair. You groaned against his lips before they were hungrily devoured. The heat in your core grew by leaps and bounds when he repositioned you on his legs and his solid erection was placed under your weakest spot. You couldn't hold back a delicate, sweet moan. One of these that used to drive him insane. With his left hand, Bucky continued encouraging you to rock your hips against his crotch, rubbing it concretely among your folds covered by the soaked fabric of your panties.

You hated sometimes the control he had over you, over your body, over your mind. He could put you to beg with just one look. And he knew it. You were his, that was the absolute truth. And he wanted something else from you, as soon as you increased the pace. Bucky didn't care about your t-shirt, using both of his hands to rip it off from your body. Ruining it like he was going to ruin you. His hand of vibranium went straight to your breasts, giving you goosebumps because of the contrast of his cold fingers pinching them as he caught one of your nipples between his warm lips. You whined his name, securing your hands on his shoulders, out of the world while the sensitivity of your wet and needed cunt became more sensible to the firm rubbing against your panties.

“You want to cum, don't you, babydoll?” He hummed squeezing the nipple covered in his saliva using his thumb and his forefinger, bringing his lips closer to yours.

“Yes… Yes, Sergeant”. You pouted at him, nodding with your chin and looking at him through your eyelids.

“I knew you needed me… I knew my sweet girl needed her Sergeant to make her feel good, am I wrong?” Bucky's hoarse tone was pushing you to the seventh heaven, feeling the tickles borning within your lower belly, swinging your body faster over his rock-hard dick.

“No… No, you're… you're not”. You babbled this time, seeing him curling up the corner of his lips in that charming and breathtaking smirk of him. “I ne— need you inside me… I need you to… fuck me like you me— mean it, my Sergeant, please, I beg you”.

“I will, babydoll, I will… 'Cause you're a good, good girl”. Bucky affirmed unhurriedly, peppering your swollen lips, remembering how good they looked around his cock —sucking his soul out of his body— the last time he appeared in your house. “Open your mouth”.

You obeyed instantly, swallowing a loud whining, letting him tuck his cold thumb between your lips. You licked it using your tongue, giving him a whole show and noticing how a storm of darkness covered his pale blue orbs. When he decided it was well covered in your saliva, Bucky directed it to your panties, not pulling them aside. And he drew circles on your throbbing clit, pressing his fingertip enough to stroke it.

“Oh, f— fuck, Sergeant”. You sobbed arching your back, very close to being thrown above the edge of your limits.

“C'mon, babydoll… cum for me… Show me what only I can make you feel”. He whispered into your ear. A raspy voice that gave you shivers down your backbone. “You're so damn soaked I can feel it under my clothes… Good lord… what a dirty girl you are…”

“Only fo— for you”.

Your response came an instant before the fireworks exploded inside your belly, not being able to stop when the orgasm hit your soul crying his name, dancing your cunt onto his hard cock needed of him. Your thighs strained, your legs were shaking, hanging above the floor and you were panting nonsense words about your Sergeant.

Bucky stormed his tongue into your mouth, invading it with no mercy to dominate yours. Placing his hands back to your hips, he forced you to keep moving, stealing the less air inside your lungs. He was about to cum too, but it'd be a waste if he did it in his boxers; stopping you at the precise moment to push you back enough to undo his belt and zip. Bucky didn't let you time to react. As his cock covered in his own arousal broke free and he removed your ruined panties to the side, he lifted you sufficiently to impale your pussy down.

“Fuck!” You both hissed at the same time, closing strongly your eyelids.

Bucky made you bounce onto his rigid erection, once and once, keen to fill you up with his heated seed. You were a bundle of moans, sobs, and pleas, feeling his most sensible skin stretching your soaked walls and twitching between them. He didn't give you prior notice. Bucky just cum inside your cunt, pushing you down harder till his dick was balls-deep beyond your limits. He growled against your throat, pulling back your hair and your head, to nail his teeth in your sweaty skin.

“Oh, god, my Sergeant…” You gasped with a wrecked tone of voice, finding balance by gripping his jacket in two fists.

“You look like Heaven, babydoll… But you feel like Hell”. Bucky rumbled, making your whole anatomy shake again. “What a shame 'm gonna destroy you tonight…”

And by destroying you he meant you wouldn't be able to walk the next morning, not even to talk because what he has planned for you was to fuck every sweet, warm hole of you —your mouth, your ass, your pussy. Or rather, his mouth, his ass, his pussy. Bucky would make you keep remembering who you belonged to.

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[sunder-soul]

is it possible if you do some Tom fluff/soft!smut where y/n stops touching him (like hand holding, hugging etc) because he doesn’t show any interest in it (always has a serious face & looks bored of her etc, when in reality he’s melting inside with butterflies and stuff). so he asks her why and she explains it and it leads to some smut, (only if you’re comfy if you’re not, some making out is fine). <33

Oh my god the second I got this I was like I HAVE to answer this immediately. Thanks for this awesome prompt!!! 💖 

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Tactile

Summary: Affectionate Reader stops touching Tom because he never reacts to it, and when he asks why they stopped things get very, very heated (content warning: smut). Word count: 2.3k Content warning: explicit sex.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Tom had shown you the room about a week after you’d started dating. It was on the seventh-floor of the Castle far away from the regular foot-traffic, a smooth stone wall until you walked past it with a specific need in mind – then the door would appear, carved from the rock before your very eyes to reveal a room that gave you exactly what you wanted.

For him, it was always the same room; a small library so packed with books that the shelves curved overhead to form impossible arches, warm glowing lanterns that illuminated the space inside, and a broad fireplace in front of which sat elegant black couches with reading lamps and tables laden with yet more books. He’s yet to tell you exactly what he thinks of to make the library appear, but every time you go there with him, there it is again.

“Are you alright?” he asks suddenly one evening.

The two of you are on the couches before the crackling fireplace. Tom has an elbow resting on the armrest of the couch and a book in his lap, one long leg crossed over the other, looking at you where you’re sat opposite him. You’re curled up around an assignment with your feet tucked up underneath you and your inkwell balanced somewhat precariously on the cushion beside you.

“I’m fine,” you frown, rather taken aback. “Why?”

Tom is silent as he assesses you, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. You arch a brow and lower your quill, attention fully grabbed. “Tom?”

“You’ve been acting differently,” he says smoothly.

“I have?”

“Yes,” he says succinctly, looking back down at his book. “More reserved.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say slowly.

“You used to be very… tactile,” he says delicately, his long fingers sliding under his page and turning it very nonchalantly. “I’ve noticed that you’ve stopped.”

“Stopped touching you?” you say carefully, feeling more and more surprised.

He nods.

“Well it felt weird to keep doing it since you didn’t like it,” you frown, confused at why he’d even brought it up.

Tom’s eyes snap up to yours. “What do you mean?” he asks curtly.

You raise your brows at his reaction. “Where’s the point of confusion for you?” you ask dryly.

“Why did you think I didn’t like it?” he demands.

“Are you joking?” you deadpan, half-amused. “Tom, you’d just ignore me. I’d go to hug you, or hold your hand, and you’d just look so… bored. It didn’t take a genius to realise that you weren’t interested.”

Tom stares at you. Suddenly you feel a little awkward.

“I don’t mind that you’re not an affectionate person,” you say quickly, “I really don’t. I just felt sort of strange acting like that since it obviously wasn’t what you wanted.”

His jaw goes tight and there’s something almost agitated in the way he looks back down at his book.

“Are… are you alright?” you ask hesitantly, gaze lingering on his fingers that – despite his apparently casual posture – were now gripping the cover of his book so tightly that his knuckles were going white.

“Fine,” he says in a clipped tone.

“Well I’m convinced,” you drawl.

Tom doesn’t rise to your teasing. You frown and put your assignment aside. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I am perfectly well,” he says tersely.

“Is that why you’re about to rip that book in two?” you ask ironically, arching a brow.

Tom shuts the book loudly and tosses it onto the couch beside him. “What would you have me say?” he says in agitation.

“You’re rather obviously upset, Tom,” you say frankly.

“Yes and your observations are always so accurate,” he snaps caustically.

You frown again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tom looks furious for a second and then glowers at the fireplace. Your thoughts whir. The only observation you’d made about him recently had been…

“Is this about me touching you?” you ask slowly, watching him carefully.

Tom looks at you again, tense and frenetic. He doesn’t say anything. Your stomach does a little flip, and you force your nerves down to speak again.

“…Do you want me to start doing it again?”

Tom’s lips press together, his eyes flicking between yours. After a long, silent moment, he nods.

You smother a smile and stand. Tom’s eyes follow you, looking ever so slightly alarmed at your movement – but the expression melts away as you approach him and very languidly rest your hands onto his shoulders, slowly leaning forward and straddling him on the couch. “Then why didn’t you say you liked it?” you say softly, sitting down on his lap and lifting a hand to push your fingers through his hair.

Tom’s gaze is unmoved from your face as his hands slide up your hips and come to a rest on your waist, his touch very reserved. “I thought you knew,” he says quietly.

“Not all of us are mind-readers, Tom,” you tease playfully, your fingers trailing down the elegant curve of his cheek. “Some of us have to rely on menial body language and verbal queues to understand each other.”

“My apologies,” Tom says softly as he leans closer. Your heart stutters despite yourself.

You meet his lips softly, just as warm and full as they looked, his mouth moving on yours deceptively gentle but with the dizzying promise of more to come. Sure enough, you feel his hands slide from your waist up around you as he pulls you closer to him, holding you tightly against him. Adrenaline is spreading like fire through your chest and – wondering exactly how much you can get away with – you slowly roll your hips against his. You hear him take a slightly harder breath and you pull back from the kiss to look at him.

Your stomach twists at what you see. Tom stares at you with something like hunger on his face, his eyes dark and intense. You can’t resist rocking your hips again just to see his reaction. Tom’s jaw goes tight and he leans in hard, his lips crashing into yours and moving ravenously, his hand curling into a fist of your hair and pulling you deeper into the kiss. Heat spreads through your body and grows hotter and hotter as it goes on and on, your fingers carding into the waves of his dark hair as you kiss him back as hard as you can, as you spiral from control and you’re barely able to think anymore.

Tom is pushing your robes off of your shoulders and you distractedly shrug them off as you lean into the kiss, your heart racing as his fingers slip under the bottom of your jumper and pull it up. You’re forced to break the kiss to let him lift it over your shoulders but he captures your lips the second it’s out of the way, his long fingers already on the buttons of your blouse. You can’t stop touching him, your hands in his hair, against his jaw, down his neck, and then he’s sliding his hands against your skin and your blouse falls to the ground behind you. Tom pulls you forward hard to bring your body flush against his chest, his tongue tracing your top lip and making you feel like you’re falling.

You can feel him hard against your core.

Body aflame with desire, your hands drop to his belt between your legs but Tom catches your wrists in one hand.

“Wait,” he says silkily, smirking.

Something aches in you so hard your vision reels for a second and you stare at him, unable to look away. He slowly lets go of your hands and his fingers are brushing against your thigh, slipping up and under your skirt. Your eyes close and your head falls onto his shoulder as his fingers trace the outside of your underwear, his touch burning and unbearably light. Tom gently presses his lips to your neck and shivers spread across your skin.

“God, Tom,” you breathe as his lips trail down your neck and his fingers stroke you teasingly.

Tom just breathes a laugh and the next second your underwear are gone, Vanished effortlessly. You only barely contain a moan as his fingers slide with ease and aching heat washes across your skin. “You want this so much, don’t you?” he murmurs against your neck.

But you can’t reply, blind at the pleasure of his touch. His fingers are slow and relentless, easing back and forth like he’s beckoning you further into desire, listening to you moan in his ear. His other hand curls around the back of your neck as he presses his lips up under your jaw, his teeth brushing your skin and making you gasp. “Does it feel good?” he murmurs, his soft words making tingles erupt down your neck.

“Yes,” you breathe, arms tightening around his neck

The pressure of his fingers increasing slightly and your breath hitches. “Are you going to lose control for me?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” you barely manage to say again.

Tom’s other hand cups your face and guides your face around to look at him, his lips hovering right against yours as his fingers stroke burning heat into you, agonisingly gentle, torturously persistent. “You’re going to come for me,” he whispers, “and I want to watch.”

You feel it bloom in you core as if by his command, and Tom’s lips curl into a smirk.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pulling your forehead against his. “Just like that.”

“Tom,” you gasp as it starts to overcome you.

“Give me what I want,” he says softly, right against your mouth.

It hits you hard and you can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t even think as your heart races, as heat consumes you. Your head is spinning when it finally passes, your breathing ragged when you can bear to crack your eyes open.

Tom is right there, eyes black with desire as they roam your face with hungry scrutiny.

This time when your hands go to his belt, he doesn’t stop you, his hands dropping to your hips again. It only takes a second to pull the buckle apart and unbutton his trousers, and Tom’s hands immediately pull your hips forward, jerking you up onto your knees.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and lean down to his lips, kissing him deeply as Tom’s fingers tighten on your hips and slowly, firmly guide you down on top of him, your knees spreading out on the couch on either side of him as his tongue coaxes your lips apart. Your stomach twists at the feeling of him against you, as he slides into you easily without stopping, guiding your hips down more and more until you’re flush against him again and in one smooth movement his whole length is inside of you.

You cheeks are hot and your heart is going a thousand beats a minute as his hands grip you hard, as he rocks your hips against him, his tongue against yours making you dizzy all over again. He rocks you again, and again, hitting something inside of you that makes you break the kiss to gasp at the electric feeling spreading through you.

Tom stills at once, a crease appearing between his brows.

“Don’t stop, Tom,” you moan at once, leaning your forehead on his again and grinding your hips against him hard.

His eyes flicker and his hands tighten painfully on your hips as he resumes, making you grind against him over and over again until you can’t help the moans he’s drawing from you.

“You feel good,” he murmurs up against your lips, his voice turned low and husky.

“So do you,” you say breathlessly, rocking hard along with his hands and twisting your hips in the smallest circle.

Tom’s eyes fall shut and his head cants forward an inch as he breathes hard. Entranced, you chase the reaction at once, repeating the motion again, and again. Tom’s hands slowly loosen on your hips as you take over, grinding against him with desire aflame on your skin and in your core alike.

“Will you give me what I want?” you whisper, desire turning you reckless.

Tom looks up at you like he’s in pain, his hands resting gently on your waist as he watches you grind against him.

“Will you lose control for me, Tom?” you say quietly, leaning into his lips.

Tom’s hand is behind you neck in a flash, brows furrowing as he pulls you down against his lips aggressively, his grip painfully tight as you feel heat erupt inside of you, as you kiss him back and listen to his hard breathing.

He pulls away after a long, heated moment and cups your face in his hand, staring at you.

Slowly, you lift a hand and gently brush his hair off his forehead, watching his eyes flicker slightly at the touch.

“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.

He nods silently, his gaze fixed on you.

“What do you think of? When you summon this room?”

Tom’s brows raise like the question surprises him. “That’s what you want to know?” he asks dryly, his lips curving into a smirk.

You nod, letting your fingers trail absently down his face.

Tom pauses for a moment, the smirk fading away as your hands rest against his jaw and your thumbs brush his cheeks softly. “I think about having a place where I can be myself,” he says quietly.

A warmth of a very different kind spreads through your chest, and you’re certain that he can feel your smile against his lips when you lean in and kiss him.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

To request sequels/being tagged in follow-ups, leave a reply in the notes! 💖

[harry-writings]

We’ll Be Alright

The one where Harry and Y/n have a hard time coping without one another, and Harry finally understands what it means to be a husband

Part 1

Part 2

Masterlist

How to support me <333

-

Y/n knows she’s hit rock bottom when she pours her fifth glass of whiskey at three in the morning, lighting up her seventh cigarette on her bedroom balcony, as if furthering herself away from her right state of mind will somehow bring her closer to all the answers she had been looking for.

She doesn’t even smoke.

The last time she came this close to a cigarette was five months before she found out she was pregnant with Topher. It was the third time Harry didn’t show up to marriage counseling, and Y/n was so upset and so angry and so hurt that she couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop crying until it was in her hands.

This time, though, the shaking and the crying don’t stop.

She’s sitting on one of the balcony chairs, her elbows propped up on her knees, one hand resting at the roots of her hair and the other holding her glass in her palm and her cigarette between her fingers. Her leg is bouncing and her eyes are wet, zoning herself out from the rest of the world, trying to get as far away from herself as possible.

She hasn’t seen Harry in thirteen days.

Not only has she not seen Harry, but she also hasn’t talked to Harry or had any ties left to Harry for nearly two weeks now and Y/n can barely hold herself together anymore. She’s surprised she’s even gotten this far without him.

They aren’t divorced — the papers were left on the courtroom table practically untouched, and though she hates to admit it to herself, Y/n was the first to leave them behind — but they might as well have been.

He wasn’t even the one to pick up Topher today. And she didn’t realize how much she’d miss their traditions — even the ones they’ve made while being separated — until she saw Mitch standing at the other side of her door and watched as he buckled her son into the same carseat Harry once had in his car.

It was at that moment that she knew that even though they weren’t divorced, they really were over, and it was enough to push her over the edge.

Now she’s so drunk she can barely remember where she is. The skyline and the buildings look familiar, but everything is so out of touch she can’t find the same peace and comfort in it as she once used to.

Everything has faded to nothing.

And whether it’s from the alcohol, or the revisitation of bad habits, or if it’s from grieving the loss of somebody still alive, but everything to her feels numb. All that’s left is pain and sadness and the fear of living the rest of her life exactly like this — lost, hopeless, and alone.

She thinks back to the day she slept with Harry — as she does, she throws the last bit of whiskey down her throat and swallows it down without a flinch — and how that day was forever going to be the last day she had ever held him, had ever kissed him, had ever told him that she loved him.  

If she had known — really, really known — it was going to be her last chance to do any of those things, she wouldn’t have pushed him away. She would have done all the things Harry wanted — would have spent the rest of their day in bed, drinking wine, celebrating all that once was and what always could be.

Because that’s what she wanted, too. That’s what she’s wanted since the beginning of this mess they’ve made of themselves, she just didn’t ever want to admit it.

This feeling that burns in her stomach at the thought of not being with Harry makes her want to scream. She can’t escape it, even as the alcohol seeps into her bloodstream and takes away every other feeling in her body.

She sobs, her chin tucking into her chest and her palms pressing to her forehead, agonizing and inhumane cries falling past her lips.

Her Harry is no longer hers.

She squeezes her eyes shut, a puddle of tears falling down her cheeks as she does so, her hand dropping the whiskey glass, her cigarette left sparked on the balcony floor as her fingers twist and pull at her hair. She hunches over her knees, trying so desperately to put herself back together again.

But it’s impossible. She knows it’s impossible because it’s him that makes her whole — him that holds her and keeps her together, even when everything else around her is falling apart.

She’d do anything to feel his arms around her now.

And it’s all she can think about — how lonely and cold and frigid it feels without the feel of his touch, and how loud the silence is without the sound of his voice in her ear, telling her how in love with her he is, giggling at her blush.

And she’s had so much to drink she can trick her mind into believing that he’s here, if she thinks about it hard enough. She mistakes the wind for the feel of him walking past her, smells his cologne in the liquor, but it’s still too quiet for her to really, truly believe it.

And she just wants to believe it. For once, she wants to pretend that he’s here with her, loving her, wanting her the way he always used to. Even if it’s the wrong thing to do.

Her hand shakingly reaches for her phone.

“‘Ello, this is Harry! I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your call, but I promise to return to you whenever I’m next available. Thank you, talk soon! Bye.”

And oh, how good it feels to hear his voice again.

It brings her back to all the times she’d call Harry while he was away on tour and how every phone call lasted at least two hours. Whether it was to check up on him, or to wish him goodnight, or to have phone sex, he never failed to make every second they were spending apart feel so worth it.

She calls him six more times just to hear his voicemail.

By the seventh and last phone call, Y/n is so low she’s tempted to just finish it off — down the pack of cigarettes and the bottle of whiskey that have kept her more company than her husband. Maybe filling her void with vices will be enough to last her until the blackout, where she will finally be free.

But what will she have left if she does?

The loneliness and the sadness and the hopelessness will all still be there. She will still wake up to a cold bed, in an empty home, with nobody to share her life with. She will still have this sick and twisted feeling that happiness doesn’t exist outside of her Harry — that happiness doesn’t exist within these walls, miles away from him, with only herself to hold.

She can’t keep waking up without him anymore. She can hardly keep living.

So, she does the first and only thing that comes to her mind.

She calls Mitch.

The clock nearly at four in the morning doesn’t seem to strike her as her drunken fingers struggle to tap on his contact name, knowing that this is the only way.

“Mitch.” Y/n hiccups when he answers her call, watching as everything around her starts to spin out of her control, instinctively reaching her hand beside her to hold onto Harry’s — the way she always did whenever she got too drunk. Her heart hurts even worse than before when she’s met with nothing but the ache of what once was. “Come get me, please.”

Something in the air shifts around Mitch.

He has known Y/n for years now, yet he can barely recognize that it’s her voice on the phone. He has to look down at the name on his phone twice before pressing the speaker to his ear, his heart nearly still as he wonders the reason behind such a disturbing and unexpected request.

“Y/n… is everything alright?” He asks tentatively, carefully, because she’s never awake this late at night and has never sounded so hurt. “What’s happened, love?”

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, sniffling, almost angrily.

“My husband’s been ignoring me for the past two weeks and I’m not —” She stops, sucking in a broken breath, not even believing the words she just spoke because she never believed he’d leave her all alone for so long. “I’m not taking it so well, obviously.”

Mitch sighs.

He should have known, from the second he saw the look on her face earlier that evening, that her night was going to end like this. The love she and Harry share is a kind he’s never seen before — something so far from ordinary, something he couldn’t even understand despite the love for his own girlfriend, who lays beside him so peacefully now.

Their love is more than love. It’s deeper, more soulful, as if they have found each other in every past life and every after life. They truly are, in the most unexplainable of ways, made for one another eternally. Forever, they are theirs.

It’s both a blessing and a curse — their preexisting connection— because they are everything together, but absolutely nothing apart.

“Y/n, love... he’s not ignoring you. He wouldn’t dream of it.”

Oh, how she wishes it was true.

“He didn’t even want to see me tonight. He sees me two days out of the week and he didn’t even want that. There was a time he’d do anything just to look at me for even a second.”

He wishes he knew what to say.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to see her — all he does is cry and whine and sulk about how he hasn’t — he just believes leaving Y/n alone is truly what’s best for her right now.

She has barely had any time away from him. Surely, she did have the weekdays to herself and Topher, but she still had to see him every weekend — still had to face him at her doorway; still had to be around him, even on her worst days; still had to be reminded of everything that had gone wrong.

Being around him confuses her. He knows that now, and so does Mitch. But Mitch always knew. Y/n has always been too in deep with Harry. One proper look at him would be enough to send her to her knees.

He’s her greatest weakness.

She needs to be alone.

Or, so he once thought.

“Have you been drinking?”

Y/n laughs in an almost sarcastic way, the side of her wrist pulling at the corner of her eye as she wipes away at her tears.

“Drinking, frying my brain with nicotine, crying my fucking eyes out.” Her lips tremble as she stuffles away a cry. “All of the above.”

Mitch frowns.

This behavior isn’t unusual for her — it hasn’t been since her marriage with Harry started to turmoil — but it never gets easier to witness.

It’s when she’s in the depths of her own hell that she depends on the intoxication to get her by, as if it numbed her from all the pain she’d be living with without it. And as hard as it is for him to admit it, she only ever feels this way whenever it comes to Harry.

This side of her never existed until she met him.

“You want to see him, don’t you?”

To see him. To touch him. To talk to him. To hold him. She wants it all, everywhere, for the rest of the night — for the rest of her life if he were to let her.

But she can’t get ahead of herself. She won’t be able to survive it if she does.

“Even if it’s just for a second.”

His heart falls.

“Will it get you to put down the drugs and alcohol?”

Her eyes linger at the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and though it still calls for her just as strongly, she knows it’s not what she truly wants.

“Yeah.”

She can hear him smile softly through the phone.

“Then hang tight, love. I’m on my way.”

-

Harry hasn’t been able to sleep all night.

And if he wanted to get technical, he supposes he hasn’t been able to sleep since he and Y/n nearly signed their marriage away, but tonight is far, far worse than anything else he’s ever felt.

His body senses his good days. The sun somehow brighter, the rain lighter, the clouds thinner — he sees it all so differently on the days he goes to see Y/n. He’s used to the routine, he looks forward to it all week, even if it is just to see her for a couple minutes at her doorway.

So to say his body feels the loss of her is an understatement.

He caught himself reaching his hand over to her side of the bed one too many times, only to shiver and whine when met with the emptiness of it. His fingers would squeeze at her pillowcase, hugging it closer to him, fantasizing about her smell and her feel as he tried to drift into his dreamland — that only, of course, consisted of her.

But it was helpless.

He moves to the living room couch, where he finds himself flipping through the photo album of their wedding day — the same one he claimed he had thrown out when Y/n asked if she could keep it, moments before she was about to move out after he had brought the divorce papers home.

Of course he hadn’t thrown it out, but he could never tell Y/n about the lies he only told to make himself feel better about his decision.

He was angry and he was hurt, both of which consumed him in the scariest and most dangerous of ways, leading him to sink his teeth in a lie and spitting it in her face just to make her feel all those things, too. Though he’s sure she already did.

But as he flips through the pages now, reliving that day torturously in his head, remembering how beautiful she looked and how in love he was, he can’t help but feel like these moments weren’t his to take.

He had kept their home — had kept the furniture they bought together when they first moved in, kept all the movies and cd’s they’d play together each night, kept all the pictures she had chosen for the walls and tables he hadn’t had a clue on how to decorate.

He stayed so perfectly in their past while she was forced to move on, away from him, when she wasn’t even the one who wanted to leave.

He had truly taken everything from her — her love, her trust, her marriage, her home — and he didn’t even have the decency to give her the one and only thing she had asked for before she left.

That day was hers, it always has been and it always will be. She never once gave up on it the way he once had, always holding it so close to her, always cherishing its moments.

This simply doesn’t belong to him.

He presses his forehead down to a picture of Y/n wildly smiling at the camera, her hair styled up, makeup slightly smudged, as if holding her to him. And he rubs his thumb along the laminate, right against her cheek, in the same way she always liked.

“I’m so sorry.” He sobs out before he can try to reason that it’s not her, that she can’t hear him, that she can’t feel the way he’s holding and touching her right now, that he looks like a lovesick idiot for thinking this is anything close to the real thing.

None of that matters to him right now, though, as he holds the picture to him and realizes this is the closest he has been to her in so long. And she needs to know.

She just needs to know.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

-

Harry must have cried himself to sleep because the next thing he knows, his front door slams open against the foyer wall, julting him off of the photo album and leaving him with dry and confused eyes.

Without much of a second thought, he throws the photo album off his lap and stands frantically from the couch, his head twisting around in an attempt to follow the footsteps scurrying towards the living room.

He knows it’s her just from that sound alone.

“Y/n?” He calls out in question, still delusional from his sleeping state, wondering if he had even woken up at all.

But it’s when he sees her stumbling toward him with soaken and beaten eyes that he knows this isn’t just a dream — that she really is here, back in their home, with him at last. And he would be happy, would be so goddamn happy to have her in front of him again, if she didn’t look so broken.

He can’t stand the sight of her like this.

“Y/n?” He asks again, devastated.

But she doesn’t answer him. Rather, she does the one and only thing her mind can make sense of now that he’s in front of her again.

Her trembling hands cradle the back of his neck before pulling her to him, their lips meeting for a sloppy, drunken, frenzied kiss — one that nearly has Harry falling to his knees before her.

She pushes him onto the couch, barely giving him any time to compose himself before she sits herself down on his lap and kisses him again, hard — harder than before and harder than she ever has, she thinks.

Teeth clattering, tongues battling, mouths opening, lips smothering. It’s desperate and messy and sloppy, but she doesn’t want it any other way.

She knows this feeling. She wants this feeling. It’s what she keeps going back to because it’s safe and warm and familiar. She could be in the middle of nowhere, lost with no direction or any sense of belonging, yet the feel of his lips on hers would somehow make her feel at home, just the way she is.

She moans against him, her hands splayed on the back of his head and neck as if to keep him there — on her, with her.

His hands, however, don’t know where to go. They switch between her arms and her thighs, setting boundaries for himself because he’d give into her in a heartbeat if he were to touch her just right. And he’s already doing so much he shouldn’t, he’d ruin himself if he were to go any further.

So as a subtle way to slow it down, he drags his lips down to her chin before leaving open-mouthed kisses along the shape of her neck — devouring her taste, savoring the sweetness.

He’s missed this. He’s missed her, so much so he can’t even remember the reason he let it all go. Right now, in this moment, nothing seems worth it enough to ever give this up.

He can hardly think straight.

“Y/n, please don’t do this to me…” Harry whines against her collarbone, her touch and smell and feel overwhelming him beyond all forms of comprehension. “This isn’t you. We’ve been here before and —”

“And I want to make it right this time.”

He nearly cries.

He bites down gently on the base of her throat, nibbling at it, a strangled whine falling from his lips as his hands slither to her back, pushing his body up against hers as if to bring her closer. And he growls silently to himself as she starts grinding herself against him.

“Y/n —”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Baby…” He tries again, to which she giggles and smiles as she nibbles on the lobe of his ear. He gets lost in it for a moment — to hear her laugh, to feel her hands rub along his chest and up his neck, to have her so close, like nothing ever happened — but he snaps himself out of it just as quickly as he fell into it. “You’re drunk.”

He tries to reason, to make her see that he does want this, more than anything else in the world, but he can’t. Because if it were to happen again, he wants it to be real. He wants her to mean it, to need it, to be all in it with him the way he’s all in it with her.

He wants her to stay.

“I’m only drunk because I miss you so much.” She confesses breathlessly to him, to which he groans and throws his head back, as if he were in pain. “So give me what I want and nothing else will matter.”

His hands find purchase to her hips, his fingers squeezing at the flesh of them as he tries to steady the movement of her groin against his, desperate to hold himself together. But she makes it so hard when she knows exactly where and how to touch him — when she knows that he can never resist her all over him, begging for more.

His eyes are pinched forward and closed, his head still hanging off the edge of the couch, words seeming to fail him as she moans against his shoulder, sinking her teeth into the flesh of it as she works herself harder against him.

“Fuck, you know I want to.” He croaks out, his hands giving into their urge to wander every dip and curve and inch of her, even the places he shouldn’t. “You know I do.”

Good, she thinks. I want you to want it. I need you to want it. I want you to want it so bad you give it to me all night, all morning, all day. I need you to want me.

She lifts her head up from his shoulder so that she can look at him with a winning smirk, both of her hands fisting at the collar of his t-shirt to steady herself upon his lap, her movements now smooth and effortless, giving him everything he needs to give in.

He lets out a proper moan at this, allowing himself a moment of weakness to feed his undying greed.

His mouth hangs open and practically drools as he touches her in ways he’s been aching to, rubbing himself against her, allowing her lips to wander anywhere and everywhere they craved.

It all feels so good and all so right, he wishes it was enough to make things work, but he knows in his heart that it isn’t.

Not now, at least.

“But I can't — I can’t take advantage of you. I — oh, fuck!” He yelps from below her when her arm sneaks between them so her fingers can scratch at the skin of his upper inner thigh, mercilessly giving him everything that has ever made him feel good.  

And it’s all too much.

One more right touch in the right place and he’s done for, as pathetic and weak as that makes him. But it’s only for her. Only for her does he find himself shuddering and moaning and creeping on the edge for, one push away from falling off, waiting to be caught by her.

After all this time, after all they had been through — all the fighting, all the tears, all the downs and lows they’ve lost themselves in — she still consumes him whole. She still is and forever will be the only person he’ll ever love like this.

There is nothing and nobody else. There is only her.

Which is why he can’t let himself do it. He can’t let her do it.

So right before he reaches the end, his hands frantically grab onto hers and pin them down against each side of his legs, her forehead meeting his shoulder, her body collapsing onto his.

“No!” He bites through clenched teeth and shut eyes, his hands squeezing hers as his body ricochets back to reality, yet still holding her close. “No, no, fuck. No.”

And whatever remained of Y/n’s heart burns to a crisp at that one godforsaken word.

Harry never denies her.

Even at their lowest and darkest moments, her simple touch made him powerless. He succumbed to her even when he told himself he wouldn’t, gave into her touch like a drug he couldn’t get off of no matter how hard he tried, drowned in her love even when he swore he no longer craved it.

It’s the very reason Y/n found herself pregnant in the midst of their downfall. Harry never stopped wanting her.

She should have known that everything was different now, but she never expected it to be like this.

“Oh.” Y/n’s lips tremble, her eyes wide with woe, glossy with burning tears as she looks at him through slow blinks. “I get it, I —”

“Y/n…”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”

She’s nearly sobbing now, her breaths heavy and frantic as she pushes herself away from him, practically falling off of his lap. And if his head wasn’t so clouded from what had just happened between them, he wouldn’t have let her go.

She’s a mess, a kind he’s never seen in her before and it breaks him in two when he sees her face soaked in tears, her hands trembling as they push her hair back, her eyes looking at everything but him.

He is just so sick of her looking away from him, and so tired of watching her cry.

He never wanted this.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Harry speaks softly, his hand reaching out to grab ahold of hers before she has the chance to walk out on him again. And the shock of his touch is enough to bring her right back to him. “Baby, this is your home more than it is mine. Your son is here, I am here, don’t ever think you have to be sorry for wanting to come home.”

She’s silent for a moment, trying to make sense of his words and what they mean. But it’s so hard to focus on anything other than how good it feels to be holding his hand, and how that’s all it took to get the room to stop spinning around her.

She trusts him.

Whatever he wants out of this and whatever he’s thinking, she trusts. Her body wouldn’t be so reliant on him if she didn’t. And it’s been years since she’s felt this feeling she feels so fiercely now, but she could never mistake it. It was once the most familiar feeling in the world to her.

He rubs at her knuckles, patiently waiting for her to respond. But she doesn’t, her gaze just drunkenly fixated at their intertwined fingers, a hint of longing in her eye.

Even when he’s right here, holding her, convincing her to stay… she still feels as though he isn’t all hers. She wants more of him, as if she hasn’t seen and touched and loved every inch of his body and claimed every last beat of his heart.

She is the only one and yet she feels as though she’ll never be enough for him, after all this time, after all these years spent together. It makes him feel like the worst person in the world.

He lifts her hand up to his lips, as delicate and gentle as possible, just the way she likes.

“And as for kissing me.” He adds, eyes looking up fondly at her as he kisses at her knuckles one by one. “You’re my wife, it’s what I want. I just don’t want us to make the same mistakes we once did.”

He settles her fingers against his mouth for a moment longer before pulling her closer to where he sits, looking insistently in her hopeful eyes.

“If we sleep together… it’ll only drive us more apart, just like it did the last time. And I swear to god —” he hangs his head off the edge of the couch again, his fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose, trying to fathom the idea of it. “If I have to go another day without seeing you, I’m going to fucking lose it. I’m fucking miserable.”

She knows it’s true. Whether she wanted to hear it or not, sleeping together without speaking to one another would only bring them back to the same dark, numbing cycle they’ve been through for far too long now.

But she wants to milk it — wants him to do whatever he can to get her to stay because she needs to know he really wants it, needs to know he really wants her, before it’s too late.

And when Harry lifts his head back up to look at her, his heart nearly explodes from within him.

“Come here.” He tugs softly on her hand, a small smile playing on his lips when he sees Y/n pouting down at him with furrowed brows — the same face she used to make whenever she wanted to be angry with him, but couldn’t. It brings him back to all their happiest times. “Come here!”

He pulls her down to him until she lands on his lap, both of them laughing as she nearly trips over her own two feet.

The moment stills when their eyes meet, however, the giggling dying down and their smiles falling as they captivate each other with just a single look.

His fingers move her hair out of her face, his palm resting on the side of her cheek, his thumb rubbing along the skin of her blush as he admires just how beautiful she’s gotten since the last time he had seen her.

And she does the same to him — her fingers pulling at his hair, dancing along his scalp, humming in admiration as her eyes wander every dip and curve of his face. He is just so perfect, it endlessly mesmerizes her.

“I’ve missed you.” She confesses softly, her gaze trained on his lips, her tongue poking out to lick her own.

“I’ve missed you so much more, my love.”

And they meet for a kiss — a real kiss this time. Not the hungry, desperate, fevered kisses they’ve been sharing since their separation. It’s slow, their lips just settling against each other’s, refusing to move, only leaning in deeper when desired.

It’s how he kissed her on their wedding day.

She remembers how different it was, now, as she feels it again — full of vows and promises, hopes and dreams, a hint of sorrow for all the times he had let her down, and how he’d never wish to do it again.

Quite truthfully, she never wants it to end. She could stay pressed against his lips like this all night and never once get tired of it — would probably beg for more if it ever came down to it. But she doesn’t have to anymore, she knows that now.

They both pull away together, dopey and loopy smiles painted on their faces. And it doesn’t get better than this.

“Can I show you something?” He whispers to her, his thumb pets at her temple, circles and circles. “And know that when I give it to you, it’s me trying to make this right again? No matter how much it hurts?”

His breath falters when her lips press gently against his wrist, humming a small “mhm” against the skin of it.

She always did that whenever she could. Whether he be holding her cheek, or rubbing at her head, or running his fingers through her hair, her lips would seek just the smallest bit more of him. And it always warmed him to feel it. It reminded him that yes, she did in fact love him and want him and need him with the same burning he has for her.

It always felt too good to be true.

And to know that she’s feeling it all over again makes every worry in the world collapse around him, leaving him with nothing but the life he had always desired with her, and the hope that it only gets better from here.

He smiles in endearment, his own lips seeking the sole of her cheek before he turns his body to the fallen photo album, his fingers shaking as he reaches for it.

She gasps before he even has the chance to sit up fully.

“Is that —” she stops before she finishes, her hand flying over her suddenly trembling lips because it is.

He looks at her with eyes full of regret as he holds the photo album out for her to take, but she’s in too much shock. All she can process is that it’s here, still alive in the home they once shared, not shredded and burned and broken like she always thought it was.

And it just doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that over a year ago, he told her a lie that ripped her apart from the inside out every day since he’d spoken it. It doesn’t matter that all she had left of their wedding were the moments captured in her memory, to which she went back to every night before bed.

It just doesn’t matter because she’s just so happy to see it again — so, so, so fucking happy that she can’t help but sob into her palm, admiring it, somehow at peace with the idea of reuniting with it with her husband right beside her, shedding the same tears as she is.

All she has ever wanted is happening all at once, and she couldn’t ask for more.

“Can we look through it?” She sniffles, her fingers graciously running along the cover of it.

He pulls her in closer, his head nodding, a breathy laugh of euphoria falling from his lips.

As if she even had to ask.

-

It was the next morning that Harry decided he couldn’t do it anymore.

Upon waking up to an empty bed, there wasn’t this overwhelming sense of sadness rippling through him, or loneliness drowning him to his duvets, refusing to set him free. It felt… right, and warm, and safe, and like it had always meant to be this way.

He was weightless as he carried his naked body over to his dresser, where he slipped on a new pair of briefs and one of his plain white t-shirts. He even found himself humming a tune he only ever sang to on good mornings.

And it was when he made his way downstairs that he started to hear his company.

He found Y/n in his day old t-shirt, holding Topher at her hip, flipping pancakes at the stovetop, humming and bouncing to the beat of a song they played during their wedding ceremony.

Her hair was unbrushed, her nail polish chipped, one of her socks pulled too high and the other too low, in her most hungover state. And the world stopped turning then, it seemed. Because it was the most simple and most casual sight to see, yet something he was once so blinded to.

He finally felt at home.

And it was as if nothing else had ever really, truly mattered. His world simply revolved around the two littles ones in his kitchen, getting their hands messy with pancake batter, giggling with every other step they took.

And he knew he couldn’t do it anymore.

Which is exactly how he ended up here — seven hours later, standing on one knee in front of his wife, whose hand fits so perfectly in his.

She sits cross-legged upon the kitchen chair, her plate half empty and on her second glass of her mocktail. And if he had more preparation, he would have taken her out instead of settling for her favorite home cooked meal. But something about doing this here, in the home they once shared together, at their happiest hour, feels much more real to him.

“H? What are you doing?” Y/n asks with wide eyes, looking down at their intertwined hands, squeezing onto his tighter.

“I know we’re already married, but I needed to do this anyway.”

He sucks in a breath as the pad of his thumb passes through her knuckles, slightly flicking her engagement ring in the process.

“When I left earlier, it wasn’t for work. I mean, it was for work but not — but not in the way you may think.”

Y/n tilts her head down at him, her eyebrows furrowed. Her heart races with all the endless possibilities, the pit in her stomach falling with it. And she really does try to not seem worried, but she can’t help but let it crash over her.

She had just gotten her husband back. Finally, she’s his and he’s hers and that’s all she ever wanted. That’s all she ever needed, so how is she expected to say goodbye so soon?

How would she ever survive it?

“I terminated the contract.”

Her heart stops beating.

Her body sits frozen still as Harry bites at his bottom lip, where he hides a smile.

This truly is it — the beginning of their forever, the start to the life they always wanted to share alone, with no distractions, no obligations, no anything besides each other and their child — and he doesn’t want it any other way.

“I’m done with having a career that takes me away from you. And I’m so sick and tired of pretending like this is the life I wanted to have with you. It wasn’t, baby. It isn’t.”

But she just can’t believe what she’s hearing.

The words had translated yet somehow, she can’t make sense of them. She can’t make sense of anything as her mind twists and turns around what they could mean and what it could mean for them as a couple.

“You — you terminated the contract? I don’t — I don’t understand. I —”

"If it were ever to come down to you or my music, I’d choose you in a heartbeat.” The fingers of his free hand twist at her wedding band, hypnotizing her. “I did it all for you — the writing, the touring, the traveling. My future with you was all I ever cared about and yet, I had somehow convinced myself that my music meant more to me, when it never really did.”

Her breaths get deeper and deeper, completely and utterly overwhelmed. And if it weren’t for the tears of happiness leaking from her eyes, Harry wouldn’t know what she’s truly feeling inside.

But he knows. Oh, how he knows.

“I choose you, Y/n. And I choose Topher and I choose our Alaskan home everyday for the rest of our lives. That’s what I choose. That’s what I will always choose.”

It’s those words that make her really start to lose it.

How long she had been waiting for this moment, she can’t even remember anymore. So much time has passed and yet everyday, she dreamed and hoped and prayed and died to hear him say that to her.

She had been waiting for so long, she once believed them to be impossible.

But here he is on one knee again, sacrificing his entire life and heart and soul just to make their marriage right. He wants to leave the music behind rather than leaving her to be all alone. He wants to move away from the life he had built for himself and rather spend the rest of it with her.

He wants her, for the first time in what feels like centuries, he finally wants her.

“But — but you — how? How did you — what did you do?”

“Don’t worry about the how, okay? What matters is that I made it work and I have more than enough to last our family a lifetime. I promise you that.”

One of her hands reaches forward to cup at his cheek, pulling herself closer to him because she needs to feel him, all of him — needs to feel the heat of his skin, the beat of his heart, the warmth of his breath.

She needs it all, all around her, until she drowns in it.

“Don’t care about the money, just — just want to make sure you’re okay.”

His wife is reaching for him, pulling him in, wanting and loving him despite everything he put her through… how could he not be okay?

He’s on top of the world right now.

“Baby, I’m so much more than okay. I have you, don’t I?” She nods her head as she wipes her tears away, sniffling with trembling lips and shaking hands. “Then that’s all I need.”

She sobs against him, her face tucked in his shoulder as he holds her hands between them, kissing at her head.

And sometime in the near future — when Harry and Y/n have found everything they had lost, have grown to be better together than ever spent apart, and have become the best parents they could ever be to their son — he’ll rent out a small venue in the outskirts of town and renew his wedding vows to his wife, whom he plans to never be parted from, even in death.

“So, Y/n, baby love.” They both giggle at the pet name, her head lifting from his shoulder and meeting his eye halfway. “Will you please do the honors of being my lawfully wedded wife, and the mother of our disgustingly perfect child, in our home in Alaska? Forever?”

She nods her head, her thoughts clouded by euphoria, her hand still in her husband’s.

As if he even had to ask.