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wheresarizona · 4 months

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Learning to Live Part 29

summary: On your last day in Miami, Javier and you are tasked with babysitting the Murphy kids while their parents get some much needed alone time out of the house.

Back at home, it’s Javier’s birthday, and the two of you are on your way to meet Chucho for dinner when you run into someone who doesn’t know how to keep their stupid mouth shut.

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, alternating POV, age gap (about ten years), consensual somnophilia, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, breeding kink, semi-public sex, thigh riding, dirty talk, domestic fluff, babysitting, Javier being cute with kids, birthday celebration, death of a parent/grief, emotional hurt/comfort, Protective!Javier, Protective!Reader, verbal altercation, insults, not Lorraine friendly, small town drama, Chucho being the best father)

pairing: Javier Peña/f!reader

word count: 19.6k+

a/n: There’s something in this chapter we’ve been waiting for. Because the chapter is so long, it might not let you reblog with a comment. Since reblogs are important you’re more than welcome to reblog without a comment and then if you’d like to say something, you can either comment on the post or send me an ask. Unbeta’d because I wanted to post it this week, so all mistakes are mine. Thank you to @juletheghoul for making sure the Spanish makes sense!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

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It was warm, almost too warm, with the blankets over you and your human furnace of a bedmate cuddled at your back—his arm was draped over your middle with a hand up your shirt to hold your breast. The hazy dreamscape your mind had conjured was a beach you’d been to growing up with a giant sea stack in the ocean that rose over two hundred feet and was like a tiny rock mountain that you could walk right up to during low tide. As you strolled along the shore, ahead of you was a child who’d barely learned to walk with big, familiar, chocolate-colored eyes and messy brown hair in a shade you knew all too well, toddling beside a man you could recognize simply from the shape of his back, the broad shoulders down to the trim waist.

Their tiny arm was raised above their head while he was leaning a little to hold the small outstretched hand, his head turning with a smile to look at them with all of the love in the world—a baby’s cries sounded, and it had you worrying something was wrong with the toddler. Suddenly, everything in front of you disappeared, the fogginess of sleep dissipating as you were brought to by the noises coming from a baby monitor nearby that continued to worry you.

The arm around you tightened, and lips kissed the back of your head.

"I'll get him," Javi's voice was deeper and rougher from sleep. He kissed your head once more before moving to get out of the bed, hearing him groan and his knees pop as he stood from the mattress that was on the floor.

A sleepy smile appeared on your face as you thought about what a good father and husband he was—there wasn’t any annoyance in his tone, and he didn’t sound put out. He was happy to check on the baby and let you get some rest. You were lucky to have such a great partner who cared so much and took an active role in being a parent.

He was a keeper.

He was perfect.

There wasn’t anyone else you’d want to have a child with.

You were so happy your baby had such a wonderful father.

Your baby—wait, what was their name?

Why were you drawing a blank?

How could you forget your kid’s name?

Oh god, you were a horrible mother.

Hold on.

The cogs in your brain were turning now that the dreamy haze had lifted.

You didn't have a baby.

Javi wasn't your husband… yet.

You were at the Murphys, and the toddler crying was their one-year-old, Nate. Your fiancé had volunteered you both to take care of Steve and Connie’s three kids while they had a much-needed night alone at a hotel.

Throwing back the blankets, you moved to get up from the bed, it only taking you a moment to find your sleep shorts on the floor, you pulled on over your bare lower half and made your way barefooted out of the room.

Why were you getting up when Javi told you to keep sleeping? Why did you feel the need to go peek into the room he was in? You weren't entirely sure, your feet padding along the cool stone-tiled floor almost of their own accord.

Nate's door was open, and you didn’t hear crying anymore. Stopping at the doorway, you leaned against the wooden frame to take in the scene before you that made you smile.

The room was softly illuminated by a nightlight plugged into the wall near the crib that had the purple dinosaur Barney on it—Javi was just in his jeans, his chest bare, cradling and rocking the one-year-old in his arms and singing so softly it took you a second to recognize the tune.

It was ABBA.

And it was the song he got the 80s cover band at the bar you'd gone to that night to play by tipping them an amount of money he refused to disclose to you.

Your ears had perked and you were able to make out the words.

He was hum-singing it in a pitch a little higher than his usual low timbre:

"Don't go wasting your emotion

Lay all your love on me

Don't go sharing your devotion

Lay all your love on me."

He hadn't noticed there was an audience, and you were enjoying watching him putting the baby back to sleep, Nate's eyes getting droopier and droopier until they were completely shut.

It made you wonder what songs he'd sing to your future kids, imagining some of his mother's favorite Spanish ballads you listened to on the radio and Fleetwood Mac, probably some classic lullabies too, like “Rockabye Baby” and “You Are My Sunshine.”

Javi's head turned your way, his eyes looking tired, but he smiled and kept singing until the song was finished and he was sure the baby was back asleep, moving to gently put him in his crib. That was when you decided to walk into the room, your arms looping around his middle from the side. His arm went behind your back, and he kissed your hair.

"I told you I'd take care of him," he whispered. "You didn't need to get up."

"Oh, I wasn't gonna miss a chance to see a glimpse of my future," you replied just as quietly. "And I’m happy I got up and had the chance to hear you put the baby back to sleep with ABBA—you know, it really gets me going seeing you doing dad stuff, and then you chose that song? Talk about making a girl yearn for the day we have our own babies, and you did an excellent job getting him to fall back asleep."

"I can’t wait for our own babies, too.” He hugged you a little closer to him. “Connie mentioned the last few weeks Nate’s been waking up in the middle of the night with separation anxiety—it's common with babies his age."

Nate turned one the month prior.

"Awe, poor guy."

"Yeah, he's okay now." Javi reached into the crib and pressed his large palm to the child's wild black curls. "Dulces sueños, mi precioso (Sweet dreams, my precious)." He looked at you. "Let's go back to bed, mi amor (my love). The kids will be up early."

Watching him put Nate back to sleep and his gentle care had you going so soft you thought you might turn into a puddle. His last sentence made you smile because one day, he’d say that in regard to your own children—god, you were yearning so hard for your future with him.

"Early to you or early to me?"

If you had the day off, you wanted to sleep until at least nine in the morning. Javi's idea of sleeping in was waking up at six-thirty instead of six because he was a—you hated saying it—a morning person.

"Early to you,” he answered.

"Great, more morning people."

He huffed in amusement and started walking with you out of the room with your hands held, continuing to whisper. "From my experience, young children like to get up early."

You were in the hallway, and he quietly closed Nate's door behind you both. "What I'm hearing is you're volunteering to take mornings with our kids since you'll already be up."

"That was my plan, yes," he said as you returned to the guest room. "Just makes sense."

Once inside, the door was shut and locked, neither of you bothering to turn on the overhead light, instead carefully making your way in the dark to the bed. Javi took off his pants before he crawled onto the mattress naked, and you shimmied out of your shorts as you got under the warm blankets.

He scooted over beneath the covers until his body was spooning yours from behind, his arm going around your shirt-covered tummy, feeling his nose in the hair at the back of your head.

"Why are you wearing this?" he asked, pulling on your t-shirt.

Javi was against wearing clothes to bed, and you found out he even slept in the nude while visiting other people’s houses.

"So, I'm not completely naked if the children wake up and need us,” you said. “All I have to do is get up and put on my bottoms."

The frown was clear in his voice. "The door is locked, and it only takes a second to put it back on—can you take it off for now? Please?"

"Have we discussed how spoiled you are?" you asked as you sat up and started pulling off the apparent bane of Javier's existence—he leaned up and tugged it over your head, tossing it into the dark void of the room.

"I'm not spoiled," he said, cuddling close into you once you laid back down, his arm back over your belly.

"You're incredibly spoiled—you always get what you want, not to mention you basically have pussy on demand. Spoiled."

You didn't have to see his face to know he was smiling. "It just sounds like I'm living the fucking dream. And pot calling the kettle black, Cielito—the same could be said for you, too. I spoil the hell out of you, and you better know my dick is yours whenever you want it." To punctuate the sentence, he ground his hips into your ass.

"Fine, we're both spoiled,” you acquiesced. “But you're needier."

"I'm not needy,” he denied.

"You couldn't go one night in bed without me naked."

"I sleep best being able to feel you."

"Well, you got your wish." You patted his arm around you. "Now, go to sleep, babe. Wake me up when the kids wake up."

He was already falling asleep, his answer an affirmative hum. “Love you,” he mumbled, nuzzling his face into your hair.

“I love you, too.”

It wasn't hard to fall back to sleep, not when your previous two days had started before the sun had risen, and everything that had taken place on the trip—traveling, meeting and spending time with the Murphys, getting engaged, the hours spent fucking in a hotel, going to the beach, almost fighting a woman in a bar. It seemed like you closed your eyes, and not even a minute later, the Sandman was whisking you away to the land of dreams.

An hour passed.

Two.

Three.

Four.

It was deep sleep that had you under its spell, physically keeping your body in the guest room while the dream transported you back home to your living room, where you were alone with Javi on the couch, straddling his lap and lazily kissing him.

Something warm and wet and felt so good it reached you in your foggy dreamscape, had the scene shifting suddenly, where you found yourself on your back, missing the clothes on your lower half, seeing the brown hair of your fiancé’s head buried between your legs.

There were the delicious sensations of tingles racing up your spine and pleasure building in your core as your nipples tightened—a soft moan of his name escaped your lips, the image before you fuzzy around the edges, keeping you on the cusp between asleep and awake.

You were gonna come, your cunt beginning to pulse, and the muscles in your belly coiling, winding tight, Dream Javi’s mouth feeling so real on your clit, licking and sucking on the sensitive bud. Warmth had spread through your veins, your body hot at being so turned on.

His tongue was working its magic, and you weren’t even surprised at how quickly he was getting you close to your end.

The pleasure kept building higher and higher until you hit your peak, and you were coming, the sudden explosion of euphoria coursing out from your center waking you up with a long, shuddering moan, your body tensing, and your heart racing.

Confusion had come over you at being awake and still feeling a wet tongue lapping at your pussy, and it took a second for you to realize your legs were spread with someone between them beneath the covers. It was too dark to see the lump under the blankets, but when you reached, you could feel the hardness of a skull at the apex of your thighs.

“Javi?” It came out as more of a croak.

He hummed in acknowledgment with his lips wrapped around your swollen clit, and your confusion was replaced with burning-hot arousal.

He'd woken you up by going down on you—which was something you'd given him permission to do months ago; you'd given him permission to do a whole lot more to wake you up, but Javier was big on explicit consent, and there were some lines he couldn't bring himself to cross, which was sweet, and showed what a stand-up guy he was.

And you loved that he was a Consent King; however, you happened to be a horny bitch that fantasized about him fucking you awake.

You should mention Javi also gave you permission to wake him up by the same means, and the first time he woke to you slowly riding his dick, he came in record-breaking time.

Him waking you with his mouth on your cunt was kind of a big deal and a testament to the trust you had in each other; plus, it was fucking amazing—forget alarm clocks; you always wanted your mornings to start with orgasms.

"Oh, god," you moaned, pushing the bedding down to uncover your torso and his head, the chill air welcome on your heated skin. "It's so good, Javi." It was wet and slippery between your thighs, your pussy throbbing and feeling achingly empty. Your fingers went into his mess of hair. "Baby, I'm so horny. Can I please have your dick?"

He came off you, moving up your body, his wet lips kissing over the skin of your belly and chest, up the column of your throat to your mouth, smelling your musk in his damp mustache as he kissed you. His hips took their place in the cradle of your thighs, snaking his hand between your bodies to line the tip of his hard cock with your soaked entrance, pushing all the way in with one smooth thrust that stole your breath.

The orgasm had loosened you up, making it easier for your inner walls to stretch and accommodate his girth, easing the empty ache to feel wonderfully full.

He held himself up with his arms beside your head, your hands moving to dig your fingers into his shoulders.

His lips left yours. "Did you like it?" he asked his tone a deep rasp. "Waking up by coming on my tongue?"

He had started slowly moving, his dick sliding almost all of the way out and pushing back in.

"Yes," you gasped.

"You were moaning in your sleep and got so fucking wet." Another orgasm was starting to form in your center.

"Was dreaming about you."

His cock twitched hard inside you. "Shit," he hissed. His pace sped up, hearing the wet sounds of him working in and out of you. He pressed his nose against your cheek, his breaths coming out heavier. "I didn't think it'd turn me on," he said. "But you were so fucking responsive, and when you moaned my name, it got me hard as a fucking rock that you were thinking about me in your sleep, and it made me feel like less of a creep."

Pleasure was curling inside you with every slick slide of him fucking into your cunt, but that last comment cut through your blissful haze.

“I wanted it,” you said. “Do you like it when you wake up to me blowing you or riding your dick?”

A loud, ragged groan pulled from his throat. “Yes.”

The two of you were so in tune with each other that when you made the movement to try and roll you both, Javi completed it to have him on his back with you on top, his cock staying nestled in your depths.

Your knees were bracketing his hips as you rose until only the tip of him remained and dropped back down, using your hands on his chest for leverage and keeping your rhythm steady and hard—up and down, over and over again. Javi's palms slid along your belly on a journey to your breasts, where he took them in hand, gently massaging them before his fingers zeroed in on your pebbled nipples, rolling and pinching them. It fanned the fire growing in your center, and you angled your hips to have him press into that magical spot that made it hard to think with how fucking good you felt.

There was a delay in you continuing the conversation. "It's the same for me," you panted. "I like waking up to you going down on me. I'd like waking up to you fucking me—I want it, and I don't want you feeling bad."

"I'll try.” His words were strained. “Fucking love your tits—wish I could see you bouncing on my dick.” It was too dark in the room. “Wait, what time is it?”

"What?"

"What time is it?" he asked again.

You looked at the red glowing numbers on the alarm clock located above you on the bedside table.

"6:32."

"Shit."

He pulled you forward, his arms going around your back, and rolled you both to your original position with him over you, moving your legs up high on his ribs. "We don't have much time—touch yourself."

He began slowly rocking in and out of you, speeding up little by little.

Your eyebrows furrowed. "Don't have much time?" you asked. "What?"

"The kids will be up any second, and I want us both to get off, so I need you to rub that pretty little clit for me."

Oh, right, the children.

The children you were watching.

The children you volunteered to watch and now held the power to cockblock you both.

The Murphy children.

"Shit," you said, getting your hand in between your bodies and locking your ankles against his lower back, feeling his muscles move beneath your calves. "Harder." The pads of your fingers were circling your bundle of nerves just the way you liked while Javi did as you asked, pounding into you hard enough your body was jostling, and you could hear the clap of his hips hitting yours.

The heat in your belly was getting hotter, Javi's lips sloppily kissing along your jaw and chin to claim your mouth with his, a thin layer of sweat coating both of your bodies.

"Need you to come for me." The sentence was muffled into your lips. "Need to feel it—let me have another, Cielito."

Pleasure was building inside you, every push and pull of his hips and swirl of your fingers getting you closer and closer to your sweet release.

He had you moaning into his mouth as he kissed you, Javi grunting, and you could hear how wet it was where you were joined.

His face pressed into your neck, his hot, heavy breaths fanning against your skin, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blades hard enough to leave crescent moon indents.

You were almost there.

"'M close," you said.

He put all of his weight onto one arm beside your head, and his free hand went to your breast, pinching and teasing your hardened nipple with his fingers—it had a current shooting directly to your clit, making you moan loudly.

"Come on, baby," Javi gritted through his teeth. "Give it to me—come all over my dick, and I'll fuck you full of me. I know you want it." He was moving faster, and you could tell he was close. "I know you want me to fuck a baby into you. Give me another, and I’ll give it to you."

"Yes," you gasped, clutching his back with one hand for something to hold onto as you fell over the edge and came, your cunt seizing up around him tight enough it stuttered his rhythm, and a rumbling groan erupted from his chest. Pleasure radiated out from your core, spreading to the tips of your fingers and toes, your mind going blissfully blank, your eyes closed, panting hard.

“Good girl,” he said, kissing low on your cheek. “My good fucking girl—god, I fucking love you.”

The second you relaxed, Javi was focusing on his own high, his nose pressed to the skin of your neck, hearing and feeling his heavy breaths as he pistoned into you. It was wetter between your legs, the sound of his cock working in and out of you amplified, and the suck of your pussy more pronounced.

He felt so good inside you, your hands moving to press into the sweat-damp waves of his hair.

"Let me have it, Javi." You scratched at his scalp, and he whimpered. "I want it, baby—come for me. Fuck it deep."

"I'm gonna give it to you," he grunted. "Te daré lo que quieras (I'll give you whatever you want)—Te conseguiré la pinche luna (I'll get you the fucking moon). Te daré el pinche mundo (I'll give you the fucking world)." His strokes were getting jerky. "Te daré tantos niños como quieras (I'll give you as many kids as you want). Haré cualquier cosa por ti (I'll do anything for you). Soy tuyo (I'm yours)—Siempre seré tuyo (I'll always be yours). Te amo (I love you). Te amo (I love you). Te amo (I love you)..." The last word turned into a strangled moan, Javi pressing himself all the way to the hilt deep inside you, the tip of himself kissing your womb as he came. There was the hard jerk of his dick, and you felt the warm spurts of his come filling you, his hips continuing to rock like he was trying to make sure he didn't leave any nook or cranny empty, wanting you to be completely stuffed.

The weight of him collapsing on you was familiar and welcome, stroking your fingers through his hair while he caught his breath in the crook of your neck.

One of the two baby monitors crackled to life, hearing a small, tired voice calling out for their mom—it was Stevie, the three-year-old.

Javi immediately moved to get up, giving you a quick kiss and making pained groans as he got to his feet.

"I've got him," he said, heading for the en suite. He turned on the bathroom light, your eyes squinting at the brightness and getting a glimpse of his naked back and bare ass before he disappeared behind the closed door—you sighed wistfully.

The water pattering told you he'd turned on the shower, and he must've gone in while it was still cold because it was turned off after only a couple of minutes had passed.

This had to be a record for how quickly he was going through getting ready.

You'd heard the sink run and knew he brushed his teeth, and when he came out with just a towel around his waist, his wet hair had been combed, but he hadn't bothered doing his regular styling.

"Cover your eyes," he said.

Your hands went over your eyes, and he flicked the switch for the overhead light.

"Do you want help?" you asked.

You heard him over in his duffle bag, pulling out clothes.

"With the kids? I can handle them on my own if you want to sleep in."

The sounds told you he was putting on a pair of jeans.

"I'm not gonna sleep while you wrangle the children by yourself. What I'm asking is how much time do I have to get ready? Do I need to try to break the world record like you? Or can I take an actual shower and brush my teeth longer than thirty seconds?"

"Hey, at least I brushed them," he said. "I don't wanna make him wait too long—I feel bad enough I had to shower, but I didn't have much choice since I smelled like pussy."

You were pretty sure he was buttoning his shirt.

"Yeah, a shower was needed—which, what prompted the unexpected wake-up call?"

"I had a dirty dream where I was eating you out in my old truck—the one I had in high school—and I just really fucking needed to taste you when I woke up. Took me a little bit to work up my nerve."

"Well, it was an amazing wake-up. Ten out of ten stars would love to experience it again."

He was moving, and you thought he'd grabbed his watch off the dresser.

There was a smile in his voice. "I'll keep it in mind—do your regular morning routine, baby. There's no need for you to break any world records." He was padding toward the door, it softly squealing as he opened it. "I love you."

“Wait, what color is the shirt you’re wearing?”

“Purple.”

The day before, you had to do a small load of laundry because you both had gone through the majority of the clothes you brought.

His answer made you grin. "Perfect. I love you, too."

The light switched off, and the door clicked shut. You removed your hands from your eyes and decided it was definitely time to get up out of the wet patch and shower—you made a mental note to wash the sheets and blankets before Connie got home. It seemed like the polite thing to do since you were heading home later that day.

Javi was up and ready in about five-to-six minutes.

It took you much longer to get clean and make yourself presentable, choosing to wear black leggings with your lavender-colored v-neck shirt.

Exiting the guest room, there was noise coming from the kitchen, hearing music playing low and voices, your socked feet carrying toward it.

Before the hallway opened into the living room, there was a doorway to the kitchen, and you stopped in your tracks when you got to it and looked inside, keeping half of your body hidden behind the wall.

Javi's profile was in front of you as he stood at the stove with Nate in a carrier on his back, and Stevie held in his left arm so his right was free to hold the black plastic spatula. Olivia was beside him, her back to you, with a plate in her hands that had a small stack of pancakes, all of the children still in their pajamas.

"Looks like your Mickey pancake is done, tesorito (little treasure)," he said to Olivia. "Can you bring the plate a little closer, please?"

She did as he asked, holding the plate closer but not too close to the hot stove. He scooped the pancake up and plopped it down on top of the stack.

Javi adjusted Stevie in his arm and set the spatula down to grab the large measuring cup half full of batter.

"Okay," he started, "What shape are we doing for your tía (aunt)?"

"Ninja Turtle!" Stevie shouted.

Javi smiled. "I’m sorry, bud, I'm not good enough to do a Ninja Turtle."

"What about a heart?" Olivia asked.

"Now that I can do," he answered. "Is it okay if I make your tía a heart pancake, Stevie?"

"Yes!"

Javi was cautious as he poured the pancake mix, a look of concentration on his face, finishing after some seconds.

"There," he said, he had a dubious expression. "It looks like a heart, right?"

Olivia peered into the pan. "Kinda looks like a butt.”

He let out a long sigh, and it took everything in you to hold back your giggle, enjoying watching this interaction.

"Well, guess I'm eating the butt pancake," Javi said, and you had to cover your mouth with both hands to keep from laughing because, of course, he'd volunteer to eat the butt pancake. The measuring cup was set back down, and he picked up the spatula. "I'll try again after this one. Hopefully, the next one looks like a heart."

"If it doesn't, you're really good at making Mickeys!" Olivia said.

He smiled, looking over at her. "Thanks, tesorito."

"I want a Mickey pancake!" Stevie announced.

Javi's head turned toward him with a frown. "I thought you wanted the ‘S’ for Stevie—that's what you asked me to make."

"I want a Mickey pancake now!"

“Guess I’m eating the ‘S’ pancake, too.” His eyes went to Olivia. "Set the plate on the counter, Mija. We're gonna be here longer than I expected—how's Nate doing back there?"

She set the pancakes down beside the batter, Javi twisting his torso to show her the one-year-old.

"He's just chewing on the teething ring."

"Good," he said, facing forward and flipping the pancake. "So, uh, what do you think about mi Cielito? You know, now that you've met her…"

You held your breath.

"I like her," Olivia answered. "She tells bad jokes like my dad, though. But she's really nice, and she made cookies with us, and I had fun with her at the beach."

You took a deep breath and felt relieved that you earned the approval of his niece.

"So, you're okay with her being your tía?"

"Yep! I like that she can speak Spanish with us and don't tell my mom, but tía's cookies are better than hers."

That made him smile as he moved the pancake from the pan to the stack. "I'll keep that between us, tesorito."

"Are you excited to have a tía, Stevie?" he asked the toddler.

"Yes, she made me cookies!"

Javi smiled. "Yes, she did. Okay—" he set down the plastic utensil and picked up the measuring cup again. "—let's hope this time it looks like a heart and not a butt."

Javier had always been an early riser—he didn't have much choice growing up on his parent's ranch, where their days started with his father's, who had to be out the door by six a.m. Any time he complained about waking up so early, his parents would tell him, ‘A quien madruga Dios le ayuda (God helps those who get up early),’ which equated to what they say in English, ‘The early bird gets the worm,’ or if you were early and eager, you were most likely to succeed; the saying didn’t improve his attitude about being awake when the sun hadn’t risen and having to help his dad do chores outside before he went to school.

Waking up at five a.m. for the first eighteen years of his life fucked up his internal clock to make it so his mornings naturally started at six now—which wasn't terrible during the week, but on the weekends, his fiancée slept until at least nine, and yeah, he could get up and go have some coffee while reading the newspaper or a book as he waited for her, except he'd miss her and feel lonely. His solution was he normally just stayed in bed cuddling her and allowed himself to relax and let his mind wander, usually thinking about their future.

This Saturday morning, he woke up too fucking horny to do his usual routine of holding her, and he knew she wouldn't mind if he disrupted her sleep to see if she'd want to fool around; she generally did the same when she was in his position. However, today, it popped into his mind about how much he liked it when he'd wake up to her sucking his dick or, Christ, when he'd wake up to her riding him; he wasn't ashamed to admit the first time he opened his eyes to her on top of him and using him to make herself come, he blew his load in a minute flat.

So, he was thinking about that and how she'd given him permission multiple times to do the same to her when he decided to give it a try. The issue he ran into was it made him really fucking uncomfortable to do things to her while she was unconscious—he needed his sexual partners to be coherent and consenting. It took him a few minutes to push down the feeling and remind himself she had consented, she'd enthusiastically consented on many occasions, and that he had to trust her.

And that was how he found himself waking her up with his face in her pussy. He ended up kind of liking it, or at least liking her reaction to it, and that it made her so horny she asked him for his cock.

Would he do it again? Probably. It seemed to be something she was really into.

He wished he would've worked up his nerve sooner so they could've had more time to fuck, but they'd made it just under the wire to the kids waking up.

Which, he was loving getting the chance to babysit with her. It felt like a trial run of their future, and he wanted to show her that she made the right choice, agreeing to marry him.

The children were pretty well-behaved, and they loved him enough that they weren’t too difficult—unless it was nap time or bedtime. The one he was most worried about was Nathaniel because the one-year-old hadn’t had as much time with him as the other two and was incredibly attached to his parents, especially Connie.

When Javier and Stevie went to go get the youngest Murphy upon waking, Nate had fussed for his mom, and once he realized she wasn't there, he became inconsolable if Javier tried to put him down—the solution was carrying the baby on his back while he made breakfast.

The two older kids wanted pancakes when he asked what they'd like to eat, and of course, Javier obliged because his sobrinos (niece and nephews) had him wrapped around their little fingers.

Here he was, making Stevie a Mickey Mouse pancake, even though he'd already made the three-year-old an 'S' shaped one, and his fiancée was doing a terrible job of hiding behind the wall to watch him with the kids.

He held Stevie so the child could see the pancakes being made, a black plastic spatula in his other hand. "Cielito," he said loud enough for her to hear. "How many pancakes do you want?"

She stepped into the doorway, and he glanced over, smiling immediately when he saw she was wearing her purple shirt. She was frowning. "How long have you known I was there?"

"Baby, you had half of your body showing. I clocked you the moment you got out here."

Her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrow raising. "So, were you cheesing it up?"

She was asking if everything she saw and heard was genuine, and it felt like a gut punch that she thought he was faking it.

A frown formed between his eyebrows and on his lips. "Tesorito," he looked at Olivia, "¿He estado actuando diferente esta mañana (Have I been acting differently this morning)?"

"Huh?" The little girl had a confused expression on her face. "No." She shook her head. "¿Por qué actuarias de manera diferente (Why would you act differently)?"

His eyes went back to his fiancée.

“No sé (I don’t know),” he said evenly. “No tengo ninguna razón para actuar de manera diferente (I have no reason to act differently). ¿Le dirás a tu tía lo que te gusta que te prepare para desayunar cuando te visite (Will you tell your aunt what you like me to make you for breakfast when I visit)?”

The girl turned to face Cielito with a smile. "Mickey Mouse pancakes! He also does other shapes if we ask, but Mickey is my favorite, and the ones he's best at making!"

"Oh," the woman replied. Their gazes met, guilt written on her features as her arms dropped to her sides. "I'm sorry, Javi. I shouldn't have jumped to that conclusion."

“Flip it!” Stevie shouted about his pancake. “Flip it, tío!”

He focused back on the pan and used the plastic utensil in his hand to do as the toddler asked.

“Yay!” the three-year-old clapped.

“Thanks for paying attention, buddy,” Javier told the little one. “And I get it, Cielito. You've never seen me with them.” Javier sighed. “How many pancakes do you want?"

She moved toward him and politely said to Olivia, “Excuse me, kiddo,” the child letting her get to his side. She ducked under his arm that held the spatula, hugging him around his middle or as best she could with him wearing the baby carrier. Her face was tilted up toward him. “I’m sorry, Javi,” she quietly said. “I was rude, and I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. Can you forgive me?”

His head turned to her and kissed her forehead. “Yeah,” he answered truthfully. He pulled back to meet her eyes. “I’m not putting on a show for you—everything you’ve seen is just how I am with them.” Javier let out a long breath. “These kids are my family, and up until you told me you wanted children with me, they were the closest thing I thought I’d get to having my own—I couldn’t be a father, but I could be the best uncle, and I’m gonna keep being the best uncle, even when we do have our own, because I love them, and they’re my favorite sobrinos.”

“Somos tus únicos sobrinos, tío (We’re your only niece and nephews, uncle),” Olivia said.

Javier smiled, looking past his fiancee at the dark-haired girl. “Sí, los son y son los mejores (Yes, you are, and you’re the best). ¿Quién es tu tío favorito (Who is your favorite uncle)?”

Her beaming smile was missing some baby teeth as she pointed at him. “¡Tú, tío Javi (You, uncle Javi)! ¡Eres divertido y haces los mejores panqueques y nos compras los regalos que queramos (You’re fun and make the best pancakes and buy us the presents we want)!”

Cielito was smiling when he locked eyes with her. “I told you you’re fun,” she said. “And I can tell you love them a lot—you’re very adorable with them.”

“Thanks,” he replied and kissed her forehead again. “How many pancakes would you like, mi amor (my love)?”

“Two is fine.”

“What shape for your second one?”

Her smile turned mischievous. “I’d love a butt pancake, so we can both eat ass—” Her eyes got comically huge at remembering the children. “—sortments.” She cringed. “So, we can both eat an assortment of differently shaped pancakes.”

He snorted in amusement, trying not to laugh. “Right,” he said. “We’ll both eat an assortment of pancakes.”

“There’s really not much different between the heart and butt pancakes…” Olivia added with a look on her face like she didn’t understand what they were talking about.

“Is there bacon?” Cielito suddenly asked and stepped away from him, clearly trying to change the subject. “I could make bacon or maybe cut up some fruit?”

He looked between the two older kids. “Do you guys want bacon or fruit with your pancakes?”

"Bacon!" Olivia answered excitedly.

"Bacon!" Stevie squealed, clapping his hands.

His head turned to his future wife, smiling. "I think they want bacon."

"Then I'll make them bacon," she said, walking to the fridge.

It was like they were playing house—it was them with the three children they were taking care of, having to feed, clean, clothe, and entertain them, giving the couple a chance to see how the other handled it.

He loved standing with her side-by-side at the stove, making breakfast while they chatted with the children. He loved that Nate wanted to sit with her at the table when they ate, and she didn’t even blink an eye as she took the baby to put in her lap and eat his small plate of a plain pancake and cut-up bananas. He loved how she tackled cleaning up with him while holding the one-year-old on her hip like it was no big deal and kept an eye on the three little Murphys while he washed the blankets from their bed and put the mattress back onto the old, squeaky bedframe. He loved watching how easily she interacted with the kids and that they liked her—he knew, without a doubt, when he asked Olivia what she thought of the woman he was marrying, her answer was going to be positive because the nine-year-old trusted him, and would’ve said something to him by now had there been anything wrong.

Javier hadn't told Cielito this, but on their first night in Miami, when Olivia requested him to tell her a bedtime story, she worriedly asked him if he'd still love her and her brothers if he had a baby, and it broke his heart. He reassured her that, of course, he would and made a mental note that when they finally had a child, he'd do his best to ensure nothing changed regarding his regular phone calls with Olivia and sending them presents.

Seeing his fiancée happily helping him with the kids had him feeling some type of way; he couldn’t stop smiling, excitement vibrating just under his skin at thinking about her doing the same things with their own children.

On many occasions, she’d said their kids were going to be obsessed with him and love him more than her, but that wasn’t something he wanted—his future wife deserved their affection more, and he wanted them to be obsessed with her. He hated how she grew up—how she never felt loved, and he sure as fuck hated her family, and starting their own was a chance for her to have a do-over where she’d be loved unconditionally and knew her importance to him and their children. He just wanted her to feel loved and wanted, and he would do everything in his power to make it happen.

In the hours they waited for Steve and Connie to get back, they got a taste of what parenting together would be like, and he thought they didn’t do half bad—they got the boys ready for the day, getting them dressed, their teeth brushed, and hair combed. He saw how well she handled calming down a crying Nathaniel. They spent some time in the family room watching cartoons with the kids, and he helped Stevie with potty training, and she didn’t shy away from changing diapers. She French braided Olivia’s hair per the child’s request, giving her a plait on each side of her head. He showed her how to put Nate down for his morning nap, and they had lunch when the baby got up; then, they all piled onto the couch to watch The Little Mermaid.

Javier usually did most of this alone when the parents were away, but he had to admit that having someone helping him was nice and made things much easier.

Something he didn’t expect was how he somehow fell even more in love with her from being so good with the kids, and it showed him she was going to be an amazing mother one day—hopefully soon, if he got his way.

Javier was beside you on the couch with his arm over your shoulders and Stevie in his lap, Olivia on your other side, and Nate content sitting on your thigh with his back against you and a sippy cup in his hands as you all watched the movie.

"My favorite character is Ariel," Olivia said. "I'd love to be a mermaid and swim with dolphins! Tío's favorite character is Sebastian."

That was a piece of trivia you were not aware of.

Your head turned toward the girl. "Is that so? Has your tío watched this with you before?"

"Oh, yeah, it's my favorite movie!” That made sense since she had The Little Mermaid pajamas and bedding. “Last time, we ate ice cream sandwiches while watching."

Confusion came over you because you’d been sure Javi’s first time seeing this movie was with you—you’d been sure his first time watching many of the animated Disney movies had been with you.

“That sounds like fun,” you said slowly. “Have you watched other Disney movies with him?”

“Yep.” She pointed toward the entertainment center, where behind a glass door, you could see the spines of VHS cases, noting there were a lot of Disney titles and other children’s movies. “Um, I know we’ve watched Beauty and the Beast, Snow White, uh, Sleeping Beauty, Toy Story, Pocahontas, Aladdin, um, A Goofy Movie, um, oh! He took me to the movies to see Hercules!”

“I love that—have you watched Lion King together?”

He said he’d never seen it on your second date, and how he acted when you watched it on your third date made you believe it was his first watch.

“Nope—” She shook her head. “—I don’t like Lion King. It’s too sad.”

“It is kinda sad, and it’s okay that you don’t like it.” You gave her knee a pat before turning your head to look at Javi, whispering to him, “I thought you hadn’t seen Disney movies before we met?”

His face scrunched in confusion, meeting your gaze. “What? I never said that. I told you I hadn't watched Lion King, and I hadn’t. I’ve seen a few Disney movies with the kids—I figured you knew that…”

“I didn’t. I thought your first times were with me...”

“Some of them, yeah.” He shrugged. “They’re young children—what movies did you think we watched?”

“I don’t know, maybe Land Before Time or those cartoon movies not made by Disney.”

You felt dumb for not putting two and two together after he told you about Olivia and her brothers early on in your relationship—of course, it’d make sense he’d seen some of the movies before you got together.

Olivia interrupted. "We don't watch Land Before Time because it makes tío cry."

Your face softened, reaching across your body to caress his cheek. "Oh, babe, because of Littlefoot's mom?"

He was frowning, letting out a sigh, his eyes darting away from you. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “Messed up way to start a kid’s movie and fuc—freaking traumatizing.”

“Yeah.” You pushed the hair off his forehead. “The beginning is brutal. I cried the first time I watched it, too.”

The children’s dad shouted from the front door, “Kids, we’re home!”

“Mommy and Daddy are home!” Stevie said, crawling off Javi’s lap to run their way.

“Mom!” Nate shouted, letting his sippy cup fall and needing help to get to the floor. He booked it the same way as his brother.

Olivia jumped up to go see them, too.

Javi leaned in close, your cheeks touching when he whispered into your ear, “I can’t wait to come home to kids who are excited to see me—can't wait to come home to you pregnant. I just can't fucking wait to have a baby with you."

You smiled. "I know," you said just as quietly. "I can't wait, either. You're gonna be such an amazing dad, and our babies will be lucky to have you."

"You don't know how fucking happy it makes me when we talk about having more than one—I get so excited, I feel like a kid on Christmas."

"You're so cute."

"Hey, Jav!" Steve called out. "The two of you need to come out here!"

Your fiancé kissed your cheek. "We better go see what he wants."

“Okay.” You took his chin in hand and moved his face in front of yours to give him a kiss on the lips.

Your hands were held when you both got up and made your way to where the family was, finding them all standing around the kitchen table, Connie holding Nathaniel and Stevie in his dad's arms—toward the end of the table you were closest to, sat a professionally made, circular, white frosted cake, with red outlining the top and fancy writing in the same color, spelling out, "Happy Birthday Javi!" and two lit candles shaped like a four and zero standing above the message.

The moment you entered the dining room, the Murphys started singing "Happy Birthday," and you joined in, Javi suddenly stopping.

"What's all this?" he asked.

It got to the part in the song where his name goes, and the adults said Javi, but Olivia and Stevie sang tío. When they finished singing, the three-year-old clapped his hands.

"It's your birthday party!" Steve said with a smile. "Get over here and blow out the candles so the kids can give you your presents and eat cake."

"Right," Javi replied, letting go of your hand to walk the handful of steps, leaning over the table between two chairs.

"Make a wish!" Olivia said.

His eyes closed, and he blew out the candles.

"Yay!" Stevie said excitedly, clapping his hands again. Nate copied his brother with claps and a big smile.

"What'd you wish for?" Olivia asked.

"If he tells you, then his wish won't come true, honey," her mom said.

Javi straightened, and you made your way to him.

"Oh, right," Olivia replied. "Can we have cake now?"

"Yes, baby girl," Steve answered, taking Nate when Connie passed him to his dad so she could cut the cake. "Olivia, go grab your tío's presents over on the coffee table." He nodded behind him, and the little girl ran in that direction.

Javi's voice was rough with emotion as he spoke, "You guys didn't have to do this..."

"Yes, we did," Connie said, putting a small slice on a tiny paper plate. "The kids wanted to celebrate your birthday with you and eat cake."

"Thank you." Your arm was around his waist while he pulled you closer to his side and kissed your hair.

Olivia came barreling back toward them with some folded papers in one hand and a small box under her other arm wrapped in red and white striped wrapping paper that was clearly meant for Christmas.

She stood beside him and handed him the folded papers first, which turned out to be handmade Birthday cards from the kids—the first one featured an array of colorful marker scribbles that had every color in the rainbow and an abundance of circles, the writing messy as if an adult was helping to guide their tiny hand to write in black ink, ‘Happy Birthday!’ Javi flipped it open to find a baby-sized orange handprint on one side, with ‘Love, Nate’ written above it in Connie's clean script, and on the other side was a blue toddler's handprint with the same messy handwriting from the front over it, spelling, 'Love, Stevie.'

His eyes were misty as he looked over at the boys. "Did you make this for me, Stevie?"

"Uh-huh." His little head nodded. "I colored it for you!"

"I love it, mi principito (my little prince). Thank you."

"What do we say when someone thanks us?" Steve asked his son.

Stevie smiled big. "You’re welcome!"

Javi's attention returned to his hands, putting the closed first card behind the second.

This one was clearly made by Olivia. She'd drawn a birthday cake with the frosting colored pink and a few candles on top, a bunch of vibrant balloons above it, and underneath, she'd spelled in block letters in different colors, ‘Happy Birthday!’ When he opened it, there was a colorful stick figure drawing of her family taking up both sides, their names written above each person, with Javi and you in the middle, and 'Cielito' put down as your name. Along the top in the child's script, it said, 'Happy Birthday to the best tío in the entire world! Love, Olivia.'

It surprised you that she added you amongst her family, and it warmed your heart, knowing how happy it would make Javi.

"Es hermoso, tesorito (It’s beautiful, my little treasure)," he said, sounding a little choked up. He pulled her in for a side hug. "Incluso incluiste a mi Cielito (You even included my Cielito)."

"Well, yeah," she replied, looking up at him. "Hablas mucho de ella y vives con ella, y te vas a casar con ella (You talk about her a lot and live with her, and you are going to marry her). Tuve que incluirla ya que va a ser nuestra tía (I had to include her since she is going to be our aunt)."

"Gracias, Mija (Thank you, Mija). Es perfecto (It’s perfect). I'm gonna hang these up at work so I can look at them every day." He sniffled and wiped at his eyes, handing the two cards to you. His head turned your way. "We're gonna need to pack these carefully."

"Of course," you said.

"Y aquí está tu regalo (And here is your gift)," Olivia held up the box to him, and he took it, quickly unwrapping the paper and opening it. He set it down on the table and pulled out what was inside.

It was a picture of Javi sitting on the Murphys’ leather sofa, holding a maybe six-month-old Nate in his arms, with Stevie and Olivia seated on each side of him, all of them, except Nate, who was chewing on his hand, smiling at the camera, the white ceramic frame around it covered in kid-drawn sunflowers and daisies, with ‘World's Best Tío’ written on the bottom in Olivia's handwriting.

He was smiling. "I love this—it’s gonna go on my desk," he said. His gaze went to his friends. "Thank you. This means a lot to me."

"You're welcome, Javi," Steve said, smiling.

"The kids had a lot of fun making your presents," Connie added, "and I've been meaning to get you a copy of that picture." Six plates with cake slices on them were sitting on the table.

“Thank you," he said again, gently setting it back into the box.

The birthday cake was eaten, and the majority of the hours you had left with the Murphys, Javi spent with the children while you took care of packing both of your bags, wanting him to have as much time with them as possible—the last thing you saw them doing was having a Nerf gun battle, Javi and Olivia versus the Steves; big Steve carrying around little Steve, both with weapons in their hands.

There was a lot of laughing and happy squeals.

A little later, when Steve and Connie walked into the guest room you were in, you were folding the basket of clean bedding.

"Oh, sweetie, you don't need to worry about folding all of that," the other woman said as she came over and carefully took the sheet you were holding, tossing it back in the basket.

"It's really not a problem," you replied. "I don't mind."

"We'll take care of it later." She waved away your words, then guided you with a hand on your back and arm to stand with them over in the space at the end of the bed. "We wanted to thank you for last night." She stepped to stand beside her husband, and he immediately put an arm around her.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry about how I acted." You covered your face with your hands.

"It's okay,” she reassured. "If I had been in your position, I would've wanted to kick that woman's ass, too, and to be honest, it made the night very exciting."

You lowered your palms. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. Steve—" She glanced at her husband. "—tell her about that time right after we got married when that woman tried to kiss you."

"First of all," he started, "I told that woman to leave me the fuck alone and was very blunt in how uninterested I was in her. Then she tried to lay one on me—Connie had stepped away to use the ladies' room—and next thing I know, my beautiful, amazing wife was pulling her off me by the hair, and gave her a black eye before myself, and a bouncer could separate them. We were lucky she wasn't arrested, but I had never loved her more." He had a dopey smile on his face as he looked at Connie.

"Sooo, I acted accordingly?" you asked.

"Yes," they replied in unison, focusing their attention on you.

You smiled. "That makes me feel better."

“We wanted to talk to you before y’all left,” Connie said, “and thought this was a good time since Javi’s busy with our babies.”

“Okay…” you replied, wondering what they wanted to discuss.

“We are so happy Javi met you, and you’ve been so good for him. We’ve never seen him happier, and the two of you are a great match.”

You were waiting for the ‘but,” their expressions turning solemn.

“We just kindly ask that you please don’t break his heart,” she continued. “With how head over heels he is for you, we worry about what would happen to him.”

Breaking his heart had never even crossed your mind, and you had no intention of doing it either—Javi was the love of your life, your person, your soulmate; doing anything to hurt him was unfathomable, and you got where they were coming from—imagining a life without him was bleak and painful, and you knew he wouldn’t handle it well.

“Oh,” you said, “Wow, you guys are giving me the shovel talk. Well, I just want to reassure you both—” You looked between them. “—that I love him more than anything, and I’m in it for the long haul; in sickness and in health, ‘til death do us part, he’s it for me—I can’t even picture my future without him.”

A small smile was on Connie’s lips. “That’s good to hear,” she said.

"We're serious when we say you're the best thing to ever happen to him," Steve added, also smiling softly. "I'm not used to seeing him so fucking happy, but it's a good look—he deserves this, and we just hate thinking about him losing it.”

“I completely understand your worries,” you replied. “You just want what’s best for him, and you’re great friends—he’s lucky to have you. I want him to have happiness, too, after all the shit he’s gone through.”

Steve took a deep breath, his free hand resting on his hip. “He’s been through the wringer, and it’s about damn time he catches a fucking break.”

“It really is, and I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure he’s happy.”

“We appreciate it,” Steve said—he scratched at the back of his neck. “Also, I’ll tell him on our next call.” He and Javi chatted every Thursday over the phone. “But, I’m sorry about what an asshole I’ve been. I don’t know what got into me.”

“You needed to get laid, Steve.” You reached out and patted his arm, Connie giggling. “We know.” His cheeks had reddened. “If I only boned five times in an entire year, I’d also be a dick to the couple who are clearly doing it on the regular.”

He sighed, averting his eyes. “Yeah…”

You smiled. “Looks like you guys had a great night, though.” It was obvious they were much more relaxed. “Connie’s even glowing.” You gestured toward her, and Steve stood a little straighter, his chest puffing out. “Now, I need you guys to promise me something.”

Connie’s face showed curiosity. “What’s that?” she asked.

“You’ll start going on at least one date a month—get a babysitter for the night and take some time for yourselves away from the kids to have some fun. If you can swing it, I highly recommend getting a hotel room so you can go wild.”

The other woman looked at her husband. “I did enjoy the room last night. I’m sure my sister would watch the kids for us once a month.”

Steve had a delighted smile. “I enjoyed it, too—it’s a great idea, and we should’ve thought of it sooner.”

Her attention came back to you. “We’ll try—thank you. There’s something we want you to promise us.”

"Lay it on me."

“We know y’all are adventurous in the bedroom, but promise us you’ll avoid getting arrested by having sex out in public.”

You cringed. “Last night was a first for somewhere that public, and I don’t think I could stomach doing it again anyway.”

"Good." She nodded.

"Well, thank you for having us," you said. "It was lovely to meet you all and see Javi with your kids."

"I told you he's great with them," Steve replied.

"Yes, he is—we need to figure out a date, but hopefully, you guys can make it to our wedding next month. I'd love for Olivia to have the chance to be some kind of flower girl.” You weren’t having a traditional wedding with a whole bridal party; it was going to be a small ceremony with Chucho, Javi’s cousin, Seb, and your best friend, Robyn, the only people in attendance. “We'll make it work somehow."

"She'd love that," Connie said with a smile.

"We wouldn't miss it for the world," Steve added.

When it was finally time to leave for the airport, there were a lot of tears and promises Javi would see the children again very soon—Stevie had to practically be pried from your fiancé's arms with the grip he had around the man’s neck.

The drive to the airport was quiet, with your hand in Javi's, knowing he was sad about leaving his best friends and their kids.

On the plane, your bags were safely tucked away in the overhead compartment, and your future husband was again wearing his leather jacket and sitting in the aisle seat. He distracted you with his mouth on yours for take off, and you were thankful he remembered your fear of flying.

There was hardly any talking between you, mainly because you both were exhausted and ready to sleep in the comfort of your own bed.

An hour into the flight, as you read your book with the small overhead light shining down on you in the dark cabin, Javi nudged you with his elbow to get your attention.

"Cielito, look."

He was smiling with his reading glasses lowered on his nose, his hands holding his own book, and your eyes followed the direction he nodded in.

Across the aisle, in the row ahead of you, a mother was holding her baby, who couldn't have been a year old, in front of her and doing something you couldn’t see that had the child erupting in happy giggles with a big infectious smile.

"I want one," Javi said.

You snorted, laying your head against his shoulder. "And we're doing our best to have one."

His face turned your way, and he whispered, "Yeah, we are—maybe we should try joining the mile-high club. I'm sure I could figure out how to make it work in that small space."

As horny as the thought made you, a disappointed sigh exhaled from your mouth.

"Can't," you replied. "I promised Steve and Connie we wouldn't have sex in public anymore."

His eyebrows dipped low, and his eyes slightly squinted. "Why would you promise them that?"

"'Cause we were having a heart-to-heart, and I made them promise to fuck at least once a month. Anyways, they said ‘public’ and were referring to the bar yesterday, so us messing around in your truck is still okay—basically, in my head, as long as no one's around, we're good."

His face relaxed. "I can work with that—yesterday and the beach were too fucking risky anyway."

"Right? If we're gonna have a baby, we gotta start being more responsible."

A smile pulled up on his lips. "Agreed—god, I'm so fucking excited."

"About getting married and having babies?"

His expression softened as his eyes stayed on yours, grabbing your left hand and bringing it to his lips to kiss the largest diamond on your engagement ring. "Yeah, and that I get to spend the rest of my life with my best friend, living the fucking dream."

Next Day, Sunday, December 13

The day he’d been dreading had finally come—he was forty.

Forty.

That morning, he'd stood in the bathroom naked, staring at himself in the mirror, taking in every little detail of what he looked like after being on the planet for four decades.

There were more lines on his face and a grey hair on his head he plucked. He'd put on some weight, seeing his gut was softer and his face fuller.

He felt relieved that he still recognized the reflection—it was still him. He just had more wear and tear than when he turned thirty.

Cielito had woken earlier than she usually did on the weekends and found him doing his inventory of changes. He couldn't help it when he asked her if he was still attractive at his new age—he needed to know and have some reassurance. The question had her turning him to face her in order for her to press up against his front where she stared into his eyes and, honest to god, waxed poetic about how sexy he was for a solid five minutes; he'd felt much better afterward, and so happy, he sat her on the bathroom counter and ate her out.

He didn't want to make a big deal about his birthday—the small party with the Murphys was more than enough, and for today, he wanted to go to dinner with his fiancée and father at a decent steakhouse, where they both promised not to tell the servers it was his birthday so he didn't have to go through the embarrassment of being sung to by strangers.

As he said, he didn't want to make it a big deal—he helped Cielito make him breakfast, they cleaned up the apartment, washed their clothes from the trip, and ran some errands; typical things they’d do on a Sunday to prepare for the following week, plus relaxing on the couch and watching what she said was a Christmas movie he’d love: Die Hard.

She was right; this was the best birthday he'd had in years.

They'd gotten ready for dinner much earlier than they needed to so they could make a stop on their way.

His wi-fiancée looked stunning in her wine-red dress; the bodice had floral patterned lace, the skirt flaring out from the waist to stop just below her knees, and so she didn't get cold, she paired it with a jean jacket. Javier didn't feel like getting too dressed up and decided dark-wash jeans, a maroon button-up, and his black sports coat would do.

He held her hand as they quietly walked on the grass, his other fist carrying a small bouquet of bright orange and golden yellow marigolds; the wind was quietly whistling, two squirrels on a tree nearby were squabbling, and in the distance, faint sounds of cars traveling on roads met their ears, bringing life to a place where the inhabitants silently rested.

His eyes started watering before he saw the familiar stone, unable to stop from thinking how bittersweet this would be. They approached the headstone that had been so lovingly cared for, you couldn't tell it had marked this spot for close to ten years; the inscription was seared in his brain, knowing what it said without having to read the engraved letters and numbers.

Antonia Peña López

November 17, 1937-January 31, 1991

Beloved Wife, Loving Mother, Greatly Loved, and Sadly Missed

And he wished she knew just how greatly loved and sadly missed she was.

He bent down to place the flowers in one of the vases dug in the ground, grunting when he stood back up.

Cielito squeezed his hand to remind him she was with him, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak.

"Hola, Amá (Hi, Mom)," he said, "Te dije la semana pasada que por fin iba a pedirle al amor de mi vida que se casara conmigo, y lo hice (I told you last week that I was going to finally ask the love of my life to marry me, and I did)—dijo que sí (she said yes)." He held out his fiancée's hand to show the ring on her finger. He had to wipe at his eyes. "Me voy a casar, Amá. (I'm getting married, Mom). Estamos empezando nuestra familia (We're starting our family)," his voice cracked on the last word, and he cleared his throat again, ignoring the lump in it. "Estoy tan feliz, Amá, (I'm so happy, Mom)—nunca he sido más feliz y te extraño mucho (I've never been happier, and I miss you so much)."

Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"Ojalá estuvieras aquí para ver cómo me he convertido en el hombre más feliz del mundo (I wish you were here to see how I've become the happiest man in the world). Ojalá pudieras estar aquí para conocer a la increíble mujer con la que me voy a casar (I wish you could be here to meet the incredible woman I'm marrying). Ojalá pudieras vernos casarnos (I wish you could see us get married). Ojalá estuvieras aquí para conocer a tus nietos (I wish you'd be here to meet your grandchildren). Solo desearía que estuvieras aquí, Amá (I just wish you were here, Mom)."

His lips had started to tremble.

"Hoy cumplí cuarenta años y me di cuenta de que la última vez que mi cumpleaños se sintió como algo para celebrar, estabas viva, estaba en casa desde de la universidad en las vacaciones de invierno y hicimos un pastel de tres leches juntos. (I turned forty today and realized the last time my birthday felt like something to celebrate, you were alive, I was home from college on winter vacation, and we made a tres leches cake together). No ha sido lo mismo desde entonces (It hasn’t been the same since). Mi vida es mejor ahora, y prometo celebrar más mi cumpleaños el próximo año (My life is better now, and I promise to celebrate my birthday more next year).”

He smiled.

“Me habré casado con mi media naranja, podríamos tener un bebé, al menos, espero que tengamos uno, y probablemente viviremos en nuestra nueva casa (I will have married my soulmate, we might have a baby, at least I hope we will, and we will probably be living in our new house). Tendré muchas razones para celebrar (I will have many reasons to celebrate). Te amo, Amá, y te extraño tanto (I love you, Mom, and I miss you so much). Gracias por visitarme la otra noche (Thank you for visiting me the other night). Lo necesitaba (I needed it).”

He'd dreamt about his mother the night before he proposed, and it had felt like she was giving him her approval of the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.

Cielito wrapped her arms around his middle from the side, and he hugged her back, sniffling loudly.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm okay."

"You know, wherever she is, she's so fucking happy and proud of you, right?"

His eyes blurred with more tears. "Yeah."

She squeezed him a little tighter, then moved from the embrace to look at the headstone.

"Hi, Antonia," she said, doing a little wave that made him smile. He knew she got nervous talking to his mom and preferred to speak English. "I love the ring." She held up her hand to show it. "It means a lot to me that it used to be yours, and I'm happy we have something to keep you with us every day. I just want you to know that I love your son so much, and I promise to take good care of him—he's everything to me, and I want him to be happy; I think you'd want that, too. So, I promise to take good care of him, love him with everything I've got, and make sure he gets that happy life we both know he deserves and want him to have.” She frowned. “I'm sad we never got to meet, but it feels like we have, and I want you to know that I love you, and our kids will love you, too, because you would've been the best abuela (grandma) to them. Thank you for raising such an amazing man, and don't worry, I'll keep him safe and love him forever."

The moment she stopped talking, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"I meant it all."

"I know."

Something that made Javier really fucking happy was how much the woman he’d chosen to marry loved his parents. She and his father got along so well they spent time together without Javier—she sometimes went out to the ranch after work to have a couple of beers with his dad and gossip about what was happening in town. Other times, she’d hang out with Chucho, and they’d cook Javier dinner together. And just like how Javier occasionally needed advice or a wiser perspective from his father, she did, too, and would visit him to talk things out. Javier loved that they’d bonded and developed a great father-daughter relationship.

Then there was how she never got a chance to meet his mother, yet through stories, pictures, home videos, and his mom’s recipes, she grew to love her and felt as though she knew her—Cielito genuinely loved his mamá, and had told him that when she makes his mother’s dishes, it made her feel closer to the other woman, and that meant so much to him.

He hated thinking about it, but there were so many signs that Lorraine was bad news, and one of them was how she never made any effort with his parents or wanted to—she hated going out to the ranch, she didn’t like to eat his mother’s cooking, and hardly spoke a word to them. He should’ve figured it out sooner that she was a waste of time. That she didn’t deserve him. That she wasn’t right for him.

He was with the right woman now. Cielito was the complete opposite of his ex—she actually loved him, she cared about him, she made an effort with his parents, and loved them, too; she enjoyed making his mother’s recipes, she learned Spanish for him and his family because she wanted to, and agreed to live at the ranch with zero convincing. She was perfect and everything he could want in a partner, and he was well aware that he didn’t deserve her. She was too good for him, and he was the luckiest man in the whole goddamn world that she’d chosen to be with him—she chose him.

They rode in his truck to the restaurant downtown and had to find parking on the street, ending up two blocks away before a spot was available. Christmas was weeks away, and people were out shopping at the small stores lining the road, and since it was dinner time, the restaurants were filling up—they had a small journey to make on foot, and neither of them minded.

It was one of those days where he needed her close because of the array of emotions he was feeling—there was unease from turning forty, sadness at missing his mom, regret for the things from his past on his mind, excitement at the prospect of getting married and starting a family, happiness from being with the woman he loved, and he was almost positive Cielito was hiding a new lingerie set under her dress, and that thought alone had him a little horny.

His arm was across her shoulders, keeping her against his side, his head tilted toward her as they walked and talked, his attention on her and her alone, loving the smile on her face, and her bright eyes, the smell of her perfume making him feel warm, and content—she smelled like home, she felt like home, she was home, and as long as she was with him, he would always be home.

"I'm telling you," she said, "your dad's gonna have a contract or something that he went through the effort to have notarized, or some shit to make it legally binding that he's okay living with a baby and will help us take care of them."

Amusement was on her face.

"He only had Friday to do something like that, and I doubt he could've done it in one day—I'm betting we just get a piece of paper that he wrote down he's okay living with the baby and helping us, that he signed on the bottom."

"Twenty bucks.” She glanced his way to meet his eyes as she smiled.

"What?"

"Twenty bucks says he went all out."

"Fine," he said. "I'm in, but don't be mad at me when I win."

His father was eager for grandchildren, would do anything to ensure he got them, and could be a bit ridiculous, but Javier didn’t think he’d go through so much trouble for what was essentially a joke, even though they all knew he meant what he promised.

She looked forward again. "Ha! You're the one who's gonna lose because your dad is—" she trailed off and suddenly stopped, and so did he. Her smile turned into a frown, and she glared at something ahead of them.

His lips turned down. "What?" He looked in the direction she was. "Fuck," he breathed. Javier got his hands on her shoulders. "Let's cross the street, baby," he said, trying to make her move, but she wouldn’t budge.

“No,” she replied. “We’re gonna ignore them and see if they’ll do the same. I need to know if they’ve stopped with their bullshit.”

He sighed. “I don’t think this is a good idea...”

She looked at him. “I promise, Javi, I won’t start shit if they don’t.”

“I know you won’t—I don’t have much faith in them.”

“Who knows, maybe they’ve grown as people.” She shrugged.

He highly doubted that.

"Hey, Javi.” The heavy Texan drawl of the woman’s voice had him tensing like he was hearing nails on a chalkboard.

“Or not,” Cielito said, looking at the group.

He sighed again, his attention going to the group of women, and sounded tired when he spoke, "Hi, Lorraine." She was with her cousin Tammy and her friend from high school, Tracy, the three women holding shopping bags. “Tammy, Tracy.” He nodded at each of them.

Javier was really fucking hoping this would be a quick hello, and they could continue on their way. “We’ve gotta get going,” he said. “We’re on our way to dinner.”

Grabbing his fiancée’s hand, he started to move and stopped when the interaction continued.

"I'm surprised you're still doing whatever it is you're doing with the same woman,” Lorraine said. “I'd think you would've grown tired of her by now with how you go through women."

He knew staying here was a bad idea. He ground his teeth, glaring, and didn’t have a chance to respond since Cielito beat him to it.

"Surprise, bitch," his fiancée said, holding up her hand, "we're engaged, so why don't you fuck right off with your shitty attitude and leave us the hell alone."

The other woman's eyes flashed as she looked at the ring. "His track record with weddings isn't great, and I wouldn't be surprised if he disappeared on you, too; that's what he's good at, up and leaving, and I doubt him giving you a ring is really gonna hold him to marrying you—there’s also the fact he spent over a decade paying a different woman to fuck him every night, and I just think he’s too much of a slut to settle down."

Cielito lunged toward her, and Javier quickly had his arms around her to hold her back.

"You don’t fucking know him!” she yelled, trying to break out of his hold. “And I don't recall him getting you a ring, you jealous hag!" Lorraine scoffed, and the woman in his arms went still. "That's it," she said, having a realization. "You know, I thought it was really fucking weird that you're married and have a whole ass family but are so obsessed with a guy you dated for a handful of months and tried to baby trap—you're jealous," she stated matter-of-factly. "I bet Javi was the best sex you ever had, and you hate you couldn't keep him—it grinds your fucking gears that he's in an actual, loving relationship with another woman who gets that fucking spectacular dick on the regular and is treated like a goddess while your husband probably doesn't even know where the clit is, and only cares about getting himself off; honestly, with how much of a fucking cunt you are to Javi, I'm gonna assume the only orgasms you've had since him were with your own fingers because the man you're married to is godawful in bed and it wouldn’t shock me, most likely cheating on you—and that's what you fucking deserve for being the biggest, selfish, stuck up bitch in the world."

The other woman's face was bright red, and she dropped her bags, Tammy and Tracy immediately grabbing onto her to keep her from moving toward Cielito, her expression showing pure rage.

His wonderfully amazing, beautiful, badass wi-fiancée seemed to have struck a nerve, and he had to keep himself from laughing at the other woman’s anger.

"I'm not fucking jealous!" Lorraine shouted. "He was lucky I even bothered dating a loser like him! And he humiliated me! Me! I was the prom queen! I’m a beauty queen! I come from money! My family name means something here! He had the chance to be something more than a poor farm boy with me! You're delusional if you think he'd marry an ugly fucking nobody like you when he wouldn’t even marry me!"

He was already pissed off, but that made him want to scorch the earth she walked on. He stepped in front of Cielito, his tone going icier than the Arctic. "Shut the fuck up, Lorraine," he said, staring daggers at her. "I've had it with your shit."

The woman stopped struggling, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe he was talking to her like this.

"You can insult me all you fucking want,” he told her, “but you will not talk about the woman I love like that, no matter how fucking jealous you are of her—and she's right. You are jealous, and you should be because you don't hold a single fucking candle to her.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I actually love her. I love her so fucking much, I proposed to her with my mother's ring, and what did I give you when you tried to trick me into marrying the devil incarnate? Fucking nothing because you meant nothing to me and deserved nothing from me. I'm done, Lorraine. I no longer feel bad about how things ended, and I’m fucking glad I left your ass at the altar because it led to me meeting the woman of my dreams who’s far more prettier than you and is somebody—she’s somebody better than you.” His hands went to his hips. “This is the last time you or anyone else in your shitty family harasses me—” He pointed at himself. “—or the people I love—it better be, or I'll get the Sheriff involved, and I’m sure with his connections over at the courthouse, they’d be more than happy to strap you fuckers with restraining orders.” Sheriff Arturo was respected and had a lot of pull in the community; he also was Javier’s boss and a family friend, who’d be more than happy to fuck with Lorraine’s family on his behalf. “As my future wife said,” he continued, “you can fuck right off; whatever this was is over. Have a nice life.”

His ex's face was so red, a vein was bulging in her forehead, while her mouth opened and closed, unable to speak from clearly being too angry and shocked. He grabbed Cielito's hand and pulled her around the other three women behind him. They were walking away, their backs to the trio, and he heard a frustrated scream, followed by an “I’m not jealous of her, and Rick isn’t cheating on me! He just works late at the office!” The other women were trying to calm her down, which made him smile.

It was about fucking time he told her off, and he felt free—a weight had been lifted; he no longer had to walk on eggshells. He was finally fucking free of his past, and it was like he could actually breathe.

There was nothing more he wanted to do than kiss the woman he loved, who always stood up for him and was simply incredible. They went across a street to be on the same block as their destination, passing people as they walked.

Cielito came to a stop, and he did, too; Javier grunted when she shoved him into an alley, making him stumble a few steps. The space between the two buildings was wide enough for a walkway, and he was confused when he turned her way, his eyes widening when she grabbed the lapels of his coat and pushed his back against the wall, her mouth following to crash into his.

A surprised sound left his throat that turned into a guttural groan when it registered she was kissing him; his arms wrapped around her back to pull her closer to his body, sliding a hand down the rough denim of her jacket to the buttery soft satin of her dress skirt to grab her ass.

It was obvious she was turned on, and he moaned when she palmed his dick over the front of his jeans. He didn’t need to ask what had gotten into her and had her all over him in a random alley; he knew it was because of how he talked to his ex, and honestly, listening to her lay into Lorraine on his behalf had his pants feeling tighter.

Her tongue licked hotly into his mouth to massage his own, and this was just what he wanted—to make out with the love of his life after they both told off the witch that ruined his life. Adrenaline was running high in each of them, and it was making them horny.

She had his body lighting up, prickling sensations shooting through him and making him thicken in his jeans. It got to the point where his lungs started to ache for oxygen, and her lips left his to sloppily kiss over his chin and along his jaw, as they panted.

“I wanna suck your dick.” Her sentence was muffled into his skin, her hand lightly squeezing over his half-hard cock.

“We’re not supposed to do shit in public anymore,” he breathily replied.

He’d love to get a blow job; however, he was acutely aware of their surroundings and the fact there was a steady stream of people passing by the mouth of the alleyway.

Her lips were on his neck, and it had him breathing hard as she licked and sucked at the sensitive skin, the scrape of her teeth making him shiver.

“That was before you were really sexy and went off on that stupid bitch.”

It was tempting. He glanced toward the sidewalk and realized how visible they were; anyone walking by could just look their way and see everything going on. They had too close of a call at the beach when the lifeguard showed up right as Javier was about to take off her pants; then there was the fact people heard them fucking in the bathroom at a bar—too many risks had been taken over the last few days, and he knew their luck would run out sooner rather than later, and he didn’t want to spend his birthday in jail; his dad would be so disappointed, and Steve would never let him hear the end of it.

He swallowed hard.

“You can’t suck my dick here,” his words came out rough.

Her head popped up with a look of confusion.

“Why not?”

“Because I love you, and it’s too fucking risky. I also don’t want your knees to get dirty.”

She pouted. “But you were so hot, you deserve a blow job.”

He smiled. “You can give me one when we get home or if you really wanna play with fire on our way home.”

She breathed out a long sigh. “Fine.”

He took her chin between two fingers, his gaze moving between her eyes and mouth, wanting to kiss her.

“Good girl,” he rasped.

His hand moved to cradle the back of her head, and he pulled her forward to smash his lips with hers, kissing her hard—his other arm was around her back as he turned her, pressing her spine to the brick wall while she clutched at the shirt over his chest, and he fit his thigh beneath her dress, between her legs for something to grind on.

He swallowed her moan, a sharp spike of arousal stabbing him in the gut at feeling the heat of her bare pussy through his jeans—he’d thought she was wearing lingerie under that pretty dress, but it looked like she was wearing nothing and that had blood rushing to his groin. She rocked her hips for some friction while his tongue delved into her mouth to tangle with hers.

This was safe—all people would see was them making out like a couple of teenagers. They weren’t doing anything illegal by kissing, though her getting off on his leg would probably be frowned upon.

Javier didn’t care; he wanted her to feel good, and he was in heaven getting to kiss her—he loved the feel of her lips against his and how their tongues danced together in a familiar routine. He loved the slight taste of her cherry-flavored chapstick and hearing her breathy moans and whimpers as she used his thigh to get herself off. He loved the softness of her body pressing into his and the heady smell of her perfume that made him think of his face buried in her neck while she held him in the comfort of her arms.

He loved her.

And just a kiss had him drunk on her—her smell, her feel, her taste, it all consumed him, making her every thought in his brain.

Her arousal seeped from her cunt, and he could feel a wet spot forming on the denim covering his thigh, her hips rolling to chase her release. His big hands grabbed onto her waist to help her move against the firm muscle, his cock now fully erect and straining in his pants.

He spoke into her lips, low enough for no one to overhear, “Are you gonna come for me? Are you gonna get off riding my thigh?”

“Yes,” she moaned.

“Good—use me, baby—make yourself feel good. I wanna wear your come on my jeans, Cielito.” He nipped at her bottom lip. “Mark me with it so everyone knows I’m yours. Make a mess of me, mi amor—keep rubbing that perfect clit for me.”

Her mouth separated from his, trailing wet kisses over the line of his jaw, to his neck, Javier’s eyes rolling back when she sucked over his pulse point hard enough to leave a mark—arousal was burning hot in his belly, sparks skittering through his body.

His voice was ragged, “I love you so fucking much.” He cupped her face, moving her head to get his mouth back on hers. “You were so fucking sexy sticking up for me,” he murmured against her lips. “I’m yours; all of me belongs to you. I’ll fight for you, I’d die for you, I’d go to war for you. I’ll do anything to keep you safe, and I won’t let anyone fuck with you.” He kissed her. “You’re mine—you’re my everything, and when we get home, you can have me however you want.” Grabbing her hand, he pressed it to his hard-on. “This is yours.” He put her palm over his heart. “This belongs to you.”

“I’m close,” she moaned.

Both of his hands moved to grip the globes of her ass over her dress, canting her hips back and forth, assisting her movements. "Come on, mi amor, come for me. Keep riding my thigh with that pretty pussy, and come."

His mouth claimed hers once more, dampening her sounds and deepening the kiss with a press of his tongue between her lips.

Moments passed of their mouths fused together and her wet cunt grinding against the flexed muscles of his thigh, when she hit her peak, her motions stopping, and her body tensing up tight, coming with a loud moan that vibrated in the back of her throat. He broke the kiss, sharing her panted breaths.

"Good girl," he purred and caressed her cheek, pecking her on the lips before they blazed a trail across her jaw to her neck, where he tasted her salty skin, kissing and sucking at it as she came down from her high.

It took a minute for her to speak.

"It's your birthday," she said, "why am I getting all of the orgasms? There was this morning in the bathroom, and now this. How do you not have blue balls?"

His head lifted to look her in the eyes with a smile. “It is my birthday, and I’m doing something I love, which is making you come, and yeah, my balls are aching a bit from not getting off, but I’m saving myself for tonight because I’m curious about what you have planned—I saw you put the sex towel on the bed before we left the apartment."

The sex towel was a big, thick, black towel they brought out when they didn’t want to dirty the bedding, like if she was on her period or he was in the mood to make her squirt—it kept things from getting too messy. If the sex towel was out, it meant they were gonna have some fun, and he was dying to know what she intended to use it for.

She laughed, looping her arms around his neck. “I’m not gonna spoil the surprise,” she said, smiling big. “But you’re gonna lose your fucking mind and probably ask me to marry you again.” Her eyebrows wagged.

That had excitement thrumming through him.

He grinned. “It wouldn’t take much to make me propose to you again.”

“That’s true.” His fiancee nodded. “You, sir—” She poked him in the chest. “—are incredibly whipped.” She flicked her wrist and made a noise like she was cracking a whip, which made Javier chuckle.

“Yes, I fucking am,” he said proudly.

“God, it’s so hot how much you’re into me.”

“Yeah—gets me going how much you love me, too.”

“The sweetest man,” she replied, leaning forward to kiss him. Her eyes were on his when she pulled back. “We better get going. We’re gonna be late to dinner.”

“Shit.” He checked his watch, then looked at her. “Pop’s probably wondering where the fuck we are.” Javier stepped away from her and turned his back to the alley’s entrance to adjust himself in his jeans and hide his hard dick by trapping it under his waistband—a dark patch had formed over the denim covering his thigh from her come.

Facing her again, his hands held her face, and he kissed her tenderly, his gaze on hers when they separated, and his lips turned up in a soft smile—she looked just as happy and so fucking beautiful. He was kicking himself in the ass for not taking a picture of her before they left for dinner.

“I love you,” he said. “Thank you.” His thumbs stroked across the apples of her cheeks.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “For what?”

“Loving me, marrying me, protecting me, making me happy—I can keep going.” He smiled. “Thank you for being with me and changing my life for the better; thank you for giving me shit to actually live for. And today, thank you for making this the best birthday I’ve had in a long time.”

“Even with what happened earlier?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I love it when you defend me, and it felt fucking amazing to go off on her—it was long overdue.”

“It was, and I’m proud of you.” She kissed him. “You also have nothing to thank me for—I love you, and all I want is for you to be happy.”

“I’m so fucking happy.”

Nothing was more true.

Javi was glued to your side as you walked the rest of the way to the restaurant. His arm was across your shoulders, keeping you tucked against him while his head was tilted your way, chatting about nothing important.

Before arriving at your destination, ringing sounded from inside your purse, and you wondered who would be calling. It took you a second to feel around in your bag to get the sturdy Nokia phone out, seeing your best friend’s name on the screen. You and Javi moved to the side of the sidewalk and out of the way of the other pedestrians.

“Robyn’s calling.” Confusion was laced in your tone.

“Didn’t you tell her we were going out tonight?” Javi asked.

“Yeah, this afternoon when I called her to debrief about our trip. I wonder what she wants.”

You hit the answer button and put the cell phone to your ear.

“Hello?” you said.

Her best friend spoke in her Texas twang. “What the fuck happened with Lorraine?”

“Hi to you, too—how in the world do you already know about that? It’s been fifteen minutes!”

“I’m at my mama’s, and she got a call from her neighbor, Miss Caroline, down the road, who heard from Mrs. Bell, whose daughter, Bernice, works at the jewelry shop downtown that Lorraine got into a screamin’ match with Javier Peña and the nurse he’s datin’ on the sidewalk outside the store—girl, you better spill.”

You were taken aback by how quickly word had spread.

“I cannot believe people are already talking about it…”

“Somethin’ excitin’ like Lorraine and Javier Peña havin’ a public quarrel? Of course, the news is gonna travel fast! You know better than anyone people still talk about their failed wedding.”

She made you frown. “That I do.”

“So, what happened? Tell me everythin’.”

“Well, Javi and I were minding our business, heading to meet his dad for dinner, when we ran into Lorraine, Tammy, and some other woman I didn’t care to get the name of—”

“Probably Tracy-Anne Walker,” Robyn interrupted. “She just goes by Tracy these days and is tight with Lorraine and her cousins.”

“Maybe?” you replied. “Anyways, we tried to ignore them, but Lorraine decided to open her big, stupid mouth to say some shitty things about Javi, and if he hadn’t held me back, I would’ve kicked her ass—instead, I called her out on being a jealous bitch because he’s with me, and Javi got a chance to lay into her, and finally, tell her to shut the fuck up. It was great; I thought her head was going to explode with how red she turned. Hopefully, she’ll leave us the fuck alone from now on.”

“I’m upset I missed the drama. From what I heard, after you guys left, Lorraine had a meltdown and had to be dragged back to their car.”

“Good. And that’s all that happened.”

“It’s surprisin’ y’all hadn’t crossed paths until now. It’s good you put her in her place.”

It was surprising you hadn’t had another encounter with her since the first one.

“There’s no way in hell I’d stand by and let someone talk to Javi like that,” you said, “and now she knows we’re not fucking around.”

“Yes, she does. Okay, I’ll let you get back to your evenin’. Tell Javi happy birthday from me again, and Chucho, hi.”

“Will do.”

“See you tomorrow at work.”

“See you.”

You clicked the end call button, and put the phone back in your purse.

“Everyone knows?” Javi asked, taking your hand.

“Yep,” you answered and started walking with him.

He breathed out a long, weary sigh. “Of course—this town is full of fucking gossips.”

“It’s annoying as fuck when you’re the gossip, but I’m guilty of enjoying hearing the tea.”

"I am, too—I love it when you tell me about what's going on at the hospital."

"And I love when you bring home hot goss from work—still not over that deputy finding out his wife was having an affair when he saw her at the motel he was doing a drug bust at."

It happened in a neighboring city.

"Yeah, talk about a fucking coincidence."

The place he chose for dinner was relatively new to Laredo. It was a nice steakhouse that only served locally sourced beef and had the best steaks in town. The owner was a local who'd gone to some fancy culinary school and spent time working in a Michelin-star restaurant before coming back home to open this one, and the food was surprisingly good.

Inside, the lights were slightly muted, the brick walls decorated in paintings of pastures, with some featuring cattle grazing. A bar was on one side of the place that could've come from an Old West saloon with all of the carefully crafted mahogany wood.

It was easy to spot Chucho when you arrived, the older man waving you over to the booth he was in. His white straw cowboy hat was sitting on the table with a cold bottle of beer and three menus, the man getting up as you approached with a beaming smile.

"Hola, mis hijos (Hello, my children)," he greeted and gave you a big bear hug when you were close enough, then a simpler hug to Javi that included some back pats. He looked your way when he stepped back. “Quiero ver el anillo (I want to see the ring).”

Holding out your hand, he took it in one of his as he admired the engagement ring through his glasses—the gold band that used to belong to his wife with a decent-sized princess cut diamond in the middle, flanked by two smaller ones on either side of it, Chucho’s eyes beginning to shine.

“Es hermoso (It’s beautiful),” he said. Glancing at Javi to your right, he continued, “A tu mamá le encantaría que intercambiaste el diamante original por algo más grande y estaría muy orgullosa de ti, Mijo (Your mom would love that you exchanged the original diamond with something bigger and she would be so proud of you, Mijo). Ella estaría tan feliz (She would be so happy). Permítanme tomar una foto (Let me take a picture).” He turned back to the table, lifting his hat to get his camera under it, and faced you again.

“De verdad, Pop (Really, Pop)?” Javi asked. “Quieres tomar una foto aquí (You want to take a photo here)?”

“Sí (Yes).” He nodded. “Quiero tomar una foto de la primera vez que la vi usándolo (I want to take a photo of the first time I saw her wearing it)—dale un respiro a tu padre (give your father a break). Estoy emocionado (I’m excited).”

“Yeah, Javi,” you said, looking over at your fiancé with a smile. “Let your dad enjoy this.”

“Fine,” Javi replied, wrapping his arm around you to pull you against his side.

Chucho put the camera up to his face. “Okay, Mija, put your left hand on his chest so we can see the ring.” You turned your body toward your future husband and pressed your left palm over his heart. “Perfect. Now smile—a bigger smile than that, Javier, you’re getting married!”

“Sorry,” Javi said. “People are staring.” He hugged you closer to him.

“That’s better.” The flash went off, making you blink as spots dotted your vision. The camera was lowered. “See, that wasn’t so bad. Now, please sit. I want to hear about your trip.”

“Thank Christ,” Javi said under his breath and let you scoot into the side of the booth you were going to share.

A server came over to get your drink orders the moment the three of you had settled in your seats, and Chucho put the camera back under his cowboy hat. Javi’s arm was around your back, with his hand under your jacket, drawing shapes against your dress-covered hip with his fingertip.

“How are Connie, Steve, and the kids?” the older man asked. He picked up his beer and took a drink.

“They’re great,” Javi answered. “Olivia’s Spanish has gotten better, and the boys have grown a lot since the last time I saw them. Steve and Connie are doing good, too.”

Chucho set the bottle down. “Good, good.” His dad nodded. “I’ll have to call Connie this week and catch up—I love talking to her. What’d you guys do while you were there, besides getting engaged?” He was smiling.

“We hung out with the Murphys,” Javi said. “Spent a day at the beach, went out for drinks with Steve and Connie, babysat the kids so they could have some time alone, and yesterday they threw me a small birthday party.”

“That was sweet of them. Did you get any gifts?”

“Yeah.” Javi smiled. “The kids made me cards, and I got a framed picture of me with them from my last visit.”

“I can’t wait to see it.” His attention turned to you. “Did you have fun and enjoy meeting Javi’s friends?”

“Yeah!” you answered. “They were wonderful and so welcoming. I had a great time, and I loved going to the beach. It was also really cute to see how Javi acts with the children—they love him so much.”

“I’ve heard.” He grinned. “He’s gonna be a great dad, which speaking of that—” he looked at the seat next to him toward the wall and picked up a large manila envelope he set on the table in front of you both, his eyes back on you. “—I said I’d put our deal in writing, and there it is.” He nodded at it.

Javi picked it up and unclasped the flap, pulling out a small, stapled stack of papers. His eyes moved over the first page before flipping through the others, the last one containing some kind of official seal and signatures.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Javi said in disbelief. His gaze landed on his dad. “You had your lawyer write up an agreement for you babysitting and us living with you?” He held up the stack. “You even have a rental agreement in here stating you won’t accept rent from us.”

“Figured that’d be good to have on paper.” Chucho shrugged. “You’re my son—” His head turned toward you. “—and my daughter-in-law and I won’t have you paying to live with me. Just having you there will be enough, and hopefully, I’ll have a nieto (grandchild) there, too.”

Leaning into Javi, you whispered, “You owe me twenty bucks.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “I can’t believe you went through all this trouble, Pop.”

“I needed you two to know I was serious, and what better way than a legal document.” He looked very proud of himself. “It was also time I met with my lawyer to update my will. We always had it that Javi would get everything, but I wanted to make sure you inherited all of mi Antonia’s jewelry and her recipe box, Mija.”

“Oh,” you breathed, your eyes suddenly burning. “You didn’t have to do that,” you told him.

His gaze was on yours, his mouth turned up in a sweet smile. “Yes, I did. It was important to me those things would go to you, even though I’m sure Javi would’ve given them to you anyway. I also wanted there to be something in there about the ranch staying in the family—I know you’ll have your new home to raise your children in and won’t need my old one, but I hope after I’m gone, one of your kids will want it.”

“Yeah,” Javier said, his voice thick from the emotional subject. “Of course, Pop. We’d never let anything happen to the ranch or your house.”

“Good.” He passed each of you a menu and took one for himself, his eyes scanning over it. “Let’s figure out what we’re eating and talk about happier things.”

Your future husband put the agreement back in the envelope and handed it to you to set out of the way on the booth seat beside you. The server returned with your drinks and a basket of freshly baked bread with soft butter, telling you they’d return to take your orders in a few minutes. As you all read over your menus, you idly chatted about the choices and were ready when the employee returned to find out what you’d decided on, taking the menus with them when they left.

“So,” Chucho started, his hand wrapped around the glass bottle in front of him, “have you had any ideas for your wedding?” His eyes went to Javi. “I can talk to Padre (Father) Jorge if you want to get married in the same church as your mamá and me. I still go there, and since you were baptized, I’m sure I can convince him to let you—he officiated a wedding there not too long ago between Juan Barocio’s oldest son and a nice Protestant girl.” He lifted his beer to his lips for another drink.

It was sweet of him to offer, and he was probably hoping you’d accept, but Javier and you didn’t want to have a big wedding and had no desire to get married in a church.

“Actually, Pop,” Javi said, adjusting in his seat to lean closer to the table and rest his arms on it, “we talked out what we want to do for our wedding.”

The bottle was set on the table again, and the elder Peña’s face brightened. “What have you decided?”

“You know the big oak tree up on the hill, you and mamá would take me to for picnics?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Somewhere on the trunk, I carved her and my initials.”

No wonder that spot was so special to your betrothed; it was somewhere he had fond memories of and had made new ones with you there, too.

“Yeah, you showed me,” Javi replied. “We wanna get married there at sunset with just you, Seb, and Robyn with us, and afterward, we wanna have a party at your place—if you’re okay with it—to celebrate with everyone.”

Chucho’s expression had gone soft. “That would be a beautiful way to marry your media naranja (soulmate), Mijo, and of course, we can throw a party. Have you picked out a date?”

Javi and you looked at each other. “Hopefully, in about a month,” you answered.

“I’ll call Padre Jorge tomorrow to see when he’s available,” the older man said.

Your fiancé faced his dad. “We don’t want Padre Jorge to officiate,” Javi informed him with a shake of his head.

Chucho looked confused. “Did you have someone else in mind?”

“You.”

His father’s eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline. “Me?” He pointed at himself. “I’d be honored to do it, but Mijo, I’m not ordained—if I marry you, the law wouldn’t recognize your marriage; you wouldn’t be legally married.”

“We have a solution to that,” you said and met his eyes. “There’s this church that will let you get ordained through the internet.”

He frowned. “I don’t have a computer and have never used one... I wouldn’t know how to do something like that…”

“Easy solution: we can take you to the library, and I’ll help you—Javi can just watch since he hates computers and types with his index fingers.” You imitated the way he typed by pressing the fingertips of your pointer fingers against the tabletop, pretending there was a keyboard.

All of the times you’d visited him at his office, you’d never seen him touch his desktop computer once; you had, however, seen him use his typewriter and were absolutely tickled by how he stared at the keys like they insulted his mother and only used two fingers to hit them.

Javi looked at you. “Are you seriously making fun of how I type?”

Your head turned his way. “Lovingly,” you answered. “I’m lovingly making fun of how you type like an old man.”

He breathed out a sigh and focused his attention on his dad. “Anyways, what my rude, future wife is trying to say, is she’ll handle the computer shit, and we'll just be there for moral support.” His hand gripped your thigh under the table. “Isn’t that right, honey?” he asked you.

Your eyes narrowed in his direction. “Did you just honey me? You have never honeyed me—Cielito, amor, hermosa, cariño, baby, babe, light of my life, The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, and Your Royal Highness, Queen of my heart, are all acceptable terms of endearment, that are incredibly sweet, and cause me to swoon like a Victorian woman who’s caught a glimpse of a male wrist; honey makes me feel like you’re mad at me or being condescending, which I know, it’s what Steve calls Connie, but they’re so… vanilla.”

“Is that your nice way of saying boring?” His amused gaze met yours.

“I mean… you said it.”

“They are vanilla, and I’m sorry, baby,” he said, rubbing his hand over your leg. “Let me try again—isn’t that right, Your Royal Highness, Queen of my Heart?”

You giggled and playfully smacked his arm. “You smartass. I do kinda like that, though. Back to our discussion.” Your focus shifted to Chucho. “Yes, I’ll handle the computer and do all the work while the two of you stand behind me looking handsome.”

The elder Peña chuckled. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get ordained if you’ll help me do it. I’m touched you want me to be a part of your special day.”

“There was no version of our wedding where you weren’t there, Pop,” you truthfully told him. “We love you, and you’re important to both of us.” You gestured between yourself and Javi. “Having you officiate one of the happiest moments of our lives would mean the world to us and was how we hoped we’d be married.”

The older man’s eyes had gotten watery as you spoke, and he had to take off his glasses to wipe at them.

“Yo también te amo, mis hijos (I love you, too, my children). Me han hecho el padre más feliz y orgulloso (You have made me the happiest and proudest father). Desearía que mi Amor estuviera aquí para compartir esta felicidad conmigo (I wish my Love was here to share this happiness with me). Tengo que ir a verla mañana para darle la noticia (I have to go see her tomorrow to tell her the news). Ella estaría muy emocionada (She’d be so excited).” He sniffled, putting his glasses back on. “¿La visitaste hoy (Did you visit her today)? Le costaría creer que su nene tenía cuarenta años (She’d have a hard time believing her baby boy was forty years old).”

“Sí, Pop (Yes, Pop).” Javi answered. “Nos detuvimos en nuestro camino hacia aquí (We stopped on our way here). Nosotros necesitábamos (We needed to).”

“Bueno, bueno (Good, good).” He held his son’s gaze. “Feliz cumpleaños, Javiercito (Happy birthday, Javier). Te has hecho un hombre increíble y no podría estar más orgulloso de ti (You have become an incredible man and I couldn’t be more proud of you). Sé que tu vida no ha sido fácil, y como tu padre, me mató ver todo lo que has tenido que pasar sin tener ninguna manera de detenerlo (I know your life hasn’t been easy, and as your father, it killed me to see everything you had to go through without having a way to stop it). Me siento aliviado de que finalmente estés a salvo en casa, donde perteneces, y de que hayas conocido a una mujer maravillosa que te hace sonreír y te ama tanto como tú la amas a ella (I’m relieved that you’re finally safe at home, where you belong, and that you met a wonderful woman who makes you smile and loves you as much as you love her). Tu madre y yo rezamos durante años para que seas feliz de nuevo, y ahora lo eres (Your mother and I have prayed for years for you to be happy again, and now you are). Esperábamos que encontraras a tu media naranja y tuvieras tu propia familia, y finalmente está sucediendo (We hoped you’d find your soulmate and have your own family, and it’s finally happening). No he estado tan feliz desde que tu mamá estaba viva y aún vivíste en casa con nosotros (I haven’t been this happy since your mom was alive and you still lived at home with us). Feliz cumpleaños, Mijo (Happy birthday, Mijo).” He held up his beer. “Se te ha dado una segunda oportunidad en la vida y esta vez, sé que estará llena de felicidad y amor (You’ve been given a second chance at life, and this time, I know it will be filled with happiness and love)—finalmente estás obteniendo todas las cosas buenas que te mereces (You’re finally getting all of the happy things you deserve).”

Glancing over at Javi, his cheeks were wet, and you leaned your head against his shoulder as you raised your glasses. The two men took drinks before you all set them down.

“Gracias, Pop (Thank you, Pop),” Javi said. His hand lightly squeezed your thigh, and you grabbed it to lace your fingers together. “It’s been a great birthday.”

“I’m glad, Mijo,” Chucho replied. “That reminds me, did the two of you really have an, eh, altercado con Lorraine en su camino hacia aquí (altercation with Lorraine on your way here)?”

“Lorraine started it!” Javi and you said at the same time.

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sentientcave · 2 months

Text

Heavy Weighs the Crown

Sometimes a Bearimy is many moons, and sometimes it's just a couple days! Do not expect this sort of pace to continue though this chapter was most of the way finished when I posted the first one.

Chapter 2 - Familiar and Forgotten

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Contains: Generic fantasy setting, Princess Reader, No Y/N, Some exposition, Reader's dad (deceased) was a real piece of work, Noncon kissing, Alcohol mentions, Smoking mention, Reader descriptions kept as neutral as possible but keep in mind that she is a character to me and does have a specific appearance so things might slip through.

~5.2k words

You don’t say much for the rest of the journey.

It’s not far, really, only an hour or two from the bridge in the woods, and your anxiety seizes you so completely that you can do little more than smile wanly at Kyle’s jokes and Johnny’s attempts to flirt with you. Ghost stays as quiet as you do, a comforting spectre of familiarity walking by your side.

The city is much like you remember it, but there’s life now, where a grim shadow hung over the people before. Windows are thrown open, laundry hangs on lines spanning between houses, brightly coloured clothes flapping in the breeze like flags. Children play in one of the alley’s you pass by, kicking a ball between them, although they stop to watch you pass, eyes growing big, collecting at the edge of the street so they can stare for longer. People begin to gather at the peripheries everywhere, the gentle roar of many hushed voices drowning out all else. It seems that the people here still recognize you, although you’re not sure if it’s by your face or the company that escorts you along.

The castle looms over the city, tall, imposing walls made a little friendlier with blue and silver banners hung from the parapets, the oppressive air lessened, but not entirely erased. You think that nothing could make the castle look truly welcoming— It never has been to you, not even when you did call it home.

Ghost looks at you as you approach the dark stone walls, and puts a big hand on your thigh. “Olright?” he asks quietly.

You nod, swallowing thickly as Nox’s claws scrape over the wooden drawbridge. It feels like the palace means to devour you whole, the shade of the main courtyard matching your somber mood. It’s greener than you remember, a raised garden bed full of flowers and a few small trees sits in the center of things now, directing traffic coming in around in a circle rather than every which way. There are gardens on the flat roofs of some of the outbuildings too, where they can catch more light despite the looming walls.

Nox stops in front of the stairs up to the main door, and Ghost lifts you down easily. When you look up, you notice there are people gathering around the main courtyard too, a gentle susurrus rising up around you like the wind. A stable hand approaches to take Kyle's horse, stumbling over his feet, too busy staring at you to watch where he's going.

"Standin' around with their gobs open," Johnny grumbles. "S'like they've ne'er seen a princess before."

Kyle thanks the stable hand when he passes the reigns to him, and offers his arm to you. "Are you ready, sweetpea?" His smile strains at the corners when you look at him. Your own face must be grim indeed.

"I'll have to be," you say, curling your hand around his arm, gathering your skirts with your other hand. You feel small and plain as you ascend on Kyle's arm, dressed simply in clothes you sewed yourself, glad you were wearing your second best skirt at least. Why that bothers you now you couldn't say-- Its not as though you're concerned with making a good impression.

Kyle leads you into the hall of judgment, where your father used to take petitions and settle disputes. It's different here too-- There are benches for supplicants to sit while they wait, and a few desks set to one side of the ante chamber, where clerks speak to citizens in hushed voices, helping speed along the process. There aren't very many people there really, it's not the tired crush of hollow eyed people clamoring for attention from a disinterested king now. Its organized, efficient, fair-minded. You can't help but approve.

John Price sits on the dais, listening to the man in front of him, but his stone-faced attention breaks when he looks up and sees you. He stands and hops down the steps, touching the man's arm. "I will send a hunting party to deal with your manticore problem," he promises. "But if you'll excuse me…" his blue eyes lock onto you, sweeping down and back up to your face.

You feel pinned in place by the intensity of those eyes, Kyle's presence by your side not enough to melt the cracking ice that settles around you.

"Princess!" John greets you enthusiastically, arms wide as he strides across the hall, meeting you in the middle. "Welcome home. I trust your journey was a pleasant one? It's a nice day for a ride through the countryside." He looks good, although there's silver in his beard and glittering by his temples that was never there before, and a plain silver circlet on his brow. He dresses the same as you remember, for comfort and practicality rather than for fashion, and he still fills out his clothes in much the same way, his broad, powerful body unchanged despite his new vocation.

"A better day for tending to the garden," you say. "But Sir Garrick rather insisted on the ride."

John smiles at you warmly, and Kyle wordlessly pulls away from you, leaving you standing before John alone. You're pulled into an embrace before you know what's happening, oak-solid arms crushing you to his chest. He pulls back enough to look at you, but he doesn't let you go. The pleasant tobacco and warm spice scent of him engulfs you, caged in his arms while he studies your upturned face. "You're more beautiful than I remember," he says. "It's good to see you."

You open your mouth to respond, but he seizes the opportunity to kiss you. Not a chaste press of lips to your cheeks, which would have been an appropriate greeting between two people of your status, but a kiss, a real one, his mouth slotting over yours like you were reuniting lovers rather than near-perfect strangers.

He kisses you for a long moment, lips moving against yours possessively, long enough for the room to grow unbearably silent around you, shame twisting with a childish flame rekindled the instant he put his hands on you. You push against his chest, and he finally comes to his senses, not releasing you or giving you more space, but at least ending the kiss, letting you breathe and sort out your conflicted feelings.

“Why did you do that?” you ask him, voice low and breathless, even if you would prefer to shout it, or perhaps punctuate the question with a slap.

“Because I wanted to,” he says pleasantly, smiling in that infuriating, cheeky way he used to when he caught you watching the knights practising from the palace windows. “I think it was long overdue, don’t you?”

“No!” You don’t want to admit, considering your age, that he’s stolen your first kiss, like it was something owed to him instead of yours to give when you chose to, and you certainly don’t want to admit that you liked it. You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the people still watching either, which is undoubtedly why he chose this as the place for your first meeting, where you would be cuffed by propriety, giving him advantage over you. Kings didn’t have to worry about propriety— Who was there to scold them for bad behaviour?

Had John ever worried about that sort of thing? Perhaps that was why your father had so militantly kept him away from you, not because of the threat to the crown, but the threat to your virtue. A man that would so casually waltz past all social convention would find no resistance from a sheltered, shy princess. Perhaps if you had been more bold— Perhaps if you were more bold now you would be able to tell him off.

“I don’t appreciate being plucked from my home and manhandled by you and your knights,” you hiss, plucking courage from thin air. You push against his chest again, and this time he lets you go, but it only makes you angrier, because you both know he only did so because he chose to. “What do you want, John? Let’s attend to business so I can leave as soon as possible.”

He glances behind you, at his knights, an eyebrow raised. “Well, you certainly aren’t going anywhere tonight, are you? We can chat properly over the evening meal.” He sweeps you along, a hand between your shoulders, where his thumb touches bare skin, toying with the edge of your shirt. “I’ll show you to your room, hm? You can wash up and change, if you’d like. Although I must say, this country mouse attire looks rather sweet on you.”

“I don’t think any of my old clothes will fit anymore,” you say tartly. You’re certainly not the weak, spindly thing you used to be, the sapling struggling to grow in your father’s shadow. Your time with Kate has done you good, made you stronger and filled out soft curves. Joy is expansive, and it takes up space that you never would have dared to occupy before.

“Of course not,” he says. “I’ve had new things made for you. Gaz’s sister reached out to Kate for your measurements.”

“Why would she— You had no right to ask for such a thing!” you say hotly. Now that you’re alone in the hallways, you feel more at ease speaking your mind.

He’s unperturbed by your anger, still smiling. “Perhaps not. But I thought it important to stand ready, should you ever decide to come home.”

“This is not my home any longer.”

John hums, his hand sliding down to your hip, tugging you closer to his side. “This will always be your home, princess,” he says matter-of-factly, like there’s no room for argument, the way he sees it.

He tries to follow you into your room, but you quickly shut the door in his face, nearly hitting him. He manages to jump clear, and you can hear his laughter on the other side. You’re getting a bit tired of these men thinking that it’s funny when you hold your ground against them, but you’re not yet sure how to get them to listen when they (and especially John) are so used to getting exactly what they want. It strikes you that you’ll probably have plenty of time to figure it out, since you don’t think you’ll be going home as soon as you'd like.

Kyle and Johnny seem like your most likely allies. And perhaps Ghost, since he told you more than he was supposed to already. Anyone else would be too worried about drawing the king’s ire and getting in trouble or losing their jobs, but those three aren’t just his knights. They’re his friends too.

And as far as you’re concerned, friends don’t let friends keep women imprisoned for indeterminate amounts of time.

You wash up, and parse through the closet for something to wear, frowning slightly at your options. There’s nothing wrong with any of the dresses you find— Everything is beautiful, elegant, well-made, in colours that suit your complexion, made of gorgeous, rustling silk. But they also all have closures at the back, long rows of delicate buttons that will be a nightmare to do up yourself. After so many years living independently, you resent the idea of someone having to help dress you. Perhaps that was why John tried to follow you, so he could be there to offer a hand.

How altruistic of him.

You fantasize about kicking him hard in the shins with the work boots that you sadly left at home, and choose a dress in a deep plum colour, getting as dressed as you can. You consider waiting to ask whoever comes to collect you for dinner, but you suspect that that might be John. You’re just about to wander out into the hallway to see if you can find a member of the castle staff to aid you, when you hear a shout outside, and laughter.

You press one hand to you chest to keep the dress from falling away from your skin inappropriately, and peer over the edge of the balcony. Johnny, Kyle and Ghost are in the courtyard below, Ghost and Kyle sitting on the fountain edge, and Johnny doing a dance that seems to be entirely hopping and kicking, while balancing a knife’s point on the tip of his finger.

“Excuse me,” you call down, smiling as prettily as you can muster. Johnny stops dancing and drops his knife entirely, but blessedly doesn’t try to catch it. “Could one of you give me a quick hand? This dress has so many buttons.”

They look at each other for a moment, and volunteer as one, Kyle and Ghost immediately falling into bickering over who should help you. Johnny looks at the ground and up to you a few times rather than fight with the others, and takes a running leap, fingers catching on the balcony floor. He swings a few times before popping up, catching the railing and clambering over with surprising grace. “I would be happy to help ye, sweetpea. An’ Ah’m sorry abou’, er, lickin’ yer wrist earlier. Was a wolf awl mornin’, cannae always shake the compulsion straight after a shift.”

“Apology accepted,” you say, reaching up with both hands and scratching the stubble under his chin gently. He leans into your palms with a groan, letting you guide him down to your level so you can kiss the tip of his nose. “I know you’re a good boy, Johnny. You were just excited.”

“I was,” he admits, cheeks turning a little pink. “They awl met ye before, and they talk about ye sometimes, ye ken? An’ yer even nicer an’ bonnier up close. Ah’m glad I didna try to lick yer face. Ye didnae look very happy with Price doin’ it.”

“He was very forward. It’s not the sort of thing I appreciate. I don’t intend to let him walk all over me just because he’s the king now.” You release Johnny’s jaw and turn so he can get to work on the buttons, pulling your braids out of the way over your shoulder. “It seems like he’s a little too used to getting his way.”

“Ah, weel, he’s stubborn as awl hell, sweetpea. No’ really his fault, he’s just righ’ more of’en than no’, ye ken? An’ when yer never wrong, ye never learn ta compromise.”

“Surely he’s not always right,” you say. “No one’s infallible.”

He laughs, fingers stalling against your back. “Yer righ’ of course. But Ah’m never the one to catch the old man bein’ wrong. So I dinnae ken if he admits it. I would be surprised.”

“Do you know what he wants from me?” you ask. “It seems odd that he let me live in peace all these years, only to drag me back now.”

“I dinnae ken awl the details, princess. Figure it’s sommat ta do with yer cousin raisin’ an army over across the western border, aye? Probably wants ye to scold the wee rascal for him.” He continues buttoning, and then stalls again. “Aw shite. Missed one.” You feel him begin to undo the buttons he was just working on.

You press your fingers to your mouth to stifle a giggle. “Sorry, I’m distracting you. Shouldn’t be asking so many questions.”

“Aw no, I dinnae mind none. S’nice ta talk ta ye. Always thought princesses’d be all stuck up and snooty. But yer no’ at awl. Ahve been ta yer story hour at the market once or twice too. Think it’s nice ye take pity on us buggers that cannae read well. An ye choose good stories.”

“I’ve never seen you there,” you say.

“Usually go in on four legs. No one minds another mangy dog, so long as I don’t get too close or growl at the bairns. Can hear better tha’ way too, aye? Blacksmith always let me lay down beside his shop.” He marches two fingers across your shoulder playfully. “Awl done.”

“Thank you, Johnny.” You turn to look at him again, regarding him thoughtfully. It doesn’t take much to turn him from a large, dangerous man to an eager to please puppy. Something to tuck into your pocket for later.

“Ye can call me Soap, if ye like. The lads do, most of the time. An’ the boss man. But Johnny is good too. Like hearin’ it from ye.” He looks a bit bashful, twisting his fingers together absently now that he has nothing else to fuss with, bright blue eyes cast down and half hidden by his long, dark lashes. “Ah ken it’s no’ what yer hopin’ for, but I hope ye stay a while. S’nice. Feels like there’s an empty space around here, and ye’d fill it an’ then some.”

“I’ll think about it,” you say. “I’m sure it mostly depends on how angry your, um, boss man makes me.”

“He’s no’ a bad sort.” Johnny instantly leaps to John’s defense, a touch of anxiety colouring his voice. He wears every emotion on his sleeve, another useful something to know. “Been good ta me, when lot’s of folk think I’m no’ much more’n a monster.”

“I’ve never heard of a werewolf that can shift at will like you do,” you muse. “You must have remarkable self control.”

Something dark flits across his face, but he does his best to hide it behind his crooked grin. “Naw, no’ really. S’a story, but no’ one I want ta tell righ’ now.”

“That’s alright,” you tell him gently, placing your hand on top of his. His knuckles are rough, scarred from a lifetime of hitting things hard. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’ll listen, if you do want to talk.”

“Yer goan ta turn me intae a big softie at this rate,” he says, waving off your words with a laugh. “Come oan, Sweetpea. I’ll walk ye ta dinner. Figure ye know the way, but Ah’m told it’s polite to escort a lady.”

“Very polite,” you assure him, placing your hand on his offered arm. “Thank you, Johnny.”

His grin is infectious, and he puffs up his chest slightly, pleased as punch to receive your approval. You descend the stairs, picking up your skirts with your other hand so they don’t drag, and John appears at the bottom of the steps, his expression turning carefully, diplomatically blank when he sees you on Johnny’s arm.

“Perfect timing,” he says. “I was just about to come get you. Thank you, Soap, I can take her from here.”

“How very kind!” you return, gripping a little tighter to Johnny’s arm so he doesn’t run off just yet. “Johnny was nice enough to help me with my dress. All these buttons— I had no idea that button closures were the style these days.”

John’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit, like he’s not sure if you’re being earnest or not. “Nor did I,” he says evenly. Liar.

“It can be so hard to keep track of these things.” You send Johnny another bright smile. “Will you be joining us?” you ask sweetly.

Johnny looks at John uneasily. “Oh, n-no, I dinnae think—”

You curl into him slightly, placing your hand on his chest, drawing his attention back to you and away from the disapproving frown that’s beginning to form on John’s face. “Oh, nonsense. In fact, would you mind fetching Kyle and Ghost as well? We all had such a pleasant afternoon, and I feel like we’ve only just begun catching up.”

Johnny’s fingers catch on the lace hemming your trailing sleeve, his cheeks pink and eyes focused on your face. “Oh, aye, anything ye like, princess.”

“Thank you so much Johnny. You have been so helpful today. I really appreciate it.” You release him, and he dashes off without a second thought or glance to John for approval. “What a sweet boy he is,” you say to John as you flit to his side, all innocence, well aware that Johnny can still hear you. “Shall we?”

John gives you a searching look, still not certain if you’ve disrupted his plans on purpose or just by being far too sweet. “I had intended for dinner to be just the two of us.”

“Now John, that would hardly be appropriate,” you lightly scold. “The two of us, alone without a chaperone? What would people say? If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to put me in a compromising position.”

His lips twitch under his moustache, the ghost of a smile appearing in his eyes. “Perish the thought. Didn’t think of the implication, is all.” He opens the door to what had once been your father’s private dining room, but hesitates in the doorway. “Perhaps we should wait for the lads,” he says thoughtfully. “Since you’re concerned with the optics of being alone with me.”

You raise your eyebrows. “They’ll be along in a moment, no? I’m not sure what you think could happen in a few minutes, but I’m sure you’re capable of behaving yourself for that long.” You sweep past him, unconcerned, and he follows, letting the door fall shut behind him, the latch clicking shut loudly in the otherwise silent room. You cast about for a conversation that you can fling up between the two of you like a flimsy shield, your tongue suddenly heavy again. John has a way of sucking up all the air in a room, and he feels nearly as large and imposing as Ghost in a confined space like this. You don’t feel safe like you would with Ghost. You feel like a wobbly-legged fawn caged in with a blue-eyed wolf.

And you would feel less like that if you were in here with the man who really is a blue-eyed wolf. You don’t think the man standing before you will melt with a few kind words or a soft touch. He’ll only take it as permission to push you further.

“Your inexperience is showing,” John says conversationally, taking a step toward you.

You take a hasty step back. “How so?”

He takes another step forward. You take another back. The pattern repeats until he has you backed up against the mantle. “A lot can happen in just a few minutes, sweetpea.” His thick fingers curl around your jaw, forcing you to face him when all you want to do is sink into the floor or vanish entirely. “Could do anything I liked to you, alone like this. You’re right to be cautious.” His hand slides lower, callouses brushing your skin, raising goosebumps along the back of your neck and prickling all the way down your spine. His palm rests on your throat, so he can measure the nervous flutter of your pulse. You swallow nervously, and you know he can feel it.

Still, he doesn’t squeeze, and there’s no threat in his eyes. Worse, there’s a promise, and heat that could spark into a blaze with the slightest provocation.

“It’s a good thing you’re a man of honour, then.” You mean it as a challenge, a reminder of the rules of engagement. You came prepared for a game of chess, and he’s knocked all the pieces onto the floor and lunged at you across the board. Your words come out whisper soft, plaintive instead of confident.

“A good thing indeed.” He takes a step back, and then another, his hand falling away, leaving you standing by the mantle, clinging to it for support.

It was a good thing the fireplace is cold, this time of year, or you might be tempted to throw yourself in just to save yourself the embarrassment of being so completely set off balance.

“Here.” John returns to your side, this time leaving enough space for you to breathe, and offers you a glass of wine. White wine, like he remembers your preferences somehow. Your fingers brush his when you take the glass, and you try not to shake from the force of whatever it is that he stirs up in you.

It’s too vast to identify, and threatens to engulf you, swallow you whole. It’s an ocean, as deep and blue as his eyes, and you’re already struggling to stay afloat. You feel like the only things keeping you from drowning are your righteous anger and sense of self-preservation. But recognizing the danger he poses to you, to your freedom, if not your life, doesn’t pluck you from the water or save you from the circling shark. You don’t know how to do that. You’re not sure if you want to.

“I should apologize,” he says gently. “For greeting you the way I did earlier. I’d dreamt of our reunion so many times that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, kissing you like that. I should have better kept myself in check.”

You sip your wine. It’s sharp and not too sweet, just the sort of thing you used to like, and many times better than what you’ve had for years now. But the taste only reminds you of things best left forgotten, sour remnants of a life you wished to leave behind. Even this room, redecorated to another man’s preferences, feels as oppressive as your father’s presence in life.

Maybe it’s the weight of the crown, that bends and twists even the most upright men, because you already see the makings of a tyrant in John. So used to getting his way already, he expects you to fall into line, do as your told, take your rightful place at his side, on his arm.

In his bed.

“Are you going to?” you ask.

He’s confused by that, a frown settling between his brows. “Going to what, sweetpea?”

“Apologize. Saying you should apologize is not the same as actually being sorry.”

He’s entirely taken aback by that, rendered speechless. It’s probably been years since anyone checked him like that, and it sends a bit of a thrill through you to be the one to do so. He has the advantage in this battle you’ve waged against him— He’s larger and stronger, he claims authority that you’ve rejected, he has allies where you have none— but you’ve still managed to strike a blow, with honesty as your only weapon.

The other three men finally join you, snapping the tension in the room, clearing it away like cobwebs.

Well, most of the tension, anyway. You sit between John and Ghost, rather than take the chair opposite John. You have no desire to be forced to bear that heavy stare for the entire meal. Kyle and Johnny sit opposite you, and you maintain light conversation with the two of them. Ghost sits to your right, his mask tipped up enough for him to eat, his scarred mouth and jaw visible to you for the first time. His gloves are off too, revealing broad, powerful hands littered with fine scars, and a few deep ones too. Most of them are obviously blade wounds, but there’s a particularly deep one, a chunk of missing flesh between his thumb and forefinger on his left hand that keeps drawing your eyes back.

“Me’n Nox ‘ad a misunderstandin’ when we first met,” he says, unprompted, noticing your glances. “She took a chunk outta me. Was a good thing she was still small, or I’d’ve lost my whole ‘and.”

“Small!” Johnny says with a snort. “The wee beastie was bigger than me!”

“You were a runt,” Ghost chuckles, “but I s’pose she was still plenty big. Got ‘er talons sunk pretty deep in my thigh too. Got ‘er to listen to reason in the end though. She din’t know I was tryin’ to ‘elp.”

You see that same darkness in Johnny’s eyes as earlier, so you change the subject, asking about a burn on Ghost’s wrist. He starts in on a tale of hunting an outlaw mage, with plenty of interjections from Kyle, and then Johnny as well, until he gives up trying to tell it, and lets the younger men take over.

You feel his attention on you for a while after that, like he knew what you did and why.

John is pensive, still ruminating on what you said, quiet over the meal. It must not be that great a change from usual, because it doesn’t seem to bother the other three in the least. He insists on walking you to your room once the hour grows later, however, and leans against your door frame.

“You’re right,” he says, catching your hand so you can’t go inside and shut the door in his face for a second time that day. “I didn’t apologize. And I’m not sorry. I know I should be, and I won’t do it again, but I can’t say I feel all that badly about it.”

It’s something, at least. A concession, if not an apology. “Thank you, John.” He doesn’t let go of your hand, and his thumb is rubbing distracting circles over your knuckles. “Is there something else?”

“We never talked business.”

“No. But I know what you want, John, and the answer is no. I want to go home, I have a life to return to, and I don’t belong here any longer.” The disappointment is clear on his face, but he only nods. You continue, encouraged by his silence. “I will, however, make a public statement of support, in whatever way you need. I imagine my cousin will wish to send a witness, to ensure I’m not being coerced. I will stay until then, and then you will allow me to go home. Is that sufficient?”

He thinks about it for a moment, his thumb tapping against your hand now. “I suppose it will have to be.”

“Then it’s settled. Goodnight, John.” You try to pull your hand free, but he tightens his grip just enough to keep you anchored to him.

“Wait.” He tugs you a step closer. “May I kiss you?”

You roll his request around in your mind for a moment. He’s willing to accept that you won’t marry him, without so much as a fight. You can’t deny that you want to say yes either, and you have just enough wine in you to make you bold, but not reckless. “One kiss,” you reply. “No more than that. And then I am going to bed.”

He cups your face and stoops to meet you, pressing his lips to yours tenderly, without any of the brash possessiveness of earlier. Just sweet and slow, coaxing you to open up for him. You relax into his touch, parting your lips, a soft little whine escaping your throat, pulling an answering groan from him as he licks into your mouth. You have to grip his wrists just to stay upright, the sound turns your knees and resolve to jelly, the taste of good whiskey and smoke from his after dinner cigar lingering on your tongue as he pulls away.

His eyes are fever-bright, and his breathing ragged as you release each other. “Goodnight, sweetpea,” he says softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You slip into your room and lean against the door, knees still weak, desire simmering inside you. The kiss had been a bad idea, because all you can think of now is asking for another, and another, and another.

***

Image credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - Divider by CafeKitsune

#Fantasy AU #cod mw fanfiction #x reader #x fem reader #141 x reader #heavy weighs the crown #Uh oh sweetpea

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oysters-aint-for-me · 14 days

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i love those polls/reblog baits that are like “reblog and say something about the person you reblogged from!” because i would absolutely participate in those but every time a chance comes up i find i know absolutely nothing about that mutual. i recognize their username and icon but i have no idea when or why i followed them. i’m not sure what their url was when i followed them. i check their blog and nothing identifying is in their description, no names, no age, no general location, no list of interests. maybe they post almost exclusively abt an anime i’ve never even heard of anyone else watching. maybe every so often they post pregnancy fetish hentai. maybe they mostly use tumblr to crosspost from their instagram. they might even be part swiftie.

you’d think upon realizing that they are complete strangers i would use the opportunity to cull my following list. i would never. it’s like when my mom was like “you have too many beanie babies. you need to get rid of some. what’s this one’s name. without looking at the tag what is this tiny beanbag cat’s name” and i would be like “i can’t remember” and my mom would be like “well then maybe it can go” NO???!!? the love i feel for the tiny beanbag cat is not about the information it’s about seeing it on my shelf day after day and being comforted by its consistency. no i don’t know what vibes prev has but i know my world would be worse without them in it and i will keep following these strangers until the end of time because it’s simply nice to know they’re there.

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huramuna · 4 months

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beware the sapphire peak - chapter 3, end.

aemond targaryen x wife reader x alys rivers a period piece, set in 1902.

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wordcount: 3.7k

you're a young, american lady who is an aspiring author. you are wooed by a mysterious and charming savant from england. swept off your feet, you're whisked away to his family's ancient estate, Dragonstone Hall. but with all stories, secrets are hiding around every corner, and your suitor is no different.a crimson peak inspired mini series.

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings!i don't do taglists right now, so sorry!

content: smut (specifics below cut), angst, gaslighting, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, alys in her girlboss gatekeep gaslight era, no use of y/n, afab reader, pre-established alysmond, this isn't going where you think it is (it might be), infidelity-ish, polyamory, mentions of infertility, murder, depictions of murder/violence, pregnancy

moonlight sonata - beethoven • nocturne in e-flat major, op. 9, no. 2 - chopin

warnings: p in v, face sitting, come eating i guess!, breeding kink

So sweet– she had tasted so sweet to you, like the most saccharine, tooth rotting, sugary treat you’d ever had. A taste that you could get lost in for eons, grasping at the surface that threatened to pull you under, deeper, deeper… until darkness consumed you– and you could only taste her.

Alys murmured something to you as your mind went fuzzy with panic. What would Aemond think? What would happen now? Would he divorce you? Would he fire Alys?

Your hands shook slightly, a tingling and eventual numbing feeling coming to your lips, spreading throughout your extremities. Everything was in slow motion, the vision of Alys blurred through tears. “A-Alys,” you croaked. “I-I don’t know what just happened— I-I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t cry, my sweet puppy,” she cooed, upon you again, her scent all consuming and overwhelming and you wanted to kiss her again. “It’s natural.”

“N-Natural?” you whimpered, eyes still misty.

“Yes,” Alys breathed, petting your head. “You know, male lions usually have a few lionesses in their pride— and the lionesses are known to take great affections with each other, too. ‘Tis only natural, to seek the comforts of ones who comfort you.”

You sniffed, not really understanding what she was saying. The numbness was spreading, your head spinning and feeling like a hive of bees had taken host in your cranium. “I-I don’t… I don’t feel well…” you managed to whisper, clinging to the older woman as you lost feeling in your limbs, an acute pins-and-needles type pain steepling into your flesh, tapering off into icy splinters.

Now, you saw nothing but darkness, only hearing the hushed whispers of someone faraway.

You were dreaming now, you were sure— as you walked through the halls, feeling light as a feather. Your hand dragged along the stair bannister, nails tapping to a rhythmic tune that you could hardly recollect. It felt as if you were outside of your body in a slightly pastel toned version of the real world, a skewed view of what was actually real. The shade of carpet was off hue, a lighter, rosy red than it actually was, the accompanying curtains a complimentary shade of pink, when in reality, they were deep crimson.

Your steps felt effortless, a spring in your step like a young fawn who’d figured out how to use its legs, jaunting through the corridors with ease. You enjoyed your lovely pastel dream world, until you turned and saw the very end of the foyer.

It was dark, the light sucked out of it like it’d been erased, consumed— a familiar sight of inky black tendrils beckoned from the end of the hall, your feet moving on their own accord now. Your brain, feeling very much like prey, screamed at you. Threat, threat— run, run, run! But you couldn’t, you couldn’t turn, nor abscond. Getting closer, there was an eerie hum, like many voices converging together into a cacophony— you recognized it, fear settling into your bones. It was a dirge.

Pleasepleaseplease, don’t make me, don’t make me. Save me, save me.

The siren song lured you closer, until you were swallowed by the darkness itself, falling, falling…

“We are you, Lady Targaryen.”

“You shan’t leave this place.”

“You will be trapped and rotted like us.”

“You’ve fallen for their ruse. A fatal mistake.”

The fall felt neverending, the breath stolen from your lungs until they felt like shriveled raisins. Hands grabbed at your body greedily, pulling you under the surface as water replaced oxygen in your body– you gasped out, screaming, but no sound came, your arms wouldn’t move, as if they were stuck in molasses.

Other voices permeated your being, familiar ones. They brought a little comfort, but you could only discern bits and pieces of what they were whispering, chattering around you.

“— used too much, Alys—,”

“— she is perfect—,”

“— needs to wake up before—,”

Your consciousness, your real life felt so far away now, as your hands reached out to buffet the impact of your fall into the void… you could almost feel the sickly crunch of your ligaments being broken as you kissed the loam, into a darling embrace of nothingness.

You crashed to the ground, body strewn and broken like a porcelain doll– broken, shattered, thrown away. Trapped.

Sitting up from the bed, your bed, you were drenched in sweat. Oxygen ballooned in your lungs with a sharp, audible inhale as you looked around, eyes wide like a newborn fawn, once again. You zeroed in on Aemond, who was sitting in the corner of the room in the reading chair, one leg crossed over another, bobbing with anxiety. Alys was there, too, off to the opposite side of the chamber, fiddling with something on the desk. Her hair, usually well mannered and groomed, was slightly strewn in a loose bun.

The sound of your gasp caused them to be at your side in an instant, one on either side of the bed. Aemond’s hand was entwined with yours instantly.

“Thank God, she’s finally awake,” he murmured, shooting Alys a quick glance, brow furrowed.

“Oh, darling,” Alys cooed, “You took quite a spill in the bathroom– Lord Targaryen found you with a nasty head wound.”

Fell? When did you fall? With a shaky hand, your fingers skimmed the outline of cloth pressed to your forehead– you winced, a sharp intake of breath hissing through your teeth, it was tender to the touch. “When… how long have I been… unconscious for?”

“Five days.” Aemond responded, his leg still shaking as he pulled up the chair, sitting back down in it promptly.

You felt bewildered by that– five days? Five days you’d been asleep– and your dreams felt like only a moment and an eternity. The distress must’ve clearly read on your face, as Aemond squeezed your hand. You glanced over to him, lines of worry etched into his brow and beyond. He had dark circles under his eyes, likely from lack of sleep. He was, overall, disheveled, a look you hadn’t quite seen on him. You swallowed, your mouth suddenly cloying and full of cotton.

Alys nudged you, a spoon in her hand. She had soup– when did she leave? – offering it, intent on feeding you like a mere babe. Curling into yourself inwardly, you shook your head. “... m’ fine, I can… I can do it,” you offered, suddenly feeling extremely aware of the heavy mood of the room. They had fretted over you for days, for an accident you likely caused yourself.

“Come, dear,” Alys urged. “‘Tis wild rice in a nice bone broth.”

Your indignant streak ended quickly as your stomach audibly growled at the sound of the food. Mustering down your shame, you sipped at the soup, allowing Alys to spoon feed you. Aemond had a faraway look in his eye as he stared at the pair of you.

–

Your recovery was slow and meticulous– you had fractured your leg from your fall, as well as having some nasty bruises on your hip, the purple red hue blooming under your skin like ink from a tipped over inkwell.

You were utterly dependent on Alys and Aemond as they nursed you back to health, hand feeding you, bathing you, carrying you down stairs– and you let them. You melded into their touch, becoming one with them and they handled you like extensions of themselves, gentle and loving, as not to hurt you any further.

Your head wasn’t completely clear, though– even a whole month and a half after your accident, you still felt like a teddy, stuffed full of wool and hardly sentient. Alys laid you down in the bathtub, the same one you’d knocked your head against apparently, the water warm. It washed over you in waves, heat sinking into your bones and quelling the urge you had to scream, to run– to do anything. The scent of lavender filled your nose as she poured floral oils into the water.

Aemond was behind her, watching carefully. He was always there, no matter the situation, looming. He was adjusting his shirt cuffs idly, over and over in an anxious habit. He had quite a lot of those, you had noted. Now that you were almost always by his side, you watched him constantly, taking in those little habits. Jaw clenching, eye twitching, rubbing his fingers together, bouncing his leg. Not only those, but he constantly looked to Alys, as if they were communicating with their eyes alone.

You wondered what they were saying, as they met gazes and then looked back to you in sync while you were in the bath, nude as the day you were born. You pulled your legs up to your chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious as they both bore into you, regarding you unabashedly, orbs roving over your figure. Pressing your chin to your knees, you looked past them, the glint of their scrutiny in your peripheral now. There was someone behind them.

Bloody and crooked, dripping water and essence of life, her body bloated and putrid. Her hair was blonde, at one point, at least– it was now a murky gray, stained pinkish with only the notion of its former color peeking through. Her eyes were dark, never ending holes– it was like looking straight into the void itself. Her throat was slashed, leaking the same black ichor that was in your dreams while you were incapacitated. Heavy breathing, jagged and errant, like a broken key on a piano, drowned out the chatter between Aemond and Alys. Her hand, spindly and wretched, squeezed on the frame of the bathroom door as she perched upon it, unable to stand upon the weight of broken, splintered legs.

“You. Won’t. Live.”

The person you were before your accident might have choked, sobbed– but you were good acquaintances now with the ghosts of the estate, and their never ending threats and prophecy. Your eyes glazed over, a peeved grunt coming from you. “Go away.” you muttered. You were sick of seeing their faces, hiding in plain sight, always leering at you from afar with their grotesque visages.

“What?” Alys asked, taking her hands out of the water and peering at you curiously.

“... may I bathe alone, please?” you sighed, wishing for one moment of peace and quiet and aloneness.

Alys looked back at Aemond and they shared that unspoken connection once again. He nodded slightly, minutely. He didn’t even say anything– he didn’t say much since your accident, leaning on Alys to be his voice. He clenched his jaw, as he does, and left the room.

Alys planted a kiss on your brow– the sweetness of her perfume felt familiar– and she departed, closing the door. As she left, you reflected on the state of your life. You felt like less than a person, moreso a doll. You didn’t remember falling, and you remembered… kissing Alys. Hardly, it was like a memory fluttering away on a breeze now, but the feeling of it was still there. It flooded back in your mind as you had drank in the scent of her when she got close, your stomach turning into a horde of butterflies. Was that even real? Or was it a figment of your damaged brain, painting a pretty picture for you while you were in a state of stupefaction.

It had to have been an illusion. Surely.

You supplanted your hand on the lip of the tub after soaking for at least three hours– the water was cold now, turning your slightly warmed stupor into ice. You had hardly walked on your own these past few weeks, and when attempting to, held up by Alys or Aemond. Pulling yourself up with the little strength you had, you stood up. Your legs shook, but eventually found their own as you tested your luck further. One foot on the floor, then the other, toes splayed and wiggling as they touched the cool floor. Something akin to elation came to your chest as you stomped, hiding a tiny giggle. How childish you felt now– but not as bad as you’ve felt during your recovery. You felt less than a child then, moreso a barely living organism, attached to the hip of Aly or Aemond, solely dependent on their care of you.

You grabbed the robe left on the privy lid, snugging it to your form– you considered keeping it untied, to rove around the estate free of inhibition, just because you could. But, you decided against it, tying it taut around your waist. You went to leave, hand hesitating as you went to touch the knob, remembering something… something like a shock touching your hand from before. Shock be damned, you turned the knob. No prick of electricity followed, and you were free.

Leaving wet footprints on the wood floors, you saw the halls in a new light. ‘Twas no pretty pastel painting, but it was familiar and real. You hummed along, hand tracing the bannister like you had when you dreamt. The estate was very quiet, not even a sound emitting besides the little pitter-patter of your feet– where had Aemond and Alys gone? Surely, with the length they’d kept you, they hadn’t gone far?

As you descended down one of the far halls you usually did not venture to, namely the Servant’s Quarters, where Alys resided, your ears pricked up to pick up a noise. Like the faraway call of an owl, deep and throaty, you could only hear, feel, the bass of it– it only got louder as you got closer to her room, the door ajar, cracked…

Peering in, your heart momentarily stopped, breath caught in your windpipe. Alys and Aemond were upon her bed, the top three buttons of her shirt undone. You could see the swell of her breast, heaving as she mouthed Aemond’s bare neck, his tie undone slightly from its spot on his collar, but done tighter just below his Adam’s apple in… a makeshift collar, almost. The older woman pulled on it with one hand, her other down… down… to Aemond’s weeping cock. She massaged it, her hand glistening with his arousal. His face was that of pure bliss and servitude, falling apart in her hand, with her lips against his skin, whispering.

A gasp fell from your lips and they peered up at you. Aemond’s face turned to that of horror– but Alys’ didn’t change. Her lips just perked into a further smile. “Come in, little one,” she hummed.

Against better judgment, or any judgment really, you opened the door further. Your still wet hair was stuck to your face slightly, peering up at them both through fettered lashes. You should be in hysterics, you should be crying, screaming, cursing, damning them both to hell for– for… this. But, you were doing none of that. You felt… placid, like calm water.

Alys beckoned you closer. “See, Aemond?” she practically purred, nosing his cheek while offering her hand to you. “I told you, she was perfect.”

“My love,” Aemond croaked. “Are… you well?”

That was the question of the year, wasn’t it? Were you well? You blinked slowly, mulling it over in your mind. “No. I’m not,” you responded, taking Alys’ hand in your own. “But, I am alright with that. We are all… unwell in our own ways.”

“So insightful, my little puppy,” Alys pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your mind and soul were utterly enraptured by her. “She knows how to share, don’t you, sweet puppy?” she side-eyed Aemond. “The others didn’t know how to share, did they– so greedy, they were. Not like you,” she spoke of you so reverently, with a honeyed warmth in her voice you just wanted to melt into.

Your heart was thumping at the sheer taboo of the situation, but you were excited– Alys tugged at your robe slightly, exposing your breasts to the cold air, your nipples pebbling into pert little peaks instantly. She let go of Aemond’s shaft, her hand wetted still with his excitement, offering you two fingers. She didn’t even have to say anything, you just opened your mouth as she rested those digits on your tongue, and you sucked on them eagerly.

Aemond, all the while, was slightly aghast at it– and even more, aroused. His blood felt like it was on fire as his hand reached out to caress your nipple like he always had before, between his fore and middle finger. You whimpered around Alys’ fingers before she withdrew them, smearing your lips with your own saliva.

“I’m so happy, my love,” Alys seemed to be addressing both you and Aemond, as she pulled you onto the bed between them, her fingers drawing little circles upon your bare thighs as your robe rode up. “We’ve waited so long for you– but it was worth the wait, wasn’t it?” her lips skimmed one side of your neck, while Aemond nosed at the other.

You felt all encompassing, squeezed between the two of them– your brain was firing off on all cylinders, every cell of your body writhing in pleasure. “... w-waiting?” you managed to ask.

“Yes, puppy. We waited for you– all of the others were no good, defective– but you are perfect. You desire both of us, yes?” Alys asked, peering up at you.

You nodded without hesitation.

“You know how much I desire children, but unable to have any of my own,” she murmured. “Will you have a family with us? Like a pride of lions, hm?”

You swallowed, eyes peeling away from Alys, drifting to the door, which was now open. The ghastly figures of seven women hung in the hallway, dead by many different manners. Eyes of the damned stared back at you.

“Y-yes, I want to have a family with you,” you agreed softly. You truly did want it– as you’d become so dependent on the both of them, you would do anything to please them. And you loved them both. You blinked– the figures at the door were gone now.

Alys hummed in delight. “Oh, my sweet,” she nipped at your skin before pulling you to the side of the bed. “Aemond, I am surprised she isn’t taken with child yet– he is quite virile, isn’t he– like a stud stallion,” she giggled as Aemond came up behind you, continuing to kiss your neck. “I suppose you need to breed her more often, now that she’s agreed.”

You melted into your husband’s touch, you had missed it so sorely– he had been so quiet and solemn during your recovery, like he was mourning something. He laid back on the bed and pulled you atop him, his arousal already prodding at your folds. You ached for him, truly, sighing a little moan into his mouth as you kissed. His taste was so different from Alys’, his was heady and deep, lulling you into a sense of familiarity. Sliding you back, he slowly lowered you down onto his length, stretching you out. You mewled at the sensation, coupled with Alys palming your breasts and pinching your nipples, causing that delightful cocktail of pain and pleasure that you had chased so fervently months ago.

Cursing under your breath, you adjusted to his size, looking down at him as you rested with him to the hilt. His hand grasped your hip, eclipsing you and thumbing at your clit. You rocked back and forth on him, eyes closed for a moment in exhilaration. Once opening them, you didn’t feel Alys behind you, but now she was atop Aemond as well, her bottom half sat upon his face as he serviced her, too– ever dutiful. The sight was raunchy and erotic and made a tingle go through you as you continued your rocking motions, skin slapping upon skin as you chased your high.

Alys leaned forward, in turn, pulling you to her. Your lips met again and she tasted just as lovely as you remember, so sweet and comforting, like honey coating your lips. The entirety of the situation was catching up to you as your peak hit you like a train, whimpering sweet nothings into Alys’ mouth, your hand squeezing on Aemond’s hip.

Apparently your peak had started a crescendo, as Alys was next, spilling on Aemond’s tongue and rolling off of him, his face coated in the evidence of her orgasm. Something primal and feral came over you as you leaned down and connected lips with him again, tasting both him and her at the same time– you clenched on his cock that was nestled deep inside of you, and with a grunt, he spilled deep inside of you.

‘Twas round one of four upon that night.

–

You quite enjoyed the estate, as big and spacious as it was, you suppose it could be considered lonely. You imagined it in its heyday, full of diplomats, royalty, lords and ladies and children alike– but it seemed to be a ghost of its former self. Much like you felt you were– mayhaps not a ghost. You felt more akin to a moth, emerging from your silken cocoon and spreading your wings.

Sitting upon the terrace, it was a full three years since you and Aemond had married. You watched the lawn as your twins toddled on the greenery with an abundance of toys– a boy and a girl that were just a bit over a year and a half old.

Settling into the seat, you put a hand over your swollen belly– once again round with child. You and Alys were keen on running Aemond ragged until the estate was once again full of children, much to his chagrin– and pleasure.

“Lemonade, puppy?” Alys hummed, nosing your ear as she offered you a cool glass.

“Thank you, sweet,” you responded in kind, taking a sip. Your eyes followed Alys’ hand as she gently caressed your belly, pulling up a stool and sitting beside you, one ear to your stomach. She quite liked talking to the children, born or unborn– always chattering, reading stories and telling tall tales.

Aemond scooped up the twins from the greenery, walking over to the two of you. “Say hello to mummas,” he cooed softly.

The twins babbled little greetings to both Alys and you, who they both considered their mother. You feared for the conversation that would come in the future where you had to explain that every family was different, and not everyone had two mummas.

But for now, you’d enjoy blissful ignorance upon the secluded estate.

Tipping your head back, you surveyed the tall walls of the building.

Seven windows lined the eastern inner palisade– and with those seven windows, were seven figures, staring back at you.

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #beware the sapphire peak #alysmond #alys rivers #alys rivers x aemond #alys rivers x reader #alys rivers x reader x aemond targaryen

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hittoki · 3 months

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[ CHAPTERS.02 ] く hugh jass ₊☆

Y/N walked into Mr. Ko’s classroom, bag slung across one shoulder. He looked up and sighed. “You were just in here yesterday, right? Ms. Jeon, again,” she nodded. “What happened this time?”

She took her seat in front of his desk and set her backpack down. “Inappropriate Kahoot name.”

Mr. Ko laughed and closed his book. “Just make sure you get your work done and then you’re dismissed.” Y/N smiled, pulling out her notebook for chemistry and finishing her homework.

When the clock hit four-thirty, she started packing up her items. She told Mr. Ko she was finished and he waved her off.

Y/N made her way down the stairs, deciding to take the scenic route instead. This way, she would see her crush. She slowly walked by the dance room, peeking every few seconds.

“What are you doing?” The girl froze. She recognized the voice as Park Gunwook, the only person she hated at the school (and Ms. Jeon, of course). “I asked you a question.”

“Oh! Um, I’m just walking home. After detention. You know, the usual.”

The door to the dance room suddenly opened and Y/N whipped her head around. Riki walked over, his hands rested on his hips. “Hey, Y/N! What are you doing on this side of the school?”

The two tall boys looked at her, expectantly. “I was actually just telling Gunwook that I was walking home from detention. I might as well get some extra steps in.” The Japanese boy chuckled and shook his head.

“I still can’t believe you got detention! Ms. Jeon must have a personal vendetta against you.”

“That’s what I’m saying! I think I have a new record for detention given in one week.”

Gunwook’s lips stretched slightly when he heard this. She deserved detention for disrupting the class, he thought. “Ms. Jeon said that I have to tutor you since you’re failing the class.”

“You don’t have to tutor me. I’m probably not going to show up anyway,” Riki smiled at this. “Besides, I know the material; I just don’t do the work because it’s boring.”

Gunwook scoffed. “I’ll see you after school in the library tomorrow. Please show up so I don’t get in trouble with Ms. Jeon.” At that point, Y/N had already walked away. “What’s her issue?”

Riki just sighed, patted his shoulder, and walked away. If his friend didn’t get it now, he wouldn’t get it ever.

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★. . description 𓂃 cupid sees the true feelings of individuals and pairs them together based on these feelings. he never makes mistakes. however, y/n is convinced cupid has accidentally shot his arrows at her and the class president, park gunwook.

★. . taglist 𓂃 @junityy @heartswonn | open! (send an ask or reply to this post to be added)

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ms0milk · 8 months

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𝟏𝟏 | 𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"Being safe from sand and ocean winds doesn’t seem worth it to the Alderan prince, not worth enough to miss the sun rising every morning. How could you die in a place like this? How could you possibly be okay with that?"

no cw unless you’re averse to apprehensive touch between enemies. reader and co recover from last night’s attack in their own ways. two fools stand too close in a cold hallway. three fools finally go to the sea and one of them can’t get you out of his head 6.8k

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Bakugou’s first memory of you is doused in blood. His second is somewhat more pleasant. Just two giant, shining eyes peering at him through a crack in the library door. You’re lightfooted now, sure, but back then he could feel you coming through the floorboards from how excitedly you wiggled at your self assigned post. You thought you were hiding. Him pretending not to notice, and you pretending it wasn’t hours after curfew.

Bakugou liked to do magic for you. Sometimes he waited for the sound of your heart or your twiddling thumbs before he blew out the candles around him and lit the first pink spark on his fingertips.

The prince can’t hear well enough anymore to recognize your heartbeat, so he’s been searching for your bedroom since dawn.

Wretched flashes of you play across his ash lashes like a curse. Of you toppling off a cliff like some psalmic tragedy. The pleading in your grasp but something– something else in the blacks of your eyes on the mages back. Relief? Like the first flecks of ease he’s seen since he made warm magic for your audience. If his fists weren’t drawing blood from his palms as he marched he might have reflected on how long he’s been watching you.

All this work just to wring your fucking neck. Takoba is ill-equipped for Bakugou’s Alderan thunderstorm. Castle marble trembles underfoot.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He’d like to throw your door open, demand an answer and then not tolerate a response. It’s been three hours of his tirade. Of startling footmen and growling at maids, before he finally catches the tailend of someone useful.

“Oi, Cheeks!”

Uraraka isn’t thrilled about this and pauses, considering for a moment, before turning around. She chews her lip instead of rolling her eyes.

It’s just short of miserable where the two of them are standing, freezing in this part of the castle and somehow also stuffy. The only windows are at the long ends of hallways. It smells old. Being safe from sand and ocean winds doesn’t seem worth it to the Alderan prince, not worth enough to miss the sun rising every morning. How could you die in a place like this? How could you possibly be okay with that?

“Where is she?”

“Gods, the pair of you–”

“Where?”

Uraraka, in her padded cotton sparing clothes, sags weight to one hip, “Kats, she’s your guard. What do you mean where is she?”

Bakugou hasn’t gotten enough sleep for this. Up until bitter hours with Aizawa and his men recounting the attack and now stalking Takoban hallways. A perfectly comfortable bed beside a steady fire, ruined by the memory of you.

He spits and pushes past the soldier. Fuck her, fuck it. He doesn’t hate you more than he wants to sleep.

“Last blue door,” Uraraka barks behind him, “and she doesn’t want help. I already tried.”

She grins nervously as the prince adjusts his gait, hardly hiding his beeline for the room at the end of the hallway. Fuck sleep. And more crucially, fuck you. You, setting great fires in Aldera’s name wherever you step and bursting at your simple seams to be righteous about it.

A blind man might be more prepared than him. Might remember why he avoided you all week– what he was going to say to you in the gardens those few hours ago, before the mage and blue fire.

Your door is already open a crack when Bakugou approaches with a egotistical lack of decorum. Storming and sauntering. Morning sunlight hardly illuminates anything on this side of the castle. He’s just cold enough, just close enough to the edge of irate that the thought of swinging it fully open with a roar fills him to the brim with grim satisfaction.

At a distance, Uraraka thinks about stopping him, but his wind up, his general air and the tense of his shoulders dies before he can cause the scene she knows he wants to.

Inside the crack, Bakugou deflates as you slip into view. You keep your back turned. Dark blush climbs up the parts of your neck neither hair nor nightgown cover and you stop your gentle drifting at the foot of your bed. Steam from a tub under your window fights with the sea draft. You’re trying to reach something– a ribbon? And your fingers tremble as they graze a tie at the back of your dress. Are you in a hospital gown? Bakugou peers inside silently, completely underestimating the shock of seeing you conscious.

You don’t look right without a sword. You don’t look right at all. Turn around. He can’t see– what did Uraraka say? Help with what?

Bakugou touches golden fingertips to the door’s beveled edges at the same time as you slam your fist hard to one of your bed’s four posters. The prince’s fingers twitch instead of startling but it’s too late because your ears work leagues better than his and you’ve spun right around to catch whoever it is that’s watching you. Uraraka drifts carefully around the corner.

“Wh– Highness?”

Your door flies open inward and Bakugou can tell you’re nursing your left arm by the way you reach with your right. Though your frustration deflates with a glimpse of him, it doesn’t shift to something comfortable. He’s not what fills you with ease.

He didn’t expect to be so disarmed by the sight of you alone but now that you’re here, solid and in front of him, he can’t stop remembering the state of you in the gardens. Wet and bleeding, bubbling and burnt to a crisp and still, still swinging a spear. You shouldn’t be getting dressed, you should be dead asleep in the hospital. Bakugou hasn’t thought this far and he doesn’t think he can yell anymore.

“Sir?”

What did he come here to say to you?

You look like a proper wild Alderan this morning like he’s hardly ever seen you. Worn eyes and bed hair, battle scars and a bruise that peeks out from under your collar. It took seeing you for him to remember the last conversation you’d had.

You’re mine.

“Your arm,” he musters instead of thinking harder and tips his chin to your left.

“Do you have business with my arm, sir?”

The shallow cut down Bakugou’s chest has started to scab, the one from your sword in the gardens. His only injury from last night and not because of his skill in a fight. You are battle weary, exhaustion holding your eyes in your head and healing magic draining the life from your heart to keep your arm intact. Shame roils.

Great galloping fuck, do you ever stop staring? You look through him under the doorframe with huge dim eyes.

“What help do you refuse?”

Whoever said that has said it much too sweetly Bakugou tisks, and you seem to agree because your otherwise tired face sets itself to stone. He pities the person that would speak to you like honey, his kamikaze captain, until he realizes you are looking only at him in an empty hallway and that syrup has dripped like drool from his lips.

“Is that all?”

He would be more upset with you if you were wrong. If he hadn’t actually run out of things to say and couldn’t only focus on staying upright after a night with no sleep.

He sounds like fucking Kirishima. The same shithead who started to cry after cornering a loose-lipped Deku outside of Aizawa’s interrogation office. He might have blubbered on for hours about your injuries if Bakugou didn’t send him on a chore to collect breakfast.

The hospital you must have escaped from healed your wounds but missed more than a few patches of dark blood crusted up your neck and into your hair, and then Bakugou remembers he didn’t come here to stare. Every day of tutoring and diplomacy, every shouting match, every spar, every fist fight is failing him. What did he come here to say?

“Don’t be stubborn.” Not that.

“Is that an order?”

Takoba has sucked the soul from your eyes, day by day. They should be filled with fire. He distinctly remembers fire, but today you hang in the doorway without a weapon and just wait for him to leave. Speak too quickly for him to think. You can’t even stare at him right anymore and it’s pissing him off.

You look like shit, he considers grunting, you smell worse. You gray my fucking hair, run away home. Go die for someone else. The broad prince shuffles his tongue over his teeth when vitriol doesn’t find its way from his mouth and while the pair of you watch each other too close in this cold hallway something so much worse sneaks out.

“It is.”

He wants to spit the second the sounds leave his mouth.

“Yes, sir.”

And immediately the word ripples his skin from his bones, his sinews try to tear from his body every time you utter it and he knows now that you do it on purpose. Before Bakugou can recover and growl and kick his way through this cursed castle out of your stoney company, you turn your back to him and wait without moving, “The knot, sir.”

It’s so much worse without your staring. To stand with you alone and out of his mind with exhaustion and for your eyes to be anywhere other than burning holes through his head.

How dare you. Bakugou vibrates as he watches unmarred knuckles reach forward in time to register that his own hand is going to touch you. Even injured, your posture is still perfect, unsettling, and it’s taken twenty years for the prince to realize that you’re no bigger than a sunflower. You carry yourself like a dragon through his castle but it would take two of your hands to cover one of his. And you thought you could kill the flame mage? You thought he was worth your Alderan life?

In the time between dreading the closeness and pinching the bow at your back in his fingers, Bakugou remembers his fury. All the senseless shit he meant to say in the gardens suffocates in the smoke hate tends.

You, who orders your soldiers like an old general and then refuses to eat with them. You who hunt and kill for the queen but stumble through professionalism when it comes time to look at him. Do you smile alone, in your room or with your master? Or is subservience a full time job?

You’ve pulled the tie free of its bow with your stupid struggling and now Bakugou needs both hands to pick at a knot too small for his fingers because you can’t ask for help. You want to die so badly? Do it out of eyesight.

He focuses for one second too long to keep his magic from spiking with his anger like a teenager and with that second he finally pulls the fucking ribbon loose and– and it’s bad.

It’s ugly. You’re not bleeding, they’ve closed you up, but black bruises reach from your shoulder so far down your back he has to blink away when his eyes follow the trail too quickly. The back of the gown begins to open. Turning bruises purple, a scar like tree sap creeps out from under your sleeve, up your neck and down your spin. The burn. A pink scar like sparks in his twilight library.

Shuzenji can only do so much with bruises but this welt? It looks too angry to touch cloth. She couldn’t put in some goddamned effort? You saved her useless queen for all she knows and she couldn’t spare a fucking second to put you back together again?

Creativity given too much platform by your silence, a much worse thought surfaces. Did you escape, or were you discharged half patched like this to make room for more important patients? Royal patients. Blood in your hair.

Bakugou spent fifteen Julys in this Takoban hellhole, every summer for diplomacy or training or vacation, or whatever the fuck his mom decided to call forced socialization that year. He might as well have spent all fifteen years in the hospital for all the trouble he got into by the sea. Pirates and sparring or krakens, whathave you. There was never a broken bone bad enough, a concussion so blinding that Shuzenji couldn’t fix it.

“I’m no god, Katsuki.” She’d murmur even when he was too dazed to hear properly. Always, always she reminded him. How long had it been? How did he forget? “I can only use what you give me. If I take too much you’ll die.”

Your room reeks of the sea even with the windows closed and blue infects its every inch. Even the steaming tub at the foot of your bed tinges green at its bronze lips.

“Highness.” Your voice is a call on the wind when Bakugou realizes how tight he’s still holding your ribbons. You are a subtle source of warmth kissing his knuckles in a cold corridor and he can’t get away from you fast enough. You turn. Your shoulders drop and your gown drops with them, your big eyes catch the corner of your face and where anyone else might be coy you look through him like a hound.

“Thank you.”

The sounds that comes out makes him feel like a hound. Like a bark, tch, “Fuck back off to the hospital.”

“Is that an order?”

Your beautiful golden prince spits at your feet and turns away down the hall.

You wouldn’t have gone back even under orders. You woke up in the surgery the second Shuzenji put her hands on you. Searing wet pain and a thousand stitches and where her magic used to feel bubbly, this night was just fire. Blue fire, Takoban fire.

You were the only collateral from the attack. It should have filled you with pride that you protected not only your prince, not only a queen, her heirs, her champions, and guards, but her entire castle. Still, alone in the hospital with a rum cloth jaw clenched to keep from screaming– in the seconds or hours it took to hammer you together again– liquor was a welcomed distraction from the taste of mageblood.

Shinsou was there in flashes looking over you on the table and then in a blink holding someone back from the door, red hair like Kirishima, and hatred like molten sugar spilled from your every sweating pore on the operating table. Where was he? Your prince’s Champion left him alone in a hostile country with only one guard and the incompetence of Takoba to keep him alive. If wrath could send letters, your Mitsuki would be inundated.

“C’mon miss martyr, head down please.” Uraraka’s smiling more than you’d like as she runs a sponge across your back. The bathwater is a touch too cold for you and still so hot that her arms have gone pink in the space where she’s rolled up her sleeves.

“I can wash myself.”

“Kats didn’t send me in here to watch a pretty girl wash blood out of her own hair,” the pink guard chuckles and you hate to waste this comfort filled with fury.

Before Shuzenji could wrap any part of you in bandages, a knock at the hospital door took her from attention. Shinsou had long disappeared so you slipped from the bed and through a door at the end of the room.

Footmen and maids balked as you whisked through the halls half-dressed and bloody. The guard stationed maddeningly at your bedroom door didn’t hesitate when you burst from the darkness and growled for hot water. You wouldn’t give your prince the satisfaction of sauntering through the castle nearly naked again but you had been stripped of your padding and armor, your weapons, and a generous serving of blood. The prince had to wait.

“I won’t really wash your hair if you don’t want me to,” Uraraka murmurs this time instead of laughing and you are back in safe company.

The smell of the sea makes you sick.

A change of clothes she brought for you from her soldiers' quarters lays nervously across your bed generally afraid to be worn. Rife with silver bits and baubles, limp where your Alderan uniform would be imposing. You’ll look like a doll and suddenly you’re angry all over again.

Uraraka is gentle when she rinses suds off your shoulders but the itch over the new skin there is deep and welcomed. The brush of Bakugou’s knuckles in the hallways left streams of goosebumps that still won’t fall and that you refuse to think about. Not his hands, never again.

“Do you like looking like this?”

Uraraka leans forward so you can see her expression and gestures vaguely to the room with her elbow, “Like what?”

“Like,” you slip your good arm over the edge of the bronze tub and water platters on rugs, “this.” You're both eyeing the Takoban uniform now.

“Do I like looking beautiful?”

“Like decoration.”

“I am decoration.”

Salt carries on a breeze through the room that persists even with the windows closed and your arm drops from the lip as you settle back down in your bath. That’s right. A few weeks away from home and suddenly you’re playing Royal Captain instead of war fodder, too good for a borrowed pair of greaves.

“Alderan uniforms are beautiful too,” the guard offers, but you rest your head a bit too limply in her hands as she brings water up your nape.

Your voice is tired, “Do you like giving orders?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“I like having a bed and sending money home to my parents.”

“Do you like fighting?”

“I do.”

Your queen is as fiery as her son, but did Jeanist have to tame her first? Or did she have to break him into a shape she liked to look at? Was it an honor? After hardly a month of travel together, Prince Bakugou had pulled up the edges of your identity like a bored child with cheap wallpaper. Fifteen years without so much as three words, then three weeks of torture and still somehow the thought of returning to Aldera where he won’t so much as growl towards your post makes your stomach ache. Where you will never be allowed to raise a weapon against him. Being decoration never bothered you before.

“I like free food and looking pretty,” Uraraka steadies her hand at the base of your neck and holds you tight, “I love my master, I love my friends, I love my city and my people. I miss my mom, I’m afraid to die, I can’t budget, I’ve never been in love,” her fingers pulse warm over your new skin, “I think I’m lucky.”

You think so too. You bring your knees closer in the water, “You look like a chandelier.”

Uraraka tilts your head gently towards the seashell uniform, smiling, “We look like chandeliers.” And then there’s a knock at the door. Your heart beats golden for a second.

“Y/n? Please tell me you’re in here.” Kirishima and his unmitigated gaul. Blood turns red again.

As you sit up properly, your pink guard shouts before you can find a weapon, “She’s in the bath!”

“Come back to the hospital, Y/n. Have you eaten? I brought breakfast, please can I come in?” Doors are made of shit driftwood here so you can hear his ragged breath even through the walls and gods, you start to sweat again.

You’re stiff, not bedridden. Your shoulders can roll again and a scar can’t keep you from raising a weapon, “You’d better arm yourself if you want to speak with me, Champion.”

“Y/n please–”

“Ei go eat without us!” Uraraka plants her hands on your shoulders when you draw your knees under yourself to keep you from rising fully, “Go on, it’s okay I’m here.”

You don’t like how slowly it sounds like he’s moving. Kirishima rests something on the floor with a click and then clears his throat, “I’ll– I’ll tell the others you’re okay.”

“You do that,” Uraraka chirps for you again. She rinses her hands in the water beside your ribs as awkward footsteps pad away from the room. You settle back down on your hips and long for hot water. “What’s your problem with the Champion?”

Your body is a rusted machine and it’s too hard to find words for your anger. Her Takoban Champion threw himself off of a cliff to save you. Your Champion ate dinner for a few hours too long instead presumably because he was staring at Lady Mina. An Alderan embarrassment. Another knock.

This one is much too loud and in no way enunciatory. Your door flies open this time with Bakugou attached to the knob.

“Shitty Hair!” He howls over the edge of the door and down the hallway, “Almost wore this breadbowl as a boot, pick up your motherfucking food!”

Uraraka’s hands go limp at your back and she must be staring as blankly as you are because your prince only looks normal– milky and ferocious– until he turns inside to speak. It’s almost endearing how quickly his shoulders and scowl drop into a look entirely foreign on his face as he takes in the scene in front of him.

The first thing you’ll do when you get home is have tea with Master Jeanist under your favorite Saturday tree and laugh over the many expressions of your hellfire prince, for he dearly loves to gossip. He thinks the Bakugous are the most beautiful family in the country, and he’s right, and it’s infuriating in a thousand ways.

The prince clears his throat, hand still tight on the doorknob, “I’m going to the sea.” And he speaks to the bed because something has stopped him from looking at you. The veins in his hands dance. The air might as well be frozen.

With one movement he blinks to the window over both of your heads and steps backwards into the hallway, door closed and absolutely uncharacteristically silent as morning air.

Uraraka’s knuckles crack when her fingers twitch but that’s the only movement or sound either of you are allowed before your door flies open one more time and Bakugou, fuming frowning and bursting with something to say, explodes inside again. This time one slippered foot is deep in a shepherd's pie. Not even your bathwater stirs. Not a single sound comes from his clenched teeth, not even when his lips part to speak.

Six and holding your hands, eleven and soaked in a fruit filled hallway, all grown up and full of hate, always making magic in the library.

“I can ride,” you spare him, and Bakugou manages to look at you for a beat, to stare with jeweled eyes, before closing the door again.

A faint smell of meat and potatoes permeates the fresh air even with a new pair of shoes on. Bakugou huffs in his saddle. Todoroki doesn’t notice. The Takoban prince is too busy tacking your horse while his grooms watch on nervously.

“Just let them do it for her, get on already.”

“Certainly not.”

He knows it’s pointless but he would still rather work himself to fury with feather-brained Todoroki than sit with the image of you. Propped up in the bath with your hair down, a huge handprint scar wrapped around your bicep.

“Almost finished.”

Bakugou agonizes at the pace, but as his airhead companion finally secures the billet strap under the chest of a mottled cream gelding, Uraraka leads you into the stable, knocking to announce your presence like that would do anything to dull the incessant shock of seeing you on two feet after just last night, wiping mageblood and tears from your cheeks.

You look insane. A black Alderan tunic you must have had tucked away somewhere and bright white Takoban riding pants. Blue strings poke off your hips at odd intervals like you’d ripped some of the baubles off but there are plenty more gems and silver seashells to catch the eye.

“Y/n,” Todoroki is animated when he says your name and Bakugou realizes he’s been staring. The Takoban prince rushes to meet you and your escort and crumples immediately to the ground.

Bakugou groans, head fully back, “Fucking– again? C’mon half n’ half, up.”

“Y/n, please accept my deepest apologies.” Todoroki always sort of sounds like he’s mumbling but this time he’s pressed his hands and face to the ground. You, with the quick wit, look between the prince and Uraraka at a loss for what to say. “You are a guest and to be injured on the grounds is unforgivable. The flame mage will be caught. Captain Hawks has returned and his men patrol the city at–”

“Y/n!” Another voice, this one less grating, booms through the open air. Kirishima rounds the corner, startling staff, and Bakugou’s no psychic but you don’t seem thrilled. His Champion rushes you– idiot– and stops just out of arm’s reach still in his bedclothes. He’s gotten more sleep than both of you combined but looks significantly shittier for it. “A soldier picked this out of rubble, I’m so sorry.” He opens his fist and perched in his soft hand like a pearl is your broach. White dragontooth. “We couldn’t find your halberd.”

There’s a moment of stillness for all involved, Todoroki on the ground, Kirishima and Uraraka beside you, before you turn sharp and stare directly at your prince. You are a painting. You’re always steadying an invisible weapon at your hip even in a nightgown, and where the fire in your eyes has died something hungry and possessive replaced it. Black like the ocean. Infinite. The jewelry in Bakugou’s ears begins to burn.

Todoroki raises his head curiously and muck and hay stick to his forehead. Groomsmen rush to wipe him off as you turn back and offer him a hand. Your bad hand, Bakugou notes from his high horse, and frowns with your next words to him. “Highness, please don’t muss yourself for me.”

One more movement after pulling Todoroki up, smooth like water– and it is so obvious that you are trained to kill– you pluck your broach out of Kirishima’s palm and fasten it to your chest as you spit at his feet.

Takoba is not endearing and Bakugou is on hour thirty-one without sleep. Everyone else might have forgotten but he surely hasn’t, the reason why Alderans are here at all. The observatory, a ball, the Takoban King and diplomatic relations. Bakugou sat through more meetings this month than the sum total of his life, in twinkling cold offices and throne rooms without fireplaces. Hardly time to breathe alone. He wraps his horse’s reins in his fingers in case he falls asleep with its canter over city cobblestones.

“Highness, there are too many blindspots.”

Bakugou opens his eyes with your words as he’s done for the whole afternoon, and frowns when he realizes for the thousandth time that you’re addressing Todoroki. The three of you ride at leisure down the central roads of the Takoban castletown. Every rocky step they take he looks forward to you, expecting this bump to be your last. Expecting you to finally slip sideways off your gelding in exhaustion like he so dearly would like to do. You don’t. You only bark at civilians to keep their distance or direct them away with tilts of your head. You are simply you again, riding tall and alert with no suggestion of the mage-eater you become in blue light. No hints that you have ever shed a tear in your life.

He shakes his head free of the thought. Citizens gawk, but generally don’t stop their errands to do anything more than watch as you all ride past.

“Astute. What do you recommend, Officer?”

Bakugou doesn’t need to open his eyes to know you hate being called an officer. He can hear it in the way you pause before responding, and then he growls through a laugh at the back of the caravan when you find the right words.

“I recommend not touring the town that potentially housed a fugitive.”

Todoroki probably planned this tour for Bakugou weeks ago, excited to show him all the developments to the city in the years he’s been away. He’s not one for change. Shinsou knocked him unconscious to keep him from fighting last night and the first thing the blue prince did upon waking from a terrorist attack was ask Bakugou to confirm today’s agenda.

“Is there a more private area included in this tour, Highness?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat of silence and Bakugou snorts again.

“Could you please take us there?”

“Of course.”

The Takoban prince seems unaware of his dazzling presence as he guides his horse’s white head at a sharp turn to the west. Bakugou too, in his exhaustion, doesn’t realize how much attention he’s drawn from a city he’s so familiar with. A city so safe, its blue prince doesn’t need a guard.

“Oi,” you hiss on Bakugou’s other side and faster than he’s able to turn, you’re already pulling back on your reins to sidle around him. Your horse doesn’t seem the least bit disgruntled with the maneuver and flashes of consciousness pour between Bakugou’s eyes as he remembers bits of the night you arrived here, bleeding, begging. “Hands to yourself.”

Something pathetic like a dog whimpers below him and your prince peers over his thigh towards the cobblestones where a child is frozen between reaching out to touch his silver stirrup and staring in horror at you, a dark cloud behind them. The child, in modest warm clothes, backs away and flinches when your good arm jerks across your chest with your attention.

On his right, an older kid yelps and falls flat on his ass with two little hands clutching his head. Bakugou considers laughing out loud at this, husky and full of sleep; when he looks back at you, your hand hovers over your saddle’s grain bag and it becomes apparent you’ve walloped a child in the street with horse feed.

Everything feels insignificant when you’ve missed a night of sleep.

He has spent thirty one hours thinking of you. Watching you shoot, skipping lunch to hide, finding the words to speak to you. Being filled with so many things and then twisted excitement against your blade. Dread. Recounting your every step to one hundred officers. Searching for the hospital. Searching for your room.

You have spent those same thirty one hours awake, furious, burnt, bleeding, and then fully dressed on horseback. You are an exceptional guard. You are professional to a fault and it should drive him insane.

“You’re terrible with kids,” Bakugou rumbles as he rips a silver bauble off his vest and tosses it over his shoulder to the twerp flat on cobblestones.

You ride past him to follow Todoroki, “I manage you well enough.”

It doesn’t. Not even when you feign stoicism at the edge of the sea, not for a second. Because when Todoroki’s obnoxiously white horse leads the three of you past castle guards and down a private beaten path– under Bakugou’s favorite marble archway and out onto the beach, something hums in your black eyes.

It is the loveliest stretch of coast in the world, because it is protected by evil. On one side a steep grassy hill that bleeds into the marble castle, on the other, golden sand dotted with black volcanic rocks. The rocks tumble still and algaed into the blue sea, daring ships to beach there. Today the water rolls over itself in tiny frothing peaks as it does before a storm but the color is cold and charming and you have never been so close to the edge of the world before.

As your three horses trot onto soft sand, you turn your head to watch waves making their music and Bakugou can see your face outlined by the late sun. Your wide eyes. It will set soon. You are so much more adept than he is at hiding inside of yourself.

“The observatory,” Todoroki pipes up in the lead and points towards a white spire Bakugou’s never seen before, jutting like a mushroom off the side of the castle above you. In one movement, the blue prince dismounts from his horse and turns back towards you Alderans with another arm outstretched. “Come.”

Bakugou knows this beach. It’s broken his bones. He watches it every morning from his bedroom window.

Ahead of him the blue prince offers you his arm as you swing a leg over your saddle. Your body doesn’t hint to injury but you nod thankfully at the gesture and salt water rises in Bakugou’s throat.

“You were attacked in the old gardens last night,” Todoroki, standing too close, points up high towards the castle on the cliff, “All the way on the other side. The castle curves around the bend with the beach– although, it’s only cliff on that side.”

You stare as high as the sun will allow, “It’s a huge property.”

“Natural marble deposits in that cliff helped build the foundation. My family has lived here for hundreds of years.” Todoroki turns from your side and he is always so cluelessly pretty it’s irritating, to call out to Bakugou who’s frowning at the braids in his horse’s hair, “Katsuki did you k–”

But four syllables in and your prince is already waving his hand dismissively, “Fuck all the way off half n half. Give the Captain your shit tour guide speech and leave me out of it.”

So you follow Todoroki, who nods, to the edge of the sea.

“Whose garden was it?” You murmur in casual interrogation.

“My mother’s. A long time ago.”

Bakugou knows exactly what question you’re holding back and so does Todoroki, “The king,” he offers. You nod again. You can hide but you’re no liar. Something sours for just a second.

As Bakugou pulls a knapsack off his saddle to use as a pillow while the two of you splash about, you walk too slowly over the sand beside your tour guide and his first thought is injury until your lips part with timid breath. You move like a soldier, undeterred by uneven footing and fresh wounds, but you stare like a doe.

“Have you touched the sea before?”

You shake your head at the Takoban prince already a length ahead of you and tugging off his boots. The autumn air is warmed by the sun, but getting wet would make a miserably cold ride back.

“You should take off your shoes first,” he smiles. Bakugou spits over his shoulder and unsettles the horses.

You oblige the blue prince like you would any royal but you don’t do it quite so lifelessly as usual. Todoroki gives you his arm again for balance as you tug off one boot then another and bend at the waist to try and pull your pants legs away from the impending surf. You should look like a toddler, your prince should be laughing, but suddenly the sun has started to set and instead he realizes that somehow an entire day got away from him.

Bakugou formed his own opinions of the sea years ago, but he can’t remember the first time he saw it. Stepped foot in it. He reclines on the beach frowning, warm with sleep, and watches quietly.

You are mesmerized. Between black rocks you approach the water and stare. You bite your lip when you’re thinking this hard and the sun’s at just the right angle to reflect dancing shapes onto your chest. The frothing surf twinkles. It reaches for you with limp blue fingers. Two more times before you let it touch you and then your shoulders hitch.

Todoroki smiles, “Cold, isn’t it?”

“It’s alive.”

Do deer freeze in the first drops of a rainstorm? You aren’t made for the sea. You’re meant to hunt and make fires and sit under forest trees and eat plums in warm quarters. You shouldn’t have come.

Bakugou closes his eyes in the golden warmth and midnight pictures of you in the library come before sleep. Six years ago when curfew let up, you started eating alone in the library under the Great Oak and entirely ruining his time at peace to study wild magic. Sometimes you wore your uniform, sometimes a nightgown and cloak, and always he watched from the hallway above. Checking for the nights your guard assignments kept you posted elsewhere. The sight of you sores something in him.

“Y/n!”

Bakugou’s eyes fly open when the cool-headed Todoroki actually raises his voice and the first thing he dreads is a half-dead mage rising from the waves you threw him into. He’s already up on an elbow to rise, but the blue prince has raced through the shallow water to where it hits his hip and grabs your arm– your bad arm– again. You’re mid sea-strong stride and many meters farther out than before your prince closed his eyes. Your riding pants are fully gray with wet. What are you doing?

“I saw something.”

Todoroki urges you inland, “What?” But you shake your head.

Your body rocks with the rhythm of strong tides like you’re dancing. Waves roll gently through you from the left and right and even with your back turned to him, Bakugou knows exactly what kind of face you’re making. What did you see? He was right this morning and cocky this afternoon, you should be in the hospital.

“You’re not strong enough for the tides, Y/n,” Todoroki starts, and your prince also knows a lecture from anyone other than your queen is going to whistle right through those fucking ears, “The shallows drop out just past that break, and you’ll exhaust yourself before the rip current releases you.”

Bakugou can see the scene play out like a script. You’ll acquiesce for no more reason than the Takoban prince outranks you, but before you do as you always have, sunset catches the corner of your face and something bright blinks in the blacks of your eyes. Something like candlelight.

“I’m alright, Highness.”

Bakugou twitches.

“You’re injured.”

It’s just a second you take to glance over your shoulder across the horizon and in that second both eyes blaze redhot like they’ve eaten your candles whole and die black again just as quickly. You nod, “Yes sir,” and accept the guidance of Todoroki’s arm back towards the shore while Bakugou watches propped on a tense bicep, studying his ache. You are a nightmare.

A nightmare the sea wants to swallow, because as you’re led to shallow water two waves meet and a new break forms behind your thighs. The strength of the sea kicks yours and the Takoban prince’s feet uneven in the sand and the pair of you are sent backward a step and then forward by the hips into a beaching wave. In the setting sun the sea grows darker.

You resurface in just a second from clam shell surf silent and wide eyed, but Bakugou is already up. He should be laughing, especially as Todoroki rises from the water with a halo of foam blinking just as dumbfounded next to you. Seawater drips from your lips.

“We are certainly not swimming now.”

And something entirely new happens. On your knees, soaked through, you stare at the blue prince for a beat and then drop your head back in laughter. Your tunic clings helplessly to the curves of your chest, shaking and expanding with your breath. The sound is starlight. Another wave, smaller, climbs over your shoulder while you sit in the surf and washes over your head. Your hair is made of seashells.

“You’ll get sick!” Snorting on water now, Todoroki tries to help you up but the receding tide sucks sand out from under you both, knocking you gently into one another, giggling together, and doused again. The sunset frames your wide grin. You are no longer in the library, in fact you are nowhere to be found.

“Give me your hand.”

The corners of your eyes are red from salt and crinkled with a smile when you tilt your head up towards Bakugou in the pinking sunset, wet to his knees above you with a strong arm outstretched. You shiver. You without magic. You with nine lives. Him staring at your seashell crown through messy blond hair.

He draws breath through bared teeth. It’s an ill joined feeling, how quickly your new smile drops, how quickly the stars hang themselves back up in the sky at the sight of him. You aren’t a doe, you’re a dragon. Quiet pertinacity bleeds black from you into the sea.

“You’ll ruin your pants, sir.”

And he’s no longer sure he could stop you from anything without killing you first.

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#even in bkg's pov he still calls himself your prince #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha #mha #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #fantasy au #royal au #a hymn to black water

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reds-skull · 5 months

Text

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

I'll make a separate post for all of my thoughts (because I have a lot), but I'd like to thank all of you. This has been such an amazing experience, being able to tell a story from start to end. This has been a lot of firsts for me, first fic, first serious writing, first time I reach the end of any long form story I made.

Each and every one of you reading, liking, reblogging and commenting made this ride that more enjoyable.

Now, it's time we finish it, with the longest chapter yet.

Its name on AO3 will be "Together."

All that could be heard in the small room were crackling flames. For a while, they just stared at each other.

“Revenants of light, huh…” Johnny whispers, fingers gently caressing Simon’s hand. He scoffs in disbelief, “I can’t believe we actually did it…”

Simon sinks into the flames hugging his skin, “did what?”

“Broke that prophecy. Lived. Fuckin’ created a new Reaper.” Johnny’s eyes shine, his voice full of reverence, “you think this was… a new deal?”

Heat strikes down, deep in his chest. “It would make sense… new Reaper, new powers…” Simon trails off.

“New death.” Johnny grins lopsidedly, “looks like yer stuck with me ‘till the end, LT.”

“Till death do us apart, Johnny?”

His Sergeant laughs brightly, Simon grinning like an idiot under the mask. Johnny takes his other hand in his, donning a more serious expression.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.” he recites slowly, eyes not moving from his. Simon inhales sharply.

“I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One.” his heart beats like a war drum, strong and heavy.

“Johnny…” he doesn’t recognize the lines, but the meaning expands beyond cultures.

“I give ye my Spirit,” he lifts a hand to cup Simon’s cheek, “’til our Life shall be Done.”

Simon leans in, resting his forehead on Johnny’s, chuckling in incredulity, “you’re fuckin’ mental, Sergeant.”

The Scot hums, nudging his head, “thought ye knew that already, mo chridhe.”

Fuckin’ hell, his heart won’t stop beating so loudly. Simon knows Johnny was half joking but…

But still his heart strives to etch the words into his rib cage. A vow seared into their very flesh, marked by forces beyond their comprehension.

An oath, so powerful it joins not only their lives, but the lives of otherworldly horrors, being who do not care for such things as human connection.

And yet, it is that very thing that changed the course of destiny, in a way not even Reapers could predict.

Simon leans close, to the man he calls home, a hearth to never be extinguished.

And he feels safe. He feels… complete.

When they finally leave the room, the air outside is considerably colder. The safe house is quiet, in a way it can’t be, for the amount of soldiers it contained before Johnny dragged Ghost away.

He catches the attention of a passing Vaquero, and the man tells him most have left for the base, as it was liberated once Graves died. He also informs them their teammates are waiting outside by the vehicles.

Price and Garrick smile at them knowingly when they reach the armored truck.

“Bloody hell, finally! What took you two so long??” Gaz kicks off the side of the truck to scowl at them.

Ghost squints, face heating up, “none of yours, Sergeant.”

Gaz opens his mouth, but Price pats his back, “we can argue in the damn car. I need a fuckin’ shower.”

The Sergeant instantly forgets his previous grievances, and floats away to the passenger sit, “oh fuck yeah! I’m drooling just thinking about the bunks. You think Rudy would make us tea again if we ask really nicely?”

Soap swings the door open while shaking his head, muttering, “feckin’ Brits and their shite tea…”

Ghost slides besides him and cuffs him over the warhawk, “you better respect Parra’s tea in this car, Sergeant.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, unable to stop the smirk spreading on his lips, “what are ye gonna do? Report me to the king?”

“You little…” Ghost starts wrestling his Sergeant in the back sits, Price sighing deeply and turning the ignition.

When Soap somehow manages to kick the Captain’s headrest, jostling his hat dangerously, Price turns to glare at the two of them.

“You stop that, or I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

They both immediately freeze, “sorry Captain.” Soap mumbles.

The truck is left parked between the others already on base, and the taskforce makes its way to the barracks.

Rudy finds them after a shower, smiling, “hermanos. Feeling better?”

Garrick is still drying his hair with a towel, “feel fuckin’ human, brother.”

Alejandro rounds the corner, laughing, “Rudy got something even better than a shower.”

“What’s that?” Soap asks. Price’s eyes fill with wonder, and Ghost already knows the answer.

Alejandro swings an arm around the Sergeant Major, “how does ‘Parra’s infamous tea’ sound like?”

Gaz cheers, floating up a few inches, while Soap grumbles disappointingly, “sounds like bloody heaven, Rodolfo!” Garrick reaches to pull the Vaquero into a hug, “thank you!!!”

Rudy pats the Sergeant, laughing, “it’s nothing, hermano. A little thanks for all of you, for helping us with Graves.” he looks over at Ghost, the two sharing a nod of mutual understanding.

Soap pouts, “feckin’ tea though…?”

Alejandro smirks confidently, “we also got some… shortbread, you call it?”

Now that puts a spark in Johnny’s eyes, “ye all are saints, Alejandro.”

The Colonel laughs loudly.

They meet Commander Karim and Keller on their way out, duffle bags slung over their shoulders.

Farah smiles warmly at the Captain, “ah, Price. Glad I could find you before we leave.”

“You’re already going back to Urzikstan?”

The American sighs, “yep. The Vaqueros volunteered to search for any of our people, but currently we need to go back to protecting whoever we still have.”

“Graves may be dead, but this is far from over.” Farah looks over the serene hills surrounding the base, “as much as I want to get Shepherd, I cannot let myself be blinded by revenge.”

Ghost understands the sentiment. Revenge is a fuel, what you put it into could make or break your reality. “When we find him, we’ll make sure you’re there to take it.”

Farah nods, perceptive eyes landing on his, “I appreciate it, Lieutenant.” she turns to the rest, “thank you for everything. God willing, we will meet on better times.”

Price wraps a hand around her shoulder, making Ghost realize just how small the Commander is compared to him, “stay safe, Farah.” he winks at Alex, “make sure she takes breaks from time to time, will you?”

Keller laughs, “you know not even I can do that. Cya around, Cap.”

As the two walk away, Garrick mumbles, “think they’ll be alright without Graves supporting them?”

Price sighs wearily, eyes somber as they track Farah and Alex’s form, “they’ll have to be.”

They say their goodbyes to the Vaqueros, with a hopeful note to work together in the future, and get ready to board a plane to England. After a few hours, where the team took time to fix their undoubtably horrid stench and growling stomachs, and got to sleep (Soap dragged him to a sofa to nap, and Ghost will forever deny it was the best sleep of his life), Laswell called.

Ghost initially prayed they’re not being sent to another mission, in a way he never did. To his credit, the last few months were absurd.

She didn’t contact them for work, instead inviting them to stop by for a drink before they all leave for the UK. The promise of a good drink had them instantly agree.

The flight is spent mostly sleeping, again, as they were all incredibly tired, bone deep fatigue, emotionally and physically.

Garrick made sure to make his annoyingly aching shoulder everyone’s problem, complaining he couldn’t find a good position to rest in, until the Captain showed mercy and let him float around the cabin, leg held fast by Price.

Kate greets them warmly in a little bar hidden within Chicago’s winding alleys. Their drinks have been ordered beforehand, and everyone makes their gratitude known by taking a sip and melting into the bar sits.

Laswell smiles knowingly, letting them relax before starting, “this has been quite a ride for you boys, huh?”

Price sighs, “you can say it again.”

The CIA agent shakes her head morosely, “they got past us.”

“Well, they had a head start.” the Captain lifts his drink, “to cutting heads off snakes.”

Laswell clinks her cup with his. Ghost joins their conversation while they take the toast, “any sign of Shepherd?”

The woman puts the drink back on the counter, “totally off the grid.”

Gaz looks down at his whisky, frowning in conviction, “we’ll find him.”

“No,” Laswell answers, Garrick locking eyes with her, “we’ve got bigger fish.” she glances at Soap, “I did some digging on the Russian experiments.”

“That’s a dirty job if I’ve heard one”, Price mutters under his breath.

“Ultra-nationalists are after the fabled ‘revenant-killer’, John.” Price shakes his head minutely at the words.

“Kate,” he says lowly, “this is over.” almost begging her to let his boys rest.

“No. It’s not.” she ignores his pleas, as do all Reapers above and below. “They’re working with someone new.”

She pulls out a picture and shows it to Price, his expression instantly morphing into shock, and then cold rage.

Ghost tries to ask the Captain what he’s seeing, but he doesn’t need to.

Price points at the photo, “...he’s not new.” and passes it to Gaz.

Garrick’s brows furrow at it, glancing at the Captain questioningly before passing it over to Johnny.

Soap takes one look at the image, his smile lines deepening as his fingers singe the edges of the photo.

He slides it to Ghost, hand lingering, eyes full of uncertainty.

Ghost flips the picture, and his heart hardens.

“Who is he?” Laswell asks Price.

The Captain leans in to almost whisper, “Makarov.”

Laswell tilts her head, and Price continues to talk in their minds, “the Kastovian deserter, Konchar? He didn’t leave the military for no reason.”

Flames crackle threateningly under the bar, Ghost sliding a hand over white fire.

“He worked for Makarov?” Soap growls.

Price nods, “your Reaping took his work years back, but if what Laswell says is true…”

“He’s back.” Ghost finishes.

Johnny’s hand squeezes his, and they make eye contact.

It’s never really over, is it? Some say they’ll rest when they’re dead. Their harsh reality is that they’re not even granted that.

Blue eyes reflecting flames, as well as one floating man with a warm smile, and a reassuring voice in his mind, promise him that while yes, they may never rest, it does not mean they’ll fight alone.

Together, until death, as it brought them to each other, takes them away.

Soap is furious. They leave the bar not soon after, his Sergeant walking away as they say their farewells to Laswell.

On the flight back, he’s all uncontrollable energy, waiting for ignition to blow up.

Ghost, after 20 minutes of watching Johnny bounce his leg enough to wear a hole through the damn floor, places a hand to stop his movements.

“Talk to me, Johnny.”

Soap’s eyes stay full of rage for only a moment, before softening, “I’m thinking… maybe it wasn’t coincidence that me and Konchar were in Verdansk at the same time.”

Ghost hums for him to continue, drawing nonsense patterns on his thigh.

“What if I was an experiment, Simon?” Johnny looks away, his eyes fogging with memories, “what if Makarov knew Konchar had to kill me to live, and wanted to see if I could. If I was destined to be a revenant killer?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ghost grounds. Johnny looks unconvinced, so he continues, “whatever you were destined to be… you’re not it anymore. We’re both changed men.”

Johnny stares at him with more emotions than Simon can contain, reverence and trust and… something he can’t name.

“You… how could I tell you how much I adore you?”

Simon’s heart, gut and head, all line in decision for once in his life.

Actions speak louder than words, he remembers. And so, he rolls up the mask up above his brows, and leans in.

Gently taking hold of Soap’s nape, he directs his head to his face, pressing a touch of lips to his temple.

Simon whispers in his ear, “I already know. I look at you, and I can’t explain what it does to me. What you do to me, love.”

Johnny closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He looks almost conflicted, but the creases smooth over when Simon brushes lips over them.

“You mean everything.”

Price ordered him to his office the moment Ghost stepped foot on British soil. He glanced at Johnny, who was carrying his and Gaz’s bags. His Sergeant promised with a lopsided grin he’ll find him later, a sort of scheming glint in his eyes.

Ghost reaches the Captain’s office in record time, hoping to finish whatever this is as fast as possible.

Price, however, didn’t get the damn memo, and takes his sweet time settling into his chair. “How are you doing, Simon?”

Ghost surpassed the urge to roll his eyes, “good.” he gets the mental image of begging on his knees for Price to get to the point, and the Captain laughs.

“Alright, alright. I’ll spare you the suffering, Lieutenant.” Price’s smile slowly fades, “what happened with your Reaper, son?”

Right. He and Johnny may have forgotten to mention the new developments in the ‘Eldritch horrors beyond this world’ department.

“Our Reapers merged. They called themselves ‘Reaper of Luminary’.” Ghost huffs, “they told me and Johnny… we’re linked. We’ll live and die together.”

Price nods. He doesn’t seem too surprised, and Ghost wonders how much he already knew from his passing thoughts.

“I don’t know how long we would be able to keep it quiet…” he strokes his moustache, “this gets out, you two will have a target on your backs.”

Ghost straightens, hands behind his back at rest, “we’ll handle it, if it comes to that, sir.”

The Captain sighs, “I admire your confidence, Lieutenant, but I don’t think you understand the scale of the issue. You two are the first revenants in modern history to affect the Reapers the way they affect humans. We believed our connection was a one way street - that humans are simply too weak to change Reapers.” his stare is severe, “you however? You’re powerful enough to not only go against them, but physically mold them. What Makarov is after is nothing compared to the force you hold.”

Ghost closes his eyes. Price is right, of course. But…

He has faith. Hope.

Price’s moustache twitches, “...I understand.” he raises from the chair, walking around to place a hand on Ghost’s shoulder.

“I’m happy for you, son. You and Soap make a good team.” the Captain’s eyes crease with mirth, “I heard your conversation on the plane-”

“Fuckin’ hell Price, that was bloody private!” Ghost scoffs, embarrassment coursing through him.

“I stopped listening after the first ‘love’-”

Ghost drags a hand over his eyes, “just get on with it”

“As I’ve told you, you have my blessing. If you need anything, if anyone gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to come to me, got it?”

Ghost scoffs despite the threat of tears in his eyes. He looks at Price now, and sees much more than a Captain. He sees something he has never had.

“Copy.”

It’s not Johnny that finds him first, but Garrick, floating around the hallway in front of Price’s office.

“Need the Captain, Sergeant?” Ghost inquires.

Gaz stops, “no, I got a message from Soap.”

His interest instantly piques, “go on.”

Garrick rummages through his pocket with his healthy hand and pulls out a note, “he said ‘meet me here’, and that you should ‘clean up’.” the Sergeant wiggles his eyebrows, “sounds like he has a nice surprise for ya, sir.”

Ghost takes the note, examining the location. Looks like a street in the city neighboring the base. “I’m off then. Don’t get into trouble, Garrick. Cheers.”

Gaz frowns, pointing at his injured arm, “not like I bloody can…”

Ghost smiles while walking away, “if anyone could find a way, it would be you Sergeant.”

He chuckles lowly at Gaz’s fussing as he makes his way to the base’s parking lot.

The sun has started to set by the time Ghost reaches the location Soap left for him, the sky painted reds and oranges and yellows that remind him fondly of Johnny’s radiant fire.

He changed into a more casual outfit, covering his face with only a cloth mask and a hoodie.

Ghost’s lips stretch so much he fears they’ll get stuck like that, when he spots the place. An elegant sign hangs above a restaurant, one that looks small and cozy, with dimmed warm lighting, and plants covering the brick walls.

He parks the car nearby and walks in, a waiter catching his stare and approaching him.

“Are you uh… ‘Ghost’?” he says with hesitation.

Ghost scans the tables, trying to find one warhawk sticking out, “affirm.”

The waiter sighs in relief, “your partner is already here. Follow me.”

The man leads him to a more secluded area, a low wall separating it from the main room. Ghost feels his heart thrum a familiar beat when he finally finds Johnny, sitting alone in a table for two.

“Your orders will arrive soon, please make yourself at home.” the waiter gives him a wobbly smile, and Johnny chuckles at the man practically running away.

“You really do have quite the effect on people, don’t ye Simon?” his Sergeant smiles.

Simon huffs, sitting down in front of him, “what’s all this, then?” he nods to the restaurant.

Johnny leans in, taking his hand, “I promised I’ll treat ye nicely, to a good restaurant, didn’t I?”

“You remembered?” Simon blinks in surprise.

“Of course,” Johnny grins, “I also remember ye said ye will treat me equally.”

“Had a feeling this was too good to be true…” Simon sighs, mask covering his smile.

“Oi!”

Simon pulls the mask off, making Johnny snap his mouth closed, “thank you.” he smirks smugly at his Sergeant’s amazed expression.

“Fuck me, I almost forgot how beautiful ye are.” Johnny mumbles.

Heat spreads over his exposed features, Simon looks away, “guess I’ll have to remind you more often.”

“Oh, please! I won’t ask fer anything else!”

Simon glances back at him, “we both know that’s fucking bullshite, Sergeant.”

Johnny laughs, tugging at his hand, “aye, ye know me too well.”

They quiet down to a comfortable silence, grins fading to soft smiles.

“Whatever comes next…” Simon inhales, grasping Johnny’s hand tighter. “We’ll do it together, love.”

Johnny lets his white flames caress Simon’s scarred hands, casting an otherworldly glow over them, making them shine as if lit from within.

If his heart could, it would be brighter than the sun now.

“Together.”

The End.

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skynapple · 3 months

Text

Budding Romance | Ch. 6

Love and Deepspace | Jeremiah x MC / slow-burn / friends-to-lovers

warnings: none

Multi-chapter | A03 link

Beginning | <- Prev | Next ->

Jeremiah is dragged along and encounters some thistles.

Oh, Xavier would die if he were here. If only he could see me right now...

The night market was two blocks of Linkon City's downtown district, lined with booths selling trinkets, crafts, art, food trucks, and a few games that were easy enough to tear down and store away. They arrived at a themed booth that looked like it was representative of a popular toy brand he could have sworn he recognized.

It was some kind of toss-in-a-hole game but with pebble-like stars that looked like they barely fit in the holes on the board. They stood in line and watched child after child try and fail, the angled edges of the stars often catching the edge of the hole causing it to bounce right out.

Jeremiah immediately failed to see how it was a two-person game. "So, how exactly is this two-player?" He said, always one to speak what he was thinking.

"Well, look how hard it is!" She deflected quickly. "If it was just me, I wouldn't have that many chances. But with you, I'll definitely have a better shot."

"Ok. But, why-"

"NEXT!" The irritated teenager called out to the line, interrupting his thought.

She seemed to know what he was asking anyways. "Well, I also wanted to thank you for helping me the way you did before, maybe get you away from the shop for a little bit? I dunno..." She looked at her shoes, shyly. "And like I said, all my other friends were busy, so I thought, why not?"

It warmed his heart to hear her so sincere.

"I thought I'd mentioned before, no need to thank me. Any friend of Xavier's is a friend of mine. It's an honor to help out a Deepspace Hunter." He pretended to roll up his sleeve. "So don't you worry, ma'am. We'll definitely win this."

They definitely did not.

Sure enough, their handful of stars each bounced right after the holes, try as they might. "These stupid stars." She said, gritting her teeth bitterly as they turned away after both of their turns had passed. "Yeah!" He agreed, "I can't believe they made it like this! It's impossible." A familiar feeling settled in his heart. In a strange way, it reminded him of losing a wanderer fight. He turned to her, resolved as her own words to him from so long ago came back to him.

Sharpen your sword, Jeremiah.

He may have had no idea what the prize was, but he was not going to let her back down so easily. "What are we waiting for?" He nudged his chin towards the line, already hurrying to the back of it.

After an hour of playing over and over, the teen attendant felt bad and admired their persistence in being the only ones to try again and again. "Yeah, it's kinda rigged not gonna lie." The kid said with a wink and handed one of the prizes over. "It's day one. No one's gonna know if one's gone.

And so she'd finally obtained her prize.

"This is what you wanted?" He remarked at huge succulent thistle plushie that she needed both of her arms to hold onto.

"This is the same one they have at my favorite arcade! But this one is Linkon limited edition and they only have it here! I'm trying to collect them all. I can't believe I got it!"

He laughed. "It's so cute! Glad I could be of service."

She buried her face in it, taking in the artificial scent. "Let's get a picture?"

"Yes!" He quickly agreed and slung an arm around her shoulders to take the photo with his phone.

"Can I post this?" She asked eagerly after admiring the selfie.

A wicked grin grew on his expression. "Of course!"

He was mentally preparing to tease Xavier when the feeling of her warm hand fingers clenched around his palm interrupted his thoughts. It lasted only a millisecond -just a quick squeeze, to say thank you- but it left his heart pounding.

"Thank you so much! I couldn't have done it without you."

"Oh-..." He stammered. What in the world? "No problem."

Suddenly he felt like it was the first time he really looked at her. Inexplicable emotions rising as he stared. Would the woman he'd known head have spent so much time attempting a plushie? Who would have been at her side then?

"Something on my face?"

"Hmm? No. I was just wondering how in the world you're going to get that plushie through your door."

She laughed. "That's why it's squishy!"

Before he could say anything else, she was pointing out a food stall. "After all that effort, I'm starving! Oh, and foods on me. No arguing. Everything here is so good. But you know what's really good here? You can get hot dogs dipped in fried potatoes. Have you ever had one?"

"I can't say that I have..."

Jeremiah had no idea what to think as he followed her, barely hearing her as she began to point out the other stalls over the thoughts swirling in his head. Part of him was pleased that he could spend so much time casually with her like this. It was a refreshing replacement to all the negative memories spent at war, and nice to be around her in such a joyous, youthful way. It was nice to feel like she was his friend again.

But she's not. She has no idea. I'm just a stranger. A friend of a friend.

Maybe if she knew who he was, he'd feel better about it. He'd know where he stood; he'd know his place with her. With this in mind, the other thoughts were about how jealous Xavier would be. While at first it was funny and he was never one to shy away from making him more jealous, he never actually wanted to get in the way of anything between them. For as long as he'd known the both of them, they'd only ever had eyes for each other and that was not something he felt like he could or should interfere with. A sinking feeling grew in his stomach that maybe this was too far?

No, this is fine. This is casual. If I was any one of her other friends, she'd be doing the same. Now he chided his racing thoughts. This is nothing. He can't be too mad about this. Just helping her out, like always.

"Any of those sound good?" She was asking. Even though she'd spent so much time listing all their options, he hadn't heard a single one.

"Well, my mind kinda stayed on the Korean hot dogs. What did you say, potatoes, huh?"

"Yes! Ok, you're going to love it. Let's get in line!"

He smiled. "Yes, ma'am! Lead the way."

This is nothing.

When he got home later that evening, he had half a mind to gloat to Xavier and send him the picture he'd taken, but hesitated.

He's going to kill me.

Right when his thumb hovered over his contacts, a notification from a new sender lit up on his screen.

Miss ma'am: [Had fun tonight :) thanks for the help! It got through the door!]

He pursed his lips together and thought long about what to reply. [Np! Had fun too.] Was all he was going to leave it at.

She replied less than a minute later. Miss ma'am: [Btw I need help tomorrow. My real succulent died :(]

[Send pics.]

Miss ma'am: [Its too dark rn. I'll pop by the shop tomorrow.]

He thought about it. [Closed tomorrow.]

Miss ma'am: [Oh ok! I'll send pics then.]

He thought about it some more. [I'll swing by?]

Miss ma'am: [That works!! Do you have Xavier's address? Same building. I can let you in.]

[Ya. What time?]

Miss ma'am: [Noon?]

[Kk!]

For a while he tried not to overthink it. It was just helping out an old friend, for which he felt he owed her a lot anyways.

...This is nothing.

#madi writes #love and deepspace jeremiah #jeremiah love and deepspace #love and deepspace #love and deepspace mc #love and deepspace xavier #lnds jeremiah #lnds mc #lnds xavier #lnds #l&ds #l&ds xavier #l&ds jeremiah #lnd mc #jeremiah x mc #jeremiah x skylar

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sorry-moots · 6 months

Text

Inversion of Genesis But I Changed It

this is the last handful of crumbs but i can go back to the bakery and get more characters featured: scaramouche, dottore cws: none wc: 1,621

prev | masterlist | next

Chapter Five

Despite your bleary eyes, you recognized the stableboy by his usual greeting of “Morning, Ms. [Y/n]”. You’re about to respond when you feel a pressure build up and–

A violent achoo! escapes you, leaving your nose stinging and your glove moist. Quickly, you wipe your nose with a handkerchief and rush to exchange pleasantries with the stablehand.

“Good morning, Pierre!” you say thickly as you quell the urge to sneeze again. “Today’s weather feels a little harsher than usual, doesn’t it?”

“Uhh…” He hesitates as he observes your sickly form. “I think it’d be best if you went home, miss.”

You shake your head as you shake Pierre’s usual tip out of your purse. “No, no. I’m perfectly fine, it’s just a runny nose.”

Pierre looks at the coins skeptically, before pocketing the change. “Whatever you say, miss.” He grabs Apollo’s reins, but not without wiping his hand on his shirt.

Curiously, the chill doesn’t leave you when you enter the building. Your teeth even begin to chatter the farther you walk, to your astonishment. Would it kill Lord Pantalone to invest in a better heating system…

You nearly miss the greeting sent your way as you grumble about the frigid air. “Morning, [Y/n]! I feel a lot better today,” said one of the guards posted outside of the office. You recall that he had been sick for a few days.

“Really, Lev? I’m glad you’re feeling better,” you answer, as you wait for them to unlock the office doors. “You do look a lot better!”

“Thanks, [Y/n]! You don’t look so good yourself, though, is everything alright?”

“You obviously got her sick, pea brain,” his fellow guardsman cut in.

You rush to reassure them. “I’m fine, I’m just a little under the weather. I’ve had way worse.”

The two guards share a look, but they let you through anyway. They knew it wouldn’t be wise to keep you from your work.

Tempting though it may be, there is no way you could afford to loaf around or take a day off. Lord Scaramouche frowns greatly upon slacking and you wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing him– even if you knew you could get away with it. Which you can.

When the harbinger enters the office at exactly 9 o’ clock, his face twists with revulsion. “What’s wrong with your face?” he asks. “It’s leaking from every orifice.”

You’re a little embarrassed, but your cheeks don’t burn like they normally would. Or maybe they were already warm. “I might have a cold.”

Scaramouche eyes you up and down, unconvinced. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he so often does and says, “Grab your things. We’re leaving.”

“Okay,” you agree. You didn’t have the energy or brain power to argue with him. When the two of you leave, the guards ask what’s going on and so the harbinger addresses them directly.

“[Y/n] is sick so we're leaving the office. Don’t talk to her, she’ll get a sore throat.”

“Aww, I’m really sorry I got you sick, [Y/n]! Hope you feel better soon.”

You try to reassure him again that you’re alright. “Don't worry about it, Lev, it's not–” Unfortunately, you’re interrupted by your own coughing spell.

Scaramouche’s perpetual scowl only deepens. “You'll lose your voice at this rate,” he snaps. Then, to your surprise, he murmurs, “…Are you sure he got you sick?”

Vaguely astonished, you clear your throat to respond. “He's the only sick person I’ve come in contact with recently, so it was almost certainly him.”

“I see.” The harbinger falls silent with a weird aura about him. By the time you put a name to it, the two of you have reached the palace entrance. He seems almost… murderous.

With the negative energy that’s oozing off of the harbinger, you decide keeping quiet is the best course of action. You were certain he wouldn’t approve of you talking either way, considering your state. Whereas silence with your superior is usually amiable, today it is just as uncomfortable and frigid as the Snezhnayan wind.

So caught up are you in this miasma of emotion, that you miss him flagging down a driver. He surprises you once more by taking your hand and helping you into the carriage that he’d summoned. After a quick word with the driver, he follows suit and sits next to you in the small coach.

Only after you’re both settled in and the carriage is moving, does it finally occur to you to ask a question of some importance.

“My lord? Where are we going?”

“My estate.”

*****

His home looks small on the outside but since the space is optimized and he's a minimalist, it feels bigger than it is, if a bit empty. With the exception of a large oil portrait of his likeness, his walls are decorated with a variety of weapons. If you had to hazard a guess, they aren't for show.

“Yvette!” he calls into the house, his voice echoing in the sparsely furnished halls. A moment later, a maid appears. Her hair is bright fiery red and her eyes are a piercing ice blue.

“Ready the study, Yvette,” Scaramouche commands. “My assistant and I will be working here today.”

She nods and disappears just as wordlessly as she arrived.

You follow him to a room with a kettle suspended above a sunken hearth. as he moves to grab the kettle, you start, “sir allow m–”

His lip curls in distaste as he looks back at you. “Allow you to what? Contaminate the tea with your sick people germs?”

As uncomfortable as you are at the thought of your superior waiting on you, hand and foot, you watch as he prepares the tea. He fills the little container from a wooden pail that was hidden in the pantry. Once he sets the kettle back on its hook, he ignites the wood beneath it with a small spark of electricity. He then sits and you take the seat kitty-corner to his, waiting for the water to boil.

You’ve all but finished your cup by the time Yvette returns. Scaramouche asks if the study is ready; she nods.

Yvette leads the two of you into the study and the Harbinger tells her to shut the door when she leaves. As the redhead makes her way out, you utter a quick thank you.

To your surprise, Yvette doesn’t acknowledge you. She doesn’t give any indicator that she heard you, not even a break in stride.

The door clicks and you listen to the clack of her heels fade away before you turn to your employer. “Lord Scaramouche, did I do something to offend your maid?”

He’s already absorbed in the paperwork he brought with him. “Did you do something to offend… What? No, she’s mute.”

Your mouth forms a small ‘o’. That makes way more sense. “Then… if she can’t talk, how does she communicate with you?”

“She doesn't need to speak to follow orders. My previous maids would always try to talk their way out of different tasks. I don't have that problem with Yvette.

“Don’t look at me like that”, he admonishes. You close your mouth, only then realizing your jaw dropped. “I have learned some sign language for when she needs my instructions repeated or explained.”

“Well, what if you can’t see her?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “We have patterned knocks for when I’m behind closed doors. Quit talking and get to work.”

The two of you are seated at your desks, signing documents and drafting proposals, when Scaramouche decides to break the silence.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about the mission I just returned from,” he muses.

You’re hesitant; he usually tells you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Could this be a trick?

“I was under the impression that the details were strictly confidential, sir,” you reply smoothly, the textbook answer flowing seamlessly out of your mouth. “Is there something I should know?”

The smug smile he levels at you reassures you that he has no ulterior motives, except to brag. You decide to indulge him. He recounts the details of the war between the Shogunate and the Watatsumi Army. He used his influence to convince the Shogun, through the Kanjou Commission, to implement the Vision Hunt Decree. He leveraged the threat of defeat to convince the rebels to use the Fatui's life-stealing delusions. Finally, he tells you how, amidst the chaos he created, he managed to procure the electro gnosis.

“The traveler you mentioned… Do you think she might try to interfere with future plans?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he replies with a smirk. “It won’t make a difference, however. Now that I have the gnosis, I’ll be much more powerful.

“With the gnosis, I can even ascend to godhood.”

Before you can respond, there’s a sharp rap on the door. Two short knocks in quick succession, followed by two regular knocks.

You turn to look at Scaramouche from your desk. His eyes narrow. “Which one are you?” A chill runs up your spine as you hear the reply.

“An older copy if it matters.” You can hear the grin in his voice. It’s Dottore.

You force yourself to turn and face him and see that he’s holding up a letter. “I’ve brought the details for your next assignment,” he says. The sinister smile that you already suspected he was wearing widened with his next words.

“I’m looking forward to… collaborating with you,” he says, eyeing your sickly, cozied-up form.

His departure brings little comfort; you feel slimy and gross after the encounter.

“My lord, I have some… concerns about this.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t be on the same boat as him.”

“Thank the Tsaritsa.”

prev | masterlist | next

#genshin impact scaramouche #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #reader insert #x reader #slow burn

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discar · 2 months

Text

HZD Terraforming Base-001 Text Communications Network

Chapter 7 | Prev chapter | Next chapter Chapter Index

Marshall Kotallo: [DisapprovingDogDisapproves.png]

FlameHairSavior: Uh... what's that?

Marshall Kotallo: We have been having trouble expressing our emotions through text. However, Erend's incessant spamming of clips has reminded me that this not merely a text channel. We can use images to express ourselves.

ForgeLordAleMaster: WHAT'S SPAMMING?

Marshall Kotallo: To post, send, or otherwise display something repeatedly and annoyingly. I knew the Old Ones had to have a word for your behavior.

ForgeLordAleMaster: I TAKE OFFENSE TO THAT.

ForgeLordAleMaster: ...OKAY, NO, I GUESS IT'S FAIR.

FlameHairSavior: And the image you chose to demonstrate your emotions was... some sort of tall fox thing glaring at us?

β: dog specifically german shepherd one of the most common breeds for police for decades

FlameHairSavior: Oh, THAT'S a dog.

GranolaGirl: They are referenced quite often in the archives, but it took me quite some time to find an image. The ones I found all looked very different from each other and this one, though.

β: dogs were domesticated for thousands of years there were more recognized breeds than there were peopleto breed them

β: people to breed them

β: also that is an exagerration

β: exaggeration

β: many thousands if not millions of people bred dogs and there were anywhere from 200 to 500 recognized breeds depending on who was doing the counting

ForgeLordAleMaster: WHY DON'T WE HAVE ANY?

ADMIN [GAIA]: Most domesticated animal species were designated stage 2 organisms, intended to be re-introduced into the wild by humans operating the terraforming system with the ARTEMIS subfunction.

FlameHairSavior: Erend, you really need to read the intro packet GAIA gave you.

Marshall Kotallo: [DisapprovingDogDisapproves.png]

FlameHairSavior: Okay, I can see the value in using images now.

ForgeLordAleMaster: NO, I DID READ IT! BUT MOST STAGE 2 ANIMALS WERE REALLY BIG, RIGHT? LIKE THOSE BULLCOW THINGS. BUT DOGS ARE SMALL. I'VE SEEN BIGGER PIGS. SO WHY DIDN'T ARTEMIS INTRODUCE THEM ON ITS OWN?

FlameHairSavior: Oh. That's actually a good question.

HIMBO: You don't have to sound so suppressed.

ForgeLordAleMaster: THANK YOU.

ForgeLordAleMaster: WAIT, YOU MEANT SURPRISED, RIGHT?

HIMBO: Yes.

ForgeLordAleMaster: THEN THANK YOU.

ADMIN [GAIA]: Dogs, cats, and most other domesticated animal species were deemed to not be necessary to the initial creation of the biosphere. Neither dogs nor cats serve irreplaceable roles in the ecosystem, and they do not provide meat or any other animal product to humans.

β: both were domesticated for their services not their meat

β: dogs helped hunt and cats killed rats and pests

ADMIN [GAIA]: Correct. However, those are primarily beneficial to primitive, tribal societies. With the help of APOLLO, humanity should have been well into the modern age by the end of their first generation on the surface. Hunting dogs and mouser cats were not deemed a high priority.

HIMBO: Dogs can help hunt? That sounds useful.

ForgeLordAleMaster: AND YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE HOW OFTEN I'VE HEARD AVAD COMPLAIN ABOUT RATS IN THE GRANARIES.

ADMIN [GAIA]: Unfortunately, by the time APOLLO was destroyed, all the stage 2 stocks were sealed away where my predecessor could not access them. Furthermore, Dr. Ronson believed that the possibility of bringing back dogs and cats would be an extra incentive for the new generation of humanity to do their duty to take control of the terraforming system and re-introduce stage 2 organisms.

Marshall Kotallo: Why would it be extra incentive if they were not expected to need to hunt or keep out rats?

ADMIN [GAIA]: I believe these clips might help illuminate the matter. Dr. Ronson was quite fond of them.

ADMIN [GAIA]: [TheGoodestBoy.mp9]

ADMIN [GAIA]: [MurderFluffPlaysWithString.mp9]

β: oh ive seen those

β: wait i had some on my old implant

β: [PuppiesFrolickingWithExtraFrolick.mp9]

β: [KittyCryingForMilk.mp9]

Zo: This is what Ted Faro stole from us?

ForgeLordAleMaster: I NEED TO FIND HIS GRAVE SO I CAN PISS ON IT.

Chapter 7 | Prev chapter | Next chapter Chapter Index

#horizon #horizon forbidden west #horizon zero dawn #aloy #beta horizon #zo #kotallo #erend vanguardsman #varl

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astralartefact · 4 months

Text

Divine Fio Analysis Post The Gacha Dragon Roars

<<Prev: Divine Yudil Voice of Cards: Forsaken Maiden Spoilers!

Levania would be so proud of his little dragon girl q_q

You know the drill by now, yadayada probably not real deredere but i like doing these so here it is

As you might have noticed I have added a Dragon category of lines to the conspiracy board - which is of course very exciting in its lore implications! Because up until now Dragons and Watchers (/the only gods we know of) have been a thing of a certain other other franchise... So to see that Dragons are now a recurring theme in a Divine Costume Series... I wonder if these Accord Hints and NameDrops in the main story might actually lead us to a Drakengard 4...?

Both Yurie and Yudil already had dragon inspirations in their outfits (It's not really visible on his artwork but it's there in the model), but Fio kind of takes it to the next level in hers...

She has wings, she has a tail, she has horns, she's adorable! I always try to fool myself into thinking I recognize the patterns on the costumes (like here on the tail) from somewhere but as far as I could tell they make most of these from scratch (except for things like direct cross-over stuff)

This Divine Costume doesn't really have a crown for once - but she does have a third eye on her headband, which is a thing the Ivory Spirit also has in her mouth so take that as you will.

The shape of the design on her front (especially the two 'figures' in the middle looking at each other) reminds me of the card edges in VoC - but as I mentioned before they're not the same, they just remind me of them.

Fio is my atheist queen!! But the story we actually have to look out for is this one:

In classic NieR weapon story format the story is written in a way that reads one way until you get to the final story part and the story turns on you by revealling that actually this kind of sweet thing might be a little fucked up.

So this story was obviously written to be understood as Fio's PoV only to reveal actually it's not her, it's somebody else. So the question is of course who might that person be?

I mean is it a stretch to call the Cursed God that became the Mourning Mother a Goat? This is a Divine Weapon after all. And the story could - depending on S3 Story - actually fit with Fio. Because remember, different from everyone else Levania was stripped of all of his memories for some reason. What if him and Fio meeting (again) made this all happen somehow...?

It would be a first for a reinkane plot thread to be foreshadowed like this but idk, I'm just spitballing here!

#nier reincarnation #nier #drakengard #voice of cards

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perpetualexistence · 3 months

Text

Sea Monster AU: Poor Unfortunate Soul (1/2)

'What's with the 1/2 in the title, that's new' you might be asking yourself. You see, this part right here was actually originally supposed to be just one Then, I realized I'd need to split it into two, 'Poor Unfortunate Soul', and the next part I'm not spoiling the title of yet.

Then I started going into this, looked at the time, looked at the word count, and realized it's for the best if I just split this up once more. Future Perp might end up renaming this chapter as the title definitely fits more for the second part than it does this one. Time will tell.

Either way, before we get to the post proper: Warnings! Oh boy have we got them for this part and the next!

Content warnings: Non-suicidal self harm, Body horror

Since the content warnings happen as part of a scene like rather than a brief mention, I've separated the more gruesome bits with asterisks. You can look all the way down at the bottom for a safer summary.

<- Prev | First | Next ->

Now that Noah has a book on magic, he has to deal with the problem that Chris could never get past: actually reading it. It's not in any language that Noah can recognize. Still, he's smart and can recognize patterns in text thanks to his poetry phase. He manages to work out the basic alphabet. Now that he's got that, his next step is simple. Create a program that will translate the text as he scans it. He'll get to save so much time, and might even be able to get what he wants faster as he can just search for whatever seems most promising.

The book snaps shut the first time. Noah can't excuse it as the wind when it happens again. After a few attempts, he finally manages to get a good scan of one of the pages.

One waterlogged phone later he realizes why there weren't any references for how to actually use magic on the sea monster database.

Magic really doesn't like cheaters.

So instead he has to translate everything himself using the alphabet he figured out. It gets easier as he keeps doing it, and eventually he no longer needs to look at his reference sheet in order to read it.

Before that can happen, he needs a new phone. Both because he's a young adult addicted to having a screen with him at all times, and because without one he won't be able to talk to Owen, who is currently one of the few things reminding him that there's some good in humanity, and that all of this pain is going to be worth it.

He doesn't have any disposable income. Yes, he has some of the treasures that Alejandro gave him from the ships they hunted. But the problem is actually selling those. Now that people are noticing the disappearances (thanks Alejandro), he can't exactly sell anything identifiable from those very ships that have 'gone missing'. His lazy ass had just sat on them assuming that he could sell them whenever he pleased.

Present Noah would slap Past Noah if he could.

So he goes to his mother to ask for a new phone. Which is a task in itself given her multiple jobs. He'd text her, but that's part of the problem. He'd also prefer not to get his older siblings involved because they'd just ask questions. The one good thing about having an overworked mother is that she rarely questions why you want things, and as the baby you can exploit this to its maximum potential!

Noah's a terrible son.

He'll make it up to her when he actually does manage to sell off his stolen goods. Like a criminal. Which he is. As an accessory to murder. Multiple counts.

He can either think about this too hard or he can have a new phone.

So he manages to track her down and asks her for a new phone. He doesn't ask for anything fancy, just something that works. She looked at him, gave him an all too familiar rueful smile, and told him they don't have the money right now, though he can try using one of his siblings' older phones.

Noah's not too surprised by this answer. Living as they are, it's always a gamble for when they do have spare cash. What does concern him is the look in her eyes of someone who doesn't want to burden others. Not just the burden of saying no.

The burden of hiding something. And there's only one things he's ever tried to hide from him. The loan shark's back.

He does this every once in a while. Usually when they're getting too close to fully paying him off. He'll hike up the interest rate or make up some bullshit fee. He'll expect a big immediate payment, and then lay off for a while until he's ready to wring them by the neck again.

He'd have pushed the bastard directly into Alejandro's mouth himself if he wasn't so good at covering where he was. The fact that he's in town means he's going to stay a while. There's no telling when he'll move out, or if he'll even do it by boat.

That's a problem for another time, as much as he loathes to leave it hanging. He's got to get more money from somewhere else. Not just for the phone now, but to get the loan shark off his family's back again.

Noah remembers Duncan. The guy made his reputation as a delinquent known just from the five seconds he got to know him, and spoke about going to juvie. It'd be a risk, but Noah's running low on options. He's not about to watch his mom work herself ragged again.

He gets in touch with him Duncan via Owen. After assuring Owen that no, he's not dead because it's been two full days since he texted, no he's not mad at him either, he just dropped his phone in some water. Luckily for him, Owen's willing to help the two meet without asking too many questions.

Duncan, meanwhile, has plenty of questions. First of all, who Noah thinks he is just asking for Duncan to fence stolen goods for him. Second of all where someone like Noah would even GET stolen goods. Noah lets him know that he can either have answers to those questions, or he can get a profitable cut. Duncan begrudgingly agrees (which has nothing to do with the fact that Noah accidentally lets slip why he needs the money, and Duncan's still got a bleeding heart).

Noah starts with just enough money for a new phone. He can't just dump everything onto Duncan, because then his curiosity/suspicion would definitely outweigh his willingness to help Noah.

Now that all of that is settled, he can finally get back to translating and studying magic.

He learns that in order to use magic, he needs proper tools to do so. And he can't simply buy these tools. No, for the magic to work properly, Noah needs to make these tools. The making imbues them with his essence and makes it so the tools will only ever work for him. Since he's working with sea magic, he's got to use it from materials he finds underwater.

The only place underwater he can safely look without Alejandro catching on is an underground cove he found connected to Chef and Chris's place. Which limits his options severely. So he decides to keep on reading for the actual spells to see what he'd actually need before figuring out how much of a migraine he's going to have.

One thing he notices rather quickly is that all of these spells must be prepared and performed underwater. This part wouldn't be a problem if not for the fact that unlike merfolk, Noah does need oxygen. So solving that problem takes priority.

He finds that solution in a ritual that will give him gills. However, it presents him with a choice. For there's two different branches of magic: the slower, safer process and the faster, more painful process. In this case, Noah can either take the time and effort needed to gather ingredients for a potion that will give him gills that he can open and close at will...or he can make himself a permanent set of gills.

Noah would love to pick the first one. But the longer he takes, the more Alejandro will eat, and the longer he stays a threat. So the second option it is. He starts wearing a scarf and uses the perpetually cold lie. Mostly for Alejandro's sake. Which is good because Alejandro does 'playfully' remove the scarf to see what's underneath the first time he sees it, and once satisfied that there's nothing, doesn't mess with it like that again.

Now Noah needs a knife of coral. Noah's lucky that the new cove he's in has agatized coral. With it being fossilized, it's old and has more of a connection with nature, making it a perfect magic implement. Noah's able to get pieces out, but now he has to make a knife out of it.

Who better to ask but the resident knife expert?

Noah does need a more reasonable excuse for this one, so he pretends that he only needs to learn how to make a knife due to self defense because he's getting paranoid with all the disappearances. Duncan points out that that's bullshit because Noah could just buy a knife then. Why the hell does he need to learn how to make one?

Duncan's asking too many questions, so Noah throws his hail mary. If Duncan can stop asking questions about pretty much any of Noah reasons and helps him out with learning how to make a knife and maybe a few other things, he'll use his hacking abilities to get rid of Duncan's criminal record. That's an offer Duncan simply can't refuse. So Duncan agrees to teach him, and over time, Noah crafts his knife of coral. He adds the runes that he needs to enchant it by himself. Both because that's meant to be a private affair, and so Duncan doesn't say anything despite his bought silence.

Now to actually do this.

***

Noah gets all the underwater runes and preparations done one dive at a time. He also makes sure to get makeshift medical supplies for himself. He's doing this as close to the surface as he can in case everything goes to shit. He'd prefer not to bleed out.

He stares at the knife in his hands. He's actually going through with this, isn't he? No going back. There will be permanent evidence that he's taking a stand against Alejandro if he finds it. The whole 'sea monster vs. sea witch' conflict he'd read about doesn't promise anything good when Alejandro realizes he's using magic.

He could seriously screw himself up. He's a genius, but he's no medical expert. One wrong cut and it's lights out forever. One wrong move and he's fish food either way. He's come so far, he can't afford to let himself get choked up now.

He slices the right side of his neck before he can let himself doubt any more. He's unable to stifle a yell of pain. He loses precious oxygen when he's just started. He has to finish or else this won't work.

He slices the left side of his neck to keep it balanced. More oxygen lost. Now that he's cut both sides of his neck, he can feel the cuts throbbing. It feels like the cuts are burrowing themselves deeper than he made them. They are creating new passageways into his lungs and they burn.

His instincts kick in and he begins to swim for the surface. The runes he set forth earlier start to glow and he finds himself unable to move far from the spot he started in. He's holding his breath in for as long as he can. There are more cuts to be made but he wants to pass out now. But he can't. He has to keep going.

It's when he starts making the second cut on the right side of his neck that he feels his first set of gills go from a burrowing sensation to a throbbing one. He's about to pass out, but it should be safe now. He just needs to breathe.

It's a battle of sheer will over his instincts to force himself to breathe in while underwater. He feels water go in through his gills yet not through his throat like an injection. It is shoddy and feels like when Noah is so congested he can only breathe through one nostril. That would likely be why he needs three pairs of gills total.

***

With at least enough air not to die, he forces himself to finish the ritual. By the end, he's underwater, breathing in and out. It's no longer panicked as he forces himself to take nice deep breaths. He has to pinch his nose shut to stop himself from instinctively breathing through it when underwater. He'll either stay here or keep coming down until breathing underwater comes more nautrally.

He still can't believe he's even thinking that. He's actually breathing underwater. He did magic. It can be done. This crazy, stupid plan of his might actually be doable.

It's a start.

[Safe for work summary: Through a lot of pain, Noah manages to make himself a working set of gills.]

#sea monster au #total drama #total drama noah #td noah #total drama au #giant/tiny #horror au #total drama horror au #cw self harm #tw self harm #cw nonsuicidal self harm #tw nonsuicidal self harm #tw body horror #cw body horror #td alejandro #total drama alejandro #alenoah #td alenoah #td horror au

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josouhenshin · 7 months

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day 1 part 2

prev post Index next post

Welcome to the map screen. Usually there’s various points of interest to choose from, but for now it’s just our apartment.

Back in the house, mizuki proposes they go clothes shopping for shinobu. He’s kind of trying to rush him out the door, probably before shinobu has time for second thoughts. But it’s too late. Shinobu wonders if it’s gonna be suspicious that two guys are buying women’s clothes. Mizuki retorts, well do you see anyone else here? Mizuki’s solution to the problem is obvious: crossdressing! Certainly it’ll be less embarrassing to go if it’s with a girl. Mizuki says he’ll go get changed, and breaks out the feminine-sounding sentence ending particle wa. Shinobu wants to watch but mizuki adamantly refuses.

While waiting, shinobu tries to imagine what girl mode mizuki will look like, but comes up dry. He worries what to do if he has a bad reaction to seeing her. Or what to say either way. But surely someone with a pretty face like mizuki should be pretty good at looking girly.

“Sorry for the wait,” Mizuki says.

Shinobu barely recognizes her. She’s so pretty he’s barely able to string a sentence together. He also comments that her way of speaking is more typically feminine too, though whether this is just down to phrasing or if mizuki has mastered the art of Up Voice is unknowable in this medium.

“Mizuki, you look just like a real girl,” shinobu commends.

“Shinobu... I’m not ‘like’ a girl, right now I really am one!” she says, having swapped to using the feminine first person pronoun atashi.

After shinobu bashfully offers some more superlatives, they head out. Shinobu feels tense. He’s trying to square the experience of being around someone that pretty but also knowing it’s mizuki. That, and he also gets the feeling people are staring. He asks mizuki what happens if they get caught, and mizuki brushes it off. If anyone’s watching, it’s because they look like an attractive young couple. This flusters the shinobu.

They get to the store and shinobu feels weird being the only guy around.

Mizuki takes point. “Obviously since it’s your first time, I should be the one to pick things out right?” she aks what kind of vibe shinobu would want to go for. Shinobu protests but mizuki just starts browsing.

He sticks to her as if his life depended on it. He feels totally out of place. Even though mizuki said they’d just scan as a couple, it’s kind of embarrassing. More than anything he just wants to go home. “Just pick whatever, let’s get out of here,” he pleads.

Mikuki brushes him off and keeps browsing. It’s important to choose the right thing for your first time. They keep wandering around. Shinobu is curious about everything too of course, but worries that something really bad will happen if he touches anything. But like, there *is* a lot of cute stuff.

Eventually they decide on some things and check out.

“Ehehe, thanks for buying everything, darling~!”

Shinobu becomes flustered. It’s unclear the extent to which shinobu understands that he’s being flirted with through all this but being omega dense in that way is par for the course sometimes.

“Anyway, next up is underwear,” Mizuki declares.

Shinobu stammers in protest.

“Crossdressing starts from the underwear, yknow!” She professes.

Shinobu really just wants to go home though, he was already feeling weird in the regular clothes store, but if he goes lingerie shopping she might faint. Mizuki agrees to call it a day and head back.

Back at the apartment, mizuki is excited to see shinobu try everything on. He does. Compared to men’s clothes the new stuff has a much more pleasant texture. And the skirt is kinda breezy. “So this is what women are always feeling.”

Mizuki yelps when shinobu finishes putting everything on. “I knew you’d be cute.” she urges shinobu not to look in the mirror yet, and offers to loan her a wig and do some makeup. But after this, she says, shinobu’s gotta do it herself. When she finishes, Mizuki admires her handiwork, and tells her it’s okay to look.

“Cute! Is- is that... me?”

Mizuki promptly chides her for saying boku while being a girl.

Shinobu thanks her excitedly.

Mizuki tells her to look forward to the next step: going out in girl mode. Shinobu is nervous, but mizuki assures her that she’s even cuter so it’ll be totally fine.

“You’re still looking in the mirror! Did you fall in love with yourself?” Mizuki jokes. She says that she has a present ready for shinobu once she’s finished. It’s a makeup kit. Just a little something to welcome her to the world of crossdressing.

Mizuki has one more thing to say: “If we’re out and we meet someone we don’t want to catch us, call me mizuho.” She continues, “you should come up with a girl name too.”

After thinking for a suspiciously short time, our hero comes up with “紫乃” which can be read a few different ways. Until the game makes it more obvious, I’m going with “shina” as the reading, but “shino” and “yukarino” are apparently also options.

“Shina? Well, nice to meet you, shina.”

Shina stays up late imagining all kinds of different personas she could adopt, and eventually drifts off to sleep.

prev post Index next post

#trans 2 #they're hitting so many genre tropes so quickly it's hard to keep track lmao

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plasticfangtastic · 10 months

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Can We be Lonely Together? Ch. 12 2/3

A Homelander X Stalker! Reader fanfic

This is a G/N reader but male leaning for crack purposes.

A/N: Part 3 soon, long chapter ahead, part 1 is currently a pin post on my blog as of 30/7/2023. prev. chapters in the #My Fic tag and #can we be lonely together tag on my blog. Thanks to all the ones who have read this.

R18+ S.A and rape mention, child abuse and child death mention, murder. long chapter ahead

Chapter 12 cont.

Entering wasn’t difficult– no more difficult than co-ordinating with The Deep in order to steal a minor dosis of V and placing it in your car the day prior without the boss finding out, clutching at your bag, and the SD card in your pocket you began to re-play a collection of tragedies.

You needed to sell this and as controversial ‘The Method’ acting technique was, it worked in a pinch– these weren’t just enemies of Vought, or Homelander but of all Supe kind. Even on a microdose of V you could suffiencently heighten your powers. Vought had plenty on this group of FBSA contractors, their rap sheet miles long: terrorism, murder, assault, kidnapping, speeding, drug and gun peddling and now social media influencing.

Your escape plan virtually nonexistent, this was a do-or-die situation counting on Starlight having some humanity left… after all she was a Supe too– and that one man might just be pretending to be making exceptions to his genocidal goal.

If this didn’t work out then Homelander would never learn, you repeated over and over drilling it into your skull as you got closer to your goal.

It was for his own good, you repeated.

Welcome by the assault of a bloodtrail of thoughts you shook, gagging at the vividness of it all. These people were brutal, you had resided in carveries, dozens of bodies had gone past you yet their attitude was too much when compared to Dolores and Kent. One so odious and angry you began to reconsider your plan, yet you stepped foot out of the elevator as the ornate doors opened before you.

You had a catalog of tragedies to draw out tears, playing death on command feeling those final memories, the pains of love with nowhere to blossom, screams atop of lungs, and torment and pain of your own and others, you stood in that hallway until your eyes welled up, until your reflection must’ve looked haunting, each step forward meant a death without witnessing your sun once more.

‘Greywal & Co.’ Your hand shaky as it challenged itself to knock– how hard should you hit it? how desperate should you look? did your clothes look composed yet disheveled? How clammy was your skin? Thankfully you’re still sweaty and achy from sex.

Your knuckles hit the door lightly, shrinking, making yourself small, leaving out all of your pesky bravado.

You waited knowing you were noticed but each member grew increasingly silent, looking at each other– who could’ve possibly known their location? Sinking your teeth into your madness, you knocked again.

One already had a gun in his hand as he approached, a tiny jumpy thing, his mind clear but quick, a myriad of narcotics still fresh in his system from last night bender, he opened the door, you made eye contact, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, and his tight bright coloured shirt, he offered a jumpy glare-- this one was a functioning addict.

He opened his mouth speaking with a thick french accent.

“We didn’t order anything.”

“Is… Is…” Your voice so small and breathy each letter caught in your tongue, the man leaned forward to catch your stuttering–… Is William Butcher here?”

His index creeping closer to the trigger.

“I must speak with him!!” Oh that cracking so good you earned your cookie– please…” you pleaded.

As the scene grew, Plan B entered the play– Starlight stood from her desk, narrowing her eyes, it took so much of you not to grin. She moved quickly, recognizing a nobody like yourself; Which made sense considering how the last time you both had made eye contact was back before restaffing efforts in the analytics department.

“You’re from Vought… yeah… I remember you, you were with Analytics!”

“Starlight!?” you took a step back, clutching at the straps of your backpack– thank god… I… I… Please help me.”

Your knees wobbly from before, wobbling at the perfect moment, thankful for the aching on your back and hips.

“I’ll giv’ you one minute of my time, luv– before I ask you to get the fuck outta of ‘ere.” the English man put his boots down from his desk, signaling to the two to let you walk in.

You could see why Homelander found him tantalizing, he was too much of a bad boy, practically screaming that he would ruin you with that somber look in his eyes, but deep down you could tell he was a softy if you dug and hated yourself enough– you could’ve tried that without breaking too many nails.

Marching towards your butcher, you took a SD card out of your jacket cradling it in your palm, swallowing the knot in your throat.

“Nobody at Vought would help me…” You swallowed– I… I don’t want to die… if… if they don’t kill me… he will” Your eyes reddened, lying like this pained you– I-I-I can-can’t do this anymore." you stuttered-- I learned you guys dealt with supes! The cops can’t help me and I'm a nobody so the press would never believe me… the FBSA won’t do nuthin’ about him either.”

He stared at the SD card in your hand yet still uninterested.

“... please… I beg you… please help me” You cried lightly, your whole body shuddering knowing what was about to escape your mouth would hurt him– please…”

“Who's the cunt? What could you possibly ‘ave here that would make me wan’ to ‘elp you? Not even a sob story?”

“Homelander. He… He did things to me…” you cried– I needed to find a way to get away from him… I thought if I found something dirty on Vought or him, they would put me on witness protection or something!! But they will… they will fucking kill me for this! God I wanted to get away from him, not this!!”

His whole body stiffen, your tears far too genuine, their eyes too uncomfortable to look at you for a millisecond longer, exchanging worried glances urging a brave soul to approach you.

Starlight's hand took you by surprise, flinching and slapping it off of you, she clutched her hand staring at you looking like a caged animal.

“So-sorry… I– I– I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Is that true?” the Englishman asked with a low voice, and forced sarcasm– quite the story you got I almost bought it.”

A quiet rage invaded you, furiously unbuttoning your dress shirt, dropping layers in excess, flashing him, his mouth dropped at the sight of a hundred strokes– this was more than he had hoped for, leaving him nothing more to want.

“I’m not lying!!” You growled– does this look fake to you, asshole!?”

Your torso imitated a car crash victim, turning in shame just enough for him to catch a glimpse at the sore bite marks around your shoulders and neck.

“I’m losing it…” you cackled with your sobs– am so fucking dead.”

“Jesus Christ Butcher!” Starlight shouted picking your clothes to cover you– hey! hey come sit down.”

The bastard had actually thought you weren’t his type.

Turning his love letters into weapons, brought you into a screaming fit of tears, it hurt you, he would not forgive you… he shouldn’t… but… he did it first.

In his desolation he would go back to you, nobody would love him like you, he would understand he could only belong freely in your arms.

Following her to the gross little couch, while making little notes on the names of their family members, passwords, embarrassing secrets– all the juicy things you needed to start Plan R.

A handsome man, the family oriented one offered you tea. Both him and Starlight’s voice were nothing but a buzz, your sight glued on Butcher.

“How did you found out ‘bout me…?”

“You've been after him and Vought for a while…” the crack on your voice harsh– you killed Stillwell… Translucent… Mesmer… the Payback bitches… but I read that they kidnapped your wife– so I put two and two together and assumed you had a vendetta.”

“What y’know ‘bout my wife?”

“I read she was kept in a facility to help rear Homelander’s son– something about providing a stable environment that supported his emotional needs. From the look in your face I gather I’m not the only one.”

You cleaned your tears.

“So that’s what you found? You think that’s gonna do shite againts them? As if they won’t spin it as my Becca being a heartless harlot who ran away with his kid!”

You were too angry for your own good, maybe just as angry as him.

“ I’m not stupid… I stumbled upon some files called ‘Project Patriot’ and ‘First True American Program’ leading me down a rabbit hole– back in the 70’s and 80’s Vought conducted research using high spec Supe sperm and eggs on… unwilling participants” You cleared your nose, your voice sounding detached– they took runaways and girls from ‘Sage Grove’ to help make what would become ‘The Homelander’… they- they were other kids… he was the only survivor. His mother… she was found a few weeks ago… she was a missing girl called Frida Gillman…”

You looked up, clearing your nose loudly. The Englishman gave a commanding look to his group, the tall black guy did a quick google search on his phone, the first result was a youtube video talking about old unsolved mysteries finally solved, it seemed for many years Frida had had a following in the true crime community.

Showcasing an old grainy picture of Frida, both men could immediately see the family resemblance.

“How confident are you that you don’t got the wrong girl?”

“He killed her in front of me. He… he found her… I have the autopsies pictures too… it…”

“He laser her brains off?” He scoffed, for all the bullshit talk he had in front of him with Soldier Boy… that had been rich to hear.

“She looked the same. She didn’t age a day… I think Vought briefly considered using her to make anti-aging face cream… he didn’t like that.”

The lab had been repainted after you whispered it to Homelander.

Butcher took a seat across from you, already finding twelve different ways to kill you before his men could stop him, disliking the tone of your voice far too much.

“Kept goin’’”

“The American program…” You took a short sip of your tea, never lifting your face for too long– they collected his kids, he told me once… he thought he… he couldn’t make babies… Vought lied to him. Something about his DNA, basically fused with Compound V! So his offspring would always be born natural Supes– in theory… so they took the kids and put them in Big Brother’s house… forced the moms to agree to the experiments once the kids showed powers– if not dispose of them and continue without them.”

He could smell the pretense in your delivery, he was sharp, you liked the challenge strangely enough, it made your heartbeat jump with excitment.

“His son… Ryan… he seems like a good kid. As much as I hate him… as much as I wanna see Homelander dead… I cannot be the reason an innocent child goes through what they did to him and his kids.” You whimpered– The things… you can’t even imagine the things they did to him and those kids!! They were babies!! Like how can anybody do that to a child!!? You wouldn’t even do that to an animal!! I saw a fucking toddler be hit with a sledgehammer!! Shot at! Poisoned! Drowned!! I saw his kids being hooked to generators!! Have you ever seen a kid's eyes bursting!!!??” You stood up, your skin turning green. This couldn’t be faked– have you ever seen what happens to a body after it experiences a sudden atmospheric pressure change? not talking scuba divers… talking submarine chambers.”

You plop down, sinking in the leather seat, holding your clothes in place, watching their disgust and horror. You offered the SD card, the man struggled to take it off your hand, thinking of how dead he would be as if wasn’t already on a timer.

“– Vought has too many ears… after the V scandal… and I can barely get away from him…”

You could practically hear the victory bells, with clumsy fingers you took your phone out, the burner one that only served Roman. Too many selfies of you and Homelander, too many short texts between you two on your current phone.

“Wait you walking ‘roun with that shite on your phone!?”

“Well if he kills me, maybe the cops would find this in my phone… I… I was sort of counting on Homelander just not caring to check.”

You played a single video, a little blonde kid no more than eleven sitting in front of a row of shot glasses, a younger Jonah Vogelbaum sat beside him holding a bag of Peach gummies, for every shot the kid took he earned a gummy and a pat in his head, it wasn’t until the third shot glass when the group that had huddle around understood what was taking place– as the boy spat furiously, droplets felt across the metal sizzling whatever they touched, the kid crying with a painfully hoarse voice that it burnt too much. Vogelbaum stood up offering a single candy then forced him back into the chair, telling him that he shouldn’t cry, that he must do this for him if he wanted to earn this week’s reward.

The kid cried slowly, calming down as he took the next cup, snot covered bright red lips and cheeks as he tried looking strong for Voguelbaum.

“It goes on for five minutes.”

“Is that Homelander?” The lanky white boy spoke nervously.

“Yeah… that’s not even the worst… even if you kill me for the files only I got the password and good luck cracking it. I’ll give you the files if you can get me protection…”

“You think you can run away from him?” Asked the englishman– "can't even get rid of him now– those bruises look fresh.”

So here you could tell more awful lies, little tears soiled your cheeks, he just simply did not like you, not liking that you now held their price hostage, but it didn't need to turn bloody.

“I liked him… but one day he got loud, he scared me… and since… no matter what I did he would just get more angry. Before I knew it… he did this to me, and if I cried he would get worse… I… I want him to stop but am just a mudperson.” Starlight tilted towards you at the mention of that word– Nobody can kill him… or lock him, there is no prison built for him… but if Vought dies, if there’s no more Vought then there’s no more Homelander. He seems like the kind of guy who would kill himself if he found out about what they did to the kids… Even if I don’t make it… I could be okay with that if that meant Ryan would be safe– Let me at least go to hell with one less sin.”

He briefly considered torturing you to get you to reveal it was an act, but watching you, watching this divine offering, knowing this would never happen again he had to agree, Homelander would kill you, watching the look of anger and defeat brewing reflecting of your face, his walls began to crumble. He hated Homelander, watching that clip didn’t change anything but Ryan remained… The thought of his Becca forced to agree, to comply as they forced Ryan to drink acid– Butcher imagined the same scene, his wife holding the gummies in place of Jonah encouraging the small kid to take another sip. His stomach churned.

“I can make some calls to the FBSA…” he muttered, his mind in another timeline.

“The one run by the head popping presidential candidate?”

“How do you—?” asked Starlight.

“He talks… I think he thinks I'm his therapist– he says a lot of things… as if nobody ever did so much as pretend to listen. He was nice…” A saddened smile unnerved Starlight– a guy like that doesn’t look at somebody like me– it wasn’t hard to like him. It was hard to learn he was a monster… he says a lot of things. Too many. ‘bout the company, ‘bout himself, ‘bout the people who serve him.” You looked up– you. That’s how I learned your name… you’re the big bad wolf trying to blow his house of straws.”

He chuckled.

“So he kept comin’ back because yer a good listener? Give me a day and I can reach some contacts in the CIA that might be able to get you out the country– can you survive until then?”

“Don't have much of a choice.” You wrapped yourself in your clothes properly this time, your eyes sore from all the tears– the kid… the kid will be alright, no?”

“We’ll do everything we can to help you…” Starlight spoke, her hand sticky on your shoulder– you can trust us.”

“Certainly hope so. I can’t wait to get the matching set” You hissed scratching at the bite mark on your left shoulder– thank you…”

“Have to ask… what’s your name?” William asked– for the paperwork of course.”

He still didn’t trust you, good things don’t come this easily, these were jaded people but your carrot was too big and tempting, he had no qualms killing you, he had no issue with Homelander knowing this address, for he seemed far more interested in playing house and running Vought to the ground than to pay him a visit.

You gave them your current cover… only Homelander knew your real name.

You had liked that name, ideally it would be replaced by his last name, you watched him grin and offer you a tissue, the french man telling you where the bathroom was so you could wash your face. They wasted no time aiming for a background check speedrun world record, your name led them to various social media accounts, your usage was sporadic but consistent on topics, even a personal update about starting work at Vought, soon after that you posted less and less.

They could possibly find everything about you, all the fake shit you carefully build, and if they had weeks they could possibly find the new one you’ve crafted to get away from Roman earlier on. With their CIA connection as limited as they were, it wouldn’t be impossible to uncover your many past lives in time, at least your original self, that have once been sealed in the Vought records of your Pusher days were permanently deleted.

As your face dried your phone chimed, a short message: ‘Can’t you come back early? Babe, I want both you and Ryan to meet the surprise. Oh and should I get some from that cake shop in Sydney? the one you like??’

You looked around knowing nobody had come close.

‘Get the lemon pistachio. I can be there at 4. will try to finish this quickly tho. Luv u.’

Starlight was quizzed on who you were, she mentioned noticing Homelander descending to the lower floors, but she was more busy about everything, after all you had arrive on her last weeks of work soon after Edgar stepped down, you didn’t stand out but she saw you– after all there were only like five people down there.

You re-entered as M.M. lowered his computer screen, heading towards his desk you handed him the SD card.

Clutching at your bag straps, looking wounded and exhausted.

“How do we know we can trust you? Maybe I believe you or maybe I don’t, luv.”

He was going to give you a final jab.

“Margaret and Elena recently purchased a homestead… 8 acres of land down in Colorado and are rearing llamas for fur… I could’ve given Homelander her address, phone number, new social security number, the license plate to her blue 1999 Chevy Silverado, even down to the last thing she ate at Taco Bell last saturday at 4:33 pm based on her Bank of America account transaction. I also know she texted her three days ago.” You pointed at Starlight– If I was your enemy I would’ve gotten her killed. My supervisor deleted the footage of a van picking her body but she missed one from a Ring doorbell camera one store away”

You showed him the clip, different angle, dark but obviously them.

“Trust me or not, don't care… just help me get away from him, if I had contacts with the CIA I would’ve tried running away on my own, but the worse part about working for Vought is that the people in my department are fucking good at their job. Call Maeve if you like to confirm she’s alive, if you want.”

The room tensed.

You took a couple steps back, your phone ringing and ringing, you had said no and even if your message was reasonable, it didn’t matter.

The more it went on the more you could sense this ending very poorly.

“That’s him, Isn’t it?” Hughie asked.

“... the password is ‘limerence’ no caps… I… I have to go.”

The phone kept going and going you stood there for a whole minute while it rang incessantly, taking a deep breath, you began walking away.

Your eyes, two whole red saucers, the french man followed you to the door, watching your eyes welling up, your arms trembling as you took the phone to your ear.

“You answer when I fucking call you!” John shouted into the phone, making you jump.

Loud enough they could hear his unmistakable voice echoing down the halls.

You ran for the stairs, knowing there was a camera set up, looking down as you heaved in your sprint. M.M. looked at the security feed watching your jacket fade as you run and seemed to apologize.

Hughie took an old computer from one the many filing cabinets, if anything was to be destroyed by a virus it wasn’t going to be one of theirs, there was no denying those bruises in your body, Annie had winced, her sight fixated on each patch of skin and its unsavory coating– some fresh some ancient, some barely there until the light hit it just right, all your wounds in spots that your clothes could cover, it made her stomach churn thinking of what he had done to get you like that and even as you runned down the stairs you could hear them so clearly.

The SD card opened up displaying three folders within, Hughie and company tried typing the password on all of them, getting lucky on the last one.

Inside hundreds of files, documents, images and videos on ‘Project Patriot’.

Even as the city grew sleepier, they were fixated on the screen, even without the other folders, even without anything else– Vought could be done for.

It left a bitter aftertaste… he lost sleep watching recordings and recordings of nameless kids, fading from history, kids that had never formally existed outside of God’s gaze.

Just overwhelming misery.

Inside that now emptied office, he took a cigarette out to the sounds of a little boy taking an oral test, a light stutter had to be eliminated out his mouth, made to read out loud passages from some American history book, made to repeat everything if the stutter presented itself watching the child grow more stressed and embarrassed.

He was living on borrowed time, he considered for longer than he could afford to do.

“scorched earth” the smoke drew swirls in the air– what should I do Becca?”

Homelander's nose and ears ached, the thought of taking another step inside this shelter was genuinely agonizing, the excitement, the fear and fecal rainbow of the four-legged beasts all around, smacked his senses.

This was quicker than getting one from a breeder, it would look good for his new fanbase-- he was told, the lady's jittery motion gave him a headache– shut up!! He wanted to scream as she spoke non-stop leading him to the cattery, rows of stainless steel boxes… cages… rows and rows of cages.

Not even enough space to walk away from the litter box, his tongue dried thinking of his own cage, the latrine always visible.

“This donation truly means a lot to us, Homelander, sir.” she said excitedly.

A hundred-thousand dollars was chump change to him– a lot for this independent shelter, watching these tiny cages he might double it on the promise they would make them bigger.

Rows of kittens and cats mewl and screamed, too many noises, too many smells, it was dizzying, he had to hold unto Ashley’s shoulder as his ears were assaulted by screams and purrs, hisses and yowlings, barking, and scratching, this place was a violent, his chest tightening as his ears ached– his eyes pressed tightly. John’s mind was so quiet, his brother still ignoring him squeezing his knuckles until they cracked. Homelander gave the room a quick glance, picking a random cage that housed two older cats.

These creatures screamed the loudest, demanding to be seen.

“Oh those two they were surrendered to us last year… not a lot of people want to take older cats, much less bonded pairs.”

He read the tag, a pair of seven and ten year old cats– a brother and sister. The brother a fat slob of a beast, its long fur made it look like a scraggly cream coloured cloud, its whiskers just as long and curly at the tips, its nose too long and its eyes big and green while his sister a skinnier but not by much… still more fur than it should have, just a boring brown mackerel.

“We’ve been trying to get them to lose weight but they aren’t very active during playtime, still lots of improvement from last year.”

This was just to make you happy, they would only last a couple more years and by the time they died you wouldn’t want more. Ryan would get the pet experience but as most children he assumed he would grow disinterested in a couple months.

“Do they get along with dogs? And kids?”

“Kids, yes!! Dogs not big ones” she blurted, already opening the cage– want to hold them?”

Forcibly smiling, he took the fat girl, hefty, she talked displeased, just blubber and fur, the lady made a motion encouraging Homelander to press her against his chest, chirping and chattering, the eye contact was intense, as he wanted this weird tuna smell away from his face and the cat was clearly puzzled by his presence. Its tongue was so strange, he flinched lightly as the animal licked his nose, sniffling at his face.

From the cat's perspective the man had no aroma, nothing but a fawn wearing human clothes.

“Perfect, I'll take them!” he handed the creature back– my boy cannot wait.”

“well… sir… we usually have an interview pro–

“I said I’ll take them– Ashley give the lady her check!”

An assistant handed him a cartoonishly large check, this was after all going to be a PR opportunity at least. Ashley, still processing what was happening, all she knew was that after a light lunch he came and ordered her to get this organized.

He waited outside the cattery texting you and getting nothing, he was inside this place for you and now you didn’t answer inmediately.

He shouted.

“Sorry!! Trying to organize some ingredients for Dolores she needed my help!!”

“What's with your voice?”

His anger melted instantly.

“I’m running down the stairs!!”

“Are you okay…?”

“Yes! I just don’t think I can talk with you while they’re around– I’ll call you when I can. I love you.”

Hanging only made it worse.

Three floors under them, you are still close enough to listen to the French man, his knowledge of chemistry inspirational.

Homelander entered the room again to get a photo taken with the cats, each animal more displeased than he was.

By the time he made it back to the tower, he searched for your heartbeat.

Still not there, but Ryan was busy with after school activities, and going to the library with his buddies Jaythaniel, Haoran and Oaklynn to do their homework.

He watched the men set up the cats' stuff, Ms. Cha making sure they didn’t leave a mess, cursing in Korean how the cats were going to make her work more than she ever had yet still throwing them an adoring look.

He sat on his couch after letting the cats out, not paying much attention to what they were doing.

“Ms. Cha, could you keep an eye out for the cats? I still need to run some errands. If Y/N gets home don't let them in until I get here.”

Never in her twenty years of working for this man, had he ever called her anything. Assumed the hero didn’t even know her name... much less she existed.

Running across the city looking at your phone for the time, you jumped on the subway until you made it to Dolores's restaurant, two staff led you quietly to the back as the lunch service was still happening.

A young woman shouted commands in code, the staff moving like extensions of their voice, Dolores examining each plate before a waiter took it, she had no need to taste for her nose did all the work, she pulled her second in command and placed them in charge walking away for you to follow into a cramp fridge.

“Supe.”

“Soup?”

“I can get you Firecracker for the next epulary.” you bluter excitedly.

“Get out of here.”

“Her editor and script writer lives in Queens… She goes every Thursday to her house for wine and discusses the next episode of their podcast. Vought might be running the show now but she still needs her best friend’s input.”

She looked at the labels around.

“How are you going to do it?” She moved the trays around dictating freshness thus urgency– she got bulletproof skin.”

“Tetrodotoxin… a couple drops in her wine”

“I can get you some puffer fish by tomorrow. I know that on a normal human the meat will be useless but… a Supe like her… am curious.”

“Her friend is a supe too, they met at Godolkin their power is stupid– X-Ray vision but overall normal.”

“Don’t get me too excited, babygirl.”

“I’ll deliver it in two days then, just need to get away from John for a minute and you do your part, right?”

“I’ll have the clean up crew just text me when you’re on your way. And ‘John’? Oh… not just Homelander this time.”

“I think he was gonna buy a cat for me.”

“Jesus christ what did you do to his dick? Any tips?”

“Just gotta suck it like you’re a repressed middle aged man with two kids and a wife at a dingy truck stop gloryhole.”

“Damn.”

“That or just tell him he is a good boy.”

She opened the door with a wide smile, jumping at the thought of tasting Supe meat again, it had been a long time since you guys met and you’ve help her..

“Oh I gotta make dinner… Can I?”

She lowered a tray of porterhouse angus for you.

“I take this as my advancement.”

“You should take our mash potato and brown buttered carrots– I’ll have them pack you some”

“Oh I got this Cassolette recipe I just stole from a killer”

“How good?”

“Remember Lil’ Nina from the Russian’s?”

“Oh the one she tried having me make? and who fucked us over with the Czech back in the day.”

“That one… small world indeed.”

“Fuck the angus take the dry-age wagyu.”

Time slips away but it's still four o’clock but shy of 5, by the time you rushed past the security check he was already waiting for you, dozens of eyes looking at you.

You lifted the grocery bag.

“You’re late.”

Still a quarter to five. He looks lost and upset, trying to keep composed in public.

“My apologies sir… I had to take the subway.”

“Your car doesn't work?”

There’s many people around you to speak comfortably.

“Sorry, I thought it would be quicker if I didn’t drive, sir.”

You looked away, clutching at your belongings, his glare was not worth the Uber ride you paid to get here.

“I’m going to go get Ryan from… whatever the fuck their names are… you don’t go inside until am back.”

“Jaythaniel, Haoran and Ooklynn.”

“What?”

“Those are his friends' names. You like Ooklynn, she is a well behaved one.”

“Those can’t be real names…” he softened his posture, taking a fancy paper bag from behind him– we’ll talk later.”

Seeing him take the front door out was a terrifying look, you stood there for a couple minutes trying to understand what just had happened, his mind had been so quiet.

The ride up was uncomfortable, the walk home just as bad.

“What did you do to him?” Ms Cha asked, already waiting for you outside– "I had it easy for years and now you make him give me more work!”

“I clean up after myself.” you defended.

“He has lost his goddamn mind.” she blocked the door– not allowed until bossman comes back.”

“How pissed was he?”

“Quiet. Just looks ready to kill somebody for the hell of it.”

“We both know that doesn’t narrow it down.”

“Not murder for funsies but premeditated.”

You both looked defeated just standing in awkward silence.

“Since when does he take the elevator?” Ms. Cha nudge at you, waking you up.

“It was nice knowing you.”

Ryan shot you the same look Ms. Cha gave you before, John's brows just buried enough yet not touching, his lips a thin line and he was looking straight at you without much blinking, the thrree of you huddling together as the door opened.

“Go in! come on.”

Ms. Cha bolted out at the opposite direction, she was not going to clean that up. Ryan wondered what could you’ve possibly had done, for him to be so absentminded when he picked him up, there was no urgency this time… heck he would had agreed to stay there for an extra 10 minutes without complaint.

It didn’t hit you at first until you noticed the cat tree by the window towering over the living room, and a child squealing as he spotted the two cats hiding under the coffee table.

“Toaster and Blender.” he gestured towards the worried cats– now you and I let's go to the kitchen for a chat.”

“You… You… oh my god…”

Fuck him, you ignored him live this time– you jumped after the cats, Ryan aready snatching the fat tabby the moment it lifted its neck out the table, taking the other and squeeling like a lil' girl.

“I love it… oh my god you are so cute!! Can we keep it!?”

“Dad are we keeping them!!?

A thousand yard stare cemented in his eyes, underestimating the power of cats had in people, even Ashley had cooed at the critters.

“Yes. But you two have to clean the litter boxes.”

"I love you, Dad!!"

That conversation did not take place until after dinner, something about childhood excitement being shared by you two was far too overwhelming and hectic for the already stressed hero, you washed dishes as Homelander entered the kitchen.

“What was that today?”

The cats eat by the entrance, and it seems that wet food alleviated all their anxieties, specially at 4 dollars a can.

“A lot of mob front restaurants use high quality ingredients– I was organizing something for Dolores' private Epulary.”

“Bullshit.”

“Look I was in a room full of mobsters who could’ve killed me before you broke their door.”

“You could’ve called me later.”

“John. I’m Sorry but I was busy–

“I did that for you!” He pointed at the cats– what else do you want!? You’re still ignoring me! Acting distant– like what the fuck!” He shouted sounded more wounded than angry, exasperated in his panting.

“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was busy! I told you I was going to be busy!” You dried your hands, bothered that he was in his suit– I was hunting!! God fucking dammit John I been tagging these two whores for days!!”

You threw the towel.

“Hunting? Wait you– you’re still killing people?”

“Not since you and I. God I thought the drugs made me happy but… ” You slumped onto the kitchen floor, just letting your legs give up– I need this. I need it… this is a different sort of adrenaline than sex or drugs and I like it. Oh god I fucking love it– I didn’t think I actually did! and you kept coming home covered in blood like you’re rubbing it in my face that I couldn’t!”

He stood frozen, his chin tucked, looking down at the mewling cat as if it asked him if they both heard the same thing.

“I love this. I love you.” You whined– I love domesticity but god I need to feel high!!– I don’t mind it, I am stressed and I haven’t hung out with my bestie in a while, either. Look, I'm just gonna kill these whores, have a girls night and then I’m all yours… is not fair you get to have all the fun.”

“Oh. Pumpkin you could have said something– communication is key to a successful relationship!” There he was signing with relief blowing raspberries trying not to chuckle– "If you needed it, you could have asked me I could’ve brought you somebody!”

“No!” He looked offended suddenly– Look. Is the hunt that makes the kill fun, the trailing, the selecting, the ever fluctuating levels of difficulty… you do this in perpetual ‘easy mode’-- I don’t.” You smacked your head back– I got these girls, they got lots of friends, close family who will notice the moment they are missing, full-time work with lots of close colleagues and dependants… when girls like that go missing and nobody ever finds out what happens– that’s my bliss.”

A few red flags waved in his head but he ignored them because at least you were being honest with yourself and him, your speech back during your first fight must’ve been denial he thought.

“As long as you see their beady little eyes cloud–

“Boring!” you sang.

“Thought you hated it.” he picked the cream feline– Poor Toaster had to hear us scream.”

He takes his place beside you, cat still in arms.

“Me too. You remember the cat’s name before your own kids bestfriends?”

He had no reply to that.

“Why kill people for dinner?”

So he didn't.

“Rich fucks pay a lot of money to see pretty girls murdered while they eat spaghetti… they bid to select the method.”

“Can I help? I mean if you needed to kill people you could’ve asked me instead of being a bitc– being so mean to me.” He caught himself but you didn’t mind his slip.

“Maybe next time…?” you bit your lips– I was worried that if I was embracing this side of me… you… would be grossed out, and you wouldn't like me anymore.”

“Babe. Pumpkin.” He cooed, He kissed your temples, nudging closer as he softly petted the cat’s side– I said I would take all your bad… I bet you would look so beautiful covered in blood.”

“You certainly do.”

You took your phone showing him a picture of Firecracker’s friend.

“She has lots of followers on Instagram… and her feet pics sell really well– just look at that ass!”

“Wow! You think is better than mine?” he pouted– I bet she would even look pretty when you kill her.”

“Oh fuck no, Your ass could cause an earthquake with that bounce.” you kissed his chin laughing into him– I’ll take some pictures for you, if ya like…?”

You purred, he pictured your tasteful nudes arriving in the middle of a meeting, seeing your sensuous shape covered in this cheap whore waiting for him to clean up.

Oh there was a prideful glimmer in his eyes, his hand stroking the fur– addictively soft, there was a lot of fur throws around the house, perhaps in the recess of his mind a deprivation of textures had brought a subconscious fascination with fur, he mindlessly stroke the feline and you wondered if somehow your powers had influence his decision, this cat looked somewhat like his mother’s– the cat began to purr, and you both sat there looking at the overweight animal as it nestled itself comfortably in defeat.

Your cheek resting on his arm with an eagle picking at your scalp.

“Ooklynn is not a real name.”

“Well her parents are white… her middle name is Meribeth if you prefer.”

“Becca did right by calling him Ryan. Ryan is nice, simple, easy, perfect.”

to be cont.

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander fanfic #homelander x you #my fic tag #can we be lonely together #personal #the boys fanfic #Last 20 pages will be posted soon #can't believe i finished this #the boys amazon

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