#and ill never fix a typo | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gretavanlace · 11 months

Text

Debauchery Defined

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, language, masturbation, dirty talk, dangerous situations, oral sex (m/rec), illegal activity (traffic related), etc. jake in a hat briefly - cause that shit deserves a warning. Probably typos, excessive italics as per usual, blah blah blah

“I’m sorry, sir, I have nothing under the name of Kiszka.”

The bored attendant, slouched upon a stool beneath an Enterprise sign, doesn’t even have the decency to sound mildly apologetic.

The sign is bright. Too bright for the hour. Too bright for the weary, sleep deprived, burn in your eyes. Just too bright.

Judging by the furrow in his brow, despite his ever present sunglasses, Jake shares your contempt for the fluorescent glow.

“I made a reservation days ago.” You reiterate, spelling his last name once more. Turns out, it’s a lesson in futility, as the clerk doesn’t even bother to type it in.

“I told you,” he snaps, fixing you with a glare. You sense he thinks it reeks of authority. It doesn’t. “There’s no rental reservation. Spell the name all night long if you feel like it, but it isn’t going to change anything.”

Jake, in a smooth rush, is leaned in closer - serpentine and quick in his movement. Yet, calculated, careful, eerily calm in that unsettling way he adopts when irritation is trudging toward anger.

His warning comes quietly, but it bears a menacing aura all the same. “Speaking to her that way is ill advised, I can promise you that.”

Your hand finds his arm, stroking soothingly through the worn hopsack of the blazer he layered on, hours ago, before your flight. “Jake, it’s alright.”

Never aggressive just for show, and certainly never overtly so, when Jacob feels someone is crossing a line with you, he is quick to polish his armor - a knight sweeping in to save his damsel in distress.

He relaxes visibly beneath your touch and navigates back to civility with a deep breath.

“Alright…” he flicks a glance at the name tag that rests crookedly on the other man’s shirt “Tyler. So you don’t have the reservation - we need a car. You have cars. Simple. Why is this an issue?”

He’s tired, and cranky…a long day of travel has leeched the patience from his bones.

Tyler, likely used to overwhelmed travelers frequenting the airport kiosk, remains unimpressed. “I have one available vehicle. Luxury class. Reserved for our most discerning clients.”

Jake rolls his eyes, clearly teetering on the edge of asking this asshole if he’d like to taste the back of his hand. “As it happens, I am discerning. How lucky for us. We’ll take it.”

Papers are signed, keys are exchanged, and finally, you’re schlepping through the hall leading to Parking garage B7, as instructed.

“Luxury for discerning clients.” He scoffs, hefting his bag, and yours, over his shoulder, though you continue to insist you can share the load.

His battered guitar case swings against his legs as he stomps along, “What an asshole. S’probably some boat of a Lincoln or something…I’m gonna look like a pimp.”

The wide-brimmed hat cocked low over his shades will be most fitting, then, won’t it?

Laughing at his dramatics - not so different from his twin, after all - you watch the doors whoosh open to reveal a deserted sea of concrete. Deserted that is, save for one lone sports car waiting beneath a flickering light.

You both stop short. “Or a frat boy douchebag.”

“Frat boys can’t afford cars like that.” You correct, nudging him to get moving.

He picks up the pace dutifully, “So, just a douchebag, then?”

“Yes, yes, Jacob…you’re very refined and everybody knows it.” You tease, ever the soft heart for his antiquated flare. “If anyone sees you, we’ll just explain that your horse and buggy are in the shop.”

His eyes rove across the lines of the car as you approach. Slyly sweeping over the glossy, black curves, almost hidden below the mysterious shadow of his hat.

“I’ll drive.” He mutters as if it’s no big deal, startling your feet to a standstill.

Never, not once, in the entirety of all the time you’ve known him has he ever offered to drive. In fact, now that you’re exploring the subject, you don’t think you’ve ever even seen him so much as graze a finger over a steering wheel.

“Do you…” you pause to collect your jumbled thoughts. “Do you even have a driver’s license?”

It seems strange, all at once - that you’ve never wondered about this before.

“What?” He laughs, finally shaking off the annoyance he’s been wearing on his shoulders for a few too many hours.

You wait while he presses a button on the key fob, opening the trunk with a smooth hiss, asking “well, do you?” as he dumps the bags, and his Gibson, inside.

You’ve seen him present identification hundreds of times, but you can’t recall it ever being anything but his passport.

“Purse in the boot or up front with you, darling?” He asks with an exaggerated swagger and flourish.

“Stop avoiding the question, Jacob.” You sigh, folding your arms as he slings your purse over his shoulder, abandoning Oliver, and moving to open the passenger side door for you. “Do you or don’t you?”

He waits until you’ve settled and then bends at the waist, offering a forehead kiss, and a secret. “I don’t. You wanna break a few rules with me, hall monitor?”

You feel your eyes widen as if he’s just confessed to casual murder for sport.

But you tamp it down and take hold of some perspective, this isn’t murder. Still, you don’t like it.

“Jake, don’t drag me into your debauchery. If you want to endanger the lives of hundreds of unsuspecting motorists, you can do it alone.”

In response, he swings the door closed and jogs around the sloping, gleaming hood, slipping into the driver’s seat, gentle and sleek as a sleepy housecat.

“I never said I didn’t know how to drive, baby,” he tosses his hat in the back and shakes out his waves, “just that I failed to revisit the DMV when ‘the man’ said my time was up.”

“This is stupid.” You slide down in your seat, careful not to reveal how much you’re enjoying the supple leather coasting along the backs of your thighs where your shorts have ridden up.

The opulence is an undeniable high. One you wouldn’t have expected, but there all the same.

He grins to himself, face lit up, beautiful and bright, like a little boy in a toy store. “Debauchery,” his voice is smooth as whipping cream. Smoky. Lazy. Like he plays behind the wheel of a flashy Porsche every day. “Immoral behavior that involves sex, drugs, alcohol, etcetera.”

“What?” You’ve begun to relax already. He is skillfully maneuvering the vehicle through the twists and turns of the garage. Okay, so maybe he does know how to drive.

“Debauchery. That’s what it means. It isn’t this.” He waves a hand, absently calling attention to the car. “But don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours, my love. I’ll have you dragged down into the thick of it soon enough.”

Leaning back against the headrest, you decide to give into his whim and enjoy the ride. It’s lovely to be able to strip off the stress of the day and let him take over the department of transportation, for once.

As you study him, with the hum of the road and the purring engine serving as white noise, you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips.

“Jacob Kiszka,” you allow your grin to widen as it will, “I never would’ve guessed you’d be such a guy.”

He grabs for your hand, pleased that - as luck would have it - he has been blessed behind the wheel of an automatic…the absence of a gear shift leaves him open to holding onto you, and you are his favorite thing to hold.

“What are you on about?” Oliver pops in to say hello again, as is habit when Jake feels a bit too on the spot.

“Never once have you wanted to drive,” you remind him, lacing your fingers through his. “No matter how many times I tease you for being a passenger princess. Wave one fast car with a pretty paint job under your nose and you’re swimming in testosterone.”

A soft laugh is his only response as he coaxes out onto the freeway.

“You look good behind the wheel, baby. You know that?” Your free hand toys with a lock of his hair, smoothing it and twirling it around your pinky.

“I look good, always.” he sighs, feigning boredom as he weaves in and out of traffic to find his desired lane.

The further away from the hub of the city you drive, the more traffic begins to dissipate, until you seem to be adrift along some dystopian highway time has forgotten.

“How long?” You ask softly.

Staring out the window at the scenery whipping by sounds lulling, you might even fall asleep to it, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, and this calm, capable, skill set you never knew he possessed.

How like him to keep you on your toes, sharing bits and pieces of himself little by little. Doling out tiny Jacob Thomas shaped morsels only when he sees fit.

“Who cares how long?” He glances up at nothing in the rear view mirror. “This is nice.”

“It is.” You agree. Allowing the silence to wrap up warmly around you both again.

You watch him. And you watch him. And you watch him some more.

And you’d help it, if you could. Honest. The timing is most inappropriate. Not to mention, likely a little dangerous, but something about watching him command all that power beneath his hands has you weak. Submissive. Needy.

In moments of weakness in the dark, you’ve confessed that you feel the same watching him play. The way he makes love to his well worn and loved guitar. The way he coaxes sex soaked wails and whines from the strings, working his fingers faster and faster along the frets until the climax crashes apart, exploding into sound where there once was quiet.

The way he talks to her, the way he loves her. The way he knows her body just a little better than he knows yours, or even his own. It all makes you a bit jealous in the most decadent way. It makes you eager to showcase your worth as well, to sink to your knees in service to this god walking around amongst men.

He holds a brand new power and you want to slink into his lap and mewl like a kitten starved for attention. Instead, you settle for moving in closer, brushing a feathery kiss against his neck, nuzzling into the crook of it, unabashedly brazen with your want.

“Hello, my love.” His eyes never stray from the road, but his hand wanders your thigh, welcoming you. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m wet.” It’s a simple admission, but the way you hush it in his ear causes his cock to stir. It takes so little from you to pluck at his edges until he’s unraveling at the seams.

“Why’s that?” He adjusts in his seat, spreading his thighs just enough to make your head spin. “All I’m doing is driving a car. Is that all it takes?”

“Sometimes.” You sound pouty. It’s hardly there at all, but he hears it and he loves it. His spoiled rotten sweetheart.

“Well, I’m a little busy, love.” He slides his hand higher, silently wishing you had chosen a skirt today. “But you go on and be sweet to that pretty pink place I love so well. I miss your pussy, baby…it’s been such a long day. Miss the way you feel, the way you smell, the way you taste. I want you all over my face, fuck. Touch yourself.”

“Right here in the car?” You suck his earlobe into your mouth and the nibble over it as if he is an indulgent treat, because he is.

“Yeah.” He nods, grip tightening around the steering wheel, “Right here in the car.”

Maybe some other time you might toy with him a bit, dangle the string just out of his reach, but you’re further off track than he is at this point, so you shimmy out of your shorts and slide out of your sandals to rest your toes on the dash. Your knees fall apart as your fingers disappear into your panties with the tiniest moan when your fingers brush over your clit.

“Aren’t you such a good girl?” He pats at your thigh in praise, burying his grip into the soft, warm flesh there. Filthy, fucking dirty little thing, touching her pretty, wet cunt in a car we don’t even own just because I asked. So good, baby. Who’s my well behaved, darling girl?”

Sometimes you think his need to praise you rivals your own deep-rooted lust for receiving it.

“I’m your good girl.” You breathe, writhing slowly in your seat, drawing in the scent of sex and Italian leather, laced with the faintest hint of his cologne. It has faded with the hours, handing the spiced teakwood over to something a little more Jake…this is when you love it best.

“Then be my good girl and come over here. Come see me, sweetheart.” He extends an arm, casually inviting you in. You know what he wants, and you plan to give it to him.

For a moment, you're both illuminated in the golden glow of headlights traveling along across the median…he looks like the slickest snake masquerading as an angel. A serpent in the garden, ever tempting and cunning.

It’s all a front, as you well know. A role he plays when he wants to make you quake with desire. His heart is soft and kind, ever mindful of others, ever stuffed full of unending empathy and thoughtful love.

Unbuckling your seatbelt with a click that makes him frown, you slide over to the very edge and toy with the clasp of his belt, panting hot little puffs of breath against his flushed cheek, if only to stir him up further.

“You want that?” He lifts into your touch so you can feel how hard he is, all for you.

“Yeah,” tiny pecks of your lips chart his jawline. “Yeah, I want that.”

“Say it.” His fingers are in your hair now, curling into a loose fist near the nape of your neck, pushing you down. “Say you want my cock. Say where you want it.”

You’re hurrying now, tenderly fumbling with the buckle, hungry and desperate for it. “I want your cock, Jake. Want it in my mouth…in my throat.”

“Fuck…” it growls out of him strangled and tangled up with hot, salacious, greed. “C’mon, baby.”

You long to preen with pride; he wants it so badly, so suddenly - but there are more pressing matters at hand.

Both hands on the wheel now, he watches as you sink down around him, swallowing him so deeply, and with no real warm up, that you gag, sucking him down further anyway as you retch and sputter around his length, throat both fighting the intrusion and pining for more of it.

“Slow down.” His warning grits out through his teeth. He didn’t want to say it at all, slow is the last thing he wants. He wants to float off into it, stare focused and sure on the road, thoughts lost in the way you sound fighting around his cock, sucking and lapping over him, dying for just a little more, just another taste….

You shake your head adamantly, sending your soft, wet tongue slicking back and forth just along the base, nearly nudging at his balls as they tighten up for you. Every reaction his body hands over is all for you. Always for you.

“Fuck, baby,” his right hand drops to pet at your glossy hair as he fucks up into your kiss. “Gonna make me cum in that pretty little mouth. Feels so fuckin’ good. You want it?”

Nodding urgently, you bury your nose into the soft path of hair that trails below his belly button, choking until your throat is squeezed around him, strangling the thick head of his throbbing cock.

He’s twitching against your lips now, straining and pulsing, fucking throbbing. Obscene and depraved. Perfect.

“M’close, baby,” he’s murmuring raspy, stuttering, pleas as his grip tightens until your scalp stings blissfully. “Keep going, just like that, so close…baby, baby, baby, fuck…”

He’s whining and babbling, broken curses and hissing encouragement that barely makes sense. You couldn’t love it more.

Hollowing your cheeks, you suck hard on the updrawn and then relax your throat, plunging him straight to the back of it in one harsh go with a guttural sound that makes his thighs jerk.

You feel the slight hitch in the gas as he loses his footing on the pedal, and soothe him with a palm swept under his shirt until you can feel his heart hammering against your palm.

He regains focus - you can feel it - and then whispers a soft, “Thank you, sweet girl.” Grateful that your wits have prevailed when his own were waning.

You linger at the base, licking at what you can with his heavy weight cradled in your tongues embrace. He flexes violently, and you brace for it, gluttonous for the warmth of his release, and with a groan and gasp of your name, he doesn’t disappoint.

“Gonna cum, baby,” oh, he sounds so pretty. Trotting out the tiny whimpers that are saved for when he’s really lost in it. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, dontstopdontstopdontstop, fuck fuck fuck—“

Your taste buds dance with him, alive with the delicacy that is Jacob. So warm and perfect, covering your tongue, rolling down your throat, until you can feel him inside you, really inside you, in the way you love most.

He’s a mess above you, but you carry on until he is whining with overstimulation and begging you to stop, lightly pulling you away until you can just barely lap over his glistening tip as he softens against his splayed open pants.

You know he’s thinking of all the ways he plans to return the favor when he can properly get his hands on you, but as he catches his breath beside you and steals glances at you tucking his beautiful cock away, you feel completely, totally, blissfully, satisfied.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @gretasmokerising @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @sunfl0wer-power @sad1lynn @demolitiondann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @hugorobinson

#greta van fleet #greta van fleet fic #fanfic #greta van fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet smut #greta van smut #gvf fic #jake gvf #josh kiszka #gvf smut #gvf fanfiction #gvf one shot #gvf jake #jake kiszka #jake kiska fic #jake kiszka smut #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka fanfiction

422 notes · View notes

wolfjackle-creates · 1 year

Text

In celebration of my new writing sideblog, I decided to share a snippet of the expanded version of my first prompt fill. Original can be found here. Brief synopsis: Tim and Danny became online friends when they were both neglected and lonely ten/eleven-year-olds. Before Robin and before Phantom. They have been fully open with each other since they first met and that doesn't change, even after it probably should. (This segment is a chat fic.)

Prompt from @gremlin-bot

IKnowYourSecrets = Tim's username

-xXPolarisXx- = Danny's username

Typos in chat are intentional.

Edit: I don't know why the color text is being weird. Each time I get everything to work, new random letters are black.

Edit 2: formatting finally fixed. That took way too long.

-----

Danny had been playing mindlessly when he got a message from Secrets.

IKnowYourSecrets: Thank god your on

That was odd. Secrets was always laid back and chill.

-xXPolarisXx-: Secrets? Whats up

IKnowYourSecrets: something big has happened IKnowYourSecrets: like top secret big IKnowYourSecrets: and I need advice IKnowYourSecrets: ive set up a private chat IKnowYourSecrets: one that cant be hacked so easily

-xXPolarisXx-: dude youre freaking me out -xXPolarisXx-: whats going on?

IKnowYourSecrets: :sends link: IKnowYourSecrets: not here. Ill explain

Danny clicked the link and put in his username when prompted. He had never even seen this chat room server before. Not that he spent a lot of time on chat rooms. He preferred in-game chats.

-xXPolarisXx-: ok dude spill -xXPolarisXx-: wth is going on

IKnowYourSecrets: I know who Batman is

“What!” Danny couldn’t hold back the shout. He started typing a reply, deleted, started typing again.

“Danny?” asked Jazz from the kitchen table where she was doing her homework. “Everything ok?”

He waved his hand at her. “Yeah! Everything is fine! My friend and I were just killed by something I didn’t even know could be dangerous.”

“Don’t play too long. You still have homework.”

“I know! I’ll be good.”

-xXPolarisXx-: good one secrets -xXPolarisXx-: you got me for a minute

IKnowYourSecrets: :image attachment: IKnowYourSecrets: :image attachment: IKnowYourSecrets: :news link: IKnowYourSecrets: :news link: IKnowYourSecrets: :image attachment:

The links and pictures started coming through even faster. The first was a picture of a family of acrobats and one of the links was to the story about how the parents died in an accident while performing.

The next link was about Bruce Wayne adopting a child followed by one only a few months later discussing Batman’s new side kick, Robin. Then a picture of the Graysons’ son in his circus costume next to a picture of the first Robin. Which were entirely too similar.

“Holy…” whispered Danny. But the links and images were still coming.

Robin stopped being spotted when Dick Grayson moved out. And not much later Nightwing appeared. And then there was a new Robin and a new adoption. And then Jason Todd-Wayne died and Robin disappeared.

-xXPolarisXx-: what. The fuck -xXPolarisXx-: why are you even looking into this -xXPolarisXx-: Secrets! ????

IKnowYourSecrets: your a real friend, right? IKnowYourSecrets: I mean weve known each other for like 2 years now IKnowYourSecrets: no catfisher’d stick around this long

-xXPolarisXx-: course I’m real -xXPolarisXx-: though thats also what a catfisherd say

IKnowYourSecrets: I live in gotham IKnowYourSecrets: Batmans changed since Robin IKnowYourSecrets: Since Jason died IKnowYourSecrets: he needs a robin I think IKnowYourSecrets: hes mean and harsh and people dont feel safe

-xXPolarisXx-: … -xXPolarisXx-: youre planning something

IKnowYourSecrets: help me figure out how to convince dick to go back to being robin IKnowYourSecrets: I think they had a fight IKnowYourSecrets: from what i can find online their last several meetings have ended in fights

Danny stared at his screen, mouth open. Secrets couldn’t be serious. This was too much. But he knew his friend. He might joke during a gaming battle, but he’d never joke about this. Not to Danny, or well, Polaris.

-xXPolarisXx-: Youre gonna chase down Nightwing?? -xXPolarisXx-: isnt he only out at night??? -xXPolarisXx-: dude youre gonna get yourself killed -xXPolarisXx-: how’ll you even find him? -xXPolarisXx-: do NOT tell him you know his secret identity -xXPolarisXx-: what do vigilantes do to ppl who learn their identities?

Danny watched as the dots appeared to indicate Secrets was typing. They stopped. Picked up again.

IKnowYourSecrets: awww IKnowYourSecrets: you like me ❤ IKnowYourSecrets: im not gonna die! IKnowYourSecrets: NIGHTWING will be there IKnowYourSecrets: and I can find him bc I know his patrol routes IKnowYourSecrets: easy peasy IKnowYourSecrets: im going tonight IKnowYourSecrets: just need to figure out what to say

-xXPolarisXx-: dude really??? -xXPolarisXx-: do you even know why they fought?

IKnowYourSecrets: Gotham needs batman IKnowYourSecrets: and batman needs robin IKnowYourSecrets: hes a hero he should want to help

-xXPolarisXx-: Well start with that, then -xXPolarisXx-: if youre going to be an idiot -xXPolarisXx-: and go out in gotham at night -xXPolarisXx-: tell nightwing youre worried about batman

IKnowYourSecrets: worried about nightwing as well IKnowYourSecrets: hes not as bad IKnowYourSecrets: but its clear something is wrong

-xXPolarisXx-: im just a kid from a small town -xXPolarisXx-: how am I supposed to know how to talk to superheroes?

IKnowYourSecrets: they aren’t superheroes IKnowYourSecrets: no powers

-xXPolarisXx-: not the point -xXPolarisXx-: I guess -xXPolarisXx-: start by asking how hes doing -xXPolarisXx-: and how batmans doing -xXPolarisXx-: and say youre sorry about robins death -xXPolarisXx-: but most importan STAY SAFE -xXPolarisXx-: i dont even know your name to follow any news stories

IKnowYourSecrets: its Tim if you wanna know

-xXPolarisXx-: mines Danny -xXPolarisXx-: idk why but Tim fits you

IKnowYourSecrets: dont use it on public forums IKnowYourSecrets: but were safe here IKnowYourSecrets: Danny. I like it IKnowYourSecrets: thanks for the advice!!! IKnowYourSecrets: im gonna use it IKnowYourSecrets: ttyl IKnowYourSecrets: gonna track down dick and talk to him IKnowYourSecrets: he usually starts patroling in like an hour and a half IKnowYourSecrets: and it’ll take me about that long to get to bludhaven

-xXPolarisXx-: lemme know what happens -xXPolarisXx-: im gonna check this chat and the game any chance I have at the computer

IKnowYourSecrets: will do IKnowYourSecrets: by danny

-xXPolarisXx-: stay safe tim

Danny stared at the chat box as Secrets, as Tim signed out. What. The. Hell.

“You all right there, Danny?” Jazz was looking at him from their kitchen table and Danny quickly closed out of the chatroom. No one could be allowed to see that information.

“Yeah, course. Just talking with my online friend Secrets.” Whose name he now knew. “He had to go, though. So I guess I’ll start my homework.”

“Were you two playing that game you like?”

He couldn’t tell the truth, so he decided to lie. “Yeah. We’re hoping to beat this boss so we can get a rune stone that’ll let us craft this super awesome weapon! Then we might stand a chance in the arena.”

Jazz smiled at him. “I’m sure you two’ll get it. What’s this arena?”

Danny described the game on autopilot as pulled out his backpack and books. Holy hell, he knew Batman’s identity.

-----

Part 2

I also hope to start doing WIP Wednesdays if there's any interest. Probably not every week and they won't all be for this fic, but I've got a few things I've been working on that I hope people will enjoy.

Tag List (I hope you're still all interested so many months later. XP)

@bonebrokebuddy, @britcision, @lady-time-lord-, @welcometosasakiworld, @akikkobara, @phoenixdemonqueen, @dolfay, @skulld3mort-1fan, @nutcase8691, @dreamingasters, @xysidhequeen

I'm sure there's people I'm missing. So let me know if you want to be added or if you want to be taken off the list. I won't be offended either way.

#dp x dc #my writing #danny fenton #tim drake #chat fic #bring me home fic #i'll probably change that name #the formatting on this is a bitch #i dont use rich text #so i type all the html directly into my main document #you should see how the usernames look #i cannot get an accurate word count either

842 notes · View notes

nerdiellers · 10 months

Text

A Lifetime | Death

feat: Nanami Kento x fem!reader, Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

cw: cussing, mention of death/suicide, mental illness, slight child neglect, spoilers for jjk

summary: taking the news of the death of your husband was something you never expected. you spiral into despair as you grieve

a/n: this hasn’t been proofread, so please forgive any typos and mistakes! I write on my phone and I have autocorrect on because I’m too lazy to fix what I type

next chapter ↝ | masterlist

You stood in the kitchen staring at Yaga with wide eyes, your hands shaking.

“W-What?” you asked quietly.

Yaga rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled through his nose. He knew this would be hard, but he wanted to be the one to tell you rather than anyone else. He was your teacher and friend.

“Nanami Kento was killed in battle against the curse Mahito. Itadori Yuji reported this incident as soon as he could.” Yaga spoke quietly.

Your heart stopped and the shaking proceeded to become worse, causing your hands to crush the glass you were holding as you were about to set a glass of tea down for Yaga. This caused the porcelain shards to cut into your hand, causing Yaga to immediately jump from his seat, rounding the island in your kitchen to get to you.

You couldn’t feel anything though, couldn’t process the news. The wounds you received didn’t even register to you as Yaga took your hand and ran it under the water, gently taking out the shards.

Kento, your beloved husband, was killed. By a curse. He had told you about the upcoming incident with the promise of coming home on time as usual. You remember him leaving in the morning as usual, leaving you with a kiss to the top of your son’s forehead and a kiss to your lips, making sure to tell you both that he loved you.

But he wasn’t coming home. Ever again.

As soon as your brain processes this, the tears welled up in your eyes, your legs giving out and you fall to the floor. The fall was softened by Yaga, who was in the middle of treating your wounds.

Once you’re on the floor, the tears began to flow, heaving sobs and screams escaping your throat. You’ve lost the love of your life, your soul mate, your best friend. You couldn’t believe this to be real, hitting yourself in order to determine whether this was real or just a terrible and excruciating nightmare.

After the first hit, you raised your hand once more, ready to strike yourself again before Yaga gently grabbed your wrist.

“Y/N.” He spoke.

You had no energy to fight against him. The air escaped from your lungs and you felt yourself have a panic attack. How were you supposed to go on without him? How can he not be here to watch your son grow?

And then it hit you — your son. How was he going to process the news? How will you tell him?

Your mom would come home after picking your son up from preschool in a couple of hours. He was so attuned to your emotions that he would know something would be off. Your son was only 4, he wouldn’t fully comprehend grief just yet as he was still learning how to be more attuned to his emotions and keep them under control.

Fortunately for you, he had his father’s personality. He was incredibly smart and understood things perfectly fine when it came to anger, but he had never had to learn how to control his grief.

The thought split your already broken heart further, feeling as if the shards of your heart had spread and was stabbing you on the inside, slowly making its way through your body, making sure to stab every nerve you had along the way.

“Y/N.” Yaga spoke to you in a gentle tone.

For the first time since you found out, you looked at Yaga through blurred eyes, fully recognizing that your tears hadn’t stopped and Yaga had been holding your hands. Your throat burned, just how long were you screaming as your tears fell?

Yaga’s expression was that of utmost concern. He was your teacher, having taught you, Nanami, and Haibara. The three of you were close to each other as he remembered.

Eventually you and Nanami had begun dating within your first year before getting married after he left the Jujutsu world. Yaga, of course, had been invited as Nanami’s best man. The wedding itself was beautiful and you were stunning. The way your and Nanami’s eyes sparkled as you saw each other was something out of romance novels and Yaga felt a sort of pride knowing that he had watched the two of you since the beginning.

And here he was, at the end, the one place where he didn’t want to be as he watched you crumble in front of his very eyes. Jujutsu sorcerers dying was almost common, but Nanami was a great sorcerer. Yaga should have known that even the strong ones would fall eventually.

First Gojo disappears, and now Nanami is dead, two things Yaga never would have expected. But he had grieved as much as he could, it was your turn to grieve. And he was here for you as often as he can be due to the events in Shivuya taking what little sorcerers we’re available. He would have asked you to join, but he didn’t want to risk Yu to become an orphan at such an early age when he’s expected to manifest his powers any day now.

Looking into your eyes, he felt his heart break. You were never to look like this, so broken and done.

You were waiting patiently for Yaga to speak, the tears never ending as you hiccup every so often, the sobs having done so much to your throat.

“Nana- no, Kento,” he corrected himself “was a great sorcerer and he will be deeply remembered throughout the years. I will help you with funeral services as soon as Shibuya is dealt with, this I promise you.”

You tried your best to smile, showing Yaga the appreciation you feel, but it felt so wrong to smile, not while you’re grieving. Instead, you nod. You couldn’t find it in your heart to be vocal fearing that as soon as you open your mouth, you’ll start screaming again.

Yaga continued to hold your hands as you worked through your tears before he was called away.

You hadn’t moved from your marital bed since Yaga left, hugging Kento’s pillow tight, feeling your heart painfully pounding against your chest, your body growing numb as emotions left your body completely. Even the feel of your own heartbeat had begun to feel numb.

You never thought you’d have to experience this in your lifetime. Kento was a strong sorcerer and he was physically gifted in combat. You couldn’t ask for the details, afraid that your imagination would run wild with the details.

The front door clicked open and shut, indicating that your mom and son were home.

“Y/N? Where are you dear?” Your mother called out.

“Mommyyyyyy!” Yu yelled.

Hearing the tiny footsteps, Yu knew exactly where to find you; in your room. Pushing open the door, Yu sees your form on the bed and his eyebrows upturned — he could feel something was wrong when you didn’t greet him like you normally do.

“Mommy?” He called out, nearing your bed before using the stepping stool you and Kento left on the side of the bed so that when Yu needed the two of you, he could climb into bed himself and cuddle in between the two of you. He felt safest in between you and his father.

“Mommy what’s wrong?” Yu asked as he climbed your bed and crawled his way over to you.

“Yu? Did you find mommy?” Your mother asked as she entered your room, stopping as she sees your still form on the bed. Yu looked at his grandmother, worry expressed on his face.

“Gram? What’s wrong with mommy?” He asked.

As your mother neared you, she shook her head. “I’m not too sure sweetie, why don’t you go to your room so I can talk to your mommy?”

Yu shook his head and held onto you. It was pitiful, you couldn’t even register your own son’s arms. You didn’t feel even an ounce of happiness that your son was home.

“Yu,” your mother spoke in a gentle tone “I need you to please let me talk to mommy. It might not be something you’re meant to hear.”

Yu gazed at his grandmother before looking at your expressionless face, your eyes red, hugging his father’s pillow before looking back at his grandmother, nodding with a solemn expression before safely sliding off of the bed. He walked to the door before turning to look back at you.

“I love you mommy��” he spoke before leaving entirely, heading to his room as instructed.

As soon as the door was mostly shut in Yu’s room, your mother looked at you. Sitting on the edge of your bed, she placed her hand on your arm, trying her best to be gentle with you.

“Hon? What happened.” Your mother asked.

You felt your tears sting your eyes. Biting your lower lip, you try your best to contain your tears before covering your face with the pillow.

“Kento’s dead, mom.” Your voice squeaked, hoarse as you spoke. And that was it, your tears fell again as you began to sob into the pillow, attempting to muffle the sound as to not alarm Yu, who you were sure was listening in his room.

Your mother felt her heart break, seeing you like this. She knew the risk of being a Jujutsu sorcerer, but she also knew Kento was particular when it came to the missions. She for sure believed that he would stay alive, but fate is inevitable.

“Honey…” rubbing your arm, she felt your body shaking as you attempted to hold back your tears. “You can go ahead and cry, don’t hold them back. You know it upsets your stomach.”

You snapped and looked at your mom, brows furrowed.

“I don’t care about my stomach ma! My husband is dead! My partner, the love of my life, Yu’s father!” You yelled.

Your mother’s brows knitted together. “Please keep your voice down honey, you don’t want Yu to hear you.”

Your brows upturned. She was right, you didn’t want Yu to know, not just yet while you were still figuring out how to tell him.

“Daddy’s dead?” A soft voice echoed in the room.

You and your mother’s heads turned towards the doorway to see your son in his pajamas, his tiny hands clutching his shirt, his eyes wide.

Shit.

Your mother sighed and stood, making her way to Yu, before crouching down to his eye level.

“I want to tell him.” Your voice a hoarse whisper.

Your mother looked at you as you stared at the wall in front of you. You looked tired, exhausted even. It was to be expected, losing your significant other was one of the hardest things to go through.

Standing, she patted the top of Yu’s head before leaving the room, giving the two of you privacy.

“Mommy?” Yu asked. He knew you were sad and he could see it in your eyes. You looked at him and gave him a pained smile.

“Come here, baby. Let me hold you.” You asked, holding your arms out for him.

Yu immediately ran to the stepping stool, lifting himself on the bed and into your arms. Wrapping your arms around him, you looked into his eyes, the same eyes that resembled Nanami’s with your hair color.

You remembered when you were pregnant with him, Kento had quit working at his job because he was tired of exploiting others for the sake of money, and you wholeheartedly agreed with his decision. He had become a Jujutsu sorcerer once again.

You inhaled then exhaled. Looking into the eyes of your son once more, you raised your hand to gently set it on his cheek, rubbing it.

“I’m afraid that —“ you paused to control your tears, but your voice betrayed you as you continued. “Daddy’s not coming home.”

Yu tilted his head. “When is daddy coming home?”

Your breath hitches, doing your absolute best to control your emotions for your son. You never thought you would have to say this.

“He…he won’t be coming home, baby. There were complications in daddy’s mission and he…he passed away, sweetie.”

Yu stared at you as if he was trying to gauge your emotions to better attune himself to it. Eventually, the tears welled up in his eyes.

“Mommy?” Yu cried. If you could feel anything, you could feel what was the rest of your broken heart shatter. And the fact that you don’t feel anything when looking at your crying son makes you feel horrible. But you were broken and didn’t have it in you.

As the arms around your son tightened slightly to reassure him that you were there. But were you really? The two of you were grieving for the loss of Kento, your husband and Yu’s father.

You couldn’t even feel your son in your arms, the numbing feeling taking over you, the poison coursing through your veins, numbing your body but not enough to no longer feel the pricks to remind you of the poison, the grief you were feeling.

“-ey? Y/N!”

Your eyes snapped up to look at your mom, who was standing beside your bed, staring at you, her expression full of concern.

“Honey, I can stay with you, help you take care of Yu.”

You shook your head.

“I just…I just want to be left alone.” You answered, your voice had gone from a choke from holding back your tears to a low monotone devoid of emotion.

“I can take Yu and he can stay with me while you grieve.” She offered.

Yu immediately pulled away and shook his head.

“No! I wanna stay with mommy! I don’t wanna go!” He yelled as he cried harder, as if he was throwing a tantrum, which in this case would count as a tantrum.

Your mom reached her arms out and went to gently take Yu from your arms as they loosened your hold on him. As soon as your mom touched Yu, he screamed and grabbed onto your shirt.

“No! Mommy!” He screamed, holding onto you as he screamed and cried.

You continued to sit there as your son was clutching onto you for dear life, begging you to keep him safe but you didn’t have the energy to do so.

Yu continued to clutch onto you while your mother tried to pick him up. Every gentle pull resulted in him screaming and eventually your mother gave up, leaving him to cry on your chest. Sighing, your mother looked at you.

“I’ll come back tomorrow to take Yu to preschool, ok?”

“I don’t wanna go!” Yu screamed. He wanted nothing more than to be with you, his safe haven. But could you provide your son with that safety?

I hope this turned out well! I’ve been stewing on this for a few days while I’ve been trying to think of how to write the Lucifer story.

I planned on making this a series, so please let me know if you’d like to see more!

Jujutsu Kaisen belongs to Gege Akutami

©️nerdiel-has-no-braincells Please do not copy, translate, and post as your own. Reblogs, likes, and comments are ok with me!

217 notes · View notes

coconutredbulllover · 26 days

Text

if u wanna call me smth u can call me eri! or if u prefer it i guess you could call me coconutredbulllover bc those r fire ash. it was gonna be temporary but idrc and its lowk kinda cute 🥰

og believer of the ‘home’ theory

PSA ur on MY acc so either go back and read everythign ive ever posted to catch yourself up OR just dont be submitting stupid stuff bc if u HAD read what ive said u wouldnt be saying stupid stuff

most of the other longtime blogs dont post as often after the blow up and people discovering tumblr so im js gonna post whatever and try to keep the blog simple ish and if it gets bad ill just stop i guess 😭😭😭

umm req/ask wtvr u want i answer whatever i feel like answering, minors idc if u interact its not like i can stop u anyways 😭 plus ppls age means literally nothing to me theres adults on here w the maturity of 10 year olds all i care abt is act like a decent person and i will think of anyones views equally (ur never too old to have a bad take and being young wont make a good take any less valid🫡), discussion content warning maybe ig,

if u disagree w smth i say js go away i dont have energy for u 😭

uconn wbb, sometimes other somewhat related stuff, pazzi delulu, etc

also sometimes i psot while high or drunk and let out wildly incorrect delulu statements so apologies in advance!! (i will be doing wtvr i want so pls dont go crazy abt my life decisions 😘🫶🏼🔥) i also in general edit stuff in my posts if i realize it was like incorrect or i dont agree w it anymore so like its not that bad… anyways ya girl loves her tequila…

and i make lots pf typos thats my bad i usualyl fix the actually illegible ones

usually active throughout the day, PST timezone

FOR ACCESS TO MY PW PROTECTED BLOG COMMUNITY THING: go here

#i miss my old established blog #uconn wbb

7 notes · View notes

burst-of-iridescent · 1 year

Note

Oh, thank you, my day is good, but after your message it got even better! I really found solace on Tumblr, which I could not find either in these terrible comics or in LOTR. To be honest, I hardly mastered the latter at all, literally forcing myself to watch series after series, searching in vain for the former depth of characters and conflict. In my opinion, LOTR is a complete failure on all fronts, with the exception of high-quality drawing. If it's about comics, it's an illogical development of events, which, unfortunately, is laid down in the last series. I wanted to ask you -how do you feel about Ursa's line? I was offended by her decision to leave the children (of course, it happened against her will, but still -to change her face and personality, forget about her beloved son and lead a happy life with an old lover?! Don't get it wrong, a woman should suffer for the rest of her days because of a failed marriage, she should not give up happiness if fate sends. But in the context of this story, in your opinion, does it not look like a betrayal, first of all of herself (Ursa?), and of course her children. She couldn't help but understand what kind of hell they got into, first of all the son, after her disappearance. And if you also disagree with this "canon", what would you see the fate of Zuko and Azula's mother? (sorry for such a long letter!)

hi again! thank you, you're so sweet!

i 100% feel you on both LOK (i'm guessing LOTR is a typo?) and the comics. it's so disappointing because both the show and the comics have some great conceptual ideas, and in the hands of competent writers, could've been excellent continuations of ATLA and worthwhile successors... but instead we got a flaming pile of garbage that deserves to be at the bottom of the sea.

the search isn't the worst atla comic imo (that honour goes to the promise) but it's definitely doing its damn best to earn that spot. i hate so many things about that comic: the outdated, insulting depictions of mental illness and mental healthcare in azula's story, zuko getting a "replacement sister" in kiyi as a fix-it bandaid, the fact that it becomes a whole gaang adventure when the correct narrative choice would've been for zuko and katara (and maybe azula at most) to take this trip together as a full circle from the southern raiders, katara and sokka's only role in the story being to foil zuko and azula and nothing else, and of course... the complete annihilation of everything ursa's character was set up to be in atla.

i agree with you that it is very much a betrayal of ursa's character for her to willingly lose her memories. she knows she's leaving her children in the hands of a dangerous abuser, one who's already molding her daughter into a lethal weapon and was fully ready to murder her son, who has proven his willingness to sacrifice his children without hesitation if it benefits him. but despite this, despite the fact that she committed murder, accepted exile and even risked her life (for she had no way of knowing if ozai would simply let her leave peacefully) to protect her child... suddenly she's willing to throw all of that away and fuck off with her childhood lover at the first opportunity?

it baffles me why bryke didn't at least make ursa's memory loss an accident, which would've both explained her absence and why she never went to look for her children without committing character assassination in the process - but that's probably expecting too much logical writing from those two.

i'm actually planning a post-canon book 4 zutara fic that would include a rewrite of the search, where ursa didn't just fuck off to do nothing, but actually had a redemption arc very similar to zuko's after secretly fleeing to live in the earth kingdom and seeing the damage the war had done. she takes it upon herself to right the fire nation's wrongs, and grows particularly invested in air nomad culture, seeing it as her duty to try and bring back some of what the genocide had destroyed. shortly before zuko's banishment she sets out to find the remnants of a people long believed to be gone - and finds that maybe they're not entirely gone after all.

i won't spoil the rest, but i think it'll both explain why ursa never went back for zuko and azula while still giving her a meaningful story that didn't involve just swapping one family for another. if only we'd gotten something similar in the comics but alas... bryke gonna bryke.

thanks for the ask! no worries about it being long, i thoroughly enjoy reading your thoughts <3

#anti atla comics #anti the search #anti bryke #zutara #asks

75 notes · View notes

witchersmistress · 1 year

Text

Heads You Lose

Hello my darlings!! here is part two to Tails you win. https://www.tumblr.com/witchersmistress/716840196299276288/tails-you-win?source=share

Ive linked part 1 for those who have missed it or havent read it.

Warning: Blood, violence, death and gun shot wounds.

Word count: 9.8k

my usual warning, you do not have my permission to copy or use my work in anyway, if you do ill haunt you for the rest of your days!!

Propbably gramatical errors and typos but i type to fast for my own good lol

Name pronounciatuion for the FMC : her given name is Saorise, Sheer-sha, in Irish-Gaelic means freedom

Her nickname, gifted to her at a young age by Syverson: Louhi, Lo-hee, Finnish origin, she is the goddess of Death and Disease.

“People like you and me don’t get to love…”

Those are the words that play on repeat inside my head as I stagger to my feet, blood seeping from the bullet wound just below my right shoulder and mixing with the drying blood already covering my body. I don’t feel the pain from it. On the contrary, I’m numb to everything bar Saoirse’s words. People like you and me…

Don’t get to love…

Don’t. Get. To. Love…

She’s right in a way, but not entirely. It’s true that the likes of us don’t get to love without fear. When you mix with the people we do, you gain enemies. Even the friends you think you have can turn against you on a penny if the price is right. Look at the King - he was ‘friends’ with Carter, but he took the opportunity to take him out the moment it was offered.

I took out my boss without a second thought.

Granted it was to protect the woman I love from her very own dad, but she doesn’t know that, and I can’t tell her.

Not yet, anyway. But one thing I do know with absolute certainty is that I do get to love. And I never thought that was possible for me. Yeah, it’s dangerous to love when it can be held against you, but it doesn’t make it any less true. If I know anything about myself, it’s this: I won’t give up on our love. I refuse to, because what the fuck kind of man would I be to turn my back on something so fundamental to my very existence? A fucking pussy, that’s what, and if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a pussy.

I won’t give up on our love. Not now, not ever.

Lifting my head, I meet Saoirse’s hard stare with that promise burning in my veins. But right now, no matter what I say, I know it won’t make a difference. Saoirse might love me, but Louhi has to make a stand. We both know that. Shooting me was her only choice given the circumstances. Closing herself off, shutting down, was her only option. I don’t fight it, I can’t fight it, but most importantly, I won’t. “Get. Out!” she snarls, the slightest flicker of regret in her eyes the only sign that beneath the pain, betrayal and disappointment, she still cares for me.

That Saoirse is still there inside of Louhi, who stands before me now. “I said, get the fuck out!” I ignore Rodriguez’s laugh. I ignore the King’s smirk. I ignore Dom asking Saoirse to reconsider. Instead, I lower my head in acquiesce. I raise my hand and place it over my heart, over the tattoo of her handprint embedded in my skin and vow to myself that I will find a way to protect her from afar, no matter what. With one last look at Saoirse that I hope conveys all the love and affection I feel for her, I twist on my feet and stagger towards the exit, my gaze falling to Dom as I reach the door.

“Take care of her,” I bite out through gritted teeth, fighting the darkness that’s threatening to drag me under. He nods. “You can count on me, Sy.”

*Hours later*

“Fuck me sideways!” Connall exclaims as I blink back the heavy fog of sleep and try to get my bearings. “Where am I?” I ask, groaning as I try to sit up. Bright white light pricks my eyes like a bullet straight to my brain, and I lift my hand to my head, feeling my scalp where Derby whacked me, hissing when I feel the tender skin and the stitches there.

“Joey’s place. He’s fixed you up. Got you on a drip as soon as we arrived and gave you a couple pints of blood. There was a moment I thought we’d lose you.” “I’m hard to lose,” I reply, giving him a weak smile. “But man, do I feel like shit.” “You look like shit too,” Joey says, stepping into his makeshift operating theater and giving me a toothy grin, antiseptic and the scent of car oil following him into the room. The amount of times I’ve been in the back of his garage getting fixed up is crazy, though to be fair, he keeps this room spotless. I mean, I haven’t died of my injuries or a nasty infection yet. That’s got to count for something, right? Thank god for old ranger buddies. “Thanks, old man,” I reply, easing myself upright on the gurney. It creaks under my weight, and I feel every single bit of pain now that the adrenaline has worn off.

Damn, I could up chuck. Swallowing back the queasiness, I wait for the room to stop spinning. “What’s the damage?” Connall asks, frowning as he stares at me. I have a vague recollection of calling him for help, but other than that I remember nothing after stepping outside of the club. He’s a good man, one I can count on.

The fucking best. “Couple broken ribs, lots of bruising,” Joey says, drawing some clear liquid from a vial into a needle. He pulls it free, presses the plunger to get rid of any air bubbles, then stabs me in the bicep with it, dispensing the liquid. “I fucking hope that’s painkillers,” I say, trying to laugh but failing. He nods, pulling the needle free before throwing it in the medical waste bin. “I got you, pal.” “What else?” Connall urges impatiently.

“The gash to his head was pretty fucking deep. I’ve sewn it up but you’ll need to keep an eye on him over the next few days. He was concussed pretty badly, and there’s always a danger of bleeding into the skull or swelling on the brain, but I think we’re good where that’s concerned.”

Connall swipes a hand through his hair. “You think?” “Well, short of getting Sy into the hospital for a CT scan, I can’t say any better than that.”

“No hospitals,” I say firmly. “Don’t need the law on my ass for offing Carter-fucking-Davidson.”

“You what?!” Connall exclaims, looking from me to Joey. “Did you know about this?” “First I’ve heard,” Joey says, casting a look my way. He knows I had my suspicions about Carter and his relationship with the King, so I imagine he’s putting two and two together and coming up with a pretty good assumption about what went down. “Jesus fuck, Syverson! What the hell happened last night?” “Last night?” I have a question. “How long have I been out?” “Ten hours, but stop avoiding the fucking question. Spill. I need to know so that I can give the family a head’s up. If a war is coming, they’ll want to back you.” “There’ll be no war. We’re leaving.”

“You and Louhi?” Joey asks, even though I’m pretty fucking sure it’s a trick question given she ain’t here and he’s not fucking stupid. “No.” I shake my head, ignoring the pain in my chest that isn’t coming from my bullet wound, but is most definitely coming from my heart. I look at Connall. “When I said we, I was kind of hoping you’d come with me.” “Me? Go where, exactly? And what about Louhi?” “Saoirse was the one who shot me,” I explained, leaning my head back against the gurney. Joey whistles and Connall’s mouth drops open in shock. “Wait, back the fuck up a minute,” he says scraping a hand over his face. “You killed Carter Davidson and Louhi shot you for it?”

“Pretty much,” I replied.

“But she’s in love with you,” he counters.

“He’s her dad, Connall.”

“And clearly a prick given you killed him. You don’t need to tell me what he’s done for me to know you’d only ever off your boss because he’s done something unforgivable. So, I’ll ask again. Why would Louhi shoot you when we all know that girl is head over heels in love with you?”

I heave out a sigh. “I wish I could say that was still true.” “Are you still in love with her?” Joey asks me pointedly.

“Yes.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She shot you, Logan. Are you gone in the head?” Connall yells, shaking his head in frustration. “You know what, don’t fucking answer that.” “So you’re running?” Joey asks, moving the conversation along. “It’s complicated.” “So UN-complicate it for us because as much as I like Louhi, I don’t like the fact she nearly killed you and you’re leaving like a beat-down dog.” “Number fucking one, I’m not a beat-down dog!

Number fucking two, if she wanted me dead, I’d be dead. We were five feet apart, there is no way she would’ve missed from that distance. No fucking way,” I say, pointing to my bandaged shoulder. “He’s right. Even if she wasn’t a trained markswoman, which I understand that she is, there’d be no missing. So do you want to tell us why you killed Carter?” Joey asks. “Because the cunt was going to use her to pay off his debts to the King.” “The fuck you say?!” Connall yells. “You heard me. Carter got into a lot of trouble fucking his way around the escorts at The Crib Club, not to mention racking up a substantial gambling debt. I found out about his plans and made the King a better offer.”

Drawing in a deep breath to fend off the queasiness, I continue, “I would kill Carter if he backed the fuck off from Saoirse. He agreed, providing I stay quiet about his involvement, and he could remain a silent partner in the club.”

“The conniving bastard. Why didn’t you just kill the cunt as well?” Connall asks. “Because, as you well know, he’s powerful. Much more powerful than me on my jack jones and far more powerful than one woman with a dead dad. She needs him… For now.” “And you’re okay with that?” Joey asks this time. “Of course I’m not, but equally she’s backed into a corner. The King has a forty-eight percent share in the club, he has a big army behind him and lots of fucking connections.

She can’t go up against him. This way she keeps his protection and a share in the club whilst she establishes herself, and we find a way out of this mess.” “And you believe he won’t go back on his word the minute you're gone, and take her for himself?” “I know he won’t. Saoirse shooting me proved she’s tough enough to run the club. Besides, the King doesn’t want a woman who’ll fucking shoot him when he tries to raise a hand to her. Saoirse is too much of a handful, and one he ain’t willing to mess with, thank fuck.”

“So let me get this straight,” Connall tries to rationalize, pacing up and down as he gets all the information straight in his head. “Carter was in debt so he goes to the King for a loan, the payment of which is his own fucking daughter and a share in the club.” “Yes,” I say, the pain in my head, shoulder and ribs easing a little now the medication is doing its job. Doesn’t stop the ache in my heart though, or the constant feeling of nausea when I’m reminded of how Saoirse had looked at me as though I’d broken her heart as surely as her banishing me had broken mine. She had to do it, I don’t fucking blame her for it, but it still fucking hurts.

“You find out and cut another deal with the King,” Connall continues, “You kill Carter and the King backs off from Louhi, acting as what, a silent partner in the club?” “Precisely, he’s also got connections with some of the best clubs in the world. He can bring in the fighters. She’s smart, she’ll grow the business, and won’t throw it down the drain alongside whisky and stripper cum like her dad did.” Connall raises his brow at that. We both know Carter wasn’t the type of man who cared about a woman’s pleasure over his own. “Turn of phrase,” I mumble.

“So the King gets to sit back and reap the benefits whilst you take the blame for killing Carter, am I close?” “I don’t know about that part. That all depends on what happens now, but I’m not sticking around to find out whether Saoirse grasses on me. Though I wouldn’t fucking blame her if she did.” “She won’t,” Joey says, sounding far more certain than I feel. “And you know how?” Connall asks. “As you well know, there are rules we all live by, unspoken ones, but ones we all obey. No fucking police. However Louhi chooses to deal with this is up to her, but that girl has grown up in this life and she won’t be pulling the police in unless they’re bent and she’s using them to cover her back.”

“Fair point,” Connall concedes, leaning back against the counter as he regards me. “And your big plan is to slope off with your tail between your legs, heart fucking broken, whilst there are a fuck load of snakes and sharks out there who are more than willing to take a bite out of your woman?”

“I’m not sloping off,” I growl, “And I’m not willing to let anyone do any such thing. I trust Dom to keep an eye on her, and I believe the King will have her back whilst it suits him. Right now keeping her safe, and more importantly the business safe, is in his best interests.”

“So what’s the plan, and why do you want me tagging along for the ride?” Connall asks. “For your charm and wit, of course,” I reply, deadly fucking serious. He laughs. I don’t. “Okay spill.” “I’m gonna find her an army of the best men and women money, charm and connections can buy, and you’re going to help me.” “Well, when you put it like that, how can a man say no?” Connalls replies, grinning. “And what do you need me to do?” Joey asks. “Keep your ear to the ground and let me know the second you hear anything about the King that should concern me. Better still, ingratiate yourself with Louhi. Get in on the business. She’ll need someone to fix up her men after they’ve been in the cage. Make sure that man is you.” Joey nods.

“You got it.” “So where to go first?” Connall asks me as my eyes begin to drift shut. “Italy. Romeo Ricci, remember that crazy bastard, he has some contacts out there I’d like to explore…” “Italy it is,” Connall replies, with a shake of his head as exhaustion and a heavy dose of painkiller pull me under.

*2 years later*

Sy’s POV

It’s been almost two years since I left. Two long motherfucking years where I’ve watched over Saoirse from afar. My Princess. My woman. My heart. She turns twenty in a week. And I’m back to tell her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me fucking God.

I owe her an explanation, my apologies and my love. But more than that, I owe her my life. Saoirse isn’t a crap shot, and no one misses major organs when they’re firing a bullet from a few feet away without purposefully intending to miss. She shot me that night in the cage, banishing me from her life and sending out a message to the criminal underworld. No one fucks with Louhi. Not even the ones she loves. It was her saving grace, because when she pulled the trigger she proved herself a Davidson more than worthy of standing in Carter’s shoes, and she’s been proving herself ever since, building a business and an army that she can be proud of. Unofficially she’s been running the club from the moment Carter was murdered by yours truly, officially just a few short weeks since his will was read and her name replaced his as the owner of the club. Either way, she’s gained respect and a reputation.

According to Dom, who’s been my inside man this whole time, despite the King still having involvement in the club, he’s backed off and allowed her to make a name for herself whilst he reaped the benefits. It won’t be long before she buys him out, or better yet kills the cunt, but all in good time. For now, she’s running the most lucrative fight club in all of Europe. Two months after the refurbishment, the old club mysteriously burnt to the ground and she moved premises to a larger, more discrete site where the club has also become more commonly known as Louhi’s Fight Club. As it should be. She’s a badass, and I’m so fucking proud of her. Two weeks ago, Dom called me to let me know that Carter’s will had finally been read, after his funeral took place a couple weeks before that.

A funeral that, by all accounts, was attended by every fucking lowlife criminal you could think of. None of them were there for Carter, and even less to pay their respects to Saoirse. Like vultures around a rotting carcass, they wanted to see what they could get out of the situation because up until three months ago, Carter was deemed a missing person. And a missing person is still a threat, but a dead man? Not so much. What they hadn’t counted on was the woman they met at the funeral. A woman who, according to Dom, single-handedly laid out three men and shot a fourth in the kneecap for even trying to disrespect her. They also hadn’t counted on the soldiers she’s acquired or the loyalty of mercenaries with a big enough reputation to scare even the most hardened criminal off. Like I said, she’s been building an army. It’s also common knowledge that the remains of Carter’s skull was found in a shallow grave in Hampstead Heath, and that he was identified by his teeth.

It’s not common knowledge that the police were tipped-off with where to find Carter’s remains, or the fact that the rest of his body was fed to pigs who have long since been butchered too. Both calculated decisions that were made by Saoirse herself. Of course, speculation had been rife in the criminal underworld, and according to Dom, Saoirse endured weeks of police interrogations, interviews and accusations. But she never wavered from her story, and she never once ratted me out. Carter’s cause of death was deemed suspicious, but given there was very little left of Carter’s body and no other evidence to be found given the old club is now nothing but a pile of ash, the case ran cold.

Though I’m more than fucking positive that there was a handout to the police chief and a few people higher up the chain of command to nip any further investigations in the bud. Like I said, Saoirse has come into her own. Or should I say Louhi has come into her own, because there isn’t one person now who’ll call her Saoirse. She won’t allow it. The last person who tried was beaten by her men so badly that he can’t even remember his own name, let alone hers, or so I’m told. Saoirse has well and truly shredded her skin and stepped into the role of Louhi completely. It’s a heavy burden to know that I’m part of the reason for that.

That my actions, my half-truths and my lies to keep her safe, forced her into a persona she couldn’t escape from. Honestly, I’m not certain she would even want to now. But I’m not back to change her in any way, I’m back because I can’t stay away a moment longer. There’s so much I need to fix and I’m not self-centred enough to believe I’ll be successful, but I’ve got to fucking try. I blow out a steady breath, swiping at the mist covering the mirror from the shower I’ve just taken, and stare at my reflection. I look much the same as I did when I left.

I’m still a bulky fucker, probably bigger than I was given I’ve spent a lot of my time training in gyms around the world, but it didn’t matter where I was, there was no sunshine without her. My happiness wasn’t a focus, her safety was, still is. I haven’t been complacent in my time away. I’ve made alliances, acquaintances and friends with powerful men and women. And I’ve done it all for Saoirse, for Louhi. I’ve been standing by her side this whole fucking time we’ve been apart. I never stopped working to build her army. Never stopped loving her. Never stopped dreaming about her every fucking night, and thinking about her every minute of every day. I’m surprised my dick hasn’t dropped off from the amount of times I’ve abused it whilst thinking of her.

That night in her bedroom where she’d spread herself for me and finger-fucked herself so perfectly has been on repeat in my head for the last two years. Even now, after all this time, thoughts of her make me hard. That won’t ever change. Scraping a hand over my face, I mentally psych myself up, because if I was nervous about telling Saoirse about my feelings back in my tattoo shop two years ago, that’s nothing to how I’m feeling now. I ain’t shitting a brick. I’m shitting a goddamn mountain. Dom has made it perfectly clear that she’s not the same person I left behind, but then again neither am I. Truth be known, being away has changed me. I was never a spiritual man, and I won’t pretend that I am now, but a few months back I accompanied Connall on a trip to Ireland to visit his family and met a lad who has this uncanny ability to uncover a man’s secrets and capitalize on them. The little fucker got me talking about personal shit that I would never share with anyone. I can’t even blame my loose mouth on the pints of Guinness I knocked back, given I only had two. Pretty sure he pulled some voodoo shit on me. All I know is if anyone has the heart of a criminal, the soul of a thief and the mind of a genius, it’s Arden Dálaigh, and I have no doubts we’ll meet again when he’s grown a few more chest hairs. But that’s a concern for another day.

With a shake of my head, my gaze falls to Saoirse’s handprint tattooed on my chest, the outline of which is now completely filled with black ink. From there my eyes track across to the puckered scar that sits just beneath my right collar bone where Saoirse shot me. Both are a prominent reminder of the woman I love, and I will wear them with pride until the day I fucking die. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Connall asks, the second I slide into the passenger seat beside him. I gave him a look. “Not in the fucking slightest, but it’s time.” “She might actually kill you this time.” “She might, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I reply, drumming my fingers against my knee in agitation.

The fucker of course notices. He’s been a good friend to me and I owe him so much more than I could ever repay. Connall has been my right-hand man through all of my travels around the world. “Listen, mate, I love you, you know that right?” I laugh. “If you’re about to tell me to run away with you—”

“We’ve been there, done that already,” he cuts in with a smirk, breaking sharply and swearing at a kid that suddenly dashes out into the road in front of us. She slams her fist against the bonnet, before giving us the middle finger. Beneath her hood I can see bright blue hair and a scowl that would rival the many Saoirse has given me in the past. “Watch where you’re going, asswipe!” she yells, then pelts it across the street chucking a spray can at the car for good measure.

“The little fucker!” Connall exclaims as we both watch her leg it down the street and disappear down an alleyway a little further up. “That one’s gonna cause someone a heap of shit in a few years.” “Looks like she’s already causing a heap of shit,” I remark, as Connall puts the car in drive and moves on. We both laugh, the tension easing a little. Ten minutes later Connall pulls up outside a gated industrial estate, manned by a security guard who looks very familiar.

Mark.

The last time I saw him, he was in the crowd at the club whilst I was getting the shit kicked out of me by Derby. Connall gives me a look. “Is he gonna give us trouble?” “I guess you’d better roll your window down so we can find out.”

Mark steps out of the little hut he’s sitting in and strolls over to the car, ducking down to look through the now open window. It takes him less than a second to lock eyes with me. “Well, fuck! Dom said you were back, but I didn’t believe it. Syverson, as I live and breathe. How are you, mate?” Not quite the reception I was expecting, but okay. I grin. “I’m good, you?” “Head of security here these days,” he says with a wink, tapping on the walkie-talkie attached to his chest. “That uniform looks good on you,” Connall says, jerking his chin towards Mark’s outfit. He looks like a cross between a copper and a bouncer in his deep blue shirt and trousers.

The fact he’s got a handgun strapped to his hip and a knife slotted next to it just adds to the whole don’t fuck with me vibe he’s got going on. “Louhi likes her soldiers dressing smart. Things have changed around here since…” His voice trails off and neither of us fill in the silence. Mark was at the club the night I fought Derby, but he wasn’t there when I killed Carter. I found out later he was dragging a fuming Hudson Freed home.

Though he couldn’t keep him away according to Dom, who’s been my inside man this whole time. Hudson came back an hour after I left and is as deep in this pile of shit as the rest of us in attendance that night. Honestly, I expected to hear that Saoirse and him had got together after I’d gone, but to my surprise they’re still just friends and have remained close. I guess I owe him a thank you for looking out for my girl too, even if it pisses me off that he got to spend time with her and I didn’t. I should be grateful, I am grateful, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to beat the shit out of him for having her time and attention though.

Never thought I’d be a jealous man, but here we are. “Sy is here to see Louhi. Is that gonna be a problem?” Connall asks, before I’m able to even clear my head enough to do the same. For a beat Mark looks between us, his expression serious. We were friends once, and the thought of having to knock the fucker out so I can get inside the gates doesn’t sit well with me, but I’ll do it if I have to. “A few weeks back I would’ve seen you on your way,” he admits with a wry grin. “And today?” I ask, my stomach churning at the thought that just on the other side of this gate is the woman I love. “Today you’re allowed in.” Connall grins. “Excellent, want to get the gate open then?”

Mark’s smile drops. “Sorry, Connall. Sy goes in alone. Orders of the Boss.” Connall looks affronted, glancing at me. “Why is she pissed at me? I ain’t done nothing wrong. Surely, she has missed my Irish charm?” I laugh, and Mark grins. “Couldn’t tell you. All I’ve been told is if Logan turns up he comes in alone.” “Not a problem,” I say, unclipping my seat belt. “Follow me then,” Mark replies, bumping fists with a put-out Connall, before striding back to the gate. “Seriously, Sy, are you sure you wanna do this? We both know that Louhi has quite the reputation these days.” “I’m sure. Go home. I’ll call you later.” Connall nods, blowing out a breath.

“Well, don’t let me tell you I told you so when you end up in the coroner's office with a bullet in your brain.” “Pretty sure I’ll be incapable of listening or responding at that point,” I say with a laugh, before jumping out of the car and striding through the open gate.

Two minutes later I’m pushing open the door into the warehouse Mark pointed me towards, and stepping into a cornered off wire cage with wrap around curtains and a locked door opposite. In the corner of the space is a table and a sign that says:

Remove all weapons or entry will be denied.

I grin. Saoirse is way smarter than her father. Security is clearly a priority, as it should be. Glancing around the space, my attention is caught by a tiny red light flashing in the top right hand corner of the cage. I stare up at the camera and wait, a smile pulling up my lips. “Weapons on the table,” a familiar female voice barks through the intercom. It’s been a long time since I heard her voice and for a moment I’m taken aback. Struck fucking dumb, actually, though my dick doesn’t seem to have the same problem. It jerks at her voice, standing to fucking attention. “Jesus fuck,” I mutter. “Weapons on the table, Syverson. You’ll get them back when you leave.”

Syverson. Call me a fool, call me whatever the fuck you like, but the sheer fact she’s addressing me by my real name is a good fucking sign. I hear the sass buried deep beneath the coolness, and it fires my fucking blood like nothing else. Maybe there’s hope. “I have no weapons. I come in peace,” I reply, grinning, unable to help myself.

For long moments there’s just silence, then the intercom makes a clicking noise and her voice follows shortly after. “Prove it. Strip.” “Sure thing, Princess,” I reply without hesitation, more than happy to oblige. I hear the sound of the intercom clicking once more and wait, but there’s nothing but static. Maybe it’s too early to be calling her Princess again so I follow my reply up with a statement that I hope she takes as truthfully as it’s meant. “Ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” Her scoff comes through the intercom clear as fuck then. “Just get on with it.” I stare up at the camera and nod. If she wants me naked, then I’ll get naked.

She can see how my cock is growing for her too. I don’t fucking care. She can take her fill. Removing my jacket and boots first, I throw the former onto the table and kick the latter across the concrete floor. There isn’t one moment when my gaze isn’t focussed on the camera, and I’m hoping she can feel the intensity of my stare, because I sure as fuck can feel hers. Next, my t-shirt, jeans and socks come off and I stand in my boxers with a raging hard on that would rival any of those other fuckers that she might’ve invited into her bed. I sure hope I get the chance to erase any bastard cock that has had the pleasure of her attention these past couple years. It fucking kills

I know that someone else has taken what was always supposed to be mine, but I can’t blame her for it. I won’t do that. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking gut me though, or that I won’t off the fucker who took it from me. Just saying. “Do you need me to remove my boxers too, because you know I will, Princess,” I say unabashedly. This wasn’t exactly how I pictured our reunion, but I get the psychology behind it. She wants to show me who’s boss, what she doesn’t realize is that I never wanted to be hers.

Every action I took came from a place of love, and the need to protect her. “Is that a gun in your pants or are you just glad to see me?” a familiar male voice says, followed by a burst of laughter that has my cock deflating quicker than you can say gonorrhea. Across the other side of the space the curtain surrounding the cage is pulled back and Dom is smiling at me. “Fucking hell, Syverson, I can see that cock of yours is still a lethal weapon.” I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “You prick!”

“Nope, you’re definitely the prick.”

“Good to see you, Dom,” I reply, my smile fading as I give him a look that I hope he interprets as gratefulness. Without him keeping an eye on Saoirse, and letting me know how she’s been doing, I would’ve been even more of a fucking mess. “Get dressed. Louie's waiting for you in her office,” he gives me a knowing look, then punches a number into a keypad on his side of the cage and pulls the door open. He waits for me to put my clothes back on, and with one last glance at the camera, I follow Dom into the lioness’s den.

Saoirse’s POV

I stare at the screen, at the man who stole my heart and made me an orphan. He looks the same as I remember and different in a way that’s difficult to pinpoint. There are lines around his eyes, and a tightness around his mouth that I have the sudden urge to soothe. He’s more muscular, if that’s even possible. His hair is a little longer on top and he’s clean shaven. If I weren’t already sitting down, I’d need to.

There’s no doubt that he’s grown even more handsome, and despite my head telling me not to get drawn in, my foolish heart is beating wildly. Don’t even ask me about my pussy because she’s already forgiven him and is about ready to throw herself at his cock and beg for oblivion. “Fuck!” I swear, my gaze roving over every inch of his face as he stares up at the camera.

This was a bad fucking idea. I can’t be weak for this man, I can’t. Flicking my gaze to my phone, I consider calling Mark to come get his arse and chuck him out, but I hesitate. My stomach churns with anxiety, and I grab my packet of cigarettes from the table, lighting one and dragging in a deep lungful. The tip sizzles, and when I blow out a stream of blue-grey smoke, some of the anxiety lifts. Narrowing my eyes at him I make a decision, then lean back in my chair and press the intercom button. “Weapons on the table,” I say, keeping my voice steady, cold. He stiffens, his muscles locking tight as he blinks back up at the camera. He wasn’t expecting to hear my voice. Good, let him feel as fucked in the head as I do. I take another drag of my cigarette, enjoying the power shift as he chews on his lip. There’s no doubt that he’s nervous. Well that makes two of us.

“Weapons on the table, Syverson. You’ll get them back when you leave.” I can’t help but grin at the surprise in his eyes when I call him by his real name. Before, when I used to call him Syverson, it was to wind him up, to get a rise out of him. Now, I just want to remind him that I can call him whatever the fuck I want and he can’t do a damn thing about it. It takes him a beat to reply, but when he does he gives me a grin that almost makes me forget what he did. Almost. “I have no weapons. I come in peace,” he says. I take another pull of my cigarette.

There’s nothing about his body language that tells me he’s being anything other than truthful, and despite everything, I believe he isn’t carrying. Not that it would matter if he was, because my soldiers would have him disarmed and on his knees with a gun cocked at his head before he could even blink. Syverson might be the best fighter in the cage, but he’s no match for the combined force of the mercenaries I’ve gathered over the two years since he’s been gone. Every single one of them walked into the club as a fighter and stayed as my soldier, and I took full advantage of the universe bringing them to me.

We eyeball each other through the screen, and deciding that he needs to be knocked down a peg, or five thousand, I test his willingness to follow my orders because there is no way I’ll even entertain talking to him if he thinks he can just waltz back in here and pick up where we left off. I don’t care how fucking sexy he is, or how much he still makes my legs go weak and my pussy wet. “Prove it. Strip,” I demand, smirking as I lean back in my chair and wait. I don’t have to wait for long. “Sure thing, Princess,” he replies then begins to remove his clothes. I press down on the intercom about ready to tell him to fuck off for calling me Princess, but then he says something else that stills my heart and immediately puts me back in the headspace of the girl who was utterly in love with him. “Ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” I blink at the screen, at his sincerity. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Swallowing hard and pushing those feelings deep down, I scoff, then say; “Just get on with it.”

Then I click off the intercom so that I don’t do something fucking stupid like ask him to do everything I’ve dreamed of in the privacy of my bedroom these past couple years since he’s been gone. Dragging in another hit of my cigarette, I watch him undress, my mouth dropping open as I stare at the screen, transfixed. He strips right down to his boxers and there’s no denying that his almost naked form is as stunningly attractive as it ever was, but it isn’t his defined muscles or his broad shoulders

and strong thighs that leave me breathless. It isn’t even the intimidating size of his erection. It’s my handprint that’s completely filled in and resting over his heart in a permanent tattoo that sucks all the oxygen from the room and has my own heart pounding so loud that I barely hear my phone ringing. “Shit! Fuck!” I exclaim, picking it up. “What?” I snap into the mouthpiece. “He’s about to take his fucking pants off. Are you still convinced he’s packing?” Dom asks me, undeniable laughter in his voice. He’s certainly packing, I think, my gaze trailing to his boxers and the bulge there.

“Bring him to me,” I ordered. “Sure thing… And boss?” “Yes?” “He’s a good guy.” I snort. “Tell that to Carter.” By the time Dom knocks on my door five minutes later, I’ve shrugged off the girl who was in love with Syverson and firmly stepped into the role of Louhi. I promised myself I would listen to him, and I will, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to take him back no matter what he has to say. “Come in,” I called out, arms folded across my chest in defense mode that I quickly uncrossed because letting him know I’m feeling out of sorts by his sudden appearance today isn’t what Louhi would do. She is strong, unfazed by anyone, and it’s her grit I funnel as Dom opens the door and Syverson steps past him into my office.

I glance at Syverson quickly, willing my heart to stop racing and ignoring the very real need to just go to him, then give a tight smile to Dom. “Need me to stay?” he asks. “No. Get home to Nancy. I’ll see you back here tomorrow night for Ziggy’s fight.” “Sure thing.” He nods once, flicks his gaze to the back of Syverson’s head and smirks, shutting the door behind him. “I should shoot you dead now,” I state, my fingers running over the Glock resting on my desk, internally wincing at the opposing emotions fucking with my head. I just want to go to him, wrap my arms around him, but I can’t. I fucking can’t. “I wouldn’t stop you,” he replies evenly. “Do you have a death wish?” I ask, genuinely interested, and trying hard to focus on being Louhi and not the girl who’s still in love with him. He holds his hands out, palms up. “The only wish I have is for the chance to talk. That’s it. That’s all.” We stare at each other for long moments, and I’d be a liar if I didn’t want to throw caution to the wind and forgive him instantly for everything. But I can’t do that.

I won’t do that. “Drink?” I ask instead, if only because I need something to do with my hands. Without waiting for him to reply, I push back from the table and stride over to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, pouring us both a three-fingered shot of bourbon. I take my time, letting him get his fill of my fitted shirt, tight leather skirt, bare legs, and stiletto ankle boots. I know for a fact my knee-length skirt hugs my arse, and the slit at the back gives glimpses of my thighs. He’s not the only one who’s kept themselves fit these past couple years. I spar three times a week with Dom and Mark and train with Cleveland, one of the mercenaries, twice a week too. I keep up with pole dancing as much as I can with Nancy and Matty as well. Exercise has helped to keep my mind focused, sharp. What no one knows is that on my nights off I indulge in copious amounts of junk food to ease the pain in my chest whilst sitting in my threadbare pyjamas, feeling lonely as fuck. There has to be balance, right? With his eyes on me, I grab the drinks and return to my seat, sliding one across the table to him. “Sit.” Syverson nods, watching me carefully as he pulls out the chair and takes a seat opposite me. I will my cheeks not to flush at the intense way he stares at me,but rather than looking away I stare right back, not willing to let him see how affected I am by him. Taking a sip of the bourbon, I wait.

“Saoirse…” Syverson begins, his Texan accent causing a sharp pang in my chest, “Louhi,” I retort firmly. “Louhi,” he corrects, leaning forward and clasping his hands together on the table, completely ignoring the glass of bourbon. My gaze trails over his thick fingers and the veins protruding on the back of his hands before I slowly lift my eyes to meet his. I’m pretty sure he was just checking out my tits too. Can’t say I blame him, they’ve filled out some since he left. I guess I’m what you call a late bloomer. “You’ve got five minutes. Speak,” I demand, so fucking grateful my voice remains steady. “You look good,” he remarks, the sound of lust in his voice like a wet dream come true. There’s no denying the need in his eyes and for a second I allow myself to bask in it. To let his words wash over me like a sweet caress. Then I pull my shit together.

“If you’re just here to compliment me on my looks then you can get your arse up out of that chair and fuck right off. I don’t need your compliments, Syverson. I get enough of them as it is.” His eyes flash with possession, and a whole dose of jealousy, but he shuts both down and nods, clearing his throat. “I’m sure you do.” We fall silent again, and I pick up another cigarette, lighting it. He looks surprised but instead of questioning why I’ve taken up smoking, he nods towards the cigarette packet. “May I?” “You may,” I say, inwardly smiling at the way he seems to shift uncomfortably in his seat. I wonder if he still has a boner. The sheer fact he got hard because he knew I was watching him strip makes me feel all kinds of ways.

Mostly horny, but also wanted, desired. Yeah, I’ve had plenty men want to fuck me, but the way Syverson is looking at me now, it’s different. It’s more. As he leans forward and reaches across the table, his loose fitting, v-neck shirt gapes a little, revealing the top of the handprint tattoo. Now it’s me who’s staring as I remember the day he took me to his tattoo shop and stole my breath with his actions and his promises.

“I like what you’ve done with the club,” he interrupts my reminiscing. I rip my gaze upwards and watch him place a cigarette between his lips before lighting it.

“You’ve been busy building quite an empire since I’ve been gone.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No. I never doubted you.”

Blue-grey smoke curls up out of his mouth as he speaks and I can’t help but notice the note of pride in his voice. I don’t need a man’s validation, but surprisingly getting this recognition from Syverson means more to me than it probably should. “Yeah, you’re right. I have been building an empire since I banished you,” I reply, forcing all those warm feelings I have no business entertaining deep into the pit of my stomach. Anger is by far a safer emotion right now, and I’m clinging onto it with everything I have. “I’ll rephrase that. You’ve been building quite an empire since you banished me.” There’s a hint of a smile in his eyes that warms a part of me that turned cold a long time ago, and it’s that feeling and not his flirty smile that has me reacting the way I do.

I. Can’t. Let. Him. In.

I Can’t.

“Get out!” I snap. Stubbing out my cigarette, I push up from my desk and stride towards the door. “Now!” He twists in his seat, frowning as he watches me yank open the door . “What?” “I said, get the fuck out!” My voice is low, dripping with fury. “Woah, Louhi,” he retorts, stubbing his own cigarette into the ashtray before getting to his feet.

“Calm down darlin.”

“Calm down? Calm-fucking-down! No. You don’t get to patronize me.”

“I wasn’t! Shit! Fuck, that’s not what I was doing!”

I bark out a laugh, feeling a lot less Louhi and way more Saoirse than I have in a very long time. Saoirse is the one who flies off the handle at the drop of a hat, who’s emotional. Louhi is nothing like that and a large part of me resents that he still has the ability to pull her out of me.

“Did you honestly think you could waltz in here, flash me a smile, give me flirty fuck-me eyes and think I would fall at your feet like some lovesick teenager?”

“Well, I—” he smiles again in that infuriating way that makes my heart squeeze. “Don’t you dare!”

I hiss, slamming the door shut in anger instead of slamming my fist into his cocky face. “Don’t make this into a fucking joke.”

“I’m sorry, let me start again,” he begins, scraping a hand over his face.

“Fuck, I knew I’d balls this up.”

“I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not someone you can flirt with and charm, who begs for your attention. I won’t just roll over and forgive you for everything just because you’re back.”

“I don’t expect you to do any of that,” he replies earnestly as he steps towards me. “I misjudged the situation. I guess I thought—I hoped—that because you hadn’t already shot me dead that we were on better terms than we actually are. I was wrong. I apologize.”

“The only terms we’re on is me giving you a chance to shoot your shot before I decide whether to shoot you dead for good this time!” I bite back.

“That’s fair,” he replies, holding his hands aloft as he approaches me guardedly. “I’m just asking you to listen to what I have to say. Will you?”

“So now you want my obedience?” I shake my head. “Nothing’s changed there then.”

“You were never obedient,” he retorts, moving closer still. “As I recall, you did nothing but cause me shit. I’ve missed that.”

This time his smile isn’t flirty, it’s pitted with regret and the barely stitched together wounds in my chest rip open at that. He missed me. God, I missed him too. So fucking much. But I don’t admit it.

“And you were nothing but a tease and a heartbreaker!” I retort, hating the fact that I’m losing my cool so spectacularly, that somehow I’ve moved towards him instead of putting more space between us. “I’m sorry it felt that way.”

“Are you?”

“Saoirse,” he says, then slams his mouth shut when I give him a glare that ordinarily would end in someone getting kneecapped.

“Louhi,” he repeats, still stepping towards me.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did. And that girl you made an orphan? She’s gone now.”

“I understand,” he acknowledges, stopping a few inches from me.

“You don’t understand though,” I reply. “You don’t understand anything.”

“Then explain it to me. What’s going on in your head, Princess?”

I look up at him unable, or perhaps unwilling, to drag my gaze away. I don’t even pull him up for calling me Princess again because, fuck, I’ve missed him so much. I ache to step into his arms. It’s physically painful to keep this distance between us, but I have a reputation to uphold and letting him back in would ruin mine. No one knows for certain that he killed Carter, but speculation has been rife since his body, or what was left of it, was found. The fact Syverson disappeared the same night my dad did but has turned up alive and well two years later is a big fucking red flag.

Not to mention that he did actually kill my dad. It’s just as well I’ve got the police chief in my pocket, otherwise Sy would’ve been pulled in for questioning the second he stepped back in town. He knows that just as much as I do. “You lost the right to ask those kinds of questions two years ago, Syverson.”

“You’re right, I did, and it guts me to know that.” He sighs, tracing my features with his gaze. “There’s so much I need to say to you, but all I can think about right now is taking you in my arms and loving you until you understand that I’m sorry.”

“Syverson,” I warn, but he ignores me and brushes his knuckles against my cheek, and just for a moment I’m caught in his pull, in the chemistry and the attraction we’ve always shared. It’s as strong as it ever was. It’s intoxicating.

“Fuck, Louhi. Fuck,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my lips.

“Syverson,” I say, trying and failing not to lean into his hold as his palm presses against my cheek and his fingers massage the shaven hair behind my ear. I can feel myself giving in, feel my heart calling out to his whilst my brain screams at me to stop, to think, to step the fuck away from him. “We belong together, you and me,” he murmurs as I struggle internally, wanting to let him in, knowing that I shouldn’t.

He lowers his head slowly towards mine, and in the short time it takes for him to lean closer, Louhi comes back fighting. I shove at his chest, taking a step back and putting space between us. “I don’t belong to anyone, Syverson. I don’t need to be loved by you. I do just fine without that bullshit in my life!” I lie, my chest heaving as we stare at one another. “We both know that isn’t true, because this thing we have, this connection, it ain’t going away. We’re inevitable, you and me…” And he’s right. We are. A part of me, a desperately needy, lonely part that has missed him, has yearned for him, wants him to take charge and pull me into his arms and kiss me stupid. The other part sighs in relief when he backs up.

“But right now we can’t explore ourselves until you know the truth, and I’m here to give it to you.” “And what truth is that?” I ask, feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand. The look in his eyes is enough to make me withdraw emotionally, locking my feelings down, hardening up. Whatever he’s about to say isn’t going to be good. “That I killed Carter not because he wanted me dead for loving you, although that’s reason enough in my book, but because he drew up a contract with the King selling you to that asshole in exchange for paying off his debts.”

Stunned doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m feeling. I’m fucking stupified, a sudden ringing in my ear drowning out every other sound. It takes me a few moments to gather my thoughts and I have to blink back my shock. “What?” I eventually choke out, the floor tipping beneath my feet as I try to make sense of what he’s just said. “That’s a fucking lie!”

“I wish it was.” Sy blows out a sharp breath, my reaction to the truth hurting him as much as the truth hurts me. “I made a new deal with the King as soon as I found out what your dad had planned. I would kill Carter and the King would back off from you, remaining a silent partner in the club. I did it so that I could give you time to build an army so that one day, when the time was right, you could take out the motherfucker yourself.”

“He was going to sell me to the King?” I ask, disbelief quickly dissolving into rage that fires my blood and makes me wish Carter was still alive so that I could drive the motherfucking knife into his back, just like Sy did that night. “Yeah, he was,” Sy confirms, giving me a look of such deep sorrow that I almost, almost stepped into his arms. Instead, I tip up my chin, straighten my spine and funnel some Louhi energy. Maybe my dad had a hand in bringing her to life, but it was always Logan who fuelled her strength. “Tell me why I should believe you?” I ask, not because I don’t believe him—the truth is, I do—but because I need a moment to gather my thoughts. To figure out what the fuck I should do now.

“You don’t have to believe me, but if you want to corroborate my story you just need to check the accounts at The Crib Club,” Sy says. “And how do you propose I do that?” “You managed to shut down the case investigating Carter’s murder. I’m sure you’ll find a way,” he says, knowingly. “Yeah,” I retort, already knowing exactly who to go to for help in that department. “Carter was a bastard, and he deserved to die,” he continues, “And what’s more, I’d do it all again to keep you safe.”

I swallow hard, trying to form the words that just won’t come, because even though I believe him, I have to know for sure he’s telling the truth. When I don’t respond, he swipes a hand through his hair then says: “The only mistake I made was not telling you everything at the time. You weren’t wrong when you said that you didn’t need a man to make decisions for you. I can see just how capable you are, have always been. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of what you’ve built and I’m truly sorry for not giving you the respect you deserved and coming to you with what I found out.” My chest swells with conflicting emotions and it takes a great deal of strength not to fucking buckle, but I stand my ground and remain calm on the surface, even though beneath it all I’m struggling to make sense of everything. I stare at him for a long long time, my throat dry, my pulse racing, my stomach churning and my heart trying its very best to punch a hole through my chest. But I have to keep my head. First I need to check out his story, and then I need to decide what I do with that information. Eventually, I swallow hard and nod.

“I appreciate you coming here and telling me.” “It’s the least you deserve.” “I have a lot to think about,” I admit. “Yeah, I imagine you do,” he acknowledges. “What are you going to do about the King?” “I don’t know yet.” “Well, when you figure that out, I’ve got your back, no strings attached,” he says, giving me a tight smile before heading towards the door and pulling it open. “Syverson!” I call out before I can stop myself, swallowing back the fucking neediness in my voice. He stills, glancing over his shoulder at me, his eyes flickering with hope.

“Yeah?” “Are you still fighting?” “Not since I fought against Derby, why?” “Next weekend I’m holding a contest at the club to celebrate my birthday. Anyone can fight.” “Is that an invitation?” “The winner gets to become one of my soldiers. Are you still a beast, Syverson?” I ask, picking up the glass of bourbon I poured for him and knocking it back in one gulp, relishing the burn. We both know that this is a test, but it’s also an olive branch. The question is, will he take it? “I’ll be here,” he replies, then steps out into the hallway and leaves.

#henry cavill imagine #henry cavill #captain syverson fanfiction #captain syverson #henry cavill thirst #henrycavill smut

48 notes · View notes

peachypiichi · 7 months

Text

Get yoinked

would've liked to get a pic of him with the missing tooth but alas, the Glitch™ got him rip also theres a typo djbsjjsjs ill fix it later or never

#sims 4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #sims 4 legacy #simblr #the sims community #sibg1 #sims in bloom

14 notes · View notes

aesopsharpmybeloved · 2 years

Text

Of Care And Comfort

I am alive! Also, it occured to me that i never actually wrote a sickfic before, so I set the basic idea, thought itď be short and sweet and then I went crazy on the keyboard. Some of the things I wrote were most definitely NOT in the idea, but they just came so naturally and after I went over it to fix typos I actually really liked it. So I hope you will too. (ps: poor meow meow)

Please, check out my other stories from this no vampires alternate universe - A Simple Case of Love

Of Care And Comfort - 3.9K

tw: illness (influenza), vomiting

It was to be a regular Sunday mass. You were sitting with Erin in your usual pew, waiting for Father Paul to arrive for the homily. Except today he was nowhere to be found. You looked at your watch for the umpteenth time today - he was twenty minutes late already. Turning around, your eyes connected with those of Warren Flynn. You questioned him with your gaze, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and continued standing with the other altarboy, Ooker, by the church entrance. You were getting rather worried for the priest and when Bev finally proclaimed that she'd check up on him, you were nearly glad she was here.

Not five minutes later, Beverly returned to the church, stood at the top of the stairs in front of the altar and spoke: "Unfortunately, we'll have to cancel mass today, Father Hill is not feeling well. I'll have to stay with him, of course, but if anyone could get a hold of Dr Gunning and bring her over to the rectory, that'd be great, thank you." You immediately looked at Erin and she could only nod, before you stood up and left at a quick pace. As your legs automatically led you towards the house of the Island's doctor, you prayed Paul's predicament wasn't anything serious or life-threatening. The citizens of Crockett Island just got used to having Father Paul as their pastor, and after Leeza Scarborough miraculously regained the feeling in her legs, he was becoming well beloved by the people. He was a fair, kind man and it'd be horrible if something happened to him.

Before you knew it, you were knocking on Sarah's door, not too roughly, but rather insistently. Sarah opened after a while, looking confused as people didn't usually come around to her place while Sunday mass was in progress. "(F/N)? Hi, how come you're not in Saint Patrick's?" she asked, looking you up and down curiously. "Sarah," you said, a little out of breath, "I'm sorry to bother you, but Father Paul is ill and needs a doctor." "Oh, gosh, give me five minutes, I'm gonna get dressed." Only then did you notice that Dr Gunning was actually wearing her dressing gown and slippers, probably having only woken up a while prior to your arrival. You nodded and waited outside.

True to her word, Sarah was dressed quickly and you both set off back towards the rectory. Upon reaching it, you knocked on the door, a bit softer this time, and waited for someone to allow you entry. "Come in," came Bev's voice and you braced yourself and opened the door. Your gaze immediately fell on Father Paul, who was sitting on the tiny sofa, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. He looked up when you and Sarah entered and, oh boy. Paul was dressed in his usual church attire, so it seemed he actually tried to go and serve mass, but one look at him made it painfully obvious he was in no state to do so. He was pale as a ghost and his skin was clammy. His hair, which was normally styled back, was a mess too. Few strands of it fell into his eyes and got stuck to his sweating forehead. Paul's eyes were red with dark circles underneath them and Bev only completed the look of a completely ill man by bringing a bucket into the living area and setting it near the priest's feet.

You stood back while Sarah got to work, asking Father Paul questions and checking his vitals. After drawing his blood, she sat back. "Well, I'm going to run some tests on this," she said waving the vial of blood , "but I'm fairly certain you got yourself a nasty flu. High temperature, nausea, headache, etcetera, etcetera. Well, I'll know for sure in a day or two. Any idea of how you could've come by it?" Father Paul, who looked very pitiful still and was wincing at every louder sound finally opened his mouth to speak: "I think I know," he croaked and eyed you momentarily, "when I was on the mainland because of the meeting with the dioceses; Reverend O'Neil was present and he did sneeze a lot. He blamed it on hay fever." Sarah stored her equipment while Paul was speaking, carefully putting the blood vial into her case so it wouldn't break. "Well, Father, you best take some ibuprofen for the fever, drink plenty of fluids and rest. I'll run some tests at home and will check up on you in a few days." She turned to leave. You offered a soft 'Get well soon' to the priest and went to leave with her, planning to go check up on him yourself soon.

You couldn't have been more shocked at what happened next. As you and Dr Gunning slowly walked away from the rectory and towards the road, Bev Keane called after you: "(F/N (L/N), please wait." You stopped in your tracks and witnessed Sarah give you a pitying look before she said her goodbyes and parted ways with you. You and Bev hadn't spoken since the (one-sided) confrontation in church weeks ago, when Father Paul told her off in your defence. Since then, both of you became rather excellent at ignoring one another's existence, save for a few cold looks. "Can I help you?" you asked neutrally. "Actually you can," said Bev with a tense smile, "It's Father Hill." That got your attention, alright. "It's rather obvious he’ll need someone to take care of him on the weekdays while he's unwell, or at the very least check up on him every now and then. I unfortunately cannot fill this role, as I am teaching the entire day. You on the other hand," she vaguely moved her hand in your direction, "don't really have an actual job, do you. That's a lot of free time you have on hand and perhaps you ought to use it to do your Christian duty. Seeing as you and Father Hill... get on well, it shouldn't be a problem for you. That is if it doesn't inconvenience your life too much."

As much as you'd like to not help Bev Keane, you very much wanted to aid Father Paul in any way you could. Therefore you swallowed your retort about writing being a real job, and that taking care of a dear friend did not any way inconvenience you, and tried to put on the most polite tone you could muster: "I'll come tomorrow then."

---

You kept your promise and the next day, once you were sure Bev had gone to school and wouldn't come back, packed some food and ingredients into a bag and set off towards the rectory. You didn't even knock and entered quietly, fully expecting Paul to be sleeping in his bedroom. You were in for a surprise. There, on that tiny sofa where two people could barely fit, laid the priest. You had no idea how on earth did he fit there considering his height, but you really had no time to ponder that question. Father Paul was curled into himself, breathing hard and releasing a small whimper every now and then, he was very obviously in pain.

You immediately dropped everything and moved up to the couch, kneeling beside it close to the man's head. You put your hand on his shoulder and gave a light squeeze. "Paul?" you asked slowly. He uncovered his face a little and you immediately noticed that he looked much worse than yesterday, his eyes were more red and unfocused and heat was radiating off his pale skin. "(F/N)," he said in a hoarse voice, "I think I'm going to-'' You knew exactly what was going to happen and were thankfully quick in your reactions. Grabbing the bucket you saw Bev put there yesterday, you shoved it next to the sofa and quickly pulled Paul's head over it. The poor man proceeded to promptly empty his stomach into it. You caressed his back and head, and made gentle shushing noises, comforting him throughout his ordeal.

A few minutes later there was only dry-heaving coming from Father Paul, and then it all stopped. You carefully rolled him on his side and, after making sure he wouldn't be sick again, went to empty the bucket and bring a wet flannel, a glass of water and some medication to help with the nausea and fever Sarah gave you after you told her you’d be taking care of Paul. "Do you think you can sit?" you asked once you came back with all the items. Father Paul made a non-committal groan. You set the bucket back next to the sofa, just to be sure, and put everything else on a table. "Here, let me help," very, very slowly you helped Paul into a sitting position. You took the flannel and started dabbing him with it, his forehead, his cheeks, his neck, finally wiping his lips with it. He barely reacted to the cool cloth, his eyes were glossed over and not really looking at anything. "You're wearing the clothes from yesterday," you observed, speaking softly, aware he probably wasn't listening to you, "we should get you into a set of pyjamas, get you comfortable in your bed. This crappy old thing will only make your back ache too." ‘Did Bev just leave him here like this?’

Well, getting him to bed was easier said than done. Despite his lean frame, Father Paul was rather heavy and he leaned his entire weight into you as you helped him stand. The height difference didn’t make it easy for you either. You had to half drag, half carry him to his bedroom, all the while holding the bucket in your left hand in case the priest was about to be sick again. You didn't even know how you did it, but in the end you really did manage to bring him to his bedroom. Sometime later, you sat Paul against the headboard of his bed, content to just leave him there for a while while you fetched everything else you deemed important into the room. Rinsing the flannel, you once again wiped down his sweaty brow and then put the cold cloth on his heated neck. This time, there was a reaction. Father Paul sighed with relief and closed his eyes and you saw his muscles untensing a little. Now came the most difficult part.

You searched the bedroom for some pyjamas - the priest would hardly be comfortable in his trousers and clerical shirt with collar. You finally picked a plain short sleeved t-shirt and sleeping shorts, all the while preparing yourself. If you claimed you never imagined taking off Father Paul's clothes, you'd be lying through your teeth, but this was definitely NOT the way you wanted it to go. Still, you couldn't just leave him in his current clothes, as they were completely soaked with his sweat and sticking to his skin. You took a deep breath and got to work. Almost clinically, you unbuttoned Paul's shirt piece by piece, until you could slip it from his shoulders and onto the bed. Taking the cloth again, you dabbed at his collarbone and chest and under his arms. He was in no shape to take a shower and it was better than nothing. It was actually much easier than you thought it would be - tender feelings or not, you were here most importantly as a friend helping a friend in need. After you were done with washing him at least a little, you helped Paul into the t-shirt. To save you both the embarrassment, you made quick work of his trousers, cladding him in the shorts hurriedly. However, it seemed Paul was quite out of it again and seemed to barely take notice that he had just been completely undressed and re-dressed by you.

"Hey," you spoke and patted his cheek softly to get his attention. He turned his bleary eyes at you. "I'm going to need you to take your meds and drink some water, ok? Can you do that for me?" Paul thought for a moment and then nodded. You ever so carefully put the pill against his lips and he took it in. Then you helped him wash it down with water, instructing him to take small sips and ready to reach for the bucket any time. It ironically reminded you of seeing people accepting communion from him. To your delight, he actually managed to keep the medicine and small amount of fluid down. "Listen," you got his attention again, "I'm going to help you lie down now." You did just so and soon he was on his right side again, facing the door to the living room. You moved the bucket close to him again and made to go to the kitchen. A large but severely weakened hand suddenly enveloped your wrist and tried to stop you. You turned around to see Paul looking at you desperately. Sighing, you kneeled next to the bed, took the hand that reached out and put it to his chest, holding it within your own: "Hey, don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. I'll just be in the next room." Paul seemed hesitant. "I'm not leaving you. Promise. If you need me, just call, I'll be right back. But please, try to get some sleep now, ok? Can you try? Please, for me?" You were caressing his cheek with your free hand without realising it, but it seemed Paul was aware of it, for he closed his eyes and leaned into it. After a while, you released his hand and moved away, no protest coming now as the priest really did doze off.

You managed to quickly locate the bag you brought with you and immediately set to work. Everyone knew that the best food you could eat when you’re ill is hot rich chicken soup. You had no idea what the science behind it was, but there was never a time when you wouldn't feel better after eating a bowl of it; were you fighting a flu, a cold, a nasty break-up or a massive hangover. It was getting dark once you were done and so you decided to check up on Father Paul before going home. He was still in his bed, sleeping. Turning on a lamp, you gave him a quick look over - some colour returned to his face and when you put your hand on his forehead, you could feel the fever has climbed down slightly. It was not gone, however, and it was time for another dose of the meds. Once again reaching for Paul's shoulder and squeezing it, you whispered his name into his ear. He stirred and then opened his eyes, looking at you. He seemed way more there than in the morning and looked at you with slight confusion at finding you here. "Hey," you said, still whispering, "You've been sleeping for some time. Are you still tired?" He blinked once, twice, then: "Yeah..." "I figured. Don't worry, I won't keep you awake, but you need to take your meds and some more water. Then I'll let you sleep again, okay?" This time it was much easier, as Paul was much more responsive and actually almost managed to sit up on his own. He also drank more water now.

For a while, he just sat leaning against the headboard with closed eyes, breathing slowly. "Are you ready to lie back down now?" you asked softly and he hummed in agreement, settling upon his side yet again. "Are you going to stay?" asked Father Paul as you were reaching to turn off the lamp. You originally planned to go home for the night, but hearing his hoarse voice and then looking into his sad puppy eyes wouldn't allow you to do so with a clean conscience. "Yes. Of course I'm going to stay," you said and stroked a single finger along his jaw, "I'll be in the living room, whatever you need. Goodnight, Paul."

---

You sat on the sofa in the rectory, after wolfing down one bowl of the soup you made - you brought no food for yourself, since you didn't know you'd be spending the night. No matter, though, you made enough soup to last for some time and one bowl wouldn't make a difference at all. You half expected Bev to show up and check up on Father Paul, maybe criticise that you're not taking care of him well enough, or complain that your soup stinks or something. However, it was nearing ten o'clock and she was nowhere to be seen, so after checking up on the sleeping Paul one last time, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa. Or, well, you tried to. How on earth did you manage to fall asleep on this hellish thing before was beyond you... Not really, you knew that the only reason you'd fallen asleep on this couch was the man who now slept in the next room, plagued by fever. You really were doing your best, but you still wished you could do more. The state you found the poor man in this morning was honestly terrifying. He did look better in the evening, but he truly should've drank more of the water. You had to get an actual meal into him in the morning if possible, or else he could get worse again.

You didn't notice falling asleep until you woke up in the morning. It was still fairly early, as the sun wasn’t done climbing above the horizon and you immediately registered what had woken you. There was a sound from inside the house, somewhere behind you and as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes you realised it was the sound of running water. You got up from the sofa, wincing as your muscles protested. You probably would have been better off sleeping on the floor, you thought bitterly as you moved towards the bedroom. You leaned against the doorframe and gazed into the dim room - the bed was empty and, delightfully, so was the bucket. The door to the bathroom was closed and you could now clearly identify the sink faucet running. A short while later, the door opened and out came Father Paul, his legs slightly shaky, but carrying his weight.

He just leaned against a cabinet for support when he noticed you. "Hello," he murmured, "you... You actually stayed?" His voice sounded slightly better and he was obviously aware now. The prolonged standing seemed to tire him though, so you walked over to him to help him back into bed: "Of course I stayed. I promised you I would, didn't I?" When you sat him down Father Paul smiled at you. His smile was nowhere near as radiant as it usually is, but it was just as soft. He definitely looked better than yesterday, his cheeks had some pink in them now and there was a spark in his eye where yesterday had only been dull mist. You sat down right next to him, unbothered by the close proximity for once and touched his forehead with the back of your hand. Satisfied with the temperature dropping a bit again, you let your hand fall. "You hungry?" you asked after a moment. "Starving," replied the priest quietly. You sat up again and made your way to the kitchen, speaking up a bit so he heard you: "That's good. You probably shouldn't eat too much at once, so your stomach doesn't get upset again, but it's important for you to eat something, or the medication itself could make you sick."

You heated a smaller portion of the soup on a stove and put it in a bowl onto a tray to bring into Paul's bedroom. Paul ate slowly, as you advised him, but seemed like he wanted to shovel the food into his mouth after the first spoonful hit his tongue. Which you found greatly flattering of course. After he was done, you supplied him with another glass of water which he emptied soon, small sip after sip, washing down another pill in the process. You then remained sitting in his bed, talking and while Paul's spirits seemed high, you could see the exhaustion setting in quickly. "Forgive me," he said at one point, suddenly sounding sad. You looked at him confused: "What for?" Paul rubbed his eyes with his hand and sighed. "I'm sorry you had to see me like.. that. That you have to take care of me. I feel so stupid, I kept you here all night because of a flu. I didn't want to be a burden," he said at last, voice hoarse again. He wouldn't look at you and you couldn't help but wrap your arms around him and put his head to rest on your shoulder, holding him tight. "Don't be silly," you said, gentle yet firm, "don't say silly things like that. You're not stupid, and you're not a burden, and you don't apologise when you're ill. I'm here, because I want to be here and I'm taking care of you, because I want you to get well again. I really care about you, you know."

Father Paul was returning your embrace softly, forehead pressed into the crook of your neck. You could gradually feel his arms faltering in their hold and so you let him out of your arms and smiled at him: "I mean that. Don't you talk like that again. And don't think like that either, please. Promise?" The priest gave you a smile in return and nodded. You excused yourself to clean up the bowl and move the rest of the soup into the fridge and made him lean against the headboard again. After you were done, you snuck a peek into his room to find him asleep again. You silently walked over to the man with a smile and carefully brushed the hair that fell into his forehead to the side, letting your hand linger for just a moment. When he subconsciously leaned into your touch again, you let your fingers slowly comb through his silky raven locks, mindful not to wake him. As he slept, his face got so calm and relaxed, even more open than it normally was. He was beautiful, in body and in spirit. You enjoyed the feeling for as long as you could before pulling your hand away. He made an unhappy little sound but remained asleep. Slipping out of the bedroom you collected your bag. You really needed to take a shower at home and, seeing as you would probably be staying in the rectory until you nursed the priest back to health, you had to grab some necessities. Sleeping bag, for one, no way you were going to spend one more night on that godawful sofa. After double checking that you had everything, you entered the bedroom one more time. A minute or two passed. Then you quietly approached the bed again and leaned in, pressing your lips to Father Paul's forehead, right above his expressive eyebrows.

---

Father Paul woke, feeling much better than he did two days ago. Slightly faint still, but since he was no longer bent over the godforsaken bucket, he considered it a win. The rectory was silent and he looked around for any sign of (F/N). What he found was a piece of folded paper on his nightstand. He slowly took a hold of it. "I’ll be back soon, x (F/N)" it read and the priest smiled into the page. He laid down onto his back and looked up into the ceiling, as if there was a night sky above him. And on his forehead, there was a phantom of a kiss.

Hope you liked it. As always, you can check this story on AO3. I’m dying for feedback c: Looong Author’s note bellow.

---

Author’s note - Beverly isn’t exactly fond of Father Paul in this universe (to the point of leaving him suffer on the sofa) and I will explain why: I think in the canon, Bev wasn’t too ‘Keane’ on Father Paul until she realised it was Monsignor Pruitt. After experiencing no consequences for what she did to Pike, maybe she even saw it fit to get rid of the new priest (cue the school closet poison scene). She started to suspect something after seeing the photo on the wall, of course and probably thought like: either - he’s not going to die because he’s monsignor pruitt and he’s young again and that’s sus enough to not die, or - he’s going to die, but it’ll be okay, cause everyone knew he had been sick for a while. And when she realised Paul WAS Pruitt, she started to be ultra ‘caring’ cause that’s how she used to manipulate pruitt before too and it worked. SO while she doesn’t attempt to poison him in this universe, she simply doesn’t care for him, hence just leaving him in pain on the sofa and not checking up on him was no biggie for her.

#midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction #reader insert #father paul hill x reader #father paul x reader #fanfiction #sickfic #hurt/comfort #father paul #father paul hill #Beverly keane #Sarah gunning

88 notes · View notes