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atlabeth · 2 months

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(not so) simple pt 4 - anthony bridgerton

masterlist

summary: coercing lord bridgerton into pretending to court you to avoid the affections of a baron is very simple — that is, until it isn’t.

a/n: SO. UM. once again this took fucking forever to come out which is kind of insane when you think about it because i've had 7000 words of this chapter written for like 4 months. truly wild. 2 babies have been born in the time that it's taken me to write this mini series but anyways there’s a lot happening here, shoutout to anthony for finally getting some more pov parts, the fun thing about your mc being out of commission for a while is that you have no choice but to write for the other characters. equality we love to see it. anyways most of it is angst, but it’ll all be wrapped up with a little regency romance bow i promise

wc: 7.6k

warning(s): aftermath of the end of last chapter which is angst. stab wound, talks of death, mentions of edmund's death, quite a bit of crying, anthony bridgerton's inner angst, miss worthing makes poor decisions. not a happy chapter but WHAT CAN YOU DO

“What were you thinking?” Violet demanded.

Anthony could barely hear his mother over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, the pure terror gripping his heart. He’d no idea how to respond to her. He doubted she would like to hear that he, indeed, was very much not thinking.

And he was certainly not thinking much now, what with you on the brink of death with their doctor and his apprentice the only thing there to stop you. He could be of no help to you, bent half over in his chair, head in his hands, the image of you collapsing burned into his mind.

“Anthony Bridgerton, answer me.” Violet stood over him, her face flushed and eyes filled with anger and fear. “What were you thinking, bringing Miss Worthing out into the city?”

“I cannot deal with your questions right now, Mother!” he snapped, something letting loose inside of him. Anthony would have been ashamed had he any sense. “My future wife is in that room fighting for her life, and it is because I was not able to protect her. I am hardly able to form words at the moment, Mother, so please—” Anthony’s voice broke, and he ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Please just be quiet.”

It took a bit of nerve to be such an ass in front of his very own mother, but Anthony apparently had plenty of nerve at the moment. After you collapsed, he’d done the only thing he could think of in the moment and brought you back to Bridgerton House—it was closer than your residence, and if their physician had been able to keep his mother alive through eight pregnancies, then surely he could bring you back.

Now, though, he was not so sure. Every other option seemed to be plaguing his mind, for your blood still stained his hands and his clothing and Anthony didn’t know if he would ever be able to get it off.

His father died in his arms from something so small as a bee, and yet you had been stabbed. How were you meant to come back from that?

The door suddenly slammed open, and when Anthony glanced up, his insides twisted.

“Where is she?” Eloise demanded. Her windblown hair matched the wild look in her eyes, and the flush of her cheeks and haggard breathing told him everything. She was meant to be promenading with Penelope Featherington—her speed on foot was admirable.

“With our physician,” Violet responded. She seemed more subdued now, and though Anthony knew he would apologize profusely later, he could not find it in himself now. He could hardly find anything in himself apart from panic.

“With our physician—” She turned on Anthony, her gloved hands clenched into fists. “What in God’s name happened, Anthony?”

He allowed himself a moment to breathe before he responded. “She was stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Eloise cried. “She was with you! How could she have been stabbed?”

“I was not with her when it happened—”

She scoffed. “That is a likely fucking story.”

“Eloise,” Violet said, “language.”

“I do not care about my language,” Eloise spat, gesturing wildly with her hands. “My best friend has been stabbed— I will say whatever I please!”

And then, as if to just add fuel to their fire, Benedict rushed in. Anthony held back a slightly unhinged laugh and shook his head. You were dying and they were out here arguing.

“I’ve made sure this hallway is off limits like you said, Mother.” Benedict looked just as shaken as the rest of them, and in a strange way Anthony was grateful. You’d grown closer to his family than he’d known. “Your lady’s maid is outside the door alongside a footman ensuring privacy, and your driver is on route to the Worthing residence to alert her parents. They’ve all been sworn to secrecy—no one will be disturbed, least of all Miss Worthing.”

“Thank you, Benedict.” Violet sighed, and she collapsed into an armchair. “At least one of us is in order.”

Benedict sat down on the sofa, his words coming out in a mumble. “I am hardly in order.”

The fire seemed to have died down in Eloise, for however temporary a time, and she settled down next to Benedict. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her.

“She’ll be okay,” Eloise whispered, “right?”

No one answered for a moment. At last, Anthony looked up, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Yes,” he rasped, hoping with everything in him that his words would be true. “She will be okay.”

He would not have been able to live with any other outcome, not when it was his fault in the first place that you were in this position.

Anthony didn’t know what he should have done, but he should have done something. He should have brought you to your senses and suggested a promenade in the park instead. He should have called on you at your estate, safe and sound in your drawing room. He should have been arm in arm with you, his heart steadily melting as you smiled and laughed and made him aware of all things good in the world.

He could not lose you. Not when he still had so much to tell you, so many words left unsaid.

Not when you didn’t know he loved you.

“I’m sorry, Anthony.” He looked up at the sound of Eloise’s voice—though she did not look at him and her arms were still crossed, the sincerity of it was not lost on him. “I know it was not your fault.”

His chest tightened. It was his fault.

“You clearly care about her,” she said. “It is not fair to pin this on you.”

“Sometimes we hurt the people we care about,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “But not this time.”

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Eloise had been at odds with him for nearly this entire season because of their ruse. Though she knew of its falsity, she still chastised him for taking up time that could have been spent with her, still rolled her eyes when he announced his leave to go see you, still questioned why he had to go after her best friend.

But Eloise was driven by her emotions, no matter how red hot or icy cold they may have been. At this moment, her concern for you outweighed anything, and she recognized the same in him.

So Anthony nodded. Once, twice, hardly moving but a clear acknowledgment. He glanced at his mother and brother, both unfocused with glassy eyes. His mother’s were red-rimmed, and she held a handkerchief tightly in one hand. The guilt hidden from earlier struck.

He silently thanked their governess for keeping Gregory and Hyacinth occupied, thanked that Francesca was on an outing of her own. The last thing he needed was for his littlest siblings to find out that the woman they believed to soon be their sister was one misstep away from death. And thank God for Colin’s decision to spend the day with Mondrich—one of his younger brothers in the heat of the moment was enough.

Anthony let out a shuddering sigh, screwing his eyes shut for a moment before he ran a hand through his hair then planted his palms on his knees. He could hardly sit still but he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to get his nervous energy out.

All he could think of was you. Of how the last word you spoke was his name. Of your dried blood on his hands, staining his clothing where he had held you. Anthony barely kept you from hitting the ground when you collapsed, and he nearly did the same once he reached his residence.

Yelling at any servant in the proximity to call for the physician, unaware of his mother trying to calm him until she shook him by the shoulders, having to literally be forced out of the room by the physician’s assistant once they arrived because he refused to leave your side.

It all felt like a blur, and yet he remembered it perfectly. It all played on repeat in his mind no matter how much he tried to block it out.

The door slammed open this time, and when Anthony looked up, he felt as if he could wither away.

“Where is my daughter?” Cecilia Worthing demanded, her husband trailing after her. She was all out of sorts, with an even wilder look in her eyes and a deathly grip on her skirts. Mr. Worthing’s expression made his heart sink, with his haunted eyes and taut lips.

“I am so sorry, Cecilia,” Violet rasped, and she crossed the room and enveloped her in her arms. It took a moment for your mother to respond, but she returned the hug as a sob escaped her.

“Your footman said she had been injured,” your father said levelly, though his voice shook ever so slightly. “How?”

“She was stabbed,” Anthony spoke up, forcing himself to look at your parents. “Some zealot in the city. I brought her here as quick as I could.”

“The city—” your father started.

“Stabbed?” your mother interrupted, halfway into hysterics. “How?”

“We got caught up in the midst of a riot,” he said quietly. “We were separated, and I assume it happened then.”

Mrs. Worthing let out another sob as she pulled her husband into her arms, and though he kept a semblance of solemnity as he whispered to his wife and held her close, Anthony could see the fear in his eyes.

How could he possibly offer reassurance? It felt different, staring at the desperation of your parents. The horrific realization that they might leave a family of two, might have to bury their only child.

His stomach twisted and Anthony’s head fell into his hands again. He couldn’t.

Eventually, Philip helped his wife onto the couch, and she remained curled into his side. No one said a word—how could they?

Apart from whispered reassurances between your parents and even shorter conversations between Benedict and Eloise, their saddened group continued in silence for the better part of an hour. No one spoke louder than a whisper, no one rose and left—they just sat together in their fear, hoping and praying that the inevitable could be denied.

Until the door creaked open and each of their heads snapped towards the noise. Anthony shot up at the first glimpse of their physician’s assistant.

“What news?” he asked immediately. The tension in the room had grown to be near palpably thick.

“The surgery went well,” the assistant said, and all the air dissipated from Anthony’s chest. “Miss Worthing lives. The doctor is ensuring a final few things, but provided our treatment is followed, we believe she will recover fully.”

Anthony fell back against the couch with a breathless laugh, and Mrs. Worthing sank against her husband, wrecked by thankful sobs. Eloise’s smile was enough to brighten the whole room, Benedict’s relief just as obvious. Violet just let out an exhausted sigh, her hand pressed to her heart.

“Thank you,” your father said. “Can we see her?”

“Miss Worthing is resting,” he said. “You will not be able to speak to—”

“We do not care,” your father asserted. “I need to see that my daughter is still alive.”

The physician’s assistant nodded after a moment, and the tension lessened in his shoulders. He helped your mother up, their hands clasped tightly together, and Mrs. Worthing looked at Anthony. You truly had your mother’s eyes.

“Will you come with us, my lord?” she asked.

“Oh, I—”

“You are family,” she said softly. “You’ve a right to join us.”

Emotion swelled in Anthony’s chest, and it took a moment for words to come to him.

“Of course,” he finally said, inclining his head. “And it is just Anthony between us. Please.”

The slightest smile spread across her lips as she nodded, and they all stood up together. Anthony took her offered arm and they started down the hallway together, your father on her other side.

How strange it was to be arm in arm with your mother. She thought the man beside her would be her future son-in-law, when he was truly nothing but a liar.

No, he thought, not wholly a liar. Not anymore. Because they believed that Anthony was to be your husband. And if there was anything this had proven to him, it was that he wanted nothing more than for it to be true.

Anthony just had to figure out a way to tell you. How strange that it would be the most difficult part of this ruse.

Violet’s maid and the footman stepped aside when they arrived and the assistant opened the door. Anthony followed your parents in, and his heart nearly stopped upon seeing you.

Your mother’s eyes filled with tears as she approached your bedside, and, after a nod from the doctor, brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear and laid the back of her hand against your forehead.

“She’s burning up,” she whispered.

“It is typical after surgery,” the doctor said. “With any luck, she will sweat it out. I will monitor her throughout.”

Your mother nodded, a shaky sigh escaping her, and she took your hand.

“I am so sorry, darling,” she whispered. “I am so sorry I was not there for you.” She brought your intertwined hands up and lightly kissed the back of your hand. “I love you more than anything. Please, come back to us soon.”

Your father joined her, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I do not know if you can hear us,” he said, voice slightly shaky, “but we are here for you. We will be here when you awaken, and every moment onwards.”

Mrs. Worthing looked back at Anthony, inclining her head towards you. Anthony swallowed his doubt as he moved forward, but the breath was stolen from him when he could fully see you.

Your eyes were closed. Your chest rose and fell just so, hardly noticeable, thin linens provided by the doctor rested over you, and sweat beaded on your brow. Alongside the discoloration of your skin, you looked…

You looked as if you were dead.

And Anthony knew that you were not—for God’s sake, you were breathing—but all he could think about, all he could see, was his father, all those years ago, dying in front of him while he could not do a single thing to stop it. And he felt that same helplessness with you; just standing there, watching, unable to do anything but hope.

“We are here for you,” he whispered. “...I am here for you. No matter what, I am here for you. Just know that, if nothing else.”

Your mother’s watery smile made him look to the doctor for fear of the same emotions eliciting even further in him.

“When will she wake?” Anthony asked. His voice sounded almost foreign to him.

“In a few hours, with any luck,” the doctor said. “At the very most, it will be the end of the day.”

“We will gladly host her until she is able enough,” Anthony said, looking at your parents. “And we have plenty of spare rooms for you to choose from if you wish to remain by her side during those days.”

“Thank you, Anthony.” Your mother placed her hands on his shoulders, though she had to look up at him, and she smiled. “You make her so happy. It will be my greatest pleasure to officially welcome you into our family.”

Anthony’s throat bobbed. God above, he hoped that was the truth.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “She… she means a great deal to me.”

“You’re a good man, Bridgerton,” your father said. “I’m thankful my daughter will end up with someone like you.”

“Your approval means the world,” he said, and he found he meant it wholly.

The doctor cleared his throat. “It would be best for her visitors to be limited as of now. The parents can stay, but…”

Anthony nodded, smoothing his lapels. “Of course.”

“We will alert you of anything,” your mother said. Anthony nodded again, and he allowed himself one more moment to look at you before he left.

You were alright. You would be alright. That was all that mattered.

Still, when he found himself alone in the hallway, finally able to breathe again, he still had that weight on his shoulders.

A revelation such as the one he’d had should have been a blessing, a relief. A man in love was meant to be a happy one. But a man in love did not usually find his feelings in the midst of season-long ruse whilst his beloved fought on her deathbed.

Anthony blew out a loose sigh, shaking his head as he continued through the halls. Being on his own, he found, was worse than sitting in silence with his family. He was trying to think of something to say, trying to gather his emotions and push them aside so he could be the man of the house as he was meant to be, but when he reached the room from before he was only met with Eloise.

She looked up from the floor, and he noticed the puffiness of her eyes, her slightly blotchy skin. His heart sank yet again.

“Benedict helped Mother to bed,” she explained, her throat bobbing. “All of this exhausted her. I’ve no idea where he is now.”

Anthony nodded, his mind still wandering. “Ah.”

“How is she?” Eloise asked, her brows knit in concern.

“As well as she can be.” Anthony sighed. “She has a fever, but she’s resting. Her parents are with her and the doctor is watching over her. He said she should awaken before the end of the day.”

The furrow softened as she smiled. It was good to see her smile. “Good. That— that’s good. I’m glad.”

“And how are you, Eloise?” Anthony asked, folding his arms.

“As well as I can be,” she responded wryly. Anthony’s lips twitched in a momentary smile, but she leaned against the couch and let out a sigh of her own. “This all certainly ended in the best way it could have.”

“The best way would have been for it to have never happened,” he said. “I should have prevented it—I was meant to keep her safe.”

“Brother,” she said wearily, “I already told you that you cannot blame yourself.”

“And I’ve never been one for listening to you,” he said dryly, “have I?”

Eloise huffed a laugh and shook her head. “I am not a fool, Anthony. I know what is happening between you two.”

Anthony frowned. “Eloise—”

“You love her,” she said bluntly. “Do you not?”

He tried to say something, but no words would follow. He could only stare at his sister and her nerve, resulting in a small smile from her.

“You are not that talented an actor, brother,” she said. “It is easier for me to believe the two of you are truly in love than that you could actually trick me in such a way.”

He blinked. “You believe she loves me?”

Eloise laughed, turning her head slightly. “I do,” she said. “And seeing as you are not denying it, I believe that means you love her.”

Anthony bit the inside of his cheek. So the two of you could fool the entirety of the ton for over half the season, but apparently not Eloise. How typical.

He walked over and took a seat on the couch next to his sister, leaving a bit of space between them. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“I do.” He glanced at her. “I love her.”

Saying it aloud—admitting the truth of feelings he’d been fighting for so long—brought him an unexpected lightness. One other person knew both truths: that they had been lying about their love, and that Anthony had been lying about his lies.

It would have been laughable had he not been so unsure of everything else.

It took Eloise a moment to say anything back. For a while, she merely looked at him, unreadable depths in her eyes. He didn’t think he would ever be able to fully decipher his sister.

“I know my blessing means very little in the scheme of things,” she finally said. “But know that if this does come into fruition… I will support you two. Every step of the way.”

The smile that spread across Anthony’s lips was brighter than anything he’d experienced today, and he inclined his head. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” Eloise said, a smile of her own growing though she tried to hide it as she glanced away. “It is not a big deal. Do not make it out to be one. There are far worse men that she could end up with.”

“Alright,” he said, unabashed in his joy. For such a solemn day, Eloise had turned his mood around.

“And I will also keep your secret,” she said breezily, “again, so do not worry about that.”

“You say it does not mean much,” Anthony said, “but you are wrong. Your support means more to me than you know.”

She shifted, seemingly bolstered ever so slightly by his praise. “...I’m glad.”

He smiled as he stood back up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his outfit. Anthony grimaced as his hands came into view. He was in dire need of a bath and some new clothes. He could not deal with your blood on him for much longer.

“I must be going,” Anthony said. “I need to clean up. And,” he sighed, “ensure that none of this has spread to the rest of the ton.”

Eloise hummed, and Anthony was nearly at the door when she spoke up again.

“...Thank you. For being here for me.”

His expression softened as he glanced back at her. “I will always be here for you.”

Her lips curved just so. Anthony had never been so thankful to no longer be at odds with one of his siblings.

Your head hurt.

That was the first thing you could truly understand as your eyes slowly cracked open, squinting while you came to. You blinked a multitude of times, trying to regain your bearings and relieve the dryness of your eyes.

It took another moment for them to adjust to the darkness—the curtains were closed, but no light filtered through. How long had you been asleep?

You grimaced as you shifted ever so slightly, a dull but constant ache in your chest leaving you stiff, but there was a weight of a hand in yours. You glanced over and recognized your mother, asleep but still grasping your hand.

You smiled. She came for you after all.

But as you tried to shift further in the bed, you groaned, a sharp column of pain shooting through you. Your mother’s eyes shot open, her body starting from instinct, but it took a moment for her to truly realize it all.

“Nice of you to wake up,” you said wryly.

“You—” tears sprung in her eyes, and her lips spread in a grateful grin— “You must be alright if your first words are to antagonize your mother.”

“I am still here,” you said. You didn’t want to tell her you didn’t think you would make it. That you thought your fate was sealed when you pulled your hand away to nothing but blood.

“That you are,” she said breathily. “Are you alright, though? How do you feel? Does it hurt?”

“I believe I am alright,” you responded, “I feel… tired. And my chest aches.”

“The doctor said that would be expected,” she murmured. “What do you remember?”

“...That depends,” you said. “What do you know?”

Your mother gave you a look as she said your full name. “This is not the time for games.”

Your cheeks heated and you averted your eyes. “I was in the city with Anthony. I was stabbed after a riot broke out. That is all I remember.”

“Lord Bridgerton is the reason you are alive,” your mother said. “He brought you back to Bridgerton House, and their doctor saved your life.”

Somehow it was possible for your face to burn even more. You dragged Anthony out to that meeting, and you repaid him by making him drag your near lifeless body all the way back to his estate.

You were the worst fake fiancee a man could have.

You felt your eyes begin to fill with tears and you rapidly blinked them away.

“Where is he?” you asked quietly. “Where is Anth— Lord Bridgerton?”

Your mother gave you a knowing look. “It is alright to call him by his name, darling. It is quite clear how much he cares for you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. You could not do this. “Where is he?”

“He is with his family,” she said. “You caused everyone quite a fright.”

“I can imagine,” you said hollowly.

“Would you like to see him?” she asked. “Because I am sure he—”

“No.” The haste with which you sat up drew out another wince. “No— I…”

You closed your eyes, biting down on the inside of your lip. You could not do this.

Your mother said your name softly. “What is it?”

You opened your eyes, ignoring the wetness around them as you looked at her. “Anthony and I cannot marry.”

She blinked. It looked as if it took a moment for your words to sink in. “What?”

“We cannot marry,” you repeated. “We— we never could marry. Our courtship is a ruse.”

Your mother blinked again, this time wholly taken aback. “What?”

“It is a ruse,” you repeated, more forcefully. “I wanted to escape the baron, and Anthony wanted to escape a thousand desperate debutantes. I proposed a mock courtship between us, and he accepted.”

Her brows furrowed deeper than ever before, as if she still couldn’t fully believe it. “You lied to me.”

“To everyone,” you said. You hadn’t a clue what had gotten into you, tearing apart a story carefully crafted throughout nearly the entire season, but something burned inside of you. You couldn’t keep going with this—you couldn’t keep stringing Anthony along, not when your feelings were far more real than they had any right to be.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I did not want to marry,” you repeated. “The baron is nothing more than a lecher, and the thought of any sort of marriage to him disgusted me, but you and Father refused to listen to me. The only way to get out of it was for you to believe I had caught the affections of someone better. Anthony Bridgerton’s word was certainly better than mine in the eyes of the ton.”

Your mother stared at the floor for much longer than you anticipated, and you could not tear your eyes away from her.

“Mother,” you said quietly, “say something. Please.”

“I do not quite know what to say.” She finally looked at you, and your throat bobbed. “All of our plans have hinged on this marriage for the entirety of the season. What am I to tell your father?”

“Do not tell him,” you begged. “Please. It is enough that you know— I could not handle the shame if he were to as well.”

“I do not keep secrets as well as you,” your mother snapped. “Marrying into the Bridgerton family would have saved us, both in riches and name. Even your dowry would have gone to use for something of your choosing.” She shook her head, clasping her hands together. “And now you have almost died and we will have to control this and I just—”

“I will marry Lord Cardew,” you interrupted.

That ceased her arguments quite quickly. “What?”

“I will marry Lord Cardew,” you repeated. “He has both riches and name.”

Your mother frowned as she gripped your hands tighter. “You despise him. You got yourself into this entire mess in order to avoid him—you’ve said so yourself.”

“What choice do I have?” you asked desperately. “His name is enough to weather the scandal I’ve created. His money will secure a life for you and Father, and he has a fine pedigree. It is the only way to save the Worthing name.”

“Have you not considered the very man who has been courting you this season?” Your mother gestured with her hand. “Look where you are, darling! Lord Bridgerton has offered up his estate to us so we can be near you as you heal. Your courtship may have started as a ruse, but the man clearly feels something for you!”

“We have become very good friends over the course of the season,” you said, “and I am thankful for it. But I cannot taint the Bridgerton name further.”

“Dearest—”

“It is necessary,” you interrupted, but your quick movement brought on a sharp thread of pain in your chest and you winced.

“Do not push yourself,” your mother whispered, and you nodded.

“It is necessary,” you repeated, though slower. “My rebellion was just… naivete. I will not be the reason for our family’s ruin borne from my own stubbornness. I will secure our legacy, I will secure my future—I will marry Lord Cardew, and… and I will finally stop trying to resist my fate.”

Your mother stared at you, and you stared back. “You said it yourself—our family’s well being hinges on my marrying into wealth. What sane man would consider me after what I’ve done?”

She continued to look at you long and hard, her expression one of unreadable depths. “You are sure?”

No, you wanted to say. You had never been less sure of anything in your life. But you could see no other choice. So you nodded.

Your mother glanced away from you with a sigh, eyes searching the room for a moment before she nodded as well. “...Alright. If that is what you wish, your father and I will contact him once you are recovered.”

“Mother—”

“That is non-negotiable,” she said, and she smiled at you. “You may be blossoming into a true lady, but you are still my daughter. And I will not allow my daughter to do anything until she is fully healed.”

You nodded. “Alright.”

“I am sure that it goes without saying that you are never going to be allowed out of our sight until you are married and settled?” your mother said, and though it caused a sharp pain in your chest, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“I assumed just as much, Mother.”

Dearest Reader,

It is a fact well known throughout Mayfair that the social season requires the full attention of every single person, frantic mamas and bored bachelors alike. It is a game of wits unlike any other, and this season has proven no different. The middle of our merriment marks many of the most eligible debutantes as engaged — this author pays special attention to the season’s diamond, Lady Adelaida Kennington, who has found her happy ending with the young Earl Pembroke.

Though congratulations may be due to another lady of the ton, one of the simple yet highly discussed Worthing family — as it seems, Miss Worthing has tossed aside the much desired Viscount Bridgerton for the hand of the Baron Jonathan Cardew. One can only be left to wonder what Lord Bridgerton must have done to go from an obviously incoming proposal back to his rakish ways in little more than a night, but it most certainly has to do with Miss Worthing’s recent disappearance from society. Word has passed around of her frequent visits to the lesser parts of London, engaging in activity that can only be described as scandalous. Perhaps it was not the fault of the viscount indeed—Miss Worthing may have finally pushed Lord Bridgerton to his limits.

No matter the reason for the ending of the courtship, this author must extend her thanks to the pairing for providing such material for my pen. It is not every day a nobody in the ton manages to bring down two families at once. Perhaps Miss Worthing deserves congratulations for conducting this fantastical feat all on her own. If it was outrage she was searching for, she has certainly earned it.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

You huffed a sigh and threw the leaflet across the room, letting your head fall back against the wooden headboard. It was one thing for Lady Whistledown to criticize you, it was another thing entirely for her to bring your family and the Bridgertons into it. You deserved everything that came towards you for what you had done, but your parents, the Bridgertons, Anthony— they were not a part of any of it.

Especially when all your father had done was visit the Cardew estate to have a conversation with the man, see if he was open to the possibility of a marriage with you. Nothing was at all set in stone, but the way Whistledown told it, you were already steps from the chapel with a ring on your finger.

So now, as if it weren’t enough that you were bed bound until your physician deemed you recovered for regular activity, as if it weren’t enough that you were likely set to be married by the end of the season, as if it weren’t enough that you were constantly denying Anthony’s requests to visit you, every single one of your idiotic mistakes was revealed to the ton through a woman too cowardly to write without a pseudonym.

If you ever found Lady Whistledown, you thought bitterly, you would strangle her.

The silence in your room was broken by the door opening, and when you looked up you were greeted with Julia’s face. The usual smile she bore when around you was not there, but before you could ask she answered your unspoken question.

“I apologise for the interruption, my lady, but you have a visitor. He insisted on seeing you.”

A small part of you knew who it was even before she stepped aside, but when Anthony Bridgerton walked into your room your breath still hitched the tiniest bit.

“What are you doing here?” you asked immediately, holding back a grimace as you pushed yourself into a sitting position.

“I had to see you,” Anthony said.

“And you chose to do so by invading my privacy.”

“I have not heard a single word directly from you nor your pen since the accident,” he said, his voice not without a slight barb. But underneath it all, an uncommon hurt festered inside of him. You could not see it, exactly, but you could sense it. “Forgive me for wanting to confirm with my own eyes that you were still alive.”

“I will remain here as a chaperone,” Julia said, closing the door behind her. “You may talk as freely as you please — I will not repeat a single word.” Anthony nodded and pulled the stool away from the vanity so he could be closer to you, then sat down.

Despite Julia’s reassurance, neither of you spoke a word. The silence began to weigh heavily, the tension growing so thick it could be cut with a knife. For so long you had been rejecting Anthony’s requested meetings, not wanting to see him after what you had done. You feared for how he would react, both to your complete ignorance of him after your nearly fatal injury and your acceptance of Lord Cardew’s courtship.

You left Bridgerton House without a word mere hours after your ill-fated decision despite the protests of your parents—you could not stay there for another moment under Anthony’s good graces, not when you had doomed any possible future with him. You did not deserve a single millimeter of Bridgerton good will.

You stared down at the covers you laid under, fidgeting with your hands in your lap as you focused on everything except your visitor. You could not bring yourself to meet Anthony’s gaze, though you’d felt his own on you for the past five minutes.

“Is it true?”

You finally looked up at his sudden question, meeting the intensity of those dark brown eyes you’d lost yourself in so many times. “Is what true?”

“Your marriage to Jonathan Cardew,” he said stiffly. “Is it true?”

Just as quickly, you glanced away. It was near impossible to even be in the same room as the viscount since you had made the decision, even more so to think of the reason why it was that way. So instead, you just nodded.

“Yes. If all works out, we are to be wed at the end of the season.”

“Why?” Anthony leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as his hands clenched into loose fists. “You openly despise the man—you asked me to court you to avoid him. Why in the name of all things rational would you willingly enter a marriage with him?”

“He will provide for me,” you said. “He has money, he has land, and he is a respectable member of society. He has already been content with the possibility of marriage once, and his name is enough to weather the scandal I have created. It is the smartest choice available.”

“And what of us?” He had an almost wild look in his eyes, and the worst desire took root in you to root your fingers in his hair and ease the troubles you’d caused him. “We have spent the near entirety of the season becoming closer, and you are willing to just throw it all away for a man like Cardew?”

“I could not trap you in a marriage you do not want,” you insisted. “You deserve more than a woman you share no love for, Anthony, and to be married to the woman who made a fool of your entire family. Lord Cardew is the only option.”

“Even if all of that is true, that does not mean it is a smart choice!” he exclaimed. “He is not a safe man to be around! If he has been pursuing you so strongly and only backed off because of my influence, what do you think will happen when you are his legal wife with no sort of protection?”

You swallowed thickly at his words. “He is not that sort of man, Anthony. He may be… horrid, and a complete egoist, but it will be a life of comfort. And that is the life that I need.”

Anthony laughed breathlessly, completely devoid of mirth as he frowned. “You cannot be serious. I have been by your side for an entire season of feminist rants and marriage complaints, half of which revolved around Cardew himself, and now you are telling me that you are just— just alright with this sort of compliance?”

“Nearly dying because of my own idiotic choices has forced me to reexamine my life,” you said plainly. “If I had been even the slightest bit unlucky, I would have perished on those streets, and what would I have had to show for myself? A rebellion that I was only able to take part in because of the privilege I so often fought against?”

“You have made a difference,” Anthony insisted. “You provided for women that no one has the gall to look out for. You’ve spoken out for your own rights, you’ve stood up for your own interests rather than sit around and take what you have been given.”

“I have been fighting against a life that so many less fortunate than myself would kill for,” you said. “I believed death to be a better fate than being forced to marry a man I did not love, but when I was on death’s door, I realized how foolish I was— how utterly selfish.”

“You are not selfish,” Anthony said, but you shook your head.

“I am. Unbelievably so.” You huffed a mirthless laugh as you looked at him. “My parents did not love each other when they married, but they were friends. They could tolerate the other’s presence, and neither of them were fortunate enough to be able to care about anything else. They have grown to love each other in their own way, of course, and they are in a better situation now, but they could not have known it would turn out that way. They did what they had to for the sake of their families and themselves, and it is time I do the same.”

“Love matches are rare,” you murmured. “And even if I were granted the opportunity… I would not deserve it.”

Anthony shook his head. “Do not say that.”

“It is the truth,” you said, letting out yet another humorless laugh. “I have been horrible to my mother when all she has ever wanted is a better life for me than she had. I have fought her for every step of the way for no other reason than my hubris and the dim belief that I deserved different than everyone else simply because I wanted it, no matter what the greater good was. How can that not be selfish, Anthony?”

“You do not have to do this,” he insisted. “You said you dreamed of unmarried life! You told me your fantasies of escaping from society, of living on your own and depending on no one but yourself. You are willing to give all of that up, just like that?”

“I was a fool for ever doing so!” you exclaimed. “Anthony, this world is hard enough on its own for married women — what do you think will become of my family if I do not marry? What do you think will become of me?”

“But you are strong.” Anthony leaned forward, his brow knit in determination. “You are strong, and intelligent, and fully capable of managing on your own. Spinster brand be damned, if it is what you wish, you will flourish completely!”

“Will I?” you questioned, and you gestured at yourself. “I am bound to this room of my own doing because I refused to see the truth of the world around me. I was young and naive to believe I could achieve anything of the sort I dreamed of without consequences, and I will be naive no longer.”

“If you insist on marrying, at least find somebody else,” Anthony begged. “You will be miserable for the rest of your life if you marry Jonathan Cardew.”

“I cannot afford to marry for love, my lord,” you said simply, “and even if I could find a man who loved me, I could never love them back. I would not force anyone into a marriage they did not want, not when…” You trailed off, the words catching in your throat.

You shook your head, choking them down. “It is not important.”

“Please do not marry him,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I beg of you.”

“Then who should I marry?” you asked, almost brazenly. “Who should I marry, if not him? I am certainly not one for options.”

You did not know what you wanted Anthony to say. To marry him? That he felt the same for you as you did for him? That, while you were indeed a fool for falling for him, he was one as well. That he would not leave you, not now, nor ever.

But instead he just stared at you with those dark brown eyes that even now could make you melt, a million emotions brewing inside of them yet none of them being given an outlet.

“I do not know,” he murmured, and your heart sank. “But I beg of you, do not let it be him.”

“It is not your decision to make,” you said quietly. “Soon I will be engaged to Lord Cardew, and I will be out of your life.”

There was an underlying desperation in Anthony’s eyes as he looked at you now, that storm of emotions thundering inside of him begging to be expressed. “I do not want you out of my life.”

The words felt like poison leaving your lips. “You do not have a choice.”

Before Anthony could protest any further, you stood up and looked over at your lady’s maid. “Please escort Lord Bridgerton outside. I wish to be alone.”

“My lady, are you—”

“Julia,” you said, your voice strained, “please.”

She nodded and she gestured for Anthony towards the door, but he did not move a centimeter.

Anthony said your name with such pain that you could not even stand to look at him, the inside of your lip drawn so tightly between your teeth that you could taste blood all in the effort to prevent tears from emerging.

“Do not make this harder than it has to be,” you whispered. “I beg of you, Anthony.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” Julia said quietly, “please obey my lady’s wishes.”

He stared at you with desperation before he finally nodded and walked out the door, Julia closing it behind him.

You screwed your eyes shut as you dug the heels of your palms into your forehead, letting out a frustrated sob as your hands dropped back down. The pinpricks of tears were already starting, and while you were thankful you were alone, you already longed for Anthony’s presence.

You wished, more than ever, that things could be how they used to be. You wished you’d never even made this ridiculous deal with him—then you would not be in such pain, yearning for a man you could never have while the reputation of you and your family was destroyed and your life fell to pieces around you. You could not do a single thing about it, and you could not blame a single soul for it other than yourself.

You’d never felt so useless.

taglist, only bc this series has been going on since i still had a taglist lmao. pls dont ask to be added because i do not do tag lists anymore!! follow me or rb the masterlist or something idk @ifilwtmfc @readers-post @fangirling-galore @funkydinosaurs @baby-i-am-fireproof @mess-is-my-aesthetic @likeballet @mdkfh @brezzybfan @magical-spit @lafy-taffy @miss-celestial-being @mercurysrhapsody @evilsailorsenshi @mainstreambitchlife @aangsupremacy @chloepluto1306 @lostaudfound @panhoeofmanyfandoms @blhemmings @my-acrylic-heart @seninjakitey @vlodi @arianagrandes-things @preciousbabypeter @youraliendaddo @stupidlittlebei @illuminwtesz @eringaitskill @otheliesstuff @users09 @chloepluto1306 @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @m-rae23 @the-horror-and-the-wild-simp @diemdurantia @theyoungestchild0w0 @mschievousx @alwaysreading1019 @ibelieveindragons141 @pretzywetzy

#this is so soap opera of me #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton fic #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton fanfic #x reader #bridgerton imagine #sadie writes

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squirmhoney · 29 days

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WITH TIME | NAOYA ZEN'IN

Please read all warnings carefully, my fics cover dark topic matters, that may be upsetting to certain readers. Read at your own discretion. Warnings: Dark. Arranged/Forced marriage. Non con. Dub con. Abusive relationship. Forced pregnancy Spanking. Loss of virginity. Violence against reader. Misogynistic views. Degrading views. Submissive reader. 18+ A/N: Part 4!! Please I've added a few more tags this one so please read them. My girl is going through it. one more part to go. there is a mention of a character from part 2, just in case you don't know who it is.

AS ALWAYS MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! MASTER LIST HERE

This wasn’t love.

You couldn’t allow yourself to believe that this wasn’t some twisted version of hell that Naoya kept you in.

He drilled it into your brain, not through words, but through actions. Ever since he had brutally taken you in his bed two months ago, he was no longer prepared to show any restraint towards you.

What he wanted, he got. You were a means to an end to him in all respects and he made it clear as he abused your body over and over again. He would wait till you were a whimpering mess, not showing any affection towards you, until he knew you were on the brink of becoming numb, then he’d show a slither of kindness.

You knew the game he was playing but yet everytime you caved in and you were only starting to realise why.

It was when you found yourself swallowing down sobs, burying your face into the sheets next to him as you tried to calm yourself down, that you finally caught on.

Naoya’s fingers were slow as they started to graze your back, running against the soft skin as he tried to hush you. He took his time with it, watching how you reacted to each of subtle touches until he managed to circle his arm around your waist, yank your body back into his with your back pressed against his chest. Then he’d pepper kisses along the side of your face, trying to calm you down in some way.

After days of no affection, him barely talking to you and degrading your self worth to nothing, he would give you the finest speck of kindness. He knew you’d be desperate for it at that point, craving anything from him to make yourself feel somewhat sane. So of course you caved, relaxing into his touch and blabbering apologies to him.

But today you didn’t even know whether to speak, unsure if an apology was the right thing to say. Instead you just rolled over and into him, pressing your face against his chest for the smallest bit of comfort.

“You’re okay,” Naoya hushed, fingers threading through your hair as he gently massaged your scalp. “Hmmm.”

The feel of him pressed against you had your stomach churning again, vomit rising up your throat. You couldn’t help it as you pushed yourself off the bed, sprinting for the toilet just to make it in time.

It's recently turned into a regular occurrence for you to vomit after sex. It was as if your body was rejecting him, or it was slowly breaking down until it no longer functioned anymore.

You didn’t want to be sick, honestly.

You were terrified of how it may be offending Naoya to see you in such a state. Most of the time he just seemed disgusted by it, rolling his eyes every time he saw you retreat into the bathroom.

However, today was different as he crouched beside you, hand rubbing up and down your spine.

“I’ve arranged an appointment for the doctor to come see you,” Naoya said, pulling the strands of hair out of your face. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and I’ll get someone to bring you some clothes to wear?”

You nodded, croaking out a small, “Thank you.”

“Got to take care of my wife,” he insisted.

You turned to him then, trying to muster a smile but it was hard to force it as you looked up at him.

A lazy smirk drew across his face like he knew something you didn’t.

“I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

All you could do was muster a nod in response.

You were trembling, your hands barely holding up as it covered your tear stained face.

The mixture of emotions you felt, were overwhelming and you struggled as you fought with yourself to keep your cries at bay.

But as your hand hovered over your bloated stomach, unable to even graze over the skin, you sucked in a whimper again.

You didn’t want to cry anymore. You were bored sick of crying all the time.

There was no other reaction you could muster.

Even as rage filled you at the thought of Naoya Zenin’s demon child growing in your stomach, you were too scared to act out on it.

“Wife.”

Too busy fighting with yourself to control your emotions, you hadn’t even realised Naoya creeping up behind you. Not till his breath was fanning against your ear and his hands were forcing you to turn around to face him.

“Hiding from me?” Naoya questioned, pressing a finger under your chin to direct your attention to him.

“No,” you shook your head, biting on your lip as you sniffed. “It’s just a lot.”

Naoya nodded, tension releasing from his body as he cupped your face.

You were taken back at his thumbs wiping at your tears but didn’t fight against it.

“It’s okay,” Naoya hummed, voice soft and a complete contradiction to his character over the last few weeks. “I get it, I do.”

You can’t help but gaze up at him through your wet lashes, lips quivering as you allow him to comfort you.

“I’ve been hard on you.” You swallowed at this, not sure what he was getting at. “But you’re my wife and now that you’re carrying my child-” His hand rests over your stomach “-I will do right by you.”

His words were meant to be reassuring but as his lips pressed against your forehead, you felt anything but reassured.

As time drew on, your stomach finally started to show what you were desperate to deny.

What had taken you by surprise the most had been your reaction to it. The way you looked back at yourself in the mirror, hand running over the swelling as you stared in awe.

Naoya appeared behind you, pressing his chest against your back, hand coming to rest on top of yours. His eyes trailed your skin, humming to himself as he grinned at the sight of you. Until his eyes caught the faded bruise wrapped around your wrist, eyes softening as his finger touched it.

“I need to be more careful,” he whispered, as if he was speaking to himself.

But then his gaze caught yours, eyes darkening as his lips reached down to graze yours.

“My fragile woman,” he mumbled into your lips, hands sliding down over the curves of your body. “Mine, mine, mine…” He continuously repeated, till he was gently pushing you over the sink, dick hard and wanting as it pressed into the crack of your ass cheek.

And when he sunk into you for the first time that day, something entirely new possessed you, repeating his words back to him as you moaned into his lips, “Yours. Only yours.”

You had never imagined life with Naoya to be like this. Each month of pregnant life things seemed to be getting easier and seven months in you felt like you could find some semblance of happiness in this.

Naoya was gentle with you, treating you like a fragile vase that was one wrong move away from breaking and you liked it.

You liked how he doted on you in the morning, pressing soft kisses over your skin to wake you before work. You liked how he called during his work day, just ready to listen to your voice as you told him the most mundane things of your day. You liked the way he pressed you into the mattress, fingers digging into your thighs as he buried himself inside of you.

He fucked you like he wanted to impregnante you all over again. As if there wasn’t full certainty that his seed had taken, even though you were rounder than the moon underneath him.

But you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed it. It left you with a feeling that he genuinely cared about you, that you were more than just some mare for him to breed. As if you were his wife, possibly close to his equal.

As his fingers danced across your collarbone, fiddling with the dainty necklace he had presented you an hour ago, you felt that feeling heating your skin all over again.

“You look beautiful,” he told you, kissing the subtle skin under your ear. “You ready?”

“Yes,” you gleamed up at him, pressing your lips to his quickly, before wiping any residue of your gloss away.

“I can’t wait for everyone to properly see you.”

His fingers interlocked with yours, guiding you to all the people that had been gathered to celebrate your pregnancy.

Naoya only took his hand from yours to place it on the curve of your back, rubbing soothing circles as many members of the clan greeted you. Most of the men and women were ecstatic to see you both, cooing at the sight of your stomach and asking a million questions.

You separated from each other an hour or two in, your mother taking you into a corner with a few other women as they all pressed their hand against your stomach.

“You have felt some movement?” your mother questioned, eyebrows furrowed at you.

“Yes.” you nodded with a half-hearted smile, starting to grow tired of the attention. “I think he’s just asleep.”

“You’d think with all these people around he wouldn’t be able to sleep,” another voice chimed in.

You didn’t recognise the voice at first, not bothering to look either as you replied, “He is normally awake when his father is around, if I’m being honest.” You turned your head, turning to a familiar face you hadn’t seen in over a year.

Familiar blue eyes stared back into yours, lips curving up into a smile as she waved.

“Hana,” you gasped.

“Congratulations.” She raised her glass at you, lips forming into a tight line after taking a sip.

“Could I have a moment alone?” You turned to your mother, wide eyes pleading with her.

With only a little bit of hesitation she stood up, dragging the other women with her until they were a bit of a distance away.

“How have you been?” You went back to Hana, shifting in your seat to make room for her.

“I think I should be asking you that.” She took the seat beside you, both of you looking at the floor in front of you. “Don’t you think?”

“I’m sure a lot has happened to the both of us since we last saw each other,” you told her, trying to open up the conversation to a topic other than you.

“I find it very strange seeing you like this.” There was a sadness in her voice as if she was disappointed.

“I never imagined I’d be like this either. It’s all new to me.”

“I imagine it’s quite odd.”

“In a way, unfamiliar but also… it feels right. Like it’s meant to be and everything seems to be falling into place so naturally.”

She laughed humorlessly at this.

“What?” Your eyes glanced over at her.

“It feels right with him,” she whispered this, clearly not wanting anyone to overhear her.

You noticed your husband sitting to the other side of the garden, most of the clans attention on him as they chatted amongst them. As if he could feel your eyes on him, he looked up with a wide smile and a nod.

One that had the tips of your ears burning pink, teeth biting on your lip as you answered your old friend, “Yes, it does.”

“You’re joking right.”

Your gaze turned back to her at this, seeing the look of disgust clearly on her face.

“Him?”

“It’s not been easy,” you were truthful, placing a hand against your stomach. “It was hard-”

“You hated him,” she hissed.

“That is in the past. We were children then.”

“Things don’t change that quickly.”

“It hasn’t been quick, you think I’ve always been this happy.”

“I’m just trying to understand.” Her hand reached out for yours, holding it. “Why him?”

Not all of us have a choice, you wanted to scream at her.

But you knew those words would reach back to Naoya and you couldn’t risk your emotions getting the best of you now.

“I’m sorry,” you apologised, tearing your hand away from hers. “But I am allowed to want this for myself. I’m allowed to be happy in this.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Everything okay?” Your husband’s voice spoke, a scowl on his face as he looked down at the woman next to you.

“Can you help me to the bathroom?” You asked, holding out your hand for him to take.

“Of course.” His hand reached behind you, helping you up as he pulled you into him.

You took one last glance behind you, Hana not even looking your way as she kicked the grass underneath her.

“If you want me to get rid of her, all you have to do is say,” Naoya told you.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” you said, a hint of a giggle in your tone. “But thank you.”

Naoya found you in the kitchen hours later, dressed in a robe that barely covered you.

You had long taken off the outfit and makeup from earlier, slipping into comfort as you let your hair messily hang down your back. You were brewing some tea for the both of you, in your own world when your husband crept up behind you.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent with a large sniff as you tried to recover from your thumping heart from him startling you.

“What are you doing down here?” He asked, resting his chin on your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you.

“Making us some tea before bed,” you told him, eyes resting as you sunk into his warm touch.

“We have staff for a reason.”

“I just like to do things for you.” You pouted softly, staring up at him through your lashes.

“You’ve done plenty for me.” Hand coming to rest upon your stomach as his fingers slipped easily under the nightgown. “Wife.”

That simple word sent your skin ablaze, goosebumps forming in the wake of his subtle touch. “Husband.”

He hummed, hands finding your full breasts as he gave them a tight squeeze. One that had you sighing in some sort of release as your nipples leaked.

“That feels good.” You nibbled on your bottom lip in anticipation, waiting for his next move.

“I can make you feel even better,” he replied, ever so confident as he unwrapped the silk robe from your frame.

It fell to the floor in a heap, leaving you bare before him, trapped in between his body and the kitchen cabinets.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed, watching as his gaze fell onto you, running over every inch of skin.

“Beautiful.”

He matched his words with a kiss, one placed across your chest. That turned into another placed directly on your breast, hands following as they felt up the skin of your sides. His lips slid down, kisses turning wet as he licked and nipped every inch of your skin till he fell to his knees in front of you.

“Naoya,” you questioned him, eyes fluttering as you looked down at him. “What are you-”

Your words caught in your throat, feeling his breath against your core as he gently pried your thighs open. You tried to move with him, letting him open your legs but it was hard not wanting to push all your weight on him.

He looked up at you, eyebrows raised as if questioning why you were being so difficult.

“Relax,” he told you, wrapping your thigh around his shoulder. “I got you.”

You let out a strangled breath, resting into him and letting his hands catch you.

“There you go,” Naoyo mused, finally being face to face with your sopping cunt.

He’s never been down there before, not like this. The only time he ever was staring at your cunt was when his fingers were playing with your clit or his dick was getting lost in your walls. Never had he been so close with his actual face and you never believed he would be.

Disbelief filled you when his lips finally kissed you, being met with instant wetness coating his lips.

He retreated for a second, licking the fluids on his lips as he wrinkled his nose.

You didn’t see much of a reaction from that but he soon returned, mouth opening as it met your wetness this time.

He took his time, using his tongue to explore the different parts in between your folds, swallowing the fluids of your cunt every now and then. He noticed the way your thighs would tighten every time his tongue grazed over your clit and eventually he found his attention drawn to it.

You mewled when his tongue flicked at your clit, hand grabbing the countertop behind you for support.

He chuckled at this, the vibrations of it going right through you as your walls clenched around nothing.

You could feel his sinister smile grace his lips as you grabbed his locks, stomach tightening in knots at the foreign feeling of him sucking at your clit.

Naoya wasn’t a man that would eat a woman out. The man had never even so much as tasted you down there and you knew for a fact he wouldn’t have done this with someone before you, he would have been disgusted at the mere thought.

But Naoya was eating you out like a crazed man in dire need of every drip of juice your cunt would offer him. He made this clear in the way his lips detached from your clit only for his tongue to sink down, delving into your walls.

With one hand digging into the flesh of your ass cheek, Naoya used his other hand to dip in between your thighs, thumb finding your swollen clit.

As soon as his thumb began to rub your clit, you were dripping into his mouth, growing wetter by the second as he just drank it all in. Your eyes rolled back as

“Have you always tasted this good?” He groaned into you, lapping up your sweet essence. “Fuck, I need to this more often.”

Your eyes rolled back at that, fingers tightening on his locks as you felt yourself suddenly let go.

He doesn't stop. Not even when your thighs practically trap his head between them. Not even when you drop every bit of your weight on him, falling slack into his grip.

It’s only when you relax, coming back from your orgasm, that you're desperate to check he’s okay.

But he’s fine- more than fine as he detaches himself from your cunt, lips covered in your honeyed slick. His chest is heaving, completely breathless like you as he stands up, towering over you.

“You’ve made such a mess,” he tutted, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, still coming down from your high as you rubbed your hand to his chest.

“How about you come make a bigger mess of me upstairs?” He hummed, already whisking you towards the direction of your bedroom.

Taglist: @xxsweetnlowxx @slashmedaddy @yktijdtmyp @4morrant @vcvoxu @paleachcobbler @checkmate-stuff (let me know if you wanted to be added)

#jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin #naoya x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #naoya zenin smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader

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pin-k-ink · 13 days

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the sequel // suna rintarou

tw ⇢ childhood friends to lovers, so much angst, hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, yearning, happy ending

wc ⇢ 5k

a/n: i never cried so much while writing something

Suna felt like he was watching a movie. A sad, tragic fucking movie that he couldn't tear his eyes away from no matter how much it hurt to keep looking.

Frame by frame, moment by excruciating moment, he watched you - his best friend, the love of his life - fall in and out of love with someone else. Again.

If his life really was a movie...what role would he play? The sidekick? The comic relief? No, he decided with a bitter twist of his lips. He wasn't even important enough for that. He was just an extra. A background character that no one noticed or cared about.

Someone who faded into the scenery while the bright, beautiful protagonist - that was you, always you - took center stage and shone.

Suna had known you his entire life. His earliest memories all featured you, front and center, with him orbiting around you like a satellite, like a moth drawn to a flame.

You'd taken your first wobbling steps together, hands clasped and eyes wide with wonder. Babbled your first words to each other in a language only you two could understand. Gotten into mischief and skinned your knees and learned about the world side by side.

For as long as he could remember, you'd been his constant, his touchstone. His north star. The axis his whole world turned on. Life without you was unfathomable. Unthinkable.

But somehow, as the years scrolled by like frames on a reel...Suna started to feel like he was watching from a distance. Like there was an invisible wall between you, thin as glass but strong as steel, that he could never quite break through.

No matter how close you were, how many secrets you traded and inside jokes you laughed over and half-spoken conversations you could hold with just a glance...you always felt just a little bit out of reach. Like a mirage that would dissolve into mist if he tried to touch. Something too good to be true, too precious for the likes of him to grasp.

And how could he even think of reaching out, of trying to hold onto you the way he desperately wanted to? How could a mere background character ever hope to stand alongside the radiant lead, the brightest spot in every scene?

No, Suna was content to stay in the shadows. To watch and support and be there in whatever way you needed him, even as it killed him by inches. As long as he could keep you in his life, as long as he got to stay by your side...that would be enough. It had to be.

But god, it was getting harder. Harder to paste on a carefree smile and listen to you gush about your latest boyfriend. Harder to swallow the jealousy and longing clogging his throat when he watched you with stars in your eyes, so incandescently happy in someone else's arms.

Harder to bite his tongue against the confessions that always wanted to spill out, to choke back the pleas and promises and declarations his treacherous heart whispered in the dark.

"I love you," he wanted to say, every minute of every day. "I've always loved you. You're my forever, my reason, my home. Pick me. Choose me. See me. I swear I'll spend my life making you happy, if you'll just let me try."

But he never said it. Never took that leap of faith, too terrified of shattering the fragile status quo. Too scared of losing you entirely.

So he stayed quiet, stayed still, even as he felt like he was cracking apart inside. He watched you fall in love again and again, watched each bright-eyed boy promise you forever. Watched your smile dim and your shoulders droop when they inevitably let you down, broke your big, beating heart so carelessly.

It was a particular kind of agony, holding you while you cried over someone else. Seeing the light go out of your eyes, powerless to do anything but wipe away your tears and murmur empty platitudes. Every hitched sob was a barb in his skin, every sniffle a dagger to his ribs.

He wanted to shake you sometimes, wanted to scream "Why can't you see what's right in front of you? Why can't you see how much I love you? How I would never, ever hurt you the way they do?"

But he never did. Just folded you close and stroked your hair and let you dampen his shirt with your grief. Let you give him tiny glimpses of the mosaic of cracks in your chest before you pasted on a wobbly smile and soldiered on, determined not to let the world see you bleed.

Those cracks scared him. Scared him in a bone-deep way few things ever had. Because he lived in dread of the day they splintered apart entirely. The day your seemingly endless capacity for love and joy and trust finally ran dry, bled out by a thousand careless cuts.

He couldn't bear the thought of your light going out forever. Of those glorious eyes going flat and dull, that incandescent smile withering on the vine. You were the sun and he was just a planet in your orbit - he genuinely didn't know if he could survive without your warmth. Without you, everything would wither.

So he would endure. He would be your rock, your safe harbor, your shelter from every storm. Even if it killed him, even if he shattered to pieces in the process, he would hold you together.

Because a world without your laughter, without your brilliant, untamable spirit...that was no world at all. And maybe his love could be enough to keep you shining. Maybe if he believed hard enough, if he poured enough of his own flickering light into you...you would be okay.

And just maybe, someday...you would turn that supernova smile on him. Maybe you would finally, finally see him. Not as a background character, not as a sidekick...but as a man who loved you with every fiber of his being.

As someone who had been there all along, just waiting for you to look a little closer. To see the shape of his devotion, the staggering depth of his feelings written in every line of his face, his heart in his eyes and your name carved into his bones.

But until that impossible day, he would watch. He would wait. He would bide his time until the credits rolled and the movie ended...and just pray that there would be a sequel. One where he finally got to step out of the background and into the spotlight of your eyes.

Where you were his co-star, his partner, his love. Where you wrote a new story together, one frame at a time, and the only tears were happy ones.

It was a beautiful dream, fragile and gossamer and so painfully far out of reach. But it was all he had, so he clung to it in the hidden depths of his heart and kept watching the scenes play out.

Kept hoping that someday, if he was patient enough, if he loved you hard enough...the dream would become reality.

And you would finally, finally be his.

As the years scrolled by, Suna watched you grow and change, always from a step behind. He watched you navigate the perilous waters of adolescence, cheering you on as you blossomed into a beautiful, vibrant young woman. Watched you stumble and pick yourself back up, watched you learn and evolve and become more yourself with every passing day.

He was there for all of it, every milestone and heartbreak, every triumph and disappointment. When you got your first period and cried from embarrassment, he was the one who biked to the store for pads and chocolate, the one who held you and reassured you that it was all normal and okay.

When you got your heart broken for the first time at sixteen, he was the one who showed up at your window with ice cream and terrible movies, the one who let you sob into his chest and rail against the unfairness of it all.

When you got accepted into your dream college, he was the first person you called, screaming with joy down the line. He'd shut his eyes against the sting of tears, against the yawning ache in his chest at the thought of you leaving him behind...and told you how proud he was, how happy he was for you.

Always, always, he was your person. Your touchstone, your safe place. The one who knew you inside and out, backward and forward and every way in between. He was there in all the big moments...and all the little ones in between that made up a life.

Like the lazy summer afternoons spent lounging in the park, shoulders brushing as you read your respective books, content to just exist in the same space. The midnight walks under a canopy of stars, hands casually entwined, no words needed in the warm, honeyed dark.

The cups of coffee he'd bring you on drowsy mornings, made just the way you liked. The way you'd curl into his side during scary movies, face hidden trustingly in the curve of his neck, his arm a protective shield around you.

All those insignificant, in-between moments...they were everything to Suna. He hoarded them like a miser, turned them over and over in his mind like precious gems on nights when the ache in his chest got too big to breathe around.

Each one was a flicker of light, a tiny ember of hope that maybe, someday...you would see. You would understand just how much he loved you, how much he had always loved you. You would realize that he was right there, that he had been there all along, just waiting for you to really look at him.

But you never did. Your eyes always seemed to skim right over him, to look through him like he was made of glass, transparent and inconsequential. He was furniture to you, he sometimes thought despairingly. Part of the scenery of your life, always there but never really seen.

Never the one you wanted, the one you yearned for. He was the one you settled for, the one you came back to when the newest bright-eyed boy let you down. The one you cried on, the one you leaned on...but never the one you loved. At least, not the way he wanted you to.

God, how he wished you would love him. It was a physical ache, a bone-deep longing that never went away no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. He felt hollowed out with it, scraped raw and empty.

Late at night, he let himself imagine it. Let himself paint a picture of a world where you wanted him back, where you looked at him with even a fraction of the desperate, clawing need he felt for you.

In his weakest moments, he let himself believe it could be real. That someday, you would wake up and realize that he was everything you'd ever wanted, that he could make you happy in a way no one else ever could.

That you would take his face in your hands, eyes wide and wondering like you were seeing him for the first time. That you would breathe his name like a prayer, like a revelation, and kiss him with a tenderness that set his soul alight.

That you would tell him you loved him, that you were sorry for taking so long to understand, but you wanted to make up for lost time. That you wanted to be his, wholly and completely, for the rest of your lives.

It was a beautiful dream, fragile and perfect as a soap bubble. But like a bubble, it always burst, leaving him blinking away stinging tears and feeling like a fool.

Because this wasn't a movie, no matter how much it felt like one sometimes. There was no guarantee of a happy ending, no artful resolution scripted in the stars.

In the real world, the guy pining in the background didn't always get the girl. Sometimes he just stayed in the background forever, watching her life happen without him, until the credits rolled and the lights came up on his lonely little corner of the world.

But oh, how he wanted to believe. He would never be the leading man, he knew that. He was too quiet, too steady, too content to let you shine while he basked in your reflected glow. You needed someone as brilliant and dazzling as you, someone who could match you spark for spark and set the world on fire.

Someone braver than him. Someone who would risk it all for a chance at your heart, instead of staying safe and silent on the sidelines.

He wasn't that guy. He never would be. But a tiny, desperate part of him still held out hope that maybe, someday...he could be enough for you, just as he was. That even if he wasn't the star of the show, he could still be an integral part of your story.

The one who was always there to catch you when you stumbled, to hold you up when you couldn't stand on your own. The one who knew your secrets and your scars, your hopes and your fears. The one who loved every messy, imperfect, beautiful inch of you, unconditionally and irrevocably.

Maybe he could be your co-star, your partner in crime and love and life. Maybe you could write a new story together, one where the quiet, steadfast best friend got his chance to step into the light and be seen, really seen, by the only eyes that had ever mattered.

It was a slim hope, gossamer-thin and liable to tear at the slightest touch. But it was all Suna had, so he held it close and carried it with him, a tiny flicker of light in the dark.

And he kept watching, kept waiting. Kept loving you with everything he had, even as it wore him down to the bone. He would play his role in your movie, would be whatever you needed him to be...until the day came when he could finally step out from the background and into your arms.

Until the day when "I love you" wasn't just a secret whispered in the dark, but a vow made in the light of your smile, your hands in his and your heart beating against his chest.

Until the day when the movie of his life finally got its happy ending...and you were right there beside him, radiant and real, as the screen faded to black and the credits rolled on a love story for the ages.

He just had to hold on until then. Just had to keep believing, keep loving, keep watching.

Because in the end, he knew it would all be worth it. You would always be worth it.

Even if it took a lifetime, even if it killed him...he would wait for you.

Always.

As the years went by and you both grew older, Suna watched you evolve and change in a thousand tiny ways. He watched you graduate college, watched you land your dream job and move into your first adult apartment. Watched you navigate the ups and downs of adult life with the same resilient grace he'd always admired, always loved.

Through it all, he was there. Your constant, your touchstone. The one you called when you got a promotion, voice bubbling with excitement. The one you leaned on when your grandma died, eyes swollen and voice thick with grief.

He was the one who helped you move, lugging boxes up endless flights of stairs and quietly assembling IKEA furniture while you flitted around like a hummingbird, arranging and rearranging. The one who showed up at your door with soup and medicine when you got the flu, who sat with you and watched terrible reality TV until you fell asleep on his shoulder.

He was woven into every part of your life, as essential and invisible as air. Always there, always just a phone call or a text away. Your best friend, your rock, your safe harbor in every storm.

But still, even as you grew closer than ever...there was a distance there. A wall that Suna could never quite breach, no matter how hard he tried. Because no matter how much of your life you shared with him, no matter how many secrets you whispered into the dark...there was always a part of you that held back.

A part that you kept locked away, hidden behind bright smiles and breezy deflections. The part that held your heart, your deepest hopes and dreams and fears. The part that Suna longed to know, to understand...but that you never quite let him see.

It hurt, that distance. It ate at him like acid, slow and corrosive. Because he wanted all of you, every messy, complicated, beautiful part. He wanted to crack you open and crawl inside, to burrow into the hidden depths of your soul and make a home there.

He wanted to be the one you turned to with your whole heart, the one you trusted with your most vulnerable self. He wanted to be your person in every sense of the word, not just the one you leaned on but the one you loved, the one you chose.

But you never did. No matter how much he longed for it, no matter how many nights he spent staring at the ceiling and wishing...you never saw him as anything more than a friend. A best friend, sure, but still just...a friend.

And god, it was getting harder to bear. Harder to swallow back the words that always wanted to spill out, the confessions and pleas and promises. Harder to bite his tongue and smile when you gushed about your latest boyfriend, to offer a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on when they inevitably let you down.

He felt like he was drowning, sometimes. Like he was being slowly crushed under the weight of all the unspoken things, all the pent-up love and longing and desperation. He felt like he was fading away, bit by bit, worn thin by the constant effort of holding himself together, of keeping his heart locked away behind a friendly smile and an easy laugh.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could do it. Wasn't sure how much more he could take before he shattered completely, before he just...broke.

But what choice did he have? He couldn't lose you. Couldn't bear the thought of a life without you in it, even if being near you was slowly killing him. You were oxygen to him, necessary and vital. Cutting you out would be like cutting out his own heart.

So he endured. He swallowed the hurt and the jealousy and the desperate, clawing need, and he was there. Always, always there, waiting in the wings. Waiting for you to see him, to really see him.

Waiting for his chance to step out of the background and into the light of your love.

It was getting harder to hold onto hope, some days. Harder to believe that there would ever be a right time, a perfect moment. That he would ever find the courage to lay his heart at your feet and beg you to take it, to cherish it the way he'd always cherished you.

But he had to believe. It was all he had, this fragile flicker of faith. The tiniest spark of possibility, glowing in the dark.

So he fanned it carefully, tended it like the precious thing it was. He held it close on the nights when the loneliness got too much to bear, when the ache in his chest made it hard to breathe. Whispered it to himself like a mantra, a prayer:

Someday. Someday. Someday.

Someday, you would see. Someday, you would understand. Someday, he would be brave enough, strong enough, to reach out and grasp the future he wanted so desperately.

Someday, your movie would reach its climax. The music would swell, the camera would pan in...and he would finally, finally step into his destiny. Into the starring role he'd always been meant to play, the one he'd been rehearsing for his whole life.

He would take your hands in his, look into your eyes...and he would say it. The words that had been living in his throat for years, the ones that beat against his ribs like caged birds, desperate for freedom.

"I love you," he would say, simple and honest and achingly true. "I've always loved you. And I know I'm not the kind of guy you usually go for, I know I'm not exciting or flashy or whatever, but...I'm here. I've always been here. And I always will be, if you'll let me. Because you're it for me. You're everything."

And maybe, just maybe...you would hear him. Really hear him, the way you never had before. Maybe you would look at him with new eyes, with dawning realization and wonder and joy.

Maybe you would see all the love he'd been holding back, see the shape of his devotion in every line of his face. Maybe you would understand that he was your person, your forever...just like you were his.

"Oh," you would breathe, soft and reverent. "Oh, Suna. I...I never knew. I never saw..."

"I know," he would whisper, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours. "I know, baby. But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere. Not ever again."

And then...then you would kiss him. Soft and sweet and filled with promise, filled with all the love he'd always dreamed of. You would wind your arms around his neck and press close, and he would hold you like he'd always longed to, like you were the most precious thing in the universe.

Because you were. God, you were. And finally, finally...you were his.

His best friend. His soulmate. His happy ending, the one he'd always been chasing.

The credits would roll, the music would fade out...and a new story would begin.

The evening had started like countless others - just you and Suna, a few too many drinks, and a forgotten movie playing in the background as you laughed and joked and reminisced. It was comfortable, familiar, the kind of easy intimacy born from a lifetime of friendship.

But as the night wore on and the alcohol flowed, Suna found himself growing quiet, a melancholy settling over him like a fog. He watched you through increasingly blurry eyes, taking in the way the soft light played over your features, the way your laughter seemed to fill the room, bright and effervescent.

God, you were so beautiful. So vibrant, so full of life and joy and everything good in the world. And he loved you so much it hurt, a physical ache in his chest that never went away, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

"You know what's really pathetic?" he found himself saying, the words slipping out before he could bite them back.

You turned to him, head cocked, a curious smile playing about your lips. "What's that?"

Suna swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the precipice. He knew he should step back, laugh it off, change the subject. But the alcohol had loosened his tongue, lowered his inhibitions, and suddenly...suddenly he couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Me," he said, voice rough and scratchy with emotion. "I'm pathetic. Because I've been in love with you for so fucking long, and I've never had the balls to tell you."

Your eyes went wide, lips parting in shock, but Suna barreled on, the words pouring out of him like water from a burst dam.

"I've loved you since we were kids," he said, staring down at his hands, vision blurring with unshed tears. "Since the day you punched that kid for making fun of my haircut in third grade. Since the summer we were twelve and you broke your arm falling out of that tree, and you held my hand the whole way to the hospital even though you were the one in pain."

A smile flickered across his face, small and fond and aching. "I loved you when we were sixteen and you got your heart broken for the first time, and you cried on my shoulder for hours. I loved you when you accidentally burnt toast because you were singing in the kitchen. I loved you when we graduated high school, and you looked so beautiful in your cap and gown that it took my breath away."

He risked a glance up at you, finding you staring at him with a stricken expression, tears tracking silently down your cheeks. "I loved you through every boyfriend, every breakup, every lame movie night and inside joke and 2 AM phone call. I loved you on your best days and your worst days and every day in between."

Suna's voice broke then, a sob catching in his throat. "I love you now," he whispered, raw and ragged. "I love you so much it's like a physical thing, like a part of me. Like I can't breathe right when you're not around, can't think straight when you're near. You're in my veins, in my bones, in every beat of my fucking heart, and I...I can't keep pretending anymore."

The tears were flowing freely now, hot and fast down his face, but he made no move to wipe them away. "I know I'm not...I know I'm not what you want," he choked out, chest heaving with the force of his emotions. "I know I'm just your best friend, just the guy you call when you need a shoulder to cry on or someone to laugh with. But god, I want to be more. I want to be everything to you, the way you are to me."

He reached out with shaking hands, cupping your face, thumbs swiping at the tears painting your cheeks. "I love you," he breathed, pouring every ounce of longing, every shred of desperate devotion into the words. "I am so fucking in love with you, it's like...it's like I don't know how to be anything else. And I just...I needed you to know. Even if it ruins everything, even if you don't feel the same...I couldn't keep it in anymore. I couldn't keep lying to you, to myself."

Suna closed his eyes then, unable to bear the sight of your face, the pity or gentle rejection he knew must be written there. He felt flayed open, raw and exposed, heart lying shattered at your feet.

But then...then he felt your hands on his, warm and steady. Felt you lean in, forehead pressing against his own, the salt of your tears mingling with his.

"Suna, you idiot," you whispered, and he flinched, bracing for the blow. But your voice was soft, achingly tender, suffused with a warmth that made his eyes fly open in shock. "How could you not know? How could you not see that I...that I love you too? That I've always loved you, from the minute we met?"

He stared at you, hardly daring to breathe, to hope. But you were smiling through your tears, eyes shining with a light he'd never seen before. "You're not just my best friend," you said, hands sliding into his hair, cradling him like he was something precious. "You're my soulmate, my other half. The one person who knows me better than anyone, who's always been there, always loved me, even at my worst."

You pressed your lips to his forehead, his cheeks, the corners of his trembling mouth. "I love you, Suna Rintarou," you murmured against his skin, each word a benediction. "I'm in love with you. And if you want me...I'm yours. Forever."

A broken sob tore from Suna's throat, disbelief and joy and overwhelming relief crashing over him in a tidal wave. He surged forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was messy and desperate and perfect, pouring every ounce of love, every year of longing into the press of his mouth on yours.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in his shirt, holding him close like you never wanted to let go. And god, he never wanted you to. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, wrapped up in you, in the love he'd craved for so long, the love he'd never dared to hope could be his.

When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, Suna couldn't stop touching you - hands skimming over your face, your hair, your shoulders, like he needed to convince himself this was real. That you were real, that this was happening.

"I love you," he rasped, resting his forehead against yours. "God, I love you so much."

You smiled, radiant and blinding, and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "I love you too," you whispered. "Always have, always will."

And as Suna gathered you into his arms, as he buried his face in your hair and breathed you in...he felt something slot into place in his chest. A piece he hadn't even known was missing, a hole he'd carried for so long, suddenly filled by your love, your presence, your promise of forever.

From those early days when you first stumbled into each other's orbits, he'd watched your lives play out together like adjacent movies running on parallel screens. Two stories inching closer with each passing year, edging tantalizingly near but never quite converging into one. He was the yearning protagonist, you the luminous star burning bright just out of reach.

But now, in this transcendent moment, the projectors had merged. The credits were rolling on that old, achingly familiar film that had been his constant lonesome companion. And when the lights came up, when the screen flickered to brilliant new life...it was a sequel. Your sequel together at last, 3D and eye-searing in its vividness.

No longer was he resigned to loving you from afar, playing the supporting role in your story. Now you were his co-star, his perfectly matched lead - twin suns burning brilliantly side-by-side in their own cosmic romance.

This was just the beginning. Your beginning, the sequel he'd waited his entire existence to see... and it was more extraordinary than anything he could have ever imagined.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #suna x reader #suna fluff #suna x reader fluff #suna rintarou #suna rintaro x reader

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viviennevermillion · 1 year

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Teasing them

notes: guess who's back to writing about twisted wonderland? i always run back to this fandom eventually snfhsjfjd also y'all can bet I'm replacing leona's header with the new card as soon as we have it because god I've been thinking about this man since I saw it and he's taken over all of my braincells. sorry leona's is shorter, i wrote riddle first and then ran out of brain juice

contains: character x gn!reader, established relationship, reader is a menace

characters included: riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar

warnings: none

dark content creators and consumers dni

Riddle hates being teased. Or rather, he hates the fact that he's absolutely kinda into it if you have a mischievous side. In his heart he still feels the pressure to follow every rule to utmost perfection but you're like a siren with horrible ideas slowly luring him into chaos.

You'll walk up to him sitting at the table in the Heartslabyul kitchen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind and resting your head on his. "What are you doing there, Riddle~", you start and he lets out a sigh, already anticipating nothing productive from you right now. "I'm writing down every odd number up to 487 because it's a Tuesday and the rules of the Queen of Hearts say that at 6pm the dorm leader- y/n what are you doing?", he pouts and blushes when you sit down on his lap, hugging him close.

"Affection", you explain and press a kiss to his cheek. "I can see that, but I have to write down the numbers", he sighs again but gives in when you press your lips to his, kissing him gently but passionately. He eventually pushes you away gently. "I really need to finish this, y/n", he says and you get up, walking towards the doorframe.

"Aw, what a shame", you sigh dramatically, "and here I thought we could cuddle and I could spoil you a bit with some kisses....oh well, another time then."

With that you exit the kitchen and lay down on the bed in Riddle's room, picking up a book in the meantime. You glance at the clock. I'll give him 20 minutes at maximum, you think to yourself and chuckle.

And within those 20 minutes he's back in the room, making his way towards you. "Not. a. word", he just gives you an empty warning and lays down next to you, snuggling up to you and resting his head on your shoulder. You don't look up from your book but wrap an arm around him and start playing with his hair. He rolls his eyes at the shit-eating grin on your face.

"Did you finish writing your numbers, love? ~ ☆"

"Yes", he mumbles quietly and buries his face in your neck. You let out a laugh. "You've always been a horrible liar."

You put your book aside and lift his chin up to press a kiss to his lips. And then another. And Riddle melts into your embrace in frustration, indulging your whims and kissing you back lovingly. "You're gonna be the death of me", he whispers quietly, still blushing. His lips brush against yours while he speaks because of how close he is. "I love you too", you wink at him and kiss him again.

When you go to the kitchen later to pick up some food, Cater sits there with Riddles sheet of paper and the numbers. "Hey! I don't know about you, but the last time I checked 487 was not the number that came after 93!", he comments with his usual laid-back demeanor. Riddle pulls the paper out of Cater's hands and blushes furiously. He turns around only to be met with a smirk from you as you raise an eyebrow. "You only made it to 93?" "Shut up."

On Thursdays according to the rules of the Queen of Hearts, the Heartslabyul students aren't allowed to eat dark foods. What a perfect day for you to make a chocolate cake for Riddle. Trey and Cater absolutely have a blast with the fact that you can play your boyfriend like a fiddle and Trey gladly helps you with the cake. He's pretty happy that you've been the reason Riddle has becoming more and more lax with the rules.

"Y/n, have you forgotten again? We don't eat dark foods on Thursdays", Riddle looks at you with a disappointed expression. "Aw but I made this specifically for you and it turned out great honestly", you look to the floor with an obviously false sad expression, "guess I'll have to eat all of it alone."

And then you sit down directly across him and eat that chocolate cake. "Okay fine, give me a slice", Riddle sighs and you can tell he really loves that cake once he started eating it, which brings out a smile from you.

"You're the personified antithesis to everything Heartslabyul stands for", Riddle crosses his arms on the table and buries his head in them. "Personally I think I'm an enrichment for this dorm." "You've brought dishonor to our hedgehogs."

Leona is a tease himself but he absolutely wasn't expecting for you to turn the tables on him on a regular basis.

"Y/n, stop that", he growled at you. "I don't know what you mean~", you smiled at him brightly and poked his ear again with the blade of grass, causing it to flick uncontrollably. You thought it looked adorable.

Leona had decided to take another nap in the Botanical Garden and you felt like keeping him some company. Somehow, "company" had escalated into annoying your boyfriend for your own personal amusement. He had already slept for 11 hours before this, he could stay awake now.

Leona turned around and grabbed your wrist, pulling the grass out of your hand and throwing it as far as he could from that position.

Then he rested his head on your lap, ready to resume his attempts at sleeping. "Oh, would you rather I do this instead?", you smirk and start gently rubbing his ear. You knew how much he loved this. But Leona didn't want to admit that. "I'd rather you just let me sleep, herbivore", he just growled and closed his eyes again.

"Okay", you responded and shrugged, stopping your motions and instead deciding to look through Magicam for a bit. As you had expected, Leona was starting to grow quite agitated. He had his eyes open again, staring at nothing in particular and his tail was flicking back and forth.

"Is something the matter, Leona?", you ask sweetly but he sees right through you. Now one of his ears flicks even without you making it do that. A desperate but subtle sign that Leona wanted you to continue your affections. He simply let out a "tsk" sound in response and glared at a nearby tree in frustration. Why can't this man ever say what he wants?, you sighed and crossed your arms in front of your chest. "You know, you can't expect me to indulge you if you never tell me what you want", you said with a genuine tone. Leona sighed. He knew you were right. "Can you resume with the ear thing?", he mumbled and grabbed your hand to hold in his. After a bit of hesitation he added an even quieter "please", which made your hand wander back to his ear and gently caress the soft fur.

You could feel Leona relaxing and his breathing became very calm. He closed his eyes again and his tail curled around your leg as he left featherlight kisses on the wrist of your other hand. You looked down at him with a smile.

It was still pretty early in your relationship and you knew Leona had trouble opening up to you about his feelings and wanting your affection. He felt a little like that would make him look even more pathetic if you one day just chose to leave him for someone better. He became so used to only being second-best, that his sense of pride; originally used to protect him; has gotten in the way of him making the most of your time together. But as time went on, he'd become more comfortable addressing his wishes and feelings with you and for now you were ready to give him the patience he needed.

#twisted wonderland #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #riddle x reader #leona x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #riddle rosehearts headcanons #leona kingscholar #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar headcanons

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writeforfandoms · 2 months

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Waking Lions 25

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Well. Here we are, folks. The last chapter. The end of the fic. To anyone who's come along on this journey with me, thank you. Every comment has been squirreled away into a corner of my heart. This is my longest CoD fic, both in terms of length and time I've worked on it.

Whew. Okay. I'm gonna drop this and go have a beer.

Warnings: Swearing, kissing, allusions to sex, mentions of canon typical violence, morally gray characters, honestly if you've made it this far this is far from the worst chapter.

Word count: 1.2k

You pounded on the door in front of you, heart racing, unwilling to wait longer than you needed to. It had already taken hours longer than you liked just to get here, hours spent in airports and on planes.

You'd run out of patience somewhere over the ocean.

You banged on the door again, two heavy knocks, before you shifted your weight from foot to foot.

The door yanked open, revealing a slightly disheveled and grumpy looking John. That look swiftly turned to surprise at seeing you.

“Ace?”

You didn't let him ask, just surged forward, hands cupping his jaw as you kissed him. The two of you stumbled over the threshold, and you freed one hand to shut the door behind you. You gasped into John's mouth as he promptly pushed your back into the door, hands grasping your hips.

“Not that I'm not happy to see you,” John started, voice already lower and raspy with want, “what are you doing here, love?”

“You killed him.” You breathed the words into the scant space between the two of you, one hand smoothing down his neck to his chest, heart strong and steady under your fingers.

John froze, looking at you, obviously inspecting you to see how you were taking the news. You gave him a moment or two to look before you kissed him again, fingers twisting into his shirt to keep him where you wanted him. The soft noise he made against your lips was just a bonus.

After a kiss (or two or three, they all blended together), John pulled back, one hand on your shoulder to keep you from following. He licked his lips, still shiny and red from kissing, and swallowed.

“Slow down, love. Need to talk about this first.”

You thought about protesting, about worming your way closer to kiss him again, about distracting him. But you gave in to him, nodding. “Alright.”

John breathed in slowly, wrestling his control back. He released you and stepped back, giving you room to finally look around, even as he moved down the short hallway to a living room. You noted and dismissed the signs of life - pairs of running shoes that weren't John's, extra jackets.

You already knew the rest of the team was here. Somewhere.

John sat, and you followed suit, although you resisted the temptation to sit in his lap. Instead you chose a perch in another chair near his.

“You killed him,” you repeated, watching John more closely this time.

“I did.” John tipped his head, watching you right back.

You smiled. “For me.”

“For a lot of reasons.” John paused a moment. “But, yes. For you. Knew you'd know.”

“As soon as Kate told me how.” You shrugged. “Hopped on the first flight I could.”

“To see me.”

“Yes.” You leaned back in your chair, unashamed.

John nodded once, letting the silence settle between you. As much as you wanted to move, to sit in his lap and continue kissing him, you knew he still had more on his mind. Otherwise he wouldn't have insisted on this distance.

“Where does this leave us?”

The question took you by surprise, and you blinked at him. He sat, still and steady but for the clenching of his jaw.

“I suppose that depends,” you answered slowly, feeling through the words as you spoke. “You're still working, and unless you're looking at retiring any time soon…”

“Not yet,” John answered, softly but with conviction. “Still too much to do.”

You nodded, accepting that easily. “So, settling down isn't in the cards yet. You'll keep working. I can figure out what my work is going to look like now.” You paused for a moment to breathe in, steadying your nerves. You weren't used to being this open. With anyone.

But for John, you'd learn. You'd deal with the discomfort.

“Obviously I won't be able to go everywhere with you. But I'll follow where I can. We'll figure it out as we go.”

John was silent for long enough that you worried he was going to back out, push you away. Then he stood, stalking slowly towards you, every moment intentional.

Rather than make you afraid, this excited you. You tipped your head back to look up at him, swallowing.

“No more running,” he rasped, stopping in front of you. Big hands landed on the armrests of your chair as he leaned over you, boxing you in.

“No more running,” you agreed in a murmur, thighs clenching together. “No throwing myself in unnecessary danger.”

John leaned in close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips. “If you agree, if you want this, you're mine.”

You smiled slowly, showing teeth. “I'm already yours,” you told him easily. “And I will be whether you want me or not.”

John kissed you, a low groan rumbling from his chest to yours. This one felt different. Like belonging.

The warmth in your chest hadn't faded, even when you followed John down to breakfast the next morning. Gaz didn't even blink at you, while Soap did a quick double take.

But none of them said a word, not after John glowered at them. You grinned.

You stayed there with them for a few more days, until they had to move on. You couldn't follow this time, so you went back to California to figure out your own work.

It wasn't easy, exactly. But you had enough contacts still to begin rebuilding. You carefully skirted some things, dropped a few people entirely, and ended up running more information.

This time, you played mostly Kate's side. Having no loyalties hadn't worked for you last time, so, this time would be different.

Besides, you wouldn't knowingly put out any information that could hurt John.

You ran across Gaz in Austria and seamlessly stepped in to help him. Really, that just meant flirting with a couple people, drinking, and helping to loosen lips. Not a hard assignment.

By the way Gaz restrained his laughter, you could tell John was not pleased.

But the two of you got what you needed, and Gaz gallantly offered you his arm when it was time to go.

You didn't resist, just tucking your hand into his arm for the walk.

“How'd you know?” Gaz asked, seemingly in no huge hurry.

“I didn't,” you answered honestly. “Spotted you in the bar. It was just coincidence.”

Gaz huffed soft laughter. “You have a way of making the world feel small,” he murmured. “Should see about keeping you around for info.”

You laughed quietly. “I wouldn't be surprised if they talk about it,” you agreed. “I'm not opposed.”

Gaz hummed softly. After a moment, he fiddled with something at his lower back. Ignoring your curious look, he turned down a street, taking a quick look around.

“I'll clear out for the night once we've debriefed,” he told you quietly with a wink. “Let you two have some time.”

You just laughed, shaking your head. “You're a good man, Gaz.”

He just smiled and pulled open the door to the safehouse for you, ushering you in first.

This wasn't how you'd expected things to go. This night, this week. The rest of your life.

But you wouldn't trade it for anything, now.

You stepped into the safehouse, buoyant with excitement and joy, not even a little bit afraid of what John would say.

No, you rather thought you'd just found your newest hobby.

#waking lions #john price x you #john price x reader #f!reader

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strxytwig · 29 days

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Gojo Got Drunk

Gojo Satoru x gn!reader

Summary: You went out for your annual holiday drinks with some coworkers. This year, Gojo drank something other than soda. You weren't ready for the antics.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Gojo being drunk, slight angst

A/N: Doing a small character study with this blue eyed princess. I also haven't written in months and I'm extremely rusty af

You found Gojo’s bobbing figure amusing, like watching one of those bendy inflatables. He sluggishly clung to whoever was nearest, face colored red from drinking and his head lolled side to side between conversation. The first victim of the night, Nanami, could only handle his drunk antics for so long before he slid out of the booth and left the white-haired sorcerer moping and making grabby hands to anyone whose name he could drunkenly sound out.

Normally, Gojo composed himself when out for drinks. He stuck to soda or a mocktail while acting the biggest fool among other drunks. How he let himself go tonight made no sense to the rest of you, nor were you that concerned. He acted no different to any other day, albeit a little clingier. Gojo was always loud.

"He's an idiot," Shoko said when you stared too long at his bobbing head. You turned your attention to her as she filled your glasses for the third round. "I doubt he even had two drinks."

"Yeah." You laughed to yourself, shifting in your booth seat. "It's kind of funny." You looked back at him when he toyed with the tiny umbrella in his drink. His mouth dropped in a pout with the overhead light reflecting off of his shades. "I don't think I've ever seen him drunk."

"Enjoy it while it lasts. He's not going to drink again after this."

You hummed. "Guess he really is a lightweight."

"Nice bracelet," Shoko said. You looked down to where she pointed at the shiny bangle on your wrist. "Where'd you get it?"

"I got it as a present from my mom." You twisted your wrist a little to show it off. "Between this or the fuzzy socks I got from her and the fountain pen from my dad, this one seemed appropriate for tonight."

"Would have loved to see you in your fuzzy socks." Shoko rested her chin in her hand.

"Yeah, I guess." You set your wrist down and shrugged. "I don't know. It feels like we're not close anymore."

"Are you going home for New Year's?"

You shook your head. "No point in trying."

She narrowed her eyes. "I get it." She sighed and took a drink from her glass. "It's a tough job with tough hours."

"Sometimes, I wonder if I should have taken my cousin's advice and worked an office job." You pouted. "Then again, that's a whole different hell."

"No rest for the wicked."

"No." You sighed and sank deeper into your chair.

An arm quickly slung around your shoulder. At the same moment, they tugged, dragging you down into someone's chest. You floundered and stabilized yourself before you could fall out of the booth. Your hands gripped the table for purchase. Your heart raced from the jolt

"Why the long face?" Gojo chastised you,bending his knees. "It's Christmas Eve. You should be happy!"

You frowned at him. "Gojo!"

"Satoru!" He cheered with a big grin.

"Why aren't you at your booth?" You attempted to look over his shoulder at the long-abandoned booth, but Gojo pulled you closer.

"I got lonely. Nobody would sit with me." He leaned closer to look at both you and Shoko. "But that's fine because I got you two lovelies."

"Count me out." Shoko slipped out of her side of the boot and grabbed her drink. "I don't need a headache this early in the night."

You watched her helplessly. "Shoko."

"Take care." She half-heartedly waved before weaving around the bar to a different group.

You tried to follow her with your eyes, hoping she'd feel the heat of your stare, but Gojo wedged himself into the seat beside you clumsily with his arm still around your shoulders. He laughed boisterously and set his drink with the tiny umbrella on the table beside yours. Every move he made only jostled you.

"What's up!"

You frowned and tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn't let you. "Gojo..."

"Have I ever told you how pretty your eyes are?" He tilted his head down, correcting it when it started to roll.

"Yes." You looked away flustered. "Many times."

"It's cute when you play hard-to-get."

The alcohol burned your cheeks. "We're dating."

"You don't act like it." He absentmindedly blew air into your face.

"That's-" You were at a loss.

He wasn't wrong. The two of you started dating four months prior, after his constant and incessant flirting. Contrary to popular belief, you were the one to ask him out. It took small deliberation on his part before he agreed to be your boyfriend, only after you swore it didn't have to be serious. He didn't like serious. You accepted that.

So, the sudden personality flip this past month embarrassed you to no end. He was touchy and affectionate like no tomorrow. You struggled to keep up with this change. It happened out of nowhere. From casual dates and hookups to him being everything he agreed not to be. You worried you'd find a heart box of chocolates on your counter tomorrow morning for Christmas.

"What, you don't like me?" He pouted and leaned closer.

"I like you," you assured, placing your hand on his chest to keep him from falling onto you. "I'm just- you're drunk and you won't remember this tomorrow. So, I don't see why we should discuss it now."

"I'll remember." He pulled away to pout more. "I'm not going to forget what you said."

"Gojo." You sighed and started over. "Satoru-"

He hummed in content and fell into you, burying his face in your neck. "Yeah?"

"Why are you so...different?"

He slumped against your shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"You weren't like this a month ago." You tried to pull away to look at him, but he wrapped his arm around your side, keeping you locked in place. "You're really touchy."

"I'm your boyfriend," he answered breezily, if a little slurred. "I want to be a good boyfriend."

Your stomach twisted into a knot. "Satoru-"

"I love you," he muttered. He buried himself into your neck more. "Is that what you want to hear?"

Your heart dropped into your stomach. You lost your breath, trying to decide if what you heard was real. It was a mistake. He mumbled and you misheard.

"What?"

He nuzzled your neck. "I love you," he said with more clarity.

"Satoru." You managed to nudge him away so you could look at him properly. You pushed his shades up to his hairline and saw his eyes for the first time that night. Red-rimmed and shiny with unshed tears. You inhaled softly. "Satoru, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I love you." He turned you to him and held you by the shoulders. "That's enough, right?"

The look in his eyes told you he wasn't all there. As if he was looking right through you. You ignored the rest of the noise from the bar and focused on Satoru. Even if he weren't drunk, you would be worried.

"Yes. Of course, that's enough." You nodded your head.

"You don't have to love me back," he said, pulling you into a hug as he buried his head in your shoulder. "It's okay. Don't leave."

"I won't." You returned the hug. Was this moving too fast? Were you ready for the next step in your relationship? Would he feel the same way in the morning? Would you? It didn’t matter."And I love you too."

He laughed breathlessly into your shirt. "Can I kiss you?"

"You don't have to ask."

He pulled away slightly to bring his mouth to yours. It was slow and hesitant, the way he hovered. In the long second he hesitated, you wondered what would come of this. He stared into your eyes for a long moment before he closed his eyes and relinquished himself to the kiss. You reciprocated with ease, relaxing your body and melting into him.

When he broke the kiss, he buried his face in your shoulder again. "I love you, Suguru."

Your heart stopped beating.

Satoru nuzzled you closer. "Don't leave this time."

You swallowed dryly.

He slumped against you. "I love you."

#gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #omg why isn't this post showing up in the tagssss

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fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic · 2 months

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Good Omens Fic Rec: Time Marches Forward

Our story follows Aziraphale as he toils alone in Heaven to thwart the Second Coming while Crowley, back on Earth, encounters a powerful and frightened 15-year-old Adam Young in desperate need of guidance. One of the infinite possibilities for how the Good Omens story can end. With some twists, and some angst, and lots of character development.

Length: 128,201 words

AO3 Rating: Mature

Best for: Safe in Public, Slight Angst, Post S2

Triggers: Temporary Character Death (kind of)

Read it here, fic by Bellisima_writes

*Minor Spoilers* I need everyone to read this story and marvel at the fact that this is the author's first fic! I am astounded by the quality of this story. It's cinematic, clever, and creative. It constructs a world that fits seamlessly into the canon while introducing its own truly interesting concepts. If you're looking for a Season Three "what if", this is a must-read!

Our story starts immediately after the Final 15. Aziraphale arrives in Heaven and already things are suspicious. I really love that this story goes with the route of taking things mostly at face value. It's not until the Second Coming line that Aziraphale truly kicks into gear, fully understanding the threat he's under. Crowley meanwhile finds himself in Tadfield, where a 15 year old Adam Young is in desperate need of some guidance. I won't spoil the plot; it's best experienced as it unfolds. This is a long story, but the pacing and plotting are brilliant, the time will fly by so easily. I read way past the time I was supposed to stop without even realizing it!

The characterizations are all excellent here. Adam in particular is one of the best uses I've seen with him. There is a character introduced that he will parallel with beautifully. Both placed into positions they did not ask for, tasked with things they do not want, and burdened with unbearable responsibility. It was a really insightful bit of characterization, and made me look at that "new" character in a way I never have before. Adam's new relationship with Crowley was such a beautiful and heartwarming plotline. He needed Crowley in his life, to help guide him, to understand his powers, and how he fits into the world. Crowley needed him just as much.

Crowley and Aziraphale's characterizations are top notch as well. It was effortless to read this in their voices, and just be prepared for this story's 1941...ouch. Actually a lot of what Aziraphale went through here broke my heart. This story creates a phenomenon called, "The Void." It's as ominous as it sounds, and puts Aziraphale through the ringer. As much as it hurt, it was also a really interesting concept. I'm so relived that Aziraphale will be taken care of now.

Seriously, what an excellent story this was. This is a more action based plot, and every twist and turn kept me right on my toes. Safe in public, and while there's some hints of angst, it's not a heavy story. If this is what a first fic can be, I can't wait to read this author's second!

Read it here, fic by Bellisima_writes

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #fanfic rec #aziracrow #good omens fic rec #aziraphale x crowley #Time Marches Forward #Bellisima_writes #extra long #safe in public #post s2 #second coming #adam young #canon timeline #slight angst #no spice

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effervescentdragon · 27 days

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*holds out a mic like a reporter* what’s your opinion on the current state of the mcu?

my opinion is that it should have died a long time ago and that everything they do is just abusing the corpse of a frankensteined thing that should have been left and buried a long time ago.

now, i am not that much up to date. i have stopped engaging with mcu after endgame, with the exception of watching the forst season of loki and wakanda forever and i think the eternals, which is good if its taken out of the wider context. my opinion is that the mcu is empty and soulless and a perfect indoctrination into individualist capitalism, warmongering patriarchy and the greedy capital-driven urge of mega corporations and billionaires to replace any sort of humanity with artificially, computer made caricatures of something that once moght have been called art.

i remember that article that tom hiddleston wrote as a response to i believe scorcese sometime way back in 2012, defending superhero movies. i am too lazy to find any refetences so whoever reads this can do their own research and correct me if im wrong anywhere, but i do believe he gave sir christopher reeve as an example. he wrote about the thruths that superheroes explore, how there is not one, but many. how it is the mundanity and the pure humanity that gets amplified and therefore explored and understood through the characters of superheroes, and it all brings us closer to the human experience. that article has stuck with me through all the years ive spent watching these movies and believing in the message - we are all superheroes in our own way. we all make choices, no matter on how much of a micro scale, to do the right thing. to protect, to shield, to fight against injustice. art is, after all, inherently political.

there is none of that in the mcu. ive seen it being chipped away piece by piece over the years, seen the ethical and moral dilemmas we all face in day to day life brought on the big screen to make us understand that there is always a choice, no matter how tough that choice may be, and that every single one of us is capable of both the biggest heroism and the most depraved atrocities, because we are, in essence only human; i have seen all that be replaced with american capitalist war and conquering propaganda, girlboss empty feminism and whatever the fuck those shit "christians" are now pandering and paddling as "family values".

the only god disney worships is obscene amount of money. the only value they respect is how little they can pay and how much they can exploit to get highest monetary value for their shitty cgi-ed recycled propaganda movies. they have turned every character into a twisted version of themselves, assigned value to only those characters who help them propagate their imperialistic capitalist world order, and are fine to spit out dozens of same content (because by now, it is content, devoid of any artistic ideation) and stomp on all that superheroes used to stand for and all that they used to teach us. they also do it in a most insidious way, giving token "other" characters, be it by their race or faith or sexual orientation or gender, while counting on the systematic lowering of critical thinking skills in people to ensure people are dazzled by the shallow representation and never look further away from the rainbow cgi and explosions to understand that mcu has become just another cog in the us imperialist war machine.

i lied. i looked up tom hiddleston's article because i think a shakespearean actor classically trained who quotes tolstoy for fun might have written a better punchline than i could write, in my despondent, disappointed and despairing state of seeing something i've loved with my whole heart be ruined ny human grief. i was right.

"Maybe playing superheroes isn't such an ignoble undertaking after all. "I still believe in heroes," says Samuel L Jackson's Nick Fury in Avengers Assemble. So do I, sir. So do I."

except. except i believe in real life superheroes. in the people protesting against the genocide in gaza. in the people on the ground risking their lives to tell us in the west, about sudan and palestine and uyghur muslims and armenia and congo, in a bid that we might turn our heads and watch the actual real life crises caused by the very imperialists who use these superhero movies to try and save their status quo of opression. i believe in a man who chose self-immolation over being party to the atrocity that is the us military. i believe in my friends in germany who go out every weekend and fight against the rising nazi regime. i believe in every person that has spoken out against the atrocities in the world, every person that has donated and educated and debated and wrote to the representatives and protested. and they still do it, and will continue to do it. these people are the real superheroes to me, and guess what? they are just humans. and those people comitting atrocities right now? they are just humans too.

this is what the superhero comics and movies that i used to watch taught me. that humans are those who have the capacity for the biggest heroism and most despicable atrocities both. we just have to choose. and that is not something that anyone will be able to learn from the mcu anymore.

#never forget to say: free palestine #i woke up angry and i saw this ask about mcu so here we go #this is my opinion on it #effervescentdragonrants #akira answers asks #i guess i truly am a fool. i dont lose hope. still

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sorenphelps · 4 months

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All the artwork I made (so far) for the fanfic Fall For Me by @nikialexx for this year's @rsbigbang!

When we received the fanfic summaries and I saw that there's gonna be a rockstar AU, I ranked it high and was hoping for the best that I'd get it... And I got lucky, we got paired up with Niki, and I cannot even begin to express how much fun working with her has been! When I signed up for the Bang, I had no idea that I will end up being such an overachiever, but our collaboration was just too inspiring for me to stick to making only 1 picture! I'm gonna share a little backstory for all of them, also listing all the hidden easter eggs!

The banner: It was inspired by an off-screen scene (and a Hozier gif) Niki shared with me which inspired her to play with this AU to begin with! She was kind enough to let me design the look of the characters however I wanted and as I am the biggest facial hair enthusiast irl, I shamelessly drew the boys with beards, even tho it is not even once mentioned in the fic! (I aspire to be the fanartist known for drawing every male character with a beard, jsyk.) I am especially fond of Remus' nose, it just turned out so cute! Also, big thanks to Niki again for adding the extra bit about Sirius' parents coming from Vietnam, which is a very personal touch for me! It's the reason why I draw the Black family members with East Asian features, and finally it is perfectly valid in this fic's canon! 🙇🏻‍♀️

The paparazzi photo: This was my very first idea upon reading the summary of the fic, and thankfully Niki was very onboard with this too! This however turned out to be more challenging than expected, the first version was from a different angle and I really couldn't figure out the correct proportions and perspective, and the pose is harder to pull off in an anatomically correct way to begin with, so after some discussions whether it would be plausible in the fic if the paparazzi would have a room next to this balcony instead of in front, it finally clicked into place! And it is actually a real place in Madrid (the hotel and the background too)! Madrid is my ultimate favourite European city and I've spent 2 weeks working there this spring, so I could actually use my own photos as reference! I also hid a crescent moon and a star on the label of the wine bottle in the background! In the fic it is a kiss and they shouldn't be this visible, but I think I managed to convey the heat of this moment anyway. I really like how Sirius licks Remus' neck and their pleasure is obvious however subtle it is. Also because it is not an actual kiss, it has around the same level of ambiguity as the "original" semi-hidden photos would have in my opinion?

The Instagram posts: This idea came to me while reading the first draft of the fic. I've always liked social media inspired drawings, so at first I just sketched it out for fun, but then I liked it too much, so I finalized it, only to realize that I remembered incorrectly and it was not an Instagram post in the fic! Thankfully Niki was flexible enough to change the platform to Instagram in the final version to cover for my mistake! As in the fic it's Snape who takes the paparazzi photos, I referenced him in the first insta post (username). The second insta post was a last minute addition, I figured why not put the story in a "frame" this way. I wanted to draw Remus again, and I had so much fun with it, I've added a lot of easter eggs too! He is drinking wine and is a little tipsy - just as the beginning, and a lot of other times in the fic actually, haha -, he has the ring, the photo was taken in James' restaurant, and there is also Padfoot the dog, who is now bigger as a whole year has passed! Niki gave me free hand with the caption and the comments too, so I decided to really double down on the story framing idea, and have the same comments, but with a twist, emphasizing Sirius' sassiness more (the caption and the extra comment from him saying the love of his life is his dog, but i used the moon and wolf emojis so it would refer to Remus... Also Padfoot is on the picture which is a nod back to the first one when the comment said who is on the picture).

The extra sketches: Originally I didn't want to add the extra sketches, as all three were just warmup before/after working on the actual pieces, but Niki decided to include them in her fic anyways! I really enjoyed the tension of the bathroom scene, I might even clean that sketch up sometime, but the roughness somehow really fits the vibe of the scene! The guitar playing one was actually the first version of the insta post that I only drew for my own fun, before I moved to make a more direct illustration of the scene. I really like how it looks, the guitar just looks so right in Sirius' hand! The boy really is a born rockstar, haha! The balcony in the background has the same pattern as the hotel in Madrid, however it really is just a coincidence. And how could I have resisted drawing Sirius with baby Padfoot?

The promo pic: I had the basis of this picture since working on the banner, but I actually only finished it recently. My aim was to make it look like an actual promo, influencer style (that's why the text is so cringy)! I've also came up with the idea of drawing the rockstar version of Sirius with a cross earring while working on these pictures, which I liked to much that I draw every version of him with it now 😆 It's like 95% of aesthetic and 5% reference to his godfather status (which makes sense only in my native language, cause the word for godfather is mirror translated as cross-father).

The rockband pic and the concert pic: I'm gonna list them here too, because they are both connected to the fic! Neither of them is a direct illustration, but they were inspired by the conversations I had with Niki in the meantime! The concert pic is actually a variation for the situation I tried to convey with the banner!

TLDR; (this became so long again, jeez) I really enjoyed working on all of these pictures, and I am sure that I will definitely create more! (The R/J/S threesome is just too tempting!!) It was really the most prosperous of collaborations, and it was so nice to get to know Niki too! I am really grateful for the opportunity to join the Bang, in my case it really delivered all the benefits: engaging more in this fandom, my creative drive skyrocketing and getting to know a lot of new people! Thanks to everyone involved, really!

#r/s big bang #nikialexx #wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #fanart #art by lau #lau draws with a tablet #rockstar au #collaboration

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redinkscrawl · 3 months

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Redd Reviews: THE MASQUERADE by Seth Dickinson

Genre: SciFi/Fantasy

Major Tropes: Hero corruption arc, slow burn, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends, morally gray characters, women's wrongs, righteous rebellion, bury your gays*, unreliable narrator

Representation Rating: A

(brown lesbian mc, mostly LGBT and nonwhite characters, written by a queer?** author. Some disability rep but could be better/have more imo.)

*On the subject of bury your gays, there's nothing I can say that @canmom hasn't said better. But rest assured, while gays are buried, other gays survive and may even thrive.

**The only reference I can find to Seth Dickinson being queer is in that same blogpost by canmom, which states that Dickinson was questioning his pronouns on Twitter at that point in time. I can't find his Twitter, found no note of queerness on his website, and have only seen him referred to as he/him. That said, this is a wonderfully queer book, and it sure seems like a queer author wrote it.

Young and brilliant Baru Cormorant's home has been slowly invaded, slowly and insidiously taken over by the Empire of the Mask. So she vows her revenge. But what extremes will she have to go to to take down the empire from the inside?

Full of political and economic intrigue, ship battles and sword fights, and twists and turns, these books are the book series I've always wanted to write.

My Thoughts

Overall

"This is the truth. You will know because it hurts."

These books are fucking fascinating. The worldbuilding is strong, beautifully done, and incredibly interesting to boot. The characters are AMAZING and extremely rich. The fictional cultures are complex and gorgeous. The plot becomes increasingly more unhinged, beginning with accounting and political intrigue and ending with cancer cults. And the plot is so smart. So are the rest of the books. (Keep a dictionary handy!) Beauty and brutality in equal measure, these books may make you cry or laugh or both, but they'll definitely keep you turning pages.

My verdict: READ THESE BOOKS.

Book 1: The Traitor Baru Cormorant

This book is one I'll never forget. The highs are high, and the lows are low. If Dickinson has one gift, it's making you care about the accounting and minutiae of this damn rebellion. This book has so much heart it can hardly contain it, and a deep reverence for the common people, despite being about a savant in a powerful position acting against other individuals in powerful positions.

Baru as a character is just... chef's kiss. You root for her when she does good, you root for her when she does evil. It's all but impossible to not want her to succeed.

Fascinatingly, The Traitor Baru Cormorant works as a standalone novel, which makes sense since it originated as a short story. But this is a rare quality amongst firsts in fantasy series, I've found. To me this just demonstrates Dickinson's skill at storytelling.

The names of characters and places are frequently very difficult. I love them. Most characters have distinctly ethnic names, though not necessarily from real ethnicities. Many are difficult for my English-addled brain to pronounce, but they are beautiful and distinct. The world is exceptionally immersive.

If you didn't like the political intrigue and minutiae of A Song of Ice and Fire, you won't like this book. If you did, this is 100% the book for you.

The twists are delicious and the ending is ultra emotional, and expertly executed. I was sobbing. I wanted to throw the book, but I had to keep reading.

Rating: 👛👛👛👛👛/5

Book 2: The Monster Baru Cormorant

This book falters, just slightly, for me. It's still a fascinating, somehow quick read, but it just didn't hit me the way the other two books did. Baru spends a lot of time seemingly achieving nothing, and while every plot point is vital to Baru's character later on... they don't always seem worthwhile at the time. I just can't give The Monster Baru Cormorant a perfect score.

I don't like the switch to first person for Xate Yawa's POV. I found it jarring and out-of-place in a novel that is otherwise third person, and where Yawa is not the main character. This bothered me less and less as the novel went on (and into the next,) but still. The choice doesn't make sense to me, since we already get character's thoughts through the third person limited POV. I'd like to pick the author's brain about this.

I do love how much we learn about the world of The Masquerade in this book. The world expands exponentially, as evidenced by the expanded map. I'm kind of obsessed with the concept of trim; the concept that all things are connected to all things, and one should live accordingly, to put it simply. The Oriati culture is fascinating and just so, so beautiful.

Rating: 🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️.5/5

Book 3: The Tyrant Baru Cormorant

This book is INSANE. And gods, Seth Dickinson really keeps you reading! The tension is off the charts and the cliffhangers hit where it hurts. Some might call some of the cliffhangers cheap, but since the characters believe in the tension, I believe in the tension. That makes all the difference for me.

This book shines in the logistics. Clearly Dickinson did his research on, like, everything. Economics of course, but also ship parts and naval strategy and brain injury and every other detail I can't remember but that made the story feel so, so real.

The horrors released in this book shook me, and the hopes birthed in this book are delightfully optimistic in comparison. The end of this book is a relatively triumphant, happy ending...which is kind of crushing when you remember that there's going to at least be a fourth book.

I can't state enough that this book is crazy, but I can't tell you much more without spoilers. A definite page-turner. If you liked the first two books, you'll love this one.

Rating: 🗺️🗺️🗺️🗺️🗺️/5

Book 4: Upcoming

And I can't wait.

Rating: 🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭/5

Check out waffalet's elf girl maker here.

#fantasy #scifi #the traitor baru cormorant #baru cormorant #the masquerade #seth dickinson #butredd #bookblr #book review #enemies to lovers #slow burn #women's wrongs #hero corruption arc #book rec #book recs

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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

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Broken Glass Chapter 2 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x OC Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis Presley - Elvis (2022)

Read More Here - Broken Glass Masterlist! 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Prompt: You are Dolores Cannava, a young Italian-American nurse desperate to make her own way in the world and break free of her dysfunctional mafia-connected family and traumatic past. Elvis Presley is just returning home from his two-year stint in the Army, looking more handsome than ever, but feeling the pressure to successfully find his way back to the stratospheric career he was forced to leave behind. In a twisted turn of fate, Elvis finds himself in the hospital where your paths cross. Forced to harbor his potentially career-ending secret and needing to escape a terrifying future in New York, you are pulled into his unusual world and must endure a begrudging fake relationship with Elvis in order to protect his reputation (and his life).

TW: Hospitals, illness, cussing. The Colonel. Some historical inaccuracies.

Tags: Fake relationship. Slow burn. Angst. (Sort of) enemies to lovers. Hurt/Comfort.

Rating: PG (ish?) (but this story will eventually be Mature/NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Happy Broken Glass Wednesday, y'all! I'm going to try to put out a chapter a week on Wednesdays (we shall see if I can keep up lol). Thank you for your lovely responses to Chapter 1 and for giving this little fic a chance. ❤️

This chapter dives into some heavy stuff in that I've sped up the timeline and brought some of the serious health issues that Elvis experienced more prominently later in his life to the forefront in 1960. I've always wondered what might have happened if they had recognized his many complex conditions for what they were early in his life. Truth be told, I am endlessly fascinated by the medical conundrum that was Elvis and that he lived most of his life with some pretty severe shit that at the time no one understood or had names for. Of course, I simplify the shit out of it here and try to put them in laymen's terms. I've taken some major artistic liberties with history in that there is likely no way in 1960 they would have be able to diagnose, especially so quickly, his complex conditions. Also, I am not a medical professional, so I've done my best to describe things whist moving the plot along. I HIGHLY recommend reading Sally Hoedel's book Elvis: Destined to Die Young if you are interested in the specifics regarding E's health journey and how he ended up where he did in terms of that. It's a superbly researched and somewhat heartbreaking book that I think every Elvis fan should read. It certainly inspired part of this story.

As always, I love and live for your reactions, comments, asks, and reblogs, so thank you in advance for both reading and giving another one of my stories a chance!

I imagined it with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat.

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

I’ve used the tag list from Pink Scarf, and added those who requested it, so please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

Story is cross-posted to my Wattpad and AO3, if you prefer those reading experiences!

Shit.

Elvis winces as he cracks open his eyes just enough to see the sun blazing in on him. The infernal light pierces straight into his head, worsening the headache that already throbs against the inside of his skull. He quickly shuts his eyes again, cursing whoever thought it was a good idea to keep the curtains open on a sunny late winter’s day.

Gotta have Lamar cover those damn windows with something more than those flimsy-ass cutains, he thinks, already pissed off.

It takes him a moment to register where he is and why he’s there. That, in fact, the sun’s rays are rather weak and dim, making him wonder just what time it is. Holding the bridge of his nose against the pain in his head, he manages to squint his eyes open to find himself in a rather small hospital room.

Bits and pieces start to come back to him, though the days and nights run together into one big jumble. How he’d finally escaped the confines of his service in Germany, so damn excited to be coming home that he hadn’t properly slept in days. He’d just kept popping those great little pills he’d obtained from a more than generous pharmacist in Bad Nauheim and, fueled by those and pure restlessness to get back to the states, he’d managed to easily keep the smile on his face for the cameras in Germany and the UK.

But the flight over the Atlantic had him chewing his nails to the quick, his legs going a mile a minute. He feared flying ever since the emergency landing that he, Scotty, and Bill had to make in that small, dinky little plane back in the old days, when things had just started to kick up for them in the business. It was made worse by his mama being convinced that he was gonna die in a horrible, fiery crash, so he’d taken to trains and boats and cars as his main forms of transport. The U.S. Army wanted to get him home sooner rather than later, however, and if there was one thing he’d learned in the last two years, it’s that you don’t try to fight Uncle Sam.

Whether it was the flight or the pills or the lack of rest, he’d started to get queasy and dizzy on that pass over the ocean. Then, the scratchiness of his throat, the burn of his forehead, and the chilled sweat that began to stain his perfectly pressed and tailored uniform were the telltale signs of a bout of tonsilitis striking him at precisely the wrong time.

That’s where things get a little fuzzy. Between the pain behind his eyes and at the base of his skull and the heavy fatigue consuming him, it’s not coming to him as quickly as he’d like. His eyes begin to adjust to the sunlight, and he puts together enough to know whatever happened between that flight and landing in New York was enough to land him flat on his ass in the hospital.

New York. That explains all the racket, he thinks as the sounds below on the streets echo off the buildings, creating a cacophony unique to the big city.

The door to the little room swings open then, making him jump out of his skin. It’s as though his state of consciousness was magically communicated to the staff because in walks an older gentleman in a long, white coat, along with his daddy and the Colonel. Their faces are all different degrees of solemn, which sets a churning dread down into the pit of his stomach.

“Glad to see you’re awake, Mr. Presley. You’ve been asleep quite a while,” the doctor says, the man’s education only belying a hint of a New York accent. “You’ve had us a bit worried.”

“Mister Presley is my father, Doctor. Please call me Elvis,” he manages to croak out. The fire in his throat flames from the use, causing him to cough and sputter. There’s an uncomfortable heaviness in his chest that tightens with each breath, and that knot in his stomach coils ever tighter.

“Take it easy, son,” his daddy says softly, pouring a glass of water from the table against the wall and handing it to him. The action triggers a memory: a pretty, little dark-haired nurse all in white doing the same in the middle of the night.

Elvis is pulled from the memory as the doctor begins speaking in a serious tone: “Elvis, I’m Dr. Paulson. You had quite the fall in the airplane yesterday morning and hit your head. Do you remember?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm, that isn’t unusual with a head injury of this type. You might find that your memory has some gaps, bit that is to be expected and will likely resolve with time. But your injury is not what has me concerned, young man, it’s the cause of your unconsciousness that is the real culprit, I’m afraid.”

“What do y’mean, sir? Just feels like a flare of the ol’ tonsils to me.” As soon as it’s out of his mouth, Elvis knows it’s not the whole truth. He’s never felt quite this terrible in his life, with the way he’s struggling for breath and his body aches from head to toe.

“Elvis, along with your fall, you also went into respiratory distress last night.” Suddenly, Elvis remembers the laughing fit, how he couldn’t catch his breath, how the air just couldn’t seem to fill his lungs as that pretty nurse held his hand. But he thinks maybe it happened before that, too, him gasping for breath as the roar of airplane engines rang in his ears. Icy fear runs down his spine at the remembrance of not being able to draw breath. His attention snaps back to the doctor as he continues.

“We’ve run some tests, and that, coupled with your family history…” the austere man hesitates, “Well, I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

The Colonel glances away and out the window at that, his mouth set in a frown Elvis has never seen before, but it’s the look of sadness on his daddy’s face that finally sets a wave of panic rolling through him.

“Lay it on me, Dr. Paulson,” Elvis says, steeling himself.

“You seem to have a condition that is affecting your lungs, heart, and liver, all of which are vital to our survival. Looking at your mother’s medical records, we think she may have been afflicted with the same condition, and possibly more family members on her side. In fact, it’s likely what caused her early demise,” Dr. Paulson explains.

At the mention of his mama, Elvis’ heart constricts, his barely buried grief stinging his eyes. He blinks away the tears as fast as he can, trying to follow what the doctor is saying.

“Along with that, your immune system also appears compromised, which would explain your frequent and severe bouts of fever and tonsilitis. Altogether, it’s a perfect storm that is likely to only get worse with time. Of course, medical science is improving every day, and there may be better treatments down the road…” Dr. Paulson trails off.

Dread falls over him like a heavy blanket. “What’re ya sayin’, sir?” Elvis asks quietly but is afraid to hear the answer he thinks he’s gonna get.

Dr. Paulson takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m sorry to say, but it’s likely these conditions are going to shorten your lifespan considerably.”

The words hang in the air like a suffocating dark cloud. His daddy’s face crumples and he turns away, while the Colonel winces—actually winces—at the words.

“So, y-y-you’re saying this gonna k-k-kill me? That I-I-I’m gonna die?” His vocal incredulousness covers how the sheer panic overcoming him sets his heart galloping. “I’m only 25, Doc…y-y-you gotta be w-wrong ‘bout this. I just spent two damn years in the Army, and they sure as hell didn’t say nothin’ about no ‘condition’!”

“This condition is very rare, Elvis, and we are learning more about it every day. I’m not saying it’ll be today, but considering the episode you’ve just had, this disease will factor critically into your overall health and survival going forward. It has already started a cascade of chronic health issues of varying severity that will worsen as you age, and in the end, this combination of factors will almost certainly be the thing that kills you.”

Hearing those words out of the doctor’s mouth sets him numb with disbelief. This can’t be fucking happening. Not when everything is gettin’ set to be back on track. Not when I got so much left to do.

“No disrespect, Doctor, but I-I-I don’t accept that. I w-want a second opinion,” Elvis shakes his head, the words popping out of his stubborn mouth before he has much chance to think on them, to actually consider the possible truth of them.

But a deep part of him knows.

He knows his mama died too young and that her illness didn’t make sense. He knows he’s got family who died before their time. But most of all, he knows how he feels, and something ain’t right.

“Colonel Parker and your father have said as much, so I will contact some specialists to meet you in Memphis upon your return. But in some ways, young man, this is a good thing,” Dr. Paulson intones softly.

“Now, how the hell d’ya figure that?!” Elvis rasps out, nearly belligerent. He’s not one to be disrespectful, usually, especially to a man of such education, but he feels like shit and the blazing red heat of his temper pushes in before he can stop it.

Dr. Paulson blinks at him with his brows raised, and Elvis feels a wave of shame crash over his already rolling fear and anger. His mama didn’t raise him to talk to people that way. He takes a breath.

“I-I-I’m sorry, sir,” Elvis apologizes deferentially. “I-I’m just h-havin’ a hard time with what y-you’re saying, is all.”

“That’s understandable. What I meant by it being a ‘good thing’ is that now we know what we are dealing with and can set you up with lifestyle changes that could both improve your quality of life and perhaps extend it. We can set you up with constant care in order to avoid…things taking a downturn.”

Elvis’ head is spinning, pounding, making him feel wildly out of control. “Lifestyle changes? Constant care? I ain’t no invalid, Dr. Paulson, I’ll tell you for sure.” He nearly growls the promise as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, meaning to walk the hell out of here and show this doctor just how wrong he is.

In the back of his mind, he realizes instantly how stupid it sounds, considering that the moment he stands, his entire body betrays him and sends him careening to the floor, if not for the doctor and his daddy grabbing him under each arm and hauling his ass back into the bed. There, he is faced with the terrible reality that he’s sicker than a dog with the world spinning out from under him in more ways than one.

“None of us want this to be true, son, but maybe you should listen to the doctor,” his father says quietly in his ear, putting a hand on his shoulder.

This is the last thing Elvis wants to do. He wants to kick and scream and rally himself well. I can prove them all wrong, he thinks, if only he could stop the world from spinning and his breath from wheezing and his body from aching.

Fuck.

Elvis can’t bear to look at anyone, choosing to stare up at the high, vaulted ceiling, blinking away the blast of dark spots in his eyes as he tries to catch his damn breath.

“What’s next?” he finally wheezes out, counting the dots on the ceiling tiles to keep him from floating away.

“Well, first we need to keep you in the hospital as long as it takes to get you stabilized before you can go home to Memphis.”

“Absolutely not!” the Colonel exclaims from near the window. “We’ve already kept the press at bay long enough with talks of flight delays and other nonsense. We can’t hold them back much longer. You listen here, that boy needs to make appearances, and he needs to look the picture of health doing so, or he’s not going to have a career to go back to!”

The doctor scoffs. “Mr. Parker, look at him—Elvis’ career is the least of his worries.”

“It’s Colonel Parker, Mr. Paulson,” he hisses, “and his career is most certainly your concern. You have your expertise, and I have mine, and I’m telling you right now, I didn’t spend two years keeping him in the public eye despite his service to have you flush it down the toilet. I’m sure you don’t want to be the doctor that doomed Elvis Presley. The one who ripped him away from his legions of loyal fans.” The threat is crystal clear, and by the resulting silence, the doctor seems somewhat shaken.

“Sir, there will be no career if the young man is dead.” The doctor’s words hang heavy, and Elvis closes his eyes, willing himself to be anywhere but here. But there is no escaping this. No amount of money, talent, or fame is gonna get him out of this one.

Finally, he brings himself to speak, “I ain’t givin’ up my career, Dr. Paulson. But I also feel like something the cat dragged in last night and can’t get outta this damned bed. So, we’re gonna need to figure out a compromise.”

Dr. Paulson stares at Elvis and the Colonel like they’ve lost their minds. Vernon stays characteristically silent.

“Anything short of you staying here until you at least recover from this episode will be against my medical advice. You are in too fragile a state to consider anything else,” Dr. Paulson says, almost pleadingly. “And with this condition, if you try to jump back into the breakneck lifestyle of a superstar, your life will be short indeed.”

Elvis sets his jaw. “Sir, no offense, but you don’t know me very well. I can do just about anythin’ I set my mind to. We’ve all worked very hard to get me where I am, and I ain’t ready to give that up just yet. I got too much to do. Now tell me, what do I gotta do to get you to let me outta this hospital?”

The doctor looks at him and shakes his head, silent. Finally, he relents. “First off, you have to be able to get out of bed and stand on your own two feet without collapsing.”

“Fine. I can do it.” Even the Colonel looks at him with a tinge of disbelief on that one. “Maybe not this instant, but I’ll do it.”

“Secondly, if you are able to do that and still choose to leave against advice, I recommend having a doctor with you at all times, someone who can monitor your vitals and give you care when you take a turn for the worse,” the doctor concedes, “which you most certainly will.”

“Done,” Elvis agrees quickly. Anything that will get him out of here and back home to his life.

“Now, listen here, my boy, there is no reasonable way to spin a doctor following you everywhere without the press having a field day. You could lose everything the minute the public knows you’re…sick,” the Colonel points at him, faltering on that last word.

He means ‘dying’ not ‘sick,’ an unwelcome voice in the back of his head adds. But Elvis understands the Colonel’s point. Even as private as he is, it’ll be difficult to go to a movie set or recording studio with a stuffy doctor in tow and not have anyone find out. Shit.

Dr. Paulson looks exasperated and crosses his arms. Colonel just glares. But it’s his daddy that finally pops up in the uncomfortable silence.

“What…what about a nurse? Elvis always has girls hanging around him…” Vernon trails off.

Silence fills the air. Elvis blinks slowly and can see the wheels turning in Colonel’s head, the way they do when he’s about ready to come up with the perfect plan, the perfect snow job.

“It…could work, if we get one young and pretty enough. Don’t love it because I wanted to keep Elvis publicly available in the eyes of his fans—no attachments—but looks like we may not have a choice. Better you taken than single and…” The Colonel chooses not to finish that sentence, but they all know the ending he’s avoiding, what he’s choosing not to say.

He races to continue, “But you’ve got to keep up appearances in public, my boy, since she’ll have to be a steady fixture in your life. No more frolicking around with every pretty thing with legs. No more girlfriends in every county, state, and country from here to Timbuktu. No one, girlfriends included, can know what we’re up to or all could be lost. Even your wild friends are going to have to believe this is real for it to work.”

Elvis’ heart begins to race with the thought of being so thoroughly confined to a relationship, especially with some random woman who he might not even be attracted to, physically or otherwise, even if it is just for show. He’s always hated the Colonel being in his private romantic business, knowing that the man has managed to somehow get rid of more than a few of his steadies with some unknown manipulations to keep him “unattached.” So, for Colonel to agree to this plan, Elvis realizes just how dire the situation is.

And God knows, he already has more girlfriends than he can handle as it is. He has yet to be reunited with Anita, pines for Priscilla from afar, and dragged Elisabeth from Germany and sent her ahead to Graceland, not to mention the multitude of other flings he indulges in. But he loves women, to a fault, and he doesn’t want to be tied down to just one (no matter how he tells his girls otherwise). Worrying his lower lip in his teeth, he realizes he doesn’t have much of a choice. He’ll have to find a way to make it work.

The Colonel must sense this from him. “Oh, come on now, my boy, we all know your talent for juggling women is near as good as your talent for performing. Think of it as a challenge to hone your acting craft. There are worse things than being made to spend time with a pretty girl,” Colonel drawls, daring to wink at him.

Elvis feels sick to his stomach with the dishonesty of it and with the oppressive feeling that his life is no longer his own. To be fair, he’d been feeling like the walls were closing in, pressing him into submission, since the moment he received his draft notice, but this...this is different. The hell of this knowledge strokes awake a deep, dark sliver of him that has always believed his time here is destined to be limited, that no one should achieve his level of fame and success without paying a terrible price. But the worst is the horrible thought that perhaps it should’ve been him who was supposed to die in the womb and not Jesse, and that all this had been a mistake from the start. Some sort of cosmic joke.

No, God wouldn’t do that. God has a plan. He has to, he thinks, banishing the shameful thought back into the dark recesses of him mind from whence it came. A lump forms in his parched throat and he gulps, trying to get it down, trying to chase away the demons that threaten at the edges of his vision. Please God, please, he prays, though he’s not entirely sure what for. Perhaps the prayer begs to know that this is all one of his damn night terrors, or maybe it’s to chase away the horrors inside his mind that seek to consume him whole.

A small part of him is tempted to throw in the towel and to just fade into obscurity. Lord knows he’s already achieved more of his fair share of fame and fortune, more than most achieve in a lifetime. Maybe he should just live out the rest of his now-shortened life in peace and quiet. Start a family with one of his girls like his mama so desperately wanted. He realizes this is what she feared all along—like she’d had some sort of maternal premonition that he had been living on borrowed time from the start.

But that feels like a prison of another sort. No, he loves music too damn much, the way it tingles in his soul, clicking into place like the pieces of a complex puzzle that only he has the ability to complete, and the performing electrifies him in such an addictive and indescribable way that he can’t fathom trying to give it up. And beyond all that, he knows he’s got it in him to be a great actor if given the chance.

Quittin’ isn’t an option, he thinks, even if it kills me. Better to burn bright doin’ what I love rather than have nothin’ to live for.

Blood pounds at the inside of his skull like a ticking clock, his mind spinning with the fear and rage of it all. He is in no space to make these decisions, he realizes, but because so many want him to keep going, to keep working, to keep living, he knows what he’s gotta do.

Elvis finally nods his agreement, adding pointedly, “As long as I get a say in who she is. There’s gotta be chemistry for this to work.”

Dr. Paulson shakes his head and throws his hands in disbelief at this insane plan. “I think the most important thing is that she is competent, not her looks or ‘chemistry.’ Not to mention, she’ll have to be single and willing to give up her entire life to not only care for you 24/7 but to also pretend to be your girlfriend. I hope you have plenty of money to throw at this problem, Elvis.”

The Colonel grins wickedly. “I think you underestimate the power Elvis has over young ladies, Doctor. I have no doubt you’ll help us find someone suitable.”

“In the next few days? You must be joking,” Dr. Paulson huffs.

The stabbing pain behind Elvis’ eyes gets worse with these considerations brought to light. Yes, he does well with women, but the reality of any girl in her right mind agreeing to such conditions feels slim.

It feels serendipitous, then, that it happens to be this exact moment when you walk through the door.

“L-L-Little bird,” Elvis says, his nickname for you somehow, by the grace of God, popping into his muddled brain the instant he sees you. The name stutters from his lips almost in awe.

God has a plan.

The rest of the men turn in unison to stare at you. Elvis watches as you stop short, your intelligent sky-blue eyes going wide with surprise, annoyance, and apprehension at the intimidating scene before you.

Your mouth opens with a retort, then closes quickly at the strange silence that follows. The men take you in, from head to toe, as you stand frozen in the doorway like a deer in headlights.

After a moment, you seem to remember why you came in the first place, shaking off the uncomfortable gazes of the men and finally clear your throat to speak. “Excuse me, I didn’t realize…I-I’m sorry to interrupt, but Nurse Hunt sent me to find you, Dr. Paulson. She said it was urgent.”

Dr. Paulson, Vernon, and Colonel one by one turn their heads to look at Elvis. Colonel’s wicked little smile turns the corners of his mouth when he sees the way Elvis’ eyes take you in, a little bit of life returning to his pale cheeks.

Of course, Elvis liked you from the moment he’d laid eyes on you yesterday. With your deep brunette hair and stunningly big, bright blue eyes, you instantly piqued his interest, as you fit his usual type well. Your olive skin and striking features are different though, and remind him a bit of a young Sophia Loren, the beautiful Italian actress who he’d met on the movie studio lot a few years back.

In the looks department, you’d fit the role quite well.

The only problem he can see is that you’d made your distain for him quite clear last night.

“I’ll be right there, Nurse,” Dr. Paulson finally says, realizing you were waiting for any sort of response beyond staring. Relieved, you scurry away as quickly as you’d arrived.

“What do we know about Nurse—” Colonel starts the moment you leave.

“Cannava,” Elvis and Dr. Paulson say in tandem. Elvis is surprised your name falls off his tongue so easily, especially with how clouded his memory is.

“She’s the youngest to ever graduate our program here at Bellevue, and for that itself she is a standout. But being so young, she is still relatively inexperienced despite her excellent training,” the doctor warns, and seeing the look on the Colonel’s face wanting more, he continues, “Beyond that, I’d have to ask around.”

“She’ll never do it,” Elvis interjects with disappointment. “She doesn’t like me much.”

“Nonsense, my boy, I’ve never seen you anything but persistent in your need and ability to win a woman over,” Colonel says encouragingly, patting Elvis’ hand. “And perhaps it will work in our favor in her ability to remain…professional around you. Use that winning charm of yours to win her over. That and a healthy sum she can’t refuse.”

Elvis doesn’t even know your first name, but he can’t help the fact that he’s been drawn to you since the moment you met. The little flutter of his heart, the revealing sign of his already budding infatuation, loves the idea of you being his.

But she won’t be mine, not really, he reminds himself.

Either way, it’s a challenge he’s not quite sure he’s up for in his weakened state, but time is running short, and he doesn’t have much of a choice. He’s going to have to figure out a way to convince you this is a good idea.

“Find out everything you can,” Colonel orders the doctor, “and then bring her to me.”

What the Colonel wants, the Colonel gets.

And Elvis has the distinct feeling he’s already in over his head and is taking you with him, willing or not.

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ladywynne · 7 months

Text

My Way

Moon Knight. Jake steps in when needed. What a life he's led.

Based on the song "My Way" by Frank Sinatra. For Whumptober 2023 - Fills prompts "pinned down", "alleyway", "outnumbered", and "troubled past resurfacing". It is whump, but there is also love and joy.

CW: violence, child abuse, character death, blood, gun

Word count - 2004

******************************************************

And now, the end is near

And so I face the final curtain

My friend, I'll say it clear

I'll state my case, of which I'm certain

I've lived a life that's full

I've traveled each and every highway

But more, much more than this

I did it my way

Marc spat out the blood pooling in his mouth and struggled back into a boxer’s stance. He knows pain. He is not afraid of it, but he also knows he is reaching the end of his endurance. Not that these assholes can tell that from where they’re standing. The super-powered zealots of Set are hovering warily, none of them willing to go first despite (or maybe because of) his bloody visage. All of them sporting an injury or two from the last hours.

Marc huffs a laugh and straightens slightly, “That all ya got?” He spares a quick glance behind himself. The kids he is protecting are okay, huddled together against the dirty brick wall. Four boys, none older than ten. He’s not sure what the cultists want with them, it was mere chance he came upon the scene in the first place, but he is not willing to find out. He needs to end this quickly. End this and get them out of here. He never thought he’d miss Khonshu.

He goes another few rounds. He’s better than his opponents, better by far; but there are so many, and they have supernatural strength. His knuckles are bleeding, as well as his nose, and he impatiently swipes the sweat and hair from his eyes so as not to miss the next attack. They don’t strike where he expects.

“MISTER!” A child’s voice screams to him with shrill fear. Marc whirls, his eyes coming to rest on a new player, a woman, compact with an athlete’s build. She must have flanked him while he fought, and now holds the smallest boy by the upper arm as she drags him around the makeshift fight club. Marc notes she is armed, but the weapon is holstered as she deals with the boy.

Marc immediately turns in that direction, punching with renewed vigor, but he is swarmed by foes who seem so single-minded as to be almost in a trance. Damn it! There’s more of ‘em.

Marc can barely make out the woman through the mass of zealots as she nears a van with the child. The boy struggles, planting his feet and twisting wildly. When they reach the bumper the child bites the woman’s wrist, and she cries out with a curse, but she doesn’t release him. Instead, she draws back her free hand and slaps him with a crack that can be heard over the grunts and blows of Marc’s own battle.

Time slows and Marc’s vision tunnels until all he sees is that little boy. He sees red bloom across the child’s cheek, sees the fear on his face and the way his body goes still in shock. The woman shakes the boy for good measure before restraining his small hands and tossing him into the van to another grim adult. Then she turns back for the next child.

But Marc doesn’t see this last. He can’t see because he isn’t there.

He is the boy. The sharp sound of the slap registers before the hot swell of pain. His hand rises to cradle his cheek as he looks up into the cold eyes of his own mother. She is spewing words at him, venom no doubt, but they don’t register through the ringing in his ears and all he can do is stand dumbly, lowering his eyes to the kitchen linoleum. His mother scoffs and pulls him by the hair. He doesn’t fight her, but tears roll down his cheeks from the sting of her grip.

Jake is ready, would have taken the reins soon in any case. He shoves forward, flexing his fists to ground himself as the pain and exhaustion of the body overtake his senses. But the lapse in awareness, short as it was, has cost them. Enemies are all over him. He swings viciously to try and clear space but takes a hard punch to the eye. He feels many hands wrestling to control his arms. Jake fights for all he’s worth. This is life-and-death, the time for taunts is over. Apart from the meaty thwack of blows landing and occasional exclamations of pain, silence engulfs the alleyway arena. Jake feels a surge of fierce pride when it seems the horde is faltering.

Then there is a brutal kick to the back of his leg. He falls. Jake lands hard on one knee and immediately tries to rebound upward. It’s no use. Four men secure his arms as a cruel hand forces his head back. He struggles valiantly. Shit! Damn! Joder! Feckin’ HELL! But in the end he is forced to watch through swelling eyes, seething with rage, as the last of the boys is loaded into that van. Thank G-d Marc ain’t here for this.

Jake takes a stab in the dark, rasping out. “Khonshu, Embracer. Save the kids. You gotta have a new fist by now. Use them and help the boys.” No response, but a sudden breeze behind the van gives him some hope. He didn't expect more. They had not parted with the bird on the best terms.

As the dark vehicle drives away his curls are released, and Jake gives it one more go. He thrashes and kicks wildly backward from his knees, but all it gets him is his face planted painfully into the grimy pavement.

He freezes when he hears it – a sound he knows intimately well. A sound that has haunted his every nightmare since Cairo. The cock of a pistol.

🌙🌙🌙

Regrets, I've had a few

But then again, too few to mention

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption

I planned each charted course

Each careful step along the byway

And more, much more than this

I did it my way

Jake’s purpose looked different according to the situation, but he always protected Marc and Steven. More often than not Marc had to be protected from himself - from the physical repercussions of his pain and self-loathing. When Marc longed for a permanent solution or subconsciously tried to shorten his life through drinking and bad choices Jake was there to stop him. Steven suffered in other ways, his clever mind quick to fill in gaps, but unable to cure his devastating loneliness. Jake tried to ease it with a date. Sometimes he was needed simply because the other two were bickering and making themselves vulnerable. It didn’t really matter why. He was always there.

When they were young, Marc took it all. Poor kid thought he deserved abuse, and he would never hurt their mother. Jake was a child himself then - hiding, confused, only called forward if Marc really thought she would kill them. Thank God he has more control now. Now he watches near constantly. Vigilant. He can’t afford another Cairo, can’t let sus estúpidos muchachos get in that deep again, can’t let them die again. He loves them too damn much.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew

When I bit off more than I could chew

But through it all, when there was doubt

I ate it up and spit it out

I faced it all and I stood tall

And did it my way

Jake had a lot of good times, more than Marc or Steven would ever have imagined for him. He loved. He had Gena and her boys, Crawley, and New York City. As a cabbie he met a lot of people, was tuned to the rhythm of the city and especially the nooks and crannies of Brooklyn. He knew the street walkers, the homeless, the policemen, the business owners, the elderly. And they knew him. Jake gave the body community. He fed that part of their soul.

He had freedom. G-d, the way it felt to drive Marc’s expensive car with the windows down, fast and free and unhidden. Jake never shied away from the world when he was on the outside, not unless it was for a mission. He embraced it all- the people, the smells, the sounds. It was part of why he loved to drive. He spent so much time unknown, silent, deadly and watchful and tough. But on the road, he could live. Make his own g-ddamned choices. Go where he wanted, as fast as he wanted. He would shift gears with so much adrenaline and joy coursing through him that no one, not even himself, could doubt that Jake Lockley took up space. Jake Lockley was fuckin’ real.

After he was revealed to the others Steven was sometimes with him as he drove. The Brit seemed to love watching him. Yeah mate, smashed that curve! And once Jake settled into the seat, his gloved hand relaxed on the wheel, the two of them talked. Surprisingly, it was a space where Steven and Jake found each other, experiencing the road together, learning what it was to be known.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried

I've had my fill my share of losing

And now, as tears subside

I find it all so amusing

To think I did all that

And may I say - not in a shy way

Oh no, oh no, not me

I did it my way

Jake loves Marc with all his heart. He always has. He supposes he was meant to love him, that guilt-ridden, violent, protective, beautiful soul that is Marc Spector.

Oh, Marc always knew he was there. It was a weird, cruel open secret in their mind. But Marc wouldn’t face him, feeling all his goodness had been poured into Steven, and afraid of what he would find in this last fractured part of himself. Jake never pushed it. He had witnessed Marc be backed into a corner far too often. Jake would never do that to him.

The awareness Steven gained in the Duat made it impossible to avoid reality any longer. Steven was an open book and he insisted on an open mind. So, finally, Marc looked inward, staring into the headspace with the ironic aid of a bathroom mirror, and saw reflected there the missing piece of himself.

Jake accepted his scrutiny, ready for the inevitable blame and condescension and loathing that he knew would not really be directed at him but at the tortured soul of the propagator himself. It did not come. Marc’s tense brows didn’t ease, but his fingers deliberately released their grip on the porcelain of the sink. And Marc straightened, brown eyes meeting brown eyes at last and finding within them a spirit common to them all. At last the corner of Marc’s mouth rose slightly in wry acknowledgement, “Got a name?”

For what is a man, what has he got

If not himself, then he has naught

To say the things he truly feels

And not the words of one who kneels

The record shows I took the blows

And did it my way

Yeah, Jake always knew he would be the one to take the final bullet. He knew because if it got bad and he had any time at all, he’d make sure of it. That is who he is, and he is damn proud of it.

🌙🌙🌙

A lot can happen in the final seconds of one’s life. They say your existence flashes before your eyes. It does for Jake, simply because Marc and Steven are there. Jake feels so many things - defiant, stoic, angry…but not lonely. It feels to him like Marc hugs him, grip tightening across his back and not letting go. And then Steven wraps around them both, impossibly encompassing them, a shield of love in this last moment. They understand. They are here with him. Together.

Dios mio. I must be the luckiest fucker on earth.

And Jake laughs.

Yes, it was my way

BANG

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