#primping and preening

[faithinlouisfuture]

primping & preening 🦚 (x)

[schadentekkers]

[cosmicwafflemam]

[hibiscusbabyboy]

1966 hair setting pattern for a casual, messy bob

(As seen on Bespoke Beauty )

[euphemiaamillais]

money, power, glory - coriolanus snow

on the night of your victory party, president snow decides that he wants a little more than a kiss from his victor—after all, don’t you ought to show your president just how patriotic you are?

cw: 18+//dub-con//age gap (reader is 18+)//abuse of power//mentions of exploitation//objectification//blowjobs//piv sex//coercion//loss of virginity//creampie//district 7 victor!reader and president!coryo

the party is all for you; the gaud and festivity, the fountains of alcohol, the ridiculously clad guests. you won, they tell you—but it’s a reminder of the children you killed as you fought tooth and claw in that arena. it feels wrong, to be put on display like this when twenty-three children lay dead in their districts. the celebration of murder—it’s as if you’re the prize animal at the circus.

you had been primped and preened by your stylist drusilla all afternoon, gritting your teeth as every part of your body was plucked and waxed, as she pulled your hair back into some elaborate hairstyle, the pins now digging into your scalp. that pain—the dull ache of it—ironically served as a reminder of the pain you had to endure in the games. you only survived because you slit the throat of that boy from two, watching the blood trickle out of his neck as you practically limped away.

you’d since been repaired, though many a time you felt that familiar ache in your ankle—the one that had been broken—and supposed it was punishment for the cruelty of your actions. but put twenty-four helpless children in an arena and ask them to fight to the death, and you learn that the ‘inherent goodness’ in human beings is nothing but a thin veil maintained by law and order.

‘enjoying the show?’ you hear the familiar, cut-glass voice of drusilla, who’s currently festooned in a garish purple gown covered in feathers—with a hairpiece to match.

you shrug, taking a sip of the expensive champagne, feeling the bubbles fizz down your throat as you swallow. it’s all so much, the noise, the people—as if you’re being smothered.

‘you’re being awfully quiet,’ she sighs, brushing your shoulder with her perfectly manicured hand. ‘isn’t there anything to tempt you?’

drusilla is more sympathetic than most in the capitol; she’d listened as you’d told her about your family back in seven, the trees that spanned for miles, how you often lay under their green blanket and daydreamed of a world beyond this one. but still, she would never understand what being a victor was like, there were scarce few in panem who did. many turned to morphling or alcohol upon their return home, and you’d heard horror stories whispered about victor’s being sold for certain services.

‘i’m just tired, that’s all,’ you murmur, reaching for another glass of champagne as a waiter walks past.

drusilla cocks a thin brow, a suspicious look glittering in her eyes. the throng of people is dizzying as you down your second champagne, but you feel your nerves ease, and pray that this night will become more bearable.

‘come, they all want to see you—their victor,’ she grins, pearly white teeth glistening under the golden light of the strings of lanterns.

you take her hand, and she pulls you through the crowd. it’s a vertigo-inducing sea of rainbow; hands clasping together in applause, rich cheers from their panted mouths. you feel your own lips twitch into a smile, but your eyes are somewhere else; far away from this. you can smell the soil back home, see the larks that fly through the trees that reach to the heavens. there’s a dreadful pang of homesickness thrumming in your heart.

and yet you cannot return home, not when they’re all watching you, waiting for the pretty victor to make a witty remark, or to make bids on who will get to have her first. you’re acutely aware that your pink dress is practically see-though, it’s gauzy fabric not leaving much to the eye. your feet ache from the heels they’ve put you in, and you know no matter how much they primp and preen at you, you’ll always be district. an outsider among those in wealthy excess.

among the throngs of people, you spot him—president snow. your breath catches between your lips. you’ve seen him before, obviously. his touch has always strayed a little too much when he’s been around you, but of course, you’d never say anything. you wonder how such a young man—he’s only 24 after all—rose to such power. nobody can deny how attractive he is, piercing blue eyes and platinum blonde curls. if he hadn’t put you in these games, maybe you’d even be persuaded to like him.

drusilla pushes you to him, and you stumble a little, the champagne causing a heady, floaty feeling in your body as you make an attempt to make yourself presentable. you hadn’t expect to be thrust towards him so soon, but the way he’s staring at you is as if he’s been expecting this.

‘don’t be so nervous, you look gorgeous,’ drusilla reminds you as you come to a halt before president snow.

he’s wearing one of his finely tailored suits; this one the crimson shade of red you’ve so often seen him wearing. you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and feel the absence of drusilla’s hand from your back. when you crane your neck—only slightly, so as not to seem rude—she’s disappeared into the throng of brightly clad partygoers.

‘my favourite victor,’ president snow reaches for your hand and presses a kiss to it. his lips are strangely cold. not that you knew what to expect, but somehow it makes sense. his demeanour is like ice.

‘president snow,’ you lean back into curtsy, your bad ankle aching as you do so.

he smiles, icy eyes flickering over your form. he can practically make out your undergarments in that dress; they’re a shade of peach and of such a sheer satin that you can nearly see right through, but it leaves enough for the onlooker to be left wondering what lies underneath. your eyes follow him, and you clutch at your arms shyly, as if half of the capitol hasn’t seen you dressed so scantly.

‘shy tonight, are we?’ he inquires, edging close enough to you that you can make out the slight five o’clock shadow on his jaw.

‘i’m tired, that’s all,’ you mutter, flinching as one of his hands grips at your waist.

‘i would’ve thought you’d enjoy this spectacle, seeing as you made quite the circus out of the arena,’ he leaned in close to your ear, in what you assumed was an intimidation tactic. in spite of being hardened by the arena, deep down, president snow terrified you. ‘the way you killed that boy from two—brutal. but you made yourself the star of the capitol…’

his touch strays further, grasping at the thin fabric that surrounds your ass. one blonde brow arches in surprise, and his lips flicker into what you assume to be a smirk. if he was anyone else, you would’ve pushed him away, but he’s your president. one word and you’d be good as dead; and after enduring the games, you’d rather not come face-to-face with that sort of confrontation again.

‘how pretty,’ he muses, fingers tracing lightly against your form. ‘did you wear this just for me?’

your lips purse, but your body propels you to give a swift nod of your head. ‘do you like it?’

president snow smiles, eyes dancing at your quick wittedness. the girls he has are usually stupid whores who he pays to suck his cock—you, on the other hand, are a precious prize. intelligent, obviously, and startlingly beautiful. and you’re the first female victor since mags flannagan, not that he has any say over her because he was still crawling his way up under dr. gaul then.

‘oh yes, i think you know why,’ he drops the fabric, and takes a few steps away, a blasé look crossing his features.

he watches as your cheeks turn a pretty pink, and you cast your gaze to the ground. how charming; you feigning bashfulness. he’d seen you at your most primal, knife dragging along the jugular of that boy. you couldn’t charm your way out of this one.

the silence pierces the air, and you are prompted to speak—anything to change the topic. the stagnancy between you two has wrapped it’s suffocating arms around you—and you don’t want to choke.

‘i must thank you, president snow, for the festivities,’ you gesture to the ridiculous amount of decorations; the blaring music and the light show.

‘i’m glad you like it,’ he remarks, but his eyes are still trained on you. he wants something from you, and you’re not sure what. ‘i had to celebrate my favourite victor, after all.’

you stifle a scoff; his flattery is sickening. he’s never this charming among company. he’s cold, calculating—you can see it in his eyes, still, but he so obviously needs you wrapped around his little finger. and of course, you can’t resist. who would disobey their president, after all?

‘you flatter me, sir,’ he swallows thickly at the appellation. god, he’d love to hear you call him that as he bends you over one of his expensive armchairs. he wonders if you’d beg him to stop, or if you’d take it. he can’t figure out which type you are, just yet.

‘there’s nothing wrong with flattery, don’t you think?’ he is close to you again, breath fanning your cheek. ‘especially when it comes from your president.’

you feel your body freeze up. there’s something so intimidating about him, and although you want to outsmart him, the way he makes your knees buckle turns you into another one of those bumbling capitol fools.

‘now, if you’ll excuse me, sweetheart. i’ve got a few matters to attend to,’ he backs away, leaving in a flourish of red.

you have to blink a few times to register his absence, and reach for another glass of champagne as a waiter holds out a decadent tray to you. why not? you think, taking time to sip elegantly at this one. there’s no harm in imbibing if you have to make it through this hellish night.

—

drusilla taps you on the back as you’re shoving an expensive vol-au-vent past your painted lips. when you turn around, she’s shocked to see your mouth full of the pastry, cheeks rounded out as you attempt to swallow it. the hunger pangs had grown considerably, and when you finally gulped it down, the effects of the champagne made you giggle.

‘oh honey,’ she shakes her head, reaching for a pristine napkin to wipe at the flakes of pastry by your lips.

the night had drawn on, and you’d been left with an anxious feeling after your encounter with president snow. everytime somebody so much as brushes against you, your head had whipped around as you searched for a head of perfectly-set blonde curls and a crimson coat. to your luck, it had only ever been waiters, carting more champagne. you reckoned you were drunk enough now that you didn’t care how you acted.

let them think you were a fool, you’d be heading home tomorrow anyways.

‘how much have you had to drink?’ she inquires, and watches as you furrow your brows in thought.

‘six, no—seven glasses,’ you admit, and drusilla scolds you with a clucking tongue, her pink curls bobbing as she shakes her head.

‘president snow won’t be very happy with that,’ she remarks.

your mouth turns into a curious pout, watching as her face falters into some sort of cryptic, far-away look. you run the soft fabric of your dress through your fingers as you let the words settle. no, it doesn’t make sense.

‘why would he care?’ you asked, a little piqued by the thought that he’d even be remotely interested in whether you were sober or not.

drusilla’s purple lips are drawn into a thin line, and she bends in close as if she’s ready to tell you a secret. your throat’s gone dry, the anxiety prying at you with it’s cold hands.

‘look, sweetie,’ her golden tone is laced with a little condescension. ‘president snow won’t like that you’re drunk. it won’t make the situation ideal for him.’

your brows quirk into a look of confusion. situation? drusilla sees your loss of words and takes it upon herself to inform you of the events. how naive you are, that you’ve got no idea just what he wants with you.

‘you’ve been asked to stay the night at the mansion,’ her eyes flicker to search for any eavesdroppers, and then she continues. ‘look, i’m sorry if i didn’t tell you earlier, but he’s asked to keep quiet about it. what with the others being jealous—’

‘others?’ your voice falters.

‘well, sweetie, you know how desirable victors are. president snow just wants to make sure nobody else gets their hands on you. that’s why he’s keeping you here, under close guard.’ drusilla bites her lip, revealing that she’s worried for you. she didn’t have much of a choice in your fate, but if she could forewarn you, she would.

you understood now why he’d been so touchy before—clearly he was jealous that somebody was trying to get their hands on his precious victor.

you lose all your words, mouth opening, nothing spilling out. it feels like it’s been filled up with dirt; you can hardly speak. drusilla goes to strike your arm, but is prevented from doing so as she’s whisked away by some blue-haired man harping on about her latest designs. once again, you feel the pangs of loneliness.

you had to reconcile yourself to the fact that the rest of your life—however long that may be—would be a lonely existence. you’d spent the better part of the month on the train, zigzagging back and forth between the districts, reading off prewritten speeches as you had to face the families of the fallen. all those children—their children—dead.

every night, you’d taken those pills prescribed by the doctors, the ones that stopped you from waking up with your hand around your throat as you screamed. you slept a dreamless sleep, but it became hard to not depend on them. what would you do without them tonight?

—

the party draws on long into the night, and you grow bored and overwhelmed. as per drusilla’s advice, and also not wanting to wake up with a throbbing headache tomorrow morning, you resorted to drinking the assorted non-alcoholic beverages.

your head is pounding by one am, but the party doesn’t seem to cease by any means. deciding you’ve had enough, and that nobody would really miss you—after all, nobody’s even talked to you for at least two hours—you stumble your way across the marble steps of the mansion. you hazily remember drusilla telling you what door you were meant to enter by, and you find it manned by a singular avox.

without a word, they let you inside, and you trail tipsily after them up a velvet staircase. your ankles roll as you climb the steps, head spinning, but it doesn’t take long to reach your room. your feet are aching, and when the avox leaves you to your own company, you practically tear the shoes off your feet.

you lay back against the white sheets, revelling in the feeling of the thousand-count cotton brushing against your skin. you’d never felt anything like it, and could feel your eyes shutting as you relax into the plush sheets.

you awaken what seems like hours later, but only twenty minutes have passed on the alarm clock by the bed. the sound of footsteps can be heard outside your door, and you’re surprised you can make it out as the party still booms outside the vast windows of the mansion.

you sit up, heart racing, and head throbbing slightly. you’re groggy from the champagne, and the bubbly tipsiness has given way to the absolute misery of sobering up.

the door opens, a small sliver of light giving way to the shadowy figure that progresses into the room. you squint, unable to make out a face, but pray it’s not one of the men you’ve heard were making bids for the victor.

you sigh a breath of relief when you see president snow, not a hair out of place as he stands beside your bed. your dress is up around your thighs, and you can see his blue eyes dancing across your frame.

‘president snow,’ you murmur into the darkness.

you wondered who had turned off the light in the first place—your memory is hazy at best but you don’t remember flicking the switch. an avox must have come past while you were sleeping.

‘i see my favourite victor has taken some respite,’ he muses, one cold hand reaching out to stroke your thigh.

you flinch back reflexively, not used to the icy feeling against your skin. nor are you used to the prying hands of men. the most you’d ever done was kiss a boy, and even then, that was years ago, you weren’t even sure it counted.

‘sorry,’ you spit out, lips trembling with apology. he only laughs, hand still tracing your smooth skin.

‘no need to apologise. i’d rather you doze here than fall asleep on a bench where any of those men could lay a hand on you,’ he makes a sound of disgust, shaking his head at the thought. ‘i couldn’t let them spoil my pretty victor.’

you feel your cheeks warm—did he really think you were pretty? but you remembered who he was; in fact he was the very reason there were even any games at all. he could put a stop to all this if he wanted, and yet he didn’t. you couldn’t let him fool you with his charm.

‘it’s very thoughtful of you, president snow,’ you offer, not wanting to raise suspicion in him.

in the moonlight, you can see a smile flicker across his lips. his hand moved further up to the apex of your thigh, and your breath hitches. what was he doing?

‘do you like that?’ he murmurs, leaning in against your ear, breath hot.

you can’t think of what to say. your thighs tingle a little with the touch, but you don’t want him there. it’s wrong. he’s the president though, and how can you tell him no when he could have you killed?

‘you’re a quiet one, aren’t you?’ he mutters, but wanting to rouse a sound out of you, he moves his hand to press flush against your panties, thumb stroking the area where your clit is.

you let out a breathy gasp; the pleasant warmth flooding your belly. his brows quirk up at your quick response—you’re so willing. he wonders how far he can push you; of course he wants to have you no matter what, after all, it’s his right as president—but he wants to know how much of a whore you are under those pretty clothes.

he knew what district girls were like. lucy gray—though that name made him shudder—bent easily under his guidance. he hoped you’d do the same; obey him. he had more power now, six years after his stint as a mentor and then peacekeeper. he kept that to himself; everybody else simply thought he’d been struck down with a bad bout of the flu, when really he’d been uncovering rebel plots by day and by night was burying his cock deep inside of whatever district slut would have him.

‘please, president snow,’ you beg, head spinning as he rubs at your sensitive nub.

‘please what?’ he inquires, an undercurrent of menace in his voice.

‘i mean—are you sure we should be doing this?’ you furrow your brows with anxiety. ‘aren’t there men who want to pay you good money for this?’

you squeeze your legs together in the hopes that he’ll stop, but this only angers him and he uses his muscular hands to pry your thighs apart. you can’t deny him this; he wants it, and he’ll have it.

‘oh, they’re not going to get you. no, you’re far too precious for the likes of them,’ he shook his head in disbelief. ‘when i realised you were going to be sold to some scumbag who’s been divorced three times, well, i couldn’t let that happen.’

your mouth stretches into a perplexed pout, and you let out another soft moan as he rubs diligently at your clit. his other fingers brush over your red lace panties, and he sucks in a breath as he feels how soaked you are. surely you cannot deny him when you’re practically begging for it?

‘but…’ your lips tremble and you are almost deterred from saying what you want to by the scornful look painted across his noble features.

‘surely you don’t want me,’ you scramble to find an excuse.

‘why wouldn’t i? it’s not like you’re a girl anymore, hm? you’re nineteen, and ever so pretty,’ his other hand thumbs your cheek. you didn’t feel it, but you’d been crying. his thumb presses against a droplet.

‘please,’ you plead. ‘you wouldn’t enjoy it—i’m a virgin.’

he laughs, shaking his head at your stupidity. he hasn’t suspected it, what with the way you were dressed; the gown revealing far too much of your body to him—he could see the top of your nipples sticking out of the neckline.

‘oh no,’ he clucked his tongue. ‘then i simply must have you. how could let you i waste your virginity on any of those men when i could have you?’

you shake your head, body trembling as you feel yourself give way to his fingers, which were slowly bringing you to your pleasure. you clutch at the plush sheets and feel yourself gush, your panties growing even more damp.

he can’t believe it, how quickly you came. he wonders if you’d ever even touched yourself before. sure, you’d killed a boy, but you really knew very little about the world, and even less of men. it enthralled him.

his cock strained in his suit pants, and he let out a low grunt. you responded with a shocked look, but sighed as he stood up, letting go of your thighs. the way he’d touched you—it was scandalous. surely he’d be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out?

but your heart fell when you remembered that he was president. it’s not as if you were anything more than a hired whore who had to do her duty by him.

‘you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ he called out, combing a hand over his perfectly styled hair.

your mouth went dry, but you stood up, wanting to be defiant, clawing for anything to make you seem like you had some sense of autonomy. it was a lost cause, however. you forgot how he towered over you now that your heels were discarded. you couldn’t face up against him.

‘i said, you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ his voice was wrought with ire this time, and you nodded.

‘yes sir,’ you respond with a clear tone. you’re surprised you even managed it.

he reaches out to stroke your face again, sighing as your warm cheeks meet the cold pads of his fingers. you tremble a little, knees buckling in fear. anything could happen.

‘now, are you going to be a good girl and show your president how patriotic you are?’ he asks.

‘yes, mr president,’ you reply blankly. the name sends the blood straight to his cock.

‘then get on your fucking knees,’ he commands.

your head is spinning, but you somehow find your way to the ground, knees aching as you press them into the wooden floorboards. you hear the sound of something unzipping, and when you glance up, you come face to face with his cock.

he’s hard, and huge—not that you’ve ever seen one before—and he lets out a heavy grunt as he sees how pliant you are. he wants nothing more than to fuck that pretty little face of yours and watch how you gag around his length. he hasn’t known he was so big until he’d gotten to district 12 and the stupid district sluts kept choking on his cock. when he’d dressed in academy rouge he’d only ever known his own hand. but now, he knew what power he could exert with all eight inches of himself.

‘good girl,’ he strokes your chin, and when you open your mouth, he slides his thumb over your bottom lip.

your saliva coats his thumb, and you gag a little as he slides it to the back of your mouth. a small grin flickers across his lips; if you’re choking on his thumb, just imagine how bleary-eyed you’ll be as you gag around his cock.

‘god, i don’t want to think about what i would be missing out on if you’d died in that arena,’ he tuts at the thought, and slides his thumb out of your mouth, smearing your own saliva at the corner of your lips.

your lipstick is smudged now, and he’s determined to ruin it even more; perhaps even have your mascara running down your cheeks as you take his cock in your mouth.

‘when i’d heard that the victor was to be the eighteen year old girl from district 7, well, i knew i’d be able to have you. especially once i got a look at you, in your victory dress. did they make it that short on purpose? to make my cock hard?’ he laughs, reminiscing how he’d taken a whore that night that looked just like you, pretending it was you that he was fucking from behind.

you shiver, terrified by him, his words. they’re disgusting. the way he viewed you as something to exploit—and it can’t even be considered taboo because you’re nineteen, after all. if the president wants you, he’ll get you.

‘answer me!’ he scowls, tugging at your intricate hairstyle, which hurts because the pins holding it together were already poking at your scalp.

‘no,’ you murmur, because it’s the truth. you wore what they told you to, you didn’t think it was supposed to be for him.

‘no?’ he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘well then, tonight at least—they must’ve known i wanted to have you. wasn’t going to let you get away from me this time.’

you swallow thickly, mouth agape in terror, knees trembling against the cool floor. you can feel the bruises forming on them; the dull ache of kneeling is humiliating.

finally, he presses his cock against your open mouth, a little pleased that it was hanging agape in shock, making it easier for him to slide it right in. you freeze, blinking back tears of mortification, but you can't say no, not when he's your president, not when there's that nagging ache in your core that makes you yearn for his fingers back against you.

you open wider, and he slides himself in, cock hitting the back of your throat instantly. you gag, the tears now dribbling foolishly down your cheeks, and president snow just laughs, the sound mottled with undertones of a soft groan. you wrap your lips around him, and move to bob your head up and down, but he grabs your hair and tugs it towards him.

you cry out, scalp stinging and mouth stuffed full to the brim with his cock. his grip tightens as he begins to thrust into your mouth, grunting as feels your saliva coat his length. he can't even fit himself all in, it's pathetic, but he'll help you learn in time how to deepthroat, so he can watch as your mascara runs while you beg him to push himself further down your throat. you'll become his personal fuckdoll.

'teeth,' he winces as he feels your top teeth make contact with the skin of his cock, and embarrassed, you make sure to push your top lip around them.

his lips stretch around a groan, forcing your nose to meet his pubic bone—the sound of your gags are delightful, and when his eyes flutter shut, you know he's enjoying it. he tosses his head back, cock throbbing as he forces it back and forth in your mouth. when his eyes open again, it's to the sight of your mascara running, thick black streaks painting your cheeks as you choke around him.

'so pretty,' he strokes your cheek, smearing the mascara even more. he wonders if you'll still be crying as he stretches you out, filling your cunt with his big cock. probably; he's forgotten how much whining virgins do.

feeling himself close, his thrusts grow more haggard, and you feel his balls slap against your chin as you attempt to breathe—through your nose, of course. his movements are suffocating, you're grasping at his hips, praying for it to be over—and then it is.

hot sticky spurts of cum slide right down your throat as he gives a loud moan, crying your name in praise. part of you—the part you revile—reddens at his praises, you want nothing more than to please your president. the other part of you tries not to gag as the pearly ropes of his cum slither achingly slow down your throat.

'good girl, swallowing it all—you'd do anything for your president, wouldn't you?' he coos, pulling his cock out of your mouth.

your lips ache, and you're sure the back of your throat is blooming purple with a bruise; but you nod, eyes all fucked out because your cunt is dripping wet, all for him.

'well, i really only want one more thing from my victor...' his voice trails off, lips pursing. you can see the desire in his eyes, icy gaze dripping with lecherous intent.

and yet, you cannot deny the fact that he had already made you cum once, that your body is begging for him. you hate it. you want to scream—if only you weren't so tired and your mouth didn't ache so sorely.

'how about you lay back in the bed, hm?' his voice is soft, laced now with the sweet tone he uses to charm the wives of senators and the little girls that give him roses.

you oblige blindly, and rise, knees black and blue, legs trembling, but somehow you find yourself laid back against the plush sheets once again.

‘can’t believe nobody else has had you,’ he murmurs, removing his shoes carefully, and then undoing his suit. it’s brand new, and he doesn’t want to spoil it.

when he’s undressed to his boxers, you can’t help but admire his form. he’s well-toned, biceps muscular, the slight formation of abs on his stomach, and you can see his cock has once again hardened. you press your thighs together in want, and he watches as you gaze at him, half-terrified, eyes blown wide, and yet half-wanton, body beckoning him to take you and make you his.

‘god, you’re so pretty,’ he muses, crawling across the bed and placing his arms either side of you.

you shiver, suddenly feeling brushed with cold, perhaps it’s from him. how fitting, you think, that his name and touch are both reminiscent of the cold. you can feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh, a reminder of your helplessness in this situation. the way he’s going to do whatever he wants with you.

he slides his fingers under the straps of your dress, forcing it down your arms. you lie still as a stone, letting him slide the dress down your body, exposing your breasts, watching him sigh as your nipples respond to the frigid temperature radiating from his body.

he takes one breast in his mouth, laving at your nipple until it hardens under his tongue. your hands are urging you to clutch at his perfectly styled hair, but you cannot move; the tears are brimming in your eyes and you’re not sure if they’re out of shame that he’s touching you, or shame that your body is so pliant to his touch.

he pushes the dress down further, and gets on his knees until he’s completely stripped you of it. there you lay, among the pristinely white sheets, the party alive outside of your window; completely bare besides your panties. your skin is pocked with goosebumps as he runs his hands over your bare stomach, fingers latching at the waistband of your panties.

‘god, are you wet for me?’ he chuckled as he removes your soaked panties—still evidence that he’d managed to make you cum.

you are unresponsive until he gives your skin a pinch between his slender fingers, and a soft yelp escapes your lips.

‘talk to me,’ he commands, though there’s an undertone of begging. not that the president should ever have to beg. ‘i can’t have my pretty victor keeping silent, especially not while i fuck her. i want to hear the sweet sounds that are going to come from your lips.’

you give a nod, eyes flickering to glance at the ceiling, watching as the hazy lights from outside dance upon the ornate eaves. one of his hands touches your cheek, the chill bringing you back to meet his gaze.

‘gonna make you mine,’ he groans, reaching down to palm at his cock through his boxers.

you push away the tears at your eyes, and your hands go down to clutch at the sheets. you’re still a little floaty from the champagne, but it can’t seem to take you away from what is occurring right before your eyes.

'look at me!' he snaps, hard cock now pressing against the inside of your thighs.

'sorry,' you manage to get out, lips trembling as you brace yourself—he's big... too big.

'fuck, can't believe i get to have you all for myself...but i suppose it's the least i deserve as president,' a soft laugh plays upon his lips, the sound soon mottled by a low moan.

he eases the tip into your hole, sighing at your tightness. your eyes flutter shut, but strangely, your core only tingles as he slides himself into you. it's the ultimate betrayal—your body is yielding to him, growing wetter as he sheathes himself completely inside of you; at least, most of his eight inches.

'so fucking wet,' he grins devilishly, beginning to buck his hips gently.

you look so angelic, hair sprawled out on the pillow like a halo, the soft lights from the party glowing against your skin. coriolanus wants to take it slow, in spite of how much his cock is throbbing, because you are his prize—he must relish you. he can't let your virginity go to waste, after all. half the capitol has been vying for it, and now he is the one to take it. he imagines the disgruntled looks on the faces of the men who had bid for you when he informs them that you've been spoiled—and if any of them complained, well, he's the president. he could see to their... accidental deaths.

as he stretches out your tight walls, a pretty moan escapes your lips, by accident, but he takes this as a sign that you are surrendering yourself to him. coriolanus smiles a little to himself, and fastens the pace slightly, grunting as your body opens itself to his caresses.

‘you like that, hm?’ he inquires, one cold hand moving down to rub your clitoris.

you let out another gasp, this time of shock and pleasure, as his thumb presses against your sensitive nub. his eyes dance with delight as you come apart under him, your cunt growing slicker by the second. you’re so beautiful, and he glances down at the part where you two meet—his big cock stretching out your tight walls. a milky ring of your arousal coats his shaft, only driving him more lustful as he fucks you.

‘president snow…’ you cry out, trying to shove his hand away.

you can see the ire returning to his eyes, and when he presses down on your clit harder you stop and allow your body to relax. you realise it’s fruitless to try and fend him off anymore—he’s making you feel good, after all. but that’s the terrible part of it, the fact that you can feel waves of pleasure washing over you again. he’s smiling sickly, groaning as he ruts into you with grunts.

‘you're so fucking tight,’ he moans, watching you moan with pleasure as his fingers bring you to climax.

‘so good…’ you say, barely above a whisper, but the knowing look he cast you makes you admit it—after all, perhaps he’ll be kinder next time. let you decide when you want it.

‘yeah? you like the way my big cock is filling you out? how your president is reminding you who you belong to?’ he grunts, and you give a lazy nod.

the coil in your stomach comes unbound slowly as the combination of his cock stretching you out and his thumb rubbing diligent circles around your clit drives you over the edge. your toes curl sightly, arms moving up to grip at his back. you find the smooth, cold skin is surprisingly toned; hard muscles prominent under your touch.

you feel your pleasure peaking, body dancing with warmth and want. you try to stifle your moan by turning your head into the pillow, but his hand grasps your chin and pulls you back to meet his gaze.

‘don’t turn away from me!’ he scolds, brows knitting into a pained expression.

‘i’m sorry…’ you murmur, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

you feel a wave of pleasure wash over your body as his thumb coaxes another orgasm out of you—your second one for the evening. your cheeks fill with warmth as your arousal coats his cock, causing coriolanus to let out a breathy groan.

you pray that it ends soon, but your body continues to dance with pleasure and satisfaction, giving into him, allowing him to make his stake in you. his pretty little victor that he was deflowering—and she came around his cock and everything!

‘fuck,’ coriolanus grunts, hands travelling down to grab at the soft skin of your hips as he pounds into you. ‘all fucking mine. taking me so well…’

when you clench around him, he feels his balls tighten, and cock still for a moment as he reaches his own climax. you’re mewling so prettily—half-begging for him to stop by the way your head roles about in a dissociative reverie shows him that if your heart cannot be persuaded to take him, your body will.

‘shit,’ he spits as he slows his pace, dragging in and out of you at a painfully still speed.

he doesn’t want to finish so quickly, but you’re so fucking tight and your slick coating his cock has set his nerves on fire—his tip is throbbing with desire. coriolanus’ fingers are plunged into the supple skin of your hips, digging far enough that you feel a few bruises forming under the skin.

'so fucking tight,' he curses, sliding himself all the way out before filling you up to the hilt again. the sound of your wet cunt squelching around his big cock reverberates against the walls.

another moan escapes your plump lips, egging coriolanus on—clearly you're enjoying this to some extent; you've come twice tonight. next time he might not be so kind, after all, he's only being so sweet because you're a virgin—you're more like a prize to enjoy than anything else.

'gonna fill you up with my cum,' he sneers, eyes rolling shut as he pushes himself against your g-spot. you contract around him in response. 'you'd like that, wouldn't you? taking your president's cum? so patriotic, aren't you?'

the way he's still squeezing and pinching at your hips urges you to respond, so you cast a groggy nod—the champagne is still making your head swim.

'good girl,' he praises, and you respond with a genuine smile.

coriolanus grunts heavily, his balls tightening, and he feels hot spurts of cum spurt out from the tip of his cock. the relief that washes over him is blissful; watching you take every last drop of him makes him sigh deeply. you can't help but squirm at the sticky feeling as he thrusts his cum back up into you. you're trying not to lurch away in disgust—his hands, now clamping down on your shoulders, are keeping you there, close to him.

when he pulls out, he gazes at your weeping cunt in awe as his cum trickles down your thighs. you’ll always be his—he can see that by the tiny smudge of blood that also coats your inner thigh on one side. he doesn’t know if he can bear to sell you to those other men now; perhaps he’ll just have to lock you up here and keep you all to himself.

‘thank you, mr president,’ you murmur, half on the verge of sleep.

your body is humming with exhaustion, and you begin to curl up into a supine position, trying to force away the uncomfortable combination of his sticky cum and the dull ache between you thighs.

‘i’ll be back tomorrow,’ he presses a kiss to your forehead, smoothing a few tendrils of hair out of your half-closed eyes. ‘don’t think you can get away from me now, my pretty victor.’

[littlejuicebox]

The wish spell worked.

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader/Tav

Summary/Setting: 10 years post BG3. Follows my HC for spawn Astarion arc. See my other fics for more information, but otherwise the title speaks for itself. :)

Rating/Warnings: PG / allusions to sexual behaviors / fluff / in-game spoilers / lightest bit of angst if you squint but not really / this is self-indulgent af and idc / so sweet it will rot your teeth

Word Count: 2.2 K

A/N: HAPPY 400 FOLLOWERS POST! Thank you to everyone who likes my stories and provides encouragement. I love you all! I originally wanted to post this as a New Years Eve/Day special, but I couldn't get it quite right by then. After several reiterations, this is what we finally have! Hope it was worth the wait and multiple edits for you guys! :)

-----

If anyone had told Astarion Ancunin a decade ago that he would one day hold Gale Dekarios on a pedestal nearly as high as the one on which he held his darling Tav, the immortal elf might have actually died from laughter. The strange irony and wicked life lessons of fate were not lost on the retired rogue. Unbelievably and annoyingly, Astarion eventually found himself indebted to the wizard in a way he could never repay. 

The wish spell worked.

It had taken years for Gale to feel absolutely ready to cast the spell. Astarion waited — exasperated, impatient, and impetuous — for what felt like the longest ten years of his ageless lifetime to be given the gift of mortality. 

More than once, in the pale elf’s tearful fits of frustration, he accused the wizard of intentionally stringing him along or simply not having the skills to perform such a spell and not wanting to admit it. More than once, you had to calmly remind your husband of the great lengths Gale had gone to find information regarding the act and the even greater risk to both the vampire and the wizard if the spell was not cast perfectly and mindfully. 

It had been a long decade, waiting for that impossible possibility, but the wait had been more than worth it.

Just over ten years after you met that silver-haired rake on the beach, Astarion was miraculously returned to his living, breathing, heart beating, mortal elven form. Surprisingly, not much changed about his appearance. Most notably, his eyes turned a gold-flecked green, and his complexion took on a constant soft pink undertone, permanently tinged by the circulation of his own blood by his own heart. That beautiful undertone caused a delightful blush to creep across his cheeks and ears whenever you teased or aroused him, and you took an even more significant liking to both these behaviors, just to watch that gorgeous rosiness creep across his skin. 

And while you dearly loved that blush, your favorite part of the change had certainly been the steady beating of his heart. You would rest your head on your lover’s chest for hours to savor the sound if he let you, wrapped tightly in the new found warmth of his long limbs.

While you became obsessed with Astarion’s steadily thrumming heart, he’d become obsessed with his reflection. As soon as he’d been able to see himself, your husband had taken to having you sit on his lap while you primped and preened. He would stare into the looking glass with you for long lengths of time, his limbs coiled around your waist and chin often resting on your shoulder as he studied the mirror with a besotted, hazy smile on his face. 

After a few weeks of this, you finally asked your silver-haired husband why he seemed positively obsessed with this new behavior. Astarion’s response had floored you.

“Darling, in my over 200 years, I never imagined I would have a love of my own, nor did I ever imagine what we would look like together. I couldn’t have envisioned such a thing even if I thought it a possibility or wanted to. I simply couldn’t envision myself at all. But now seeing it? I want to commit everything to memory exactly as it is… because it’s the most precious vision in the world to me.”

And really how else could you respond to that apart from kissing your sappy, bleeding heart of a husband and allowing him to continue the practice?

Of course, the two of you behaving as innocent love birds hadn’t been the only thing Astarion wanted to see in the mirror. On more than one occasion, he’d easily charmed you into the throes of passion in perfect view of a reflective surface. Your husband’s darker, more carnal half had become obsessed with watching you two in the act and it certainly thrilled you to know he was trying to commit those sensual sights to memory. You were quite happy to oblige. 

As such, you’d soon found yourself carrying the byproduct of one of your many erotic couplings.

“That was a big one.” Astarion murmurs, and you see a smile creeping across the reflection of his face in the mirror as he glances down and runs his long fingers across the swell of your abdomen. His arms are looped around you as you sit front of the vanity mirror, placing the final touches on your appearance. 

You agree with a gentle hum, moving a hand to your pregnant belly and rubbing circles on the stretch of skin, hoping to calm the young life stirring within. You coo softly to the rolling babe as you finish your primping, “Surely you aren’t thinking about breaking out of there yet, my little love. You have a few more months to go.”

Astarion’s now-warm hands cover yours as the little one seems to do somersaults in response to your voice, causing you to wince slightly as they jolt against your ribs. He presses a tender kiss into your shoulder and chuckles, “This one is strong like their mother and impatient like their father… we may be in for a spot of trouble in a few years, my love.”

You laugh in response as you stand with a pitiable amount of effort and quite a bit of assistance from the supportive arm of your husband. “I believe you’re right… but surely we’ve taken on scarier and more difficult things than a stubborn babe.”

Astarion hums in agreement before pressing a kiss to your swollen stomach, which is hovering just in front of him now, “Surely, darling. Now let us all go say hi to Uncle and Auntie Ravengard. I’m positively famished.”

-----

You are almost out of breath as you walk the final steps toward the entry of the Duke’s home. Astarion had practically begged you to take the carriage all the way through Wyll’s estate, but you waved him off, adamant that a bit light exercise would be good for the baby. The walkway was fully paved, how hard could it be?

As it turned out, you’d severely overestimated your abilities. Though it was just under a quarter mile to the front doors of the manor when you’d decided to exit the carriage, you were no longer the young, lithe woman that traversed the wilds with a petulant vampire a decade ago. The weight of your belly slowed you down more than you would admit. Astarion implored you, more than once and with growing concern and exasperation, to return to carriage. You refused each time, forcing the driver to follow behind at a snail’s pace.

“Gods, I hope this child does not take on your stubborn streak. I will be constantly overrun in my own home.” Astarion huffs, dabbing at the few beads of sweat on your brow with a silken handkerchief as he helps you climb the small flight of stairs at the entryway of Wyll’s home. He rolls his eyes as you laugh, breathlessly, and lean into him for support as he presses a kiss at the meeting point between your cheek and ear. “But, my sweet, as much as I would have preferred we stayed in the coach, you know I adore the way you look with your cheeks all flushed after a bit of… exertion.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes at your husband as he traces his hand over your flushed cheek, his expression practically brimming with desire. The flush on the tips of his ears is a telltale sign of his salacious thoughts. If he had it his way, he’d be dragging you into the carriage right there for a quickie. But, he knew you two were nearly running late for dinner with the Duke and forced himself to push all desires aside. For now.

Wyll and his beautiful wife, Euphemia, greet you with a flurry of excitement and hugs. Their two twin toddlers run around in the entryway, a nursemaid trailing behind them.

Wyll wears a kind, soft smile as he addresses the both of you, “Dinner should be just about ready… shall we make our way there? I hope you two don’t mind. We are having work done in the dining room — my beautiful flower insisted upon remodeling — so dinner will have to be served in the Great Hall.”

As the four of you head towards the larger of the two dining areas in the Duke’s estate, Astarion wraps his arm around your waist and runs his hand along the side of your nearly bursting belly once again. There is a subtle pause at the doors of the Great Hall, and your husband’s eyebrows crinkle in a silent question before you gently press a kiss into his cheek and whisper, “Happy Rebirth Day, my love.”

Today marked one year since Gale successfully cast the Wish Spell. 

The oak doors burst open to reveal the faces of everyone you hold dear, all of them shouting, “Surprise!” in unison. Wyll and Euphemia are laughing with delight as the four of you enter the room. Astarion is obviously shocked and overwhelmed as he takes the scene in, but a toothy smile is plastered across his face nonetheless. The elf could not believe that the significance of the date had slipped his mind, nor could he believe that you all went through such great lengths to plan a spectacle on his behalf. 

Everyone showered your husband with a plethora of well-wishes and congratulations. The food was heavenly, and the silver-haired elf dined to his heart’s content. Just as Astarion loved to watch you both in the mirror, you adored seeing him eat and savor real food. You’d pursued cooking as a new hobby in the past few months, just to watch the delight on his face as he tasted any number of delectable things you placed in front of him.

“Have you thought of any names for the baby?” Karlach asks through a mouthful of food as she continues to tear into the lamb shank in front of her.

You smile knowingly. This topic has piqued everyone’s interest and they all turn their gazes in your direction, “Yes, actually… Astarion picked it out. It works well for a boy or a girl, and I think it’s an excellent choice.”

The elf smiles shyly, that subtle flush of his cheeks and ears crawling across his face as you turn your gaze to him and urge him on, “Go on, my love, and tell them the gorgeous name you picked.”

“I… I decided we should name the baby Gale.” Astarion reveals, his hand immediately moving to graze against your swollen stomach as he meets the flabbergasted expression of the wizard sitting across the table with a round-eyed, nervous gaze, “If… that’s okay by you.”

Gale coughs in surprise, nearly choking on the wine he’d just sipped from a goblet. For a moment, you watch as he blinks away tears. You are beginning to truly believe he might leap across the table and tackle your husband in a hug when he rapidly nods instead.

The wizard’s voice cracks with emotion as he speaks, “Y-yes. Thank you, Astarion. That is such an honor.”

Ten years of friendship between two men that once seemed entirely at odds with one another, honored by a namesake given to a precious babe. Fate was a truly remarkable thing.

“It’s an honor you are quite deserving of, Gale.” You respond, reaching your hand across the table to give the wizard’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “May our child have just as much heart, wit, and skill as their namesake. We will be truly blessed.”

A cake with candles is brought about at the end of the meal and placed in front of Astarion as everyone sings an off-key birthday tune. While your husband always seemed to thrive on being held at the center of attention, you noticed with a bit of amusement that his ears and cheeks were flushed pink as everyone focused their eyes upon him. 

While the others continue to sing, you lean closer to your husband and whisper, “I know we will never surpass the wish you made last time, my Star. But go on and make one anyway.”

Astarion’s gaze roams around the room, taking in all the friends he collected this past decade. Then he turns to you and grins, pausing to etch every bit of this moment into his memory before closing his eyes and blowing the candles out to a cacophony of inebriated cheers and whoops.

The elf wished for the only thing he could: a healthy child and a long life with his little love. Fate had already gifted him with more than he could have imagined for himself back in those dark, dank dungeons he once called home. Astarion found himself in want of nothing but the health and happiness of the woman beside him and the safety of their offspring. 

Though he knew it was another selfish ask, and he’d been blessed far more than he had ever expected, Astarion prayed to the gods that he once never thought would answer to grant him this last wish. And just in case they did not hear him the first time, he would be sure to make the same wish every year, until his very last. 

[helluvapoison]

heyy i was wondering if you could do like Lucifer x reader getting married if ,you want to ofc🫶

btw i love your work so muchh, thank you!!🫶(also english is not my first language so i hope i didn't write anything wrong)

Absolutely I Do

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

a little insight to your wedding with the king

[part ii (18+ only)]

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

• What would be a tamer version of a bridezilla? Not quite lashing out at everyone and their mother over the tiniest details but blowing a fuse when white roses arrive and he specifically asked for white gardenias?

• That would be Lucifer

• Asmodeus is his best man and the other Sins are his groomsmen, they’ll handle the flower debacle and any other matter that needs saving

• Good natured Charlie was given, arguably, the easiest task of holding onto the rings! She’s more than capable of planning the entire event on her own (and she asked to… twice) but Lucifer wanted her to enjoy this wedding as he wouldn’t be having another

• It’s part of why he wants this to go perfectly!

• He never thought he’d find another love after Lilith. He didn’t even realize that while you were delicately filling in the crater she’d left, he was falling more and more in love with you

• The other part, his pride and perfectionism aside, is that while it may be his second wedding, it’s your first. In his eyes you deserve only the best and he’ll be damned all over again if he doesn’t deliver

• You told your fiancé (FUCK he loved that word coming out of your mouth, almost as much as he was going to like husband!) to at least try to not go overboard. To which you received a “Me? Overboard? Darling, I would never! Simple and elegant, that’s what the headlines will say!”

• The many, many, many vision boards said otherwise. However you already knew damn well “simple and elegant” translated to grandeur and extravagant– and that’s exactly what it was. To Lucifer’s credit, it wasn’t gaudy or blinding. It really was a gorgeous spectacle

• Per his request it’s an all white event, a stark contrast to the overall location. The guest list is massive. After all, Lucifer’s still a king and certain people would be offended if they missed an occasion like this. Everyone goes all out. Bodies pour into chairs, everyone dripping head to toe in white garments and glamorous jewels

• Lucifer preened and primped, checking the mirror a couple hundred times and asking whoever was in the room if he looked ok. Anything less than “outstanding” had him groaning as he turned back to the mirror

• The wedding suddenly seems like a terrible idea. Not because he has cold feet (he’s rather sweaty, actually) but because the moment he sees you he just wants to steal you away

• You are positively and wholly breathtaking. The stars are jealous over how you outshine them! He can’t do anything but stare in amazement as you walk down the aisle

• Does he, Lucifer Morningstar, vow to protect, love, cherish and serve you for all eternity? Undoubtedly. He adds a few his own too like spoil you rotten, compliment you hourly, never ever never let you feel like you’re alone— all things he’s already done but wanted to make it “official”

• “It’s been an honor to be your confidant and friend… but I’m dying to do that and more as your husband.”

• Then do you take him to have and to hold, for better or worse, richer or poorer?

• “I do.” You answer proudly, squeezing his hands ever so slightly

• Forgetting present company, forgetting he’s a king and supposed to act dignified, Lucifer doesn’t wait to get permission to kiss you. He jumps slightly, knowing you’ll catch him instantly. Hugging your neck he crashes his lips onto yours

• You giggle against him, returning the kiss briefly before setting him down. (Hell knows he’d get carried away and forget much more if you didn’t)

• “I do believe you’re my husband now, Luci.”

• The entire wedding may as well have been a surprise party the way his eyes widened, as if it only just set in what the ordeal was for

• “Oh my golly, I’m your husband. I’m your husband! Hey everybody, I'm their husband!”

~

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ don’t apologize, you did great friend! thank you so mochi and i hope you enjoy

[artemis32]

Locksley

yandere Batfam x reader

yes, i do love them. yes, it is a problem. yes, i will make this my entire personality for the next two and a half months

also, necessary disclaimer, there’s a piece of dialogue in this that i took from a youtube asmr channel (bite me, they’re interesting and i’m starved of attention) - it’s jimち asmr, if you’re interested

word count - 4.8k

mbe masterlist

You wouldn’t call yourself a hero, not in any sense of the word. Likewise, you didn’t consider yourself a villain. You were something in between - you did bad things for good reasons, you did good things for bad reasons. 

Living in Gotham changed people. No matter how kind or well-intentioned, everyone ended up corrupt sooner or later. Some just fell further from grace than others. 

The people you helped would argue that you were a hero, someone who deserved recognition and respect for your actions. The people you stole from tended to disagree.

You didn’t care much about what you were. Heroes, villains… They were all the same in your eyes. They wrecked havoc and left people like you to deal with the aftermath - an ordinary citizen who had neither the means nor the aspirations to fix what they’d broken.

****

You started years ago, before you were even a teenager.

It was small things at first. Single fruits, a loaf of bread, a blanket, cough syrup. Things people wouldn’t usually notice. 

You realised pretty soon that you were good at stealing, good at getting away without people noticing. Very good.

Stealing felt justified in your young mind. You told yourself that it was okay. It was okay because you weren’t stealing for yourself. Never for yourself. Never committing a crime for personal benefit.

No, you stole to help others. You did what you could to help those that were too weak or scared to help themselves. 

In those early years, when you were still young and hopeful, you likened yourself to Robin Hood. Stealing from the rich to give to the poor.

Now, years later, the sentiment had faded. 

You still stole from the rich. You still gave everything you stole to the poor. 

Poverty in Gotham was a disease. The densely populated apartment blocks in the Narrows, where you lived, housed more people than it should have, and those people had become somewhat of a family to you. Or at least as close as you’d ever get. So you did what you could to keep them safe and alive. Stealing food to keep them fed, stealing clothes and blankets to keep them warm, stealing medicine to keep them healthy, stealing toys to keep the children hopeful.

That was your job, your purpose in life.

It made you feel as though you had a use. Seeing how people’s faces brightened, how happy they looked to see you when you bought a spare blanket or some extra food, or a toy a hopeful child had been eyeing for a while, it made you feel as though your life wasn’t completely meaningless.

Your life had a purpose. And that purpose was to help those who couldn’t help themselves. 

So you did.

And you never got caught. Not once. 

Until you did.

****

This uniform is so fucking uncomfortable. How do these people do this all day? You think, slipping your index finger beneath the buttoned collar of your shirt, tugging at it in a lacklustre attempt to catch a breath.

As much as recon was necessary, it was also an annoyance most of the time. It was times like these that you thanked the stars above that you weren’t born into a wealthy family. Stuffy galas and boring board meetings were never your thing.

The crowd of wealthy tycoons and aristocrats barely paid the waitstaff a second thought, primping and preening as they mingled amongst one another, trying to impress people who were too self centred to notice them. 

You would’ve rolled your eyes and gagged at the sight, had it not acted as the perfect cover for you. 

Stealing the name tag and uniform off of the service roster was simple enough, and sneaking in through the service entrance of the disgustingly lavish manor was a breeze. Now, as you flit through the crowd of supercilious pricks, you feel grateful for your own nondescript appearance.

Blending in with the average service worker was a blessing, one you took full advantage of as you scanned the large ballroom. There were several large windows, massive panes of glass bordered with ornately carved ebony wood frames. The doors were just as grand, two sets of double doors, and a smaller service door in the very corner of the room, all dark stained ebony to match the windows, were just as detailed and lavish.

It made you sick.

How could these people live so wastefully? How could they live so easily? Their biggest worry was keeping their faces youthful and their houses fancy. It didn’t make sense. Even now, after months, years of doing this, it still confused you - the fact that you lived such a jarringly different life, one that seemed so pathetic in comparison to the vapid crowd that surrounded you.

At the very least, it eased your conscience, and made your job easier. You felt no pity, no remorse for stealing from people like those gathered around you. Very few of them had actually worked for what they had in life. No, it was handed to them at birth. Life was funny like that. Those who work hard are left impoverished, and those who give in to gluttony and greed never have to work a day in their lives for what they have.

You discarded the now empty serving tray behind a potted plant, slipping out the large double doors and into the empty corridor beyond. The halls were silent and dark, moonlight casting large shadows over the walls.

The manor’s antiquated runner rug muffled the sound of your footsteps as you crept along the wall of the corridor, carefully taking note of each door, drawing up a mental map as you continued. 

Every corner you turned was more extravagant than the last. You could practically feel the wealth seeping out of the walls. It disgusted you. 

At least it was nice to look at.

Twenty minutes later, you’ve made it up to the East Wing, the furthest part of the manor from the ballroom. It seems to be the personal quarters of whoever the hell owns this abomination of a house. On the trek up several flights of stairs, you’d passed a collection of bedrooms, several smaller living rooms, and,to your great delight, a study. Though, ‘study’ feels like the wrong word to describe the room.

It looks more like a grotesque mix of a library and a maze, and if you were any more wet behind the ears, you might’ve been intimidated by the sheer size of it. In fact, if you’d stumbled upon a room like this a few years ago, you’d have been in awe. The value of a single item in this room would have you set for life. 

But you don’t allow yourself to be caught up in the moment, keeping steely focus as you move silently, swiftly between towering shelves. You don’t take anything. Not yet. The time for that would come later. Right now, you focus instead on gathering information. The layout of the manor, alarms, sensors, residents.

The last part was always the hardest, especially with people like the elite of Gotham city. People came and went as they pleased, and the odds of you running into someone was higher in extravagant homes like this, what with their abundance of butlers and maids. But you’d avoided them all up to this point, never once encountering anyone in more than a decade of prowling.

And this manor - the famous Wayne residence - never housed more than a dozen people on any given night. You knew the staff and groundskeepers all went home in the evening, leaving the property all but abandoned at night.

You reach the end of the room, pausing only to glance over at the large grandfather clock nestled between two shelves before you turn on your heel and stride back towards the door. You’d gotten what you came for. Now, it was time to take your leave, full mental map in tow. 

Getting out of the gala was a lot easier than getting in, and you took the time to register the smaller details of the manor. In this time, you confirmed one thing you knew for certain:

Wayne manor disgusted you in all its excessive wealth.

Bruce Wayne may have appeared as some kind of well meaning philanthropist or humanitarian, but you knew his pockets ran deep. Much of his wealth, generational and unearned, was hoarded while the rest of Gotham was left to rot in poverty. 

It was, in part, the reason that you didn’t feel bad about what you were doing. He, alongside the rest of Gotham’s elite, had done nothing to earn what they had. You were just levelling out the playing field, giving those in the Narrows a fair chance at life.

And if you had to dirty your hands to help them, then so be it.

****

The thick carpet muffles your landing, though you don’t really need it.

Over the years, you’d mastered your movements, learning how to move silently, without notice. It’d been born from necessity, rather than genuine desire. Growing up in the Narrows wasn’t good for much, but at least you learnt pretty quickly that it was easier to get by if you went unnoticed.

You gently close the window, pushing the polished wooden frame with your fingertips, wincing at the soft click of the lock. Any noise was too much.

The corridors are empty as you silently sweep through the manor, as expected. You aim for the lavish library you’d scoped out a week prior, mental checklist ready. 

Avoiding the cameras and alarms is easy enough, especially when the majority of them scoped the perimeter, rather than the interior. The lack of security, combined with the excessive luxury confirmed what you’d always thought.

Rich people were fucking dumb.

They really thought their money could protect them from everything. Well, there was one thing that no amount of money could save them from.

People like you. People with absolutely nothing to lose.

You had no family, no prized possessions, no desire or greed. And you sure as hell didn’t harbour any fear for people like them.

Eventually, you arrive in the East Wing, slowing your stride slightly. You strain your ears for any hint of movement, blending seamlessly into the shadows as you prowl the corridor. The ornately carved solid wood door opens with a silent swoosh, and you slip into the room a mere moment later.

Someone’s here.

You take note of it a moment too late, slipping between two towering shelves the instant you hear the soft murmurs of a conversation. The lighting is dim, shadows dancing across the room, sourced from the crackling fireplace at the back of the study.

Fuck.

It takes you a beat longer than usual to calm your now racing heart, and the instant you get it under control, you’re back to creeping along the shadows, hands darting out to grab at ornaments and books, shoving them silently into every pocket and gap in your suit and small backpack.

If you could, you’d have brought a bigger bag, but you needed to travel light - light enough to make a swift exit if needed. 

You manage to grab quite a few things without nearing the source of conversation, which you’ve now determined to be two men murmuring lowly near the fireplace. Relief settles heavy in your bones as you creep back towards the door, thankful for the numerous shelves hiding you from view.

Lady Luck was a fickle being, and it seemed she’d decided your time was up.

When you’re about ten steps away from the exit, senses on high alert, time seems to slow, the baroque handle dropping slowly as the door is pushed open. You’re back in the shadows before it fully opens, back pressed against the wall while you weigh your options.

The door is out of the question. There’s no way to slip out without being noticed. The window, maybe?

One glance at the tightly latched windows across the room dash that idea immediately.

Panic swirls up your spine, threatening to take over. If you got caught here, there’s no telling what would happen to you.

As you scramble to come up with a plan, the door swings open and a man steps into the room. He’s young, fresh-faced, perhaps a year or two younger than you. He’s handsome too, in the way aristocrats often were - light eyes, tanned skin, full lips. He was striking. 

And he turned to look right at you.

You’re up, on top of the nearest shelf seconds before his eyes slide towards you. You squeeze your eyes shut, sweat slicked palms pressed flat against the dusty wooden shelf underneath you.

Fuck.

He lingers for a moment, taking a step closer into the shadows, to the spot you’d stood in moments ago. 

There’s no way he knew. He couldn’t.

After several tense, painful seconds, his brow twitches and he turns on his heel, striding over to the other two men, his gait confident and swift. You let out a soft sigh, relaxing only a bit as you try to stop the nervous tremors in your hands.

Escape comes hours later, near three in the morning, when all three men eventually retire to their rooms. You couldn’t get out of that eerie, shadowed manor fast enough.

****

“You really should lock your door at night, especially in this area. You never know when some creep might think about inviting themselves in. Windows too, for that matter - or else B&E’s would just be… Well, E’s.” 

It was barely two in the morning. You’d crawled into bed, still fully clothed, less than an hour ago, exhausted from a long day of work in the hellscape that was hospitality. You hadn’t even had the energy to look over your next few potential hits, never mind take a shower or have dinner.

So it’s no surprise that you’re disoriented, thrown off guard when you wake up to a masked man leaning far too casually against your derelict old couch, slim katana resting comfortably in his hand while he twirls it around.

“Then again,” he continues, ignoring the wide eyed look you give him. You flinch back, the movement too slight to notice as he straightens and strides over to you. “You’ve made my job easier. So I should thank you.”

He stands, hovering over you, arms hanging casually at his sides beneath his cloak as he regards you. The mask he wears hides his eyes, and it feels as though you’re staring up into dark, never-ending pits rather than eyes.

“Hm. You look different than what I expected. Younger. How old are you?”

If you weren’t so terrified, you might’ve laughed. Here, in your cramped, dingy bedsit, stood someone who appeared more demon than man, and he was presumptuous enough to critique your appearance. Worse still is the fact that you might’ve answered him, had he not swiftly changed topics.

“It doesn’t matter. A criminal is a criminal. Blackgate has a cell with your name on it.”

The train rumbles by and shakes the thin walls of your apartment, casting an eerie half glow bright enough to just barely light up your apartment.

Your blood runs cold.

Robin.

You’re moving before he has time to register what’s happening, tossing your worn knit blanket at his head as you leap from your bed, the small single’s frame groaning beneath you at the abrupt movement. You’re across the room when he recovers, hand on the doorknob. Seconds later, a vaguely bird-shaped dagger embeds itself into the doorframe right beside your hand.

“Don’t move.”

For once, despite the alarm bells blaring in your head, you listen. You fight against your instincts and the burning in your limbs as he approaches, closer and closer with every taunting step until he’s right in front of you, another stupid bird-shaped dagger nicking the soft underside of your jaw.

“You’re coming with me. Peacefully.”

Your brow twitches in annoyance at his tone. It’s so condescending, as if he thinks he’s talking to a child. If this was anyone else, you might’ve fought back, but of the list of people you avoided, the Gotham vigilantes associated with Batman were top of the list. 

They were so irritatingly self-righteous, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that they’d view you as a scum of the earth criminal, should they ever catch you. It was part of the reason you’d avoided them so religiously, and you’d done a great job of it up until this point. The only question on your mind right now, though, was-

“How?”

Robin tilts his head, mouth flat. “How what?”

You lift your chin a bit more as he raises his dagger, softly piercing the skin, as if in a warning.

“How did you find me?”

If you could see his eyes, you were sure they’d hold an incredulous look, as if to ask ‘are you stupid?’. But you weren’t. Not like this. You weren’t sloppy. And you sure as hell didn’t step on toes when you stole, especially not enough to gain the attention of a run of the mill vigilante. There was no reason for him to be standing here, in your apartment, all but pinning you to the door.

“How did you find me?” you insist, pushing forward despite the slight sting against your jaw. “What did you see?”

He sets his jaw, tilting his head down as he speaks through clenched teeth. 

“Stealing from Bruce Wayne of all people was a dumb move.”

Your blood chills in your veins.

So someone did see me then… That man. That boy. Fuck.

“It was especially dumb to stick around for four hours afterwards.”

At that moment, you weigh your options. 

If you go with him peacefully, all but turn yourself in, Blackgate would be the least of your worries. You stole from Bruce Wayne.

Wronging such an influential man would have its own set of unique consequences, and it wasn’t yourself you were worried about. Anyone you’d helped in the process would be incriminated. All those innocent people, the women and children, the elderly people who lived around you… 

No. You couldn’t go with him. 

Prison was one thing. Endangering those you swore to help was another entirely.

With your mind made up, everything else is easy.

You grab the wrought iron coat rack beside the door and swing it upwards, aiming for his head without a second thought. The moment he releases you and shoves you back, you’re out the door, sprinting down several flights of stairs.

Too slow. Faster. Move faster.

You hear him behind you, footsteps ringing out like a death knell. 

He wants you to hear him. You know he does. A vigilante like that, someone as skilled as him - you wouldn’t hear him unless he wanted you too.

Honestly, you were quite proud of yourself. You’d made it further than you’d expected. The uneven gravel stings against your bare feet as you sprint through the side alley, aiming for the main street.

It was pointless. You knew it was. Even if you could make it that far, it wouldn’t amount to anything. No one would help you. No one could help you.

Regardless, you still feel disappointed when he grabs you by the collar of your thin, old sleepshirt, yanking you back. The exit to the alley, a mere two metres away, seems to mock you.

In that moment, you think about what you’d done. You truly think, and realise that you didn’t regret a single thing. You didn’t care about what happened to you. Everything you’d taken had helped so many people, far more than it would have helped Bruce Wayne, gathering dust in his old study. 

Everyone had been so happy, so relieved at how much you’d managed to help them. The amount you’d received for the stolen goods had been enough to care for everyone in your building ten times over. 

So no, you didn’t regret your decision.

This time, Robin doesn’t waste any time with pleasantries, gripping the back of your neck tightly and knocking you out a moment later.

****

“Who is she?”

“Her name is-”

“I know what her damn name is. I mean, who is she?”

Tim pauses, eyeing Damian with a strange expression, clearing his throat and continuing after throwing a perplexed glance at Bruce.

“...well, uh, she lives in the Narrows, has for more than a decade. She went to Gotham public high school and received her high school diploma, with no further education. She’s… pretty unremarkable, to be honest. Works in a shitty diner in the East End, earns less than minimum wage...” he trails off for a moment and shrugs. “There’s not much else to say.”

Damian clenches his jaw, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Her address. What is it?”

Again, Tim throws Bruce a glance, sharper this time, choosing his words wisely.

“I… don’t think that’s necessary information. It’s not a big deal, she only took a few things. And it doesn’t seem like she kept any of it. Actually, I’m kind of impressed–”

He’s cut off in an instant, Damian’s glare sharp and filled with rage.

“It does matter. She stole from us. She–” 

The green-eyed youth sucks in a sharp breath, dropping his arms to his side, flexing his hands.

“...she was right there. She was inside the manor, ten steps away from me, and I didn’t fucking notice. It took us two weeks to notice she’d been here at all!”

His words are like venom, belying the real reason he’s so worked up, and Bruce watches him with a blank expression, stepping forward after he’s calmed down slightly, placing a heavy palm on his shoulder.

“I understand your frustrations, but you can’t allow them to cloud your judgement. Don’t allow your emotions to rule your actions. While I agree we should find her, I don’t think we need to be as… extreme as you’re suggesting. She’s just a civilian - albeit a very… efficient one. Take some time, calm down, and we’ll discuss what to do from there, okay?”

Damian shrugs the hand off his shoulder, stalking out of the Batcave with a few short, clipped words thrown over his shoulder.

“Yes, Father. Of course.”

****

A very frazzled looking man is the first thing you see when you come to, temple aching terribly where the angered Robin had decked you hours earlier. Presently, the man hovering over you sighs when he sees your eyes open, though it doesn’t seem to be a sound of relief. His mouth tugs down at the corners, brows pinching together.

“Don’t.”

He presses a palm to your shoulder, keeping you flat on your back when you try to sit up. His tone is stern, flat, accentuated by the dark bags under his eyes. His shoulders sag and he loosens his hold, fingers flexing against your shoulder.

“Just… stay there. Don’t move.”

The words seem more like a plea than a demand, but you listen regardless. Even if you wanted to move, the pain rippling through your skull makes you too dizzy to sit up, let alone stand.

“...do you remember anything?” he murmurs, bright blue eyes roaming your face worriedly.

Licking your dry, cracked lips, you avoid his gaze. Would it be better to lie, you wonder? Would he know? You had a feeling he might. And you had a feeling that somehow, being honest just this once would help you a lot more than lying ever could. 

You swallow thickly, glancing back at him before answering. 

“Yes.”

He rolls his eyes, head lolling forward as he mutters.

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Before he can ask you another question, before you can say anything else, there’s a flurry of movement at the entrance to the room, several people storming in. The racket makes your head throb, and you feel faint and woozy as you lean back against the admittedly plump pillows.

You wonder distantly why you weren’t in a prison cell or a hospital. If you’d been in a better headspace and perhaps not concussed, you might’ve been concerned, but it was effort enough to focus on staying conscious at the moment.

“No, Damian! I have had enough! You explicitly went against my instructions– You kidnapped a civilian!”

Chancing a small peek at the arguing duo, you catch sight of little more than two blob-like shapes, the taller of the two yelling animatedly while the shorter stands stoically, staring off to the side, towards–

Towards you.

“She’s awake.”

That has the taller man falling silent for a moment. He sighs heavily, murmuring. 

“We’ll discuss this later. For now, I have to deal with your mess.”

With that, he turns and strides over to you, placing his hand on the shoulder of the young man at your bedside, a silent dismissal. He remains standing while the other two leave, staring down at you expressionlessly.

Bruce Wayne.

Bruce fucking Wayne.

…I’m so dead.

You jolt up, wincing at the pounding in your head as you blurt out.

“Mr Wayne, I–” 

He holds up a palm, silencing you.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

There’s a pause, one in which he looks down at you before sitting down with a sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose for a moment.

“I don’t care that you stole from me. Usually, I'd just file a police report and go about my day, but my son… Well, you upset him.”

He leans back in his seat, unbuttoning his blazer.

“You see, he’s a prideful boy. It’s never caused problems before, at least, not like this. I mean, involving a civilian, that is. But you seem to have struck a nerve. He’s holding quite a bit of animosity towards you.”

Bruce leans forward again, elbows resting on his thighs as he regards you with a critical eye.

“And I’ll admit, you caught me too, to a degree. You broke into my home without my notice. You were right under my nose.” He huffs a disbelieving laugh, as if the very idea of you evading him was impossible. “It’s impressive, I won’t deny it.”

A strange flutter fills your chest, something that feels oddly akin to pride. Bruce Wayne of all people was complimenting you. Or, at least, it felt like a compliment. 

“Why is he so upset?” 

You regret the question the instant it leaves your mouth. His gaze, which had been slowly warming up, turns cold and flat at that.

“...because you slipped right by him. Do you understand what a feat that is? How much you’ve wounded his pride? For you, an untrained young woman from the slums of Gotham to have fooled him, a trained assassin. Robin. You understand, don’t you? He took it as a very personal offence.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. Was this some kind of twisted punishment for stealing? Did this man, Bruce Wayne, really expect you to believe that his son, the sweetheart of Gotham’s high society, was the Robin? And an assassin to boot?

He huffs a silent laugh, brows raising as he regards the expression on your face.

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s shocking. Damian Wayne, Robin? You’ll get used to it.”

Your hands are shaking now, sweaty and white knuckled as you clutch the bedsheets, and you feel your blood pressure rising. If you weren’t careful, you’d pass out soon. Swallowing thickly, you ask the question urgently gnawing at the forefront of your mind.

“If he’s Robin, then…?”

A small smile tugs at his lips. He was handsome, in an older gentleman kind of way - tall, strong, sturdy build. Even the wrinkles and lines marring his face looked attractive. No wonder women fell over themselves in an attempt to catch his attention.

“Yes. You catch on quickly, don’t you? Well, that’s to be expected from Gotham’s own do-good Robin Hood, I suppose. Yes, I am Batman.”

A choked noise dies out in your chest. 

Of course I’d steal from Batman. Of everyone in Gotham, this is who I choose? God, why is my luck so shitty?

His admission sows a seed of unease in the pit of your stomach, and your eyes dart around the room for the first time since you’d arrived. It was large, larger than what you were used to, though the only furniture was the bed, a vanity, and a small couch near the window. The window that was locked tight, covered with solid iron burglar bars. Bars you had the sinking feeling were put there to keep you in.

You turn to him, eyes wide and pleading.

“Why are you telling me all this?” 

He stands, posture straight and assertive as he eyes you callously. “Because, unfortunately, your actions, and my son’s impulsive decision have both pushed me to make a decision I have no choice in. It means that, until we decide what to do with you, you won’t be allowed to leave–”

Evidently, his admittance to essentially abducting you is what sends your blood pressure through the roof. You pass out before he finishes his sentence, praying with the last of your fading consciousness that this was all some twisted nightmare.

[ginnsbaker]

Fic: Right Here, Right Now

Summary: Marrying the love of your life a second time around is definitely sweeter // An ILGOSS Oneshot.

Pairing: Wanda x Fem!Reader | Word count: 1.4k+ | Warnings: None...? does cheese count? | A/N: Did you miss me? Thank you to the anon who suggested this one-shot. This is set in the ILGOSS universe, but can be treated as an independent story about two divorced wives marrying each other again. This functions more like a drabble, think of it like a missing scene in the epilogue. Enjoy!

Masterlist

-

It's been a grueling twelve hours since you last saw Wanda, and you're practically climbing the walls. Your heart's doing this annoying jittery thing, and the more you try to calm down, the more agitated you become. This whole ‘not seeing the bride before the wedding’ tradition is driving you nuts.

Desperate, you send a text to Natasha. I need to see her, you say, barely keeping it together to type a full sentence. I can't wait till the aisle.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately with Natasha’s reply. On it!, she texts back, and you know she's cooking up some scheme. Relying on your best friend to create the perfect diversion feels like your only lifeline.

It only takes a few minutes when suddenly, an ear-splitting sound erupts from outside, jerking everyone's attention away from the primping and preening. Your eyes shoot wide—trust Natasha to choose something as dramatic as a fire or emergency hazard for a diversion. Part of you frets Wanda might be one of the first out there. Nevertheless, the plan works like a charm. Like clockwork, the room empties out, everyone drawn out by the allure of drama and a juicy story.

You’re half-curious about what kind of ruckus Natasha managed to come up with, but that thought vanishes instantly when you hear the other bedroom door open with a soft creak. A second later, a smile gradually spreads across your lips when you hear a set of footsteps, familiar to you as your own heartbeat. Rising carefully from your chair to avoid stepping on the hem of your pristine white dress, you make your way to the door as quickly as decorum allows.

As you reach the stairs, you spot your bride already making her way down. Seeing her, even with her back turned to you, takes your breath away and seals your fate of forever having your heart in Wanda’s captivity. It's hard to believe you managed to be with her the first time. Harder to think about how you almost lost her in your life for good, but here you are, feeling like the luckiest person in the world to have her back again for a second chance.

“Hey.”

Wanda turns at the sound of your voice, and her smile illuminates the space around her, outshining the sun's rays filtering through the windows. A gentle sea breeze teases her hair, softly framing her face. You stand frozen at the top of the stairs, unable to comprehend how everything you’ve both been through, led to this miraculous moment.

“Hi,” she greets in return, nodding towards the commotion outside. “Everybody rushed out. Could be an emergency.”

You shake your head and smile widely, teeth digging at your bottom lip, helpless as a blush taints both of your cheeks. Wanda looks absolutely stunning, and it's like you're suddenly back in college again, seeing her for the first time. You miss a step, almost causing you to fall flat on your face, just like you did back then.

“I…might have asked Nat’s help to get you alone,” you say with a sheepish grin. “I, uh, I wanted to do something. I-If you’re up for it.”

“Sounds serious,” Wanda teases, perching herself on the handrail. She arches an eyebrow, her eyes reflecting a desire that mirrors your own. It takes every ounce of your self-control, and then some, not to sweep Wanda into your arms and forget about the ceremony altogether. For several seconds, you're silent, prompting Wanda to reach out. Her fingers lightly brush against your arm, and that simple touch sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“What’s the plan?” she whispers, as if guarding a precious secret.

Without hesitation, as if the idea has been burning inside you your whole life, you blurt out, “Let’s get married.”

“You do remember we're getting married today, right?” Wanda says, barely hiding her amusement.

You nod, stepping closer to her. “Yeah, I know. But right here, right now, I want to marry you. Just us, committing to each other without anyone else around.”

Wanda's smile softens, and she steps closer. “Just us?” Her voice is soft, almost disbelieving.

You almost back out, feeling a bit silly. “Sounds a bit selfish, huh? Forget I said it—”

“No, don't,” she quickly says, grabbing your hand. “It's not selfish. It's actually really sweet, considering everything.”

You bite back the admission that this impromptu plan was born just minutes ago. Maybe the real reason couples are advised against seeing each other several hours before the ceremony is due to moments like this. Seeing Wanda in her dress, so beautiful, it's hard not to just marry her on the spot, forget the past, forget the plans. Moreso, there's something different about this second time. You're both older, wiser, each with a richer history that stretches far and beyond. It feels more layered, as if you've both fought harder for this moment than for anything else in your lives.

Taking another step down, you move closer to Wanda, holding her gaze. Your own dress trails behind you, its fabric whispering softly with each movement.

“We’re really doing this?” you ask.

“Getting a second shot at being your wife, especially after how badly I messed up… I never thought I’d get that chance again,” Wanda confesses, standing so close you can feel her breath. You tower a few inches over her, yet you feel utterly helpless under her spell.

“If it were up to me, I’d have dragged you to city hall the moment you said yes,” she adds. “But I wanted this moment to be perfect for you.”

And it is, you think to yourself. You almost take her face in your hands, but at the last minute, you decide against it, not wanting to ruin the meticulous work of those who spent hours making her look so stunning–efforts you deeply appreciate. Instead, you guide her hand to your chest, right over your heart, feeling its steady beat under her palm. A small, fragile thing, but it's filled with everything you feel for her.

“Wanda Maximoff, I take you to be my wife,” you swallow thickly, trying your best not to ruin your own make-up. “I am wholly and undeniably yours, and I promise to keep choosing you, every single day.”

You look into her eyes, and there's a whole universe in that gaze. “You're my love, my heart, my home. In this life, or the next. Today, I recommit my life to you, with all that I am and all that I have.”

For a few beats, everything goes quiet, allowing your words to truly sink in between the two of you. Then, you let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, just as Wanda tries to catch hers.

“And I promise to be true to us, to what we have now,” she replies, her slender frame trembling slightly under the weight of her emotions. You swipe away a rogue tear that slips down her cheek, then kiss her forehead tenderly. Her promise clearly reflects on her past mistakes. Though you've forgiven her countless times, you understand the importance of her saying it out loud.

Taking both of your hands, Wanda looks up at you, her eyes shimmering and full of hope. “I promise to love you, to stay faithful to you, to be yours through and through. You're my heart, my soul, my everything—and I'm going to spend every day proving that to you.”

And with that, you feel every part of you intertwining with hers. You lean in and kiss her, soft and delicate. It's as natural as it's always been with Wanda, as if your lips remember what your minds might sometimes forget.

-

Later, just outside your childhood home, surrounded by your closest friends and family, you still cry when Wanda reads you her vows. She does the same when you call her “My wife”, and then again when you address her using your last name.

The reception, following immediately after the ceremony, officially concludes with the remainder of the fireworks that Natasha had launched prematurely earlier as part of her plan to create a distraction, allowing you to sneak in and have a moment alone with Wanda. You and Wanda spend the rest of the night barely taking your eyes off each other, basking in the presence of everyone you’ve ever loved.

If life has taught you one enduring lesson, it's that the most precious things are never easily won. And you and Wanda, you've proven time and again that you're cut out for exactly that— fighting against all odds, for the love that's worth every bit of the struggle.

[luveline]

I'm having extremely horrid self-image these days so I was just wondering if you could write Aaron comforting reader about it?

You used to do your makeup on the bedroom floor in Aaron's floor length mirror. He found it endearing apparently, he'd always laugh quietly and step around you, promising that one day he was going to get you a vanity. 

And then he tells you he loves you and asks you to move in, and then there's a vanity waiting for you when you do. Aaron stops laughing in the morning and starts leaning down to kiss your cheek. "That's better, hm?"

It feels like playing dress up. You appreciate him, you love him, but you sit there with your makeup bag and your hair oils and feel awful. Deep down, pervasively, achingly awful. You're not the type of girl who gets the nice house and a nice boyfriend, who sits at her vanity primping and preening. No matter what you do, you'll always look like this.

"What are you doing?" he asks quietly. 

He's laying in bed behind you, sleep heavy on his tongue. You wipe a cotton pad wet with toner over your cheeks, avoiding his gaze in the mirror as you answer, "Just getting ready." 

"For what?" 

"Just the day." 

"You don't sound very happy, honey." He sits up, the front most strands of his hair falling onto his forehead, due for a trim. When he says 'honey', his brows lift from their furrow imploringly. It's madness that he can wake and throw himself straight into profiling mode. "What's wrong?" 

"It's nothing." 

"I don't think so. Come back to bed." We'll talk about it goes unsaid. Aaron's voice can colour a thousand shades but your favourite is this gentle lulling, his hand stretched out over the sheets to beckon you in. 

You put your used cotton pads aside and stand with a weird feeling in your throat like you swallowed something without chewing properly. Aaron watches you. He's good at pretending he isn't, but you know he is, his dark eyes tracing the shine of toner on your tacky cheek. 

"You smell nice," he says, kissing under your jaw, forcing your face up. "And you're so soft."

"Trying to butter me up before you ask me what's wrong." 

"But I'm not lying… What is wrong?" 

You meet his eyes, asking for permission of a sort that you don't need to ask for. He lifts his head in answer and opens his arms, pulling your face into the crook of his neck and your chest against his, murmuring, "Honey, honey," over your head. "What's wrong?" 

It comes as little surprise to him when you explain, your voice hushed with shame. I just feel so… disgusting. You don't say it with distinction but he gathers it anyhow, your lack of self esteem, not in the sense of putting yourself forward, but in that you don't like the way you look, the way people see you. 

"I can't control the way you see me, so you see me at my worst." 

"You don't have a worst." He lays back against the headboard and drags you down with him. "You're always beautiful."

You shake your head. 

You and Aaron linger in silence for a while, the only sound his fingers tightening against the fabric of your t-shirt on your waist. "Do you know why I wanted you to have your vanity?" 

"Well, you kept tripping over me in the mornings." 

"I did… I'd be watching you get ready and I'd find myself distracted," he says, low and quiet, as though confessing. "So yes, I'd trip over you. I wouldn't watch where I was going but I'd want go be closer, and I'd accidentally hit your arm and you'd look up. First in the mirror, and then over your shoulder. My heart–" He clears his throat. "Your vanity was an act of self preservation." 

"Because you're so old?"

"Careful," he says lightly, giving your waist a squeeze. "Because now I get to watch you from right here." He looks down at the vanity and you follow his gaze, seeing more of him than you, wrapped up in his arms. You look peaceful together. "Every morning." 

You close your eyes, rubbing your cheek into his shoulder. "And that's fun for you." 

"It's the best part of my day." 

[faithinlouisfuture]

[kayesfanfics]

Morph (Kevin Sydney) x Reader Headcanons

A/N: I’ve seen pretty much zero content for them and I AM HERE TO CHANGE THAT CAUSE I ADORE THEM AND THOUGHT THEY WERE SO COOL

Warnings: NSFW Headcanons under the second cut, Morph using they/them pronouns🙀

Morph definitely is super flirty with you, acting as if they’re still trying to win you over to go out with them. They love to just spend time with you and be around you, so if you’re doing something that requires your full attention, they’re perfectly content sitting with you and just watching you or doing their own thing beside you. Would LOVE to sit on your bed and kick their feet while he watches you get ready for the day. Whether you have a vanity and are doing your hair and makeup, or you just get ready in the bathroom quick in the morning, they love to watch you primp and preen yourself. Loves to shower with you too, not even for sexual activities, they just want to wash your hair for you and hold you skin to skin in the warm water and just relax for a moment in silence with you

You were actually the one to ask them out, yes they were flirty and seemed confident, but they didn’t have the courage to ask you out. You were gorgeous and amazing and powerful and they didn’t see themself as any of those things, so despite their friends telling them you definitely liked them back, they didn’t want to risk you rejecting them and getting their heart broken. So when you finally asked them out on a date, they were quite shocked but of course said yes, and the two of you had been dating ever since

They love to be your knight in shining armor, they’re always there to catch you or help you up during fights and missions. Will fight for the seat next to you on the X-Jet and lean over their seat to flirt with you, they love seeing you blush and squirm under their gaze and will grin like a dork if they make you laugh. All their jokes are aimed to make you laugh, they love being a source of happiness to you and just adores your beautiful smile. Will also squeeze or smack your butt when you walk by each other, snickering with a shit eating grin on their face when you’d turn with a red, embarrassed face glaring at them, which just made them laugh harder. They won’t go past your limits though, they just like to rile you up sometimes and tease you a bit to see you squirm

Super into PDA so if you’re not, you have to have a talk with them but if you don’t mind, boy will they be that annoying S/O everyone is grossed out with. Loves to randomly grab you and dip you into a kiss all dramatically and romantically, will pull you into their lap during meals and meetings, always wants to hold your hand or have an arm wrapped around you in some way. Will tap their own cheek for a kiss, which you usually grant, but will sometimes tease them back and flick their cheek with your finger instead of kissing it, which causes them to grab you and pepper your face in kisses, earning groans from everyone in the room. When they’re in their more human form, if you run a hand through their hair it’ll send shivers down their spine and make them giggle like a schoolgirl. Will twirl a strand of your hair while you talk to them, nothing but love and adoration in their eyes as you talk about something you love

Wants to try whatever hobbies you have. Sports? Cool, they can play or watch them with you. Video games? They’ll sit with you for hours playing in a dark room. Photography? Will turn into different famous models for you to photograph for practice. Cooking? They’re not great at it but they’ll help you and learn from you. They just love to spend time with you doing whatever it is you’d like, they’re like a little puppy who’s happy to just be with you and follow you around

When they struggle with their identity and PTSD from Mr. Sinister, they just want to be held. You’ll lay with them in bed and spoon them, giving them comforting kisses and reassuring words as they hold your arms wrapped around them. When they have nightmares, they’d cling to you shaking and it broke your heart seeing them so afraid and so unsure of themself. When they have panic attacks, they clings to you so hard you couldn’t pry them off of you even if you wanted to, they just needs their safe place and you provide that for them and they won’t let go. They had bruised you before from their grip on you, you hadn’t paid any mind to it but once they calmed down and saw bruises forming, they’d kiss them as they apologized repeatedly, feeling so bad that they had hurt you. They never wanted to hurt you. But you’d just hug them back and kiss them, telling them it didn’t hurt at all and that you understood they were just afraid, but that you were glad you were a sense of safety and security for them. They still wouldn’t really forgive themself and feel guilty about it, talking to Wolverine about the incident over beer to try and get a peace of mind

On a lighter note, you’d usually call them Morph like everyone else, but if they were in trouble with you, YOU’D CALL THEM ‘KEVIN SYDNEY’ AND JUBILEE WOULD BE ALL “Ooooooooh you got full named!” and laugh at their panicked expression

NSFW

Oh, they are SUCH a switch leaning towards sub for sure. They will change forms during sex too, including their genitalia, so the both of you can chose how to have sex that night and they do like to have long talks about sex with you and what you’re comfortable with days before you even have it. They want to share their own boundaries and wants to know yours, they’re already vulnerable to you dating you, but sex makes them more vulnerable. They may be flirty and sexy, but underneath all that they have insecurities and fears and wants you to know them so that you’re both comfortable with each other. But after all that’s done, they are very fun and good in bed, making it sexy and comfortable at the same time for you

The both of you are so into body worship, you both want the other to know how much you love each others bodies and how gorgeous and handsome and sexy the other is. They love it when your hands travel all over their body and squeeze them, praise falling from your lips as you kiss every inch you can of them. They are extremely loud during sex, they just can’t help but moan and whine and beg for you, so sometimes you’ll ride their face to make them shut up before they alert the whole mansion of your activities. You’ve even tried light bondage with them and they allowed you to gag them, which muffled them but only a bit and you still got weird looks from everyone afterwards

They love to watch you top them, just watching your chest bounce and the faces you’d make as you’d ride their cock, hands pressed against their chest as you laughed at the pathetic little whines and moans they’d let out. They loved when you were in control and telling them what to do, but they also didn’t mind topping either when you asked them to. They’d still be focused on your pleasure first and foremost, and they’d be SUCH A TEASE. Would ghost their hands over your most sensitive spots, kissing and biting your inner thighs just inches away from where you wanted them to touch most. Morph would start off with turning into a feminine form and scissoring with you to warm you up and get you right to the edge, before stopping to make you whimper for them to keep going. They’d then turn into a masculine form and pump their cock a few times in their hand, before finally lining up with you and pushing in, watching your back arch off the bed towards their own body and relish in the noises of pleasure you made

[pricelessemotion]

love is kinda crazy (with a spooky little boy like you) | E.M.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: [2.4k] eddie takes you on that halloween date. it doesn’t go quite like you expected.

warnings: pure fluff, a little awkward date shenanigans, r is described as having frizzy hair and wearing prescription glasses, r also has an (unnamed) sister

a/n: ah! i’ve been dying to write and post a part two for this fic since halloween and i thought there was no better time to post it than now! happy valentine’s day 🖤

masterlist | part one

“There, perfect!” Your sister punctuates the end of her makeover with the snap of her powder compact and the flourish of a makeup brush. 

You turn slowly, the pink cushioned stool a little wobbly under your unsteady frame. Your reflection looks comical, all blurred edges and wavy lines. Without your glasses, the bedroom vanity has turned into a funhouse mirror. 

“What does it matter if I’m going on a date with him if I can barely see him?”

You don’t need glasses to know that she’s rolling her eyes. Even though you can’t quite see her, you can hear her exasperation in the way she’s loudly chewing her gum. “You’re going to the movies, you’re barely gonna be able to see him anyway. Besides, you’ll be able to see him when he’s close enough to kiss and that’s the whole point.”

You blink each eye one at a time, trying to gauge which one is better. Your left eye is slightly clearer, though the difference is negligible. “I think you’re severely overestimating my eyesight.” 

“I think you’re severely underestimating my dating advice.” She blows a bubble, the view of her face becoming a bright pink smudge before it pops and she continues smacking. “Just trust me, it’ll all be fine.”

You do trust her. Even though she has spent the last two hours plucking and primping and preening, you want to take her advice. She’s not doing this to be condescending or controlling. She’s genuinely excited that you have a date, even more so that it’s with a living breathing human boy and not another library book. 

You don’t have much experience. With dating, with seeing someone, with kissing someone. What it means to be dating someone versus what it means to be seeing someone. What you’re supposed to do when you kiss someone. I mean, are your lips supposed to be on top of each other or are they supposed to interlock like the teeth of a zipper? Yeesh, you didn’t even wanna think about how teeth and tongues factor into the equation. 

These types of questions would usually be the kind that you would ask an older sister. You’ve just never had the bravery to say them out loud. Sure, you’ve watched romance movies and rewound and observed so much that you were afraid the tape in the VHS was going to break. And you’ve read enough romance that Ms. Marissa gives you side-eye when you pass the library’s reception desk. But there’s a difference between fiction and real life. A bridge you’ve yet to cross. You’re sure that you’re going to need all the help you can get.  

So, you heed her advice. You let her spray you with enough Aquanet to try to keep the flyaways at bay. You let her paint your lips with a shimmery pink lip gloss that isn’t too sticky and tastes like vanilla. You don’t, however, let her see you sneak the thick frames into your bag for emergencies. If it were up to her, the frames would be set out with Thursday’s garbage and you’d be wearing contacts like everyone else in your age group. 

She drops you off at The Hawk with another smack of her bubblegum and a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She barely waits for you to close the door of the station wagon before she’s speeding away, her Halloween plans including a keg, a pushup bra, and a slightly inebriated Steve Harrington. 

Eddie’s easy to spot. His silhouette sticks out against the brick building, white shirt, black leather, and blue denim against a red background. He lights up when he sees you and it’s the first time you’ve understood the meaning of the phrase. Since you can’t quite see his face clearly, you’re paying extra attention to his body. The way he pushes off the wall to stand tall. The way his shoulders visibly relax. You bet that they could see his smile all way in Indianapolis. 

“I know you’re usually supposed to give flowers on dates, but this is the best I could do.” 

He presents an origami paper flower in the shape of a rose. It’s made from binder paper, evident by the familiar feel of it in your hands. The folds are a bit unsure. There’s evidence of it being undone and folded again with a cleaner precision, you can feel the wear and tear on the paper with your fingertips. You’re dumbfounded. 

“Thank you,” You whisper, twirling the stem between your thumb and forefinger, watching the rosebud spin. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.” 

“Never?” He gapes at you in apparent disbelief before he schools his expression. “Well then, I’m glad to be the first.” He offers his arm to you like a real gentleman and you take it. 

The leather in the crook of his elbow is cold to the touch, but being in such close proximity you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. 

“It’s a continuous marathon, so they’re showing movies all night. We can start with any one that you want.” He gestures up to the marquee above the concession stand. When you look up to the sign, the words might as well be written in Cyrillic the way the letters all blur together. 

After a trip to the concessions stand, the two of you eventually settle on The Exorcist, which you had decided to cling to after Eddie’s nervous yet adorable rambling about which movie would be better to start with. 

Horror movies are even scarier when you can’t tell what’s going on. It didn’t occur to you how much you relied on sight to be able to mentally prepare for jump scares. Eddie must think you’re a total wimp the way you practically leap out of your seat at every flash on the silver screen that accompanies a discordant string of violins. 

You jump when you feel a hand brush your bicep, your arms flinging out. It’s much too late when you realize that intimate touch was Eddie trying to figure out if you were alright. The large Coke that Eddie had gotten–two straws because he said he didn’t wanna be presumptuous–the casualty of your fright. The flimsy lid pops off like it has nothing better to do and the dark brown liquid splashes over the arm of the seat right into Eddie’s lap. 

Eddie recoils, half-jumping and half-hovering in his seat because he just got a handful of ice-cold soda in his crotch. The people behind you are jeering, grumbling about the disturbance and Eddie half-whispers fucking shit under his breath, in what you’re sure must be a mixture of disdain and disgust.  

You pull napkins out of your purse and thrust them in Eddie’s direction before rushing out of the theater, chest heaving and eyes stinging. 

It’s a wonder you don’t trip and fall on your way out. You’ve walked these dimly lit halls hundreds of times, so luckily instinct and muscle memory win out and you make it out of the theater mostly unscathed, just with a few bruises on each shoulder. Nothing compared to the mortification of what had happened inside. 

Because it’s October in Indiana and you can’t seem to catch a break, it’s raining. Only every so slightly, but enough that you’d be soaked to the bone if you walked home thanks to your sister’s insistence that you dress for fashion and not function. You huddle close to the payphone, pondering if you have enough change to call around and get your sister to pick you back up because no way are you waking up your parents for this. 

The doors to the theater creak open behind you and suddenly you’re not alone anymore. The biting cold chills you to the bone but it’s Eddie’s presence behind you that sets you on fire. 

“Hey, are you okay?” 

Maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last hour and a half in the dark with your nerves on edge, but the tenderness in Eddie’s voice makes your throat constrict. 

“I’m sorry,” You blubber. “I’m so embarrassed. I just wanted everything to be perfect and I ruined it.” 

“Hey. Hey.” Eddie repeats himself more forcefully when you don’t meet his gaze the first time, “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s just a little soda. I’ll live.” 

His fingers rub the back of your hands in a soothing motion. Back and forth, thumbs caressing the valleys between your knuckles. He’s close enough that his features are almost in focus. You still have to squint. 

“You keep doing that.” He points his fingers toward your furrowed brow before mimicking the action on his own face. The finger is not accusatory, it just seems like Eddie likes to talk with his hands. 

You sigh, a resigned and weary sound. “My sister convinced me that I shouldn’t wear my glasses.” 

Eddie makes a face that you can’t quite discern in the dark before letting out a soft hmph! “Your sister kinda sounds a little mean.” 

“She means well.” You defend, weakly. You love your sister to death but there are times that your differences become much too apparent and that leaves you with nothing to do but suffer the consequences. This is one of those times. 

“Did you bring them with you?” 

“Yeah,” You reach into your bag, finding the frames folded into one of the inner pockets. 

Eddie takes them and puts them on you. “You keep doing that.” You murmur, a repeat of his earlier accusation. Now, though, you both know it’s in reference to him adjusting your glasses not just once but twice. 

“It gives me an excuse to be close to you.” 

You can see him with unrelenting clarity now. The little crinkles next to his eyes as he smiles warmly down at you. The way the slight breeze has carried the miserable drizzle under the theater awning. The way that drizzle clings to his curly hair like dewdrops on morning grass. You almost robbed yourself of all of this, and for what? Eddie knows what you look like. 

“Y’know what I thought when I saw you yesterday?” Yesterday, when you had been wearing a witch hat on top of your frizzy hair and the same Coke bottle glasses that sit on the slope of your nose now. “I thought that you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I thought I made a fool outta myself and that you wouldn’t give me the time of day, not in a million years.” 

“The whole scaredy cat schtick was quite endearing I must say.” 

He nods seriously, just a slight hint of a smirk on his face. “I try my best.” 

You look down at the seat of his pants. Sure enough, there’s a dark stain splashed right across his crotch.“Oh god. I'm so sorry. Again” 

“What did I tell you about apologizing?”

“You didn’t say anything about apologizing.” 

“Well then, this is me saying something. Stop apologizing. You have nothing to apologize for.” 

“It looks like you pissed yourself,” You wail mournfully. 

“Well, that definitely makes me feel better.” Eddie jests before he tugs you into his chest and plants his chin on top of your head. 

You nuzzle your face into his sternum, appreciating the soft hiss he lets out when your cold nose touches his warm skin. You inwardly groan because, quite frankly, there’s nothing more embarrassing than running out of a nearly full movie theater the way that you did. The only thing more embarrassing than that, you think, is going back inside after having embarrassed yourself. You tell Eddie as much, with the reassurance that you don’t want the date to end and if he really wants to, you can go back inside and finish the movie. He’s already tugging you toward his van that’s parked on the other side of the street, saying the six words that make your night:

“I own The Exorcist on VHS.”

You spend the entire time back in the trailer park cuddled up having quiet conversation about gory practical effects over a bowl of microwaved popcorn. The closest he gets to kissing you is when you duck into his chest to hide and his lips brush your temple. He could’ve lived off of that single brush for the rest of his life if he had to. 

When Eddie pulls up to your house later that night, he really does mean to give you an innocent kiss goodnight. The neighborhood is quiet, seeing as it’s probably been an hour since the children of Hawkins had fallen into their sugar-induced comas. He turns the engine off and shifts towards you, his smile both giddy and shy while he tells you that he had a really good time tonight. You mirror his expression and tell him the same. You both lean forward, chests rising and falling in tandem, noses brushing. 

When you finally make it past the front door, your lips are swollen and your glasses are fogged up. You kick off your shoes and pad up the carpeted steps two at a time, racing to your bedroom window. When you turn on your lamp and look out to the tree-lined street, Eddie waves at you, his rings glinting in the streetlight. You wave back, watching the van disappear into the distance. 

“Hey,” Your sister is leaning against the doorframe, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

“How’d it go?” You’re already slightly aware of the answer since she’s standing in front of you with a freshly washed face and hand-me-down pajamas instead of in an empty house in Loch Nora. 

She shrugs noncommittally, “It was a bust.” 

You hum in solemn solidarity, trying to tug the grin on your face into a much more situationally appropriate neutral expression. You feel for her and you don’t want to rub it in her face that you had such a good time, despite her advice. Unfortunately, you do not seem to have as much control over your facial muscles as you think you do. Your sister sees right through you, grabbing the purple throw pillow at the foot of the bed and launching it at your face telling you to shut up. You catch it before it has the chance to hit you, huffing with righteous indignation at her before the two of you collapse onto the bed in muffled laughter. 

“So, how’d it go?” She whispers in your direction, mindful of your sleeping parents down the hall. 

You trace your cupid’s bow, feeling the chapped and swollen skin for the hundredth time that night. You turn your head toward hers, readjusting your glasses when they slide down your nose. 

“It was perfect.” 

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished 🖤

[matchingbatbites]

as close to me as i can (18+)

Read on Ao3 | 1.2k

The kit had been Eddie’s idea. 

He could lie and say he doesn’t know where the idea came from, but he does. It’s been brewing in the back of his mind for a while now, ever since he saw it on one of their trips to the nearby sex shop.

He’s noticed, of course, how Steve can get sometimes. How he’ll check himself out in the mirror, how he’ll primp and preen until he looks like absolute perfection. It’s easier to see now that they’re actually living together, but that also means Eddie sees how he hides it from others, how he makes sure to keep his vanity to himself.

Eddie has had the best time pulling it out of him, has loved watching his boyfriend become more and more self-centered in a way they both adore. Eddie loves drowning him in compliments, both casual and filthy, loves that he’s able to help Steve build up his self confidence into something that others might even call narcissistic. Not to them, though.

He wasn’t sure if the kit was taking things too far, though. He’d been worried when he suggested it, and was glad when Steve lit up at the idea, when he instantly went pink with desire and pulled Eddie into their bed at just the thought of it. Eddie had gone the very next day to buy it, and two days later, they find themselves here.

“Does that feel good, baby?”

Steve’s hands clench at the bedding and he moans into the mattress below him, his back arches deliciously as he presses his hips back to meet every thrust, and Eddie can’t help but to stare at how gorgeous his boy is as he fucks Steve with the dildo. It came out better than they had hoped, the silicone firm but not rigid, and even though Steve had whined about how weird the plaster-like casting had felt on his dick, he certainly isn't- 

Actually, he's definitely whining now, all high and needy like he does when he wants Eddie to go harder, to make him feel it for days. Eddie doesnt give in yet, he wants to make this last as long as possible, but he can’t resist a bit of teasing, especially when it makes Steve flush all the way down to his shoulders.

"Yeah, that feels good. It’s such a nice dick, perfect for making pretty boys feel good, hm?”

Eddie smacks a hand onto Steve's ass just to hear him moan again, and then he pulls the dildo out completely. He leans in to spit into Steve's fluttering hole before shoving the toy back in again, and he soaks up the lovely noises his boy makes as he picks up the pace. He never thought he would get this hot from watching his boyfriend fuck himself on a replica of his own cock, but god, Eddie doesn't think he's ever been this hard in his life. 

“Do you like this, Stevie? Like getting fucked with your own dick? Is it good, gorgeous?” 

Steve moans and nods and Eddie slaps him again, squeezes the flesh under his hand as he says “Gonna need more than that, baby. C’mon, use your words for me, tell me how much you love it.” 

He drives the toy deeper and Steve gasps, his hands clawing at the sheets as his thighs start to shake. “Fuckin’ love it! Love it so much-”

Another smack. “You love what?”

“My dick! Love getting fucked by my dick, feels - fuck! - so good!”

Eddie adjusts the angle until Steve is wailing under the onslaught of pleasure, until Eddie is almost worried that Steve’s legs might give out from how much he’s trembling. It’s heady, knowing that he can make Steve feel like this with nothing but a toy and some filthy words, and the thing that makes it even better is that Steve is just as into this whole thing as Eddie is.

“Such a narcissistic little whore, baby. Nobody else’s dick is good enough for you, huh? Just your own, ‘s the only one perfect enough for you, only one that makes you see fuckin’ stars like this, yeah?”

Steve gasps and nods, and he’s almost pulling the sheets from the mattress with how he’s tugging at it. “Fuuuck, ‘m gonna come, Eds, please! Don’ stop!”

He’s close, so close. Eddie can see it in how he shakes, in how he sobs as Eddie growls out a “Come on, Stevie, do it, gorgeous. Fuckin’ come from your own cock.” He picks up the pace and gives Steve’s ass one more hard smack, and that’s all it takes to shove him over the edge.

Steve screams when he comes, the sound muffled slightly from where he’s pressed into the bedding, and Eddie just watches in absolute wonder as he fucks Steve through it until he’s a twitchy, whiny mess. He pulls the toy out slowly and drops it to the side, doesn’t hesitate as he pushes his pants down and barely spits into his hand before he’s stripping his own dick, almost frantic in his pace.

“So fuckin’ pretty, Stevie, so good for me. Love how filthy you are, love how you’re just as freaky as I am, love the things you let me to do you.” Eddie’s babbling, but his mouth always tends to run when he’s close and Steve knows it, groans in response. “Fuck, ‘m gonna come, baby. Where d’you want it?”

He expects a groaned response, or the delirious Anywhere, please that he usually gets. Instead, a thrill of delight runs through him as he watches Steve reach back to grab his ass with one hand, spreading himself as best he can. 

“In me, Ed, please. Need it so bad.”

Eddie complies and grabs Steve’s hips before pushing into his hole, still slick with lube and relaxed from his orgasm. Steve keens as Eddie thrusts two, three, four times before coming so hard that he sees stars for a moment. His hips jerk as he fills up his boyfriend, and Eddie groans when Steve twitches a bit with oversensitivity, clenching around him involuntarily. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he pulls out, and dots a few kisses over the moles on Steve’s back as he waits for his legs to start working again. 

Once he can feel his toes he stands from the bed, quickly grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom and a glass of water from the kitchen before joining Steve agin. Cleanup is quick and practical, and he makes Steve drain the glass before he’s climbing back into bed and wrapping around his boyfriend like an octopus.

“So, I think that was a good investment,” he says after a moment, and Steve hums.

“I definitely agree. We should use it again, though, just to make sure we get our money’s worth out of it.”

Eddie grins and can’t resist giving a soft nip to the shell of Steve’s ear. “Oh trust me, pretty boy, I am already thinking of plans for the future.”

[dearbraus]

Flowers Never Bend with Rainfall⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

— Wriothesley

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, fem! reader, mentions of reader wearing a corset, gown and earrings, arranged marriage, original characters; reader has an unnamed family and older sister, nobility and high society's conventions, allusions to gendered familial roles, sfw. ⊹ Run time. 1.3k ⊹ Note. I have had such brainworms for this man since seeing him for the first time. I had to write something but didn't want to get too ahead of myself since we know nothing of him yet sooo I decided to start a new series of drabbles that will follow this plotline, reader, and Wriothesley. You can find it under the tag # flowers never bend and it will eventually be posted to my ao3 as a cohesive story <3

Your sister beams as she gives your appearance another once over. It's the fifth time in the past ten minutes that she’s turned to you with scrutiny in her eyes, adjusting a strand of your hair or smoothing out the crisp neckline of your dress– you must be perfection. Today you’re meeting him, the man your parents sold you to when you were no more than six years old. He had been a boy then too and just as much of an unwilling participant in the whole affair as you had. Perhaps it was cruel to blame him for your misfortunes. At least the two of you had been given the courtesy of a meeting, a single chance to rectify the will of your parents before they made plans to force the two of you down the aisle.

The day after her eighteenth birthday, your older sister had been married. A gaggle of small children soon followed. They made quite the army of troublemakers but she continued to grow round with one every few years because they were just so cute when they were little. She fancied herself a matchmaker and believed that she knew everything there was to know when it came to matters of the heart. But, what did marriage have to do with the heart when it was nothing more than a political arrangement? Your father had made thousands of those in his lifetime and he’d do thousands more by the time by the time his earthly body was returned to the waves.

There was nothing special or romantic about standing in the middle of the lobby at the Hotel Debord being primped and preened over like a porcelain doll. The seafoam-coloured walls make the contents of your stomach curdle uncomfortably though your favourite gown as a child had once been spun off the very same shade. Today you wore pink taffeta topped off with a lace-trimmed neckline and a little white bow placed carefully at your décolletage. It as though your childhood bedroom threw up on your seamstress and out came this dress.

“Did you know that your fiancé is a Duke?” your sister whispers as she ushers you over to one of the plush chairs, “That mean’s he comes from a very wealthy family, mhm, and is a very well respected man.”

The whale-boned corset beneath your dress keeps your spine straight as you sit and still your sister makes a point of pressing your shoulders back before taking her own seat, “Does he have a name?” You ask, placing one delicately gloved hand over the other.

A myriad of people file in and out of the hobby with what appears to be a purpose. You can’t but watch with curious eyes and the childish hope of discerning him from the crowd before he’s able to spot you. Like a flower, you’d wilt beneath his gaze and learn nothing more than the facade people like you and he were taught to wear like a second skin. Instead, you’re met with swishing skirts that ooze refinement and galloping pups in gaudy costumes. There is little to be gained from people watching carbon copies that chased the latest trends as if that would appease their archon.

“Wriothesley,” Your sister states as if the answer should be obvious to you.

The name hardly strikes a chord of recognition within you, you may have heard it in passing years ago but no new memories surface as you search for an inkling of familiarity. It was futile, your days within the court were limited as you much preferred the solace of your family's countryside estate. The quiet was nice. With no nightmare-inducing machinations to tower over you. The servants were friendly too and even with the tendrils of gossip that filled their quarters, they never seemed to judge you too harshly for having the privilege to shirk societal expectations.

“Does he have a surname?” Focusing your eyes on the ornate glass chandeliers that swing with each gentle breeze pushed in through the ever-revolving doors, you quell your growing need for some tangible information into a dismissive interest, “Or shall I just be known as the lady duke?”

Your sister's gaze is sharp as is how quickly she turns her head to face you, “Come now, you know it is inappropriate to make such comments,” She smiles at a passing stranger, and they smile back, “He is a good man, that much I know.”

Despite the sunny disposition that is quick to replace her annoyed expression, you can feel your sister’s ire simmering within her gaze. Light splinters from the artfully crafted crystalline chunks and dances along the slick tiled ground. The sight of it makes you dizzy but you enjoy the head rush as you settle your focus onto the reflective floor. A gloved and idle hand comes up to twirl the dangly earrings that weigh heavy on your lobes, smoothing your thumb against the drop pearl.

“How can you be certain that he is a good man if you do not even know his family’s name?”

It’s difficult to stifle the giggle that rises to your lips when she glares at you. You found in that moment that it was good she had not been blessed with a cryo vision because it would pale in comparison to the chill that settled over the table.

“If you were so curious perhaps you should have asked father,” she gritted out, “I am just here to ensure that you do not embarrass yourself in front of Wriothesley.”

“How kind of you dear sister,” you grin the way she hates, showing her all of your teeth, “Surely I could not know how to talk to a man at my advanced age of twenty-two without your steadfast guidance.”

“It is a wonder why Mother and father chose you for the duke and not I,” your sister muttered beneath her breath, hoping you did not hear her.

Green was an ugly shade on your sister but you supposed it couldn’t be helped. It was human nature and adults were far more like children than they liked to believe, coveting toys that didn’t belong to them.

Though, her ego would balloon to be ten times the size of her body should you ever dare to admit that you wished your parents had chosen her for their political gain and not you. You weren’t well suited for the things you supposed this Wriothesley would expect of you. Most days you spent more time with your nose buried in long-forgotten tomes than you did in etiquette lessons. Those were important, your mother once said, a man of such status had much social responsibility and as his wife, so would you. 

“What time did Father say we may expect his grace to grace us with his presence?”

If the two of you were at home, she might have snarled at you, “I do not find you amusing!”

A well-dressed man carrying a shiny silver platter approached the table. If he heard your bickering, he chose not to comment on it, “Your tea has arrived, ladies.”

“Sir, I fear you are mistaken” you stated, your voice growing timid as he began to unload the contents of the tray into your table, “We did not order any tea.”

“No, but he did.”

The “he” in question was an imposing man who hovered behind the waiter. Neither of you had noticed but your sister began to smile demure at him the moment she took notice of his presence. The first thing you noticed was the glinting silver handcuffs that hung off his belt like a warning and then the metal-clad fingerless gloves. The chains and chunks of alloy made the deep red tie he wore look silly and out of place but his keen, pale eyes made you shrink in your seat as they slid over your visage.

“May I present to you his grace, the Duke Wriothesley.”

Oh.

So this was the man your family intended for you to marry.

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[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Reader [7]

description: Marc, his ex-wife and his supposed mistress head to Mogart’s to find Senfu’s sarcophagus, whatever could go wrong when the god of Chaos wants to be involved?

word count: 14.4k

trigger warnings: blood, gore, violence. Knives, stabbing. Small description of a drug overdose (accidental) and it doesn’t happen to reader. Themes of domestic abuse/grooming/prostitution. minors dni. [Based on Last Night in Soho dir. Edgar Wright]

main masterlist | series masterlist

Sipping her carton of juice, Dove’s eyes scanned the busy bazaar for any signs of recognition in the shoppers eyes as they bustled past her loudly. This exact square that had been a blood bath, a hunting ground, for her yesterday seemed to barely blink an eye at the primped and preened woman, thick sunglasses resting on top of her head.

“Anything?” She asked, the sweet taste exploding in her mouth as Marc returned from questioning one of his leads on Senfu’s whereabouts. It was surprising to her just how many people seemed to know something about the black market, then again it didn’t cross her mind that she knew how deceiving looks could be. She knew that the average person on the street likely had a dark secret, so twisted and vile they searched for their equal in maleficent places like the backstreets of Soho, or a normal town square in Cairo.

Marc shook his head, handing her a new cup of something saccharine for her to try.

“I hope you like attention,” The woman nearly choked on the liquid as a chirpy voice snuck up behind them. She spun, wiping the back of her spluttering lips with the cuff of her cardigan, to meet two honey eyes peering down at her amused.

“Right guy, right place, but you’re not Egyptian,” Layla teased, sipping on her own cool drink.

Marc huffed, his ex-wife’s eyes looking at him in smirking satisfaction. Dove couldn’t deny the sun clearly agreed with the older woman, her skin bursting with sweet freckles that were hidden in England’s cold grey, her hair just that bit more luscious. Her stomach twisted with a mix of jealousy and captivation as she watched the woman who made being beautiful look so easy.

“Layla, what the hell are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here,” Marc clipped, making the woman roll her eyes and Dove turn away from their catfight, chewing her cheeks nervously.

“Why? Because my name pisses off a few people in Cairo? Who cares?” She snapped, only just then taking in where the other woman bit the end of her straw.

“It’s not the locals I’m worried about,” Marc muttered, his eyes catching sight of Khonshu and his hauntingly smug partner that stared down at the three of them, watching the chaos unfold.

Dove followed his eye line, her blood running cold at the way he vultured around her, waiting for another chance to slip up, to take her body as his. Would he even need to? Now she realised she could conjure the suit herself, would he even need to puppeteer her anymore or would he simply put some sick whims in her head and let her have at it?

Would she be able to fight back? Would she be able to say ‘no’ and have it mean ‘no’ to him?

“Come on. I’ll help you find what it is you need,” Layla sighed, taking a hand to the top of the woman’s back to direct her away from the crowd. “And for the love of gods, girl, you need sunscreen on, you’re burning up,”

The three of them, smothered in cream, had spent the best part of the afternoon in the hotel room while Layla worked her magic and contacted her own informants. She knew the black market perhaps even better than Marc did, and it took her no more than a couple of hours to find Senfu’s sarcophagus from a source she said she trusted with her life, though Dove caught the split second of fear in her eyes when she’d said it.

It was fair to say she was not filled with confidence as they sat on the small boat taking them to the place the informant said they’d find it. Layla seemed ever more stunning in her make up, loose hair and with the purple tinged string lights the boat had weaved over its canopy. Dove felt selfishly glad she could barely look at Marc without gritting her teeth, she had no idea how she would feel if their marriage stood a chance at rekindling, then she really would be the other woman. Except not at all. It wasn’t like Marc looked at her in any way other than a nuisance, a thing he had to take care of for Steven’s sake. A stray to feel bad for, to have a vet euthanize out of duty, not out of care.

It wasn’t like Marc liked her any more than he disliked her, she was sure he felt near enough indifferent to her.

His kiss still burned a hole in her temple, his hands still phantoms at her cheeks, holding her gently, cleaning her, sewing her hurt back together. He had no idea the way his touch seemed to mend the tiniest parts of her together yet shatter her all the same. So desperate to be touched by him, so disgusted with herself she wanted to curl into a ball of solitude and never recover.

“So what exactly are we gonna do here? What’s the plan?” Marc asked in a hush, avoiding the ears of the few other passengers. A group of older women chatted animatedly on the other end of the boat, laughing to themselves wildly. The entire opposite of what she felt between the feuding exes, the salt river lapping behind her, knocking her to and fro in her seat.

“Oh,” Layla bit, her face twisting into a grim smile, “It’s not pleasant being left in the dark is it?”

It had been like this all day, Dove staying silent as they hashed it out. Well, moreso Layla ripped into Marc who simply laid there and took it willingly, knowing he had immorally screwed her over by disappearing into thin air. His feelings for her may have dwindled over the past year he had been away from his wife, but he at least owed it to her to suffer the consequences. It seemed to be all he was doing now, taking on the repercussions of his actions, ever since she lay dying in his bloodied hands begging for Steven to save her.

She tuned them out, much too occupied by her own dilemma; the water. The tiniest movement of the boat, the slightest of rock in the waves, had her twitching to grab his arm out of nerves, settling on gripping the wooden seat beneath her instead. Her leg jumped, eyes darting to where the moonlight reflected off the dark ripples under them, visualising how it would feel if she were to go tipping off the edge, head plunging under the surface, sinking, thrashing, succumbing.

“Would you please just cut that out?” Layla snapped, and Dove’s head whirled from checking over her shoulder to meet the woman’s fired gaze. It had been all of four hours and whatever civility the two had the evening with Harrow’s men was gone. Following her orders, Dove forced her leg to relax, picking at her thumbnail almost instantly only to have Layla roll her eyes, “For fuck sake,” She cussed in Arabic, “Is something the matter?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” She responded, releasing her fingernail despite the itching feeling to pick at it once more, “It’s just the uh, water’s a bit choppy,”

Layla nearly glared at her, “Well, we were a little short on time, princess. This was the only option we had,”

“No-no not like that, it’s fine, this is perfect,” She stopped, feeling her face heat in embarrassment as the woman seemed only more annoyed at her skittishness. Plastering a smile that was clearly tinted with a veil of fear, whether it was of the woman who looked like she could wring her neck or the water itself she wasn’t so sure anymore, “This is fine. I’m fine,”

“Are you fine?” Layla asked, annoyance leaking in her tone though Marc, who had known the woman the best part of five years, heard the amusement behind it.

“Yep, I’m fine,” She nodded, clutching for dear life onto the seat. Flashing the pair an unconvincing smile, she stilled herself, waiting for them to continue their quarrel.

“So this Mogart guy, he’s really gonna have the sarcophagus?” Marc asked, wishing he could grab her shredded fingers in his, if only to comfort her in the slightest. He caught the way they twitched even after her scolding, how her eyes flicked every time water licked up the side of the wood.

“Yes, I asked around,” Layla said, relaxing against the side, her chocolate ringlets kissing her cheeks tenderly. “Mogart’s collection is prime gossip for those of us who deal in antiquities,”

“So like Indiana Jones?” Dove asked, the naivety in her eyes brightening as she looked to Layla for approval. The woman held back the scoff from passing her lips, knowing she was trying her best to win her over, and couldn’t help but stop herself from rebuking the otherwise dumb statement.

Layla was more like Marc than she gave herself credit for, burying kindness in a cold expression.

“Abit like that, yes,” Layla murmured, tugging her hair up into a low ponytail to keep it out of her face, better yet to busy herself from the guilt of snapping at the innocent girl.

The girl who had no clue how Marc looked at her, the way Layla caught onto immediately. She’d thought maybe it was just Steven besotted with her, but it took one glance at the man she knew like the back of her hand to see straight through whatever bullshit front he put up against her. And it wasn’t like he’d acted on it either, it was always whenever she wasn’t looking, always secret, always hidden.

It was what Marc did best, Layla thought bitterly. Hide his feelings when it mattered most.

The sour taste in her mouth hadn’t come from an open wound, no. Their relationship had since scarred over, healed, bled dry for Layla El-Faouly. It was the doe like girl that he strung behind him, that got entangled in the mess he left behind in his wake that angered her. It was the way she couldn’t help care for the girl and what would come of her when hurricane Marc blew over her, cattle flying, houses crumbling on his way the way he always did.

“Need one?” Layla held out a hair tie to the girl, her own hair messy from where she’d let it dry naturally. With no product, Marc’s fingers as a hairbrush and a need for a hair drier, it was obvious the girl had tried her best to fix it on the way, attempted to look her best for the evening.

Dove felt the lump grow in her throat.

“Sit still,” Grace hissed, running the wide toothed comb through her hair, her companion squished between her legs, squirming in pain.

“It feels like you’re trying to suck my brains through my hair follicles,” Dove murmured, face wincing in pain as the brush scraped its way through her locks once more.

“Brains? You’re giving yourself way too much credit there, baby,” Grace teased, only to receive a firm smack on her calf for the comment.

“Bitch,” She cursed back, her head being yanked back one final time by the honey haired girl and her damned brush, Dove grimacing and yelling “BITCH,”

“Quit your whining, now how do you want it?” Dove pouted, crossing her arms over her tummy, only to be toed in the ribs by Grace’s blossom pink socks, “Don’t take a stand of silence with me, how do you want it? Dutch braids?”

Dove nodded quietly, only for a rogue piece of hair to be tickled under her nostrils. Quickly realising the culprit being a small, pale hand holding the split ends and her an amused face leaning over her shoulder to see her reaction, she scrunched her nose batting away the hand with a growl, though she couldn’t help the way her mouth tugged into a giggle.

“Grow up, will you?” The girl scolded through a laugh, her head resting back onto Grace’s lap, eyes closing in bliss as the girl ran her fingers over her scalp, parting the hair into two sections.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Grace mused, giving her nose a quick peck as she split the right side of her tresses off with a claw clip, “You’re gonna be the prettiest princess by the time I’m done,”

—

“Thanks,” Dove replied forlornly, Layla’s skin burning as the woman dropped the tie into her palm. She was never good at braiding her own hair, it was always Grace who liked to do it for her. Anything fancier than her normal, low maintenance styles and she’d go to a cheap stylist. She’d loved doing Billie’s hair too, but for whatever reason her sore fingers had no perception awareness when they were behind her own head.

Settling for a low bun, she rubbed her hands on her thighs to calm her nerves, not missing the way the two of them seemed to watch her meticulously.

“What?” She asked, looking between them with the same nervous smile as before, “I’m fine,”

Layla huffed, shaking her head at the girl who looked between the two expectantly. She reminded her of a docile mouse searching for a cracker, fidgeting with her hands, so trusting yet meek, ready to be squished under Marc’s clumsy boot.

She couldn’t stand to watch this Greek tragedy anymore.

“Come on,” Layla hauled herself up, the movement rocking the boat the smallest amount, enough to make Dove latch onto Marc’s arm with wide eyes, “We’re almost there,”

The younger woman felt her face blaze with embarrassment, meeting her companions umber eyes that looked down at her with a cocktail of amusement and worry.

“You’re alright,” Marc whispered, Layla going to stand with the driver to confirm they were almost at Mogart’s. The two of them spoke calmly, the Arabic being foreign to Dove’s ears despite having spoken it clearly when Seth had control, though she noticed when Layla slipped him a few notes for his intel.

“I know, I’m just not a huge fan of boats,” She stopped, looking guiltily at the floor, “I didn’t mean to piss her off though, I just can’t stop thinking about what would happen if I fell in-”

“Then I’d be coming in right behind you and dragging you out,” Marc stopped her with a gentle hand atop her own, feeling her shake under his touch.

Her head whipped up to his, eyes staring up at him with the sugary glaze of trust in them, the same way she’d seen him the first night he’d met her. Perhaps that was why he felt so responsible, like she was his to take care of. While he’d loved Layla, loved her enough to marry her, loved her enough to let her go, she had always been fine on her own. She was independent, never let him forget it. The selfish part of him revelled in the way Dove needed him. Needed him of all people.

They shared a little smile between the two of them, heads shooting up as the boat stopped and the captain hopped off to dock the boat properly. Layla stepped up onto the planks, turning to hold her hand out to Dove who rose to her feet steadily.

“There we go, back on dry land, princess. You can put your big girl undies back on now,” Layla snarked, though Dove caught the way her almond eyes washed over the younger girl, checking she was okay, not too roughed around by the journey.

“I think I forgot to pack those,” Dove responded quickly, wiping her clammy palms on her tummy, looking around her at the estate. This was not what she’d pictured at all when Layla had said they were going to have to be stealthy. The place was filled with people chatting, enjoying themselves, as if they’d just docked in the middle of a party scene, interrupting the entertainment for the evening.

“This guy’s got a lot of friends,” Marc said cautiously, Dove feeling his presence at her back closer than her own shadow, as if he was watching over her shoulder for any signs of trouble despite only just showing up to the place.

“With a lot of guns,” Dove murmured, catching where the string lights glinted against the noir black of an assault rifle. Feeling her stomach churn with fear, she stuck herself in between the two of the more seasoned adventurers, not wanting to stray too far from their sides.

Layla shoved the bags with their own weapons under a step in the dock, avoiding where the waves lapped at the wood. Dove’s eyes trailed over the inky froth, the briny smell in the air still lingering around her nose, taking in the starry specks of Alexandria that reflected over the shore. She could almost appreciate it from here, on land, where there was no danger of sinking; that is until her eyes fell on the dinghy that lurked around the dock, three men aboard that stared her down with a predatory gaze.

She suddenly felt just as scrutinised now as she had in the pyramid.

“What is it?” Marc asked, sensing the way he body had stilled like a deer in headlights. He followed her line of sight to the men, his jaw feathering as he bit back a curse. “Harrow’s men keeping tabs?”

“Probably,” She replied, Layla watching the men with a cautionary gaze, her lush eyebrows turning down into a frown.

“Let’s go,” The woman said, tugging at Dove’s wrist gently to ward her away from the men’s smarmy smiles. The trios faces lit up with a warm glow under the lamp’s beams cutting through the night air, small stalls like a market flanking either side of the pasture they walked across. “Remember, your name is Rufino Estrada.”

“Right,” Marc said, the three of them taking off in between the partiers towards where the stately home, likely belonging to this Mogart guy, was. “And yours is-”

“Nadia Estrada. We just got back from our honeymoon in the Maldives,” Layla replied, her eyes wandering over the various stalls, intrigued as to what had brought the elated guests here. There was only little food, very few cups of alcohol like she’d expect from a party, so what were these people buying? “Figured we may as well use our old code names, save the confusion,”

Her eyes zeroed in on a fossilised tablet, an ancient painting etched into the slab. Relics. He was selling relics; ancient, irreplaceable pieces of history and he was just casually selling them out of his yard like they were friendship bracelets, or a pitcher of lemonade.

“You guys had code names, that’s so cool,” Dove piped up, leaning up on the tips of her toes to peek at the merchandise also. “What’s mine?”

Layla stayed quiet for a second, “Truthfully, I had only accounted for it being the two of us. I assumed Marc would have left you at home to keep you out of harm’s way,”

Dove’s energy wilted, slammed with the feeling of taking up too much space in their world of adventures, “Oh, okay,”

“I guess it just means you get to choose your own name and alibi, then,” Layla cut in, trying to save the moment. She’d never intended on causing the girl upset despite the short fuse she’d had with her the moment they’d met. If anything, she’d prefer her to be back in the hotel, not to make any moves on fixing her marriage but for her own peace of mind that the girl was safe. Seeing the interest spark in her eyes again as she peered at Layla, the woman pointed in a warning way at her, “But make it believable enough that you can lie on command,”

“Right, gotcha,” She replied, her eyes falling in front of her where they were heading towards, trailing after Layla’s assertive footsteps. “So what role will I be playing then? Your assistant? A distant relative?”

“No and no,” Marc protested with a wince, his stomach turning at the idea of pretending to be her cousin, no matter how fake it was, “You can just be our friend,”

“Friend that comes on our honeymoon? That’s not a friend, that’s a third,” Layla interjected, a doubtful look on her face as they neared the manor. From what she could see, Dove caught sight of a wide sand pit, spotlights lighting up the square as a dozen men on horseback circled one another in some kind of sport. Some of the partiers, not seemingly interested in buying the goods, walked over to spectate, surrounded by a lot of security guards donned in all black, matched only by the guns cradled readily in their arms.

Dove was already feeling the panic rising in her gut.

Steven’s voice blared clear in her head, yet another of one of his stories he loved to entertain her with when they had a long night of inventory ahead of them. Or on the underground, or even when he would walk her to her door and stay for a hot cuppa on the cold Winter evenings.

“Did your father tell you about Horus and Seth’s challenge for the throne?” She asked, turning to Layla and taking a shot in the dark at the woman who hated her guts.

She rolled her eyes, “Which one?”

“When Seth had killed Osiris and taken Isis and Nephthys as his wives and attempted to take the throne over Horus by claiming it was his blood right,” Dove explained under her breath as not to draw attention to them.

Layla was intrigued now, her eyes flicking to the woman, Marc doing the same with an identical lost expression.

“What’s your point?”

“Well, when Nephthys and Isis escaped Seth’s imprisonment together, Isis led rebellion against Seth by turning herself into a beautiful, young woman to trick Seth into admitting he was not the rightful king, outwitting him because he couldn’t hold himself back from some batting eyelashes and a pretty face,” She went on to say, looking between the pair. Marc seemed to catch on quickly, raising his hands in protest to cut her off.

“Absolutely no-”

“Perfect, that’s perfect. That’s just the distraction we need. He’d never believe I’d go for him right in front of my own husband, that’s brilliant,” Layla babbled, giving a supportive nudge to the young girl’s shoulder.

Marc just rolled his eyes in defeat, fists already clenched by his side as the women smiled between one another in pride.

“Did Horus win at least?” He asked, a semi sneer on his face at the idea of her making herself a pawn in their game of facades. Dove’s head shot up to meet his bitter gaze, feeling a twinge of guilt at the way she’d so readily put herself forward for the task of bait. But why? She was no more his than he was hers.

She tried to lie to herself and pretend the idea of him alluring a woman in front of her wouldn’t stab at her chest, just thinking how she’d almost jumped for Hathor’s throat when she’d so much as spoken to him. It wasn’t so strange, she had been smitten for Steven since the moment she’d met him, falling hard and fast for his gentle hands and even gentler words. It wasn’t far of a stretch to say some of it had transferred to Marc, even with his cloudy attitude and stormy expression that never seemed to weather.

It was probably the doppelganger effect and all that, she reasoned with herself. Probably just her idle brain confusing care with love, grasping at straws for any reason to be wanted.

She smirked at his question, shrugging her shoulders, “Well, supposedly, the Gods involved couldn’t come to a decision as to who the throne went to as both Seth and Horus were part of Osiris’s bloodline. So, in order to show superiority and a challenge of manhood, Horus, uh-”

Layla chortled, obviously having heard this story from her father.

“What? What did he do?” Marc asked with a huff, though he beat down the smile that threatened to tweak at his lips when he saw the two women chuckling together.

“The story goes that Seth, uh, ejaculated over Horus to show dominance, but Isis figured out his plan to make Horus seem unworthy for the throne, and sprinkled Horus’ semen over Seth’s garden so when he came to eat from the crops he was impregnated.” Dove said, her eyes turning away bashfully at the explicit nature of the story, though he heard her giggle on her final few words.

Marc’s jaw hung open in a mixture of disgust and horror, “That did not- Wow,” He spluttered, head shaking with disbelief, “Remind me never to take Horus’ throne,”

“Do you think Gods get morning sickness?” Layla asked, Dove smirking at her statement. Figuring since the god that trailed after her had remained so quiet after the meeting with the Ennead, she felt the opportunity too good to pass up to throw punches back at the one that had caused so much havoc.

“I can see it now, the horror that is the God of Chaos with swollen ankles and a midnight craving for pickles,” The younger of the trio snarked, and for the first time since she met the El-Faouly woman, she heard a real cackle of laughter out of her.

“He definitely got trapped wind and acne when he was carrying,” She added, making Dove crease into herself with suppressed giggles.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Marc tried to quell their hysterics, yet found himself joining in quietly, secretly, because he would never let her know how contagious her laugh was to him.

“Do you reckon his breasts got sensitive?” She asked, feeling Layla nudge her with a snigger.

Their little jokes all came barreling down around her as she felt a large, cold presence linger over her shoulder, swallowing the street light completely. Any and all laughter died in her throat within a hair's width of a second, her mouth going dry almost immediately when she realised just what was behind her.

Seth. Seth, the beast she was poking with a stick. Seth, who she would bend in any which way for were he to so much as snap his fingers, if even that. Seth, whose rage she could feel blowing out of him like steam out of a train flute as his snout breathed over her spine.

“You dare mock me, insolent mortal,” He growled, a clap of thunder running through her bones, shaking them beneath her flesh.

Marc grabbed her shoulder, attempting to pull her away from the creature, knowing her words had practically waved red at a charging bull. Turning to see the terrifying creature, leering just that bit closer, snarling just that bit louder, his breath pungent with wrath.

“I- We were- I didn’t mean-” Dove’s voice was small, childlike. A kid caught with their hand in the candy jar, caught smearing lipstick over the mirror. Tiny. Guilty. Punishable.

“You wish to behave as their little seductress that you so taunt me of bedding, then that is what you will become, mutt,” Seth snarled, his upper lip twisting to reveal his sharp canines that dripped with anger. He waved his staff, the hieroglyphs rippling with dark hum, singing with glee that they were being helpful to their master.

Before she could so much as gasp, so much as apologise, fall to her knees and beg him to see she was simply fooling with the woman she had been so deeply loathed by, she felt her clothes fall away into embers around her feet, the cold night air ravaging her skin despite the heat that rose to her chest.

What was left of the cloth robbed every single speck of her dignity; made her look like some prized mare, the same kind those men rode, the same kind she used to be. A body. A doll. A whore.

Her top half was nearly entirely exposed, save for a black wrap top that just about covered her tits, though they teased enough to turn heads nearly instantly as if they’d sounded an alarm of look at me, stare at me! Gawk all you like! I am nothing but whatever you see me as!

Her arms, neck and head was wrapped in spindling pieces of gold jewellery, the headdress, as she could have guessed, bowing down her brow and to her nose like a metallic pointed snout, only making her look more like Seth himself. Egotistical bastard.

The long, onyx skirt was the only part that gave her any sort of privacy, yet that didn’t help much since there were two enormous splits in the side, a slim gold chain resting over her curved hips, the material dragging over her crotch and buttocks. A single breeze could have her exposing herself, and she realised with a blazing face that the bastard had taken away her underwear in the process.

This was the first, last and only time she was going to make fun of the God of Chaos. Chaos indeed.

“SETH, Oh holy fuck-” She hissed, hands reaching to tuck the fabric inbetween her legs frantically, covering her breasts with the other.

“Woah, what did you do?” Layla asked, eyes wide as she scanned the girl’s, womanly, body from head to toe, “I thought he was the God of Chaos not God of Leia in Jabba’s palace-”

“Give me my clothes back, NOW,” She hissed, seething with a heat that could challenge the sun god Ra, “This is not funny, I will have you turned into fossils I swear-”

She heard a dark chuckle, malicious and vengeful as he was, and felt instantly a wave of stupidity had washed over her. Of course he would punish her, what a fool she was to think he wasn’t watching at all times. What an imbecile to have thought she would be able to live a single moment as a normal woman, a normal girl laughing with a friend, her mother always warned her of men and their damaged egos. She knew this lesson well enough. She knew this story. Why was she so stupid? So naive? Marc nor Steven would ever want such an ignorant girl, not when they had women as brilliant as Layla willing to marry them. Willing to re-marry them even.

She felt like a gullible child. Always falling into the wrong hands, into the snares laid out for her, a lame doe traipsing through a hunters meadow. Wandering down the garden path as a lamb led to slaughter.

The heat caught to her cheeks, burning her ears with embarrassment at her predicament.

“What the fuck do I do?” She spun to Marc’s eyes, though she seemed to catch his coffee gaze staring right at her. Flicking over her chest, flitting down to where the chain hugged her waist, her soft, supple waist he wanted to bury his fingertips in, and her thighs, her thighs-

His gaze snapped back to her after a second of weakness, seeing the fear waiting for him there slapping him out of his reverie. How disgusting he felt to have taken such a cheap look at her, art is supposed to be enjoyed not glanced at he chided himself, though the sick feeling in his stomach that she were such a divinity beneath her everyday wear, that she wasn’t just a pure soul but an angel woman outside as well.

She made every breath for him difficult.

“Huh?” He asked with a scratchy voice after a beat of silence. Blinking as if to drag himself from a daze, he looked away from her altogether to give her some privacy, though his chest never faltered from battering away at his ribcage, “I-”

“Bek,” Layla cut him off, and god he could have thanked her. Words seemed lost on him, stuck in a purgatory between enjoying the view and hating himself and everyone around him for besmirching her body with his worthless eyes.

A man had approached in the time it had taken for Marc to have his crisis; tall, broad, handsome the two strangers noticed quickly. Sticking out her hand for a friendly handshake, ‘Bek’ pulled the slender woman in gently, raising an eyebrow as he saw the woman to her right.

“Nadia, it’s been a while,” He said cooly, shaking her hand firmly, clasping her fingers in his familiarly in a way that told Dove they were friends. Not trusted enough to know their real identities but enough to not kill them on sight. It was what they had to work with, the younger woman told herself as she clasped her hands under her armpits to hide her exposed gooseflesh, “And who is this bewitching creature?”

Dove’s face tightened as his attention was entirely on her then. She saw it immediately, the lust in his eyes; the way they hooded with want, as if they saw through her whilst simultaneously seeing too much of her.

Just like those men, the horrid part of her brain whispered, Just like those who paid for you, just like those ones that would come in the night. The ones that used you, saw you as a thing to have, to conquer. Just like the one man who put you there.

If this was a dance she’d have to perform again, then that she would. She knew every step, every turn. She knew how to puppeteer these stupid men just as easily as Seth controlled her. Perhaps that was why they were such a clean match.

“Sandie,” She said coolly, a hint of a smile twitching at her lips. Enough to make him want more, enough to make him think he could be the one to give it to her. Men and their saviour complexes, “Me and Nadia are old friends,”

Holding out her hand for him to take, she tilted her head in discontent, watching as he took her own fingers as he had Layla’s, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles, a Cheshire cat grin on his face when she seemed to watch him boredly.

They liked it when she was mean to them. She wished they would just see a therapist instead of seeking her body as a deposit.

“Right this way,” His voice was smooth in the buzzing atmosphere, the lamps suddenly too bright, the chatter too loud as they neared the ring. “After Madripoor, I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about, and perhaps something new to add,” His satin timbre stuck deep in her skin as he peered over his shoulder, trailing his eyes down her exposed legs.

Taking Layla’s hand in his own, if only to keep up appearances while they were supposedly married, Marc and Layla were but a step behind where Dove took the lead, her false confidence surprisingly convincing for a woman usually so quiet.

“Excuse me one moment, Mr. Mogart will be with you shortly,” Bek said, leaving the trio at the edge of the huge sand pit, the riders slowing their mounts at the approach of the burly man entering their training ring.

Leaning against the rail, Marc and Layla stood either side of Dove, the three of them watching as one man dismounted to talk to Bek, his shirtless body toned and lightly sweaty from what Dove could tell in the spotlights surrounding the place.

From what the girl understood, they were playing some sort of fencing sport, something similar to jousting she supposed only with less charging and more arm strength. The long wooden poles in each of their arms smacked against one another loudly, a whip like crack echoing around the open space. The sand sprayed out under the horses hooves, flicking towards where they stood in amazed silence.

“So what? This joker just puts on El-Mermah games in his backyard for fun?” Marc snarked, glaring down at every single one of the vain motherfuckers that seemed to all leer in their direction once they caught a sight of her. Yet, he simply let it happen, let her run her mouth with the new attitude she’d assumed, her new alias not at all his anymore.

“No, he gets private lessons by the best in his backyard for fun,” Layla replied, her eyes trained on the man that Bek had approached, a fine silk robe being slipped on over his arms as if he were too delicate to do it himself despite the size of his hulking arm muscles.

“I would love to get me one of those bad boys,” The youngest woman blurted, looking around the enclosure at where the rest of the men, equally as toned and attractive slid off their saddles, strutting around in their glory alongside their well groomed geldings.

The ‘married couple’ flicked a look at her, both their eyebrows raised at her statement, shock evident by their slackened jaws.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, princess,” Layla commented, eyes scanning each of the men that seemed to be waking up to the godly woman watching them ride, “I’m sure you could get any man you wanted looking like that,”

“I meant the horses…” Dove trailed off, her voice a song of innocence, perhaps even more embarrassed.

Marc was warm inside then, the four words alone reminding him she was still the same girl with the change of clothes, with the added seduction. It was still the girl sweeter than a honey pot that had trapped him like a fly and had yet to let go.

The man Bek had garnered attention from looked over at the three of them, his easy smile spreading when he saw the familiar face accompanied by two new ones. He, ofcourse, was quick to note the bare flesh the woman to her right flashed, the intricate gold spidering over her skin like a lovers touch.

“Nadia. Come in,” The man, who Dove guessed was Mogart from the way the staff scurried around him obediently. He gestured them forward, his eyes flitting over Marc who looked about as cheerful as a headache. “Such a delight to see you.”

But he was barely looking at ‘Nadia’, his dark eyes venturing over from Marc’s tight lipped smile to Dove’s exposed collarbones, flicking over her soft stomach, down over the curves of her bare thighs, even her calves got his attention. He was enraptured, taking the bait easier than she would have ever thought.

“You too,” Layla responded, shooting a glance in Marc’s direction, only to see his brow twitching. Gods had she seen that expression many times, normally before he would have stormed out of the house after one of their fights or gone to sleep on the couch. He was close to losing it already.

“How have you been?” He asked, finally ripping his eyes away from where Dove batted her lashes up at him shyly, a slight smirk to her lips that teased as he couldn’t help but glance at her face once more. Men were all the same in every country, it seemed.

“Good. Thankyou for having us over on such short notice,” Layla thanked gently, her own expression somewhere between wary and polite.

“Oh, please. I hope you realise you need no excuse to drop by,” Mogart said with his playboy smile twitching, looking cheekily at Layla, “So who are your friends?”

Layla nodded, reaching out an arm to gesture to Marc, “This is my husband, Rufino."

The women felt him tense up, holding his arm out much too forcefully for a handshake, “Nice to meet you,” Marc said, though nothing in his tone was nice by any means. Dove would have elbowed him in the side hard had Mogart and his men been watching them closely.

Dove couldn’t lie, the man was attractive. Not nearly as easy on the eyes as Marc and Steven, but he was attractive in the rich, bad boy kind of way. His scruff of a beard was dark, yet brushed neatly, not a single hair looking out of place. His nose was broad, making his face all the more masculine, bringing her attention to his mysterious dark eyes.

“Pleasure,” The millionaire looked down at Marc through disinterest, barely acknowledging his outstretched arm until he had taken a long look at ‘Rufino’. Seeming to brush Marc away almost instantly after they had shared a stiff handshake, he turned his mesmerising eyes back to Dove who leaned into his gaze, “And who is this?”

“Sandie,” She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling under the spotlights, holding out a jewelled hand for him to take. As predictable as they come, Mogart took her fingers gently and kissed them, just as Bek had, just as any other man being stared at with such allurance would want to, “Do you not get scared playing those games without a helmet on?”

The purity was clear in her voice, and it had Mogart’s eyes latching onto her mouth that seemed to call to him like a siren song.

“You are too sweet,” He said, yet to let go of her fingertips as she stepped towards him, his chiselled body turning to lead the trio towards his private collection, “You see, these horses are some of the finest Arabian thoroughbreds, mine has yet to throw me even once-”

The two of them took the lead, Dove making sure her shoulder brushed against his just enough for him to understand she wanted to invade his space, let him see her as closely as possible. She looked at him with the right amount of naivety, the rest seduction. Tilted her body towards his so he could see the way her hips curved, her breasts rounded.

“She’s good,” Layla whispered to Marc, seeing Anton’s face take her in for her entirety. It was as though she had him under a spell, even she as a woman mostly interested in men couldn’t help but appreciate the way the shadowy night seemed to preen under her glow. She wondered if it was Seth’s doing, yet he didn’t seem the type to deploy love potions. “I see why you like her,”

Marc’s chest froze. In the midst of glaring down the man’s hand that lingered at her lower back, guiding her towards his mansion of a house, he had barely even registered that Layla had been speaking until he’d heard that.

“I don’t- What the hell are you talking about, I can barely stand her,” He snapped, Layla’s short snort making his ears turn red. “I’m only keeping her around because she’d important to Steven,”

“Riiiight, for Steven’s sake, yep?” She drawled, the knowing look in her eye at how he squirmed under her gaze, “You know, we weren’t strangers once. I know what that look means,”

“What look?” Marc glanced back at his ex-wife, his eyes softening with the familiarity he found in her. He had loved her, he had loved her at one point with everything he’d had. But with her it was like trying to make two puzzle pieces go together when they were from opposite ends of the picture. They just wouldn’t fit. He’d loved her, she’d love him, but not enough to show her all of him; show her the full artwork.

She grinned at him smugly, reaching out to grab his hand as if to keep up the pretence they were still married, “Try not to ruin this one, will you? I’m starting to tolerate her,”

Marc scoffed to himself, “No, you like her. You just don’t want her to see past your big, cold independent badass thing you’ve got going on,”

“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, Spector,” She nudged him, her eyes trailing back to where the girl now had Anton pointing out his horses by name, hanging onto his every word as if she gave a shit. Then again, Layla didn’t doubt she was planning on talking the wealthy man into giving her one at this rate. Sighing, she leaned away from Marc, looking at the outfit that showed her off just as well as one of his livestock. “Just promise me something?”

Marc looked at her troubled expression but said nothing. He had learnt from Khonshu quickly not to promise anything before he knew what he was getting himself into.

“Get her away from Seth as soon as this is over,” Layla pleaded, quickly seeing the guilt that washed over his face as she’d said it, “Now he has a body weak enough for him to control at his whim, he won’t want to let go so quickly. Who knows what he would make her do? She’s not cut out for this life, Marc,”

How would you know, you’ve barely said two normal words to her, Marc wanted to snap, You don’t know her, she is so much stronger than I ever gave her credit for, she could do anything if you just gave her a chance.

But he knew that was selfish. He knew that was his own mind wanting to keep her needing him, the twisted part of him that craved to be needed wanted her for as long as he could. Yes he kept her safe for Steven, for her own sake, but the bitter part of him that hated the world loved every second of the euphoria that came with her desperation for him. He craved that high like the hardest drug off the Madripoor market, like he had forgotten what living and not just surviving this awful life felt like until that day she’d brought him the dead bird. She was good, she was the best thing he’d ever seen in his miserable life. She was a beacon in his dark mind.

But Layla was right, she wasn’t cut out for his life. She didn’t deserve a wretched man like him, she deserved Steven. He couldn’t get too attached, he knew he’d have to leave her as soon as they’d figured out how to get rid of Khonshu and Seth from their lives.

Maybe that's why he pushed Layla away with a bitter frown, dropping her hand. Sometimes the truth pill hurts to swallow, and Layla had just served him up an overdose.

“I hope you understand this is more than a collection to me,” Anton said, peeking over his shoulder at the couple that seemed to be all eyes on the younger woman. “Preserving history is a responsibility I take very seriously,”

“That’s a lot of responsibility for one man, surely you must get lonely,” ‘Sandie’ dared a sweet smile at the man who was on her like a moth to a street lamp.

He gave her a boyish smirk back, but she could still tell he held his walls high, kept his cards close after seeing Marc’s gloomy attitude. Trust it to be the masculinity competition the two had going on to ruin her bait.

“I prefer to see it as a philanthropic effort at preservation.” He replied, leading the way to a quieter courtyard where a few of the larger items seemed to be held under glass mimics of the pyramids, not a single fingerprint or speck of dust on the clear surfaces. The first one held what seemed to be a collection of effigies of the gods, similar to the one she had been thrown into that night at the museum only much smaller, most likely found in temples or the homes of wealthy members of Ancient Egyptian society.

Yet Anton led them to a halt outside the second one, opposite the statues, where thin pillars held up a collection of golden masks she recognised from Dylan’s tours as funerary masks, used to preserve the dignity of the deceased. They circled an even wider stand in the middle, a sarcophagus propped wide open for viewing pleasure in the centre, highly detailed from what she could see under the beaming lamps being stood so far away.

“Now, if I may ask, why such an interest in Senfu in particular?” Mogart questioned and the trio felt the air tighten around them, the silent accusation lingering close. Anton’s face was not amused, interested in the woman to his right as he may be, he was still smart and kept his wits about anyone attempting to pull wool over his dark eyes. Dove opened her mouth to pipe up with an entirely innocent excuse, something along the lines of Layla had told her all about Medjay and their burial practices and wanted to see what the fuss was about. But before she had so much as began her fabricated tale, Mogart flashed her a dimmed smile and held up his hand, “I’m sorry, I’d like to hear from the husband if you don’t mind, sweetling,”

Dove felt her breath hitch, covering it with a pleasant nod, turning to watch Marc meticulously, the pressing look of ‘don’t fuck this up’ in her eyes.

Marc seemed to get stuck on his words for just a second too long as he looked between Anton's unimpressed glare and Dove’s masked panic, feeling his mouth go dry as he had not prepared himself for improv.

Laughing humorlessly through his nose, he turned to look past the group and at the sarcophagus, gesturing with his open hand to fill time, “I think that- But I just think that we’d love to take a look,” He choked out, and a deadly silence befell the group.

That was perhaps the least convincing lie Dove had ever heard. They were so fucked.

Layla and Marc seemed to jump as she let out a loud laugh, her hand coming to clap on the man’s shoulder. “Ah, Rufino, you’re so funny,” She said, squeezing his muscles, turning to him with a bright grin. Shaking her head ditsily, she looked to Layla as if to warn her to play along before returning to Anton’s suspicious look, “This was all my idea. Nadia and Rufino were kind enough to let me crash their holiday so I could see some artefacts- a silly hobby of mine I rarely indulge in. They spoil me too much, I think,” She giggled, turning towards the glass pyramid with a hopeful look on her younger face, “You won’t mind if they look first?”

Anton seemed to bite his cheek, calculating the girl’s motives, yet even Layla would admit the words were smooth, believable. Had she not known the actual plan herself, she’d think she was crashing a couples post honeymoon glow with her mollycoddled, airhead act.

“By all means,” Mogart seemed in slightly better terms, though still slightly bitter as Layla and Marc headed straight towards the casket with a slight flash of relief on their faces. “So, sweetling, what is it about our history that intrigues you so?”

She leaned in towards him, her face smoothing out into young innocence, watching his reaction carefully. This job was like a mechanic tuning an old car, watching for every tiny movement in their body, waiting for that hum of enamourance where she knew she had them wrapped around her finger.

Men were the same in every country, in every part of history, in every facet of life. Every one of them except Steven. And Marc, she’d now realised.

“I don’t know,” She said, playing with her rings absently, head cocked like a placid dog waiting for a pet, “Perhaps I like the idea that people one day could be holding my things up in museums or paying hundreds to see what my life looked like. I like the idea that they were all once the same as me, you know? All just humans doing human things,” She hadn’t meant to be so honest, had never expected to speak from her heart, but her airy voice seemed to conceal her raw emotion well enough. Mogart seemed to warm under her answer, no doubt finding her cute, a little woman with a little brain having such big thoughts about life.

She knew Steven would have taken her answer as gospel.

“So about these Arabian Thoroughbreds, how much would one of those set a sweet girl back?” She asked, trailing her golden fingertips over his shoulder when Anton’s eyes cut over her shoulder, straightening a touch when he saw Layla there. She met the woman’s eyes, trying not to seem so thrown off by her appearance, her interruption in the plan.

“Rufino would like to show you something before we consider making any purchases,” Layla said, the push in her voice for her to not ask questions and to just head inside the pyramid telling her everything she needed. Their plan was not going so smoothly after all.

“Ofcourse,” Dove smiled back, beaming at Anton with a cheeky glint in her eyes. “I’ll be just a moment,” She promised, watching his eyes dilate as she ran her finger down his arm. Take the bait, take the bait and don’t ask questions.

“Don’t take too long,” He replied, meeting her eyes over her shoulder as she slinked into the glass structure, feeling his eyes dropping over her hips, over her bare thighs.

She entered the faux tomb, feeling hot under the blazing sets of eyes on her back as she came to a stop at Marc’s side.

“I’m starting to think I would make a great super-spy,” She whispered, leaning into him to keep up the pretence of two old friends on a relaxing holiday, “Maybe I should be Bond and you can be the sexy femme fatale I can save,”

Marc rolled his eyes, frowning and nudging her back, “Concentrate. These guys won’t hesitate to drop you no matter how pretty you look, princess,” It was a sneer, it was a bark of an order for her to quit messing around, that their lives were very much on the line here, and yet she couldn’t help look at him bashfully for his choice of words. He caught the girlish grin and the slight softness in her eyes, realising what he’d said to make her so coy. Fighting the heat that threatened to meet the apples of his cheeks, he turned away from her, staring hard down at the scrawl of writing inscribed in the stone, “Just read the damn sarcophagus, would you? Layla couldn’t get anything from it,”

Fighting the urge to snicker, she scanned over the funerary rites, her mind unravelling the translations she’d spent three years studying.

“It’s Hieratics,” She whispered, skimming the cursive writing, “Different to Hieroglyphics, it's known as the priestly script, the kind usually found on respected members of royalty, their blessings to carry them to the afterlife.” Marc gawked at her, the words sounding gibberish to him despite Layla drilling this stuff into him for years. He was sure if it were Steven in his place he would have been teetering on an orgasm by now, seeing her brows furrowed in concentration as she spurted knowledge about the writing styles. Taking a moment to skim the texts, the words became tales and spells, guidance for the deceased, wishes of good health in his next journey. But nothing about Ammit or his allegiance to her. Her brows furrowed as she flickered over the symbols, wondering if there was anything she was missing.

“What? What does it say?” Marc asked, chancing a glance over his shoulder to where Anton and Layla seemed to be watching them with hawk eyes now, though his ex-wife looked more nervous than anything.

“It speaks of how to cross through the gates at the Hall of Double Justice once you get to the other side of the Duat. It warns him of traps the gods may have set up; nets that will swallow him whole.” She leaning a little closer, some of the lettering worn away by its age, “There’s spells for repelling apshai-beetles-”

“Huh?”

“Apshai was the God of insects, said to be able to summon a horde of them that could block out the sun and devour men,” She brushed him off, searching further in the coffin for anything else, “It speaks of how to deflect them in the duat- all I’m seeing is how to guide the dead, no location indicated anywhere.”

She huffed leaning away from the relic with a defeated look on her face, giving the whole thing another read over.

“That’s because the information needs to be unlocked,” Marc’s head whipped up to the ceiling, where his reflection glared clearly back at him in front of the night sky. “It’s coded,”

Marc sighed, grabbing the girl’s attention. “What is it?” She asked, her eyes wide, worried their plan was entirely fucked.

“It’s Steven,” He said grumpily, watching her eyes light up in hope.

“Does he know the answer? Just let me talk to him, I’m sure we could figure it out,” She interrupted, flashing a quick and casual smile to Anton who had seemed to tense up at their rushed whispering, despite the fact her stomach was in knots.

“No, he’s not ready for- He said it’s coded, it needs to be deciphered,” He murmured back, watching her face smooth out into realisation.

“Ofcourse, priests did this all the time. Grave robbing was so common they had to hide their valuables, or in this case their information,” Dove smiled up at him, the accomplishment clear on her face, “So? Let Steven out, he’s great at puzzles and stuff like this-”

“Absolutely not, he won’t last two seconds if this starts getting ugly,” Marc snapped, gesturing to the sarcophagus despite the way her face fell, “Can’t you just do it? You guys solve stuff like this for fun,”

It was true, another of their weekly routines to pull out a board game of some sort and have a crack at it together. Or race to see who could put together a jigsaw the fastest. Ofcourse, they always wrote each other new rules for the games in other languages to add to the fun, she’d once thrown him completely off by writing out her best sanskrit. He’d been lost the entire hour. Yet even when they’d done an escape room together, Steven had been ten steps ahead of her at all times while she just stared after him, finding his intelligence dreamy.

“Yeah, and he almost always wins because he’s like the cleverest person I know,” She cut back, frowning at his stubbornness, “And incase you hadn’t noticed, Marc, this is an ancient encrypted casket not fucking UNO,”

Steven snorted, the sound only pissing Marc off even more as his gaze snapped to the ceiling, confronting his alter head on.

“Do you want a blood bath? Do you want her hurt? Because that’s the way it’s heading if you don’t start talking,” Marc cursed bitterly, throwing his hands out to the woman who glared at the sarcophagus like it owed her money. Soft eyes flicking to where Marc’s forehead creased, the worry was evident behind his mask of anger. He wasn’t worried about Harrow right now, or about the tomb, he was worried about her.

“Alright, have it your way,” Steven conceded, his own brown hues dropping to watch her from his place in the glass, a sad longing on his reflected face, “But this isn’t for you, I hope you know that,”

“Loud and clear,” Marc nodded, callused hands resting over the remains that sat inside the coffin, “Alright, what do I do?

“Check the cartonage,” Steven instructed, “Now, take that first piece and fold it over the middle piece,”

“This one?” Marc pointed to the smaller piece of fabric on the right, Dove’s eyes watching his military smooth expression carefully.

“Yes, that one,” Steven replied, exasperated as Marc did what he said. Dove followed his movements, the pattern quickly forming in front of them. Jumping at the chance to help, she grabbed the middle piece of the map folding it in half in order to create the correct shape, handing it to Marc so he could tuck it into place-

“Hey, what are you doing?” A hand grabbed Dove’s shoulder, yanking her away from the sarcophagus with a gasp, her own fingers reactively reaching to grab onto Marc. For Marc it was like clockwork, him snatching the gun from Bek’s hands, him taking a step in front of Dove, her hands gripping the tail of his jacket tightly, peaking over his shoulder with guilty eyes.

“Marc!” The pair of them turned their attention to Layla, her hands raised in surrender, two of Anton’s men pointing pistols at her closely. Even if they were to miraculously get one of them away from the El-Faouly woman, the second would pull the trigger without thinking, “Don’t,”

They were caught.

A breath passed between the trio, defeat written in bold ink on the two women’s faces, before Marc’s nose scrunched in annoyance. “Shit!”

He shoved the gun back at Bek, who grabbed it before they had any chance to get out of his grasp, his lip curling into a sneer at the pair in front of him, the barrel of his weapon staring straight at them. His flirty nature was long gone as he glared at the woman who wished for the ground to swallow them up.

Anton stepped past his guards, entering the glass room with a grave look on his handsome face, dark eyes looking between Marc and the woman that shadowed him, afraid to move so much as an inch were she to get Marc or Layla hurt.

“Do you really think I’m an idiot?” Anton scoffed, Marc’s jaw flickered with tension as he watched Anton’s eyes slide past him to the woman who looked back at him meekly, “And you? I won’t deny I would have enjoyed a night spent with you, sweetling. But you have been a sly creature,”

He reached out to pinch her chin gently, eyes roaming her lips that parted with a held breath, Marc tensing at her side. He envisioned himself breaking every one of the man’s fingers, of blinding him for daring to look at her so longingly, so perversely, as if seeing her was an enrichment he wanted to keep all to himself.

Then, as if to dial Marc’s already hot temper to a thousand, Anton smirked at her.

“Ofcourse, you could always just tell me what it was your little friends wanted, and I can let the three of you go unharmed?” He proposed, his umber gaze meeting hers with a flick of fervour, “For an added expense, of course,”

“You piece of-” Marc began, the heat of Ra in his glare, his veins running hot under his sepia skin. She cut him off, without a second of hesitation, without so much as a glance at him or his ex-wife.

“Anything,” She practically heard Layla’s laboured breath, the way every heart in the room seemed to stop at her word. Anton’s grin grew on his boyish face, this brows raising in surprise, “You let them both go, and you can have anything you want,”

Marc’s jaw slackened as he looked at her incredulously. What was she doing? How could she throw herself to the wolves like that?

“And if I wanted you? If I wanted to keep you?” Anton asked, his white teeth a glint behind his full lips that seemed to purse at the sight of her. She nodded, ignoring the feeling of Marc’s vicious glare burning a crater in the side of her skull. How could she do this to Steven, how could she stoop so low?

If they got out of here alive, if she got Layla out safe, she would go as low as it took. Layla who hated her, Layla who wished her hung, drawn and quartered, Layla who was human and had no god to save her, to repair her wounds.

“Anything,” She confirmed, a distant look glazing over her eyes as she signed her name on the invisible dotted line, threw herself in with the dogs once more.

Just as Anton’s grin was about to spread just that bit wider, victory ringing clear in his chocolate gaze that swept over her fact. He’d always had an eye for the valuable things in life, and he felt as if he’d just hit the jackpot. Bek leaned in towards his boss, speaking in hushed tones that even Dove struggled to hear until she realised it was because he was speaking French.

Anton’s head whipped towards his manor, where three figures stalked forward towards them, the armed men nudging the trio to exit the glass sculpture and follow the millionaire to meet the newcomers.

But Dove already had a pit in her stomach that told her exactly who it was waiting for them.

“It appears we have a concerned third party here,” The handsome man said, traipsing over to where Harrow and two of his followers approached, not batting a single eyelash to the shit show they’d stumbled upon, his telltale walking stick thumping against the sand pathway.

She felt her blood simultaneously freeze and boil in her capillaries, terrified of just how well he seemed to know her as if he understood anything about the things she’d seen, the things that had led her to here, yet angered from it all the same. Of what he’d called her the last time they’d met. Of how he’d spoken about Marc.

This time there were no gods to save his throat if she were to rip it out.

“Whatever they’ve proposed, I’m sure I can offer you something much more tangible,” Harrow declared, unveiling his hand from his pocket to show off the scarab. The scarab they had lost, the same one that seemed to levitate in the palm of his weathered hand and point in the direction of the tomb. A compass, a navigator, she realised, “Why settle for anything less when you could have a god's share of treasure?” The little bug hummed in his hands, its golden wings glinting in the moonlight.

“Anton, don’t listen to this man, he’s trying to stop us-” Layla started, her hands waving between surrender and gesturing wildly, watching Anton become enamoured with a new valuable, something better than a woman for the night.

“Please, stop,” Anton brushed her off, scowling at her with disinterest.

“She’s telling the truth. He’s planning to kill millions, trust me,” Dove jumped in, her eyes avoiding Harrow’s all knowing gaze, the wealthy man’s frown diverting to her.

“Are the two of you seriously talking about trust?” Anton snapped, his eyes finding their way back to the solid gold figure Harrow held out to him with the promise of more. If there was one thing men wanted more than women, Dove had learned quickly, learned the hard way, it was money.

“Anything! I told you I’d give you anything, get you anything if you just listen to us, please Anton,” Dove begged, feeling the but of the gun pressing into her skull as she took a step towards him. Tossing her a look over his shoulder, Anton seemed to boredly take her in, as if his reverie of having her to himself had worn off, the promise of more wealth than he could dream of, an inheritance for a goddess herself, outweighing any sort of sexual or physical favour she could give him. “He’s planning to slaughter children,”

“Please, there’s no need to descend into violent accusations,” Harrow started, his calm voice only making her seem all the more hysterical as she finally braved a look at him. Just as she suspected, his cold blue hues were already staring through her body in amusement, as if her worry and wildness was all but a game to him. A tally on his leaderboard. Harrow: 2 - Dove: Nil. “Each one of you has so much more in common than you know,”

His gaze shifted to the woman next to her, his eyes filling with false pity, the smirk on his lips telling her otherwise, “Layla, you keep thinking that distance will prevent the wounds from your father’s murder from reopening, but something stands in your way. You know that Marc never told you the truth, you know he hid things from you, maybe that’s why you can’t bring yourself to love him anymore, because he could never be honest,”

Tears glinted in the woman’s lash line as she looked at Marc, every word of his conviction true. She could never love Marc as she had once, never love him anything past nostalgia, an old memory she was learning to shake. But she’d had her suspicions, that he knew more about what had happened to her father than he’d told her, she saw it in the way he tensed every time she brought Abdallah up, he was a worse liar than he thought, or perhaps she had just known him that well.

“And Marc, you never told her because you knew that if you did, she’d see you exactly as you see yourself, as unworthy of the love she could have given you,” Marc’s glare could have melted Harrow to the bone as the older man approached, the glass in his shoes clinking wetly with his every footstep, seeming to enjoy this game of cat and mice he had with the trio already at odds with one another. It was like he was setting a fox into the hen house just to see them scramble.

“You piece of shit,” Marc hissed, his lip curled in anger as Harrow set his gaze slowly back to where Dove stood frozen in place, all too aware of how much he knew, of what he’d seen in her.

“Which brings us to the little pup,” He smiled, a chill running over her spine the moment it grew on his features, a lump balling in her throat, “She cowers in guilt every waking moment knowing if the two of you, if Steven heavens forbid, saw the real her, if you knew what she’d done before she was the meek little bird that worked at a gift shop, you’d be truly horrified. Dare I say, you’d hate her,”

She felt their eyes on her in an instant. Yet she couldn’t drag her horrified stare away from Harrow, who only watched her victoriously. She felt her legs shaking under her weight, weak and numbed from his revelation. There would be questions, there would be answers she couldn’t give. People she only ever visited in her sleep, others she ran from every second of the day.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” She croaked, her face tightening with the lump in her throat, eyes hot, lip trembling. Harrow just scoffed.

“Don’t I?” He leered closer to her, slipping the scarab back into his pocket, “Why don’t you tell your new beau what you did to the last man who had you?” He gestured to Anton who seemed to look her up and down, not with lust anymore. No, with caution. Wariness. Worry. He was scared of her. Disgusted. Her eyes chanced a glance at Marc and Layla who looked equally as perplexed, watching for her reaction. They couldn’t see, they weren’t allowed to see. They saw too much, saw right through her. They would hate her, they would leave her for dead.

She’d have to tell them what she’d done to him, to the man who’d put her there. How she’d made him pay for what he’d done to Grace, for taking her away from her family. How he was unrecognisable by the time she was finished with him.

She was back in that room, the window empty, the curtains shut. Grace was… she couldn’t even stomach the thought of it. Of her lying in that room alone, choking on air because of the white pills he’d given her as a reward, as if they were in need of a reward for their good behaviour. In need of anything to satiate them, keep them quiet long enough he would be able to keep them just a little longer.

She wished she’d never taken his number that first night, wished she’d stayed balancing her three jobs to make rent money instead of running after him ‘down the yellow brick road’ as he’d said. She had been in love at first, then she had been scared, terrified when she realised the monsters that lay in wait for her chomping at the bit, empty when she found out Grace had…

But now, now all she felt was anger.

The letters, the damn letters she asked Oz to send to her brothers, the ones where she poured her heart out with apologies, ‘I love you’s and ‘I want to come home’. The ones where she sent the money back to them, the money she’d earned, the whole reason she’d left them, went with Oz on blind faith, the money she stuck around for knowing she was keeping them afloat back home. The same damn letters she’d found stuffed into a duffel bag at the bottom of his wardrobe.

She had been looking for Grace’s things, he’d had her room cleaned by his men who seemed to know exactly what they were doing when moving a body out. She’d wanted just her cardigan, the lilac ones that made Grace’s eyes look like a bed of bluebells, that brought out the buttermilk tones of her blonde hair. She’d missed her more than usual this week.

Yet all she found was the letters, each one addressed to her brothers, money still inside the envelopes, never sent, never opened like he’d promised.

She was angrier than she even knew was possible to feel.

The past two years had meant nothing. She had let those men, those bastards do whatever they liked to her. Had crawled into Grace’s arms when they’d left, when the nights were longer. Had been his dog, his mutt, his puppet for two years; left her brothers, left Billie, with no explanation hoping the letters and the money would be enough to see them through, enough to keep the house and have their bellies filled, their feet warm. She had watched Grace get drained just as she was, had cried every tear, laughed every laugh, danced every step with her just to see her wither under his cruel hand, just to see her take a bad cocktail of painkillers and see herself out of the savage life they lived.

Grace, her sweet saving grace, gone. And it was because of him.

She remembered him coming home, remembered hearing his footsteps beating against the wooden stairs, hearing the second one from the top that squeaked under anyone's weight. She’d learned quickly how to get around this house where no one could hear her the way a doe steers clear from a hunting ground. It was nature, survival of the fittest.

She heard him huff, scratch his thick black hair as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Oz, as known by his friends. Frank Osbourne, as known by his government. A dead man walking, as known by Dove.

He stepped into her room, the biggest bunch of flowers in his hands she’d ever seen. Red roses, cliche, the kind every man assumes his girlfriend wants. Oz plastered on a wide smile, too forced for her to appreciate, the coldness still in his eyes. She saw through his mask, his act. She saw how he seemed bored every second he pretended to care.

“Hey there, doll,” He leaned down to kiss her brow, shoving the roses into her lap as if he wanted rid of them already, “I got you these, you know just to cheer you up a bit after all this mess the past few weeks,”

“Mess?” She croaked, her dead eyes watching as he paced around her bed to open the curtains onto the night air. The abandoned hotel opposite had still yet to realise their Welcome sign was still blaring its neon red light after ten years of disuse. The ‘C’ and the final ‘E’ flickered every now and then, but other than that, the red poured into her dark room as if it were sat on her own bedside table.

Mess. As if Grace hadn’t been ripped from her arms whilst she screamed and wept and begged for her to stay. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone, you’re all I have left.

But now it was just the two of them.

Oz scoffed, her eyes following his figure that slumped on the bed, leaning down to undo his shoe laces. “Well, I was thinking,” He continued, “Since I let you have a few weeks off to pick yourself back up, I was thinking I could start taking you dancing again the way we did before? Find a new club? Get you another VIP lounge like at the Emerald so you could earn your keep,”

Before this house, when she’d met him. When he’d offered her a job as a barmaid. Given her his number on a little yellow slip, the red words “Follow the yellow brick road,” glittering back at her from his lapel pocket. True to his name, his club had been something out of a wonderland. The “Over the Rainbow” Gentleman’s club was tucked away below the streets of the town, away from prying eyes that would see through the glamour of the girls sold in red slippers. The VIP lounge, a room called The Emerald City, where the most expensive girls were expected to live up to their prices, where she’d served the parties alcohol, tidied when the girls were done, made sure they were all ready for their next show. That was how it had started.

Then his plans changed. Then he’d forced her into the ruby red heels, put her to work for him. Sold her to the highest bidder of the night. And worst of all, he’d convinced her it was a good idea, made her think it was all her own purpose.

She smiled emptily at him, reaching under the bed to grab the straps on the duffel bag. In one swift movement, she chucked the bag onto the duvet in front of him, the weight of her letters, her words that carried her every apology she’d uttered in the last two years, the weight of a girl missing home.

“Earn my keep?” She sneered, watching his handsome face stare down at the bag with a calculating coldness. “Why have you not sent these? That money was for my brothers- you said-”

“Now let’s not get hysterical, doll.” He held his hands up to stop her in her angered state, “I didn’t send those letters because I knew people would come after you. And I couldn’t risk losing my most prized possession because of some high school dropouts and that pill popping little brother of yours-”

That was when she had lost it. Her brothers had been through shit and back, and Mikey had picked up the same awful habit their mother had, but he was her brother. She would let him do what he liked with her, but she drew a line in the sand at her littlest boy.

Before she’d even known she had it in her, she’d thrown a fist at his face, hit him square across his cheekbone. Sammy always told her to aim for the nose or the chin, that boy was always getting into scraps, but she didn’t care. She felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she grunted with the effort.

“I would choose all of them a million times over if it meant being away from you,” She yelled, her breaths coming out in rattled gasps, “I don’t care about the money, I don’t care about you, everything I ever loved is gone and it’s because of you-”

She wished she’d been more prepared for the retaliation, but she still felt the vitriol wave of shock as his hand came across her face in a loud slapping sound.

“Because of you, my girl,” Oz spat, launching himself to grab her by her top, dragging her towards him as if she was a ragdoll, “I have only ever been good to you. You were nothing when I found you, remember?” She felt the tears brewing as his voice roared in her face, her brows furrowed in vicious anger, “Nothing, you were a street rat. You could barely afford to eat with that lot dog piling on you for your wages,”

“You say that like you’re any better, Oz,” She spat back. There was a single second where she saw the expressionless face turn, turn into something dark, something hateful.

It was all a blur from then, a harder hit striking her face, shoving her into the huge vanity mirror, her temple colliding with the glass. It smashed on its impact, shards spraying around her, littering her messy desk with tiny glints that looked like red stars in the light of the hotel sign.

She felt the dribble of blood from her hairline, the thickness of it rolling down her cheek like a cardinal honey, though the bitter metallic smell hit her faster than the pain. She was sure she was in shock, she felt numb to the prickling pain of the gash, though she doubted she’d ever feel anything deeper than the torment of knowing her life was gone. Knowing Grace was never coming back, that she could never go back home. It was gone, irreplaceably gone. No amount of rough hands or vile words could cut so deep as the aloneness she felt.

They stared at one another for a moment, her slumped over her desk, just about able to lean herself on her hands, meeting his abhorrent gaze in the mirror.

“I suggest you quit acting up, girl, or next time I won’t be so forgiving,” He spat, turning his back to her to begin unbuttoning his jacket, a huff passing his lips as if she had worn his patience thin, “Take of your clothes and make yourself useful, why don’t you?”

Her lip curled in anger, her reflection looking back at her as she tore her gaze away from his muscled back, ignoring the way he worked on unbuckling his belt, knowing what he wanted.

He wanted her to forget, to pretend as though she wasn’t torturing herself every moment of the day thinking about what she had lost. Looking at herself then in the mirror of the vanity, truly seeing what she’d become, the glass that seemed about as broken as her spirit distorting her view. It was no longer just Grace or her brothers or her job or her life that was gone. She had lost herself. She was not a person anymore but a shell, a phantom. A dead girl walking. She and Grace had always been two sides of the same coin.

She was nothing. He was right. She was nothing.

Her eyes were sunken, cold, dead. She wondered if it had been her who had overdosed in the next room with how ill she looked, smaller than normal. Weaker. Stony. Her skin was lifeless, her hair thinning. Her lips were dry, her eyes glassy. She looked like a corpse. A doll. A mannequin.

She was nothing.

She watched the blood trickle down to her jaw, tinier cuts from the glass shrapnel beginning to pucker and weep their own fresh redness, looking like crimson freckles.

She was nothing.

He lay back on the bed, his trousers slid down to his ankles to reveal a plain pair of grey boxers, his manhood barely concealed as he reached into her bedside cabinet and grabbed himself a cigarette and a lighter.

She was nothing.

“Well then?” He prompted, the white stick waggling between his pink lips as he spoke, “You gonna do as you’re told, my girl, or do you need another smack of the face to knock sense into ya’?”

And then she thought of every one of Grace’s laughs. She thought of the girl's heartbeat against her own whenever they hugged. She thought of the way she was so kind, so sweet on her. She thought of how Grace always had a way of fixing her bruises inside and out. She thought of every one of her freckles, how her eyes always seemed to be watching her with adoration. And then it was taking her brothers to school, the nights she stayed up with Joey to do homework, even though he was the smartest kid she’d ever known. It was Christmas, oh how she loved Christmas once, when they’d each scrimp to get each other something decent, it was the way her brothers pitched in to get her a bike she didn’t have the heart to tell them she couldn’t ride. It was the socks Mikey tried to knit her, that her pinky toe stuck out of on both sides. It was cooking them all breakfast before she went to work at her cleaning job, making sure not a child left her house on an empty stomach like she had when she was their age. It was her and Sammy dragging Dad in from the porch chair when he’d had one too many. It was Matty bringing home Billie the first time, the feeling of holding the tiniest little girl with the thickest hair. A child bringing her a child. It was dancing with the toddler in the kitchen, her soft feet stood on her own as she hummed Billy Joel’s Vienna. It was Mum and Dad when they were young and happy, when the boys had been small and Mum had been to rehab and seemed to stick to her promises for a few years at least. It was the day they went on their first and last family holiday, the day her and the boys had played on the beach until their little legs were sore and their tummies aching from laughing. The ice cream that stuck to their face, the salt that dried on their skin.

She was nothing anymore.

She was nothing but angry.

Vengeful.

She was a savage let loose.

Reaching over her desk, her dead eyes looking back at themselves, her fingers wrapped around a long shard of glass that had split off, toppling onto the wooden surface with a delicate clink, ignoring the way it cut into her own skin painfully.

She was nothing but chaos.

–

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