#these seven emphatically are not.

[rocksalt-and-pie]

you already know how bitter and disappointed I am about this and how I'm simultaneously mentally eating popcorn while scrolling through the sheer chaos and laughing in disbelief but the emphatic part of me that was their fan for like seven years can't help but feel a little bit bad for them (and ryan especially, very likely suffering an ongoing anxiety attack) because in their arrogance and hubris they clearly didn't expect this to ruin their careers that they've arguably worked for very hard but on the other hand, they've made their beds

[sungbeam]

𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬

nonidol!kang yeosang x f!reader

yeosang doesn't remember your name, but he remembers what kissing you tastes like and how you like your eggs in the morning. just your regular prince charming trying to find his cinderella, or in this case, his passenger princess..?

9.5k (lord.....), nc-17, s2l, frateez au, college au, mentions of alcohol, swearing, kissing, humor, fluff, minimal angst, another cinderella story au/trope(?), drama (i bring i bring all the drama-ma-ma-ma), a girl who is not a girl's girl :l, the barest of proofreading

a/n: this is for the @atzhouse you can't outrage us event! guys if the flirting is lackluster, it's cuz im running out of rizz

“I don't believe you.”—

The last place you expected to end up was in the front seat of some guy's white Lexus while the party raged on inside the ATZ fraternity house just down the street. According to him, he had to run out just before the crowd rolled in, and when he got back, somebody had snatched his parking spot. 

—“Okay, but why don't you believe me?”—

The car smelled not like fresh leather, but an enchanting mixture of something like pine and smoked wood. Bitter, yet somehow, refreshing. You bet, even as the alcohol was hitting you, that it was what he smelled like. 

His name was Yeosang—the guy sitting next to you in the driver's seat, the owner of this car, and the ATZ fraternity brother you bumped into at his house's own party. That had been just about twenty minutes ago when you'd ended up isolated from your pack of friends, and Yeosang had needed a desperate breather. It seemed he'd been running from someone (question mark), so you asked if he knew where the kitchen was. Eager to get away from whoever it was, he guided you straight to the kitchen and where the secret stash of flavored sojus were. 

An offhand comment about wishing you didn't have to miss this one drama episode dropping tonight led to a longer conversation about the dramas you both enjoyed, which somehow landed you in his passenger seat. 

The rest was history. Or—you supposed the rest was now. 

“Because,” Yeosang said in a tone that sounded a lot like he was saying 'duh’, “you don't look like a biology major.”

He was gorgeous, even if the lighting in the party and out here was jack shit. The way the shadows cut across his face made him look like a faerie torn straight out of one of your old sketchbooks. You were half certain he had pointed ears beneath the cat-eared beanie he wore, but maybe that was just the alcohol doing its thing. 

You sputtered out a laugh as he knocked back another gulp of his melon soju. He was more drunk than you were, maybe not by too much because that wouldn't have been fair, but it did take him seven tries to unlock his car seven minutes ago. “What's a bio major s'posed to look like?”

“Mmm…” he hummed, lips pressed together in a line that dug into his cheeks. “Not you.”

It only made you laugh harder. It wasn't even that funny. “That doesn't even make sense!”

“Does it have to make sense?” He squawked. His face shuddered for a moment as if he just experienced a glitch. “I forgot what I was gonna say, but it's the vibe.”

“The vibe,” you parroted in mild amusement. After you swallowed down your next gulp of soju, you gestured to him with the bottle, “Okay, now what about you? Your major, go.”

“I read shit.”

“Who doesn't?”

“Jared, 19,” he replied, dead serious. 

Equally serious, you asked with wide eyes, “Really?”

He gave you an emphatic nod back. Really. Now, if you were a little less tipsy, you wouldn't have taken what he said at face value, but tonight was already miles away from your regularly scheduled program. 

You pondered on that—the “I read shit,” not the misfortunes of one nineteen year old named Jared. “So if you read a lot of shit, does that make you a literature major? No, wait! I got it; you look like Comparative Lit.”

“Bingo,” he cheered, raising his bottle up into the air. “Wait. What do you mean I look like a comparative lit major? What does a comp lit major even look like?”

“I dunno, but it’s you.” 

He pursed his lips into a deadpan at your callback to what he'd said before, and you merely stuck your tongue out at him like the mature adult you were. “Touché, my friend. Touché…”

Silence passed between you two for the first time since you met each other. In the distance, you could hear the muffled sounds of the party raging on. It wasn't that you didn't go to parties often; it was more so that you usually went to house parties hosted by friends or friends-of-a-friend. Making it all the way to Greek Row was not something you did every weekend, but a mutual friend—Chungha—knew the ATZ president and got you and your friends in. 

Nearly finished with his third bottle (or was it his fourth?...), Yeosang knocked the remainder down his throat with a grimace. With the empty bottle, he set it at his feet on the car floor to join another—the cup holders were already occupied with yours and his second rounds. The first was abandoned on the frat house lawn somewhere. 

“I think—” he slurred, blinking slowly at you like a cat, “—that you look like an artist.”

“An artist?” You parroted dumbly and felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “And why would you say that? Vibes?”

“Well, yes!”

You sputtered out a laugh at the way he said that. “Then yes, I am an artist,” you said, emphasizing the latter half of the word so it sounded like “teest” and not “tist.”

Yeosang gave a hoot. “I'm so good at this. Does that—does that mean you can paint me like one of your French girls?” He pulled his lips into an adorable, little smile, the back of his hand poised beneath his chin as he fluttered his lashes. 

“I don't think I could do you justice,” you admitted. There was a rather annoying buzz at the back of your brain that was distracting you. With a shake of your head, you refocused your gaze on him. “You're too pretty.”

He preened at the compliment, unconsciously reaching up to adjust his beanie. “Like calls to like then.”

“What does that mean?” Your buzzed-out brain couldn't compute—

“It means that prettiness is attracted to prettiness, and I'm attracted to you.”

You whined, burying your face in your hands. Yeosang giggled to himself, incredibly proud at making you flustered, his knees curling upward to kick his feet in the cramped space. “I don't like you.”

“You don't?” 

“No,” you raised your head up with a displeased frown, only to see that his eyes seemed to be twinkling with unrestrained happiness and something else. You weren't in the right state to hyper-analyze the way he looked at you, but it made your heart skip more than just a beat. “It's not fair that you're a literature major.”

“But I'm drunk,” he said innocently. 

“That's even worse!”

He grinned boyishly at you, bashfully stretching his limbs and then cupping the back of his neck with a hand. “What if I told you I'm minoring in math?”

You deadpanned. “I don't think that makes me feel any better. You rule both the realms of words and numbers.”

“It doesn't mean I'm good at math,” he guffawed, leaning back in his seat. “It's only there 'cause my mom's a math teacher, and having a math minor makes my parents feel better.”

That sounded familiar… awfully familiar. The thought made you sober a bit, and it seemed your counterpart wasn't so wasted that he didn't notice the shift either.

“Uh oh,” he chuckled nervously, “what'd I say?”

You waved your hand around dismissively. “Oh, it's nothing. I'm kind of the opposite—my bio major is sort of to appease my parents and the fine art minor is for my sanity.”

He pressed his lips into a line, nodding in understanding. “Ah, I see,” he drawled. “So you don't… you're not happy? With what you're doing, I mean.”

Maybe it was the way he asked it, but it made the cogs in your head turn. You bit your lip. “I'm happy-ish. It's kind of a lot, but I'll survive.”

“'m sorry I upset you,” he pouted. “But,” he stammered, swallowing, “but I get it. My parents never wanna talk about my major anymore. Pretty sure they're just bitter and disappointed. I always feel like I’m walking on eggshells around them.” 

You could tell that it affected him more than he wanted to admit. You wordlessly passed him your half-drunk bottle, and he gladly took a generous sip. When it was back in your hands, you guzzled down the remainder. 

The buzz was getting better. 

“Well, if they're not proud of you, I am,” you declared, setting the empty bottle at your feet. Your eyes blinked slowly for a moment as you got your bearings again. Maybe… maybe you should stop drinking! Yes, that would be the smart thing to do. 

Yeosang hummed. “Thanks,” he said with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gazed over at you from his side of the car. “I'm proud of you, too. You'll be happy one day; it'll always turn out okay, Yn-ie.”

Something warm and fuzzy settled in your chest, like a cat had just curled up there, purring and content. 

A thought suddenly popped into your head. “Yeosang, how do you like your eggs?”

He snorted and burst into laughter, coaxing a similar expression out of you. A moment later, you were trying your best to pout at him, “Hey! Don't laugh! I hear it's all the rage on the pick-up line scene.”

“You're trying to pick me up?” He giggled. All memories of the previous topic flew out the car window.

“Well, is it working?”

He licked his lips around a smile, leaning over the center console to rest his cheek against his fist. “Ask me again.”

You took another sip of your soju before returning it to its cupholder. “Okay. Yeosang, how do you like your eggs in the morning?”

“However you'd like them.”

You deadpanned, and that only made him laugh louder. His head tilted back so you caught a glimpse of his canines, before he brought himself back down to Earth. His cheeks looked as flushed as you felt—even in the dim streetlight you could make out the blooms of peony pink across his cheekbones. “Yeo.”

He reached over to pat your head a couple times, though the sloppiness of his movements made it feel closer to two affectionate smacks. “Okay okay. Sorry. How about we say it at the same time?”

“Okay.” That wasn't a bad compromise. 

“Okay, one, two, three—”

“Sunny-side up,” you both said at once. 

Your eyes and his eyes widened at once, gasps of delight sounding into the quiet car. Could this guy be any more perfect?

“You're not bluffing?” You asked with narrowed eyes. 

Yeosang shook his head vigorously. “Mm-mm. I wouldn't lie to you, Yn-ie. Scout's honor,” he slurred, holding his hand up as if he was a boy scout. 

You giggled at the gesture, and he broke form to melt into an ooey gooey puddle of liquefied butterflies. For a moment, he just stared at you with a strange look on his face, one that you couldn't quite place when you were in this inebriated state. 

You chuckled, shifting your position when one leg started falling asleep. “What’s wr—?”

He leaned forward and—oh. Oh. Those were—his lips were on yours. He had leaned over the console and kissed you. He was kissing you. 

And when you didn't kiss him back, he drew backwards, an embarrassed expression painted over the adorable flush on his cheeks. “That—I shouldn't have done that, should I? I'm sorry; I dunno what I was—”

You crushed your mouth against his this time, effectively stealing the apology right off his tongue. He tasted like melon soju, and his touch was gentle as he brought his hand up to cup the side of your face, cradle your jaw. He was tracing the outline of your features in the dark like he could sketch them in the lines in his mind. 

He tasted like the color of amber, warm and bright, but not blindingly so. He was mellow and sweet, with the undertones of the burnt wood in his cologne. 

You melded your lips against his mouth like you could engrave him into you, and you were practically half over the middle console already. Yeosang's free hand fumbled backward to find the button on the side of his chair—there. The chair began moving backward with a monotonous brrr sound, and as it moved you couldn't quite keep your lips physically attached to his. 

You disconnected from him for what felt like an eternity in order to climb over—shoes knocking against empty soju bottles, ass nearly bumping the horn—and with some clumsy, awkward maneuvering, you were on him again, this time quite literally. You tumbled into his lap, his hands landing on either side of your waist and your hands bracing against the back of his chair.

He loosened a soft groan with the return of your lips to his, and he hauled you down closer to him, until your chests were pressed flush against one another and you couldn't tell which heartbeat was who's. His beanie fell off at some point, but your fingers buried themselves within the dark, silken mass of his hair, a hat in their own right. 

When you both pulled away for breath, your chests heaved in tandem to catch it. You settled your cheek against his shoulder while you inhaled the smell of his cologne, much stronger now that you sat against his chest with your nose by his throat. His hand warmed the small of your back with the other cupping the back of your head in an affectionate cradle. 

“I don't think I've ever kissed someone like that,” you admitted into the quiet. You suddenly couldn't hear the muffled music blasting from the party in the background anymore. 

“Me neither,” he replied, voice hoarse from the kiss. “I've never met someone like you before.”

“Never in your life?”

“Never in my life.”

“So let me get this straight,” drawled Wooyoung with both hands poised at his temples, eyes screwed shut against the bright morning light coming in through the window. There were currently eight people crowded onto President Hongjoong's bed at a time that was far too early to be alive for a group of people who partied until four in the morning. “You're saying that you know this girl's family life, how she likes her eggs in the morning, and how she kisses—but you don't even know her name?”

Yeosang was propped up against the headboard, squeezed between a very unfairly serene-looking Seonghwa and a mildly hungover Hongjoong. Yeosang's bangs were flat against his forehead and he squinted his tired eyes through the strands. “No, that's not what I said. I said that I know her name… it's just not coming to me right now.”

He knew your name. Right? You told him your name, right? He addressed you by your name at least once last night, right? 

(If he was being honest, as soon as Yeosang woke up this morning, he started whimsically recalling the events of last night in his head. But once he realized he neither had your number nor remembered your name, he jostled his friends up to invade the president's room for an emergency round table discussion. Who would have guessed their alarm clock would be a very panicked Maltese screaming, “I DON'T REMEMBER HER NAME!”)

“Which pretty much means you don't know her name,” Jongho piped up where he was laying against Yunho's back on the corner of the bed, his eyes closed while he attempted to squeeze in five more milliseconds of sleep. 

“Well, do you know who she came with?” San asked. “She probably has at least one mutual friend or else she wouldn't have gotten in.”

Mingi furrowed his brows together. “Not necessarily. The pledges might not have been thorough when checking.”

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to be there with them at the door, Mingi.”

“Oh, was I?”

Yunho cut in before Hongjoong could tackle Mingi off the bed. He grinned to himself, “Okay, but San has a point. Usually people are only able to sneak in if they're with a group.”

“Awh,” Wooyoung cooed, reaching over to pinch at Yeosang's cheek, “Yeosangie fell in love with a stowaway—ow! Hey! He just bit me!”

“Deserved,” Seonghwa said plainly. He turned his head so as to not have to face Wooyoung's wounded puppy eyes. It was too early for this. “Do you know if she came with anyone, Yeosang-ah?”

Yeosang scrunched his nose up, disgruntled. “No. I'm pretty sure she was looking for her friends when we met… something like that. I remember some things, but not everything.” He pinched the place between his brows in an attempt to piece together his memory of last night. He could remember the way you made him feel—it was the jittery warmth that came with falling, and his heart had never grown wings before like it had around you. 

After the kiss, the two of you had sunk into a comfortable, quiet conversation about anything and everything beneath the sun. For the first time in a long time, he felt comfortable and heard by someone other than his fraternity brothers. You were perfect, for lack of a better word. And he knew a lot of words. 

But how could he fucking forget your name? 

He was never drinking that much melon soju ever again. 

“She's a biology major,” he offered with a defeated sigh, letting his hand fall into his lap. 

“What does she look like?” Hongjoong asked. 

Yeosang's gaze went up to the ceiling as he recalled what you looked like to his friends. It was pretty dark the entire time he was with you, but there were a few moments when the streetlights hit your face and his conscience was constantly trying to keep his drunk ass from kissing you within the first ten minutes of meeting you. He'd managed to hold it together for a little bit longer before throwing all caution to the wind. 

When he was done, San said in light amusement, “I'm just surprised you kissed her first. She must be something then, huh?”

Yeosang couldn't conceal the smile that slowly crept onto his face. “Yeah, she's…” He cleared his throat. “I just don't want last night to be the first and last time I see her.” It couldn't be—just when he thought he clicked with someone, the universe couldn't possibly be so cruel as to rip you away from him, could it?

“Don't you worry!” Mingi chirped, “We'll help you find your passenger princess.”

Seonghwa snorted. “Passenger princess? What is this, Cinderella?”

“It might as well be,” San chuckled, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Operation: Passenger Princess is a go!”

Yeosang wasn't sure if recruiting his friends’ help was a good or awful decision. But because his past, drunk self hadn't done many favors for his future, sober self, he would take all the help he could get. 

You knew the moment you stumbled out of your bedroom and saw your roommate that you were in trouble. It wasn't trouble in the conventional sense; considering her eyes were laughing as she watched your pitiful walk of shame from your room to the shared bathroom, you knew you were not going to hear the end of everything that happened last night ever. 

“Not a word,” you said to her as you winced at the blinding bathroom lights. 

Her toothbrush hung out of her mouth as she slipped in behind you to spit her toothpaste into the sink. When her mouth was rinsed and clear, she made eye contact with you in the mirror, eyebrows wagging up and down. “So you and Yeosang, huh?”

You glared at her from around your own toothbrush. You would have taken the damn thing out to defend yourself, but you were already late. 

Reina took full advantage of your occupied vocal chords. “I never knew pretty frat boys were your type, Yn,” she teased, practically floating out of the bathroom to go check on the state of her espresso in the kitchen. 

“Aye hae yuu,” you grumbled around your toothbrush. 

“What's that?” She cackled, bringing a hand up to the shell of her ear. “I love you? I love you, too, Yn. But you know who else loves you?—”

“Dompt shae it.”

“Yeosaaaang!” 

You loathed the fact that her saying such things made butterflies flap their wings and dance around in your belly. It was simply delusional to think of love when all you and Yeosang did last night was make out in his car and accompany each other in deep, provoking conversation… conversation that definitely didn't make you feel incredibly seen or anything… definitely not. 

Finally, you were able to spit your toothpaste out to make your argument. “Okay, first of all, I don't even have his number. And—how could he love me?” As if possession of a phone number could even correlate to love either.

Reina paused, her expression arranging into loud incredulity. “You what? After all I went through to separate the two of you to go home, you didn't exchange numbers?”

Okay, so maybe you shouldn't have disclosed that information—now you just looked stupid. 

You lathered up facial cleanser in your hands and on your face. “Look. Exchanging numbers was just the last thing on our minds—” Oh, Yn. Have you ever said something smart? 

Reina snorted. “Oh, I know.”

“We didn't just make out,” you grumbled, your cheeks warming beneath your hands. You furiously splashed cool water over your skin before patting your face dry. There likely wasn't much time left before you and Reina had to run to meet your other friends at your weekly volunteering session. “We talked.”

“Uh-huh, and you know that denial is a river in Egypt, right?”

Suffice to say that Reina most definitely did not let your shenanigans from last night go. The two of you managed to reach the food bank sometime before fifteen minutes past your original start time. Everyone else was already stationed and on time, and because you and Reina were the last to arrive, you were sent straight to dishwashing. 

As you and Reina pulled on your twin pairs of pink rubber gloves, your friend Mark Lee (and brother with the NCT fraternity) barrelled into the backroom with a dirty ladle in his hands. His head perked up at the sight of you both, a smile blooming on his face. “Well, good morning, Party Animals. How was the ATZ party last night?”

He deposited the ladle into the sink for you to wash while he went to go find a clean one. 

“It was cool, but I think Yn would love to tell you all about her experience,” Reina teased, bumping her elbow against your side. 

Mark sidled up beside the two of you and leaned in close in proper tea-spilling fashion. “Oh my gosh, did something happen?”

You scowled at Reina, then said to Mark, “Nothing catastrophic—”

“She hooked up with Yeosang!”

You cut her a hard glance. “Reina, I don't think Neptune heard you.”

Mark's eyes went comically wide, jaw slackening. “Yn and Yeosang? That's so wild. Like—like Kang Yeosang?”

“I think? We didn't exactly exchange last names, but why would it be wild? We just kissed and talked.”

“Who kissed who now?” The new voice had you all glancing back over to the kitchen door where another member of the group, Yura, walked in. Yura was Reina's cousin, and the two grew up quite close, so it was natural that they ended up in similar social circles. You and all your other friends got along pleasantly with her. She flashed you all a small smile. “From the sounds of it, I'm guessing you guys had a fun time at the party last night?”

“We did!” Reina chirped. 

“Shame you couldn't come with us this time,” you said offhandedly. It wasn't like Yura to miss a party. 

Reina cocked her head to the side. “I could've sworn I saw you there though—”

“Ah,” Yura waved her hand to dismiss her cousin's thought. She chuckled, “You're probably mistaking someone else as me; I had that paper I needed to work on last night, remember? But Yn, you and Yeosang?”

You groaned. “I thought we were over this.”

“Dude, we can't not get over this,” Mark quipped back. “Yeosang just doesn't do stuff like that—hook up with people, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Yura chimed in, “I've seen him at a couple other Greek parties with some of my sorority friends and he looks pretty standoffish most of the time. He's usually always with one of his brothers. He's kind of cold, really.”

Mark furrowed his brows. “I wouldn't call him cold; he's just a little shy, is all.”

“My friends told me that a lot of sorority girls chase after him,” Yura said with wide eyes. “They get, like, aggressive about him or something.”

You and Reina exchanged a look. Was that who he was running from last night? “That must be kinda stressful,” you said softly with a small frown. 

“Apparently, that's why his social medias don't take DMs unless approved,” she shrugged. 

Well, there went your backup plan of finding him on social media. Then again, if he recognized you or your name, would that help if you requested him? That was if you deigned to change your profile picture to yourself and not one of your silly doodles. 

You couldn't help the weight that your heart seemed to gain as it sank to the pit of your stomach. 

“Well, that's mildly disappointing,” Reina muttered, turning to quickly wash the ladle Mark had just dropped off. 

“I just wouldn't want you to get targeted by any of those crazy sorority girls, y'know?” Yura gave a laugh that sounded almost nervous. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. 

You nodded, gnawing on your bottom lip. “Yeah, no, I—I get it. Thanks, Yura.”

She gave you a sympathetic look. “Of course,” she said. With a wave, she made her way back toward the kitchen door. “Mark, we better get back to work. See you guys at lunch break!”

When she was gone, Mark clapped a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Hey, listen. I don't really know the guy personally, but me and Wooyoung are pretty tight. I can get in touch with them if you want—”

Baekhyun, the section leader for your session, charged into the kitchen with his arm piled high with dirty dishes. If you didn’t fear for the safety of the porcelain bowl at the top of the stack, you might have chuckled at the scene before you. “Mark! We don't pay you to stand around.”

“Hyung,” Mark huffed exasperatedly as he rushed over to help Baekhyun before the section leader could get knocked over the head by a rogue dish assisted by gravity. “You don't pay us. We're here out of the goodness of our hearts.”

“Well, I don't get paid enough for this,” Baekhyun said once all the dishes were transferred to the sink, and you and Reina were put to work. “Now come on; lots to do!”

Just as Mark was about to follow after Baekhyun, he caught your eyes. “I'm serious about the offer, Yn.”

You smiled. “Thanks, man, but let me think about it and I'll get back to you.”

“Yeah, just lemme know!” And he was gone. 

Word broke out that someone in the ATZ household was searching for a girl. Word of mouth was a method of dissemination that could spread like wildfire, leaping from one tongue to one ear to another, leaving only ash and debris behind. And around Greek Row, it became a massive game of Telephone. 

But while nearly everyone in the university's fraternities and sororities knew about his strife, Yeosang’s efforts seemed to be for naught. The only thing that emerged from this were more people harping after him, claiming to be 'the one he was looking for.’ None of them were you. 

Your name had manifested itself in his head about halfway into the week. He'd been toiling over the theory readings his professor assigned for Thursday's lecture when he'd underlined a word, and it came crashing down upon him with ice cold clarity. 

His eyes went wide as he shot up out of his chair, nearly sending Jongho careening off his bed on the other side of the room. “What the—”

“Yn,” Yeosang said. Then he declared a little louder, a giddy smile on his face, triumphant and bright, “Her name is Yn.”

Jongho resettled himself on top of his bed. “Well that narrows things down for us,” he drawled, taking his phone out and typing something out. “I don't suppose you have her last name.”

Yeosang fwumped onto the edge of his bed with his lips pressed into a line. “Dude. I literally just thought of her first name. Do you really think I can come up with—”

“Okay, okay,” Jongho laughed, flicking his wrist at him for a moment before resuming his typing. 

“Who're you texting?” Yeosang asked as curiosity drew him across the room to Jongho's side. 

His friend sat up so he could peer over his shoulder at the phone screen. “I'm doing the heavy lifting,” he teased. Based on the social media handle at the top of the direct messages channel, Jongho was texting Chungha, a friend of the frat's but a closer friend of President Hongjoong's, and the recently graduated head of the Phi Omega Phi sorority. “Hongjoong hyung mentioned offhandedly that Chungha wanted to get some friends into the party on Friday, so I'm seeing if she recognizes this Yn person you're looking for.”

Yeosang’s eyebrows flicked upward as he settled into a more comfortable position on Jongho’s bed while they awaited Chungha’s response. In the meantime, he pulled out his own phone in an attempt to search for your name amongst his mutuals. He frowned at the lack of a successful search—did you use a different name or did you not have a social media account? Was that why you hadn’t attempted to contact him in the past few days?

For a moment, a shard of self-consciousness pierced through his chest at the prospect that you didn’t want to contact him. Did sobriety make you embarrassed at what happened that night? Had he made you uncomfortable with the amount of vulnerability that was in the car—no, the vulnerability was mutual… but maybe—

“Gotcha.” 

Yeosang’s head whipped back over to Jongho’s screen. Having your name and major seemed to ring a bell for Chungha, and she forwarded a social media handle, along with a “tell Yeosang good luck ;)”. 

“Thank you, Jongho. And bless up, Chungha,” Yeosang muttered as he swiftly input the social media handle into his search bar. There it was—a private art account with your first name in the biography line. There were only one or two people who you both shared mutuals with, which made sense. 

His thumb hovered over the request button, and he bit his lip. With little else left to do and his heart banging around in his ribs from the anticipation alone, he clicked the button. 

It didn’t take you incredibly long to accept his follow request and to follow him back. (Though, half an hour felt like an eternity when he was so anxious.) He made it painfully obvious that you acted in response, because Yeosang fumbled his phone between his palms like it was a hot potato, before he dropped it and stubbed his toe with it. 

Jongho sent him a strange look as he handed the device back to a red-faced Yeosang, who furrowed his brows together to think of an opening direct message to you. 

“It doesn't have to be perfect,” Jongho said as he peered over Yeosang's shoulder this time. He had even paused the game he was playing on his phone to stay tuned into the live entertainment. 

Yeosang made a face. “Yes, it does.” It had to be the perfect mix of witty and funny and subtle and—

He figured it out. 

@/yskang99: how do u like ur eggs?

Jongho released a sound of utter flabbergast, and Yeosang shushed him, both pairs of eyes pinned to the three dots that appeared on the bottom left-hand side of the screen. 

@/studioyn: sunny side up

Yeosang broke into a smile, and Jongho's face contorted into pure incredulity. “What kind of security question is that?”

“Inside joke,” Yeosang replied giddily, rising from Jongho's bed to cross over to his side of the room. He collapsed into his desk chair and propped his feet up along the end of his bed. 

Jongho scoffed, shifting his lounging position. He threw his friend another incredulous glance before giving up and returning to his game. He'd done his job. 

@/yskang99: congrats u passed the test!

@/studioyn: ahh so that was a test? i imagined us doing a virtual handshake tbh

@/yskang99: i like that better actually

@/studioyn: also how did u find me lmao

Yeosang bit his lip through a grin. I have my ways, he typed out cryptically, cheekily. 

@/studioyn: wtvr u say ig… 🤨🤨🤨

For a brief moment, Yeosang wondered if he should bring up the concern lingering in his mind—why you hadn't reached out to him. He didn't want to simply assume that he was “popular” enough that just anybody knew who he was, but he was also aware that most people were able to track him down on social media. But would that kill the vibe? He liked the energy. 

@/studioyn: i can't get a read on whether or not ur any different than how u were drunk 

@/yskang99: would that matter?

@/studioyn: not particularly, no, but i've met people who r

@/yskang99: no i get that, i've met my fair share too :/ 

He began typing out slowly: I missed you… Then he swiftly amended it to: I missed talking to you. 

@/studioyn: awhh wait ik we've only technically spoken the one time, but i missed talking to u too yeo :’)

A smile split his face from ear to ear. Would you wanna hang out again? Only if you're comfortable, of course. 

He watched the three dots appear, then disappear. You were thinking and his heart was sinking.

Finally, your response came in. I'd love to, but I don't wanna disappoint you with my god awful schedule this next week. 

@/yskang99: what abt the weekend? something low stakes maybe?

@/yskang99: my brothers and i r going to the nct house on sat

@/studioyn: oh!! im actually close friends w mark lee :] i'll see if i can drag my friends along, and we can link up there?

The thought of seeing you again, even if it was at another dumb Greek party, made electricity zip through his veins. His stomach filled to the brim with butterflies, and he had to shift his position because of how much it tickled. 

@/yskang99: yeah sounds great :D i'll look forward to seeing u

@/studioyn: same here yeo :’))

@/studioyn: how's ur week been so far? 

Yeosang leaned back in his chair again, propping his elbows on the armrests to sink into a comfortable position. He had a feeling he might be here awhile, but he would sit here all night if it meant talking to you. 

“Yn! We're gonna be late!” 

You nearly jolted at the sound of Reina's voice carrying through the other side of your bedroom door. You dropped your phone onto your bed, racing to finish up the rest of your makeup. “You can never be late to a Greek party!” You countered, swiping your thumb over the pigment you just put on your lips. 

Your bedroom door opened just as you were slipping a chain necklace around your collar. Reina poked her head in, her eyes looking you up and down. “Ooh-la-la,” she gushed with a teasing smile. “Someone's gotten all dolled up. I wonder who for…”

You rolled your eyes and ignored the obvious warmth rising to your face. “I just felt like it,” you defended weakly while spritzing a light mist of perfume over your neck and wrists. You stood up from your desk to collect your wallet, keys, and lip gloss to dump into a purse, then went over to retrieve your phone. 

The screen displayed another message from Yeosang, no doubt continuing the conversation you had to abruptly pause because you would be late for the NCT party. This was going to be the second Greek party in two weeks—a record for your books. But you had a feeling it was going to be a good time like last week, you were sure of it. 

As you skimmed the message Yeosang sent, you slipped out of the room to join Reina in the main living space. She casted you a pointed look with arms crossed over her chest and lips pressed together. 

“What?” You blinked over at her innocently. 

“You're never gonna see your boy at this rate,” she said as the two of you picked out your shoes for the night. 

You sent a text answering Yeosang and letting him know you would be at the party soon. “He's not 'my boy,’” you said. 

“Right. He's your man.”

You hated how hard it was to keep the giggle in your throat down. It was embarrassing how you smiled just then, too, turning your head away from a smug Reina. 

God, he was just a guy; how did you get so head-over-heels after just one night? It had to be the fact that you'd been texting him nonstop over the past few days. Though you were busy and exhausted, you continued to check your phone all throughout the days and stayed up long into the nights just to talk to him. He had you hook, line, and sinker. 

At some point, you'd forgotten what Yura warned you about on Saturday. 

Your friends picked you and Reina up in one of their family minivans. A round of greetings went up as you clambered in behind Reina, and your friend asked where her cousin was tonight if she wasn't carpooling with the rest of you. 

“She said she was at her sorority friend's house,” Sieun said offhandedly from the driver's seat. The minivan door closed on its own with a mechanical whirring sound. “She's probably at the party already.”

Some nights, parties called for a pregame session, while others (not unlike this one) was attacked raw. Sieun parked the minivan about a block outside of Greek row where there were spaces between cars along the curbs and where there was less of a chance of her accidentally running over a drunk partygoer stumbling into the street. The party was already in full swing with neon green strobe lights blazing aggressively through the front windows, and Gasolina blasting at nothing less than one hundred percent speaker volume. 

You felt your phone vibrate in your hand as Reina grabbed your hand to avoid instantly losing you in the crowd. 

@/yskang99: im on the second floor where there's less people 😋😋 they've got a nice balcony we can hide on!!

“Mark said they've got spiked Capri Sun somewhere in here!” Reina shouted into your ear. 

You nodded your head vigorously. “Let's find it then!”

@/studioyn: gonna grab hard caprisun and then head up!! do u want some??

@/yskang99: surprise me w a flavor, pretty pls x

You grinned to yourself and slid your phone into your purse to focus on the task at hand. 

The NCT fraternity house wasn't a completely unknown landscape to you and Reina. Being friends with one of its brothers and friends-by-association with all the rest, you'd popped by more than a few times. You could likely navigate this house with your eyes closed; that was what it was like weaving through the dark rooms and throngs of people squeezed together like sardines in a can, anyway. 

Along yours and Reina's trek to the kitchen, you gained a couple people in your conga line of linked hands, NCT's own Xiaojun and Jungwoo. NCT frat brothers always pregamed, so the two brothers were already tipsy and giggled about your kindergarten field trip line (with Reina being dubbed the poor kindergarten teacher tasked with keeping you together). 

When you arrived at your destination, it didn't take long for you to lose both Xiaojun and Jungwoo to the game of Texas Hold 'Em being played at the breakfast table. The singular lightbulb overheard made it feel like a smoke-filled backdoor gambling den. 

“Aha!” You cheered after playing a game of mystery cooler roulette, and opened the cooler lid that held the spiked Capri Sun juice pouches on ice. 

“Mine!” Reina snatched up the last cherry flavored one, the shiny aluminum slippery and ice-cold as she impaled the opening with the thin, yellow straw. 

You grabbed a Pacific Cooler flavored pouch for yourself, and a second for Yeosang. 

“Ah, is that for the man of your dreams?” Reina said between sips, her pouch already half empty. 

You sent her a look. “He has good taste, which means he'll probably appreciate Pacific Cooler as much as I do.”

“As long as it's not lemonade,” came a voice to your left. There stood a rather tall and lean man, his warm smile enunciated by the dim kitchen lighting as the green strobe lights from the living room painted across his face. “I can't deal with sour shit,” he explained, making a face. 

You laughed. “That's valid. Fruit Punch is a classic though.”

“Can't argue with that,” he replied, leaning down to pick his poison for the night. He stabbed a straw into his pouch of strawberry kiwi juice, then arched an eyebrow at you. “I feel like I know you. Do I know you?”

“Hey,” Reina chimed in as she leaned over your shoulder, “you're with the ATZ frat, aren't you? I recognize you from Twister last week.”

He smiled sheepishly from around his straw. “Ah… haha, not my best moment, but yes. I'm Yunho.”

“Reina,” your friend replied. 

“Yn,” you added on. 

Yunho's expression jerked as if he'd just been delivered an electric shock. He waved his pointer finger at you. “Oh my god, you're Yeosang's girl!”

Your eyes shuddered in surprise. Yeosang's girl. “Sorry?” You stammered. There was an insane amount of possessive pronouns being used tonight, buy you definitely weren't complaining about it, and could he perhaps say that again—

“Yeah, he won't shut up about you.” Yunho slurped up the rest of his juice pouch, draining and flattening the life out of it in record time. “He loves Pacific Cooler, by the way.”

He took his leave then, saying nothing else to you and Reina except for shooting you a pair of finger guns like saying 'go get em, tiger!’

Reina wheezed, draping herself over you for a moment. “Oh—my god! Good thing Yeosang's just as down in the trenches as you are.”

“Don't do this to me, Reina,” you whined and dragged her along out of the kitchen toward the second floor staircase. “I don't need encouragement; the crush is enough!”

“It's never enough,” she declared with her pointer finger up in the sky. “You are gone, my friend! Gone, I say.”

You patted her head as you both began your ascent up the stairs. “Alrighty; then gone, I am. Do you remember where the balcony is on this floor?”

She hummed. “Ooh! Somewhere by Johnjae's room, abouts. I just remember because Mark told us how—”

“Right—the sophomore year Romeo and Juliet reenactment,” you snorted. You couldn't wrap your head around the batshit crazy things that occurred around these parts. “Who convinced Doyoung to play Paris anyway?”

She made a noncommittal noise. “Must've been bribed—oh, there it is, but I think there's a couple out there already…”

There was most definitely a couple on the balcony. Their outlines were silhouettes against the residual strobe lights shining up from downstairs, so it was a little too dark to make out who they were. They seemed close—the girl was all over the boy, the latter trying to hold her up by her waist. Maybe she'd had too much to drink, and for a moment, you were glad someone was taking care of her. 

But when she leaned in for a kiss, green light glanced across their faces to reveal their features to you. It was only a split second, but it was all you needed. 

“Reina,” you exhaled in shock, turning away from the balcony with enough speed to nearly give you whiplash. 

She didn't question you, as you both careened back down the hall from where you came from, heading for one of the open bedrooms on this floor to collect yourselves. When the two of you were out of earshot of the balcony, she hissed under her breath in utter disbelief, “Yura?”

You'd seen it nearly clear as day, too. That was Yura kissing Yeosang. 

Your head spun as you shouldered your way into Mark's and Haechan's room, their names plastered on the door in foam letter stickers from the craft store. As Reina closed the door and turned on the lights, you sat down in Mark's desk chair attempting to make sense of what you and Reina just witnessed. 

Yeosang and Yura? But wasn't Yura the one who warned you that chasing after Yeosang was a risk because of how many others were, as well? Why would… 

Oh. 

Well, now you just felt stupid. 

Reina dragged over Haechan's desk chair to settle in front of you, her expression less enraged than before, and more concerned over what she was reading off of your face. “Hey, don't do that. Don't think like that.”

“You don't know what I'm thinking,” you murmured, setting the untouched juice pouches on the desk. 

“You're thinking that you're stupid.” 

“Okay, maybe you do know what I'm thinking.” You inhaled, then exhaled slowly, leaning forward onto your knees. “I don't really know what to think or assume.”

Reina nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “That's okay. I don't think I really understand what I saw either.”

“But that was Yura, right?”

She bobbed her head again. “That was my cousin, yeah.”

“Would it be fair to even think that she told me all that shit last week to discourage me from seeing him?” You didn't enjoy thinking that another person would have such malicious intentions without understanding their point of view, especially someone you considered yourself friends with. 

“Well,” Reina drawled, “I think we both saw what we saw, and Yura was acting strangely about it on Saturday. It would be fair if you were hurt by it; I think your feelings have been clear.”

You gave a small nod. “Do you think he…?”

“I'm not sure, hon.” 

You resolved to talk to him about it. If anything, you had these juice pouches left to console yourself, but you wanted to make sure you knew where his feelings laid. You would be lying if you said your heart didn't harbor even a glimmer of hope that this was all a misunderstanding, and that the kiss was an accident and didn't matter. 

You and Reina left the relative safety of Mark and Haechan's bedroom to go find Yeosang. There weren't any new messages between either of you since the Capri Sun exchange, and you thought about texting him on his whereabouts. 

The balcony by Johnny and Jaehyun's room was empty now, barren of any evidence somebody was there in the first place. 

You and Reina wandered back down to the main floor. The party was nowhere near over; the night was still young. Hope was sinking fast in your stomach as the two of you traveled from room to room in search of him, but with no luck. Even asking around was useless. 

“Text him,” Reina encouraged, as the two of you sipped on the juice pouches that were supposed to be for you and him. 

She held your spiked juice while you texted him. 

As time passed, and a response had yet to come through, you tossed yours and Reina's flattened Capri Sun pouches into the nearest garbage can.

If he wasn't going to answer, then maybe you would just go home for the night. You had a lot to think about. 

Defeated, you let Reina sweep you under her arm and guide you to the front door. “Let's go home, hm?” She said, rubbing your shoulder. 

On your way to the front door, you paused. You thought you heard someone calling your name—

You turned around to find Mark barreling toward you through the crowd with another guy at his side. “Mark?” You shouted over the music. 

“Hey, we've been looking all over for you,” he said. Nodding to his friend, he told you, “This is Wooyoung, by the way, the ATZ brother I'm friends with.”

“Yeosang's been looking for you,” Wooyoung said in earnest, eyes as wide as Mark's. Had they been looking for you as much as you were looking for Yeosang?

Something like hope sparked in your chest again—you were at odds. The fight had nearly dissipated from your blood and you were ready to go home. But if he was trying to find you… it must be worth it then, right?

“Where is he?” You asked. 

It was nearing midnight by the time you settled yourself on the concrete curb outside the ATZ frat house just down the block from the target being thrown at the NCT house. With everyone over there, no wonder it was quiet enough to finally hear yourself think. With the coming of deep autumn, a slight breeze wafted by that drifted over your skin and raised goosebumps on your arms. 

You heard gravel crunching from behind you, coming down the ATZ driveway, and before you could turn your head to look, a warm jacket was placed over your shoulders. You held your breath, fingers finding the lapel to keep it from slipping as you glanced over at your counterpart. 

Yeosang lowered himself onto the curb next to you, mimicking your position with his knees bent and arms resting upon them. “I—my phone died,” he said lowly. 

“Oh.” That took care of at least two of your questions. 

“Is there—” He stopped himself, amending his statement, “There's something on your mind.”

Understatement of the century. You pulled his jacket around you, the intertwining scents of alcohol and his cologne lingering on the collar. “I was going to meet you at the balcony, and I was there, but… but I saw you and Yura, and…”

It was his turn to say “oh.” He angled his body toward you now until his knees bumped against yours and he was muttering out an apology he didn't need to say. He laid his upper body over his arms that were folded onto his knees and peered up at you through lengthy lashes.

He was waiting for you to finish. 

You swallowed, following his lead and turning your body toward him. “I saw her kiss you,” you said, the sound barely audible to anybody but you and him. “Reina and I went somewhere to kind of just soak in what we saw, and then we went back out to find you so I could talk to you about it, but we couldn't find you.”

“I'm sorry you had to see that,” he murmured, eyebrows furrowed together. “It—it didn't mean anything. She did try to kiss me, but I pushed her away before she could.”

You believed him. You loosened a small chuckle from your lips. “Y'know, it sounds silly to me now, but last week she told me that there were a number of girls who were pursing you and were very aggressive about it.”

He snorted. “If there were any, I only know of one.”

“She…?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, lips pursing. “I know she's liked me for a while, but I've made it clear I don't see her the same way. At last Friday's party, I was actually trying to lose her in the crowd when I found you.”

Your eyes widened. “So she was there?” Then Reina had actually seen her cousin at the party; Yura had lied about where she was. 

“She told me tonight that she was scared about me liking you more than her,” Yeosang said as he lifted his body back up to rest his cheek against his fist. “She was really drunk—which was why you probably saw me trying to hold her up—and then she… tried to kiss me. I pushed her away, and one of her friends found us, so I handed her over and went to get some air.”

And that was why you couldn't find him. You released a breath you didn't realize you were holding in. “Are you—are you okay? I'm so sorry she did that to you.” 

The corners of his lips tugged upward in a reassuring smile. “I'm alright, thank you. And it's not your fault.”

“I know, but still,” you insisted. “Your boundaries were violated, and it makes me feel so icky that I've called her a friend of mine, and—what?” 

Your words came to a screeching halt when you realized that Yeosang was just smiling at you. Or rather, gazing at you, admiring you. It was whatever he did whenever his eyes possessed a set of twin jewels in his irises that needed no light to glitter like gold; and when his grin softened at the corners by a tenderness that knocked the wind out of you, all words and systems failed you. 

You recognized this look, except this time, you weren't drunk. 

“I'm really happy I met you,” he said in your silence. “And I'm happy I got to see you again.”

You nearly melted. You smiled back at him, replying quietly, “Couldn’t have said it any better. Thank you for being honest with me.”

“And thank you for believing me.” He reached for your hand, his movements slow as if giving you an opening to pull back if you wanted to. But you didn't, and you closed the remaining space to link your fingers and press your palms together. 

You and Yeosang shared mutual smiles in the dim lighting outside his fraternity house. Your heart beat had quickened a considerable amount now that he was so close to you again. 

You cleared your throat. "Just to be clear though—when you said she was scared about you liking me more than her—?"

His smile reached his eyes and turned them into upturned crescent moons. "I'm not scared," he said, "that I like you more than I have ever liked her." By a landslide.

Your heart gave a lurch in your chest. "Good," you smiled. "That's good, because I like you a whole lot, too."

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Yeosang inclined his chin toward where his car was parked a couple vehicles down. “Properly this time, now that we're not completely wasted?”

You laughed. “I would love nothing more.”

Pleased, he helped you to your feet. You must have stood up far too quickly though, because the blood rushed up to your head in a riptide current. You swore as the vertigo hit you, and your footing stumbled. 

“Woah, careful there, pretty,” he murmured, his low voice by your ear as he steadied you with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other around your waist. 

Oh, there went your heart… it flew up to halo around Yeosang's head, and it wasn't yours anymore—

“You okay?” He mused. 

You cleared your throat, straightening. “Yeah, I'm great,” you said sheepishly, ducking your head toward your chest. 

A warm, fond chuckle left his mouth. “Cute,” he murmured. He lifted your chin up so you would look at him, his eyes darting down toward your mouth, and yours mirroring his movements. “I was wondering…”

“You can kiss me,” you blurted out, ignoring the utter leap in your pulse and the heat crawling up the back of your neck. 

You tasted his smile as he leaned over to seal his mouth over your own, a long awaited return to the place that felt just right. You breathed him in, inhaled him, devoured him whole—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer just as his hands pressed you flush against him. 

In the distance against the heavy house music in the background, a cheer went up into the night sky. 

You and Yeosang parted only to crane your heads in the direction of the noise, only to find what looked like a gathering of your friends and his friends hooting and applauding like it was New Years. 

“OPERATION: PASSENGER PRINCESS WINS!” The guy from earlier, Wooyoung, practically howled up at the sky. 

You pressed your face against Yeosang's shoulder as he groaned. “I am so sorry about them,” he chuckled through a grimace, lips grazing over your crown. 

You laughed along with him. “My friends are also among the guilty party, Yeo.” 

He kept his arm around your waist and you kept your head against his shoulder as the two of you walked away from your friends and toward his car. Contentment curled itself up over your chest again, and it nestled in deep, as if it planned to stay awhile. 

“By the way,” you piped up as he unlocked his car. 

“Mhm?”

You opened the passenger side door and leaned over the top of it to ask, “What the hell is Operation: Passenger Princess?” 

Yeosang sputtered out a laugh and his cheekbones burned red. “How about we save that for our third date?”

You blinked, lips parting. 

Yeosang grinned impishly. “Close that mouth, pretty, or I'll close it for you.”

Your jaw snapped closed, and his laugh echoed against the houses along this street. You climbed into the car after him, flustered beyond words. “I don't like you,” was all you could come up with. 

“I'm sure you don't.”

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if you enjoyed! also, the plan is to try and write another wooyo frat au as well, so pray for me...

atz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @tinkerbell460 @meosjinn @hyunjaespresent-deobi @stayarmytinyzenmoa-l @floatingpluto @gyulfriend @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @soonyoungblr @justanotherkpopstanlol @kangfication @pxppxrminty @fluorescentloves @haechansbbg @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @mars101 @synthwxve @empire-x @kflixnet @atzhouse @cromernet

[yanderecrazysie]

Twisted Zoo: Chapter One

This is based on the stories of a keeper reader with the octotrio by @ashensgrotto and @merakiui .

Also @twistedcece @ursinaw  @thisisafish123 and @cenatour wanted to be tagged! Let me know if anyone else wants to be tagged for future chapters. If you no longer want to be tagged, please tell me!

Summary: You’re a brand new zookeeper at The Halfling Zoo- a place where half-animals live in captivity. Your job is simple- feed them and study them. Your main worry is that one of the more dangerous halflings might kill you. 

Unfortunately, that may become the least of your worries.

WARNINGS: none for now

Note: All characters are aged up, since there will be mature themes in future parts.

Also, I can’t promise I’ll finish this. I suck at finishing stories.

Thank you for everyone on Tumblr and Quotev for guessing! A lot of you have gotten ones right but there no one's gotten all of Heartslaybul (which makes me worry I did badly there)

Now, onto the Hyenas, Lions, and Wolves!

Prologue here

Next chapter here

—----------------------------------

Since the wolves were right across from the lions and hyenas, you would be expected to divide your time equally between the two for your first official day at The Halfling Zoo. That was a pain, since all three of those species were more active at night. 

“You’ll be doing today’s morning feedings, right?” a woman in the zoo’s uniform asked you.

“Yes, for the lions, hyenas, and wolves,” you replied cheerfully.

The woman gave a sigh of relief, “Thank goodness- the lions always look like they’re about to kill you if you make the wrong move. Good luck!”

You stared blankly at her retreating figure. You really wish she hadn’t said that, because now you were absolutely terrified to step foot in that enclosure. Mr. Crowley had said to you yesterday, among all the other welcoming ramblings, that you had to go into each exhibit and give the food directly to the halflings, as opposed to leaving the food near the door and waiting for them to come and grab it.

After the zoo keeper’s “encouraging” words, you decided to give food to the hyenas first.

The hyena halflings were easy to spot- the group of seven or so male halflings sat in a group, talking and laughing loudly. There was one boy in the center of the crowd, waving his hands emphatically as he conversed with his peers.

As soon as you approached the hyena halflings, the mood immediately shifted. The halflings took several steps back, the conversation ceasing at once, all of them staring at you through weary, distrustful eyes.

That’s right- male hyenas are submissive toward females since they are usually aggressive and stronger.

“It’s alright!” you tried to speak as soothingly as possible, putting down the bucket of steaks so you could raise your palms in a non-threatening manner. They watched you carefully, still distrustful.

Finally, the boy from the center of the crowd put his hands behind his head and strolled up nonchalantly, grabbing a steak from the bucket. Although he acted like it was no big deal, you didn’t miss the way he eyed you with a fearful gaze and skirted around you as though you might explode at any moment. 

The other hyena halflings caught on and, walking around you with extreme caution, they managed to fish their meals out of the bucket. The hyena from before came back for a second steak and, not long after, for a third. 

“What’s your name?” you asked him as he fished around for the best steak left in the bucket.

He stopped searching and turned his gaze on you once more. He seemed to size you up for a moment before saying something softly. “What was that?” you asked.

“Ruggie,” he said softly, his ears turning inwards and an annoyed pout making its way to his face.

“I like that name!” you said cheerily. Ruggie eyed you dubiously and finally pulled a steak from the bucket, racing back to the other hyenas. On his way, he looked over his shoulder at you, his gaze uncertain.

You felt like you had made progress.

Now it was time to feed the lions, and the thought made your feet feel like lead. You were not looking forward to a lion halfling murdering you over a steak. 

A part of you wondered if some of the halflings really did prefer this life- or at least, the food. You had learned in class that halflings preferred to eat human food, although they could stomach their animal counterpart’s diet. Halflings, no doubt, preferred these still-warm cooked steaks over raw meat.

You picked up the bucket of steaks and began your journey across the faux savannah. It really was hot in the exhibit and the heavy bucket seemed to weigh you down considerably. Sweat beaded on your forehead and you found it even harder to push yourself across the distance to the lions.

When you finally arrived in front of them, you could feel yourself trembling in fear. In a shaky voice, you called out, “Who wants steaks?”

All of the lions’ eyes turned immediately to the lion halfling lounging across the rock above them. Ah, I get it. They won’t eat until he eats.

Slowly you approached him. You weren’t sure if he was awake until one green eye cracked open and lazily regarded you. You gulped and reached into the bucket, closing your hands around a steak and holding it out to him. He remained lying there, but his eye closed once more.

You began to set the steak next to him when blinding pain shot up your arm, causing you to promptly drop it on the rock. You looked down and saw that the back of your hand was bleeding from four long streaks. The king of the lions was now sitting up, glaring at you, blood dripping from the claws of his right hand.

“How dare you approach me so casually?” he snarled.

You weren’t sure what to do, so you sank into a bow, and murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

The lion gazed down at you, a mixture of surprise and amusement in his eyes. He laid back down, closing his eyes, “Whatever. The rest of you can eat.”

Lions rushed forward, clamoring around the bucket to get the best steaks. The lion on the rock did not reach for his own steak, choosing instead to go back to sleep. You were sorry you disturbed him, and not only because you were now nursing a heavily bleeding hand. The wound was surprisingly deep and you hoped that they had a first aid kit in the office.

A very small lion cub halfling with red hair bounced up to you. Your heart instantly melted at the sight of such an adorable little thing grabbing a steak and smiling up at you. So cute!

“Uncle Leona! Uncle Leona! Are you going to eat your steak or can I have it?” the little halfling asked the lion on the rock.

The lion- Leona, you guessed- glared down at the cub and snatched the steak out of the his reach with a warning growl. While the guttural sound was enough to make you shake in your boots, the cub merely giggled and took a bite of his own steak.

The bucket was empty by the time every lion had taken one. They were big steaks, but you weren’t sure it would be enough to keep them full. You headed back to the keeper’s door with sweat rolling down your cheeks. The heat and dryness may be perfect for the lions and hyenas, but you could barely stand it.

As soon as you were back in the keeper area, you made a beeline for the water cooler. You poured yourself a cup and downed it in a couple seconds. Panting, you filled your cup a second time. You sipped the water a little slower this time, feeling its cooling effects soothe you.

You headed for the nearest first aid kit, conveniently hanging on the wall near the exhibit’s exit. You had a feeling you weren’t the first to need it. You took some bandages from the case and wrapped them around your hand, hissing a little at the pain the pressure caused.

You were ready to face the wolves now. And, as you made your way into their enclosure, you noted with relief that the warm was crisp and cool- the exact opposite of the previous enclosure.

Goosebumps rose on your skin, but you knew that, by the time you had made the trip with the heavy steaks, you’d probably be sweating again. Sure enough, the labor took its toll on your body, your arm aching as you switched the bucket to your other hand.

Deep in the forest now, you could sense eyes on you. Relieved that you had finally found the wolves, you collapsed to the ground. Unprofessional, maybe, but greatly needed. You sat on the soft grass as the wolf halflings began to approach you.

A few had their lips drawn up in a snarl, and one of them called out, “Who are you? You’re not our regular keeper.”

Another wolf was quick to say, “But she’s brought food. Isn’t that all that matters?”

You raised your hands in a peaceful gesture, “I’m a researcher and I’m the one dropping off your food for this morning.”

That seemed to satisfy the wolves. Some of them still glared at you, but they all took their steaks. You looked around at the pack and was surprised to see, among all the gray hair, a head of pure white.

The wolf wasn’t glaring at you, but his expression didn’t give away how he felt at all. He seemed to be eyeing you warily, much like the hyenas. You fished out a steak and held it out to him. His eyes widened a little and he approached you.

“Thank you,” he said in a gruff voice, taking the steak from you. Before you could ask him his name, he disappeared into the crowd of wolves. You weren’t sure why your mind had picked him out from the others, except that his hair was a different color. A little embarrassed by your reaction to him, you held out a steak to another passing wolf, who growled at you in response.

As soon as the enclosure door shut behind you, you sank to the ground, exhausted. That was only the morning feeding- you had a full day (and part of the night) of studying and documenting behavior ahead of you.

[dulcewrites]

Fool Me Once (part 3)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader (wc: 3.1k)

Summary: With the birth of your child looming, you and Aemond finally lay your cards on the table. A growing problem reaches a boiling point.

Warnings: more lying/manipulation (y’all know the drill by now), Aemond once again gaslighting, mentions of s*icide

A/N: it’s been such a fun time writing this. It is definitely different from most things I’ve written, so it have been a nice change. I’ve gotten so much support from it and I hope to keep making stuff you guys like. Also slight disclaimer that the way I write Alys is not really way I read her in the book. Much like Aemond in this. They both kind of suck lmao. I wanted this to be the last part but then I thought of more things so… we shall see how this goes 👍🏽. I wanted this chapter to be a build up to events in ep 8-10 mainly 9 and 10 of the show.

Fmo masterlist

You can’t remember the last time Aemond and you have had dinner, just the two of you. So, when he insisted you that you two do, you had a feeling it was about the talk Queen Alicent said she wanted to have with him. A private dinner with your husband would have been a dream moons ago.

Alicent did not make you privy to what they discussed. It only made you more weary. You know she is hurt and upset. But you also know she is more hurt that the son she propped up so much turned out to be just as unreliable as the man she made him with.

That is the painful part about love; the only place to go is down.

Nevertheless, his suffering is what you want; it does not matter if the ire stems from a place on genuine care for you. The uncomfortable nature in which he moves the castle makes the pain you have suffered a little bearable. It sounds deranged, but if you are to be trapped, he should be as well. You want him to wake with the same lump in his throat you do.

The letters had stopped. A constantly stream of communication abruptly ended. Lord Strong gave you a funny smile when he told you.

Ser Quinton rarely leaves your side when Aemond is around. He gave you a reluctant glance when you tell him about the dinner. While Aegon, already deep in his cups midday, tells you to keep a grip on your fervor.

The corridor was empty except for the two of you.

“I know how him and mother are,” he point his fingers at you emphatically. “They probably already concocted something to keep you quiet or make you look like the problem. Keep you…. Idle.”

Despite the slurring of his words, and clear bitterness towards the relationship Alicent and Aemond have, he may not be wrong. Alicent had already taken it upon herself to write to your father, suggesting he visits soon. She is proactive to a fault; her behavior simultaneously holding the Seven Kingdom together and enabling her family’s indecencies.

Everything can be hidden under the right tactics and false goodwill. You want to say she got that trait from her father, but you know it comes from years of being a woman in the Red Keep. From being the Queen.

The dinner begins uneventful. You wrinkle your nose at the meat pie in front of you. A dish you normally like making your stomach churn. It is hard not to feel sick or uncomfortable these days. You’re huge; feet swollen and belly protruding to a remarkable degree. The sheer thought of how big the babe will be plagues your mind most days.

It is unbearable having to engage in meaningless small talk with Aemond. Like he is insulting your intelligence by tip toeing around everything.

“Are you going to tell me why you wanted this dinner,” you want nothing more to leave his chambers and go take a bath.

“I think we need to talk.”

You can’t help but scoff at him. Aemond looks even more haunting in the dark lighting of room. Like the brutal knights the septas used to make you read about. He has a nasty look in his eye, like he wants a fight. You wonder if his Alys gets this look or if it just reserved for you. One special thing for his wife.

Despite all the formal swordsman training, Aemond plays dirty in personal affairs. Much like a feral cat backed into a corner. You’ve seen it to many times with Aegon. The only thing he responds to is equally cruel jabs.

“Yes dear husband,” you sigh out of boredom, rolling your neck.

His next words take you by surprise.

“Daella told me she is not excited about her egg hatching,” he huffs out. You stop rolling your neck, and blink blankly at him. The two of your stare at each other before you bark out a laugh.

“That is what this is about? You are pouting because a child is no longer enraptured by an egg.”

“It is not only about the egg, and you know it,” a nasty tone to match the look he gives you. “You fill her head with assumptions. You debase something that is her birthright. Something that is the birthright of her father, and her ancestors.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, if I disparaged the great Targaryen legacy or dragons in front of her it must have been a… mistake.”

You swear you see Aemond’s eye twitch a little at the word.

“Have you ever thought maybe it is not the dragons themselves, but the person she most associates them with?”

Daella’s change in behavior was notable. She never wanted to go to the dragon pit with her father, the few times she does work up the nerve to go it is always with her aunt to see Dreamfyre. She is no longer enthused to learn High Valyrian despite how quickly she picks it up.

You did try to keep your child out things, but kids are perceptive. The way from a young age Alicent kids picked on her strife with their father, maybe she picked up on yours with Aemond.

Aemond’s anger radiates off him. Once the truth finally comes out, the words begin to spill from your lips.

“And do not pretend this is just about Daella. That is an insult to her, and a waste of my time,” you lean forward, and lower your voice. “This about you losing your favor around here, and this about her.”

There is an uncomfortable hush comes over the room. The only sound is the crackling coming from the fireplace.

“She was pregnant,” it comes out like whisper. The spite that was laced through his voice is gone. All is left is confusion.

Your vision blurred red. There’s a painful twinge in your stomach, and you wince.

“What do mean was.”

There was always the possibility this could happen. As naive as it sounds, it was not a thought till ironically Aegon of all people brought it up. If anyone would know about possibly fathering bastards it would be him. Then he promptly told you that the two of you could hop on Sunfyre and burn her to a crisp. The offer that you quickly refused in the moment has never sounded so tempting now.

“I-I do not know where she is,” Aemond admits curtly. “One day she is telling me she is with child, and the next she’s…gone.”

He looks so small; his eye has a faraway look in it. It’s utterly pathetic. You never considered that a greater pain to him would be not only to be seen differently by his family, but also have to reason why he did it leave.

“So what now Aemond? She left you, and you want to just erase everything you have done. Pretend you care or love me,” you say coldly.

“No. I do not lo-“

He stops mid sentence, and an empty smile appears on your face. Neither of you have said it out loud but it is the plain truth.

“Go ahead and say it,” there is a deep pressure in your stomach that won’t go away. The pain only makes you even more upset. “Love requires respect. It requires give and take. You surely do not respect me, and all you ever do is take.”

Another twinge hits the underside of your belly. You shift in your seat uncomfortably, eyeing the door.

“You are not completely innocent in this,” your eyes go wide at his remark. “Do not give me that look. I see the way Ser Quinton looks at you. And now Alys is…”

He trails off. It is the first time you have heard him say her name out loud. Another surge of jealously runs through you. She is gone, and you are once again stuck with the carcass. Expected to uphold your end of the bargain while he frets over a child and mother that never should have been around to begin with.

You refuse to sit and let him turn the tables around on you. It is a struggle, but you manage to get up from the table, but only to have him rise and block your way.

“For someone who has such clear distain for my house. You sure do not hide your fire well… just like a dragon.” His eye flutter down to the scar on your arm, then back to your eyes. You see the blame in his.

“If I was that rash, or temperamental, your head would have been on a spike. Along with your whore’s,” you narrow your eyes. “And I would have made Ser Quinton sully his white cloak, because he would for me. Hells, I would have had your brother while I was at it. It’s not like he has not tried before.”

You are not sure you even want Ser Quinton in that way, let alone Aegon. Ser Quinton devotion is not something you know if you are willing to take that level. And Aegon’s cock has been in half the maidservants in the castle and most of the whores in Flea Bottom. Him wanting you is not special, it’s just Aegon being Aegon. But the deep look of rage in Aemond’s eye makes the statement all the more worth it.

You skirt past him quickly towards the door. His heavy footsteps behind you. Ser Quinton leaning against the wall opposite of the door does not surprise you.

“Are you alright,” he rushes over, concerned when you pause to in the hall and lean over in pain. His hand coming to rub your back.

“Oh well is this not sweet,” Aemond’s bitter tone cuts through the empty hall. “I can handle it from here Ser Quinton.”

Blood rushes to your ears, and you can barely hear the hushed disagreement that begins between the two. Your painful groans becoming background fader to their pissing match.

A familiar snap happens in the lower part of your abdomen, and a pool of liquid flows out of you. Both cease arguing, and you and Aemond share a knowing look.

“The babe is coming.”

Alaric Targaryen came into the world fast, and with a haughty disposition. As if he could tell the family dynamic he was coming into. His cries were piercing and sharp, matching the tears of relief you cried when he finally came out.

You had insisted to only have your lady in waiting and some septas in room, especially after the clear tension between Aemond and Quinton. Helaena and Alicent come in and out of the room sporadically, giving you words of encouragement and knowing glances at the pain you were in. Alicent had been shocked to see her son and Ser Quinton trying to get you back to chambers.

Lord Larys followed casually behind her. He gave that funny smile of his again. The smile he gives Queen Alicent when he thinks no one is watching… or maybe he hopes someone is watching.

She’s gone

Even while giving birth to your son, that woman plagued your thoughts. Aemond could be right; you two have more in common than you like. Bewitched by the same woman.

It took everything in you to look up when Aemond finally came into the room. Acknowledging his presence met remembering how he is half of Alaric. How so much of you belongs to Aemond. You live in his home, dress in his colors, your children will be in the history books as Targaryen’s. He will have ownership over your boy after calling him a mistake. No matter how much you try, you will be remembered as his wife.

If that fact did not make you sick enough. Alicent’s next words did the trick.

“Oh, he looks like how Aemond did when he was a babe.”

You look down at him in your arms. While Daella was a combination of Aemond and you, her brother is every bit of his father. Small tuff of straight blonde hair, lips town turned in a scowl. You did not know a babe could look so refined especially after just being born. The only resembles to yourself you see in his in his big glassy eyes looking up at you.

There’s an energy that gets sucked out you when Alicent hands him to Aemond. She sees the weary look on your face.

Opposed to the elation you felt after having Daella. Dread creeps in; dread that comes from a place of sadness and protectiveness. All you have is your children. Even with the bonds and alliances you may have made, only they are extensions of you. Daella, your sweet girl, a reminder of what could of been. You have Alaric, the flesh and blood reflection of what you have been through.

“Have you two thought of a name,” Alicent asks. Before Aemond, who is still looking down can answer, you beat him to it.

“Alaric. Ser Quinton told the sweetest story about a knight he admired as a child. I thought it would be fitting.”

Alicent’s brows raise but she does nothing but nod. “Handsome name for a handsome boy.”

Aemomd does not say anything about the name. He just quietly hums a melody when Alaric starts to fuss. He turns his back to you as he bounces him in his arms.

All you have is your children

All you have is your children

When you think about a sword to the throat. You don’t know which situation would be more satisfying. One to his or one to yours.

“I am sure you were… relieved to hear about your problem being gone.”

You do not see Lord Larys again till weeks after Alaric is born. The day of a feast Alicent insisted you have to celebrate his birth. Your father and mother writing you that they can not wait to see their second grandchild.

While Daella was a fussy, energetic baby, all Aleric does is sleep and eat. He stares at you with curious eyes. Always taking in the scene around him. He lays sweetly crib next to your bed. After his birth, you were all but forced to move back into the one you shared with Aemond.

“Do you know what happened to her,” it’s been on your mind for since Aemond uttered those words.

Larys tilts his head to the side with a wry look. “You and I both know it is hard to place the whims of a difficult woman, especially a supposed magical one.”

You know he is not just talking about Alys.

She is out there, possibly with Targaryen blood in her and no one knows where is. It does not make any sense. Larys can read the skepticism all over your face.

“It is quite suspicious, witch or not. A bastard woman with no means or worth to her name, gone in an instant. And right after the truth comes out within the family. Right after the Queen and the Prince talk.”

He gives you no help, only more questions. Makes you more suspicious of those you have to call family. In this moment you hate the way he speaks in riddles. He never states things plainly till he is ready to. As if he expects you to do something before he can reveal anymore.

“But look on the bright side princess, your family will be back at court soon enough.”

Alaric begins to coo, as if he trying to tell you something.

“Well, thank you for your time, Lord Larys,” you give him a fake smile. “I should start getting ready.”

Your lady in waiting, Jayne, comes in once Larys finally leaves.

“I quite like this one princess,” she holds up a green and black dress. It is old dress of Alicent’s, one she gave you when you first married Aemond.

A flash of satiny purple in the back of you wardrobe catches your eye. A smile appears on your face. It may be a bit snug as you have two children since wearing it but it worth the try.

“I think I might want to try something a bit different Jayne.”

Your father used to tell you that the strongest flowers grow even when there is little sun. In conjunction, your mother told you that flowers are meant to be admired. Prettiest ones will often be picked and disregarded when a new bloom happens. Wilting was never an option for you in their mind.

You are their lower. Planted, watered, and urged to grow. Even in the deep darkness that is King’s Landing. The darkness they said was critical to helping your house.

The looks you get when you walk into the Godswood, head high in your deep violet dress only spurs you on when in other times it would make you want to hide. Daella and Alaric both in darling lavender outfits. You three stand out against the various muted greens, blues, and greys amongst you. Except for the few specs of purple that you see on the side wooded area.

“My dear girl,” your father’s hug makes you want to cry. Seeing your parents put into perspective how young you feel… how young you are.

Already married, mother of two, and all you want is your parents to hug you and tell you everything will be ok. When your father pulls you to the side and asks you about the letter Queen Alicent sent him, you are surprised to hear what she put in it.

“She said you are having a hard time,” he runs his hand over your arm. “That it is affecting your marriage.”

It should not surprise you she failed to mention her son’s cheating. But the onus being placed on you only proves what you already felt. They will protect their own, so you must protect yours.

Before you can muster up an answer, an anxious looking maidservant comes over with Jayne in tow.

“My Lady, I am sorry to interrupt. I went back to grab Alaric’s sweater. I saw something you may want to see; it was left it your chambers.”

Your eyes go to a box Jayne is carrying.

You must hold back a scream when you open the box and see Alaric’s favorite blanket, the one always in his crib, soaked in blood.

You frantically look over to the opposite side of the garden, your mother happily holding Alaric, Daella by her side. You look over to catch Aemond and Alicent giving you a questioning looks from across the Godswood.

As your vision blurs, you notice box had a tripartite of pale blue, red, and green on it.

“Jayne, please go fetch me Lord Larys and Ser Quinton.”

All you have is your children

Tag list: ok I’m sooo sorry to anyone who does not get a tag. I swear I am not ignoring you. I am only allowed to do 50 which is so annoying bc I want to tag everyone that was kind enough to support and ask. Also sometimes tumblr won’t let me tag certain people idk. If y’all know a better way please let me know, so I can try it ❤️❤️.

@simp-is-what-i-am @rey26 @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @crispmarshmallow @dc-marvel-girl96 @stargaryenx @b00kdiary @grey-water-colors @neenieweenie @iwanttohitmyself @helloitsshitzulover @lazypinkpig @shisuchiha @leoramage @viperixsworld @luvremlu @this-is-a-bad-idea @landlockedmermaid77 @inpraizeof @blacpiink @carriellie @s0urmarvel @blackravena @bregarc @hvx @let-love-bleeds-red @fangirls94 @v7nt7 @m1ndbrand @highexpectationsgurl @m1tzifa1ry @spaceslutty @elleclairez @kitkat-writes-stuff @paprikaquinn @widemiffyhappy @poisonedsultana @what-is-your-wish @lilliansstuff @rebelfleur22 @aloneatpeace @alastorhazbin @alexa4040 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @ensolleildelune @clora95 @yu3kkii @mischiefmanaged2 @its-sam-allgood @papery-maniac

[agi-ppangx]

warnings: scars, mention of blood, fem!reader

“where did you get that scar?” chan asked you softly, tracing your bumpy skin with his fingers. you were laying in bed together, enjoying your day off. your t-shirt rode up a bit, exposing a big scar on your left hip. “i fell off my bike when i was seven,” you explained. “i was wearing the flowery dress my mum bought me, but we had to throw it out since it was all red at the end of the day.” chan let out a little “oh”, looking up at you. “did it hurt?” he asked, though he was pretty sure it must’ve been really painful. “yeah, it did. but i was more worried about the dress honestly,” you giggled a little, but chan could see the sorrow behind your eyes. “i was so sad, because i remember how my mum loved it and i just ruined it.” chan threw you a sad smile, emphatizing with you. his face changed after a while, he looked as if he was considering something and you cocked your head at that, wordlessly letting him know you’re confused by his mood change. after a brief moment he simply smiled at you, his eyes sparkling. he abruptly got up and held out his hand for you. “what are you doing?” you asked dumbfounded, taking his hand in yours. “let’s go shopping,” he said. “we’ll find you the same dress.”

if it flops im just gonna delete it and never think about it ever again lol

taglist: @lynlyndoll @iyenbread @flooo71 @skz-streamer @inniescandy-01 @hannahhbahng @prettymiye0n @ggsez31 @laylasbunbunny @like-a-diamondinthesky @axel-skz @kittymaryam @l3visbby

[delirious-donna]

Museum Mishaps [Part Six]

story summary: Your best friend lets you crash at her place over the spring break since you have nowhere else to go. Little did you know that it isn't actually her place. Instead, it belongs to a tall (grumpy) hot guy who finds you in his apartment–her brother.

chapter summary: It's been two days since that night at the bar, and Kento is the one to suggest a trip to the museum. Leaving you to wonder... is it a date?

pairing: Nanami Kento x female reader

warnings: SFW except for one small mention of masturbation, humour, forced proximity, two oblivious idiots, misunderstandings, a little bickering, Kento is a museum nerd

Part Five | Series Masterlist | Part Seven

The weekend came and went without further incident between yourself and Kento. That wasn’t to say that things were perfect, but it no longer felt awkward when the two of you occupied the same room. It was much like living with a roommate, which you supposed it was, and you had dealt with that in your first year of college without maiming or killing anyone. Although, you couldn’t recall wanting to fuck your roommate either, so perhaps the comparison wasn’t accurate after all.

Whilst the memory of almost blurting out your late-night wandering hands still burnt freshly in your mind, the rest of the evening had been saved by it. The heat of Kento’s rejection didn’t sting too badly once he turned those hazel eyes on you, suspicion pinning you in place. Anything was better than the look he had given you in the bar.

Thankfully, the banter and easy conversation returned. It was easier to tease him about the incident than dwell on it. Heaven knows you weren’t going to make another move like that. You’d play it off as some silly joke rather than see your feelings hurt. Kento wasn’t interested, and that was okay. You weren’t everyone’s cup of tea, you understood that. Knowing where you stood now, it was a lot easier to build those bonds with your best friend’s brother—for that was all he could ever be.

Kento, on the other hand, felt like an opportunity had slipped through his fingers. It was gone before he could react or try to claw it back. Whilst he was glad that your good humour returned, he couldn’t help but fixate on those unspoken words. It was hard to look past the idea that something was staring him right in the face, and he simply couldn’t bring the image into focus to understand it.

So many times, his mouth had opened, words on the tip of his tongue, only to shut it again. His lack of courage irritated him. Handfuls of his neatly parted hair pushed back to hide how badly he wanted to scrub a palm down his face.

He was no coward.

Except he was.

The dreams were worse than ever. There were never full scenes but enough lingering fragments that tormented him each morning upon waking. Bright sunshine smiles, the warmth of a touch he wasn’t accustomed to and the sound of his name. Such torture, and perhaps, if he weren’t wearing his obliviousness as armour to protect his heart, he would realise that his brain was trying to tell him something.

He was ashamed to admit that he had masturbated more in these three days than he had in almost an entire year. He was more ashamed that he felt more relaxed than he had in an even longer time than that. Whilst he still followed a lot of his daily routine, being able to deviate or change things around was rather freeing, and of course, he wouldn’t put any of it down to the relief he was giving to his body. Preposterous.

Kento missed your presence when you skipped out the door on an adventure he wasn’t invited to. Raising a hand half-heartedly when you waved your goodbyes and clock-watching until you returned. Your stories were fast becoming the best part of his day. Listening raptly to you rave about this quaint little second-hand bookstore you discovered and expressing so emphatically how much you were sure he would love the place, he looked forward to it. It felt like he was rediscovering the city he had lived in for years through fresh eyes and he enjoyed your unique take on the world.

His smile was genuine, if not tinged bittersweet. It was warming that you thought of him when he wasn’t around, but it would be so much better if he could be there with you, and that was quite the realisation to swallow.

In the end, it was that sense of missing out that caused him to blurt out an invitation this morning. The two of you sat side by side at the kitchen island savouring the coffee he had brewed for you both, whilst you thought out loud about where today might take you.

“There’s a wildlife photography exhibition at the National Museum. Kento paused, pretending not to be eyeing you over the corner of his newspaper. “I was thinking of going… would you like to join me?”

He waited with bated breath, silently cursing how nervous he felt and already working on how he would cover his disappointment when you inevitably declined his offer.

“Yes, please! That sounds like fun. I’ve never been to the National Museum before, could we look around as well?”

Kento blinked. In his head, he was ready to say not to worry and that he’d go by himself, but your enthusiasm bowled him over. Shutting his paper, he turned to you and bowed his head in a nod. “Of course. We could leave in around an hour and have most of the day to explore. I’ll just go change out of these sweatpants.”

You watched as he practically scuttled out of the kitchen and down the hallway. It was very unlike him to move so swiftly, and you stifled a laugh before preparing for the outing yourself, dancing along to the soft music playing over the apartment speakers in your excitement for the day ahead.

~

It was hard to look in every direction as you traversed the wide-open atrium that served as the central hub of the museum, but you gave it a damn good go. More than once you bumped into Kento when a new curiosity stole your attention, apologising almost half-heartedly, and not because you weren’t sorry for nudging him so often, it was more that your brain was too busy processing everything it could see.

A large bronze statue of Buddha caught your eye, and you skittered across the polished floor to stand in front of the information plate, eagerly absorbing all it had to tell.

Kento couldn’t help but smile. Your enthusiasm was proving infectious, and he strolled with newfound intrigue towards you tapping photo after photo of the statue on your phone. “I didn’t take you for a museum connoisseur. Every time I’ve come here with Karin, she has whined and pleaded to leave almost as soon as we got here.”

“Oh, tell me about it. I tried to get her to go to this really cool space exhibition that our college was hosting and she flat-out refused.” You harrumphed at the memory of her expression filled with disgust. “I’m not your sister, Kento.”

You moved away to grab up one of the folded paper guides with a map of the place, and Kento was glad of the second’s reprieve after that last comment. No, you weren’t his sister. He swallowed and raised a hand to loosen the knot of his tie only to remember, at the last moment, he wasn’t in a shirt and tie. Another stark reminder of how little downtime he ever afforded himself. Perhaps, it was time for a change.

“If you enjoy space, follow me,” he said with a subtle wiggle of his eyebrows when he walked towards you for the second time. Waving towards the open entranceway to the left, you turned and glanced up into the skeletal remains of what you guessed to be a T-Rex. It made you giggle, and Nanami followed you closely, shaking his head in good humour at the renewed spring in your step.

He led you through a gallery filled with animals of all shapes and sizes, from the long-extinct to the endangered to the thriving. Creatures of the sea, land and air hung suspended from invisible supports, and even a baby blue whale graced the visitors with the enormity of its skeletal shadow. You would have stopped at every sign and interactive spot if not for wishing to keep pace with your guide. Whilst he wasn’t storming ahead, his pace wasn’t meant for the careful reading of every fact you could digest.

It was worth it when you reached an area darker than the previous section, with minerals and twinkling geodes shown behind glass cases. The remnants of a lunar capsule marked one corner with children standing around an employee giving an enthusiastic talk about the moon landings. Models of the solar system in varying sizes caught your attention, but what really stood out was the black dome in the centre.

Stopping short of the hidden entrance you spied when a woman and little boy slipped inside, you tapped Kento’s shoulder. “What’s inside there?”

“Now, why would I spoil the surprise, hm?”

Without another word, he marched inside to leave you standing there, blinking in amused confusion. This playful side was interesting, fun even, and you hoped it would last throughout the visit.

Never in a million years did you think you’d find yourself lying on your back staring up at the celestial bodies that made up the Universe with Nanami Kento by your side. He was seated on the floor along the wall when you found him, grateful for the small pillow he’d managed to secure for the both of you given how crowded it was inside. The noise of families, friends in little groups and the odd couple or two died down when the low lighting completely extinguished to bathe you in darkness. You found that you had to lie closer to Kento than you would have chosen, but he didn’t seem perturbed by your nearness, in fact, he turned his head to give you a smile that made your stomach flutter with rambunctuous butterflies.

Denying your attraction to him was growing harder once more, and you did your best to focus on the story above you rather than trying to identify the notes of his cologne that wafted into your nose. The heat of his body licked at your own, warming you thoroughly though you were far from cold. This felt… intimate, or it would, if it were a date.

Was this a date? No.

A mighty boom echoed through the sound system to symbolise the moment of the big bang, and you audibly shrieked in surprise. There were titters of laughter from every side, heat filled your face instantly, and you lifted your hands to cover your eyes in embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” Kento’s concerned voice whispered in hushed tones only loud enough so you would hear. His breath fanned your ear from the action of shuffling closer, and you had to fight the urge to shudder in appreciation.

“Fine, I’m… fine.”

He wasn’t buying it, and honestly, he didn’t feel too hot himself. If he spread out his fingers he would brush your hand, that’s how close you were. The near blackness illuminated by the twinkle of projected stars overhead intensified the already far too intimate setting, and despite how crowded it was, everyone faded from his mind as he thought of only you. Kento imagined the two of you spread out like this on a warm picnic blanket, the real heavenly bodies above you and how nice it might be to kiss you beneath their ethereal watch.

The lights came back to life without warning, although had he been paying attention to the experience, it wouldn’t have been such a surprise. Blinking and slightly dazed, Kento sat up and quickly got to his feet, dusting down his trousers and smoothing away any wrinkles. He reached out to help you stand before thinking twice, your hand slid into his with perfect ease, and for a moment, he simply stared at you in longing.

His hand was warm, the texture rougher than expected, and when he finally pulled it back, you wanted to tighten your fingers and refuse to let go. The hustle surrounding you both wasn’t enough to sway your attention nor was it enough to calm your racing heart. Your gaze caught the attention of a young couple, hand in hand and laughing about something unknowable, and you coveted what they had, and you didn’t—couldn’t. He didn’t want you like that, and no matter how much you wished this could be a date, it wasn’t.

“Come on, let’s get moving or we’ll never see everything else.”

Kento heard your words. He saw your smile and the wave of your hand to beckon him onwards, but he didn’t believe them. For that brief moment, when your hand was in his, he felt your fingers twitch almost imperceptibly. More wishful thinking on his part? He wasn’t sure, but he was determined not to spoil the day by moping in his uncertainty.

The hours melted away much like the sun rising and dipping in the sky outside. An air of fragility lingered despite both your efforts to dispel the effects of earlier. The exhibitions and various collections were intriguing, but none more so than the man trailing a few paces behind you. An enigma that you were sure you’d started to unravel, but now… you weren’t so sure anymore.

He offered tidbits of information that only a history buff would be able to, the tips of his ears blushing beet red whenever you pointed that fact out. So many times you wanted to sneak up real close when he was engrossed in reading something, the desire to run your fingertips over his ribs and find out if he was ticklish or not, but you knew that wasn’t a good idea.

The wildlife photography exhibition was far quieter than you suspected it would be, and you were grateful to be wrong. After a good few hours of trailing around the massive building, fatigue was setting in and finding a soft seat to rest your tired feet was a pleasant result. Leaning back on your elbows on the overstuffed leather rectangle that sat in the middle of the gallery, you could watch the comings and goings from every angle.

Kento stalked between the various shots that lined the walls, pausing and tilting his head in keen fascination. He was your sole focus, the unexpecting prey with a jaw cut from pure marble. Your lips quirked involuntarily each time he rocked on the balls of his feet—a habit you had not long noticed. If you weren’t much mistaken, Kento seemed to favour long shots where the subject was captured in action; a tiger swimming through a moss topped lake, hyenas circling the kill of a lioness and a vibrant green frog leaping majestically towards a tree branch.

“Do you dabble?” You asked quietly, having approached after your short rest. “In photography, I mean.”

“Hm? Oh. No, nothing like that.”

Kento shuffled awkwardly towards the next picture, a flock of wild birds taking flight from the long grass of a savannah. “How come? You sure seem interested,” you pressed further, eyebrows knitting at the discomfort you sensed in him.

“It wouldn’t be an effective use of my time. I don’t have the hours to sink into a hobby that would see me gain nothing in return,” he explained to your utter aghast.

“What about happiness? Indulgence? There doesn’t always have to be a measurable outcome for something to be fun and worthwhile.”

He scoffed, and you scowled. “You’re still young…”

“Well, I’d rather stay young than become a jaded corporate slave like someone I could mention.” You stalked away to the other side of the room, perturbed by just how little stock he seemed to put into his own mental and emotional well-being. “And I’m not that young, Kento.”

He couldn’t understand your sudden ire. What did it matter to you what he did with his free time? More like what he didn’t do, he supposed. Sure, there had been a time in his adolescence when he carried a Polaroid camera around with him, the bulky piece of equipment tucked into his backpack and brought out to capture those moments that weren’t posed for, finding a special kind of beauty in the raw exposure of life.

It had been nothing but a phase. One left behind when he entered college and started to work towards the life he wished to live. Only now, he wasn’t so sure he was living the life he dreamed of. He achieved the successes he set out to, but was he happy? That was a hard question to stomach, let alone try to answer honestly.

“Why do you look like you want to yell at me?”

Glancing sideways, you frowned up at his towering frame and felt the heat of his anger wash over you to meld with your own. “Because you make it sound like any interest outside of endlessly working or working out is redundant. Irresponsible. Stupid!” Your voice rose higher, the words punched out with a flap of your hands.

“Do you care so little for what makes you happy? It makes me… mad,” you continued with a slight pause. The familiar tight, itchy feeling invaded your throat whilst the prickle of tears stung your eyes. Goddammit! You hated that you wanted to cry when you were angry, and the last person you wanted to see those tears wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t.

“Oh, Howard, look there. Doesn’t that bring back memories?” The amused voice of a woman who appeared in her early sixties caught your attention. Quickly wiping at the stray tears at your lashline, both you and Kento turned to the couple who were staring right at you.

The man chuckled indulgently at his wife, patting her hand that was secured through his arm and whispered something that couldn’t be heard. His wife nudged him playfully, and you could only look on in complete bemusement. They walked closer, the woman offering a kindly smile as she reached out to pat Kento’s arm, then yours.

“They say that couples shouldn’t bicker, especially in public,” she said with a slight laugh. “But don’t listen to such rubbish. Howard and I used to snipe at each other regularly, and we’ve been married thirty-five years.”

“Oh, no! You misunderstand, we’re not…”

She held up a hand to silence your stammered protests, shaking her head with a chuckle. “My dear, when you’ve been around as long as we have, you start to trust what your gut tells you. I won’t say anything else except to offer this one piece of advice. Don’t go to bed angry, and don’t wait to go after what you truly want.”

“That was two, dear. Come on, let’s not bother them any longer.” With wisdom imparted, the older couple bustled away, leaving you to blink in bewilderment.

You could feel Kento by your side, his body rigid and unmoving. So badly you wanted to glance up and find out what his expression was, but honestly, you weren’t sure if it was a good idea or not. What could the couple have seen in you? Was it so obvious that you were interested? Even if that was true, surely his disinterest was just as plain to see?

“Well… that was unexpected. I’m sorry for yelling. It’s your life, after all, you should do whatever you believe is best. Can we go get a bite to eat and head home–I mean, back to your apartment?”

Kento could only nod. He couldn’t help but feel as if everything he had come to believe as true was crumbling around his ears. The ideals and principles he set for himself all those long years ago no longer seemed important. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d taken time off work, albeit enforced this time, and he had never felt so unsure of himself.

It was you. Your presence was the catalyst, and he didn’t know whether to thank or curse you. How could one person cause so much inner turmoil without trying? He watched as you wandered towards the archway that would take you back to the main atrium, the light from the skylight caught across your face and your simple smile blinded him.

Don’t wait to go after what you truly want… would he take the advice that continued to ring in his head?

[blurredcolour]

II. "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

The second half of August brings with it the horrors of the Regensburg/Schweinfurt mission, Bucky's absence in Africa, and two smaller missions in France. With this as the backdrop to your blossoming relationship, the pair of you find creative ways to connect with one another.

Warnings: Language, Alcohol Consumption, Death, Grief, Minor Bucky Injury, Blood, Scars, Minor Reader Injury, Hospital Setting, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [thigh riding, inexperienced reader, allusion to male masturbation] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all so much for the warm reception you gave part one. That combined with my evil brain has given us a full series! Just a reminder that reader has been given a brother for sake of plot. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6713

-------------------------

The day of August 17th dawned so thick with fog, it was difficult to tell it had even dawned at all. The walk from your quarters to the mess and then onto the control tower was fraught with anxiety – the fear that a vehicle might suddenly appear behind you through the milky atmosphere driving you to constantly glance back over your shoulder. Eventually, you decided to walk just alongside the road through the damp grass, listening to it squeak against the leather of your shoes, the only sound around you once you parted ways with your friends.

Cutting across the field in front of the equipment hangar, you gasped as Bucky stepped out of the mists in front of you like some kind of apparition from a ghost story. You gulped harshly at the way your stomach dropped in response to that mental imagery.

“Morning, doll. Seems like someone left the soup on the stove a little too long.”

You managed a chuckle, taking in his flight suit, his life jacket – or Mae West as the boys called them. He was flying today then. “I’m sure it’ll clear up soon, Major Egan.”

His lips twitched fondly, and he stepped closer to murmur in your ear, the fine hairs of his moustache tickling the delicate skin there. “See you in a few days, doll.”

“Take care, Bucky.” You whispered emphatically in return, and he stepped back to reach into his flight bag, producing the book you had lent him.

“I’ll have that answer for you promptly on my return, Lieutenant.”

You grinned softly. “I expect you will, Major.”

You turned to watch him go as he took long, easy strides to join his crew waiting on the truck to be driven out to their plane, disappearing in a swirl of persistent, pervasive fog. “I’ll see you soon.” You murmured after him.

Seven days.

Seven agonizing days of little news and empty skies passed as you impatiently awaited his return. The decision to send the group destined for Regensburg nearly five hours ahead of those bound for Schweinfurt had been catastrophic. It took almost seventy-two hours for the 12th to reach those who had made it to Telergma, and when numbers and names finally made their way back to Thorpe Abbotts, the cost of it all sunk in like a stone.

Rather than wasting the return trip to East Anglia, it was decided the survivors would undertake a retaliatory strike against some Luftwaffe bases in Bordeaux, one more hurdle to clear before they made it back to safety. It was mid-afternoon on August 24th by the time the droning of plane engines filled the air once again. Taking a steadying breath, you grit your teeth and forced yourself to focus on the keys of your typewriter as the brass all hustled outside to count the number of returnees.

‘Please let Bucky be among them. Please let him be unharmed.’ You had closed your eyes briefly to send up your silent prayer before launching back into your work.

It was nearly an hour later when, report finished, you tucked the neatly typed sheets of paper into their folder to deliver to Colonel Harding and stood only to meet the eyes of one Major John Egan through the window overlooking the Operations Room. He looked weary, sunburnt, with cuts and abrasions adorning his face and neck, unsteady on his feet, but nevertheless flashed you a brilliant, devil-may-care smile.

‘Thank you…thank you for bringing him back to me.’

You exhaled deeply for the first time in over a week, the folder nearly slipping from your fingers, contents nearly scattering across the floor. Mercifully, you managed to avoid that outcome, albeit with a fair bit of fumbling, tucking it securely against your side to prevent further mishaps. The next time you looked to Bucky he was smirking at you, eyes twinkling knowingly, before he gestured with his head toward where the washrooms were. Glancing at your colleagues, heads bent diligently over their work, you looked back to him and raised a finger to beg for one moment.

He nodded in silent understanding, sauntering toward the hallway casually. You took a moment before letting your desk mate know you were delivering a file and then taking a bathroom break. She nodded vaguely as you headed across the room to place the folder in the outbox before making your way to the washrooms. Furrowing your brows in confusion as you found the corridor empty, you barely managed to smother your startled cry as Bucky poked his head out of the janitor’s closet and pulled you into the cramped space with him.

“Bucky!” You hissed as he pressed you back against the door, his lips pressing tightly against yours, silencing any further admonishment you might have been able to summon.

Clinging the to straps of his harness, you rocked up onto the balls of your feet, pressing flush against him, a wordless expression of the gratitude you felt for his safe return. He had barely parted his lips when you mirrored the movement, welcoming his tongue with your own. A soft grunt of pleasure left his nose, his fingers digging into your hips tightly. The telltale tinge of copper seeped into the kiss, making you pull back sharply, groping for the pull string on the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling behind him.

You frowned deeply to see his lower lip was oozing blood. “You should go to the hospital, Bucky, you’re still bleeding…”

“M’fine.” He rumbled tiredly, cupping the back of your head gently as his thumb traced your left eyebrow.

You sighed softly, leaning into his touch as your eyes slid closed.

“My definitive answer is Blood Pressure.” He spoke in a hushed tone and your eyes fluttered open in confusion.

“What?”

His other hand left your hip to dig into the pocket of his flight jacket, producing the borrowed book, holding it out to you with a satisfied grin.

“You’ve already read the whole thing again?!” You gasped, eyes wide.

“Couldn’t very well keep you waiting now, could I?” He smirked and stole another kiss.

“I’m going back to my desk and you’re going to the hospital, please?” You looked to him pleadingly.

He sighed heavily. “That look is utterly unfair, doll…particularly in my condition.”

Your lips twitched slightly as you fought the urge to smile, doing your utmost to hold the plaintive expression until he huffed and pressed one last, copper-laced, sloppy kiss on your lips.

“Fine.” He conceded and you pressed your lips to his forehead tenderly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

Slipping from his arms reluctantly, you peered out into the hallway before making a dash into the washroom, cleaning your face of his blood and tidying your hair and uniform before rushing back to your desk, hoping he would hold up his end of the bargain.

Judging from how well he healed over the next few days, you were fairly convinced he had done as you asked. His lips had healed to their normal supple perfection, though it seemed he would be left with a few scars across his nose, cheek, and forehead. Unfortunately, you had not been able to sneak a moment to confirm if he had indeed gone to visit the hospital or not. When your duties did not occupy you, it seemed that his did and vice versa. Passing glances or encounters while surrounded by colleagues seemed to be all the fates afforded you the rest of the week.

The effect it had on your mood was something that did not escape Mary, Vi, and Ruth – for despite your best efforts to conceal your activities, they had been onto you since you had returned from that eventful trip to the pub.

“We’ll just have to make sure you’re simply irresistible at tonight’s dance, then.” Mary grinned darkly upon your return to your shared quarters that Friday, a dangerous gleam in her eye as she closed in on you with Vi at her elbow.

“Oh yes, Mary, a little feminine revenge ought to remind the Major of his priorities.” She drawled, arms suddenly loaded with supplies – from where they had appeared, you were not entirely sure.

You landed heavily on your bottom upon your cot, staring up at them warily as Ruth laughed from her perch across the way.

“Just give in, darling, it’ll be less painful that way.” Came her friendly advice, though her words did not prove at all true.

There was next to no consideration for your comfort while your hair was combed and restyled, hisses of pain escaping your lips as a plethora of pins scraped along your scalp as they were pushed into place to secure the style they were creating.

“Beauty is pain, darling.” Vi pursed her lips in mock sympathy, but you were altogether relieved when they declared their creation stable and moved onto your makeup.

Somehow, despite their dedication to perfecting your look for the evening, and then freshening up a little themselves, the four of you still managed to arrive at the officer’s club before Bucky and many of the men. Securing a martini and your favorite spot along the wall, you forcefully shooed them off to dance with the early arrivals who quickly approached them. You glass was roughly a third empty when Bucky arrived with his best friend Buck and their tight knit group. All eyes turned toward him, as always, that infectious grin and magnetism making him ever popular.

Now that he had arrived, the party would truly begin. Taking a deep sip of your drink, you nearly choked as his eyes met yours and he made a beeline straight for you. Swallowing roughly, your eyes widened as he plucked the glass from your grasp to set it on a nearby table before holding out his hand to you expectantly.

“I’m not very good at this…” You warned him softly, voice a bit thick from your battle to swallow your drink.

“All you gotta do is hold on, doll, I’ll do the rest.” He winked and wrapped his fingers around yours once you finally set your hand in his.

Leading you onto the dancefloor, he pulled you close, one hand at your waist, the other holding yours out to the side. Bucky grinned at you warmly as he began to lead you across the floor confidently, and you clung to his shoulder, feeling the eyes of almost everyone on you. His actions were so public in contrast to the moments you had shared previously. So very declarative. It took a lot of strength not to hide against his shoulder from all the attention the pair of you were receiving. Even your friends were shooting you grins and nods and little victory signals from behind him.

“You got all dolled up tonight, is there a mission I should know about?” He teased gently, immediately pulling you from your thoughts.

“I was ambushed.” You huffed ruefully.

“Ah, so this mission has already been carried out.” Bucky smirked, lips stretching wider as you laughed softly, relaxing somewhat in his arms as he continued to lead you confidently. “You look gorgeous…can’t wait to get that lipstick all over my face again.” He hummed against your ear, and you smacked his shoulder playfully even as your pulse jumped at your throat, feeling his laughter shake through him.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Kidd thought it was the perfect moment to launch into an excruciating meeting about…well I wasn’t listening, quite honestly.” He smirked, making you shake your head fondly.

“You ought to listen to the man, he is your Air Exec you know…” You teased gently.

He hummed thoughtfully before shaking his head. “I was too busy thinking about how I’d rather be doing this, right here, right now, with you.”

You met his eyes briefly, startled by the transparency of his statement, before glancing away, teeth buried in your lip in a vain attempt to moderate your rapid heartbeat.

Bucky kept you on the dancefloor for at least five more songs, until your feet started to hurt, your legs getting heavy. “Let’s get you another drink.” He kissed your temple and slid his arm around your waist, leading you to the bar. He ordered a whisky for himself and another martini for you, finding a table in the corner and sitting in the chair right beside you. “For someone who claimed to be not very good at dancing, you held your own, doll.”

You smiled at him shyly. “Just had to trust you.” His resulting grin made you bow your head in response to its brilliance, shivering as his hand squeezed your knee beneath the shelter of the tablecloth.

Taking a steadying sip of your drink, you glanced at him through your lashes, biting your lip at his eyes had never left you, his fingers tightening where they still rested over your skirt. You glanced to the side, suddenly afraid you might forget how to breathe under the intensity of his gaze, sucking in a somewhat ragged breath as you watched another couple canoodling in the opposite corner of the room. There was nothing subtle about the way they were pressed against one another, despite the very public place in which they found themselves, and you averted your gaze yet again to watch the bartender mixing drinks as you sipped yours steadily.

The resulting loosening of your muscles as the alcohol reached your extremities gave you the courage to look in Bucky’s direction once more, taking in his profile as he eyed the dancefloor, toe tapping to the beat. His arm was slung over the back of your chair, an action you had no memory of, and he was slouched low in his seat, legs spread wide. His posture was altogether too inviting, and had you gnawing on your lip once more, yet unable to tear your eyes away despite the alarm bells ringing inside your head.

“See something you like, doll?” Bucky’s voice in your ear made you jump. Made you wonder when he had closed the distance.

You hoped, briefly, that the Luftwaffe might indulge you by dropping a bomb directly on your head right then. No such luck. Bucky’s hand slid higher on your leg to squeeze your thigh, forcing you to raise your gaze to meet his. His normally stormy blue eyes were notably darker, pinning you to the spot as his tongue darted out to wet his slightly parted lips.

“Come on.” He spoke suddenly, sliding to his feet and holding out his hand again.

Following him back to the dancefloor, you gasped audibly as he pulled you improperly close, his hand splaying against your lower back as his cheek pressed against yours. “After this song, meet me at our bench. I’ll be five minutes behind you.” His lips brushed against your skin as he spoke, making your feet clumsy.

Bucky simply pulled you closer in response, bearing more of your weight to keep you dancing smoothly as you somehow managed a nod in agreement, heart hammering in your ears. There was no mission tomorrow, the control tower would be relatively quiet, and therefore so would the bench outback where you had shared your conversation about Runyon’s book. As the band wound down their tune, Bucky shuffled the pair of you to the edge of the floor, kissing your cheek softly.

“Goodnight, doll.”

You exhaled shakily, nodding as you mentally reached down to the bottom of your toes to summon your voice. “Night, Bucky.”

He gave you a crooked smile and one more kiss on the cheek before releasing you gently, watching patiently as you lurched into motion, heading toward the door and out into the relatively cooler night air. Making your way along the road, you swallowed back a curse as your eyes met those of your Captain who was standing watch over the route to the women’s quarters.

“Evening, Ma’am.” You saluted quickly.

“Lieutenant.” Captain Miller nodded crisply watching you continue on before you cut around behind the barracks and circled back toward the control tower to meet Bucky.

Due to the necessitated detour, he was already there, waiting, hands on his hips, shoulders slightly raised with tension. You frowned guiltily and crept up to gently set a hand on his arm, feeling him jump.

“Sorry, I had to appease the dragon-lady, she saw me leave and I–”

He nodded once before kissing you fiercely, making you sigh heavily against his lips. Sliding your arms around his neck, you allowed your fingertips to brush against the curls at the nape of his neck. His chest rumbled happily, his tongue tasting so sharply of whisky as it slid along yours that you wondered if he had taken those five extra minutes to have one more drink before following you.

“Thought you’d changed your mind, doll.” He grinned against your lips before he began to nibble along your jaw, sending ripples of gooseflesh down your neck.

“Uh-uh.” You breathed, gripping the skin of his neck as your knees felt about ready to give out.

“Just hold on tight.” He tilted his head to suck at your earlobe, gripping your hips as he slowly sank down to sit on the bench behind him, pulling you with him.

His hands slid further down your legs, guiding them apart to straddle his thigh, pushing your skirt higher to allow you to settle snuggly against his broad quadricep. Your jaw dropped open as your core pressed tightly against him, a mortifying squeak-like sound escaping your throat.

“Yeah?” He smirked, kissing back towards your lips. “Figured by the way you were staring you might want to give it a whirl.”

If you had been able to speak, his mouth would have swallowed any reply that you could have summoned as it sealed tightly over yours once more. As it was, you brain was filled with static like a wireless that could not quite be tuned to a frequency. Your predicament only worsened as his fingers curled into your hips, ever so slowly rocking them forward against him, making you whimper raggedly. The sensation was only outdone by the feeling of him dragging you backward, the friction causing an unspeakable reaction to roll through your body.

“That feel good, doll?” Bucky rasped against your lips, and you nodded rapidly, mewling as he repeated the motion, though you also began to move of your own volition, chasing the feeling needily. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.” He teased and you tugged at the hair peaking out the back of his cap.

“Yes!” You gasped sharply before kissing him hungrily, your leg accidentally brushing against the bulge at the apex of his thighs, shuddering at the groan you earned from him in kind.

Perhaps it made you a wicked woman to take satisfaction in giving him pleasure, but it went to your head faster than any martini you had ever consumed. Digging the toes of your shoes into the grass, you shuffled closer to him so your thigh might brush against his length with each of your self-serving motions.

“Christ, doll.” He growled under his breath.

“Feel…good?” You panted teasingly, biting your lip at his ragged laugh.

“People underestimate you at their own goddamn peril.” He nipped at your chin, breath fanning hotly down your neck as you worked your body against his thigh with increasing need. “Try…this…” He grunted and tilted your pelvis forward.

You slumped forward against his chest, mouth gaping in a silent moan at the intense pleasure radiating from the new point of pressure. Legs nearly giving out from the blinding power of it, you were immensely grateful when Bucky obligingly kept on guiding your hips, continuing to pull the strings of tension tighter and tighter within your body.

“B…Bucky…” You gasped against his neck as your thighs began to tremble, on the precipice of something, wondering if this is what it felt like just before a B17 lifted off the runway.

“Go on, doll, it’s gonna be great.” He rumbled, pace not slackening, though his arms must have surely been aching by that point.

Inhaling sharply, you pressed your face tighter to his neck, desperately trying to smother your cry of pleasure as every string of tension snapped inside you with the force and brilliance of a fireworks display on the fourth of July. Melting against him, you were naught but a shuddering mess, underwear ruined, struggling to satisfy your body’s demand for oxygen as you gasped for breath. Bucky’s grip eased on your hips, his hands shifting to caress your back tenderly as he kissed down your temple to your cheek.

“As promised?” He cooed and you shivered at the feeling of his breath against your skin, every sensation still heightened.

“Better.” You licked your lips and dropped your hands to his chest, slowly pushing yourself up to sit properly, shuddering at the pressure against your still throbbing parts.

“Here, doll.” He carefully lifted you up to swing your legs across his lap carefully. “Take it easy.” He kissed your cheek tenderly, squeezing your side.

You sighed softly, swallowing thickly as you lifted your eyes to his. “People underestimate your sweetness at a great loss to themselves, Bucky.” Cupping his cheek, you guided his mouth to yours to place a gentle, appreciative kiss on his lips.

Feeling the curl of his smile, you could not help but echo the expression, breaking the seal of your mouth against his.

“Our little secret.” He teased, voice still raspy.

Hearing the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path leading up to the control tower, you tensed against him, frowning as you became acutely aware of the persistent problem that remained in his trousers.

“We should go.” He whispered and you nodded quickly.

“Sorry you’re still…” You trailed off, sliding onto oddly unstable legs, grateful for his bracing hands on your hips as he rose to his feet.

“Don’t worry about me, doll, I can take care of myself.” He pressed his lips to your ear after uttering his quiet statement, making you swallow almost painfully as your mouth went dry.

You lost all ability to function for a moment, swept up in the lurid possibilities contained in that simple phrase, before the sound of a door opening cut through the night, and your stupor.

“Night.” You whispered sharply before sprinting off towards the barracks, keeping to the edges of the field and hoping to stay out of sight.

Luck, it seemed, was not on your side, as Captain Miller called your name just a few feet shy of your quarters. You had been so very close. Turning quickly to face her, you scrambled for some excuse as to why you were not on the other side of the door behind you.

“Lieutenant, did you get lost on your way over here?” She arched an eyebrow coldly and you had to remind yourself the mechanics involved in a proper breath.

‘Inhale. Pause. Exhale.’

“No, Ma’am, I just…realized when I got back here that Vi had asked me to be sure she didn’t stay out too late, and that I had left without her.”

Captain Miller’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “And where is your Georgian, troublemaking friend now, hmm?”

The lie had come so naturally, had been so plausible, but now that you were wrapped up in it, it felt like it might just drag you down to the bottom like an anchor.

“I’m here, Captain Miller, Ma’am.” Came a cheery call from further up the path, you friend still cloaked by darkness but by some miracle, arriving just in time to save your hide.

An exhale of annoyance escaped Captain Miller’s nostrils as she whipped back to see Vi, arm linked with Ruth’s, sauntering over to your shared quarters.

“Thank you again, darling, for reminding me to come back on time.” She gave you a tremendous, edging on comical, wink and it was all you could do not to grimace.

You may have been off the hook with Captain Miller, but Vi would surely exact a price for this rescue.

“To bed with you all, then, ladies.” Your Captain grunted and the three of you delivered a set of sharp salutes before ducking into your hut quickly.

“All the gory details, now, darling, or Captain Miller will learn just what you’ve been up to, and I’m certain it’s far from innocent.” Vi grinned wickedly as she dragged you to sit on her cot between herself and Ruth.

You were reticent to share the gory details, wanting to keep the taste of him on your lips, the way it felt to be pressed again him, as just yours. But there was a part of you that revelled in the telling of the simplified, polished version of your encounter on the bench behind the control tower the pair of you called ‘yours.’ And it certainly seemed to satisfy your debt, both Ruth and Vi grinning, crowing in glee by the time you got to Vi’s rescue.

“Our darling dark horse, unexpected champion at taming the rogue Major Egan.”

You scoffed and shook your head shyly. “I doubt that I’ve tamed him, Vi…” You protested but she just smirked with a tilt of her head.

“I’m willing to bet money on that fact, but I suppose time will tell.” She winked dramatically and you just rolled your eyes.

Within four days, Bucky was on his way back to France. The target was an aircraft factory in Rouen near Paris. Of those chosen, you undoubtedly preferred the targets closer to England. The flying time was shorter and thereby so was the period of wondering and waiting. Strategically, you absolutely understood the importance of the targets deep in Germany, but if the Regensburg raid had carried any lessons, it was that those targets were invariably the costliest.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of him before he went up, you retraced your steps, following the same path you had on the morning of the seventeenth, cutting in front of the equipment hangar. The feeling of a leather-clad hand seizing yours and tugging you behind the building had you gasping in surprise before you laid eyes on your target, grinning slightly at your success.

“Morning, doll.” Bucky murmured and kissed you quickly.

You allowed his lips to linger on yours for several seconds before pulling back quickly to glance around, checking if you had been spotted. “Be safe up there, Bucky.” You swallowed and he nodded.

“Think you could wear that lipstick again for me later? It sure looked nice all over my neck.” He smirked broadly as your jaw dropped in response, lifting a hand to smack his shoulder.

“Don’t push your luck.” You chided, wagging a finger playfully, and he laughed brightly in reply, lips meeting your cheek before he strolled over to the waiting crew truck.

You watched him go from your obscured vantage point, waiting until the vehicle had pulled away before you turned to continue on your way to your desk.

“Lieutenant?”

You jumped and turned to see the post clerk, Petty, hurrying towards you with a letter in his hand.

“Letter for you, Ma’am.”

“Thank you very much, Sergeant.” You smiled. “Did you manage to get the boys first?” You asked curiously, and he nodded so quickly you were worried his head might fall right off his shoulders.

“Yes Ma’am, got ‘em at breakfast.” His boyish grin of pride was infectious, tugging at the corners of your mouth, briefly easing the tension that seeped into your bones on mission days.

“Well done, Sergeant. Have a good day!” You returned the quick salute he gave you before he hurried on his way, heavy bag hefted over his shoulder.

Glancing over the envelope you swallowed as it appeared to be written in your father’s handwriting rather than your mother’s – unusual. She was often the one to manage the letter writing and mailing process and he would add a paragraph or two depending on what was happening back home that he thought would be of interest to you. Swallowing down your sense of unease, you slid the envelope into your pocket to focus on the mission. The letter had already taken several weeks to reach you, a few more hours would not make any difference.

Shortly after noon, they were already back; Colonel Harding walking past the office muttering about Major Egan’s displeasure in the weather. It seemed only one plane had been able to drop their bombs, and not even on the primary target. Exhaling deeply to hear confirmation of his return, the ever-present feeling of the envelope in your pocket suddenly took on an immense weight. Claiming an upset stomach, which only garnered a knowing grin from your desk mate, you excused yourself to step out back, wandering to the edge of the field to tear into the flap with somewhat savage impatience. Heart in your throat, your shaking fingers pulled the folded paper from within its confines and your eyes began scanning across the page rapidly, your sense of unease cresting like a tidal wave.

I need you to be very brave for me now, dear girl…

Your father’s words blurred in front of your eyes behind a sudden influx of tears. You did not even need to read the rest of the sentence to know. Perhaps you had known all morning – since Petty had set the envelope in your hand. Your brother was gone. Most likely had been for weeks, for all the time it had taken the news to reach you, across one ocean and then another. An agonized sob clawed its way up your throat, and you quickly pressed a hand over your mouth to smother it, taking off running towards your quarters, trying desperately to keep your grief at bay until you could be alone.

Eyes barely open, running across rough ground, it was no surprise when your foot snagged on some unseen obstacle, wrenching your right ankle and sending your sprawling across the grass and partially onto a pathway. Your right knee dashed against something sharp, your hands flying forward to catch your body, the letter you had been clasping fluttering to the ground beside you. The gravel bit angrily against your palms as it chewed its way into your tender flesh, and you could feel the warm trickle of blood soaking into your ruined right stocking. The shock and pain of your collision with the earth overthrew your ability to control your emotions and a strangled sob of anguish, frustration, and loss flew from your lips.

“God…dammit…” You gasped out, suddenly furious with the universe at large.

You had never known a world without your brother. His existence was a constant you had apparently come to rely on, and now that he had been wrenched from this plane, you were not certain what you could believe in at all. Allowing just a few tears to escape began an unstoppable chain reaction, your shoulders shaking as you remained sprawled across the ground, clenching fistfuls of gravel as you gave into your grief. It was utterly self-indulgent. You were not the first woman to have lost a brother to this ugly war, but he was yours and he was gone.

‘Get. Up.’ The lone, rational part of your brain chided. ‘Your father needs you to be brave. You’re making a goddamn scene. Get. Up. You petulant child. What if someone sees you.’

Like some kind of prophecy, you heard the quizzical call of your name. You could only hope the owner of that voice was still far enough away for you to make your escape. Sniffling sharply, almost painfully, to try and stem the flow of tears, you tried desperately to struggle to your feet. Your knee throbbed in protest, your ankle wobbling unsteadily, your palms stung in pain, and all you managed was to roll onto your backside.

A pair of strong, familiar arms slid around your waist, pulling you back into a warm chest, the fleece of his collar brushing against your damp cheeks.

“I’ve got you doll.” Bucky murmured into your hair, and you shuddered, fighting back the urge to simply break down sobbing once more.

Holding out your hands awkwardly in front of you, trying to minimize the transfer of blood onto your respective uniforms, you leaned back into his warmth despite the fact that it was a sunny August day.

“Let’s get you to the doctor.” His voice was tense, wound tight with concern, and absent his usually playfulness as he slowly eased you to your feet.

“I’m fine.” You tried to protest, but an inadvertent whimper escaped your mouth as you tried to bear weight on your right leg.

“The hell you are.” He growled a little, pulling your arm over his shoulders, sliding his own arm around your waist, practically hefting you against his body.

As he turned to begin walking you down the path, you gasped to see your abandoned letter tumbling through the grass on the breeze.

“My letter!”

“I got it.” He grunted and set you down, fetching it quickly and shoving it in his pocket before lifting you up against him once more, helping you towards the hospital.

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, keeping your gaze on the ground as you hobbled along beside him, not wanting to meet the eyes of anyone you may have passed along the way.

“Got nothing to apologize for, doll.” He shook his head, assisting you through the doors and into the building that smelled sharply of disinfectant.

“What about the blood on your clothes?” You protested.

“Probably mine.”

You looked to him quickly, frowning at the mirthless smile he delivered – an empty attempt at his usual humor. You noted he did seem to be in one piece, thankfully.

“What on earth…” Gasped the nurse on duty at the front desk as she hurried forward to slide your other arm over her shoulders, leading the pair of you to a bed in triage where she quickly began to remove your ruined stocking and deal with your still-bleeding knee. “This is probably going to need stitches, Lieutenant.”

You nodded silently, frowning down at her as she began to pluck the debris from your hands.

“What’s happened, Lieutenant?” A new voice joined the conversation, and you looked up to see one of the doctors, denoted by his white coat, had come to stand beside the nurse while Bucky loomed in the background, arms crossed, brow furrowed as he watched on intensely.

“Got some bad news, sir.” You replied, seizing the inside of your cheek between your teeth to deliver a sharp, steadying bite to your flesh as your lower lip wobbled traitorously. “It made me clumsy, and I tripped.”

You watched Bucky’s face somber even further than it already was, his arms unfolding to fall at his sides, though his fists remained clenched. You looked away quickly as you were certain he had been able to do the math. To figure out just what terrible news had driven you to your current state and you could not endure his look of sympathy – not and remain collected.

“We’ll take good care of her, Major.” The doctor said in a kind yet obvious dismissal and there was a moment of silence before you heard Bucky approach the side of your bed, pressing his lips to your temple.

“I’m going to let that terrifying Captain of yours know that you won’t be working the rest of the day.” He spoke softly, for only you to hear, and your head whipped to look at him, startled that he would dare take on Captain Miller.

Your eyes fell on the lingering marks on his cheek and nose from the Regensburg raid, wanting to protest, but on finding you simply did not have the energy to fight him, you conceded with a nod. By the time he returned, no more than thirty minutes later, you were cleaned, stitched, and bandaged with a tensor wrap on your ankle and a set of crutches.

“You need to keep off that ankle as much as possible, Lieutenant.” Doctor McLean, it turned out his name was, instructed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, Doc, I’ll make sure she gets where she needs to go.” Bucky chimed in and you looked to him, surprised he had returned so quickly.

“Thank you Major, with that in mind, you are free to go young lady. Keep to the pathways moving forward, please?”

“Yes, sir.” You repeated and used the crutches to rise to your feet, tucking them into your armpits to make slow progress toward the door.

Bucky followed along, patiently, removing any obstacles from your path before gesturing at the waiting jeep out front.

“Your chariot, doll.”

You looked to him skeptically. “I highly doubt this would be considered an appropriate use of army property, Major Egan.”

He shrugged. “No one else was using it, come on.” He guided you around to the passenger’s side, helping you onto the bench seat before taking your crutches to stash in the back. “You really, ok?” He asked quietly as he came to sit in the driver’s seat.

Nodding softly, you squeezed his hand as his fingers laced briefly with yours until he was forced to take it back to drive the vehicle. The trip to your quarters was markedly shorter thanks to the jeep, and you were unspeakably relieved to not have had to face it on crutches alone. Turning to thank Bucky, you blinked as he was already climbing out, bringing your crutches around.

“If you get caught in this area…”

“I’m assisting you to your quarters after an injury.” He insisted stubbornly and held them out to you.

You glanced around slowly before taking them, sliding to your feet carefully before making your way inside, once again grateful for his assistance as you hobbled over to your cot and sat heavily.

“Thank you, Bucky, you’ve been a really big help, but if you’re caught in here someone is going to murder you…”

He came to rest on his knees beside your bed, clearly choosing not to hear, or simply not caring about, your continued warnings. You pressed your lips together tightly, tucking them between your teeth as he produced your father’s letter from his pocket, setting it on the blanket beside you.

“I’m real sorry about your brother, doll.” He said quietly, forehead creased with unmasked sympathy. Your defences promptly crumbled, tears welling in your eyes and promptly spilling down your cheeks. “Hey, hey, shhh.” He shifted to quickly sit beside you, cradling you across his lap, holding you close as you turned your face to sob into his chest, fingers twisting into the fleece lining of his jacket where it hung open.

You lost all track of time in his arms, feeling safe enough to simply let your emotions run their course, have their way with you, in the privacy of your quarters. Thus, it was a surprise when you heard the gently clearing of Mary’s throat, lifting your head quickly to see her holding out one of her immaculate hankies while politely keeping her gaze on the rustic ceiling above.

“I have it on good authority that Captain Miller will be checking in on our darling Lieutenant shortly, so you may want to make yourself scarce, Major.” Her tone was warm and conspiratorial.

“Thank you, Mary.” Bucky spoke for the first time in a while, voice somewhat roughened by disuse. “I’ll see you for your ride to breakfast, doll.”

“Bucky, that’s really not necessary–”

“She usually eats at 0545.” Mary cut you off, clearly allying herself with him and against you. “Now I’ll take it from here.”

You huffed affectionately as he pressed his lips to your forehead. “You rest.”

“You, too.” You insisted stubbornly, feeling somewhat encouraged when he bestowed a smirk on you in response, sliding you from his lap onto the cot carefully and making his way out to remove himself and the jeep before your Captain could find him where he ought not to be.

“What was that you were saying to Vi and Ruth about not having tamed him?” Mary smirked, grabbing the hanky to begin dabbing at your cheeks with motherly roughness.

-------------------------

Read Part Three - "Trust Me, He's In Good Hands."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp

[preciouslandmermaid]

nothing’s gonna hurt you baby (carmy x f!reader) - bonus post-epilogue chapter

Note:  I randomly wanted to write a wedding, but I don't actually include the ceremony, so this is more like a "pre-wedding/post-wedding" story if we're being honest ! Also it takes place about 2 years after the epilogue :)

Warnings/Tags: 18+ Content! (Explicit Language/Sexual Content).

(Read on Ao3) /// (Masterpost)    

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sydney held the wooden spoon toward you and the scent of the honey and ginger glaze tickled your nostrils. Earlier in the afternoon, she rolled the sleeves of her dark green sweater to her elbows and the beaded bracelet (a gift from Richie’s daughter, Eva) slid partway down her wrist.

“Alright, it’s your entree. You get to try it first.”

“I thought that was the chef’s honor?”

“Yeah, well, you’re the bride so…” she trailed off, shrugging. “I think that superimposes chef’s honor.”

You smiled and raised both eyebrows at Syd. She didn’t have to help, especially considering how busy The Bear is nowadays, but she offered and you gratefully accepted. Wedding planning – as it turned out – was a stressful affair. You and Carmy had your location set, but the guest list, wedding registry, and menu were woefully incomplete. You tangled yourselves into knots over the planning, but the goal remained firm in your mind; a celebration with Carmy and your friends mixed with the legality of marriage. You would overcome any hurdles you needed to cross because all of it would be worth it in the end.

Wordlessly, you closed your mouth over the spoon. Your lips puckered and your tongue recoiled to the safety of your back molars.

“Oh, oh shit,” Sydney said emphatically, “you hate it.”

“N-no!” You coughed, swallowing, and grabbing your glass of water. “The acidity is just a little...strong. It needs to be adjusted, that’s all.”

“Fuck,” she said, slapping her palm on the wooden countertop. “Okay – uh – that’s okay. We can – I can totally fix this. No biggie.” When she tasted the glaze, her expression pinched before she stuck out her tongue and gagged. “Yeah, nope.” She released a forced, short laugh. “There’s no saving that one.”

You loved Syd’s earnest, anxious awkwardness. Her blunt nature had been the first foundational stone of your friendship. You liked that she didn’t let Carmy off the hook, regardless of his experience and talent, and their partnership was an integral component to the Bear’s continued success.

“Back to the drawing board,” you said, drumming your fingers on the countertop. “Maybe ginger is too sharp? Do we lean more savory?”

“Interesting idea coming from the baker,” she teased.

“Hey!” You pretended to be offended and infused your tone with as much indignation as you could. “Just because I run a bakery doesn’t mean I have a sweet tooth.”

Syd laughed. “There is literally a bowl of candy by the entryway.”

“It’s for Halloween.” You crossed your arms and said, “There are a ton of families in this building.” In truth, your lack of nicotine intake after quitting smoking had manifested into a ravenous sweet tooth and, the lollipops – although bad for your teeth – were monumentally healthier than cigarettes.

“Dude, Halloween is seven months away.”

“We’re prepared.”

“What for like kids who don’t know how to like tell time and show up a few months early?”

“Obviously.”

She finished scraping the glaze into the trash. “You’re fucking ridiculous.” Her bright smile faded and the light entered her dark eyes. You recognized it as her ‘I have an idea face’ and your mood lifted—the overly sour glaze quickly forgotten. When Carmy said he wanted The Bear to cater your wedding, you had been shocked, and concerned about the additional stress it would add to your lives. However, with Syd in your kitchen, the pan gripped in her hand and her expression rapt with wonder, you realized that you had nothing to worry about. The wedding’s menu and food preparation were in the best hands.

“Do you have any soy sauce?” she asked, “Worcestershire sauce will work too, or liquid aminos if we’re desperate.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Carmy watched as your fingers held aloft over the keyboard and the spreadsheet glared menacingly in a harsh blue-white glow. The guest list had been easy to start. The obvious ones were Syd, Natalie, Peter, Richie and Eva, and your best friend, Taylor. The harder choices were family and how to arrange the tables. Your eyebrows angled in confusion and you drew your hands away.

“I’m not inviting my dad,” you said after a moment’s pause.

Carmy nodded. “Okay.”

His neck prickled uncomfortably. It wasn’t the flushed heat that arrived when he felt embarrassed. No. This discomfort traveled from his neck to his fingers. It raked across his skin like a thousand needles, pricking every nerve, and drawing blood. He thought about going to his coat pocket and withdrawing a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The quick, cold rush of nicotine would ease his headache and calm his nerves. But, if he smoked, then he’d need to walk downstairs and into the blustery sharp gray wind of March. And he didn’t want to bail on you. The puzzle of who to invite and who to sit with whom was a project for the both of you to untangle.

“I dunno if I should…” He cleared his throat and looked away when your eyes met his over the laptop screen. “I dunno.”

“Your mom?” you correctly guessed.

Carmy sniffed, scratched the side of his nose, and nodded. His heart thumped into his ribs. Maybe he should take a walk. Maybe the March air would clear this dreadful feeling from his skull. His stomach hardened into a pit at the idea of his mom coming to his wedding. But, at the same time, his dread and fear congealed into a sharp guilt that curdled his stomach acid. His mom was a force to be reckoned with. A hurricane of a woman. He loved her. He didn’t know if he wanted her at the wedding. He knew she’d be upset if she weren’t invited. But, both of you decided to keep the guest list small. The careful cuts were necessary, and not just due to the frugality aspect, but in terms of everyone’s enjoyment.

“She’d make it about her,” he said, “remember Sophia’s second birthday?”

You placed your hand on the middle of Carmy’s back, right between his tense shoulder blades, and he forced a harsh exhale through his teeth. They almost called the police, Carmy thought with a frown. His mom showed up and seemed fine, and then shortly before cake and presents, she buckled little Sophia into her car and claimed that Natalie hated her and didn’t want Sophia to have a relationship with her grandmother. His niece, at the age when separation anxiety often occurred, cried so much that she threw up on her special birthday dress.

“I do,” you said and your eyes softened.

“I’m a terrible son,” Carmy said, “I’m a fucking asshole. We have to invite her, don’t we? She deserves to be there.”

“Carmy, you’re not.” You rubbed his back. “Do you think I’m an asshole for not inviting my dad?”

He quickly said, “No.” The pit in his stomach gnawed at his smoke-deprived lungs. “It’s different.”

“How so?”

“He has another family.” Carmy stood, raking his hand through his hair. “My mom only has Nat and me.”

“So you have to sacrifice your happiness and comfort for hers?”

“Yes!” he said immediately followed by a quick, “No. I don’t know.” He reached into his coat pocket hanging by the door and fished out the squashed packet of cigarettes.

You trailed after him and wound your arms around him, pressing your face into his back, your hands coming to rest over his heart. Carmy froze. The pressure of your hands on his chest made him realize how fast his heart was beating. He squeezed the cigarette packet and it crinkled beneath his clammy fingers.

“Remind me,” you said, voice faintly muffled by his t-shirt, “what was the possible diagnosis your therapist gave her?”

“Borderline personality disorder.” His therapist also said his mom could have narcissistic personality disorder, but BPD was more likely, based on his descriptions of childhood. It helped to have a name for it. It gave him a better understanding of everything he went through.

“Which defines her behavior but doesn’t excuse it,” you said as you circled around him to face him. “Carmy, I love you.” You cupped his face in your hands. “I will support you if you want to invite Donna and I’ll weather any storms she brings with her. Who knows...maybe it’ll be a good day for her.” Your tone toward the end of your sentence became dubious.

Carmy sighed. “I don’t think I want to invite her, but I feel like I should.” He frowned. “That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“No, it does. You feel an obligation as her son to share this big moment with her. I get it.”

“Do you feel guilty about not inviting your dad?”

“A little.” Your lips pursed. “But, if I visualize our wedding, the thought of my dad standing beside me doesn’t make me happy. I don’t feel excited about it. I just feel…”

“Dread?” he guessed.

You smiled faintly. “It’s more annoyance and anger for me.”

“Mm, yeah. Makes sense.” He leaned his forehead and touched it to yours. How did he get so lucky? He imagined the wedding. He imagined seeing you across from him, sliding the ring on your finger, and stuttering through his vows. The usual nervousness bubbled up inside his chest, but it was smothered by the overwhelming warmth and affection he felt for you that bled across his skin like thick honey.

“I don’t think I can invite her,” he whispered.

“That’s okay, Carm.” You kissed him softly. “That’s okay.” You repeated against his mouth. A sensation of cool and blissful relief extinguished the last lingering remnants of his dread.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Something is weird,” you said, leaning forward in the passenger seat. “Why are there two florist vans? Did we accidentally get two?” You didn’t recognize the name on the second van either. Must be a local shop, you thought, although that doesn’t explain why they’re here.

“I don’t think so,” Carmy said.

As everyone poured out of their cars, their garment bags slung over their arms or over their shoulders, a sharply dressed black woman emerged from the entrance and strode purposefully toward you and Carmy.

“You must be the Berzattos,” she said breathlessly as she shook your hands. “It’s good to meet you. My name is Vivienne and I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“What sort of bad news?” Richie said, “The kind that gets us a discount?” He grinned at Carmy and your husband-to-be rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps.”

Richie whispered, “Oh shit.”

“We’ve had some technical issues with our new scheduling program.” She wrung her hands together. “The venue has been double-booked.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, noticing all the additional staff buzzing to and fro across the manicured lawn.

Vivienne said, “I’m so sorry for the mistake. If you’d like, we can reschedule you.”

Your stomach dropped into your shoes.

“Absolutely not,” you said, “people flew out to be here. We can’t reimburse flights and accommodations, and nor should we have to considering this is your error.” You sighed, feeling a headache press into your temples. “Why didn’t you notify us?”

“How about a discount and you can split the venue?” she offered, “we only realized the mistake when the two catering companies showed up.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” said Richie.

“Fuck,” Syd said.

Natalie crossed her arms. “I’m sorry did they say double-booked?”

“Mommy!” Sophia pulled at Natalie’s pant leg. “Mommy, look! Sunflowers!” She pointed at the floral van carrying out their arrangements.

You shared a glance with Carmy. “Can we have a minute?”

“Of course. Again, we’re so sorry.”

You and Carmy broke away from the group of your closest friends and family. You rubbed your hands down the length of your face.

“We can’t reschedule,” you said, “but how the hell are we going to share the venue? They have one kitchen and we paid for our guests to stay the night.”

“Maybe the timing works out,” Carmy said, taking your hand in his. “You want to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“Then fuck it. We stay.”

“Okay, fuck it.” You smiled. “Let’s negotiate a good discount.”

“Say the word and I’ll send Pete in,” Carmy joked.

You laughed. “God, we might need him.”

The organization was a cluster-fuck. The venue manager, Vivienne, assured and promised that the space was large enough and that the other party – the Carmichael's – were having a noon wedding with a 2 PM reception and everything would be cleaned up for your 4 PM wedding and 5 PM reception. But, you noticed the proverbial cracks in the foundation. The necessary kitchen prep work, the clashing decorations, the intermingling guests, and the underlying stress and confusion permeated every interaction. You practiced intentional breathing and hoped you’d make it through the day without bursting into stress-induced tears.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The zipper was halfway up when it broke. You felt the snag, then the tug and pull, and the abrupt separation. You pressed your hand to your mouth and muffled the noise of discontent and frustration that threatened to break free.

Taylor pushed her long, thick dark braid over her shoulder and pursed her red lips at you. “We can work with this,” she said after a long moment of contemplation. “We can fix it.”

You released a strangled, “can we?” You blinked back your burning tears—you didn’t want to ruin your makeup.

“Yeah, most of these places have emergency sewing kits,” your best friend said while digging through the drawers, “also, this might be a bad time, but is the chef single?”

Despite everything, you laughed. “Which chef?”

“The tall blonde one with the accent.”

“Luca?”

Taylor’s eyes brightened. “Yes!”

“I’ll find out for you,” you said while reaching for your phone. You smiled at the sight of your phone background, a black and white photo of you and Carmy, and Taylor snickered.

“I remember when you told me about him,” she said.

“You do?”

“Yeah, you were all tied into knots about it...and now look at you! Tying the knot.” She winked. “I’m glad you guys figured it out.”

Your chest warmed with pleasure. “Me too.”

“Aha!” She held the little sewing kit aloft. It had the venue's name printed on the front of the bag. “Do you think they write this so nobody steals it?” She asked while tapping the swooping decal.

Before you could answer, your mom bustled into the room, her billowing lilac sleeves trailing after her arms.

“Oh! Look at you!” She grabbed your chin and kissed your cheek. “I’ve got something for you. A little tradition.”

“Mom, I don’t know if I can stomach any more surprises.” Taylor began to fix your zipper and the cold metal teeth periodically kissed your skin.

“You’ll like this surprise.”

Your mom removed a potted plant from her purse. The dark soil clung to her fingertips, the plant likely got knocked around more than once, as she set it down on the vanity. You recognized the wide, verdant leaves.

“A basil plant?”

“Normally, we give a flower of some type, but I chose a basil plant instead.” She smiled, pleased. “Nurture the plant as you nurture your future and it’ll thrive.”

Your throat tightened. “Thanks, Mom.” Your shoulders jerked as Taylor finished zipping and she whooped in triumphant delight.

“There we go, crisis averted,” said Taylor, “now we don’t have to worry about walking down the aisle naked.”

You rubbed your fingertips along the basil leaf and smiled at them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“God,” Richie said, fixing his tie, “I can’t believe you’re getting fucking married, cousin.”

“Yeah, me either.” Carmy scratched the side of his nose.

“I always thought Mikey’d get married before you,” he said, “he was just more charmin’, you know? He had a way with people, women especially, God…” Richie shook his head. “He couldn’t walk down the street without getting some chick’s phone number.”

Carmy stared sullenly at his reflection. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t? ‘Cause then he’d have an ex-wife, or a widow, or a kid or somethin, I dunno.”

Carmy wondered if he’d forever be in rooms with Mikey’s shadow stuck to the corners. It didn’t suffocate him as much anymore. Mikey’s memory lurked within every conversation – like slivers of light through the paneled window shades. Today of all days though, Carmy suspected those slivers would blind him. Mikey should’ve been here, could’ve been, and he wasn’t.

“Yeah, good point.” Richie turned the side and smoothed his lapels. “Still, it should be him.”

Carmy’s neck flushed with indignation. Did Richie seriously have to be such an asshole? His brow furrowed. It was his fucking wedding day for fuck’s sake!

“Cousin—” Carmy began.

“Standing here, I mean, as your best man,” said Richie. “Look, there’s no takebacks and this would be a hell of a time to change your mind but it should’ve been Mikey. Not me. I get that, okay? That’s all I’m trying to say…” He fixed his tie again. “And I’m gonna do everything to make sure that this day doesn’t go to shit. I can promise you that, alright?”

Carmy blinked, at a loss for words at Richie’s admission. It had been six years and counting since Mikey’s death and Richie had been with him for every one. If he was being honest with himself and not caught up on nostalgia, if Mikey was here, then Carmy wasn’t sure he would have trusted him with all the responsibility. Hell, Richie organized a pizza-making bachelor party for him. He offered to trash the other couple’s wedding.

“Who else would it be?” he asked softly, “you’re family, Richie.”

Richie sniffed, nodded, and clapped his hand on Carmy’s shoulder, jostling him. When Carmy met his eyes, they were glassy and bright.

“I know.” His lips twitched up into a grin. “Let’s get you fucking married!” He pulled Carmy in a one-armed, half-hug and shook him. “Put a fucking smile on that face, Carm. Come on! Come on!”

He affectionately pinched Carmy’s face in one hand, squishing his mouth, and Carmy shoved Richie away, annoyed, but laughing—in the same way he’d get annoyed and laugh whenever Mikey goofed around with him.

“Fuck off,” said Carmy, without any heat.

“Hey,” Syd poked her head into the doorway, “you ready? The photographer wants to see all of the groomsmen.”

“Shouldn’t you say grooms-people? To be like politically correct or whatever,” Richie asked, “or groomsmen and women considering you’re among us.”

Syd made a face. “Richie shut up and come pose with us.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be inclusive,” he said loudly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If someone asked you to recount all the details of your wedding—you didn’t think you could. It was the busiest and most stressful day of your life. You’d always remember the finer details like Carmy’s thoughtful, flustered vows, Richie starting a limbo competition, or Syd’s dad dancing with Taylor—at least for a while until she disappeared with Luca in tow. Good for you, you remembered thinking as you watched her form retreat down the hall.

But the rest of the day was an exuberant blur. It had been long and you were grateful to relax into the lush pillowcases with your short silk gown kissing your skin.

Carmy climbed into bed after showering and peppered kisses along your nose and jaw, his hands finding your hips beneath the covers and holding them.

“I can’t believe you’re my husband,” you said with soft laughter before chasing his lips with yours.

“And you’re my wife,” he said, lifting your wrists and placing them over your head, “keep those there.”

You said, “We’ve been married less than twelve hours and you’re already bossing me around?”

Carmy chuckled and his breath puffed over your peaked nipples. His tongue laved over the silk, and moistened it before he drew your nipple between his lips. The soft silk and warmth of Carmy’s tongue was a heady, back-arching mixture.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered, plunging your hands into his damp curls and scraping your nails over his scalp.

“Yeah?” His calloused palm felt its way down your thigh, “Are you wet for me already?”

“A little,” you admitted as you parted your legs for him.

“God,” he muttered before mouthing along your breasts and wetting the silk with his tongue and lips. He held one of your breasts in his hand and squeezed, pushing the mound into his mouth again and sucking your hard nipple. The sensation turned to liquid, sticky heat between your legs. You moaned, pushing upward into his grasp and gyrating your hips in askance. His hand was frustratingly close to your cunt, but not close enough. He rubbed up and down your inner thigh from knee to apex, letting his knuckles occasionally brush your pussy, before drawing away without adding any pressure. The fucking nerve of him!

“My wife is so fucking hot,” Carmy said, and hearing the words sent a hot, fresh thrill trembling through you.

“And my husband is a fucking tease,” you said, digging your fingertips into his hard, sculpted shoulders.

Carmy pulled his mouth away from your wet breasts. The silk had darkened where his mouth had been and you could faintly see your nipples through the semi-translucent fabric.

“Am I?” He drew his hands away from you and grabbed your wrists again, pinning them above your head, “I thought I said to keep these here.”

You snorted. “When have I ever listened?”

“You’re a great listener,” he said honestly.

“I want to touch you, Carmy,” you said, matching his honesty with your own, even as his praise sang through your ears and warmed your skin.

He softened. “Okay.” He pulled your wedding ring-adorned hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. The moment he released your hand, you slid your fingers down his chest, smiling at the way his eyelashes fluttered and his cheeks darkened. You wiggled your fingers beneath the tight waistband of his boxer shorts and found him hard and pulsing within your grasp.

“Fuck.” He shuddered. “I feel like I could come just by looking at you.”

He jerked his hips into your touch as your fingers encircled him. You craned your neck upward and kissed him, finding the familiar rhythm of tongue and teeth, and moaning wantonly into his mouth when his hand cupped your wet folds. He hissed when his index finger pledged into you and your mind went white-hot and blank.

“Do you think the stress of the day has manifested into being super horny for each other?” You asked, your other hand cupping the back of Carmy’s neck, pinning his face close to yours so you could kiss him. His pretty blue eyes blinked at you.

“Maybe. But, I think I just want to fuck my wife.” His cock twitched in your hand and you grinned.

“It turns you on to call me your wife, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

His admission made your walls clench around his index finger. Maybe you liked it too. Maybe. You felt Carmy smile against your lips. “Can’t wait to be inside you,” he muttered, “filling you, listening to you moan.”

You gasped and your eyes rolled back into your skull. It wasn’t often that Carmy engaged in dirty talk, so when he did, it was a rare and special treat that never failed to drench your core. Carmy ran his tongue along your neck, tasting your sweat before a second finger speared between your folds and coaxed that inner fire.

“Keep this on,” he said, dragging his teeth across the strap of your gown, “when I fuck you.”

“Mm – fuck. Okay,” you groaned.

“Actually, I—” his words were suddenly lost to a moan as you adjusted your grip on his cock, your fingers slicked with pre-cum. “Fuck, baby. I need you on top of me.”

“Gladly.”

Carmy rolled onto his back, yanking his shorts down, and you smiled at the sight of him – as desperate as you were with his chest heaving and his wet curls falling onto his forehead. Your walls clenched in anticipation as you hiked the hem of the dress over your hips. Carmy’s hands settled on your thighs and he watched hungrily as you held the base of his cock and slowly lowered yourself onto him. Your spine convulsed and the sensation of him stretching you and filling you wiped out every lingering thought in your mind.

“God,” his voice was strangled, “you feel so fucking amazing.”

You cupped his face, resting your forehead on his as you rode him, and said, “so do you.”

“I love you so much,” Carmy said reverently, “so goddamn much.”

Your heart threatened to break and regrow the from sheer tenderness of his words. Carmy, you learned over the years, expressed his love with acts of service and he said ‘I love you’ most often while having sex. However, something about this ‘I love you’ was different. It was more intense on your post-wedding night. You buried your face into his sweaty neck, your bodies and hearts joined, your futures intrinsically linked.

“I love you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You tilted the watering can over the thriving basil plant and smiled.

“Auntie.” Sophia, freshly eight years old, held something in her hands. “I found a worm.”

You blinked at her. “Put it back?”

“Okay!” She replied cheerily and dropped the worm back into the potted rosemary. She spun when the balcony door slid open. “Hi Uncle Carmy! Do you want to see the worm?” She pointed.

Carmy smiled, first at his niece, and then at you. “Let me see,” he said, crouching. He balanced his wrists on his knees and the sunlight gleamed off his wedding band. Your heart skipped. My husband. You wondered what your grandfather would say if you could tell him that his death led you to your soulmate, a second family, and a range of new friends. Knowing him he’d tell me that he would’ve died sooner if he knew how happy it’d make me. Your grandfather had had a wry sense of humor.

Carmy stood and put his arm around you. “We’re going to need to re-pot the basil if it keeps growing like this,” he said absentmindedly.

You leaned into him and kissed his cheek.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XVIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here PART THIRTEEN is here PART FOURTEEN is here PART FIFTEEN is here PART SIXTEEN is here PART SEVENTEEN is here..welcome to eighteen..

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Uh... *checks notes* UH... *flips frantically*...listen my laptop exploded and I lost the original version of this chapter gimme a break. I think it was the oatmeal ch. last off.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

So. Danny is halfway through his squeeze this, please exercises where he has a grippy thing the doctors give him where he tries to squeeze this until they make calm noises again when something bursts through the door.

He’s so distracted that he drops his squeezing machine. 

Everyone immediately gets terse and guarded— the lady who looks out for him the most actually pulls up in front of him? Like, protecting him? With her body?? It’s so far out of left field Danny has to wonder if they’re, like, keeping him for something important down the line instead of just treating him. 

The doctors take shelter behind medical equipment where they can, but whatever the assailant is, it’s too fast for them to put up their defenses. For a second, Danny is instinctually scared— the doctor in the periwinkle scrubs sees him almost every day, changing out his bag and fussing with his lower half under his blankets. The doctor in green makes him do the hand stretches he doesn’t want to do and sit up so that he can do it more often again. 

He’s used to them. He doesn't want that to change, or— Or for them to get hurt. 

The blur darts through the doors and past the doctors and is definitely aimed at Danny, so when the lady catches it (with one hand??) and hauls it up out of reach of Danny’s cot, Danny’s relieved wheeze is genuine and emphatic. Ohgodthatwasscary. 

On the other end of her arm is a teenager. A teenager in a…red…outfit, probably, unless he really likes gray and Danny’s eyes are actually working normally for once. Gray hair. Some kind of face, presumably. 

The teen’s legs keep spinning until he realizes how caught he is. Then he goes completely limp in defeat. 

“Cild Lihting se þridda,” the lady scolds, not unlike how Danny’s heard Vlad scold his cat for throwing paperwork off his desk. “Hwæt eart eow dydest?”

“...Naþing ,” the teenager lies, badly, and it sounds so much like Nothing, mom, wasn’t me, that Danny can’t help but choke out a laugh. 

It makes his chest muscles spasm and his throat sore, sure, but that’s not the point. The lady keeps scolding the teen she’s holding up midair, but the teen lights up at Danny’s choked out wheeze like the sun. Almost literally, actually— the green starts accumulating in Danny’s field of view as his body tries to compensate for whatever’s going on in the atmosphere around him. 

The doctors slowly let down their improvised shields, fetching Danny’s lost grippy tool (ugh) and putting it back in his hand (UGH). Danny gives one, pathetic squeeze of the tool, and then decides to visibly languish, because this sucks, obviously. The fact that no one can sympathize with his struggle isn’t new. Just watch him go limp about it. 

The next time the lady and the teen stop making scolding and scolded noises, Danny looks over; the teenager has been, apparently, wrangled into a hair net and face mask. Okay. So it’s not that Danny is off limits then— or maybe he is, but either way, it’s more about getting people into the right gear than about keeping them away from him. Once the teen’s been sprayed down with something that smells absolutely gross, forcibly gloved, and dropped unceremoniously onto the ground, the teen is back on his feet and hollering as he leaves the lady behind. “Þancie eow!!” 

“Slaw, lytel Lihting!” 

Slow, Danny understands, parsing out the weird words as they reach him. Lytel might as well mean little. This sucks. He can never tell if he’s right when he guesses, and he just gets lucky when people understand him back, or whether people are pretending to understand him more than they actually do. Lighting is a weird nickname for a kid though. 

—And then the teen is a foot away from his face and babbling at top speed, entirely at ease with their proximity and hands moving a mile a minute, and Danny has not been losing enough time for that to be anything other than either magic or a superpower. 

Oh, his brain corrects. The word clicks into place. Lightning. 

It’s probably some kind of magic, Danny’s guessing, because as he’s absolutely flabbergasted that someone is leaning into his face and trying to engage him that talk that isn’t happening, his ghost sense flares with a backwash of OMGHIHELLO!!MIS/SEDYOUMISSED//YOUPLAYING?? that. Uh. Is very…a lot? Very intense??

Very…welcoming?

The lady who minds him but isn’t a doctor sighs, picks the teenager up by the waist (??) and sets him a whole foot back. The teen doesn’t even stop chattering, his aura flaring alongside a story Danny is definitely missing, but not unappreciative of. 

He throws something onto Danny’s bed. Danny drops the grippy tool in order to grab it, to the doctor’s verbal dismay. 

But. 

Like Danny’s model shuttle, which never leaves his side, the thing on his bed is Danny’s. This is Danny’s weird, flimsy, squishy toy.

The teen practically vibrates with pride.

…Okay, then. He’s kind of confused, but like. You know. He’s not against this.

Danny picks the squishy, blue thing in his trembling fingers and shakes it around without any sense of fine motor control, and the thing leaps out of his fingers and lands on the floor pretty much instantaneously.

It makes a weird suction noise. Danny peeks over the bed to find it sitting upright, stuck to the floor.

The teen responds by throwing even more colorful, oddly-shaped toys on the bed.

Danny knows enough about doctors to know that there were probably structured plans on how Danny was supposed to spend his time on specific exercises to target specific muscles and stretch specific parts of his hands, but the teen sits at his bedside and plays with toys Danny doesn’t remember with him, and no one stops them at all.

It’s nice.

For about an hour, until Danny truly tires, it's almost…normal.

[harrieatthemet]

Birthday

In which Harry has to have the last word... and a better present.

"There's my girl," he sings, a wide smile expeditiously appearing on his face, "my birthday girl."

Her smile is shy, which is ironic considering her outfit is lathered so dramatically in bright colors it could singlehandedly blind anyone within a 5 mile radius. Nonetheless though she skips over to Harry, wrapping her arms around his leg best she can.

Despite the animosity between the two of you and the not-so-subtle hard feelings, there's no fighting the smirk that creeps up on you when she squeals in amusement. Harry's got her in a cradle now, swinging her back and forth before sitting her on his hip. Their bond is so special and he's so effortlessly good with her. You almost forget how you were fighting the urge to throw a handful of plastic spoons at him under a minute ago.

"Can't believe you're turning fifty seven," he teases, "you're a little old lady!"

"M'turning five," she giggles, "still a baby!"

"What!" his dramatized gasp pulls a belly laugh right out of her, "mumma, is this th'tallest baby you've ever seen?!"

Your nod in agreement is emphatic as you pair it with a pretend shocked gasp, which only makes her laugh harder. She's squealing once Harry starts tickling under her chin; writhing sporadically in her spot on his hip as she's got nowhere to run to seek refuge. But eventually he relinquishes his grip after she begs for mercy, setting her back down on the floor before sending her off to check if any guests had began to trickle in.

On the counter he's placed two bags; both generously filled and near overflowing. His grip was so tight on the handles earlier he may have even lost feeling in his knuckles halfway on the walk to the front of the house.

"Did you get the candles?"

Now he's definitely lost feeling in his knuckles but not from carrying cheap plastic, but more-so because he's barely been 10 minutes in the house and you're already needling him.

"Candles?" his words come out in an annoyed exhale, "Y'never asked me about candles, (Y/N). If y'asked, I would've got them."

If he wasn't so well accustomed to the sound of it, he'd almost miss your exasperated groan as he started unpacking the shopping bags onto the kitchen counter.

It's obvious you're in a mood. He can tell by the tenseness in your stature and how frenetic you're moving around the kitchen island. Had you greeted him with a little more cordiality, he'd have complimented your over-achieving decoration execution. The house, inside and out, really looked beautiful.

"I did," you huff before undoing a package of paper napkins, "I asked you twice. Don't do that, Harry."

"Do what?"

"Berate me," you snap, "or tell me I didn't do something I know I did."

He throws his head back and lets out a long breath, "Y'don't even talk t'me on a good day, and now you're telling me y'asked me for candles? Like I'd forget candles for m'daughters birthday."

"Wouldn't be the first time you forgot something important."

"Oh fuck you f'that, really," you've managed to get him riled up in record time - a whopping 3 and a half minutes, "bloody unbelievable, you are, y'know?"

"Oh I am? Me - unbelievable?"

"I walk in and immediately it's th'bitching and the-"

Honestly he could drag on and on if time permitted. Once he gets going he finds it hard to bring it to a full stop. And usually, these arguments tend to get drawn out for that exact reason. He's promptly interrupted though when he hears a soft clicking of shoes and a familiar little voice roam in from the kitchen archway.

There's no need for him to turn around to see who it is. And she knows better by now than to say anything. Since the fighting initially became a household staple she's gotten pretty skilled in hallway loitering and incognito eavesdropping. How much she's already heard is unclear, but he's gonna table the conversation for now and act like it never happened. So are you.

"My friends are here!"

Sometimes it feels kind of like having an entirely separate identity. You often find yourself wondering if Harry ever feels the same way. When angel baby is around, it's kind of like switching off a light or getting caught doing something you shouldn't be. Because when she spawns in the room mid-argument, the energy shifts and you find yourself smiling a little too hard and over-compensating a bit too much.

And when she leaves, it's right back to the regular scheduled programming. You don't remember exactly when the turning point was that resulted in this; neither of you being able to stomach looking at the other, constantly arguing, going jab for jab, saying the worst thing that comes to mind out of spite or with the goal of tearing each other down.

"Not done talking about this," it's just like Harry to try and have the last word as he follows angel baby out of the room, "can y'table it for her birthday? Can y'manage that?"

It was an intentionally halfway-out-of-the-room delivered line, largely so you'd have no time to quip back at him with a snide comment or off-color remark. Because as soon as you follow him out to say something in rebuttal, you're stepping into an influx of people holding different-sized gifts in the middle of the front entrance.

It's almost like he's challenging you. Of course you can table it.

At least, you thought you could table it.

It's so irritating how easy it is for him to compartmentalize. It doesn't phase him at all that you were at each other's throats earlier. At least that's how it comes across in the way he seamlessly works the room; all cool and convivial with the inviting hugs and enthusiastic small talk. More likely than not, he's carved out 5 minutes for each guest tenfold. Whether it's an act or not, it really gets under your skin.

"Here petal," Harry encourages eagerly, handing an oversized professionally wrapped gift, "s'from me."

She's sat in an awkwardly shaped circle alongside a couple friends from school, giggling as Harry places the box in front of her. Her eyes light up merely at the size of it. The box itself is almost as tall as she is, and what 5 year old wouldn't gawk at a lavish gift that towers over them when sitting down. It was arguably the most predictable move right out of the 'separated parents' playbook.

"Had to get the biggest one, right?"

Beside you he stands, phone up to record as he watches angel baby rip the once perfect wrapping paper completely to pieces. For a second you think he doesn't hear you. In fact, he doesn't even bat an eye at the remark you just made beneath your breath.

"S'a birthday gift... fo' her birthday," and he says it through gritted teeth and a pompous smile, "but g'on and make it about you, if you'd like."

"Think you've got that bit covered," you nod slowly in rhetoric in attempt to depict this conversation as passive, "you know, trying to outdo me with a splashy gift and all."

Unbeknownst to you, angel baby's eyes are training your lips with every word that falls from them. Stood in a box in front of her is the set outdoor doll house she'd been pining for as of late. And she doesn't seem to care. She pays no attention to it at all, even when the chorus of ooing and ahhing erupts from her intimate circle of friends and their parents. The facade of casual conversation between you and Harry has completely vacated, it's obvious in how the bickering has become more hushed and the vein on Harry's forehead begun peeking out.

You're fighting on her birthday and she's noticed. The topic that's gotten you both so hot is a mystery to her, but that doesn't keep her from trying to conjure up an answer. Even right now she's thinking about it, as Anne places a beautifully decorated sheet cake down in front of her at the patio table. The number 5 stands firmly in the middle, romantically adorned by sporadically placed individual flames dancing all around it as everyone sings happy birthday off key.

"Ok lovie," Harry cheers, "g'head 'n make a big wish!"

Both of her hands press flatly on the table, propping her up a good amount as she teeters on her chair so that she's appropriately hovering over the cake. Leaning in to grab a photo, she smiles sweetly before closing her eyes. If she's gonna make a birthday wish, she wants it to be good. She wants it to actually come true.

"I wish," and she pauses to adjust the flower crown that's lopsided on her head, "that mommy and daddy didn't hate each other."

When the words spill from her lips before she leans in to blow out her candles, your complexion goes ghost-white. And Harry thinks he might be sick.

[livwritesstuff]

a happening in the harrington house circa 2010-ish

(aka another example of Eddie being a kind, loving, gentle parent like Wayne was to him and Steve being absolutely fine with his children being mostly feral as long as they’re alive)

“Dad, am I adopted?”

Eddie blinks, then furrows his eyes as he looks at his seven-year-old daughter, Robbie (who he hadn’t even heard come into the room, to be honest), because he knows that he and Steve have been very upfront with all three of their children about how they’re adopted.

“Yes,” he tells her, “You’re adopted. You’re all adopted.”

“Then how come Hazel and Moe look like sisters and they don’t look like me?” she asks.

And Eddie feels his heart break a little bit.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, running a hand over her curls, “Well, first of all, you all look very similar, and you do all have the same mom, 100%. Sometimes genes are just weird that way.”

Robbie scrunches her nose, “Jeans?”

“Uhh…” he trails off, scratching his head and knowing full well he barely made it through sophomore biology (and that was almost thirty years ago).

When Steve comes home thirty minutes later, he finds Robbie Skyping with Dustin in Indiana and he’s got his camera facing a white board while he talks the first-grader and her middle-aged dad through a very basic explanation of punnett squares and genetics.

“What’s going on?” he asks skeptically, dropping his backpack onto the counter.

“Uncle Dustin’s showing me why me and Moe aren’t related,” Robbie replies, not taking her eyes off the computer screen.

“No,” Dustin cuts in emphatically.

Steve looks at his husband for an explanation.

“She thinks she’s not related to Moe and Hazel because she doesn’t look like them,” Eddie tells him.

Steve’s eyebrows fly up as he looks back at their daughter.

“Robbie,” he says, “Where’s your head at? You and Moe have the exact same face with different hair.”

“Moe has brown eyes,” Robbie fires back.

“And Hazel has blue eyes just like you. So what? All three of you are basically identical. When you and Moe were little, you were so tall that people always told me how cute my twins are.”

yEARS later, Moe and Robbie do that tiktok trend where the camera switches back and forth *very* quickly between their faces to show how similar they look, and their friends all comment shit like ‘wow y’all TWINS twins’

[thetypingpup]

thinking about VERY horny dom!san just taking you so rough and hard, doing everything he wants and can, making you turn to putty and going dumb over his big cock. he gives you praises but also degrades you love talking dirty, wanna choke and breed you and claim you as his while also having voyeurism kink(mirror sex maybe👀) fucks you everywhere in the house both your cums everywhere the scent of each other making both of you getting higher, the dimly lit light in the living room showing off both the silhouette of your dirty filthy actions to the next block(‘cause it’s a full glass and y’all didn’t close the curtains-both exhibitionist) little did both of you know you had quite the audience on the opposite block, hongjoong seonghwa yunho yeosang mingi wooyoung jongho, 7 males in their own apartment jerking off the the live porn they had in front of their eyes, taking in all the filth. considering how much you and san fucked and cum they swear they could see the wetness dripping out and how it drips to the floor making them impossibly harder. san making sure he fucks you so hard the whole estate can hear how well he’s treating you and only he can fuck you this good

at some point san notices the 7 audience you both has and uses it both to heighten your pleasure, hands firm on your chin to make sure you look at the audience you have infront of you, san feeling you clench as more juices leaked out covering his cock dripping down both your thighs and onto the floor san moving to choke you his other hand pressing on your lower belly to feel his member inside of you but also making you squirm at his actions all while smirking and whispering dirty dirty filth into your ear “oh look baby, seems like we’ve gotten ourselves some audience huh” “you like that baby? i know you do” “such a slut aren’t you” “look at you clenching and getting wetter mmh” “you’re taking me so well baby” “let’s give them a show, show them how well i fuck you yeah?” “they love it” “look at them wishing it was them in your tight wet hole” “cum for US baby”

i see fucking in front of a mirror or a window, and i raise you, imagine san fucking you on the balcony, the only spot in the house you haven't fucked yet today. there's no barrier of glass to shield your indecent acts from the rest of the world, no walls to muffle your indecent sounds of pleasure. he gets to play with you how he wants, out in the open so anyone can see, and you love every minute of it. imagine he knows about the audience of the other seven, watching you from the windows across the street. he'd make a whole show of undressing you in front of them, making them wish that they could be the ones touching you like this. he'd take his time, going purposefully slow, being purposefully loud, encouraging you to say his name so loud the sound echoes off the outside walls. and when he finally slides into you from behind, grabbing your hips and slowly pressing inside of you, the deep groan he lets out is so loud heat rises to your cheeks, certain that everyone in the neighborhood could hear him. somehow, the audience and the open air makes you more sensitive to the way his cock stretches you out, acutely aware that everyone can see you taking his cock like a good little slut. your torso is draped precariously over the edge of the railing, the blood rushing to your head if you let your head drop too far, and you love every moment of it. adrenaline surges through your veins, pleasure surges from your centre, and pure excitement has you moaning unabashedly and pushing back onto san's cock.

"oh you like this, don't you pretty girl?" san hums in that taunting tone he takes on when he's dominant, hand splayed over your ass to spread you open wider. you nod emphatically, eyes scanning the windows across the street in search of those seven men that love to watch you getting fucked. you make eye contact with each and every one, clenching when you watch them stroke themselves faster, their lips moving as they mumble undoubtedly dirty things that you wish you could hear.

"you like when they watch you, don't you baby? you like having them see how pretty you look taking my cock?" he teases you further, slapping your ass for emphasis, and the sharp sting has you yelping and clenching around him tighter. you grab onto the metal railing tighter, feeling your head dip down once more, your arms straining with a delectable ache as you try to hold yourself up. you feel that same ache in the back of your thighs as you try to keep yourself in place to take san's cock.

san keeps taunting you between searing kisses to your neck and along your back, thrusting slow and hard so you feel every inch of his cock slamming into you, "aww baby, you're dripping for me, already making such a mess and i barely even fucked you yet. you must really like being watched."

you nod, agreeing with him wholeheartedly. you watch as the onlookers continue to stroke themselves, one of them getting so excited he starts fucking his hand at the same pace as san's thrusting hips, no doubt imagining the lube slick grip on his cock is your pussy instead.

"bet they wanna fuck you so bad, princess. bet they wanna feel this perfect pussy right now, and fuck you until you're screaming and crying their name." you clench around san and whine at his words, arching up and pushing your hips back faster.

only, instead of fucking you faster like your body craves, like your mounting pleasure demands, he slows down. he keeps his pace steady, but drives his cock into you hard, jostling your body to drive the point home that, "you're mine right now, aren't you baby? all mine for me to enjoy."

he adjusts the angle ever so slightly, just so the onlookers can see it's his cock thrusting in and out of your sweet pussy right now, that he's the one fucking you senseless. you grip the rail of the balcony for balance, the evening air sweeping over your heated skin and reminding you of just how exposed you are. you unfocused eyes see the way warm sunset hues of orange and pink paint the sky, the vibrant yellow at the horizon line receding more and more by the moment. day is giving way to night right before your eyes and he's still fucking you just as vigorously as before, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. if anything, the captive audience only reinvigorates his resolve, and you can feel his cock throbbing deep inside you the longer he fucks you for the crowd. some of your enraptured audience has long since cum, but they're all still achingly hard watching san fuck you. they all still pleasure themselves at the sight of you, at the sound of your moans, imagining what your pussy must feel like to turn san into such a ravenous beast.

"fuck, you feel so good baby." san tilts his head back and cries out like a declaration, driving the point home that you feel as good as you look, only igniting their desire for you.

"fucking love this pussy. that's it baby take it, fucking take it. show them what a good fucking slut you are for me. mine, all fucking mine." he growls, his warm breath fanning out right against the shell of your ear. he borders on delirium now, in the ravenous way he pounds into you, in the way his mumbled groans tumble from his lips without much thought. his chest is practically molded to the arched curve of your back, hips canting at a rapid pace, no better than a beast in heat. his muscular arms keep you in place, your shoulders resting on your own hands, which clutch the balcony rail with an iron grip. your own knuckles press against the hollow of your collarbones, his strong chest and his weight keeping you in place as he pounds into you. one of his hands wraps around your neck, craning your head back, exposing your bouncing breasts to the audience. you see a few of them start stroking themselves faster, one of them reaching completion and cumming all over his hand. the sight of him feeling such pleasure just watching you is enough to have you cumming with a cry right on san's cock, the wet rush of your release gushing all over his length, dripping onto the terrace below.

"aww, did that feel good baby? you like a pretty slut for them that much?" he coos, and the tender mischief in his tone has you melting into his embrace. he presses kisses along the side of your face, making his way to your lips, purposefully eyeing one of them who he knows has a massive crush on you.

he gives you a moment to relax and catch your breath, sitting up for a moment to allow you to breathe in the refreshing night air. the chill of dusk blows over the sweat that glistens on your skin, cooling you down and calming you from your heated high.

"you did so good for me, princess, for us." he praises you sweetly, before the saccharine edge that drips from his words crystallizes in the form of mischievous laughter, "but i'm not done with you yet, and some of them still haven't cum yet. some of them have been edging themselves all day watching me fuck you. we should get them off too, shouldn't we baby?"

you nod, too exhausted for words, but you poke your hips up once more, eagerly awaiting his next move. situating his hands right on your ass, he gropes the supple flesh before sliding back into you, fucking your sensitive pussy once more. you lock eyes with the once who are still awaiting release, you unabashed expressions of lust driving them to the edge.

[coraniaid]

The thing is, I don't really think Chosen is one of the show's better season finales as such, but I do think it is the best possible ending to the show of all seven possibilities we actually had.

By almost every measure I can think of -- except for the fact Faith isn't there, I guess? -- Season 5's The Gift is both a far better episode and much better set up by the events of the previous twenty-one episodes. But I think that would have been a horrible place for the show as a whole to conclude. The protagonist, still reeling from her mother's unexpected early passing, tells her mentor that she no longer knows what to do, that she doesn't "know how to live in this world if these are the choices. If everything just gets stripped away" and that she "doesn't see the point", then she climbs up to a high place, tells her only surviving family member that living is "the hardest thing in the world", and then jumps to her death. That's it, that's the end.

I mean, can you imagine if that was how the show had finished?

That's why, no matter how bad I think Season 7 gets (and I think it gets pretty bad!), I'll always feel grateful that the show carried on past Season 5 and reached an ending that was not only much more optimistic but also, I think, much more in keeping with the show's general themes and philosophy. The only other season finales that I think are even remotely candidates for a good place for the show to have ended are Season 1's Prophecy Girl and Season 3's Graduation Day, both of which end on a similar note by suggesting that one chapter of Buffy's life has ended but the rest of her life is yet to begin, but do so a lot less emphatically.

(As an episode, the best season finale -- or best 22nd episode of a season, anyway -- is obviously Restless, but this is actually the episode that works the least well as an end to its season, because it isn't really even trying to be one. It's Episode 0 of Season 5 as much as it is anything else.)

[esamastation]

Part fifty-four of Shizuroth, aka, the SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun.

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three

-

Now, Reno could be an impartial observer about this. He probably should be. Just do his job, sign his report, hand over his duty to someone else, and wash his hands of the whole mess.

But on the other hand, "So. Flying, huh?"

Sephiroth has the gall to look sheepish about it. He is actually fucking blushing. "Well. That's not exactly it, but, yes? Is that a problem?"

Reno eyes him flatly for a moment. Then he shrugs. "Hell if I know. You know, for a while there I thought you were actually trying to keep your magical metamorphosis thing down low, but you just don't give a fuck, do you?" It's kinda impressive, really.

"Um," Sephiroth answers, and takes a dainty little sip of his tea.

Reno snorts. "You're something else," he says and falls to sit across from him on the other side of the tiny little tea table. Then he looks around.

They're alone in the main hall of the safehouse. Hewley and Rude are out picking up Tseng from the town, and it's just him and Mr. No Gravity, and Reno doesn't mind admitting he might actually miss the place. It's still hilarious that Sephiroth turns into a prissy princess when it comes to decor, but Reno can't say he doesn't know what he's on about.

He actually made the place really nice, for an abandoned house. As safehouses went, it was up there.

Sephiroth watches him curiously. "Looking forward to returning to Midgar?"

"God, yes," Reno says emphatically. "I'm going to find the nearest Pilferer's, and I'm going to forget all about your… everything."

"Pilferer's?"

"It's a chain of pubs," Reno explains, waving a hand. "Shit beer for cheap, good for one thing only."

"Ah," Sephiroth huffs in amused offence. "I'm not that bad, surely."

Well, no. Reno once had to act as Scarlet's bodyguard - that is still the worst assignment he's ever had. This doesn't come even close. But… "I don't know, man. You're kinda weird."

Sephiroth blinks at that, and Reno grimaces looking away. Sephiroth it's also kinda terrifying, even like this. Actually maybe especially like this. After his training sessions and meditations Sephiroth is all relaxed and cosy - it's probably the safest he is to be around, but it's weird.

It really brings home the fact that the guy is different from what he was. Even without Hewley there to react to it, you can tell. Sephiroth is someone else these days, and his shitty lying aside, none of them actually know him. And the guy isn't that keen on explaining.

… You know what, fuck it. Reno's out of here by the end of the evening anyway. "Are you ever going to explain what the hell is going on to anyone, or are we going to have to keep on guessing?" he asks.

Sephiroth hums, noncommittal.

"Because dude, it's going to have consequences in the long run. If not for you, then for the other SOLDIERs," Reno points out. "You know that, right?"

That makes the guy react with more than demure deflection, and Sephiroth lowers his cup. "Consequences like what?"

"Oh, you know, life-altering experiments in all the worst ways?" Reno asks and points a finger at him. "You realise what this all looks like from the outside, right? You get a deadly dose of Mako and boom, new abilities? You can be sure they're going to try to recreate those results."

Sephiroth frowns at that, looking down. He taps his finger against the tea cup for a moment and then shrugs. "I don't see what there is that I can do about that," he says and looks up at Reno pointedly. "First sign of trouble, and you ferried me out of Midgar, I assumed it was to get me out of the way."

"Well, yeah. For a reason," Reno shrugs and leans back a little. Fuck, the Mako shine is spooky when it's aimed at you like this, in dim light where you can tell the guy's eyes are actually emitting their own glow. "Seemed kinda necessary to keep you from going berserk again and killing someone important. Like Professor Hojo."

Sephiroth makes a funny sort of face at that, and sips his tea. From scary to embarrassed. Yay.

Never mind, Reno isn't going to miss this place at all. "Fuck it, whatever. I don't care," he decides. "Soon you'll be Tseng's problem, and I won't waste another moment thinking about you."

"I am hurt and heartbroken," Sephiroth says blandly and snorts at the face Reno makes at him. "You have been a most pleasant babysitter, Reno of the Turks. I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to get to know you."

"Oh, put a cork in it."

"No, I'm serious," Sephiroth says. "I've always found the Turks to be intriguing. Your… work ethics are almost admirable."

Reno eyes him dubiously. "You're fucking with me."

Sephiroth grins, clasping the little tea cup loosely between both hands. "Not at all. There's a core of morals that runs through your agency that I find fascinating. The scary, underhanded enforcers and spies of Shinra - hiding just enough of a shred of decency to make you… rational. Practical and yet, strangely, sympathetic."

Reno gapes at him. What the fuck - where the hell did that come from?

Sephiroth chuckles at his expression. "I think I would quite like you, if the circumstances were different," he muses and pours himself another cup of tea.

Reno feels like objecting. He can feel his cheeks heating up. "You are absolutely fucking with me."

Sephiroth grins a little wider at that, and - damn, the guy's smiles are kinda devastating. Reno had been carefully not noticing, because, hello, job, but damn. Who the hell made this guy so hot? His lips are insanely pretty.

Reno is suddenly very aware that it's been a while since he last got laid and that he really desperately needs a drink. 

"Tseng is originally from Wutai, isn't he?"

"Wha?"

Sephiroth arches his brows and tilts his head. A stand of silver hair slides across his shoulder. "Tseng. Is he from Wutai?"

Reno thought he'd gotten used to the fancy dress shirts - and hell, Sephiroth had his chest pretty much completely bared before! Why the hell are just two buttons undone so sexy all of a sudden?!

"Oh, um. Yeah?" Reno agrees and clears his throat, shaking his head. Don't look at his collarbones. "He knows the lay of the land better anyway, so, you know, if your little soiree with the Wutai Captain has a follow up, he'll probably know what's up." … Uh.

Sephiroth gives him that slow blink again, and Reno doesn't blame him - it sounds like complete nonsense to him too.

Damn it, get it together, man, the guy isn't that fuckable!

… Except that he really, really is, and Reno wishes he could go back to professionally not noticing it.

"That's good, I suppose," Sephiroth says slowly. "I'll be looking forward to hearing his insights."

"Yeah, yeah, sure…" Tseng also knows more about Ancients than anyone not dead or in the Science Department, so whatever is going on with Sephiroth, Tseng would be able to figure it out. Probably.

Reno looks at Sephiroth's stupidly pretty face and then clears his throat. "Well, it's been - different. Let's never do it again. Try not to go nuts and kill any important scientists in the future, okay?"

Sephiroth looks away, his eyes going a little distant. "... No promises," he murmurs. Except coming from him, it's more of a purr, isn't it?

Fuuuck, Reno really needs to get out of here.

It's probably a good thing Tseng seems to kinda dislike Sephiroth for some reason. He wouldn't have this problem.

-

Get **** beamed.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hi! I was the one who asked about Aemond having a partner who has a praise kink. I would love it if you could write a drabble or something like that. Whatever works for you :)

Here you go. I hope you like it!

Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~800

“Aemond, it is most irregular to have your wife serve as cupbearer during a meeting of the small council.” Otto says sternly, straightening in his chair and casting a sideways glance towards her, before returning his focus back to his grandson.

Aemond cuts an imposing figure at the head of the table, his eye never leaving his wife as he replies. “I am Prince Regent, I will decide what is irregular. I wish for my lady wife to serve me today. Shall we begin?”

The way his piercing gaze drifts back to his grandsire conveys that there is no room for argument. Otto bristles slightly, clearing his throat and spreading out parchments in front of him as the meeting begins.

Every time she moves to refill Aemond’s wine cup, her cheeks heat up at the feeling of his hand drifting to the small of her back, the murmur of his quiet thank yous eliciting a ceaseless clenching in her core as he looks up at her with pride.

The meeting feels like it drags on for an eternity. She is convinced she will faint, such is the strength of the desire that leaves her aching and sticky between her thighs. It is heightened by the embarrassment of having to pour wine for Otto, Ser Criston Cole and the rest of the small council members while in a state of arousal that she knows Aemond is aware of. She wonders if the others sense it too, if her brazen lust is marked upon her like the glare of a fresh brand.

Her feet are beginning to ache. The spoiled, comfortable life she has become accustomed to with Aemond means she is not used to having to stand for such a prolonged period. She sends a silent thank you to the Seven for their mercifulness when the meeting finally draws to a close and everyone, except Aemond, files out of the room.

Aemond stands, rounding on her as she moves to clear away the used wine cups.

“Leave that.” He instructs softly, placing his hands on her waist.

His expression is soft as he looks down at her, but the dilation of his pupil is unmistakable, it causes a fluttering in her lower belly.

“You did well today, dōnus riñus.” He raises a hand, gently swiping his thumb across the fullness of her bottom lip. “You have made your husband proud.” Sweet girl.

She preens at his praise, a shiver running from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “Thank you, my love, it was a pleasure to serve you.” She whispers, doe eyed and adoring.

“Hm.” Aemond cocks his head to the side. “And did you do exactly as I instructed?”

“Y-yes.” She stammers, skin flushing with embarrassment.

“Let me see.” He commands, lifting her onto the edge of the table and pushing up her skirts. He hums with approval at the sight of her bare cunny, exposed to him and practically dripping with her arousal. “Sȳres riñus.” Good girl.

She squirms under the intensity of his observation of her, fighting the urge to close her legs.

“Tell me, jorrāelītsos, how did it feel to parade about the small council without your small clothes?” Little love.

Her breath is shaky, shame blooming heavy in her chest as she utters her reply. “I-I liked it.”

Aemond’s eye flashes with excitement, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I liked it too.” He says darkly. “Such a good little wife, I think you’ve earned a reward, don’t you?”

Another full body shudder ripples its way through her as she nods emphatically. His long fingers press into the soft flesh of her inner thighs.

He keeps a hand clasped firmly on her leg as the other works to pull open the laces of his breeches.

The sight of his cock is enough to have her mouth watering and her head tilts back, a whimper escaping her as he teases the weeping tip through her sodden folds.

“Such a perfect little cunt.” He grunts, pushing inside of her. “The tightest in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

She mewls piteously as the ache inside of her deepens with his every thrust, his words causing her to spasm around him.

“You are taking your King so well, such a good girl.” Aemond says huskily, fucking her mercilessly against the table. “Can you peak like this, jorrāelītsos? Will you let your husband hear your pretty moans?” Little love.

And peak she does, a trembling, sobbing mess pressed against the small council table, pleasure drunk on the praise of her husband.

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Part Twenty-Seven

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale Chapter 27

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten]  [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve]  [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] Part Twenty-Seven [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You received some respite from the seemingly endless talking this particular gala is focused on with the first round of dancing, but it didn't last long.

You hope no one noticed that you weren’t actually eating much during the main dinner course, especially your parents. You’ve since managed to edge away from them with this return to finger foods by staying with your siblings instead, the eldest of which were more available now that all children were sent up to bed, no matter how they pleaded. Asher in particular is looking relieved since he’s here without his wife, who is at home managing Portsmith, but even Callalily and her husband seemed less tired at the prospect of a party without children to mind. You are grateful you were not part of the river journey to Connton when they had all been packed together, even though you’re sure your family’s boat had been as spacious as any could be.

Still, even they are beginning to wear on your nerves, as is the volume of the gathering, which seems to only have increased exponentially as the night has worn on. A contradiction since you know multiple groups have gone home—you’ve said goodbye to nearly all of them personally. Shouldn’t it be quieter? Shouldn’t you be used to this by now? 

An increase in chatter in your immediate vicinity causes you to notice a group of artists, including Breighton, have joined your smaller group. They’ve clearly been enjoying the wine and their enthusiasm is grating. The desire for air and space is suddenly overwhelming. Unfortunately, Marigold and Callalily have you boxed in on either side and Asher’ll be no help��he’s looking for his own exit. You watch as he spots a knight his own age he must know and quickly walks off with him. He’ll likely be able to bid good night to him soon enough and without the notice of  your family. He doesn’t even have the courtesy to send an apologetic look your way. 

Where had Dale gotten to? Maybe he’ll be your way out. If you recall, he’d been pulled away by his grandparents to speak with some local nobles. You scan the room, trying to ignore the way Marigold’s emphatic gestures are in danger of spilling wine onto your arm, if not your dress. You know that usually, you’d be pleased she’s enjoying herself as much as she obviously is. Even a few hours ago, you’d be happy with how well this ball is reflecting on you and the Northridges as hosts. A betrothal feast for your wedding, with nearly all of your family present and reveling in a good time. But your tolerance for socializing is used up. You desperately need a breath of fresh air and a moment to yourself. Please.

You finally spot Dale talking with a small group, the rich blue ribbon in his dark hair catching your eye. Abruptly you’re reminded of when you met him for the first time, how intimidating and handsome that stranger had seemed to you. Speaking with that stranger then had not helped matters. Even these days, you still find him intimidating at times, but in the way the future is, not the way an obstacle is. So much possibility. You’re not sure if it is helpful or not, that you only find him more attractive these days. The way he can hold your attention is unlike anyone else you’ve come across.    His bright eyes, the way he styled his hair, the mischievous look he could get when the mood suited him are all so compelling. Is that something demonic? Or merely a reflection of getting to know the new person in his place, even if they by definition looked the same?

Regardless of how struck you are by your soon-to-be husband’s attractiveness, you want to seize the opportunity to utilize him to flee far more than you want to admire him. At least, in this moment. You’re note sure what you say to your siblings, you think you claims he motioned you over to him, but it’s a bit of blur. They easily et you go to your betrothed, already half-swept up in some debate about the large painting they’ve been contemplating. You don’t even spare it glance as you seize this opportunity. 

You head in his direction, hoping it doesn’t look like the escape it is and hoping Dale will go along with the actual plan to take the time away from everyone. You don’t want to be trapped in another, different conversation either, but you know you cannot wander the garden unescorted at such an event.

Luckily, you don’t have to find a way to get Dale’s attention in order to break into the small circle of people he’s speaking with. He seems to sense your approach, turning once you’re within a few feet with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges when they land on you. At least this circle is only three other people and farther from the musicians so no one’s shouting can be heard over more than the general sound of the crowd.

“My lady,” he greets, holding out his left arm. You gratefully loop yours through his, always appreciative how supported it makes you feel. “While I believe you’ve met Lord Nicolo and Lady Elain, I do believe you’ve not met my other companion,” Dale says, naming one of the neighboring fiefs to Northridge. You do recognize the other lord and lady, both a decade older than yourselves, who’s lands border Northridge and Connton respectively. You’ve met them at previous gala’s and find them pleasant enough company under usual circumstances. Tonight, you can’t help but wish they’d suddenly take their leave.

Dale turns to the striking blonde woman in purple to his immediate right that you correctly do not think you’ve ever seen before. “Allow me to introduce Lady Lorraine of Hillibrght.” The first thing that strikes you about her is that she’s beautiful. Her long hair is woven with ribbon in a style you recognize from some of the newest fashion plates from the capital you’d been presented with for your wedding. Her eyes are bright and her figure is shapely in her light blue dress. She holds herself with the sort of effortless confidence that you’d have remembered being envious of. That feeling is a noticeable ache right now, when you already feel so harried and out of place. She looks the exact opposite of how you feel and you can’t help but resent her for it. “Please meet my betrothed.” She murmurs a polite greeting with a curtsy you mirror while Dale explains, “Lady Lorraine has only just returned from abroad.”

“Yes, we were comparing in what manner our journey’s diverged after the Lurean,” she elaborates, her voice low and melodic. The Lurean is an institute in the west, famous for its music. You believe Dale visited there early in his years abroad, but can’t recall anything more than that. “That is when we decided to split. My group went south, while the ones Dale was with went North. A pity, Dale was always the most interesting to debate, though of course we still managed to amuse ourselves without him or the others who went North.”

Lorraine is acting perfectly polite: you appreciate her catching you up to what they were discussing. And yet, you don’t like the way she looks at Dale, nor how she says his name without his title. If she is a neighbor, they must have known each other since childhood, you know many of your peers and siblings who do the same. You still don’t like it. 

“I see,” you say politely because of course she had also been traveling as Dale had. She had even been part of that lucky and worldly group. While you were sat at home, trying to convince your mother that you should be allowed to come with her to the seamstress’ shop in the city. You resist the urge to frown at yourself for such a thought. You truly are not fit for company at the moment. “And you have not seen each other since?”

“No, not since we parted ways nearly two years ago,” Lorraine confirms and you don’t like how she says that either. As if it were more than two acquaintances with differing travel plans. You’re embarrassed when you realize how irrational you’re being, that your first instinct is to try to find a reason to justify the dislike rather than ignore it as the nonsense it is. “We had thought to meet up again, all of us, however the timing nor the location was ever quite right.”

“Terrible luck,” Dale replies with a smirk that makes you think luck had nothing to do with it. There’s an answering shrewd look in her eyes that implies she knows that too. That she knew Dale well enough to be able to read even this Dale. 

“Which reminds me, since we had expected to see each other again, you had loaned Hilary a particular book.” You don’t understand the weight of her gaze on Dale nor the implication in her words. Your eyes dart to Dale and given his frown, you’re not sure he does either. This Dale occasionally needs more time to catch up to certain nuances and you’re petty in your pleasure at that. Lorraine continues, “She bade me to return it to you, since she knew I’d see you again. It's in my carriage.”

“Oh yes.” Some recognition blooms in Dale’s eyes. “I had thought to ask you if she’d returned home so I might send her a missive regarding it, but this is far easier.”

“Would it be an imposition to do so now?” Lorraine asks and you blink at her in surprise. “I would have it sent to you, only I’m afraid it shall get lost in the confusion or that I shall forget. I believe I left if secure in my carriage”

You do not like how Lorraine appears to be trying to get Dale on his own. In an impulsive fit, you tighten your hand on his arm. “I’m afraid Dale promised me one last walk in the garden tonight. We have to leave so early in the morning, we won’t get the chance then. Would it be possible to bring this book to the Northridge estate instead?”

“Of course,” Dale agrees, smiling down at you and not noticing the surprise that flashes across Lorraine’s face. “I was beginning to wonder if we would be able to do so after all.” He looks back at Lorraine with politeness, not noticing or not wanting to acknowledge the confusion on her face at his refusal. “Another time, Lorraine. You shall be attending the festivities in Northridge, yes?”

“Yes, my family is delighted to celebrate with you,” Lorraine replies with a smile, no surprise or annoyance in her expression any longer. If this change of plans disrupts her own, she’s not showing it now. Except her eyes. Her eyes are intense as they study Dale’s face, as they drift over to your own, before back to Dale’s. “Thinking back on matters, I’m not sure if it is in my carriage after all. Perhaps it was packed and brought into my townhouse after all. I can locate it shortly regardless. We can speak further at a later time.”

“Wonderful, until then.” Dale gives her a short bow before leading you out one of the archways which lead towards the garden.

Your focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping your gaze up, but unfocused so as not to catch anyone’s eye and risk being drawn into conversation. You hope Dale is doing the same, but you’ve no energy to check on him. A breeze hits your face as soon as Dale opens the garden doors and you heave a sigh of relief at the sensation. You’re not even particularly hot, but it had begun to feel so stifling in that ballroom, for reasons you still cannot discern when compared to all the other galas. 

“Are you alright, sana?” Dale asks. You look up to see him frowning down at you, worry in his eyes. “Do you need to sit down? Or one of your medicines?”

“I’m fine,” you reply, shaking your head in the face of such undue concern. Heat rises in your cheeks at the thought of how dramatic you’re acting or whatever expression must be on your face to worry Dale so. “I only needed some fresh air. My apologies for pulling you away from your conversation, but I…”

Now Dale mostly looks confused. “I am happy to assist you in gaining the space to breathe,” he replies, leading you down the path. He gestures to a bench, but you hear a burst of sound from inside the hall and shake your head, steering you two further into the garden. “You’ve done so for me in the past. And it was no great hardship. I’m relieved these galas are nearly finished because rather than becoming more accustomed to them, I believe I am merely tiring of them.”

You finally get a good look at Dale, feeling more centered away from the crowd, and frown. He seems worn in a way he had not inside. something in the lines on his face, the shadows cast from the lanterns flickers oddly on him. Perhaps it had been so easy to convince him to take this walk because he needed the fresh air nearly as much as you had. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Dale says somewhat impatiently, but given the half-focus in his eyes, you are fairly certain his annoyance rests with himself rather than you. He heaves a sigh of his own. “As I said, while nothing particularly strenuous has happened today and I was in fine spirits only an hour or so ago, I find myself…” 

He huffs another annoyed breath at both his inability to put his thoughts to words and at the sound of some others who are also walking the garden. Dale steers the two of you down a new path, avoiding the main path which had a giggling couple occupying one of the benches. The shadows flicker with more than the lantern light should account for, but there’s no purpose to it, merely an offloading of stress. Dale’s pace is steady, the rhythmic footfalls and his cane don’t show anger or impatience with you personally, or so you hope. “I desire to be left alone in a manner I am unaccustomed to. This gala is no different than the others, how is it bothering me? I cannot account for it, which is only making me more frustrated.”

You certainly understand the feeling and gently pull to a stop at a bench, tucked a little farther off the path than the others, where there might be some privacy to be found. “Would you like to take a few minutes to yourself?” You don’t want to contribute to Dale feeling stifled, even if you don’t like the idea of being anywhere on this property in the dark alone after what happened. “I can wait here, if you’d like. I would just ask for you to remain within shouting distance.”

Dale looks startled by the idea, as if going off on his own had never occurred to him. “No,” he shakes his head, his voice plain and unadorned in his automatic refusal. “No. I thank you for the offer, but when I mentioned wanting the others to go, you were not included.” He tilts his head to the side, a crooked smile spreading across his lips. “Have we not already established this?”

You smile remembering your conversation from one of the first dances. “We have. More has happened since then. You are free to change your mind.” You swallow and hope he doesn’t hear your worry that he might do so about more than this.

“I haven’t,” Dale replies just as steadily and you feel warm pleasure spread through you at his answer. His eyes widden. “Unless, of course, you have. I would also—”

“No!” Your hand tightens around his arm. “No, getting away from the others was more than enough for me.” You want to do something more to make Dale feel better because there’s still some tight tension in his shoulders. You seek to reassure him you’re on the same page regarding your weariness from public performance. “There are aspects of this gala that are different, or rather, events surrounding the gala which are. Meeting city officials and giving our opinion on wedding details Grandmother has put together is not the same as dealing with…” You hesitate and you’re fairly certain Dale knows what you're going to say regardless, but you continue, “…the investigation into what happened. Or arguing with Grandmother and Grandfather about it.”

Dale sits down heavily on the bench. You follow to sit next to him, but let him maintain the distance he created when he let go of your arm. “I suppose that’s true enough. The affect on my mood seems inconsistent and not… I am not truly under a high amount strain,” he protests, his eyes brighter and not because of how the lamp light tries to catch them. “These early stages are not particularly mentally taxing, merely setting things into motion, and I’ve certainly been under no physical hardship today. Yet I feel threadbare and stretched thin. But there has been nothing taxing my stores of strength until this. All we have done is eat and talk and enjoy ourselves for weeks!”

Dale goes to run his fingers through his hair only to be stopped by his hair tie. He yanks it out with frustration as you try to find the right words to reassure and comfort Dale. “Firstly,” you begin, “while I am aware that it comes easier to you than me, socializing is taxing. It is work. It takes effort and thought and performance. I’m fairly certain I’d be tired of it all even without what else occurred. Secondly,” you continue before he can interrupt, “I am not sure how the investigation can be anything except stressful, given the events that prompted it.” Cautiously, you reached to lay a hand on his arm, “I believe you are being too hard on yourself, Dale. It’s more than reasonable to feel worn out by everything that is happening. I certainly am and I’m not doing nearly as much as you are. I’m the one who sought you out for this chance to take a moment to ourselves after all.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he says sincerely, but still tired. “You’re not wrong, I simply… Well, I suppose it’s rather obvious to say I wish the attack had never happened.”

“A mild understatement,” you say with a smile, “but I agree.” You don’t how you could, but you have to offer, even more plainly than you have before. “If there is anything I might be able to do, to aid you with the investigation, I will.”

“I appreciate that as well,” Dale says, leaning back against the back of the bench. “Truthfully, it’s only a waiting game now. I’ve tapped into my contacts to narrow in on who paid those who attacked us and set them to investigate those we’ve considered for the roles. I have high and low acquaintances who are skilled in such things and we’ve already discussed that you do not.” You reluctantly nod because you’ve no real foot to stand on in this arena. “They responded timely enough. It is not that they were unwilling or that I fear they are not adequately skilled.”

He pauses, but you can tell he has more to say. You wonder if remembering the right people was difficult or if this method of dealing with threats is foreign to him. You assume demons just fight each other directly, no use of proxies or exchange of goods for services, but they also have a reputation for acting in such ways on the surface—of being cunning and secretive. Maybe it was old hat to him after all. You don’t want to pressure him. He’s already such a vice with information and you want him to confide in you so very badly.

“I don’t like how I must act with those I have aiding me in my investigation,” Dale says eventually. You’re surprised such a thing would require acting, and then you’re only surprised that he’s acknowledging how much he must have to do so. Then you furrow your brow, because no, that doesn’t seem to be what he’s saying after all. He must read the confusion on your face because he clarifies, “They expect a certain sort of person, both when I act as Lord Dale or his own agent and I care for neither of them.”

“You are acting as though you are not Lord Dale?” you ask. You had thought there might be some manner of persona to ordering and speaking with the sort of hardened people that would employ such tactics, but you did not think he might take on a new identity for any part of it. The layers of performance are hard to track, but it must be even more confusing to this new Dale who is still learning how to act as the old Dale.

“Some of these…,” Dale searches for the right word before giving, “these people, they would see a Lord as a target or untrustworthy or not one they would work with. I have acted as though I am my own valet, to an extent in order to meet with them more directly.” That’s not too complicated, or so you hope. Can Dale actually change his form? His appearance? Your mind spins with new possibilities. You had thought possession limited the demon to that body, but perhaps… 

“As such as respect Mr. Murray’s service,” Dale continues, “this has never been one he could comfortably or competently provide. I value what he does provide and trust no one well enough for them to fulfill the role. Certainly not with our safety on the line, not to mention Grandmother and Grandfather’s.”

You haven’t considered that. You are pleased at how you were included, and that Grandmother and Grandfather were as well. “I appreciate you taking such care,” you say, because you know he does not need to, he did not have the ties to any of you. He’s known you all of a month or so. You want him to know that you value the effort he is putting into all of this. He could easily have faked Dale’s death with the fight and then slipped away to live his own life here. You complain about his slip ups with his form, but you’ve no notion of how hard it is to control such things. You remember the creature he had been forming into during the fight and wonder how strange it would be to go from a being like that to a mere human body.

You want to acknowledge what he is doing, but he doesn’t want to talk about it outright and the distant sounds of the others in the garden dissuade you from saying anything too straightforward. You lower your voice, just in case, and say carefully, “It’s always challenging to pretend you're someone you are not, even if that is simply a more social version of yourself. I imagine it must be difficult, if my estimation of the types of people who can trace mercenaries back to their patrons is close to accurate. Thank you.”

“I.. Of course,” is all he says in the end, but you hope that it isn’t only your imagination that the lines around his eyes have faded somewhat.

“You mentioned a different version of yourself as well,” you continue, with even more caution and hopefully precision in your words, “I expect for those you are asking to look into the patrons from the higher angle. I can only imagine what type of Lord they expect to meet. Likely ones more similar to the patrons. That too, must be a challenge.”

Dale nods slowly before frowning once more. ��It is…distasteful. I do not like how I have to be, when I speak with those involved in the investigation. Necessary people, but rather foul. And they only respect those like them. I must be my own representative and the layers of deception are confusing and wearing.” He pauses, not quite short enough to be a hesitation, but you recognize his own way of deliberating. You wait with bated breath to hear what he says next. “Dale of Northridge’s reputation proceeds myself and, in addition to the mannerisms I find it safest to lean into, do not paint a pleasant picture.”

You try to breathe calmly at the third person, at his admittance, but he looks so wooden sitting there, tension riddling his form once more, that you know you need to speak quickly, but genuinely. “I know,” you reply, “I may not have the means at your disposal, but I am not without any, though they differ greatly from your own.” You had done your own research into Dale while the betrothal talks were occurring.

“I see.” His dark eyes fix on you. “What did you find when you compared the information you gathered with what you now know?”

That is such a hard question to answer because you had gotten what you expected, at first. Now… “I could ask you the same question,” you reply, because he had to have looked into you too.

“You could,” he acknowledges, looking discomforted. “Perhaps we should merely move forward from where we are now.”

You’re not sure you want to know what the original Dale’s thoughts on you had been, for all he’d made them relatively plain. And this Dale… “Perhaps. I will say that I am pleased by my current first hand investigation,” you hope he can understand the meaning in your words. You know you both said as much the other night and yet you want to say it again. You want to hear it again. “I hope the results of your own show even half the promise of mine.”

Dale still looks uncomfortable, but he smiles at that. “I find you very promising indeed.” Heat rushes to your face and rushes through your veins at the look in his eyes. Then he blinks, and the moment ends.

“On the question of my true investigation into the events of the other night, we shall have to wait and see if we can identify the patrons before another event occurs.” Dale’s more solemn as he contemplates the attack and its conspirators and you feel yourself sobering. “The Knight is still the only patron I feel confident about. Grandmother and Grandfather’s advice regarding the Duke is helpful, but still only a guess. It doesn’t even take into account if the group was mistaken about what his exact title was.”

“That is what we have to work with,” you say. “None of the searches for them will be successful if those short names were not based on actual stations.”

“At least from the contacts I have working from that position. I do have some attempting to trace who paid the mercenaries from that angle too. Of course, the hope is that these two groups will arrive at the same confirmed names, but if not…”

“I think with the titles and both angles we have a more than decent chance at cornering them,” you point out. “We even have two out of the three names we are fairly confident on, which is very promising.”

“The Heiress is still a mystery,” Dale replies, obviously still rather determinedly pessimistic. “I spent the most time with those I traveled with, so i suspect it shall be one of that group. However, over half my companions were inheriting and half of those were women. None do I remember a standout offense or other event, such as with the Duke or the Knight, that might lead to one bankrolling something of this nature.”

“You mentioned some of them to me,” you reply, Dale having listed with a brief history those who seemed to have been on good terms with Eastmont in particular. “who were with you during your entire trip, but what of others who split previously?”

“The ones who went South?” Dale blinks and then frowns, “I suppose that’s a possibility, but I haven’t spoken with any in two years, not besides a letter or two. Although, Eastmont met up with that group, so it’s possible the Heiress became involved with him then. But he is not engaged or even rumored to be courting anyone.”

Dale fails to make the connection you were leading him towards and so you must decide to speak candidly or to keep your own counsel. You swallow and continue, “I do not know most of those you journeyed with, however, Lorraine shall be Lady of Hillbright, yes?”

“Yes, in two years time,” Dale confirms, still lost in thought himself. He blinks back to the present and elaborates when you continue to look at him. “On her birthday or when she gives birth to her first child as is their family tradition. Her birthday is most likely as she is not yet betrothed. Why?”

“That makes her an heiress,” you finally say in even clearer terms. “One you parted on poor terms with, who has a great deal of knowledge of Northridge, due to your status as neighbors and childhood friends.”

“I would not say we were ever friends, precisely,” he corrects absently. Then his eyes narrow and he turns to look at you sharply, “You think she might be our missing conspirator.”

Some of your bravado fails in the face of such a fierce look. Still, you don’t retract your suggestion. “It is only a thought. I cannot give any other recommendations as my knowledge of the suspects is limited. However, I do not think that means the suggestion is unwarranted.”

“We have always been at odds, but it used to be…” he seems to search for a word but you can’t think of anything to prompt him with since you don’t understand their relationship. “…different. I’m afraid the falling out we had midway through my years of travel was rather severe and possibly prompted the entire group's split. I don’t think she would escalate our disagreement to such a height. If anything I expected the time to have cooled the argument for both of us. I had thought perhaps she would want to reconcile.”

“Perhaps,” you allow.

“You don’t think so.”

“I don’t know her or the situation,” you admit.

“And yet?”

“And yet you are not speaking of the terms of your disagreement, which implies to me it was no trivial matter.” Dale looks guilty and opens his mouth to say something, but you shake your head. “You do not need to inform me of the matter itself, but obviously it was serious. I will say that and she appeared very cordial so mayhap she does want to reconcile. However, she attempted to have you accompany her alone even this night with paper thin reasoning. It is only a thought, but I do not think she should be ruled out.”

“You’re correct,” Dale agrees, looking thoughtful, “and she was on my long list for the Heiress merely because she fit the minimal criteria. She had not stood out to me then, but I suppose just because I have moved past or argument and consider it history does not mean she does. I shall move her up the list.”

You nod, whatever motivated you to make sure you were heard even though you only have your own instincts to rely on regarding your suspicions has vanished, leaving you feeling rather foolish. Although, not enough to take it back. You wish you could be more consistent with making your opinion heard, but so often you don’t feel the need or know attempting to force an issue will only make things more difficult later on. No matter what Callalily thought.

You lean back against the bench, purposely focusing on your family to avoid thinking about the assassins any longer. Your father had been supportive, but silent as always. You’ve never been more grateful that being in public keeps your mother’s tendency to overmanage your health when it suits her at a minimum. Unfortunately,  she obviously is in the mood for now. Callalily has always told you to make her leave you be more, to somehow stop her fussing and worrying, as if that was in your power and you simply chose not to exercise it.

Asher was better at letting you simply be yourself. You used to seek refuge to his office and quietly occupy yourself while he worked, so as not to be alone. You appreciated it so much at the time, and you still do, only you wish you had talked to him more, wished you’d taken advantage of the opportunity instead of being intimidated or worried the privilege would be revoked. Now it leaves you feeling comfortable around him, but without any idea of what to actually say to him.

Douglas and Marigold, though closer in age to you, were also younger and therefore away at school or other events while you were older enough to remember. They always felt distant from you, only remembering you at holidays and awkward with how to treat you. Marigold now glosses over any such awkwardness, but more than half the time it merely feels as though she forgets you’re even there. That seems different this time at least, for all her and Callalily still talked over you more than they spoke to you.

“Is anything else on your mind?” 

You jump when Dale’s voice interrupts your thoughts. You look over to see Dale looking at you, tentative at the topic change but sincere. You sigh. “My family. It is… surprisingly strange to see them again, even my parents who I saw all of two months ago. I’ve been away at school for longer and yet it feels like a far more significant span of time. Although, I admit that when I returned home after graduating a year ago is when it truly felt strange—this is just an extension of that, I believe. My siblings I only see at holidays when they come home, Asher aside. But he’s so busy taking over the fief and with his own family so it feels like a long time for them too.”

“What part is strange?”

“It’s as though they are trying to help me put on clothes that no longer fit or see me as I was years ago, rather than as I am now. Not that I’ve changed so dramatically,” you hasten to add, “but I am older, I am different. They are different too, but they always treat me as if I do not change as they do. Or so it feels.” You sigh. “Perhaps it’s all in my mind.”

“How so?” Dale frowned, seemingly not displeased with what you were saying, but seemingly just wanting to understand. 

It gave you enough confidence to confess, “I worry that I’m interpreting their actions and words disingenuously. That I am too used to their condescension that I still see it even when it’s no longer there. What if my worries are keeping us in the past, rather than their attitudes? Except for Mother’s fussing,” you can’t help but caveat. “That I am certain is still occurring. And then I am certain all over again that it is them who are holding us back. I suppose the most reasonable explanation is that it is us all.”

“Most likely,” Dale agreed, watching you with a far more serious look on his face than the conversation allowed. “Is there anything I might do?”

“I would appreciate your being at my side?” you ask, tentative but hopeful at the thought of an ally. You’ve always dealt with them on your own. “They will be less obviously overbearing with you around, especially before the wedding.”

“They will?”

“Yes, they wouldn’t want you to change your mind,” you admit with a half smile.

Dale’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “Surely they do not think that is a possibility at this stage of the proceedings.”

“I think it will be a possibility until the wedding is over, as far as they are concerned. I’ve been better for years and they still look at me as though I might—” You cut yourself off before you say something you regret, even if its only Dale. You could have died when you were younger. It was the more likely outcome for half your life. “My apologies. I should not be so frustrated with their concern, I just wish it extended to more than my health. Or so it feels to me. Even my siblings are more likely to tell me to sit down rather than enjoy myself. I do not like being the subject of such worry, when it feels to border paranoia or almost suspicion. It’s strangling.”

Something like recognition blooms in Dale’s eyes as he stares at you, you can almost see the thoughts tumbling around in his mind. Does he find your petty worries relatable in some way? Some way more than just the echoes of the original Dale’s human memories? Once more you feel on the precipice of learning something concrete from him. Something more tangible than the honesty of his actions beneath his veneer of the original.

Dale’s eyes don’t unfocus as your own might when recalling a memory or even his own when recalling something the original Dale has said, they grow more intent. Like a microscope focusing rather than a telescope. It’s fascinating to watch and you feel yourself drawn in closer to him.

“Yes, my parents—I.” Whatever words Dale was going to say, he cuts himself off abruptly and you lean back in surprise. Something in his eyes is hard as he hums to himself. “Hm.” He shakes his head as he seems to grow distant despite continuing to sit next to you. “I suppose they were dead, weren’t they?”

You try not to let your interest in learning anything about Dale’s true history. Perhaps demons truly do have parents after all. When it becomes clear he isn’t going to say anything more, you carefully venture to prompt him, “If you wanted to talk about them, I would be happy to listen.”

There’s another long pause, broken only by the sound of music from the ballroom. Dale shakes his head. He finally looks back at you, but his expression is a blank mask. “What is there to say?” he asks flatly. “I can’t remember them.” You’re taken aback by the shift in his mood, having thought you’d distracted him from his earlier melancholy, and you’re hurt, perhaps irrationally so, that he still won’t confide in you anything real. 

Dale blinks and sighs, running a hand through his hair. He scowls when it gets messy and carefully redoes the tie that had been holding it back. When he looks back at you, he seems tired, but no longer so far away. Cautiously, he offers, “I suppose my grandparents were overprotective for many years. It was a caging feeling.”

You don’t know what to say, what you can say. Should you be insisting he confide in you? Should you try to force this conversation about the truth? Or is he right and this is not the place for such sensitive talks? Or maybe he just doesn’t trust you enough yet? Either way, you resign yourself to accepting his peace offering of a conversational segue. 

“Yes. My parents were similar, my siblings followed their example,” you elaborate, thinking back to tonight and how you felt with them. “I felt as though they treated me like I was far younger than I was for so long. And if not younger, breakable in the very least. It didn’t help that for so many years I was in such a delicate state. I almost can’t blame them for their attitude. I just wish it changed as the years passed and I recovered. I don’t like the reminder.”

“Regardless, while I do not know them well, I do not see them as acting overly condescending,” Dale says. “I have no siblings either, but it wasn’t the impression I received. They probably simply don’t know how to act around you either. Their experience might leave them with presumptions, but I’m sure once they see more of you as you are now, they will be able to overwrite such instinctive reactions in their minds.”

“I want that,” you agree. “I hope it can be done as you say. I too must adjust to interacting with those who know longer know me and must adjust to who I am. Perhaps I need to hold all of us to a more reasonable standard.”

“Perhaps.”

A tentatively comfortable silence fell as you both enjoyed the quiet respite from heat the night brought along with the break from the gala inside. You keep an eye on Dale from the corner of your eye, unable to help it given his more melancholic mood this evening. You want to move closer to him, you want to ask more direct questions. Every time you start to open your mouth you second guess yourself when the sound of the party or the music or another guest walking a nearby path—or the one your bench is on—causes you to feel too exposed to do so. It’d be silly to spend all this time trying to cover up for Dale in public only for him to be revealed because you were indiscreet. 

A dip in music causes you to realize how long you two must have been out here and you catch Dale’s eye to find a mildly sheepish look that tells you he’s likely thinking the same thing. He picks up his cane from where it had been resting nearby, levering himself up to his feet. He holds a hand down to you. “My Lady?”

“Thank you,” you reply as you let him help you to your feet. 

“Do you feel better?” he asks as you begin to make your way back into the hall.

“I do,” you say because ultimately you do feel more centered and less on the edge of frustration than you did before. Even if you are still concerned and not particularly eager at the thought of rejoining the gala. It no longer feels oppressive at least. “Do you?”

“Yes, thank you, sana,” he says, that same boyish smile spreading across his face—the one you never saw until he was this Dale. The one that always makes you want to smile back at him. “This was a good idea.” You hold open the door given his hands are full with you and his cane. He winks. “Back into the fray.”

You can tell it's more of a mask now, similar to the one you wear in most social gatherings, but it doesn’t seem to be causing nearly the strain it had been. And the same can be said for you.

“There you are,” Callalily says when you and Dale get close enough to where your sisters are. “Have a treat so we can ignore Mari in solidarity.” 

You accept the plate of desserts she hands you with surprise but not displeasure. You continue to appreciate your sisters’ easy inclusion of you tonight. Perhaps Dale is right and they do see you better than they used to. Marigold pouts, but you feel confident enough to ask Callalily, “Why are we ignoring Marigold?”

“Because she wishes to continue dancing and I am tired.”

“You are not so old nor is the night so late,” Marigold protests. “I do not see why you are being so stubborn.”

You pick one pastry at random while you try to catch up with the current conversation only for Dale to pluck it from your fingers and pop it into his mouth. You frown at him but then he swallows to clarify, “Strawberry jam, sana.”

“Oh!” You must be disorientated to have forgotten to examine the desserts more closely. “Thank you, Dale.”

Callalily looks stricken as her eyes widen in realization. “I’m so sorry, I forgot!”

You’re surprised she was even able to figure out what Dale was even referring to. Mother simply never had strawberries in the house, similar to sesame seeds for Douglas’ allergy. It’s not as though Callalily is the one who is charged with your health. It was your own fault. “It’s okay,” you say and try to move away from this topic, the guilt in your oldest sister’s eyes making you uncomfortable. You try to push the uncharitable thought aside that of course one of the only things she can remember about your preferences is what causes you a health problem. “What is this debate about?”

Marigold seems to have missed the allergy mistake, but she hears this part of the conversation clearly. “Callalily refuses to join me to dance the octdriel,” Marigold explains, her eyes fixing a mock glare on her older sister. “But you know I can’t join without a partner.”

“Just dance with your husband,” Callalily gestures to the man in question, currently choosing a spun sugar decoration and obvious to his sister-in-law’s volunteering of him. To be honest, he likely wouldn’t mind. He’s always willing to indulge Marigold, even if dancing causes him to loose his breath rather quickly.

Marigold gives Callalily a look. “You are aware that dance is not for couples.”

“I thought you did not care for the rules of polite society,” Callalily says loftily.

“I do not. However I do have only the utmost respect for the rules of dance,” Marigold bats back. “Please.” She pouts at Callalily in a manner you’ve seen her do dozens of times, you’re grateful your time outside has once more rendered your feelings nostalgic rather than annoyed.

Before Callalily answers, Dale turns to you and asks, “Why don’t you join her?”

You blink up at him, surprised and unable to bring yourself to reiterate the obvious that she didn’t ask you.

Marigold blinks at you in surprise, as if not having considered such a possibility. “Surely, you’re too tired,” Marigold says, somewhat unsure.

“I, well, no,” you shake your head, a bit bewildered. “I am not too tired for a dance.”

“My fiance is nearly always ready for a dance,” Dale adds, eyes twinkling with mirth, likely at the calculating look forming in Margold’s eyes. “I regret I cannot join you for this one, given the dance’s stipulations.”

“It’s fine—” you make to reassure him, it not having mattered to you.

“Wonderful,” Marigold proclaims, grinning widely as she links her arm with yours. “We shall dance and have a marvelous time without you, most boring of sisters.” She turns to you still smiling. You’ve always been the boring one, it's strange to hear her declare it to be Callalily this time. “I’m so excited, I’ve never gotten to dance this with you.” She tugs on your arm, somehow more excited than when she had been asking Callalily. Is she actually seeing you as a viable partner in your own right, not just a replacement for Callalily? “Come on, everyone’s lining up.”

You blink back at Callalily, who only raises her glass in a toast at you both, and Dale, who takes the plate of desserts from you. “Enjoy yourself,” he says, his smile soft.

You smile back as your sister whisks you away.

[Part Twenty-Eight]