#and each people their own room and space to grief

[wandasaura]

LOVE IS A RUTHLESS GAME

summary — it’s been months since natasha’s submitted to her wife, but that’s about to change. you’re lucky enough to watch the entire scene unfold

warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, the chaotic duo of lucky and fanny, sub!nat, sub!reader, face slapping, pussy slapping, edging, cockwarming, face sitting, nipple stimulation, degradation, praise, dildo riding, dom/sub dynamics, teasing, begging, delayed orgasm, orgasm control, mentions of exhibitionism, oral, bondage, finger sucking, cum eating, threesome, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — we’re not even going to address the fact that this was meant to be an entirely separate fic and that now i have to write a part two because it got too long to add any more. this is literal filth, but there are some cute/goofy moments + mean wanda

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff ✧

It was bound to be a great day when Natasha got a phone call from Yelena asking if she could watch Fanny and Lucky for a couple of hours; some work conflict having come up on short notice and Kate was already out of town. Those couple of hours had turned into an overnight arrangement rather quickly, but you were just happy that Natasha agreed to keep both dogs for the night and hadn’t sent the excitable pups back through the door they came in at when Yelena dropped the bombshell. 

Wanda was less than pleased to have not one but two dogs running around her perfectly kept house, and had turned her glare on Natasha multiple times because of it. It turns out that Kate and Yelena let the pups run wild, furniture wasn’t off limits and wiping their paws at the door was entirely foreign. You had looked at Wanda in sheer amusement when she’d tried to get the two tail-wagging pups to understand the concept of drying their paws before stepping onto her hardwood floors. They’d merely shook their coats and trotted past her, muddy paw prints adorning the couch seconds later. It was safe to say that Natasha was beyond the point of simply being in trouble with the Sokovian. The Russian had been tiptoeing around for hours, her eyes filled with unbudgeable worry as she scouted each room for Wanda’s presence before even considering entering fully.  

When Natasha appeared again, hair tied up in a bun and blue light glasses slipping down the slope of her nose, that same gleam of hesitance brimmed in her calculated green eyes. You were curled up on the couch, Fanny’s head on one thigh while Lucky’s head rested on the other. Your eyes were staring straight ahead at the television screen, an old movie you hadn’t seen in ages holding your attention, but the dogs had decided that giving Wanda grief since their arrival had officially tired them out. Lucky snored, you found out rather quickly. Fanny was quiet, but your heart ached when she whined every so often and the little paws folded beneath her shaggy belly twitched and jerked like she was trying to run. You didn’t know much about dogs, had never had much interest in having one of your own, but you could appreciate their warm comfort. The Sokovian that was being searched for had gone out back an hour ago, a book in her hands that was already half finished but rather lengthy. As she’d passed you on her way out, careful not to let the dogs out with her, she’d told you she wouldn’t mind an interruption if you wanted to join her, but Natasha had pointedly been left out of that invitation. 

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Natasha asked cautiously, fixing the black framed glasses so they sat on the top of her head, no longer needing them for the work assignments she left behind in her office. There was never any shortage of work to be done, never any space between deadlines and start-ups, but the women found a balance easily, something you admired as more than just their girlfriend. They were never CEO’s first. They were wives, girlfriends, sisters, friends, people. Pursuing a career in computer science has shown you the harsher sides of corporate companies and the intricacies that running a successful business entails. You’d shaken hands with too many sour old men that devoted their lives to the office and were somehow surprised when their wives left them. Wanda and Natasha would never understand how easy they made it look, and how inspiring they are, being successful women in positions of power. 

“My girlfriend, is she?” You quirked a single eyebrow, an expression you had more or less adopted as your own since the start of the summer. Seeing you wear an expression that Wanda practically owned never failed to make Natasha weak in the knees. “Getting a divorce that I don’t know about?” 

“After tonight? We might be.” Although Natasha was merely teasing, playing into the game that you had set up, you frowned at the genuine concern in her simple words. Yelena had put her in between a rock and a hard place, even if it wasn’t entirely intentional. She had definitely left out the part about needing someone to watch the dogs overnight on purpose, but Wanda’s reaction to the news wasn’t her fault. Natasha always checked base with Wanda before she agreed to anything that involved more than just herself, Yelena had no reason to assume anything different of today, but in the chaos of receiving the phone call only minutes before a virtual conference, it had fallen away from Natasha’s mind until the doorbell rang.  

You smiled sympathetically at Natasha, wanting to kiss the creased skin between her eyebrows until it was smooth and soft with ease, but you were effectively nap-trapped by the Golden Retriever and Akita who you didn’t really want waking up anytime soon. They’d finally calmed down, there was silence over the house again, and disturbing the peace felt like initiating a war. “Wanda will get over it.” 

“Wanda hates dogs.” Natasha rolled her eyes like that was the most obvious answer ever, which it was, you knew extremely well how passionate Wanda was about not liking or wanting a dog, but she didn’t hate dogs enough to completely walk away from Natasha. You sighed, deciding that disturbing the nap the two pups were taking on you was less important than resolving the rising issue between your girlfriends. 

Fanny yelped when you shrugged her head off of your thigh, but Lucky remained quiet and merely resettled into the cushions that were warm from where your weight had sat. You grabbed Natasha’s hand without any explanation, not that you needed one, but still she let you guide her through the house without questioning where you were leading her. Her expression grimmed when she spotted Wanda lounged beside the pool, a recently published law book in her hands that was nearly finished as she turned yet another page getting closer to the official end. You didn’t spare the time to admire how fast she read, merely slipped through the sliding glass door and dragged Natasha along with you. 

The door was closed quickly, because although Lucky and Fanny were seemingly content on the couch for the time being, probably missing their Moms as the hours rolled by and the heavy sun became lighter with dusk, you didn’t fancy taking the risk of them wandering outside to find where you’d gone.  

Wanda peered over the edge of her book, sunglasses that were no longer needed now that the unforgiving sunlight had become crisp with wisps of orange, perched on the top of her head in the same fashion as Natasha’s. They were eerily similar, always so in tune with the other even when the tide got choppy. There was no question about how or why they worked so well together, they just did. 

“Please tell your wife that you’re not going to divorce her.” You deadpanned, not even sparing Natasha a glance as you firmly addressed Wanda, who raised both eyebrows in question at your demand. Wanda’s eyes, sparkling beneath the sun, looked between you and Natasha with something unreadable deep beneath them. “She’s being unreasonable. That’s my job.” You pushed further, sensing that Wanda’s silence was around for the long haul if you didn’t make the severity of the situation known. Natasha was uncharacteristically not herself in the moment, and you despised every second of it. 

Wanda sighed, allowing her hands to relinquish the grip she had on her book. It fell onto her thighs that were warm from constant sunlight, the only shadow thrown over her illuminating body. “Natalia, don’t be dense.” She rolled her eyes, accent strong as the day she’d learned how to say her first sentence. The air was thin around the three of you, Natasha’s grip on your hand tight and unnerving. This was not the way Wanda addressed things, for a second you stopped to consider that maybe Natasha had a point to be so concerned, but that fell away when a whimper so soft it sounded like another tale that the wind tried to tell reached your ears. 

Wanda wasn’t annoyed. No, that is absolutely not what was going on. You’d thought she was, had every reason to believe that she was, until a ghost of a smirk splayed across her lips tinted pink from how many strawberries she’d eaten beside the pool. Their dynamic had been only a whispered thing, soft stories and recounts of the nights where Natasha gave herself over to Wanda, but in the almost year that you’d been present in their home and in their lives, you’d never seen it play out. You had no reason to when you were merely around to be a release for Natasha, but now you were their girlfriends, and it dawned on you harsher than the unforgiving sun that it had been months since Natasha relinquished control. This wasn’t about her being paranoid, this was about her wanting to be reprimanded, wanting to let Wanda take over. 

Wanda stood from the lounge chair, bowl of strawberries and her book the only things that said she was ever laid out at all. She was close enough to smell when her feet stopped carrying her forward, and you noted that she must’ve gotten a new perfume because there was something reminiscent of grapefruit lingering around her. You held your breath when Wanda’s palm connected with Natasha’s cheek, the slap sounding harsher than it was. You’d grown familiar with loud echoes after soft slaps, your ass had been discolored by them too many times. There was nothing that could’ve warned you about the harsh treatment, but Natasha didn’t waver behind you. Her knees didn’t fold like yours would have and her shoulders never shook like she feared the next hit. Slapping was a hard limit for you, but Natasha merely sighed at the contact of Wanda’s palm hitting cheek. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve played with you, hasn’t it, kroshechnyy tantsor?” Wanda cooed, a glint of danger breaching her eyes. This was not how she handled you. You’d seen her be harsh, cruel even, but she looked downright mean as the sun glimmered against every inch of available skin that already held a lingering tan. Natasha was allured by the look in her wife’s eyes, and you noticed that she hadn’t yet spoken at your side. 

“Is that what you want? You want me to play with you, milaya? Want our little duckling to know what a slut her Daddy is?” Wanda pressed further, edging Natasha right into a state that was only able to be categorized as submissive. You could hear the stories of their dynamic a million times a day, but nothing would have ever prepared you for the sight of it to be unfolding right in front of you; unfiltered and perfectly easy. “You can speak, milaya. Tell me what you want.” 

“Please, Wanda.” There it was, the first utterance of Natasha’s gravely voice in the minutes that it had been since you dragged her outside. It was light, airy even, softer than a million seeds falling from the pappus of a dandelion. 

“Detka,” Wanda looked toward you, her eyes so much softer than they had been as she peered into Natasha’s soul and dared her to push back. You hummed, inclining your head to the side in an expression that radiated innocence and submission. Even if she wasn’t playing with you, Wanda was still your dominant, you still felt she deserved to be shown respect as she floated nearer and nearer to one of her favorite headspaces. You adored every shade of green that lived within the Sokovian’s eyes, but there was something so captivating about the shade of Juniper that attempted to drown her pupils when she let herself hold all control. “I am not going to be soft with Natalia. You are welcome to join us in the bedroom, but if it gets too much for you, I expect you to leave. Do not stay because you think you’ll be able to handle it.” 

Your brain was a mess of spiraling thoughts, wondering the state that Natasha would be left in when Wanda was through with her, and the extent of which they played at all. There were so many unanswered questions that you hadn’t been at liberty to ask before, but now you had every right to know what turned your girlfriends on, and there was no way you’d be missing out on whatever the scene had to offer. Despite the heavy gears turning in your head that were effectively dampening your panties, you managed to nod your head albeit hesitantly and jerkily. “Okay.” You breathed out, earning a smile from the Sokovian and a tight squeeze of your hand from the Russian. “Are you okay with me watching?” You turned the question on Natasha, assuming that considering Wanda was the one who had extended the invitation she wasn’t opposed to your presence in the room as she unraveled all the tight knots Natasha had been putting into place. 

“Oh honey.” Wanda preened with an edge to her tone that had Natasha whining at your side, “Natalia is quite the fan of having an audience. My little slut thinks it’s quite the turn on to be the main attraction. Isn’t that right, shlyukha?” 

Natasha nodded quickly, her eyes clouded with lust and desperation that wasn’t unusual, but had never been so translucent. You wondered if you looked the same when Wanda had you beneath her thumb, pliant and eager to be ruined, but now was not the time for daydreams about your own submissive nature. 

“Oh.” A whispered response fell off of your tongue as your cheeks became hot with the presence of a blush that was a result of anything but embarrassment. Your stomach tightened at the information, imagining what scenarios had led to that discovery and how intensely they’d played into it. Natasha was not shy. She had no reason to be with her perfectly smooth and silky skin and tits that could win awards if there was ever such a competition to judge. She was breathtaking, you knew it and she knew it, but you’d never expected to hear that she was into exhibition. A sense of pride flooded your system when you could pinpoint the appropriate term on the tip of your tongue, Wanda’s mini lectures paying off. 

“Mmm.” Wanda hummed, a smirk on her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she practically undressed Natasha. The woman was barely upright anymore, her knees weak as she readjusted her stance time and time again, and you weren’t oblivious to the way her thighs pressed together trying to relieve the ache in her core. If Wanda noticed, which she did, nothing was said about the vain attempts. “Detka, be a dear and help Natalia into the bedroom will you? I want her in a single-column tie before I get up there.” 

Natasha groaned beside you, her head as heavy as a ragdolls as it lulled back and faced the dwindling sunshine like a lonely sunflower would. The train of spiraling thoughts that had been running circles around your brain came to a halting stop at the request, a tinge of pink rising across your neck as you fumbled with your intertwined fingers, not even remember when you had dropped Natasha’s hand, or maybe she had been the one to drop yours, “I don’t– What is that?” 

Wanda, patient as always, merely smiled and inclined her head toward Natasha, an expectant hardness lingering within her sage stare that was darkening by the minute in tune with the depleting sunlight across the sky. It wasn’t cold by any means, still in the warmer months of summertime, but the air around you felt frigid either way. The only thing that could bring warmth back to your body was the touch of your girlfriends. “Natalia will show you. Won’t you, malen'kaya shlyushka. You’ll show our duckling how you like to be restrained to the headboard?” 

“Yebat.” Natasha whimpered, her eyes flickering toward you, filled with desperate longing that didn’t seem to be Wanda’s main concern at the moment. You gnawed at your bottom lip, your eyes hooded and dark, twinged with lust that was steadily growing. “Yes.” Natasha exhaled, eyes flickering back up to meet Wanda’s when the lawyer shifted her stance and inclined her head expectantly. 

“Good girl.” Wanda’s praise was curt and dismissive, not filled with warmth and satisfaction that you had grown so used to in recent months. You found yourself frowning, because even if the praise hadn’t been intended for you, you still hung onto her every word. Wanda, ever observant, didn’t fight the fond expression that slipped across her features as she turned her sharp gaze to you.  “You’re a good girl too, moya utenok. Now go help Natalia. I’ll make sure the ties are okay, Natty won’t get hurt. I just want you to try your best. Okay?” Despite not recognizing the anxiousness that settled in your belly amidst the desperation that brewed simultaneously, the proposition of being the one to restrain Natasha had worried you, but your shoulders relaxed at Wanda’s assurance that your attempt wouldn’t be the final verdict if she found anything less than perfect with the knots you bound her wife with. You nodded, a whispered response filling the air that separated your body from the Sokovians. 

Natasha grabbed your hand, whether it was to steady herself or to ground you, you weren’t entirely sure, but you laced your fingers together and set your course back toward the house where Fanny and Lucky were waiting at the sliding glass door. You’d forgotten about the four legged pups since coming outside, but their hot panting that dirtied the glass implied that they hadn’t forgotten about you. You didn’t try to keep them inside as you slipped in, figuring that keeping them away from the breakable indoors while the three of you were otherwise occupied was the best plan of action if you were going to save Wanda a heart attack. 

“Natalia!” Wanda’s voice was precisely projected as it reached both yours and Natasha’s ears, the thickness of her accent wearing slightly as she forced the words through her diaphragm carefully. It was still a wonder how many years the lawyer had spent in the United States, but it had been enough to ease the traces of home out of her tone naturally. “YA khochu, chtoby utenok byl na rozovom remeshke, kogda ya priyedu tuda.” 

Natasha’s breath stuttered in her chest, and though you were picking up on the simple terms of endearment that they uttered to you routinely, you understood nothing of the sentence that had been just loud enough to settle through the space you occupied. Natasha did however, and when she closed the sliding glass door and guided you deeper into the house, she whispered shortly against the shell of your ear, “Wanda’s trying to kill you.” 

You paled slightly at the confirmation that whatever Wanda had requested, had been in regards to you. Unable to predict what the lawyer could have wanted, you didn’t think to ask, not wanting any distractions that would interfere with the ropes you were instructed to bind. The bedroom was saturated in darkness when you entered through the door, curtains drawn and lights switched off. The only sounds that suggested the room was occupied came from yours and Natasha’s footsteps, but even they were softer than usual. The energy that Wanda possessed had taken its toll, and both of your bodies were eager for sensations that only the Sokovian had the authority to grant. 

Natasha reached for the light switch, drenching the room with artificial brightness that tore shades of cream from the pillowcases adorning the bed. Traces of you lingered across every expanse of space, the room no longer just theirs but yours. Yours to share gentle kisses concealed by darkness in. Yours to sing and dance in when rain pelted the widows and work had been forgotten. Yours to share these intimate moments. Yours. Just yours. 

Natasha tilted her head toward the closet, a space you had grown familiar with for more than just the necessity of needing an outfit in the morning. Your hands reached for the black case that you knew held instruments and toys for a scene like this, but you were stopped before your fingers could ghost against the smooth material. Instead, the Russian reached toward a shelf above the racks of suits and dresses, grabbing a red leather briefcase bound securely by a silver combination lock. Natasha placed it on one of the lesser occupied shelves, her fingers working at the black engraved digits with a practiced ease. 

Despite the submission that you had seen from Natasha minutes prior, she looked down at you with dominance that was familiar and welcomed. Her voice was stern as she spoke to you quietly, not even sparing a glance at the lock that she continued to work open. “We don’t want you in this case unless we tell you. What’s in here is not for you to be playing around with. The combination is our birthdays, I trust that you won’t go snooping around where you don’t belong without permission.” 

“Okay.” You whispered a response, finding that you were practically incapable of speaking at any other volume, entirely consumed with the weight of their presence and not wanting to disturb it. “Natty?” You peered up at your dominant, knowing that tonight was about her but unable to clear the lingering bliss in your head as you looked at her with nothing but sheer admiration. 

“Yes, dorogaya?” Natasha smiled at you softly, her hand reaching to cup your cheek though the tips of her fingers were chilled slightly from the metal she’d been grasping at. You didn’t shy away, leaning into her touch as she let herself be consumed with only you, not the promise of being tied to the bed and fucked into oblivion. “You still okay with watching? Neither of us are going to be upset if you need to leave. Wanda and I don’t have the same rules as we do with you.” 

You shook your head adamantly, wanting her to understand that their hot and heavy dynamic was not the cause of your soft question. “I’m okay. Just wanted to say I love you.” 

Natasha smiled, kissing you softly in the dimly lit closet. The only light that penetrated the space came from the bedroom, but you didn’t need additional light to see the affection in her eyes. “I love you too.” She murmured against your lips, but as quickly as your sacred moment had come, it fell away and your attention was on the case that Natasha pulled open with eager fingers. 

The case, although small, held toys and items that made your eyes bulge and your belly quiver. A collection of knives wrapped pristinely in thick black leather occupied a small fraction of the briefcase, beside it three half melted candles with wicks the color of coal. A pink dildo with a suction cup attachment at the base caught your attention, wondering why it had been displaced from the rest of the dildo’s and strap-ons that the slavic women owned. You didn’t recognize anything else in the case; a bundle of rope that you assumed would be used to restrain Natasha, multiple thin link chain attachments, and an instrument that almost resembled a pizza cutter but the blade was prickled with sharp nubs that looked rather dull. Your eyes searched for Natasha’s, but she was busy rummaging through the case for something unspoken about. Your breathing shuddered when she collected a small bottle of lube in her hands, passing it over to you with a wink. 

She grabbed the dildo and the rope next, closing the case just as quickly as she had opened it although the seconds it took her to find the objects she wanted felt like agonizing minutes. Her eyes, submissive and hazy, found yours in the dimly light brightness of the closer, a soft incline of her head pointing in the direction of the bedroom. “Come on.” You nodded jerkily, following her back into the master bedroom where Wanda’s presence still lacked to be. 

Natasha didn’t head for the bed like you’d been expecting, she headed for the single chair in the corner of the room that had never seen an ounce of attention from the women who preferred to hang around in the living room where sunlight bled in at every angle. You gasped when she stuck the dildo to the seat of the chair, almost a grimace in her face when she turned to look back at you. Although she proceeded to explain what Wanda expected of you, there was no need for an explanation. The bottle of lube in your hands wasn’t for her, it was for you. Another rush of excitement sparked in your belly like connecting live wires, and you barely concealed your whine when Natasha began to strip out of her clothes, leaving them in pristine piles on the nightstand. The lace panties were the last to leave her body, deep red and thin as they slipped down her legs and pooled at her feet with glistening wetness visible across the center. You swallowed thickly, eyes caught on the sight of her core that, although mostly concealed by thighs that you wanted around your head, glimmered distinctly beneath the overhead light. 

Your eyes trailed upward, drinking in the sight of her tensing abs that had only been so prominent last summer; the summer you arranged to be her submissive. Natasha found it easier to work out in the summer, when the weather was inviting and the workload lulled. Her hours spent in the home gym hadn’t been in vain, and the ripples in her muscles held your attention for longer then they should have. You didn’t want to pull your eyes away from her chest, where the sienna color of her breasts became rosy at her nipples that were pebbled and eager for stimulation. Another shuddering breath slipped into the space, but as easily as you’d lost your composure Natasaha was strapping you back into it and handing you the rope. 

She laid starfish on the bed, her swollen and glistening core fully in sight as her thighs spread to allow access to whoever pleased to touch her first. Wanda had said nothing about binding her legs, and the almost silky rose in your hands wouldn’t reach to tether them down. Natasha, head thrown back against the pillows and red curls spilling across them, looked at you expectantly with intense green eyes. Never had this much control been placed on your shoulders, but you wouldn’t disappoint either one of them. Your thighs straddled Natasha’s waist, your chest falling in front of her face as she raised her arms and instructed you through the process of restraining her the way both she and Wanda liked. A whimper fell from your lips when Natasha leaned forward to mouth at your nipple through the thin t-shirt you wore, her hips grinding upwards and forcing sensations of pleasure through your core. You faltered on top of her, panting for breath as you tried to keep your attention on the ties you were making across her wrists, though it proved difficult when her teeth settled firmly around your nipple and tugged. 

“N-Nat.” You whined, hips rocking with their own intention as you dropped your hands to the pillows and let yourself enjoy a single moment of the pleasure she was provoking. Your clit throbbed, your panties are drenched and clinging to your core. You were certain that if Wanda chose this moment to come up the stairs, the sight of you would be painfully erotic. Natasha fully naked, you fully clothed, hips grinding and thrusting and broken moans of pleasure echoing off otherwise silent walls. She could destroy you even beneath you and partially immobile, you were no longer blind to that fact. “S-Stop.” As much as you didn’t want her to, you weren’t sent upstairs to give pleasure and earn pleasure, and the thought of Wanda having a reason to punish the both of you was not a fire you wanted to start at the moment. 

Natasha did stop, but she hummed in disappointment as her head fell back against the pillows, framed by your wrists and hands that still braced the majority of your weight. The knots around her wrists were as good as you would be able to get them without any further instruction, but you had no idea if they were good enough for Wanda’s standards. You didn’t have the opportunity to dwell on the potential failure, able to hear the door sliding against the track and the softness of Wanda’s voice as she told Fanny and Lucky to stay. 

“Do they feel okay?” You checked in softly, peering down between your arms to assure that her face gave no indication of discomfort. The Russian didn’t respond, instead pulling at her arms and humming something that was inaudible with her teeth grinded together and lips pursed tight. “Nat, I need you to tell me if they feel okay.” There was panic in your voice that pulled Natasha back into the moment, eyes searching yours before she realized that the soft sounds Wanda made as her feet braced the hardwood were growing closer and closer. Her footsteps weren’t yet on the stairs that led to the room you occupied, but close enough to remind you both of how you weren’t in the positions she’d requested. 

“They’re perfect, detka.” Natasha smiled encouragingly, bucking her hips beneath you once more, though this time the action was a reminder to shuffle off of her and settle yourself on the fuschia toy that was admittedly an eyesore within the neutral toned room. Your clothes came off in sloppy movements, not folded neatly like Natasha’s as they piled onto the floor and became wrinkled. The bottle of lube was unneeded with the thick ropes of arousal that clung to your inner thighs, a whine ripping from the back of your throat as you eased yourself onto the toy but forced your hips to remain still, not having Wanda’s permission to ride it just yet. You felt exceedingly full, each groove amongst the shaft pushing against the sensitive interior of your tight channel. Your eyes fluttered closed when you sucked in a breath, jostling your body just enough to earn a sweet sensation of pleasure within your velvet walls. Your eyes had been closed when Wanda entered, but they snapped open at the sound of Natasha mewling on the bed. 

When your eyes found the Sokovian, she was leaning overtop of Natasha, both knees digging into the mattress beneath her though it barely sunk with her additional weight. Her fingers were adored with glimmering rings like they always were, though now they threaded into the intricate knots you had made with the beige colored rope and pulled tightly. She hummed her satisfaction when she found nothing wrong with the structure of the ties, juniper eyes searching for yours as she smiled proudly. 

“Good job, little duckling.” She praised sweetly, though the words dripped with danger as she possessed that same glint of passion in her eyes that had appeared beneath the sunset. “I didn’t know my sweet girl would be so skilled at tying her Daddy up.” Your core pulsed around the toy in your core, wetness seeping into the smooth faux leather beneath you. A whimper fell off your lips before you could keep it in, and Wanda’s lips twinged into a smile of fake sympathy. “I bet that pussy’s so full, malyshka. Why don’t you tell Natalia how good you feel, this poor little pussys aching for the same treatment. Isn’t that right, slut?” You gaped at the resounding slap that echoed off Wanda’s palm as she let her hand fall across the Russian’s hot cunt, wetness glistening beneath the light as the Sokovian pulled her hand back to inspect, toying with the arousal that remained on the expanse of her tinted pink skin. “So wet. Did you enjoy having your little girl tie you up, Natalia?” 

Natasha moaned desperately, her hips chasing after Wanda’s hand that wasn’t willing to repeat the former action. Her head bobbed against the pillows, curls becoming frizzy and wild from the frantic  nod that became the only answer she provided. Wanda, seemingly satisfied with Natasha’s chosen silence, turned her gaze back to you, the demand to share your experience heavy in the silence.

Your cheeks, pink and flush, became hotter at the premise of vocalizing the sensations that were admittedly dull with lack of any major movement. “You’ll learn very quickly that I do not ask twice, milaya. Use your words before you earn the same rules as Natalia.” You didn’t know Natasha’s rules, they’d never been discussed, but her silence was enough to guess that she wasn’t allowed to speak without permission. 

“It feels g-good. I feel so full, N-Nat.” You cried out, hips twitching for movement that you wouldn’t allow. However short your explanation was, Wanda seemed pleased as she turned her attention to Natasha, who up until this point, had received the bare minimum. 

Wanda’s fingers sought out Natasha’s nipples, and although yours remained untouched and entirely fine, you winced at the force behind her synchronous tugs. Natasha’s back arched off the bed and into Wanda’s hands, either an attempt to seek more or to lessen the sting entirely. The wanton moans that fell past her lips like a symphony were indicative of the pleasure the action had provided, and although her legs weren’t bound, you didn’t miss the twitch of her muscles as she strained to remain still. 

Your core pleaded for more, walls fluttering around the intrusion of the toy that you hadn’t quite gotten used to yet. The stretch felt intimidating, and so eagerly you wanted to bring your hips upward only to sink back down and accept the presence again. Your nails dug into the arms of the chair, knuckles white from the strength of your grip. Across the room, Wanda was tongue deep in Natasha’s mouth, the only sounds that existed around them being the wet smacks of lips losing suction and gasped breaths. Natasha, with her hands bound, fought against the restraints trying to reach out and touch Wanda, but her efforts failed each time she pulled, the knots unwilling to loosen enough for her hands to slip through. Wanda pulled away with a pleased hum, her fingers back at Natasha’s nipples as she twisted them harshly in tune with the other. 

“Please.” Natasha cried out, writhing on the bed as her legs closed tightly, slick thighs rubbing together in an attempt to bring even an ounce of pleasure over her desperate body. Wanda wasn’t pleased by her efforts, hearing the slap land on Natasha’s cheek before you could process seeing it. Wanda was quick, efficient and cruel, but Natasha wasn’t backing down. The lawyer wriggled and thrashed on the bed, a symphony of Russian falling off her tongue as she kept her eyes wide and on Wanda. 

“Do not make me remind you of the rules, Natalia.” Wanda growled lowly, her voice thick with traces of an accent that suited her well, but only worsened your fate as you tried not to let your restraint crumble, wanting desperately to be good for her. You whined on the chair in the corner of the room, unable to stop yourself as you watched Wanda strike Natasha a third time, the Russian a moaning mess beneath the Sokovian as her cheek took on the faintest handprint of pink. “Is there something you need, moya utenok?” 

“C-Can I– Please–” Your desperation had finally won over, and even without Wanda’s permission your hips grinded and thrashed against the leather beneath your thighs, guiding the dildo into that perfectly spongy part of your walls with ease. The sounds of your arousal were embarrassingly loud in the otherwise quiet room, and you could feel Natasha’s eyes on you as she laid stiff and still beneath Wanda. “Please?” 

Wanda hummed thoughtfully, but when she spoke, your blood ran cold with dread and shame. “It seems neither of you need my permission anymore.” She gave you a pointed glare, and your hips stuttered to a stop, no longer searching for pleasure as you shrunk beneath her glare. “Is that what you’d like, moya utenok? For Mommy to let you do whatever you please?” 

Frantically you shook your head, eyes wide and brimming with tears that had no reason to fall but gathered against your waterline anyway. You hated the mere idea of that ever happening, and you were in no mood to test the truth behind her implication. “No! No Mommy!” You pleaded with her, aware of how pitiful and distressed you sounded as your cries shattered the silence. Natasha, though still beneath the fog that had gathered at the forefront of her mind in the face of Wanda’s brutal ministrations, nudged her knee upward, shaking her head at Wanda when the attention fell back down to her. 

When Wanda’s eyes returned to you, they were softer, greener, filled with a gentle affection that had been impossible to find second earlier. “Do you want to ride the dildo, moya lyubov’?” Her voice was softer, kinder, taking on the tone she’d always devoted to you alone. It was a complete turn around from how she’d been addressing Natasha, but the presence of her accent hadn’t wavered. 

“Please Mommy!” You cried out, unsure of how many minutes you’d been impaled by the thick toy, but enough for the sun to have completely settled beneath the moon and taken its warmth with it. The window was open beyond the pulled curtains, a lingering breeze sweeping past your naked skin before it fell short of the bed where Wanda and Natasha remained entangled. The Sokovian’s hands were braced on the Russian’s abdomen, thighs around her waist squeezing tightly and restricting movement. 

“Go ahead, dorogaya. Let me hear those pretty sounds whilst I see how many edges my little slut can handle before she’s begging for mercy.” Wanda smiled eerily sweetly, casting her eyes back down to Natasha who was flush with arousal and the beginning of a grimace. “How many was it last time, hm? Ten?” 

“Eleven.” Natasha corrected, her eyes wide and pleading as she maintained eye contact with Wanda, her fingers twitching as she remained bound to the headboard that you’d thought was going to snap with the might of her struggles. “Wands, I want–” 

“I don’t care what you want, Natalia.” Wanda quipped before the rest of the sentence could ever exist outside of Natasha’s scrambled thoughts. The Russian nodded frantically, swallowing thickly in complete submission but even her reclaimed silence wasn’t enough to satisfy Wanda who pinched the skin of her thigh until she winced and moaned needily, entirely unmade and pliant to be shaped into something new; something a little bit like you. “What do I keep you around for?” 

“To please you.” Natasha’s voice was breathy and soft, the willingness to fight that had begun to swarm within her eyes that tinted a shade similar to evergreen entirely dismantled, replaced by a desire to submit without hesitance. 

“Dumb little sluts do not get to decide how I take my pleasure. Do not make me regret not gagging you.” Wanda scolded, and Natasha was eager to nod her head in understanding, whimpering into the near-silent room when her obedience was rewarded with a single finger circling her pebbled nipple. 

Your hips grinded against the dildo buried deep within your pussy, guiding it across your slick walls near perfectly each time. Wanda’s eyes were transfixed on Natasha, but every few minutes she glanced back at you, and when she did, you could only whimper. In the minutes that it had taken to accomplish such a satisfying pace, Wanda had eased her mouth down to the spot where Natasha needed her most, tongue not daring to be kind as it circled and flicked at the throbbing bundle of nerves that had pleaded for attention since the start. Shattering moans and whispered pleas fell off of Natasha’s tongue, but each time the Russian grew too close to the edge, Wanda pulled away and her hand slapped harshly against Natasha’s cunt. 

At the seventh edge, you’d never seen Natasha so beside herself. Pear shaped tears fell down her perfectly rosy cheeks and dampened the pillow cases when they eventually dripped off her unblemished skin and landed silently against the cotton covers. Her wrists had grown red from the relentless writhing and pulling, but her attention was solely on Wanda who offered no break. Three fingers worked the Russian open and scissored her wide, never fully pulling out before they slammed back into her at a pace so brutal it would be no surprise if she felt the aftermath for days. Your own orgasm was drawing closer as you watched Natasha submit and Wanda claim, and each snap of your hips only further invited it along. 

The eight edge had Natasha wailing, throwing her head back as her hips jerked upward and chased after Wanda. Like every time before, the Sokovian voiced no sympathy, and her hand came down heavy and punishing against the swollen skin that adorned ropes of arousal. Natasha yearned for more, her face begged for Wanda to repeat the simple action of slapping her cunt, but just like the seven times that had come before, her unspoken request was denied. 

“So pretty when you cry for me. Moya khoroshen'kaya malen'kaya shlyukha. Is that what you are? My pretty little whore?” Wanda teased cynically, juniper no longer a shade amongst the blackness of her eyes entirely dilated by lust adorned pupils. She looked entirely ravenous with her hair tousled and chin glimmering with Natasha’s arousal. 

“Y-Yes.” Natasha cried out desperately, her voice scratchy now as it reached your ears. Your hips continued to stutter against the dildo, but without permission to cum, you forced away the growing tension that pulled at every muscle in your belly and begged for relief. 

“Let me hear you say it.” Wanda pushed further, the tips of her fingers tracing the softest shapes into the slickness across Natasha’s inner thighs. 

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation that crossed Natasha’s face before she was desperately crying out, “I’m your pretty little whore! P-Please Wanda! Please!” 

“So fucking desperate.” Wanda tutted, a single finger sweeping through Natasha’s folds, though she pointedly avoided the Russian clit that throbbed for even an ounce of attention. Wanda was off the bed in seconds, coming straight at you with her glistening finger outstretched. You didn’t need to ask what she wanted, leaning forward to accept the arousal soaked digit into your mouth with eyes as wide as saucers the second she was close enough. 

Wanda hummed, pleased with your desperation, a fond smile pulling at her lips. “Good girl, malyshka.” She groaned at the feeling of your tongue sucking her fingers clean, your tongue lapping across the expanse of her knuckles as she pressed against your tongue, not hard enough to force you to gag, but enough to make your brain fill with static pleasure. You jumped when hot breath tickled the sensitive skin of your neck, leaning into her despite your skin not yet touching. “I know you want to cum, sweet girl. You’ve been so good waiting for Mommy’s permission, I didn’t forget about you. You can cum whenever you want, but that’s it. You don’t need to keep up with Natalia.” Wanda whispered so softly against the shell of your ear you questioned if she was even real. The harshness that she had addressed you with before entirely dismantled. You leaned your forehead against her shoulder, panting as your hips hadn’t stilled on the toy saturated with your arousal. Although the dildo was suctioned to the chair, one of your hands forced it to remain at the perfect angle between your thighs, and each time you drove your hips against the toy, your clit caught on the knuckle of your thumb only spurring you further into a frenzied state as you chased the orgasm you were finally allowed to have. 

Wanda’s touch was gone far too soon, but your eyes traced her steps as she retreated back to Natasha. The redhead was beside herself as she wiggled and squirmed, chest heaving breaths that weren’t quite full. Wanda didn’t hesitate to restart her efforts at working Natasha toward relief, though this time she was much less graceful. Her fingers provoked squelching sounds from the tight cunt they occupied, her arousal coated tongue flicked unforgivingly and quick. Natasha looked like the rawest depiction of beauty as she cried out and whined, desperate to tangle her fingers into Wanda’s hair but to no avail did she succeed. 

It had taken you only minutes to reach a high that had your toes curling and your thighs trembling. Without the grip of either of your girlfriends steadying your hips as you came crashing through your orgasm, your body jerked and writhed for more and less simultaneously. A melodious whine fell off the tip of your tongue before it was overshadowed by a moan that had your lips vibrating at the reverberations. Every muscle in your body tensed before it became nothing but jelly, leaving you a heap of sweat and arousal on the chair suddenly feeling very naked and exposed before the rapidly cooling breeze that snuck in through the open window behind you. Natasha’s eyes were locked on you, her head turned toward the side as she took in the sight of your self-inflicted orgasm. In the year that you had been involved with the Russian, she’d never allowed such a thing. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to pleasure yourself in all the best ways, but that wasn’t really what happened anyways, you’d followed all of Wanda’s instructions, you’d waited for permission to fall over the edge, even without the touch of another, you’d never really been in control. 

Your peace was shattered by a sharp and exceedingly needy while falling off of Natasha’s lips, her gaze snapping back toward where Wanda was perched between her thighs as another orasgam ended before it even started. You almost felt bad, almost. Although you weren’t even able to imagine the kind of torment that came with being edged in the same room as your girlfriend that had permission to cum whenever she wanted, Natasha wanted this. It was hard to feel sympathy for a woman who walked herself into a trap and had been the very one to close the door. A smile splayed across your lips when Wanda slapped her cunt, and you couldn’t help the giggle that came soon after when Natasha rattled off the long list of curses she knew in English. Your orgasm had brought a new sense of clarity over your once hazy mind, and now the actions that had seemed so cruel and ruthless, merely resembled affection and mutual trust. Natasha was a strong woman, but she was seemingly a slut in the same breath.

Wanda’s eyes met yours, glimmering with something sharp as a smirk replaced the permanent thin line that sat on her lips whenever Natasha was the focus of her attention. There was amusement clear in her eyes, something twisted lingering beneath the surface that you longed to know the reason for. “You find something funny, malyshka?” 

Revived from the pliable state that you’d fallen beneath at the first instance of Wanda’s unfiltered dominance, your eyes lingering on Natasha’s face for barely a moment before you returned your gaze to Wanda and feigned perfect innocence. “Natty bit off more than she can chew.” You stated simply, aware of how you were betraying the woman that you yourself had bound to the bed, but more aware of the fact that Wanda seemed pleased with your admission. 

“That she did.” Wanda hummed, her fingers toying with Natasha’s sopping entrance that begged for more, but she wasn’t willing to give in. “Come here, my little duckling.” Wanda inclined her head toward where she was perched between Natasha’s thighs, and although your legs felt like jelly beneath you, you didn’t hesitate to comply with the demand. Your breath stuttered when the dildo finally slipped out of your pussy, the veiny grooves rubbing against every hypersensitive inch of your walls. None of the other dildos had such prominent veins, and although it was admittedly one of the smaller toys you’d taken since beginning a relationship with Wanda especially, you felt painfully empty without it inside of you. 

Your steps were wobbly and slow, reminiscent of Bambi if you remembered correctly, but Wanda was in no rush to have you at her side and so she waited with an encouraging smile on her arousal drenched lips. It was warmer beside the bed, that was the first thing you noticed when you’d finally reached where Wanda laid. The wind didn’t dip so far into the room that Natasha felt the chill cold, yet you wondered the response she’d have to being encased by the soft breeze. She was responsive as it is, a shift in temperature was certain to have her mewling for something that wasn’t allowed just yet. 

“Since you find Natalia’s position so funny, detka, I want you to edge her while I ride her face.” Wanda smirked, and suddenly you weren’t finding Natasha’s position so funny anymore. Being allowed to eat either one of them out was the ultimate privilege, something you almost always had to beg for, but now it was being offered without bait, yet it came with a price that felt too steep to pay. Having to deny Natasha an orgasm sounded absolutely horrible. All you ever wanted to do was make her cum quickly and effectively. Wanda was aware of how eager you always seemed to be at the proposition of feeling either of their orgasms on your tongue, and either she’d forgotten that, or she didn’t care at all. 

“But– Wanda!” You whined, desperately hoping that you’d change her mind, but you knew the reality of your situation; either you got on your knees and complied with her request, or she carried on doing it herself. No matter your decision, no matter if it was your tongue or hers, Natasha wasn’t seeing an orgasm until she’d surpassed her last record. 

“Not so funny now is it, milaya?” Wanda grinned like the cheshire cat, and you properly felt like a scolded child beneath her wild stare. You shook your head adamantly at the question, a smile no longer ghosting across your bitten lips as you looked between her and Natasha’s pink and swollen cunt. It was properly abused, fucked out and dripping onto the sheets yet still begging for more of what she wasn’t yet allowed. “What’s your choice, utenok? My little sluts running out of patience.” Her word was true. Natasha looked ready to crumble at any minute, her eyes bouncing between you and Wanda with nothing but desperation in her heavy gaze. 

“Do I have to edge her?” You whispered timidly, looking pleadingly up at the Sokovian. Wanda didn’t respond, merely quirked an expectant eyebrow down at you and shifted her position. You sighed, shoving her out of the way in a manner that was less than graceful, but thankfully it went unreprimanded. 

“Good choice.” Wanda hummed, already standing beside the bed and stripping eagerly out of her clothes. Her skin was tinted with lingering traces of the sun, thin lines adorning her shoulders from where bathing suits had forbidden the kiss of daylight. She looked entirely ethereal as she shimmied out of her own black panties, letting them pool around her ankles for merely a moment before she kicked them away and took her place overtop of Natasha. Her thighs framed the Russian’s face, individual freckles adorning her shins and thighs begging to be kissed and fawned over, but no such thing would happen tonight. With a sharp request for Natasha to stick her tongue out, she sank herself lower and lower until her pussy made contact with the hot and ready muscle. “I’ll tell you what, moya lyubov’,” Wanda began, a cynical smirk on her lips as she grinded her hips against Natasha’s face, dampening the flush skin with her arousal. “if you can get Natalia close with only your fingers, I’ll allow her to cum when I do. If you can’t, we add four more edges.” 

“B-But I want to taste her!” You cried out, looking at Wanda with wild eyes that begged her to fold, but she wouldn’t. This was the kindest she’d been all evening and yet it was still so painfully cruel. 

“Well that’s a shame, sweetheart.” Wanda pouted, but her words were anything but sincere as she rocked against Natasha��s tongue and drug her clit against the textured surface, falling into bliss the longer she kept up with her ministrations. 

You whined, settling on just using your fingers, not able to bring yourself to edge Natasha even further, or at all. Even if she was merely your girlfriend in this moment, all you ever wanted to do was cause pleasure, not be the one to take it away. Your fingers brushed through her folds gently, but Natasha still flinched away and tried to close her thighs. Your body between her legs forbade her from doing so, leaving her entrance easily accessible. You winced yourself, knowing that your fingers were frigid against her hot and worked up cunt, but you didn’t give her the chance to grow accustomed to the feeling. Wanda wasn’t slowing down, and you knew she’d be cruel enough to force you to stop if she were to cum before Natasha grew close. You set a brutal pace, not sparing pleasantries like you’d typically do. Your fingers curled against the softest spot of Natasha’s walls the way you knew she enjoyed, and you committed the sound of her squelching pussy to memory. You’d seen her wet before, you’d gotten her wet before, but you’d never taken the time to unravel her the way Wanda had. She was properly soaked, sheets drenched and darkened beneath her trembling thighs. 

The pad of your thumb found her clit when her walls tightened around your fingers, rubbing skilled circles against the sensitive bud that begged for release you hoped you could provide in time. You didn’t offer praises, didn’t let encouragement slip into the silence filled by only Wanda’s moans as hers became muffled against the cunt riding her face. You were certain they’d fall on deaf ears at this point, entirely positive that Natasha was too far gone into Wanda to even hear you utter her name. Instead, you encouraged her with the pressure of your thumb against her clit and the punishing speed at which you pumped your fingers in and out of her cunt. You had her right on the edge, right at the point of coming apart completely, but Wanda wasn’t close. In your overzealous attempt to match the pace in which the Sokovian had set, you walked not only you, but Natasha into a trap. 

“Stop.” Wanda demanded, and you had no choice but to comply, your fingers coming to a halting stop within Natasha’s cunt that was so desperate for something sweet. You whimpered at the feeling of Natasha’s velvety walls fluttering around your fingers, her clit throbbing beneath your thumb as her hips squirmed wildly on the bed. There was no way you’d be sleeping here tonight, not with Wanda’s insurance that you never sleep on sheets that aren’t perfectly clean. “I’ll give you another chance, moya lyubov’, do not let it go to waste again.” Your eyes snapped up to hers, unsure of whether it was yet another game she was playing, but when her head tilted the the side and her lips pursed, whether it was to hold back her own moans or to intimidate you, you weren’t entirely sure, you knew she wasn’t. 

You nodded frantically, all attempts to get Natasha to the edge resuming, and it wasn’t a hard feat. The Russian was sensitive, so slick your fingers had almost slipped out, but she was already climbing that hill of pleasure again beneath your thumb and around your fingers. It took seconds, mere seconds to have her at that perfect place again, but unlike the last attempt, Wanda was right along with her. The Sokovian moaned as her head fell backward and her hips stuttered, Natasha’s binded hands unable to provide support like she otherwise would’ve. You didn’t wait for permission to fall from Wanda’s lips between her broken moans and breaths, tripling the efforts you’d already set in place to get Natasha thrown off that cliff and into bliss. Your tongue found her clit the second she toppled over, soothing the harsh sensations that you’d previously provided. You moaned at the first taste of her on your tongue, licking and sucking at every expanse of sensitive skin until she was writhing beneath you for an entirely separate reason. 

Your fingers fell away from her cunt at the first indication of oversensitivity, but your tongue kept up its pace, licking her out until you were certain that not an ounce of arousal clung to her skin anymore. That wasn’t enough for you however, and your tongue lapped at the arousal that dampened her thighs, licking it away with eager swipes. At some point, Wanda had eased herself off of Natasha’s face and had begun to undo the binding around her wrists, but you hadn’t realized the Russian was free of her restraints until calloused hands gently reached for your face and pulled you up to see her eye to eye. 

You looked absolutely ravaged with her arousal clinging to your chin and lips, and a blush across your cheeks from your own orgasm. Eagerly you crawled up onto the bed fully, only faintly aware of the ache in your knees and back from the position you’d been laid in as you unraveled her completely. You straddled her lap when she guided you into doing so, your arms twisting around her neck before you dug your face into her shoulder, hiding away from the light. 

“What can I do for you?” You asked softly, voice muffled by her shoulder but she’d understood you perfectly, her hand coming up to stroke along the back of your head as she held you in place. You were vaguely aware of Wanda walking back into the closet, but you didn’t question what she was searching for, content to just be back in Natasha’s arms.  

“Just let me hold you, malyshka. You did such a good job for us.” She praised you quietly, her voice scratchy and raw from the hours of screaming she’d done. You hadn’t realized how much time had slipped away since she’d guided you into the closet by your hand, but the clock on the nightstand hadn’t lied to you yet, and the illuminated numbers indicated that two hours had been devoted to breaking Natasha down. 

“I should be telling you that.” You huffed, curing further into her body, desperate to encase yourself in her warmth. Natasha didn’t mind, letting you curl around her like a little koala as she held you sweetly in the center of the bed. “I never wanna edge you again.” You mumbled against her neck, turning your head so you were pressed directly against her, your soft breaths tickling the sensitive skin of her ear. 

Natasha laughed at your admission, and a gentle finger guided your chin up so your eyes could meet fully and properly for the first time in hours. “You ever edge me again, your ass will be over my lap before you can even say your sorry.” There was no bite to her words, but you never wanted to find out if she was being serious, so you merely nodded quickly in response. “I know Wanda scared you earlier. She gets lost in her head sometimes, she didn’t mean it.” Natasha soothed, but you’d already figured that her words from hours ago weren’t honest. They’d assured you at least a hundred times that the only way you were ever getting away from them, is if it was your own carefully thought over decision. 

“I know.” You whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against Natasha’s in a soft kiss. It was the softest touch she’d felt in hours, and eagerly she leaned into it, giggling at the taste of her own arousal when your tongue brushed against hers. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” You murmured against her, giggling when her lips curled into a grin and she peppered kisses across every inch of your face that she could reach in this position.

“Ya tozhe tabya lyublyu.” She mumbled back, her eyes dancing behind you when Wanda reappeared from the closet. You settled against Natasha’s chest, not wanting to leave her embrace anytime soon, and it didn’t feel like she wanted to let go either. Your eyes fell upon Wanda, who at some point, had thrown a t-shirt on and tied her hair back up into its once occupied messy bun. You made grabby hands at the woman, an action that you had recently learned she could never deny. 

“Privet, moy sladkiy malysh.” Wanda smiled fondly, coming to join both you and Natasha in the mess of sheets. You hadn’t noticed the clothes in her hand before, but you watched as she sat two t-shirts down on the pillow cases that were still damp from Natasha’s tears, and a bottle of cooling lotion quickly joined the pile. She snuggled close against Natasha’s side, her fingers tangling into the Russian’s hair in the same soft and tender way you’d grown accustomed to. “What do you need, Natty?” She asked softly but received the same answer that you had, Natasha just wanting the both of you close for a while. 

Wanda sighed softly, already beginning to detangle herself from Natasha’s arms. “Let me put lotion on your wrists, then I’ll give you both all the cuddles.” 

Natasha groaned, her stubborn attitude already peaking through the surface level haze that twinkled within her eyes. “They don’t even hurt that bad, let me hold you.” 

“You say that every time, and every time I listen to you, you make me get out of bed at three in the morning.” Wanda rolled her eyes, but affection was clear as day in her tone as she didn’t fight the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. “Hug your duckling, she deserves some cuddles for being such a good girl.” Wanda winked at you, and you blushed beneath her smothered praise, hiding your face in Natasha’s chest much to both of their amusement. 

“The best girl.” Natasha pressed a kiss into the top of your head, her lips lingering for longer than necessary, though you weren’t complaining. You settled against her chest, watching Wanda unscrew the cap on the lotion and squeeze a generous amount onto the palm of her hands. Tentatively, you reached your own hand out, wanting to help ease Natasha’s pain in any way possible. Wanda didn’t question your action, squeezing the tiniest pea sized dollop onto your fingers and instructing you to be soft, but make sure that it was all evenly applied. 

Natasha gazed down at you with tender softness in her eyes as you gently took her wrist into your hands and rubbed in the lotion. She couldn’t help the tears that glimmered in her waterline as you eased yourself into her aftercare routine without hesitation, just another part of their life that you so easily integrated into. You beamed up at Wanda when you were done, giggling when the Sokovian kissed the tip of your nose and praised you softly. 

It wasn’t until you heard Lucky bark through the open window that you remembered about the dogs that were still outside and probably hungry by now, the sun having faded into darkness hours ago. You looked between Wanda and Natasha, a crease in your brow as you asked, “Um, do we even have dog food?” 

malen'kaya shlyushka – little slut

ya khochu, chtoby utenok byl na rozovom remeshke, kogda ya priyedu tuda. – i want the duckling on the pink strap by time i come in

privet, moy sladkiy malysh – hi, my sweet baby

#wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #dom!natasha romanoff x reader #sub!natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff smut #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #dom!wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff smut #wandanat #wandanat x reader #dom!wandanat x reader #wandanat fluff #wandanat smut #series: you are in love #minors dni ৎ୭

[daycourtofficial]

Forever is the sweetest con

Cassian x reader, Azriel x reader

Summary: based on this request - the war with Hybern claimed the life of your husband. Reeling with grief, you discover that you’re pregnant. His brother and your friend, Azriel, begins spending more and more time with you, finding solace in each other amidst your shared grief.

Author’s note: sadness, sadness, sadness, this one took me ages to write bc it’s so fucking sad 😭 I’m not super happy with this bc I was mostly trying to meet the deadline so this might feel disjointed bc I had to kinda skip around a lot. Also I didn’t tag this as Cassian x reader in tags bc it felt too painful to do that

Word count: 3k

Warnings: character death, unexpected pregnancy, honestly just sadness

“I’m Cassian.”

A large, handsome male greeted you as you were shelving some new books away. His large outstretched hand reached towards you, waiting in the air for a moment as you set the stack of books in your arms down. Your hand gets lost in the warmth of his, telling him your own name.

He smiles at it, repeating it, testing it on his tongue.

For days, that is the only memory playing in your head. It is what you think of as you lay in your shared bed, his scent still lingering. It is what you think when Feyre picks you up, and her and Mor place you in a bathtub as they clean you. It is what you think of as you stare at the ceiling, hoping it will collapse on you.

It is what you think of as you stand between Rhysand and Azriel at Cassian’s memorial. It is what you think of as they lower the casket into the ground, the citizens of Velaris standing around to pay their respects.

You don’t notice the hundreds of people who come to offer you a silent nod, a gentle prayer over you, their voices carrying gentle choruses of “he was so brave” and “you should be proud”.

You’re too numb for any of this. You’re too numb to recognize the hand Azriel places on your back, or the hand Feyre clasps into your own, squeezing tightly.

All you can think about is how his hand felt in your own the first time you held it - warm, gentle, comforting. And how it felt the last time you held it - cold, lifeless, gone.

Being a war hero came with a cost.

Only Cassian didn’t have to pay it - those he left behind did.

-

You’re not sure how much time has passed since Cassian died. You’re not sure if the people of Velaris still mourned him, or were simply wearing the traditional colors of their court.

You sat in one of Cassian’s old tunics, piles of clothes scattered on the floor around you. Your back was to the wall, its cool surface warming with your heat.

You hear movement in the house, but you don’t have the energy or ability to care who’s here.

Someone knocks gently before coming into the room, Azriel’s large frame coming through the door to your chambers. He sees the slightly ajar closet door, and shimmies his way in, sitting next to you amidst the pile of clothes on the floor.

He notes that they all seemed to have been pulled right off their hangers, in a fit of rage or desperation perhaps. Shades of black and red litter the floor, and the realization that it was all Cassian’s clothes causes him to take in a deep breath.

You two sit for a while, Azriel’s wings likely cramped in the small space. Mother knows Cassian complained if he spent more than five minutes in your closet.

Azriel just sits in silence, his shadows gently swirling the floor, searching through the piles.

For what, you’re not sure.

You finally speak, the words hard to form. You didn’t speak much these days - your voice a rare sound for your family’s ears.

“He doesn’t need them to be hung up anymore.”

Azriel sighs, shifting closer to you. He gauges you, looking for a reaction before moving a bit closer.

“He never needed them hung up. Before you he mostly just left his clothes strewn about the room. Drove Nuala and Cerridwen mad.”

You look at him, pulled from your trance of that black shirt Cassian wore when the two of you went on vacation in Adriada. The shirt that fit him so well the two of you did not see the beach at all for the five days you were there.

“They’d complain, saying every night he’d pull his clothes that they neatly hung up and the next morning they’d be strewn about his room,” he shrugs, still confused over how Cassian kept track of where everything was.

“Eventually Rhys told them to stop and to let Cassian do what he wants. No idea how he managed to stay neat and tidy with you.”

Your eyes meet his, and he reaches out a hand for you. It’s the first offer of help you’ve accepted in days. You keep his hand in yours for a long time, sitting amongst Cassian’s clothes.

-

You were sitting on the small balcony of your home, looking out at the expansive night sky above you. Elbows on knees, collapsing in on yourself.

Eyes red rimmed, tear tracks marking your face. You had never felt so helpless or as hopeless as you did now. Your eyes snag on a dark figure, soaring through the skies, its body getting closer and closer.

Azriel had taken to checking on you every three days now. Make sure you were eating, washing, and moving. Honestly if it weren’t for these biweekly check ins, you’re not sure how you would be faring.

The Illyrian descends next to you, a soft landing as he tucks his wings back in and sits next to you. You two sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the night a melody playing for just you two.

Velaris is dark, few fae lights scattered throughout the city aglow. You breathe deeply, taking in the smell of Azriel next to you. You should tell him, but you haven’t been able to tell anyone all week.

It was eating you up - you knew they’d be supportive, you knew they’d love you and help you in anyway they could. But it would still break their hearts just a bit more.

Your internal debate is ended by the overwhelming turn of your stomach, your lunch from earlier wanting to make a quick exit. You hurriedly get up, running towards your bathroom and throwing yourself on your toilet, narrowly reaching it in time.

Azriel ran after you, making quick work of grabbing your hair before you began your second wave of vomiting. The only sounds in the room are your retching and Azriel’s soothing tunes.

His other hand gently rubs your back as you feel as if you’re going to die. From embarassment or pain, you’re not sure. He waits for you to say what he already suspects, having noted a subtle shift in your scent when he arrived.

You wipe your mouth, not wanting to say the words aloud. The words that Madja had told you three days ago, the words that caused you to shut down until now.

“I’m pregnant,” you say, head leaning against the toilet seat. “All Cass wanted was to be a dad. Now I’m pregnant and he’s dead.”

A forced laugh comes from you.

“It’s not fair, Az.”

Your words hang in the air, and your friend responds by wrapping his arms around you, and pulling you into his lap. He nuzzles his head into your shoulder, his breath shuddering as he cries softly into your hair.

The two of you lay there, the cool bathroom tile digging imprints into your skin as he holds you, tears streaming from both of you.

-

Several months along in your pregnancy, and Azriel has essentially moved in with you full time. He takes meticulous care of you and the babe - he goes to your appointments with Madja with you, he goes baby shopping with you, he even put together the crib in your room.

He was your late husband’s brother. He was stepping up, knowing that Cassian would want him to help you. And yet your dreams wouldn’t stop being so perverse.

For the past month, every night without fail you dreamt of Azriel. Every dream was different - some of places you’ve gone before, places you only know of because Azriel described them.

The dreams were weird and disorienting, but you left them there. They were dreams.

About how beautiful he was. About his hands, his wings, his shoulders, his thighs.

Every day you’d wake up full of shame at where your mind takes you against your will.

-

“Az,” you say, a serious look on your face. “Something’s wrong.”

He looks over to you, glasses perched on his nose. The knife in his hand clatters, landing on the cutting board, a piece of carrot tumbling to the floor as he moves to you quickly.

Your breathing becomes more shallow, and you hold your hands out, reaching for his. Once his fingers reach yours, you bring his hands to your bump.

Just as he’s about to ask what the problem is, he feels a soft thump against his scarred hand. He can’t control the soft laugh that comes from him, and he can’t help but cradle your bump just a little tighter.

He looks back up to you, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“I thought something was wrong.”

You smile, “I know - that’s what makes it fun.”

-

Almost eight months had passed since Cassian’s death, and you were finally able to hear his name without breaking down. Azriel was the only one you would talk to about him, though.

It felt right to talk about Cassian to Azriel. It felt right to plunge yourself back into the memories of him - his boisterous laugh, his insistence on touching someone at all times, his presence in rooms.

It felt right, and the babe in your belly would kick frequently whenever Azriel spoke to you about Cassian, as if they knew who you were talking about.

It felt so right, and yet so wrong. Every night before bed you replayed the memories of the day, desperately trying to insert Cassian into Azriel’s spot in them.

He never fit perfectly into them, the edges of him not quite the right size.

-

This was too much.

You were an absolute fool to believe you could do this. To not only birth but to raise your dead husband’s babe. Who let you do this? Who thought this was a good idea?

“Hey.”

Azriel’s voice vibrates through you, pulling you from your thoughts, his large frame behind you. Your back pressed to his chest, his arms helping hold your legs up.

You lean your head against him.

“This was a terrible, terrible idea.”

He smiles, “Cassian never was known for good ideas.”

Your face contorts in agony, a strong cramping pain rippling through you.

Azriel takes the wet cloth from the nurse to his left, holding it on your forehead. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing so well.”

You scoff, “if I was doing well, the babe would be out by now!”

Azriel takes your jabs, your sarcasm, the intense squeezing of his hand in yours. He’ll take everything you throw at him.

After about eight hours, you were blessed by the cauldron with a beautiful boy, tiny wings clinging to his back as he cried.

-

Azriel’s presence didn’t stop after the babe, Camden, was born. If anything, he spent more time with you. He delegated much of his work as spymaster to support you, even going so far as helping coordinate schedules for Feyre or Nesta to help you bathe.

In the first few weeks, you were able to move around, but you were utterly exhausted. Not just the physical demands of your babe and recovering from birthing a winged babe, but also the emotional toll this took on you left you unable to care much for yourself.

You had thought being bathed would make you feel like a burden, but Feyre and Nesta did everything to make you feel so loved instead. They lit candles, rubbed your back, and told you how proud of you they were constantly. Their words never failed to make you cry, the task at hand feeling impossible if you thought about it too hard.

Eventually, after weeks of sleepless nights, feeling like nothing more than a cow for milk, you and Azriel were able to settle into a routine.

He took care of the babe at night, allowing you decent sleep. He brought Camden to you for his middle of the night feedings. You took care of Camden during the morning through early afternoon while Azriel attended to his duties. The two of you cooked dinner together, Azriel always insisting on washing dishes afterwards.

After a while, it all felt so normal. As if Cassian was never meant to be here for this part.

-

A few months after your son’s first birthday all Hell broke loose. It was a regular day. The sun still shone as it always does, your son was as beautiful as ever. Azriel was holding Camden in the air, helping him stretch out his wings, when he spoke for the first time.

A soft dada accompanied the little boy’s giggles, followed by Azriel stiffening immediately. You looked to the shadowsinger, and when his eyes met yours, you knew.

As if a golden thread appeared out of thin air, tying a knot from Azriel to you, you could feel him. You pulled an experimental tug in the bond, and he pulled back.

Wide eyes meet each other from across the room, silent except for Camden’s continued giggles. You stare at him bewildered, your expression mirrored back to you on his face.

A high pitched noise starts ringing in your eyes before everything goes black.

-

“It’s a bit of a cruel joke,” you say. “I want to love him, I want to be with my mate. But what kind of person does that to her deceased husband?”

You had woken up in Rhys’s office twenty minutes ago to your head in Feyre’s lap, her hands gently running through your hair.

You had heard bits of hushed conversation, and you thought you had heard Az, but when you came to, he was nowhere to be seen.

Rhys looks contemplative before saying, “you of all people should know that Cassian would have wanted you to be happy.”

You put your head in your hands, gathering to courage to say your worst thoughts out loud.

“It feels like Cassian died for me. I know he didn’t, but I can’t help but feel like if he had survived, would Azriel still be my mate? He would have let me be with him, yes, but just.”

You sigh, trying to grab the fragmented thoughts in your head and place them together. Rhys lets you, allowing silence to fill the room.

“It would have killed him having to watch me choose Azriel over him. He would have done the respectable thing, he would have stepped back. He would have been happy for us.”

You sigh, “but if it were the other way, if Nesta or Elain were his mate, I’m not sure I could give him up.”

Your words come pouring out quickly before you begin sobbing. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. His hands wrap around your head, and he gently smooths your hair down.

“Feyre and I are immensely happy for you, despite the circumstances. Both of you. I know you might not feel like it, but you made your own family.”

-

You found Azriel a few hours later in what used to be his room in the townhouse. He hardly stayed here, hardly stayed at any of Rhys’s estates anymore, opting instead for the comfort of the home you two now shared.

“Hi,” you say tentatively, stepping through the door.

“Hi,” he echos back, turning to see you.

“Crazy day,” you say, pulling lightly on the bond. He cracks a smile, but there’s a sadness deep in his gaze that you haven’t seen in months.

He moves towards you, slow and deliberate steps, as if you were a bunny found in the woods easily scared off.

“Do you want this?” He asks, eyes focused on your own.

You nod your head. He nods back.

“I dreamt of you. For months, years even. Since about halfway through my pregnancy, you’ve been in my dreams most nights.”

He watches you speak, letting you say whatever it is you need to. You take a deep breath before continuing.

“I don’t want to forget Cass, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re replacing him. I can love both of you.”

He steps closer, slowly moving towards you until he’s stopped right in front of you, his wings blocking you in.

“It’s unconventional, I understand. And I understand if you don’t want a widow with a child.” You look up towards him, determination in your eyes. “But I am all in.”

He gently cups your cheek, eyes full of conflict. “It won’t be easy,” he muses.

“Nothing about this has been easy, why start now?”

His face slowly moves closer to yours, his lips gentle against your own. His hands still hold you gently, as he kisses you long and slow.

There would be time for passion later, his kiss now is full of the emotions words can’t convey. Adoration, sacrifice, immense grief.

You thought having Azriel kiss you would make you feel like you were betraying Cassian. Instead you feel an overwhelming sense of rightness as your hands cup his jaw back, pouring every ounce of you into him.

-

You and Azriel look out at your backyard, watching Nyx and Camden run around, play fighting with their swords. The two boys occasionally take short flights, only about a foot or so off the ground.

Azriel wraps his arms around you, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You close your eyes, letting yourself feel this moment, allowing the sounds of the boys playing and your mate’s breathing to lull you into some form of peace you never thought you’d find again.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #azriel fanfic #acotar writing #azriel x y/n

[riot-ghost]

DPxYJ

Bartholomew Allen had lived a rough life. He has few memories of before the Blue Beetle Overreach, and has uprooted his own life, the little life of a soldier he'd carved out for himself, to save Earth and all of humanity. He knew how the past went, to a certain extent. He knew of the people he'd left behind. The good soldiers and family to him. He was grateful for the life he lived now, the mission he was on, but it was difficult. His hands shook and his body creaked and groaned. Vibrations seemed in tune with his very bones. His steps fell silent tonight, as he walked through the dimmed halls of mount Justice.

He jerked a bit, reacting to sounds he heard in the main room, where he'd been heading to the kitchens. Bart stops, slipping to stand against the wall, straining his ears to listen. It was talking, he could tell. "We'll introduce you in the morning when we debrief the team for their missions. Don't cause any problems before that." That was Batman. Talking to -what sounded like- a new recruit. Bart tried to wrack his brain for any heroes or sidekicks or someone that would join the Team.

"Got it, Batty!" Bart stills entirely, his heart dropping to his feet. He forgets to breathe, the voice so clear and familiar to him. He is thrown into the future, the young man they'd pulled from one of the Reach's camps. The young man was already considered one of the dead, Bart had started lifting him off of the cot to bring him to their dead. The boy's head would rock, his eyes slowly opening. Bart would only think about how he could finally see the color blue as something else than Blue Beetle.

Danny was the only person Bart had ever met his own age. They did everything together. Bart talked Danny through the apocalypse, as he had come from space before it had happened. He would hold the other boy as he would cry, grief not unknown to Bart Allen. Danny would become one of their greatest soldiers, as few as there were. Bart would hold him the longest when leaving. He would hold him tightly, trying to ingrain every bit of him to memory. Danny would hold him back just as close and tell him that they would see each other soon. He would think of him the most, now, in the past, laying awake at night.

Bart could practically see Danny now, the cheeky look on his face as he mock-salutes Batman. He fights against everything inside of himself to peek around the corner, his heart thundering inside of his chest. He's crying, he thinks, absently, as he stares at the shadow of Gotham's Knight. There's a slight glow around Batman, not coming quite from him, but from something in front. Someone in front of him. Hope is blooming inside his chest, and Batman shifts.

Not once has Bart ever felt something compared to seeing his love floating there, here, with him, in the past. The present. Whatever.

He cannot move. He doesn't move as Batman slinks to the Zeta tubes, only the draping form of his cape and cowl visible to Bart. He doesn't move as Danny's eyes- a shade of green incomparable to anything else Bart had ever seen.

"Bart?" Danny's voice is no longer cheeky. His face has softened, a hopeful but nervous smile wavering. Bart's chest seizes as he fumbles out from around the hallway corner. He is fumbling towards Danny, superspeed and elegance. Silence and years of militant training forgotten. He falls into Danny's arms, a feeling he thought he would never experience again. He holds him close, the cold the other boy radiates, enveloping Bart like a familiar blanket that feels so dear of home. Danny was home to Bart, safe and familiar.

Bart doesn't know how long they stay there. He does not care, he only cares that they are together. Danny lowered to the floor as some point, resting on his knees, Bart hugging him at the waist, laying in his lap. Danny simply holds Bart like this, running his hand through his hair.

#dpxdc #crossover #danny phantom #batman #danny fenton #dp x dc #dc x dp #danny phantom crossover #bart allen #young justice #dc impulse #Danny phantom x bart allen #Danny gets sent to the appocalypse #theyre gay your honor

[soapoet]

what do you need to heal?

oof, you all deserve a hug.

01.

Shufflemancy: SENSITIVE by MOTHICA

your feelings are really potent. you feel like a pressure cooker, constantly ready to burst open. emotions are both your playground and your graveyard, it seems. you feel everything strongly, but there is almost a sense of it never being enough. you yearn for something more, something bigger and better to latch on to. you've probably been accused of being toxic once or twice, and there may be a trail of broken lines of communication behind you as a result. but you have no ill intent. you have so much to give, and all you want is equal returns for your investments. interpersonal relationships especially feel lackluster to you.

here's a storyline that might resonate: you meet someone, platonic or romantic, and sparks fly. you're so invested, they take interest in you, you're each other's favourite person, two peas in a pod, partners in crime, a dynamic duo. every day you pour your heart and soul into this connection, drop the drawbridge and invite them inside your walls to experience you and your world fully. and with every day that goes by, slowly but surely, the honeymoon phase begins to fade. their efforts lessen, even when they say you're their whole world they never seem to find the time, they stop sharing, and feel intruded upon when you inquire and poke around to see what's up. you step back, thinking yeah, alright, i just need to chill, give them space. but that just makes things worse, doesn't it? you end up feeling abandoned and the grief for what the connection once was is agonising. every time you try to rekindle the flames they lash out. you're overwhelming, nosy, obsessive, they feel cornered. oh my god, you're so toxic! and then you fight. you fight for your feelings and the relationship. they just seem to fight you. you tell them they knew what they were getting themselves into. you showed them everything. shared the deepest, darkest corners of your castle. didn't they say that it's okay, that you're perfect as you are, flaws and all, and that they'd never leave? and then they still do.

you're not a monster. you're not trying to lure people in and make their lives miserable. you simply seek companionship. the kind that seems impossible to find these days. you understand that everyone has a life of their own, things to do, and that it's okay to need time and space. what you do have a problem with is the lack of trust. when you drop your armour you need reassurance that it's not in vain and that you are safe. that your vulnerability won't be taken advantage of. you don't want to worry about whether or not you let wolves inside your castle walls. what you need to do is learn a healthy dose of discrimination. really vet the people you let in. take things slowly, and allow things to happen without having to force it. let people come to you. wield your emotions in a constructive way. if you feel like a fraud trying to fit into the whole love and light spiel, then don't force it! you're incredibly powerful. learn the art of transmutation and try to make your emotions work for you instead of against you. it may be easier said than done, but if anyone can do it, it's you.

02.

Shufflemancy: Bridges by ALIKA

stop fooling yourself. you're really making yourself jump through way too many hoops. things don't have to be an obstacle course. there isn't some long, ever-changing list of things that need to happen before what you want can happen. it's like you're running around in a hamster wheel. chasing after what ifs, looking for signs and clues, and when something doesn't align then oops, there you go, right back to the drawing board. reconfiguring things, going back and forth, fine-tuning, undoing, scrapping everything and starting all over. reading your energy feels like i'm walking into a room with crumpled papers all over the floors. and when i look at them, your plans and ideas are so good! why have you cursed yourself into this space of false starts and stagnation?

because your head is full of doubt. your mind is like the static of an old tv screen. there is so much noise, buzzing around and it's so loud you're unable to think straight. there are so many distractions. you're being pulled in so many directions. everywhere except forward. you are so focused on that first step being absolutely flawless that you'll do anything but actually take the damn step. every time you gather yourself and tell yourself alright, it's go-time my dudes, you just stand there, or notice something that you just gotta fix real quick. and before you know it, you're doing all kinds of busy work. anything to make you feel better about not doing what you want to do and feel like you're at least making some contribution toward your dreams.

you heard there would be signs that you're on the right path or that your manifestations are working, and you took that personally. you see a sign, then look for confirmation that the sign really was a sign. then you tell yourself you need to stop actively looking for signs because then you won't recognise the real signs. but uh-oh, what if you were already doing that? does that mean that the sign you noticed was a false flag and you're just delusional and just out there fooling yourself? please give me a sign that— stop. sit down. cut the noise out and just breathe. you really need to start trusting yourself. you have a vision. a path forward. you got shit to do, things to achieve. stop checking the time, the mirror, the skies... just check yourself. still want what you want? great, you got it. have some faith in yourself. refocus your energy and try to stay present. it's okay to get distracted and it's normal to doubt, just don't let the doubts and distractions rule your present moment. the light has been green this whole time, so just go.

03.

Shufflemancy: Trauma by NF

no. that's two letters, but it feels wrong in your mouth, doesn't it? like it's too big or like it'll break something. when we're drowning there is a period known as 'voluntary apnea'. our instinct to not inhale water is stronger than our need to release the buildup of carbon dioxide that occurs when we hold our breath for too long. the brain can cause us to endure the increasing terror and physical pain because of this survival instinct. and it feels like your ability to say no is behind this kind of mental block too. when you do say no to things it almost feels apologetic, and is riddled with apologies and reassurance. you don't want to do this or that, but it's just today, maybe some other time, you'll check your calendar, assure them it's not like you don't care, you're just busy, you gotta go. you'll find any excuse that sounds reasonable when you don't have one. and for what? you don't need to explain yourself. no is a full sentence.

it really feels like you're on the outside looking in. you have a fear of not just missing out, but being left behind. it's like you've convinced yourself that in order to be worthy and good you need to please everybody. maybe in your past you've been betrayed, experienced neglect or really, truly, felt all alone and without support and guidance. so when you're around people you're on your best behaviour. you listen and you are eager to learn. you adopt people's hobbies or otherwise make an effort to be there for them. people come to you for advice, you're a shoulder to cry on, a problem solver, a good time. but when you get overwhelmed, your nerves get the best of you and you need someone to lean on, you feel like you shouldn't burden people. they have better things to do. maybe they wouldn't be able to help anyway, so why bother?

in many ways you feel like a ghost. not quite sure where the influences of other people and life circumstances end and where you begin. your boundaries are so blurry it's no wonder you've accepted so many concepts of yourself that it feels like the hand of cards you were dealt are masks instead of tools. you may need some time in isolation and solitude for a while. not to say farewell to the world and become lonely, but learn to really be with yourself and figure out who you really are and who you want to be. put yourself on the operating table and start carefully removing things that don't serve your well-being. you are whole all within yourself, and i promise that it's all complete and good and worthy of so much love. you don't need to be patchwork quilt made of concepts forced upon you by the world. you're allowed to be yourself and grow in exactly the direction and at the speed that you want. there's room here under the sun for you too.

#pac reading #energy reading #pick a card #intuitive reading #pick a picture #pick a pile #tarot reading #healing #divination #pick a card reading #soapy.post #spiritual guidance

[elryuse]

yandere stepsister Yeseo?

Forbidden Boundaries

YANDERE STEPSISTER YESEO X MALE READER

Yeseo clutched the worn teddy bear tighter, its fur damp with silent tears. Her brother, her only solace after their mother's passing, was a memory kept alive by that threadbare friend. Now, even that comfort was threatened. Her father, a man shrunk by grief, announced he was getting married. Relief battled with a cold, venomous fury in Yeseo's gut. Relief because Dad wouldn't be alone, fury because it meant sharing him, sharing everything. Especially when she found out her new step-family included a son.

Y/n. Broad-shouldered with a mop of black hair that perpetually seemed to fall across his forehead, he had eyes the color of storm clouds. Unsettlingly familiar yet undeniably foreign, they held a depth Yeseo couldn't quite decipher. He offered a hesitant smile, the kind that belonged on a nervous puppy, not the annoying boy who now claimed half her house.

"H-hi," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Yeseo scoffed, refusing to acknowledge him. The traitorous warmth that bloomed in her chest was a betrayal to her brother's memory. He wouldn't want her sharing their space, their life, with anyone. Yet, a twisted part of her couldn't deny the strange pull towards Y/n, a feeling that intensified with every stolen glance over the following weeks.

The animosity simmered, expressed in barbed comments from Yeseo and awkward silences at the dinner table. But fate, with a cruel sense of humor, threw them together one stormy night. Teenage angst and a dare fuelled by boredom led Yeseo out into the downpour. One careless turn, a screech of tires, and then…nothing.

She woke to the sterile white of a hospital room, the rhythmic beep of a machine a harsh counterpoint to the dull ache in her head. A hand, warm and surprisingly calloused, held hers. It was Y/n, his own face bruised and scraped, his eyes reflecting a concern that sent a tremor through Yeseo. Shame burned in her gut for her initial animosity.

"H-hey," he croaked, his voice hoarse. "You scared the living shit out of me."

Yeseo wanted to scoff, to maintain her facade of indifference. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, she squeezed his hand, a silent apology. That small gesture became a bridge, their unspoken connection strengthening with each shared secret whispered in the dead of night.

Years flew by, marked by stolen glances across the breakfast table and late-night talks under a tapestry of stars. Y/n matured, his once-gawky frame hardening into that of a man, and Yeseo found herself drawn to him with a fierceness that both scared and excited her. One day, as she peeked out the window, she saw him. Laughing, carefree, with a girl with sunshine-colored hair hanging onto his arm.

A white-hot rage flooded Yeseo's veins. This wasn't supposed to happen. Y/n wasn't supposed to find anyone else. He understood her darkness, the shadows that clung to her like a second skin. He belonged to her.

When he returned home, a lovestruck grin plastered on his face, Yeseo was waiting. Her own smile was a stark contrast, cold and predatory. "Where were you?" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

Y/n froze, the smile dropping from his face like a discarded mask. "Just…hanging out with Sarah," he stammered, a flicker of unease crossing his features.

"Sarah?" Yeseo spat the name, the sound dripping with venom. "Let me think.. Hmm.. Isn't that what people call a date?" She snatched a nearby jump rope, its rough fibers sending chills down Y/n's spine.

Panic flared in his eyes, but before he could speak, the lights flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. It was either a cruel twist of fate or perhaps a carefully orchestrated plan of Yeseo's.

Hours crawled by, measured only by the rasp of Yeseo's voice, laced with a possessiveness that made Y/n want to run. Every denial, every mention of Sarah, fueled her torment. The room reeked of burnt sugar – a makeshift candle fashioned from spilled wine – and the stifling weight of fear.

"She doesn't understand you," Yeseo hissed, her voice barely a whisper in the darkness. "She can't see the real you, the broken you, like I can."

Tears pricked at Y/n's eyes. He choked out a desperate plea, "Yeseo, please…this isn't love. This is…crazy. You're my stepsister."

A strangled sob escaped Yeseo's lips. "Maybe it is. But it's all I have left."

Finally, his voice, choked and ...cracked with despair. "You can't lock me up here forever, Yeseo. My parents will be worried sick."

The flickering candlelight danced across his face, revealing a mix of terror and defiance that ignited a flicker of something akin to pity in Yeseo's heart. But it was quickly extinguished by the possessive fire burning brighter. "They don't understand you," she countered, her voice softer now, a dangerous kind of sweet. "They can't understand the darkness that lives inside you. Only I can."

Y/n scoffed, the sound harsh in the confined space. "Darkness? That's your darkness, Yeseo. Not mine."

His words struck a raw nerve, and a tremor ran through her. But before she could retort, a distant rumble of thunder echoed through the night, followed by a sudden flash of lightning that illuminated the room for a brief, shocking moment. In that split second, Y/n saw the desperation in her eyes, the deep well of loneliness that mirrored his own. It was a fleeting glimpse, overshadowed by the possessiveness that returned just as quickly as the darkness.

Days bled into nights, punctuated by interrogations, forced confessions, and a chilling intimacy that repulsed Y/n as much as it terrified him. He tried reasoning with Yeseo, appealing to the memories they shared, the moments of genuine connection. But it was like speaking to a wall. Her mind was consumed by a twisted sense of ownership, fueled by her grief and fear of abandonment.

One morning, he woke up to a strange stillness. The makeshift candle had burned itself out, leaving the room in complete darkness. He called out for Yeseo, a tremor in his voice, but there was no answer. Panic surged through him as he realized he was still bound by the jump rope. He strained against the rough fibers, his heart pounding in his chest.

Suddenly, a soft glow appeared at the doorway. Yeseo stood there, her silhouette framed by the faint light filtering through the hallway. In her hand, she held a cell phone, the screen displaying a picture of Sarah, smiling brightly.

"Look at her," Yeseo said, her voice devoid of emotion. "So carefree, so innocent. Doesn't she deserve someone who can be normal? Someone who isn't…broken?"

Y/n's breath hitched. He realized with a horrifying certainty what Yeseo was planning. "No, Yeseo, please," he croaked. "Don't hurt her."

A chilling smile played on Yeseo's lips. "This isn't about hurting her," she said, her voice a mere whisper. "It's about protecting you. Protecting you from her, from forgetting me."

Tears welled up in Y/n's eyes. He knew there was no reasoning with her in this state. He had to escape. With a desperate surge of strength, he yanked on the jump rope, the coarse fibers digging into his wrists. To his surprise, it snapped, frayed from days of use.

Yeseo's smile faltered for a moment, then hardened back into a mask of cold fury. She lunged for him, but he scrambled back, adrenaline fueling his movements. He stumbled towards the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.

"You'll regret this!" Yeseo screamed behind him.

Y/n didn't dare look back. He burst out of the room and raced down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor. He reached the front door, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the lock. Finally, it clicked, and he flung the door open, escaping into the cool night air.

He didn't stop running until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out. He found himself in a park, panting heavily, the familiar scent of wet grass and blooming night jasmine filling his nostrils.

Looking back, he realized he had no phone, no wallet, no plan. All he had was the memory of Yeseo's twisted love and the chilling realization that he might never be free of her darkness. As dawn painted the sky with streaks of pink and orange, Y/n curled up under a park bench, the weight of his ordeal crushing him. He had escaped Yeseo's prison, but the scars she had left on his soul would take a lifetime to heal.

Despite the exhaustion gnawing at him, Y/n couldn't stay hidden. The image of Sarah, vulnerable and alone, fueled a surge of determination. He had to get to her, warn her. Stealing back into the house, the adrenaline rush from escape fading, was replaced by a chilling dread. The silence of the house was deafening. Had Yeseo followed him?

He found his phone on the kitchen counter, a cruel taunt. He dialed Sarah's number, praying she'd pick up. The first ring was met with silence, then her sleepy voice. Relief washed over him.

"Sarah, listen to me carefully," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Don't come here, don't come near this house. There's…danger."

He heard the confusion in her voice, but then, thankfully, understanding. "Y/n? What's going on? Where are you?"

He couldn't explain everything, not over the phone. He mumbled a lie, about being out late with friends, and promised to call her properly in the morning. Hanging up, a sense of despair settled over him. He'd protected Sarah, but what awaited him back in the room?

The climb back to his prison felt like an eternity. As he approached the door, he braced himself for the confrontation. But the room was empty. Relief turned to apprehension. Where had Yeseo gone?

He found his answer on the bedside table – a single white rose, its thorn pricked with a single drop of blood. It was a chilling message, a promise. Yeseo wouldn't let him go, not entirely.

Days turned into weeks, then months. Sarah, worried at his sudden distance, grew distant herself. Y/n knew he had to explain, but the fear of Yeseo's wrath kept him silent. He became a prisoner in his own right, living a double life – the happy friend with Sarah, the terrified captive with Yeseo.

One night, Yeseo returned from wherever she disappeared to, a glint of triumph in her eyes. She held up a newspaper clipping – a picture of Sarah, smiling brightly, next to a man with his arm around her. The caption read: "Local Artist Sarah Finds Love."

Yeseo watched his reaction, a predator gauging its prey. She expected a jealous outburst, a fight for freedom. But Y/n surprised himself. He felt…relief. He was genuinely happy for Sarah.

Yeseo's smile faltered. Perhaps she'd expected a different reaction. Instead, she saw a quiet acceptance in his eyes, a resignation bordering on despair.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, Yeseo spoke, her voice a chilling whisper that sent shivers down Y/n's spine. "So, you finally figured it out, didn't you? Sarah doesn't see the real you. She doesn't understand the darkness that lives inside you, the darkness that only I can love."

Y/n swallowed hard, her words a painful echo of the justifications she'd woven in his mind for weeks. "Maybe you're right," he choked out. "Maybe I need someone who…understands."

Yeseo's smile returned, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was a smile laced with victory, but also a hint of something else – a flicker of doubt. "But what about her? What about your precious Sarah?"

Y/n looked down at his calloused hands, the guilt of his deception a heavy weight in his chest. "I'll…tell her the truth. It won't be easy, but it's the right thing to do."

A guttural laugh erupted from Yeseo, devoid of humor and full of a chilling possessiveness. "The right thing, huh? Don't be a fool, Y/n. You won't tell her a thing. You won't risk losing me, not after everything you've seen."

He looked up, meeting her gaze with a newfound resolve. "Maybe you're right again. Maybe I won't tell her everything. But I will see her. I won't be your prisoner anymore, Yeseo. I'll see Sarah, live my life…as long as you let me."

Yeseo's eyes narrowed, the playful glint extinguished by a cold fury. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "Don't test me, Y/n. You know what I'm capable of. You wouldn't want me to…hurt her, would you? Or maybe even you yourself?"

Y/n stood his ground, the fear a dull ache in his chest. "I know what you're capable of," he said, his voice surprisingly steady.

Y/n's heart hammered against his ribs as he watched Yeseo pack a duffel bag with frantic energy. The air crackled with a manic excitement that sent shivers down his spine. "Where are we going?" he croaked, his voice barely a whisper.

Yeseo, clad in a sleek black dress, her eyes gleaming with a feverish light, turned to him. "Away," she said, a single, chilling word. "To a place where they can't find us. Where our love can finally bloom."

Panic bloomed in Y/n's chest. He'd hoped for a compromise, a way to appease Yeseo while maintaining some semblance of normalcy with Sarah. But this…this was a nightmare unfolding.

"No, Yeseo, we can't just leave. What about Sarah?" he pleaded, desperation lacing his voice.

A cruel smile twisted Yeseo's lips. "Sarah? She'll forget you eventually. The heart wants what it wants, Y/n, and it wants you. With me."

Before Y/n could protest further, Yeseo grabbed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. She dragged him out of the house, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of fear and dread. He stole a final glance back, a silent apology hanging in the air for the love he was leaving behind.

Weeks bled into months. Yeseo had orchestrated a meticulously planned elopement, whisking him away to a secluded island off the coast of Thailand. They lived in a luxurious penthouse overlooking the turquoise water, a stark contrast to the prison it felt like.

Yeseo, initially clingy and possessive, gradually settled into a semblance of normalcy. But for Y/n, normalcy was a distant dream. Every stolen glance at his phone, every suppressed urge to contact Sarah, was a constant reminder of his stolen life.

Meanwhile, Sarah's world had crumbled. Y/n's disappearance was a cruel puzzle with no missing piece. Days turned into weeks, then months, filled with frantic searches and dead ends. The police, initially helpful, grew dismissive as time passed. Yeseo had covered her tracks well.

One scorching afternoon, Yeseo returned from a shopping spree, a triumphant glint in her eyes. She tossed a magazine onto the plush living room couch, the cover emblazoned with a picture of Sarah, a haunting sadness in her eyes.

"Look," Yeseo said, her voice laced with a cruel satisfaction. "Seems your precious Sarah has moved on. Found someone new."

Y/n snatched the magazine, his heart clenching at the sight of Sarah's downcast expression. The article spoke of a new relationship, a feeble attempt to mend a broken heart. A wave of guilt washed over him, a suffocating weight that threatened to consume him.

He looked up at Yeseo, her face a mask of triumph. In that moment, a cold resolve solidified within him. He would never win her love, but he wouldn't be her prisoner any longer.

As Yeseo busied herself in the kitchen, Y/n grabbed his phone, his fingers trembling as he dialed a familiar number. The phone rang once, twice, then Sarah's voice, laced with a weary hope, filled his ears.

"Hello?"

Tears welled up in Y/n's eyes, blurring his vision. He couldn't tell her everything, not yet. But he had to start somewhere.

"Sarah," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "It's me…Y/n."

On the other end of the line, a startled gasp escaped Sarah's lips. Then, a stunned silence hung heavy in the air.

Y/n took a deep breath. He had a long story to tell, a story of a twisted love and a desperate escape. But for the first time since his abduction, a flicker of hope ignited within him. He might be trapped in a gilded cage, but he wouldn't let the bars silence him forever. The fight for his freedom, and perhaps even his love, had just begun, unbeknownst to Yeseo, who stood mere feet away, a cruel smile playing on her lips as she listened to the muffled conversation, the taste of victory already bitter on her tongue.

#yeseo #kang yeseo #kep1er yeseo #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #yandere #yandere roleplay #yandere x reader #yandere blog

[dancingtotuyo]

drabble. what's that i see?

Woman | Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: a unexpected discovery brings Joel acceptance.

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed.

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy related things, grief, acceptance, fluff?

Notes: no beta, we die like Gabe, Chris, and Paul.

If you have checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader! The final part is out now!

Words: 865

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

The sun still sits below the horizon when a hand roams over your middle and the scruff of Joel’s beard scratches your neck. You don’t bother opening your eyes, a half-assed whine leaving your lips. He chuckles softly. “Just obeyin the rules, Sweetheart. About to head out.” He kisses your cheek. 

You crane your head back, eyes opening to small slits. He smiles at you. “Be safe,” you barely manage to say. 

Joel nods, minty breath hitting your lips as he kisses you. It’s soft and gentle. It feels like a lazy morning spent in bed, meant to lull you back asleep. “Always.” He kisses your head. “See you at dinner.” 

He stops in the doorway, looking back at your sleeping form. You're seven months along now, well rounded in your middle. Your ankles and fingers are swollen. He’s noticed the slight waddle develop in your gait as well. It all makes him smile. 

You’ve been taking things one day at a time, but neither have you made any preparations for when the baby gets here. No crib. No clothes. No discussions of a name. You still need time, even though the window rapidly is closing. 

Joel thinks about it silently sometimes, especially when he can feel them moving about, the small grunts that leave you when you get a fist to the bladder or a foot in your lungs. What will the baby look like? Will they have your eyes? His smile? Will it be a boy or a girl? 

You’re unconscious before the bedroom door clicks behind him. 

Patrol has picked this neighborhood over a hundred times in the last decade, but Joel and Tommy still stop. They still rummage through a couple houses. As time goes on, people have had to get more creative. Things that once seemed useless have renewed purpose. 

Joel hasn’t been in this house before. It’s a single story. Three bedrooms by his calculation. He rummages through linen closets and dresser drawers while Tommy goes through the kitchen. He finds a couple towels. They have a few holes, presumably from moths, but they can be cut down for rags. He finds a couple bars of soap still in boxes shoved to the back of one. 

The last door is stuck. He puts his shoulder into it twice before it gives way. His breath catches the moment he takes in the space. Dust floats around, flickering in the sunlight from the intact window. A crib sits in the corner, covered in dust. The sheets are faded with tiny pink flowers and the walls painted in pastel pink. 

He takes in a deep breath, blinking back tears. It’s eerily similar to the pink he’d painted Sarah’s walls right after her birth. He’d painted it over with purple a few years later once she expressed her preference. It brings forward a whole slew of emotions that he hadn’t realized were bubbling under the surface. 

What if you were carrying a girl? Would it feel like he was replacing her? Rationally, he knew that wasn’t the case. Ellie had carved her own spot in his heart. So had Carter. Would this be different? Would biology make a difference?

Joel clears his throat, pushing away the moisture from his eyes. It’s extra dusty in here, he reasons. 

There’s no closet in the room. He opens up the dresser. Once again, Joel freezes. Light muslin swaddles miraculously untouched by time. One has little yellow flowers against white, and the other has bouquets of pink flowers that match the sheets. They each have a solid color pair to match. He picks them up, expecting them to disintegrate in his hands, but they don’t. They only release little puffs of dust into the air as he shakes them out. 

The last one catches his eye, purple butterflies. Tears gather in his eyes again. There’s a tugging in his heart. Joel has never thought much about what comes after this life even before the outbreak when there was time to do so. So much of his life has been spent focusing on survival. Wherever Sarah might be, he knows she led him here. He turns around half expecting to see her smiling at him from the corner. 

It’s empty, but he still imagines her there. There’s no doubt in his mind you’re carrying his daughter. It’s a surety in his brain, and for the first time, he’s okay with the idea of a girl. Hell, it might be the first time that he’s truly at peace with this pregnancy. She won’t be a replacement or a placeholder for Sarah, but the little sister she spent years begging for. His heart will grow, create a new space just as it did for Ellie and Carter. He knows that because he can feel her telling him that. 

Joel nods to the empty corner clearing his throat. He wipes the moisture from his eyes, shoving the swaddles into his backpack. The drawer of clothes isn't as preserved but he manages to find a few options untouched by two decades of moths and other insects.

He carefully tucks the items into his pack. He’ll give them to you when you’re ready. 

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou #woman (joel’s version) #woman (joel miller) #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #em's fics #pedrostories #pedro stories #ppcu fanfiction

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: It's Friday. I'll probably try to chill. Work is wild yall.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

There's a silence, weighed between three; Thor, Jane, and yourself. You feel is crushing you, resting across your chest, constricting your throat. You put your gloved fingertips on the table and rise.

"Pawdon," you cringe at your own voice, "I must see to my mother…"

Thor rises, Jane doesn't bother as she pats her stomach. You leave without further pretense. Your skirts ruffle around your slippers as you flee without true purpose.

It's an excuse. Your mother wouldn't want to see you, to be reminded of the burden she's left with. Your betrothed and his parents can hardly think better of the circumstance. Yet you loathe to think how it should be if this contract is declared null.

You enter the corridor and turn aimless towards the center of the house. Apart from the few rooms you've been shown into, you haven't much sense for the layout of the house. Loki never troubled to guide you and your mother kept herself cloistered up in her grief.

You shuffle forward. Perhaps a breath of fresh air or if you go so far as your chambers, you might hide in there. You proceed through to the drawing room and give pause. Low timbres in mid-hush, from behind a door not quite shut.

Your name escape the space between frame and clasp. You go no further, instead tiptoeing to hide behind a broad bookshelf, just between the hidden office and the entrance. You tamp down your breaths and listen, knowing you shouldn't, knowing you can only regret to hear the unbridled truth.

"...she can hardly speak a word…"

"Perhaps it is that you don't allow her too. You've always been one to do overly much speaking," Odin retorts, "Loki, have you considered her demureness may be a blessing? That the sort you are would do better with one who listens before they talk, eh? You could learn–"

"Father, she is not what I was promised."

"She holds the same bearing and she is not hideous. She's rather becoming, I think–"

"Oh yes, then why don't you have her? Have you tired of the maid already?"

"Careful, boy," Odin growls, "do not be so petulant. If you could restrain yourself you might realise what you've been given."

"A dumb mute–"

There's a strike of flesh on flesh. A grunt and a snarl, each from a different throat.

"She is to be your wife. Do not sow bitterness in the soil. You should pity that she must put up with an ingrate such as yourself. You are getting exactly as I promised, you will have your vineyard in Kyri, you will have an estate in tears when her father is regrettably gone… what else can I give you? Shall I cut my heart out?"

"If I refuse, I have Jade Park. It is mine by right."

"You haven't any right if you do not provide an heir to it," Odin rebuffs.

"She is not the only duke's daughter–"

"Of a dozen, I'm sure, but cruel as it is to say, they aren't all in queue for a second born."

"You needn't remind me. Thor has his pick, he may do as he pleases, and I get scraps!" Loki blusters, "fine, father, if only to rid myself of your mighty hand. I will marry and you will be gone from my estate. By my right!"

You press yourself to the wall and clamp your lips shut as Loki storms out. He has his hand on his cheek for a moment before tearing his fingers away. He does not look back as he crosses the chamber, stomping through the next doorway just as he sends a standing vase crashing to the floor with an angry swipe.

You stay stuck to the wall as you hear softer steps. It's too late to flee but the Grand Duke calls you out before you can think of it. Odin says your name just as he peeks around the bookcase.

"Apologies you had to witness my son's tantrum. At his age, you'd think he'd be past all that," he slants his lips tritely.

"Pawdon, yaw gwace, I didn't mean to intwude–"

"It mightn't have been your mission but along the way you did make the choice. I don't fault you that, curiosity is dangerous," he shakes his head, "I am ashamed, lady, to think my son is so stubborn and uncouth. It isn't how I've brought him up."

"It's… it's fine, yaw gwace, I know I am not… expected."

"Eh, none of us are, are we?" He tugs on his cravat with irritation, "what say you? Shall I show you the splendors of Jade Park as my sons steeps in his childishness?"

"Yaw gwace?"

"I presume you've not been given the proper look around. I admit my son is rightly jilted by me. I was rather reluctant to hand this over. It has ever been my most treasured property but even second sons need some value… and second daughters…" he offers his arm as he turns, "besides, it's been some years since a pretty young lady adorned my arm."

You look at his sleeve then his flinty hair. He does not censor himself but his truth is not mean. It is only just that. It is what is. You tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow and thank him softly.

"I should thank you, lady," he pats your hand, "I can appreciate someone who reveres silence."

He sets off, tugging you into step. You keep pace, comforted and for the first, at ease in this strange place. This place you must call home.

"We'll save the gardens, I've a little secret for you there."

🔹

“I must return to be sure the banns are read at perish, as they will be here,” your mother points Doreen to her luggage chest with her fan, giving a silent order. “Oh, to think, I must attend my daughter’s grave in the same week I sit to hear the other engaged.”

You’re silent, patient. You know it’s better to let your mother ramble than to interrupt. If any one cared to hear it, you might admit you’re not dismayed to see her leave.

“Be sure you behave. Your father and I made an effort to keep you aware of etiquette. Do mind your manners,” she chides.

“Yes, motha.”

“Oh, and…” she gives you a tortured look, “try to choose your words carefully.”

You nod. You know her meaning clearly. Avoid those syllables that underline your detriment.

“Good, good. Your father is devastated about your sister, you see? I must away.”

“I understand.”

“It isn’t so difficult to be a wife,” she comes close and looks you in your face, “it is part of being a woman. Give him an heir, or two, and you’ll have the rest of your life to be happy. Duty first.”

She touches your arm, squeezing it before she spins to remind Doreen not to forget her chain of pearls left on the vanity. You tuck your chin down and bite your lip.

Duty. What if your husband doesn’t do his? What if he cannot? If he is so repulsed by you, you might not even have the chance to provide him an heir.

🔹

As your mother departs, the Grand Duke and Duchess remain. The first son and Lady Jane take their leave as well, insisting on having the expectant wife home in case of a sudden labour. Even with a few additional guests, the house feels empty. You have only your novels and Doreen, and she is reticent company, a hard line drawn between you by status.

You tire of the pages. You’ve read them a dozen times at least. All of your books are well worn and near memorised. It’s easier to live in your head where you do not sound like a fool.

You approach the door and ponder without. You have a yearning to explore but a fear of what lays outside. You’ve never been much for social graces; you have neither tact nor eloquence. You tend to shy away and forget your posture.

You clutch the handle, battling your fear. You pull the door open, assured by the silence of the corridor, and emerge. You look right, then left, and turn to the former. You wander down to the door you recalled from your stroll with Odin.

The dark oak with the long vertical handles that spiraled at the top. You ease one open, edging quietly into the darkness within. You should’ve brought a candlestick but the windows allow enough light to limn the shelves and upholstered chairs around a single low table. 

You wade through the dull hue and stop before a shelf nearest the window, shifting a book to read the spine. Swift. You’ve not read anything by that author. You slide it loose and flip back the cover and flutter past the front page; A Tale of a Tub imprinted into the sheet.

You squint as you turn to the first page of cramped font. You bend your neck and turn towards a light, not realising the glow moves towards you, only focus on the unraveling of letters before you. A shadow nears until you are drawn up by its umbrous presence.

“Oh!” You gasp in surprise.

Loki looks down his nose as he holds a candlestick. You peer past him to the dark rectangle of the doorway that leads to the attached sitting room. You give a sheepish look to the floor as he reaches for the book in your hand. You let him slide it free, his thumb hooked over the pages before he snaps it shut in his hand.

“Satire. A musing of theology and science. Hardly a woman’s novel,” he remands. “My mother may have something to your preference.”

You take a step back and look at the window, the sun yellow and warm through the pane. You bring one hand up your arm to pinch your sleeve nervously. He is cold and you will never be used to it. A whole life to be spent in the tempest of his distaste.

“Funny, you should be repulsed by me?” He snorts.

You face him and feel the crease between your brows. He lets his eyes drift to the ceiling and gives a scoff. He spins on his heel and sets the candlestick on a tall table between the shelves.

“Let us not pretend either of us are happy. Even if you say little, it is written across your face. I saw it the moment we met. Then I heard you speak and I knew it was all a great joke on my behalf.”

You frown and squeeze your arm, keeping your arm bent across your front, like a shield, “what did you see… when we met?”

He shoves the book back on the shelf. You watch the fabric of his vest strain between his shoulders, almost admire how he’s folded his sleeves to the elbow, though the tops remain bloused. He tilts his head and strides along the wall of books.

“You act so innocent. I don’t believe it, not like the rest. You sit and pout and mope, expecting everyone to coddle you, to feel bad for you. I do not.”

“I do not act–”

“You lie like any woman does. Let us be clear, my wife will not lie. Not to me.” He turns and crosses his arms, leaning on the bookshelf, hooking one foot over the other. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “You will be quiet unless given leave to speak. I needn’t be further embarrassed. My father and brother have always made certain I am derided, you will not join them.”

“Loki–”

“Lord Laufeyson, husband, nothing else. Not your companion, not some kindred spirit, not anything but a convenience. A duty,” he raises a long finger as he speaks, “once I get a child on you, then we will be very much as we were before. Separate. Can you understand me?”

You bite down as hard as you can, until your jaw hurts. He speaks to you in the same tone your father used when he was agitated. He treats you like a child and yet, as Odin said, he acts like one himself. Spoiled and mean.

“I am not stupid, yaw gwace,” you say.

He narrows his eyes and stands straight, gripping his hips as he glares at you, “we’ve said all we need to say. You may go.”

You don’t move. Not right away. You don’t know why you don’t. Your heart is drumming and your ears are tingling.

“I am dismissing you,” he sneers.

You stare. Still regardless of the sharpness to his lilt.

He pulls his hands off his hips and balls them, posturing as he takes a step forward. You wince as a spasm of anger tics in his cheek.

You let the tension out of your jaw and drop your arm straight. You surrender but you do not hang your head as you turn to leave. You walk stiffly towards the door. As you reach it, he speaks again.

“Do not come in here again,” he bids.

You do not answer. You don’t argue. You don’t look back. You just go.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #the sticking point #au #mcu #marvel #thor #jane foster #odin #frigga #avengers

[thetriumphantpanda]

Ghost of You | J. Miller (Chapter Eight)

Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller.

Pairing / Joel Miller x Widow F!Reader

Word Count / 4.4k

Warnings / Soft!Joel as usual, some heavy petting, descriptions of panic attacks, descriptions of injuries (I am not a medical professional, please don't come for me), descriptions of food and alcohol, but nothing else.

Authors Note /  Okay, so this came to me in a dream when I was really stuck on how to properly move these two forward and I hope that I've managed to portray it properly. If you enjoyed this then please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or popping into my ask with some love! And if you'd like to leave a tip, you can do that over on my Ko-Fi.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Summer soon makes way for the fall, the air becoming chillier in Jackson by the day. The leaves have started to change, and you can already feel yourself missing the warmth and comfort that summer brought. The days are shorter, but that might also have something to do with the fact that you were finally back to work at the library full time, spending your days with Kate, and your evenings, more often than not, with Joel and Ellie. 

You and Joel were still taking things steady. You always returned to your home each evening and nothing had progressed between the two of you apart from the heavy make-out sessions you would sometimes have on his couch. He was careful with you, always searching your face when his hands would touch somewhere new, always asking if it was alright to put his lips to your neck, pointing to exactly where he’d put his mouth with his fingers. It was nice, you enjoyed it, and there had never been a moment where you felt he was frustrated with how slow things were going between the two of you. Always content to just sit with his arm around you, play board games with you and Ellie and just have quiet conversation in the dark of his living room. 

It was, however, frustrating you. There had been occasions where you’d stood on the porch, waiting for him to open the door, where you thought that evening would be the one. It had happened more often recently, now that Ellie had converted the garage at the end of their garden as somewhere to have her own space, but every time you felt like you wanted to ask, ask him to lay you down underneath him and take what you were desperate for, something always stopped you.  

Tonight, it was particularly cold out. Joel had set a fire which had warmed his living room, casting an orange, flickering glow over the game of monopoly that Ellie had just won. You’d been at it for hours, a back and forth of Joel trying to convince you to sell your properties to him in exchange for his utilities, you refusing and instead ganging up with Ellie to buy up most of the board, before she turned on you as well. 

“Told ya,” Joel smirks, nudging you with his elbow, “Should’a sold your blues to me, then we’d be the winners.” 

“Joel,” You chuckle, as you take the paper money from Ellie to put back in the box, “You offered me two utilities for my two blues, it was never going to happen.” 

“Hey, I offered to throw in a kiss as well,” He winks at you, to which you swat his arm, “Usually wins you over.” 

“You two a fucking gross sometimes,” Ellie laughs, “I’m going to bed, don’t stay up too long, oldies.” 

She’s out of the backdoor in a flash, leaving you to finish clearing up the game and stack it away with the others, Joel is standing from the couch at the same time, “Nightcap?” He asks. 

“Always,” You smile over your shoulder, “That’s what us old people do, right? Drink whiskey to help us sleep.” 

He chuckles as he pulls the bottle from the cupboard. This had become an almost nightly routine now, you’d have a drink or two, cuddle up until you could feel your eyes get heavy and then go home to your empty house, your empty bed. But it didn’t ever feel that lonely anymore. Sure, sometimes you’d turn over and look at the empty side of the bed and wish someone was there, but more often than not it was Joel’s form you’d imagine there at night, not Mark, although he did still make his appearances. 

The more you’d talked to Joel about him, the more comfortable you’d become with the idea that Mark would actually have really fucking liked Joel. Mark and Tommy had been close friends, and although Joel was certainly different to Tommy in many ways, you knew that if Joel had just been a friend, if Mark had continued to stay alive and healthy, they’d have been a firm trio of friends. 

“You ever think you’d spend the rest of your days living out the apocalypse playing monopoly?” You ask as Joel hands you your glass, “Because if you’d have told me twenty years ago that’s what I’d be doing, I’d have laughed.” 

He lets out a groan as he sits back down, opening his arm for you to curl up into his side like you usually do, “It does seem a bit domestic, doesn’t it?” He chuckles, taking a sip from his glass, “Nice though, especially when I got a pretty lady to cuddle up to as well.” 

“You flirt,” You chuckle, sipping your own drink, “Mark would have hated evenings like this though.” 

“Hmmm?” Joel hums, “Why’s that?” 

“Just not his style,” You shrug, “Liked his evenings quiet, we’d eat dinner and read, and he’d be in bed as soon as it was dark.” 

“You liked that?” Joel asks, hand running light touches up and down your arm. 

“I didn’t mind it,” You answer honestly, “After years of bouncing from place to place, never knowing when you were going to have to move on or when you might die, it was nice to just be still and quiet I guess.” 

“But you prefer getting your ass beat by a fifteen-year-old at monopoly?” He chuckles. 

“I wouldn’t say prefer,” You laugh along, “It’s just a nice change.” 

The whiskey, and the dying flames of the fire, are warming your bones. You finish the last of the whiskey and put the glass on the coffee table, settling back into Joel’s side, “You want a top up?” He asks, setting his own half-finished glass down. 

You look up at him, “Not right now, but I’d like a kiss if you don’t mind?” 

“Oh sweet pea, I never mind.” He grins, leaning down to capture your lips with his own. 

There’s something in the air tonight that makes you bold as brass. You push yourself up a little so Joel isn’t craning his neck down to you so much, one of your hands coming to rest on his shoulder to steady yourself as you move to loom over him. You pull your lips from him just enough to settle yourself into a more comfortable position before they’re back together, this time, your tongue running along his bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open for you. 

You don’t think you’re ever going to get tired of the way this man kisses you. Every time it’s like he won’t ever get the chance again. His big hands are cupping your face, pulling you further down, pressing your mouths closer together. The taste of the whiskey on his tongue is always intoxicating, but tonight even more so. Before you can really register what you’re doing, you throw one leg over his hip so you’re straddling his lap. There’s still a fair amount of space between the two of you, you’re hovering as far above his lap as you can manage, but Joel’s hands are moving from your face, resting on the waistband of your jeans where they are on your hips. 

He lets out a quiet moan into your mouth which sends electric shocks down your spine to settle in your tummy and God, you want more. You let your own hands grip his broad shoulders and before you know it, those big hands of his are resting on the globes of your ass, gently palming them through the denim of your jeans. His touch is electric – his hands guiding you to settle further into his lap when you feel it. You sink down just far enough to feel the unmistakable bulge at the front of Joel’s jeans against your own aching core and jolts you. Makes you panic. How could you have possibly gotten this far without even thinking? It makes you want to be sick. 

You pull away from his mouth and rest your forehead on his, “I’m sorry,” You mumble, “I’m fucking sorry Joel.” 

“Hey,” He speaks, hands moving from your ass back to your face, “Look at me, sweet pea.” 

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own, as always, not a hint of anger or frustration on his face, just one of concern, one that he’s pushed you too far and made you uncomfortable, “Why is this so fucking hard for me?” You speak, mostly for yourself. 

“Because it’s a big deal,” He says simply, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, “You don’t have to be sorry about anythin’, it’s me actin’ like a damn teenager when I’ve got a pretty girl on my lap.” 

You extricate yourself from his lap, trying not to watch as he adjusts himself so his erection isn’t so prevalent in his jeans. Once he’s gotten himself more comfortable, he finishes off his whiskey before he lets out a yawn. It must be late, the game had gone on for hours and you know he’s got morning patrol tomorrow. 

“I’ll get outta your hair,” You mumble quietly, not quite sure why you’re the one feeling hurt now, “Know you’ve got an early morning.” 

“Hey,” He grips your arm as you try and stand, “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” 

“Thinkin’ I want ya to leave because we’re not having sex.” 

“I don’t think that at all.” You say, defensively. 

“Yes you do,” God why can he just always read you like this, “I’m not mad at you sweet pea, I will say it until I’m blue in the face, you take all the time you need,” He leans in as close to your ear as he possible can, “And when you’re ready, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ good to you, you won’t know your own name.” 

You gasp, giggling at his words. The longer you’d been staying with him like this, the filthier promises had been dropping from his lips. Never to pressure you, only to promise you exactly what you had in store when you felt able to give yourself to him. 

“Well,” You smile, giving his upper thigh a squeeze, “I’ll be sure to think of what that might entail when I get into bed later.” 

A smirk appears on his lips, “Only if you tell me all about it tomorrow.” 

It’s a few days later when you’re shutting up the library with Kate. She locks the door and hikes her bag higher on her shoulder, “You want to grab a drink at the bar?” She asks, “We haven’t been together in so long.” 

You know that Joel is on patrol right now and won’t be back until later, and a drink at the bar usually means a good hearty meal as well, which you would really enjoy against the backdrop of the cold evening air, so you gladly agree. You’d been a few times in the past weeks, mainly with Tommy and Maria accompanying you and Joel, and thankfully, no-one, including Vanessa, had made any comments like the first night, so you were more comfortable there now. 

You sit together with Kate, sipping a glass of whiskey and enjoying bowls of venison stew, watching as Ellie sits with a group of kids doing the same, but with glasses of juice instead. Joel had confided in you months ago that he was worried about her fitting in, that she’d struggled to make friends with people her own age, but since she’d started at the school, things had been better. She was attached to Dina and Cat by the hip most of the time, and it was nice to know she was able to enjoy being a kid for once. 

“So, how are things going with your man?” Kate teases, dropping her spoon into her empty bowl. 

“They’re okay,” You answer honestly, “Slow going, but that’s what I need.” 

“I have to say, in the past few weeks you’re almost your old self.” 

“Yeah, I feel a lot better to be honest,” You admit, “Like, I still struggle sometimes, but Belinda moved me to one appointment a month and said she thinks I’m finally on the road to a proper recovery.” 

“Good,” She smiles, clinking her glass to yours, “And it’s not all him either,” She adds, “Sure he’s rugged and handsome, but don’t let anyone think we’re giving him all the credit for making you happy, you’ve done this all by yourself, you hear me?” 

“I hear you,” You smile, taking a sip of your whiskey. 

“Now hurry up,” She says, slamming her drink back, “I’ve got a date with Pride and Prejudice.” 

You roll your eyes but knock back your own drink all the same, “You’ve read it at least six times since I’ve known you,” You stand, gathering your things, “And you’d still rather read it than spend time with me?” 

“Sorry babes,” She chuckles, “But Mr Darcy wins every time.”

As you’re leaving The Tipsy Bison, you’re suddenly all too aware that there’s hell of a commotion going on in the street. The main gates are flung open, and people are shouting and screaming to each other as horses gallop in through the gates. Then, you can see Tommy. He’s dragging someone back through the gates. Then, you realise who it is and all the colour drains from your face. He’s dragging Joel and he’s covered in fucking blood. You bend over and try to not throw up. You can feel Kate at your side, trying to pull you up to standing again, you let her, but you can feel your knees start to buckle as you try and get down the steps and onto the street. 

Maria is running towards you; you can see panic written on her face. Kate lets you go for a moment and as you’re running towards Tommy, you tumble down onto the ground, palms hitting the dirt and gravel. In any other circumstance you’d probably register the pain of landing on your knees at your age, but Maria is on the floor in front of you, bringing your face to the crook of her shoulder to shield you from whatever is going on. 

“Joel… oh my god.” Is all you can mumble, just his name over and over again into Maria’s shoulder. 

Then, you wonder what the fuck you’re doing on the floor. You look up and Tommy is coming towards you, him and another man dragging Joel, who looks to be just holding on to consciousness. You try and push yourself up, but Maria is trying to keep you grounded. 

“Let go of me!” You scream, trying to tear Maria’s arms off you, “I have to go with him!” 

“Darling, calm down.” She tries to soothe. 

“No!” Another roar from your lungs, “Let me see him!” 

You’re crying now, tears streaming down your face. You have to be near him. You have to know he’s okay. You can’t do this again, you can’t lose someone else, not like this. You’re trying to suck in breath through your mouth, but you just end up choking on the air as you continue to fight to get away, to follow behind Tommy who has rushed past you. You can see drops of blood on the ground, drop of Joel’s blood, and this is what finally causes you to throw up. His blood, on the floor, that means it’s bad. 

You can feel someone else behind you trying to pull you up as Maria helps from the front, trying to get you away from the mess you’ve made from emptying your stomach on the floor. You fall into Maria’s arms again when she wraps them around you, running a hand over your hair to try and calm you down, whispering that it’s going to be okay and that you can see him soon. 

Then, in your mind, your brain goes straight to Ellie. You’re whipping around, about to run back into the bar to get her, but when you do, you realise she’s the person who helped get you up off floor. 

“Oh my God,” You breathe, pulling her into a hug of her own, “Ellie.” 

She wraps her arms around your middle, squeezing you just as hard as you’re squeezing her before you pull away and cup her face in your hands. Her face is just as distraught as you must imagine yours is, although she’s not crying, just has a glazed look in her eye that breaks your heart even more. You don’t need to ask each other whether you’re okay. You both know the answer. You just pull back into each other and hug even tighter, until Maria is touching your lower back. 

“Let’s go to the hospital,” She says, leading you both down the street, following the very obvious trail of blood, “Tommy can tell us what the fuck is going on, if nothing else.” 

As you’re walking, you’re remembering the last time you made this trip to the hospital. Maria was guiding you then, you were crying then, knowing it was going to be the last time you got to see Mark. The last time you’d get to hold his hand. Watch the slow rise-and-fall of his chest. He was unconscious. He didn’t know you were there. He had no idea you kept hold of his hand right to the very end. 

Your feet are carrying you at this point. You don’t feel like you’re inside your body at all, don’t feel at all human. The only thing anchoring you to the real world is Ellie’s hand clutched in your own and Maria’s guiding arm around your waist. 

When you step through the doors of the hospital it’s a flurry. It looks as though Joel wasn’t the only one to get injured, although most of the other men in the waiting room look mainly walking wounded and not pouring blood out onto the ground. A nurse is tending to them as best she can, and then Tommy is bursting through the doors at the end of the hall, own clothes covered in blood, but looking like he might have gotten off scott-free, injury wise. 

“What the fucking hell happened out there?!” Maria is demanding as she lets go of your briefly to hug her husband. 

“It was a fuckin’ ambush,” Tommy spits, noticing Ellie and you stood behind her, shedding his jacket and throwing it to the side so you don’t have to look at the blood, “A whole fuckin’ group of ‘em, waiting us out at the lodge,” He lets Maria go, “Fuckin’ bastard’s took us by surprise, started firin’ all over the place, it was fuckin’ carnage,” He’s checking on Ellie next, “Thought we got ‘em all, and then outta fuckin’ nowhere this one guy manages to take a perfect shot at Joel, right through the shoulder.” 

“Can we…” You trail off as he takes you in an embrace, “Can we see him?” 

He pulls away, looking at you with eyes that says he’s sorry, and you’re not sure if he’s saying sorry because you can’t or because Joel might be dead. It makes your bottom lip wobble and more tears to spring in your eyes. 

“They’re tryin’ to dig a bullet outta his shoulder, sweetheart,” He says, “As soon as he’s comfortable we’ll let you in, alright?” 

You nod and let him, and Maria lead you and Ellie to a room that’s empty down the hall. Maria stays sat with you whilst Tommy goes to find something warm to drink, bringing back a flask of coffee that you don’t even bother to ask where he found it. He set a mug in your hands, giving Ellie some water instead, and that’s how you sit for what feels like hours. The room is mostly silent, save for the few times your emotions threaten to get the better of you and you have to take big, deep breaths to keep yourself in control. Your hand stays firmly clutched to Ellie’s; you both take turns rubbing your thumbs over each other’s hands to keep each other calm. 

You don’t know how much time has passed, but a doctor is opening the door. He’s got a mask over his mouth, but no gloves on, scrubs with splatters of blood on them. Everyone in the room sits up in their chairs, waiting for the axe to drop, “He’s fine,” There’s a collective sigh of relief, “He’s lucky the bullet got lodged, we managed to pull it out and stitch him up fine, he’s just a little tired from the blood loss,” You finally let out your own breath that you’d been holding in, “He can have visitors, but one at a time.” 

You turn to Ellie, “You go first,” You say, pulling her hand for her to stand up, “He’ll want to see you.” 

She stands but doesn’t leave to follow the doctor until she’s bent down to give you a bone crushing hug. Tommy follows her out soon after, mumbling something about needing to check on the other guys, which leaves you and Maria alone. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumble, suddenly all too embarrassed at your outburst in the street. 

“What on earth do you have to be sorry for?” 

“All that,” You gesture wildly with your hand, “Out there.” 

She gets up from her chair and kneels in front of you, comforting hands on your knees, “Don’t be so silly,” She soothes, “Even I was fucking scared by it all, I know how much he means to you, so you don’t need to be sorry, ever, you understand?”

“I just feel so stupid,” You can feel your tears starting again, “It was just a single bullet wound, why did I act like it was the end of the world?” 

“Because none of us knew that?” She offers, “He was almost unconscious girl, there was blood everywhere.” 

“I thought….” You trail off, not wanting to admit what’s on the tip of your tongue. 

“You thought you were going to lose him too?” 

All you do is nod, letting a tear trickle down your face. Maria’s cold hands come up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears, “That man is a stubborn son-of-a-bitch,” She soothes, “Gonna take a lot more than a single bullet to tear him away from you.” 

Maria is just lifting herself from t he floor when Ellie comes back into the room, Tommy behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders, “I’m gonna take Ellie home, but he wanted to see you.” He’s motioning to you. 

“Will you be alright on your own?” You ask to Ellie, it’s a stupid question, because she’s probably one of the most self-sufficient fifteen year old’s you’ve ever met, but you want her to know that she has you if she needs you. 

“I think I’ll probably just crash,” She shrugs, clearly still reeling herself from what happened, “I know where to find you tomorrow if I need you.” 

You give her one last hug before Tommy is leading her away down the hall, pointing through the doors at where you needed to go. 

When you push open the door to his room, Joel is sat, propped up in bed with his shoulder wrapped up in what has to have been almost all the communes supply of bandages. His face is pale, and you can tell he’s in pain, so you let the door close behind you and stand right there, waiting for him to invite you closer. His shirt is ripped, where the doctor obviously didn’t want to waste time trying to get him out of it in a dignified manner, and there’s blood covering the material and his jeans have a fair splattering of it as well. 

“It looks worse than it is, I promise,” He speaks softly, motioning for you to come and sit on the chair next to his bed, “I’m sorry I scared you.” 

You shake your head as you take a seat, shuffling the chair closer to the bed, “Don’t be silly,” You respond, “You were bleeding quite profusely, you didn’t need to worry about me.” 

He offers you his hand, led on the bed, palm upturned, which you take, wrapping your own hand around his, giving it a squeeze, just to make sure he is really still here, “Are you okay?” He asks, squeezing you hand back. 

“Joel, please,” You sigh, “Don’t ask about me when you just got shot.” 

“Well, I know I’m okay, and now you know I’m okay, so I’m asking you, sweet pea, are you okay?” 

“I was so scared Joel,” You whimper, lip trembling, “I thought- oh god – that I might lose you as well.” 

He releases your hand, only to brush the tears from your face before he’s gripping it again, “You listen to me,” He speaks, you look at him, “I have been shot at more times than I remember, it’s going to take hell of a lot more than a bullet to take me away from you, do you understand me?” 

You nod, using. Your own free hand to wipe away more tears that have fallen from your eyes, “Can I hug you?” 

“Promise to watch out for my shoulder?” He teases, you nod with a small smile, “Then I’d love a hug.” 

You stand from the chair, leaning over to wrap your arms around his neck. Joel sits forward just a touch to let your arms snake around him, before his good arm is clutching around you and pulling you down. You let your head drop to the crook of his neck, where you turn and press a kiss to his skin, breathe in his scent, take him all in. 

It’s in this moment that you realise you might just have the capacity to love this man. This man who has done nothing but be kind to you. This man who has been so patient and soft and understanding at every marker of whatever this relationship was. This man who kissed you like his life depended on it, clearly capable of such extreme violence that would have kept him alive, but never once showing you that side of him. You can’t say it, not yet it’s too fast, but the panic you had felt at the prospect of losing him meant you knew exactly who he was to you. You could love Joel Miller, you wanted so desperately to love Joel Miller. You just prayed the world would give you enough time together to do it.

Joel Miller Taglist:  @winwin70@jessie8605@trulybetty@amanitacowboy@morning-star-joy@tieronecrush@leeeesahhh@babeincolor@beee-haw@kirsteng42@mirandablue1@sixxslut@impala1967dwinchester@flash2412@gimmebackmysoul@kelp-dreaming@gracie7209@voteforpedro09@brittmb115@karokaroxx@amb11@heartfairy @grumpy-the-tired @Lillilotus @doctorstatic@morallyinept@southernbe@elissaa@pop-sugar102@u-luciferssatanicdaughter@alyhull@purplerain44@harryleatherfit@lovely-ateez@emilianamason @bootyliciousposts @lorilane33@casa-boiardi@cupofjoel @dinsdjrn @tightjeansjavi @cavillscurls @darkroastjoel @morning-star-joy

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[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

TRIGGER WARNING: THIS CHAPTER DESCRIBES SELF HARM AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello angels, thank you for all your kind words and messages, you dont know what they mean to me. Just wanted to do a TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter for SH and suicidal thoughts. Please do not read this if it may trigger you. <3 Please know that you are not alone, and that if you need help there are people who can help xo

Chapter 33: A Debt

The next time the maids came to your chambers, you hid the cane away, stashing it behind the heavy wood of your wardrobe out of sight.

You did not know if they would take it from you, or report you having it, but you were not to take any chances for if it was a sign from an ally, you would not have the vipers nest turn itself inside out in search of the person aiding you.

Four days had passed, and in those four days you used the cane all day, every day, determined to strengthen yourself. And strengthen yourself you did, though at a cost.

Every evening after your hours of pacing, excruciating pain would rip through your side, and every time you thought of resting, that word would appear in your head. 

Dracarys.

You would not stop.

The clunk of the cane on the floors helped distract you from the cries from outside of your chambers. As the sun rose and fell, so did the sobs and screams of Princess Helaena.

The Princess was so stricken with grief that she had not stopped. If being imprisoned in your chambers did not drive you mad, her cries certainly would. 

You did not know how much longer Helaena could wail the way she did, before her lungs or voice would give out. Her voice cracked and broke as she cried, and each day you found the sound whittle deeper and deeper into your composure. 

Looking into the fireplace, you watched as the flames flickered and swayed, dancing with each other as they devoured the logs within.

An icy feeling poured down your back.

The sobs outside had stopped, but you could still hear crying. 

The sorrowful weeping was coming from within your chambers.

You spun from where you sat, desperately seeking out the noise in the room, looking for your aunt and where she may be hiding. 

“Helaena?” You called into the room, eyes searching about.

You pushed yourself up with your cane, and began to hobble through the room, eyes darting about desperately.

No response came. How did she get in here?

As you walked deeper into your chambers, nearing the sleeping area, you spotted a shadow.

In the corner of the room stood a small dark figure, its back turned to you, light barely reaching it. You took cautious steps towards the crying person, head stretching to try and catch a glimpse of who it was. 

As you got closer, the figure became more recognisable.

Atop its head was a small mop of brown hair, wet from rain. 

The young boy shivered as his back was turned to you, drops of water now audible in the space as they hit the stone floor below. Of each time he had been with you, not once had he cried.

You blinked, tears forming in your eyes. What had you done wrong? What has happened? Your heart raced rapidly up your throat, as you felt dread rear its ugly head within you.

“Lucerys?” You shakily whispered.

A small sob escaped your lips as you got closer. He was still in his robes that he wore to Storm’s End, still the same robes as he wore every time you saw him, but somehow tonight was worse than ever.

You wondered if you ever told him how handsome he looked that day.

Upon his robes, you could see small small stains of blood around his body, in pockets. Like he had been pierced by something, though the robes were not torn.

The small boy continued to cry, not facing you.

You inched closer, wary of the image of your brother in front of you. Why was he so loud? Why was he crying? Had you gone to madness like your aunt?

The room was uncomfortably still.

All that could be heard inside the chambers was the dripping of water, and Lucerys’ small cries as your cane echoed on the floor with every shaky step you took towards him.

Could a ghost cause you harm? Was his presence just in your head, or was he a spectre that was not conjured up by your grief but here by his own design, or the Gods?

Could you reach out to hold him?

Could he reach out to hold you?

You stood behind him, watching his shoulders shake as he cried. Hands down by his side as he stood in the corner not facing you, back stiff.

“Luc?” You tearily whispered, hand reaching out to touch him.

Please Gods, let me hold him again.

A large boom broke through your chambers. You sharply spun around, looking for the source. Outside of your windows a storm had begun to roll in, lightning flashing through the space. 

You turned back to reach out for Lucerys, but he was gone. 

A wave rose inside and then crashed fiercely atop you.

An agonised sob ripped through your lips.

Tears flowed freely down your cheeks.

You shook your head roughly. You had told yourself no more tears. But no matter how hard you tried to stop them, they still came.

Your head darted about the room in search of him, finding the space to be empty. You cried loudly, anger coursing through you as you lifted your cane to smash against the mirror on the wardrobe, the broken shards spraying across the floor, storm raging loudly outside.

How many more times would he be taken from you?

The cane was hurled across the room, your side twinging from the movement as your hand came to swipe the candles from the table, creamy wax spilling across the floor, hardening against the cool stone tiles.

You cried as you destroyed the room, each crack of thunder pushing the image of Lucerys’ death into your mind. Each booming grumble causing fear to pull at your heart.

It was just like the day you both fell.

With each boom came the jaws from beneath the clouds.

With each rumble came the laughter of your uncle.

With every strike of lightning, you saw Arrax falling beneath you into the clouds. You felt the room begin to suffocate you, becoming smaller, as you struggled to suck in desperate breaths.

Collapsing on the floor you heaved, clawing at your chest as you cried, the lightning illuminating shadows in your room. You cried, and cried until you felt yourself becoming hysterical.

“Y/n.”

Standing beside you was Lucerys.

Wet, and cold and dead.

You sucked in a shaky sob as you looked at him. His cheeks were rosy despite being soaked. Lucerys gazed down at you with a sad expression. His cherubic features making your heart clench.

“Y/n.” He said again, softer. You felt your lips shake as you looked at him, a whole new wave of tears forming.

“Dracarys, y/n.” He uttered, looking at you intently.

You gasped a cry as he spoke, hiccuping as you looked at the dead boy in front of you.

“Dracarys.” He said again.

The tears stopped as you panted, rage slowly replacing grief. 

You breathed heavy, watching him as he watched you. His presence suddenly calming you as you took deep breaths. In and out.

In and out. 

Dracarys.

The young boy slowly turned his head away from you, looking at the shards of mirror on the floor. Light from the storm outside illuminating the pieces with every crack of the storm.

You blinked at the broken shards as you slowly pulled yourself up, walking towards them.

As you stared at the pieces of mirror below you, your reflection looked back up at you. Wet tracks ran down your cheeks, your hair wild and untamed, eyes red and raw.

You watched yourself breath in the reflection, bolts of lightning illuminating you for seconds before the low candle light would replace it. 

TW:

How easy it would be to push the shards against the soft skin of your arm and slowly pull the blade down, to watch the flesh pull apart from itself as the blood would spill forth. To let your life ooze from you slowly. To finally join your brother.

To finally not be alone.

You bent at an awkward angle, picking up a shattered piece, holding it delicately in your palm. The shard was long and twisted, the tip sharp and pointy.

You watched your reflection in the shard as you breathed deeply. 

“Y/n.”

You looked up. 

Lucerys was in front of a large painting beside your bed, watching you. His small hand coming up to touch the art as he looked at you. You walked to him slowly, careful around the broken shards beneath you. 

His face was stern.

“Dracarys.” The young boy said again.

You breathed heavily as you looked at him, hand curling around the shard roughly, its sharp edges stinging your palm. 

No. You would not do their job for them. You would not give them the satisfaction. If they wanted you dead, it would be by their hand, and not yours.

"They will pay for what they did to you. I promise."

Your free hand reached out to touch him, fingertips coming to his face. Lucerys closed his eyes, your palm coming to move through him.

Then suddenly he was gone.

The young boy that had been standing in front of you was no longer there. His small face was nowhere to be seen, his drenched robes creating puddles beneath him on the floor now gone, and the stone dry. 

An angry cry ripped through your throat as you slapped your fist against the wall he had been standing by. 

Thud. 

The noise that came from the impact was dull and hollow. Your head tilted, attention coming to the wall in front of you. The hand holding the mirror tightened its grip, small drops of blood running down the shard and onto the floor, replacing the dripping of Lucerys’ robes in your ears as the storm raged behind you. 

You spread your hand against the painting, your palm feeling the rough grooves of the art as you caressed it. How many years had you looked at this art growing up? How many times had your hands been where they are now?

It felt almost like yesterday when you-

Your mind raced quickly as you stared.

How could you have forgotten?

How long had you spent moping in your chambers, forgetting the one way out.

The memory of your father flicked across your mind, of how he had snuck into your mothers chambers and spooked you both, how your mother had warned you to not use the passageways or tell anyone of them, lest you reveal their secret.

You thought of your own adventures through the passages with your uncles and brothers, sneaking through playing a game of hide and go seek.

How many times over the years of your upbringing had you been in these very walls?

Bracing your palm against the painting you pushed your body against it, only hearing the hollow thud of your body knocking on the wood. Angrily you pushed again, ramming your shoulder into it, the shard slipping slightly in your grip, slicing your fingers. 

The wall inched slightly away.

This could work.

You huffed a laugh in disbelief before ramming your body into it again. The wall moved another inch, revealing a slither of darkness behind it. 

You pulled away taking a deep breath before you hurled yourself at the painting once more, its rusty hinges groaning in the effort as you stumbled through into the darkness.

You gulped in breaths, as pain clawed its way through your side, blinking as you tried to see through the pitch black darkness of the passage. 

As your eyes adjusted, you inhaled deeply, collecting your bearings. The air smelt dusty and dry, the ground beneath you dirty from the years of abandonment and disuse. You tentatively reached out a hand, placing it against the rough stone beside you before moving forward. 

Stumbling through the dark, your eyes only just seeing the passage before you as you took twists and turns through the keep, following your instincts, as your feet led the way.

The way you had been many times before.

The further you walked, the more your pace increased until you were briskly walking through the dark, ignoring the pain in your side and your breathless gasps.

You ran your fingertips against the stone roughly whilst the other hand continued to grip the shard of mirror, a trail of blood following you in its wake.

And though you had been in these walls many times, and knew of their secrecy, you were still anxious of being found.

You did not know who or what lurked in the walls anymore.

Your heart was beating so hard in your chest, you could hear your pulse in your ears over the sound of the storm outside, and the shuffling of your steps.

How many more paces until you reached the exit point? If you could ju-

Suddenly your feet stopped, and your chest heaved.

You moved your hand desperately as your fingers felt against the wall. You had found something. Your fingers traced the groove delicately. Rubbing against the indentation, mind reeling.

Beneath the tips of your fingers was a small and crooked X that had been roughly carved into the stone. You let your fingertips trace over it again and again, a bittersweet scoff escaping your lips.

Aemond had carved that X into the stone as a child for you one day after he found you, scared and alone in the passage, seemingly taken a wrong turn and ending up in an area of the Keep you were unfamiliar with.

Your uncle had pulled the blade he always had with him out from its sheath, and carved into the stone beside you as you watched on.

He had told you that should you ever lose your way, that the X should lead you to safety.

You sniffed. 

And lead you, it did.

You thrust your other hand out to the side, the back of it roughly feeling against the stone, shard of mirror still firmly in your fist. You walked slowly as you dragged the back of your hand against the stone, its rough surface scraping against the thin skin, searching for a break in the wall. 

You walked for ten paces until you found it. 

The back of your hand bumped roughly against a ridge. You flicked out your empty hand to feel it, finding the groove of the entrance as you traced your fingertips up and down, in search of something.

Until you found the dip. 

Curling your fingers underneath you pulled, feeling the wall budge towards you. You did it again, softer this time, wary of alerting anyone on the other side to your presence. The wall shifted quietly towards you.

You waited, listening for movement behind the passage door, ear towards the crack in the opening. Straining to hear an alert of your presence.

You heard no sound from within.

You pulled the heavy door towards you as it slowly slid open, a slither of light breaking through, causing you to blink rapidly at the brightness as your eyes adjusted.

You paused, and waited again.

Nothing. 

Pulling the door towards you further, your heart raced in your chest, blood trickling from your hand down your arm as the shard of mirror dug deeper into your palm.

This was it.

You peered into the space, a low light coming from inside. There was little to no candles lit and the fireplace was gently burning in the far end of the room, which illuminated part of the darkness. 

Stepping through the door, you looked around the chambers.

Nothing but green furnishings and dark woods were inside. There was nothing to be heard but the sounds of the crackling fire, the storm outside, and your shattered breaths. 

Taking slow steps, you darted your eyes around the chambers until you found it. 

There, to your right was a large canopied bed, deep green sheets messily strung about it.

Beside the bed sat a lone candle that flickered softly, illuminating the sleeping figure. An open book lay on their chest, sleep seemingly stealing them away from their nightly reading.

Their chest rose and fell gently as you crept over to them, shard still firmly grasped in your hand. 

That wave came again and pulled you with it.

You blinked.

Aemond lay sound asleep in his bed, unaware of your presence in his chambers.

Silver hair lay gently on a pillow like a halo, eyepatch missing from his face. As you observed him, your fist tightened around the shard, blood seeping from the wound heavily now, as it dripped onto the floor beside the bed.

He looked gentle like this.

His face was no longer hard with anger, there was no sneer or smirk on his soft lips, there was just his face.

Nothing more. Nothing less. 

He looked handsome.

You watched Aemond sleep as the wave pulled higher inside of you and the fire burned hot.

Is this what it felt like when he watched you sleep?

Is this what it felt like when he hurt you?

Is this how he felt when he took your brother's life?

When he called you all bastards?

When he stole your cousin's dragon?

When he defiled you?

That fire bubbled up inside you, consuming your every being as you continued to stare at your uncle's sleeping form.

How could he sleep so soundly?

How could he live with himself after what he has done?

So many questions swirled in your mind, as that all encompassing anger and grief consumed you, until suddenly you heard it. The smallest whisper in the back of your mind, that tiny voice echoing in your head.

Your mouth opened as you took a rough breath.

Dracarys.

Your chest rose and fell as you breathed angrily looking down at him.

You blinked again, capturing the image of him like this to your memory. The boy you grew up with was not this man. The boy who was kind, was no longer here.

This man was a stranger to you.

This man was a murderer.

A Kinslayer. A brute, ill-made, unkind, a savage, second son.

He took Lucerys from you.

He took Lucerys.

You only wished your father was here to watch. And your mother. And Jacaerys. And all of Kings Landing. If you were swift enough, perhaps you could take a trophy of some sort. A souvenir from your time in the Keep.

Perhaps you would take his eye after all.

As you watched your uncle sleep, observing the rise and fall of his chest, the fire within burnt at you roughly, licking at your face, until you felt yourself sneering at the man, your chest heaving in angry breaths until you felt yourself become nothing but rage.

There were no thoughts anymore. Only that burning hot fire. You knew now.

Your fist tightened on the shard as you looked at Aemond, arm raising above you with the sharp tip pointing down at him. 

A loud bang crashed through the room.

The chambers doors swung open violently, hitting the wall behind them as Ser Criston Cole burst into the space, looking around wildly in search of something.

In search of you.

Brown eyes caught yours.

Do it now. 

You looked back down at Aemond who started to wake, the sound of the Queen’s knight racing towards you. Aemond’s eye opened and looked up at you in confusion, sleep still heavy in his face, as your arm swung down towards him.

The One-Eyed Prince’s arm came up in reflex knocking your hand away from its intended course; his throat.

Despite his defence, the sharp shard came down still with the force of your body, its point slicing through the skin between the top of his shoulder and neck, ripping through his flesh. 

The feeling of stabbing someone is a strange thing. The force needed is not as much as you would think, and if the blade is good enough, or in this case a shard of mirror, then the sharpness of the edge does most of the work.

It reminded you of when there was Lucerys' name day celebrations. There was a hunt. As there always was. And you had gone hunting. As you always did. And you had hunted.

The shard of mirror entered Aemond the same way that your blade had entered the deer.

Your wild gaze caught the One-Eyed Princes.

Was that fear?

A large weight knocked into you and suddenly you were on the floor.

The world spun as you wheezed, trying to pull the air back into your lungs. You gasped a laugh to yourself, disorientated as a blooming pain settled in the back of your head, side burning in protest. 

The sound of a sword unsheathing scraped above you.

“Stop, do not kill her.” Aemond grunted quickly.

You tried to move as two arms grasped each of yours, hauling you roughly from the ground, your head spinning making you nauseous and your side ache with the roughness of the movement. 

Two guards held your arms restrained as Ser Cole stood before you, sword drawn, the tip pointed under your chin. You grinned playfully at the Dornish man.

“There he is,” You slurred, tongue heavy, “the Queen’s lapdog.”

Criston’s face twitched as he straightened himself, sword coming to almost touch the underside of your chin. You lifted your head higher, wobbling slightly as you smiled wider.

Here was a man that had once been devoted to your mother, following her around like a love sick puppy. 

Now, he had a new master.

“Take her to the dungeons.” Came Prince Aemond’s voice from beside the bed.

Lazily dropping your head to the side, you saw your uncle. He sat on the edge of the bed as he clutched at his shoulder, thick rivulets of blood oozing from beneath his fingers as he grasped at his wound.

Got you.

All you felt, was all encompassing joy as you watched his face twist in pain, white shirt stained red from his blood. You laughed as you looked at him.

How pathetically small he seemed to be now.

His face looked the same as it did the night when his eye was taken. A small powerless boy, bested by those who were born for greatness, unlike the second son.

You grinned cruelly at him whilst slowly being dragged out of his chambers by his guards, their rough hands jerking you away from him.

He watched you with his lone eye, the other was empty.

It was not until that moment that you had realised the Kinslayer did not have his sapphire orb inside of his empty socket. The place in which it usually sat was empty. A large gaping hole, dark and scarred starred back at you.

He looked almost human.

Your feet dragged underneath you as you were pulled further and further away from him, neck craned backwards so that you could watch him as you left.

“I told you uncle,” You sang across the room to him, “You really should have killed me.” 

You watched as he blinked at you, and then you began to laugh.

A loud piercing sound as Ser Criston Cole called out for the Maesters. Your father would be so proud of you.

You would avenge Lucerys, even if it was the last thing you would do.

Your laughter echoed through the chambers, as it became shrill and almost manic. Aemond's face hardened as he watched you laugh at his expense.

"Bested by a bastard once again, uncle!" You called out to him.

His jaw set into a hard line, and the soft face that he had when sleeping, was now back to his roughened glare.

"You kinslaying second son." You growled, before smiling at him giggling again.

Ser Criston Cole watched as the knights began to haul you faster out of the injured Prince's chambers. The guard's hands tightened roughly against your arms.

"Ao enkagon iā gēlȳn." (You owe a debt.) You yelled across the room, parroting his words he had called across the skies to Lucerys.

He blinked. Sneer pulled at his lips as his fingers dug into his wound.

Your laughter rose higher and higher, and with each breath you took, the more dizzy you became.

Feeling bruises form beneath their iron grip, you were hauled out of the chambers and dragged down into the dungeons below, feet barely being able to keep up with the guard's as you laughed and half sobbed. The pain in the back of your head blooming and your side burning in agony.

But it was all worth it.

Dracarys, echoed Lucerys.

Dracarys.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #hotd smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #dark!aemond #dark!fic #fic #series #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond #smoke fire and ash

[delusionalwriter02]

hellooo if it's ok for you can i ask for a one-shot with Dazai, reader finds Dazai crying because of Oda's death and they comfort him, thank you!!

Let the tears flow, soothe your heart

Dazai x GN! Reader / Angst and Comfort / One-Shot

a/n : I think sadness is the feeling that inspires me most so thank you very much for your request, I hope you like it. <3

It's late, the moon is still high in the sky when you open your eyes, a strange and unpleasant feeling clinging to your heart. Your hand taps lightly beside you, hoping to find your boyfriend, but the bed is cold. With difficulty, you get up and leave the comfort of the room.

As you walk down the dark hallway, you notice a small glow coming from the bathroom. You approach slowly, knocking twice on the wood.

-“Honey, is everything okay?” You say, holding back a yawn. -"Yes, go back to bed, I'm coming." And hearing his voice, all traces of sleep leave you. You recognize this tone, you have heard it a few times but it is the most recognizable. -"Can I come in ?" You ask, hand on the handle. Dazai doesn't answer you, so you enter.

And you were right, he's sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring into space, silent tears still falling. Dazai rarely cries and over very few things. Without a word, you crouch down in front of him, placing your hands on his knees.

"Let me be there for you, please." You say, in a low voice so as not to rush him. One wrong word and you know he would close in on himself.

Today is the anniversary of his best friend's death and the last thing you want to do is leave him alone in his sadness.

-"Oda always said I had a talent for attracting chaos. Looks like it caught up with him." Dazai finally said, not deviating his gaze from this invisible point. His hands come to rest on yours.

-"This wasn't your fault, my love. Oda made his own choices, and you did everything you could to help him." Dazai’s hands squeezed yours, tighter. "He was a true friend. But don't forget that he also believed in you. In the strength and goodness within you."

Dazai's shoulders slumped, and he took a deep breath, as if trying to compose himself. "I'll miss his lectures on morality and his sense of justice. The world feels a little dimmer without him." You place a kiss on each of his hands.

-"He may be gone, but his influence lives on in you and all those he touched. Honor his memory by continuing to be the person he believed you could be.

"I didn't think I'd have to face the world without him." His eyes find yours.

-"He was your anchor, your confidant. Losing someone like that leaves a void that's hard to fill. But I know that one day, you will find the strength necessary to ease this pain. I will always be by your side to help you to bear this emptiness." Dazai smiled, slightly.

-"Oda used to say that I'm like a stray dog, wandering through life. I guess he was the one who managed to keep me tethered.

-"Stray dogs find packs, love. And we're your pack. The whole agency is. Lean on us when you need to. Lean on me when you feel weak, when you feel like you need reinforcement, I'll be there." Daizai finally takes your hands in his, caressing your palm with his thumb. "Grief has its own timeline. Take your time to mourn, but don't forget that you have people who care about you, who want to help you through this. You're not alone anymore." You run a hand over his wet cheek, the tears have stopped.

You gently pass your arms around his neck, his head comes to rest on your chest, his arms surround your waist, holding you ever closer to him.

-"Life is a bitch sometimes." Dazai said, his voice barely perceptible. You laugh lightly.

-"Yes she is. But sometimes she offers us beautiful treasures." His face lifts from your stomach, you run your hands through his tangled hair.

-"Thank you for waking up. Thank you for waking me up from this nightmare.

"Always." You said, sealing your lips in a chaste kiss.

Thank you so much for your request!!

See you<3

#fanfic #fanfiction #request #bungou stray dogs #bsd #x reader #bsd dazai #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs dazai #dazai x reader #dazai osamu #dazai bsd #gn reader

[humanpurposes]

Just for a Moment, part iv

Tom Bennett has a habit of climbing through her bedroom window whenever he's in trouble // Main Masterlist

Tom Bennett x OFC

Warnings: 18+, mentions of war and death, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, Tom Bennett's daddy issues, death, mourning/grief

Words: 8100

A/n: This acts as a final part and an epilogue. Also available to read on AO3.

In early June, Lois Bennett knocks on the Wheelans’ front door. She has tears in her bright blue eyes and her hands are shaking.

“It’s our Tom,” she says, when Kitty has sat her down at the kitchen table and made her a cup of strong tea. “He’s missing.”

A hole tears itself in her chest.

His ship had been part of the evacuation at Dunkirk– a triumph, so the headlines say. But that’s the way of the world, she thinks, men lay down their lives, others have their lives taken from them by force, and all the while the press and the politicians declare each one a step towards peace.

“You think Churchill and Hitler give a flying fuck about peace?” her father says one night as he nurses a glass of whisky. “They want victory.”

Every night as she lies in bed, she imagines some new possibility. Tom could have run to safety, sought refuge in the town or gone elsewhere. Maybe he’s just biding his time, maybe he’s on his way back to her.

He can’t be dead. He just can’t be.

He promised he would come home to her.

Monday 2nd September, 1940

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to the sirens, that blunt, whirring, wailing noise that sparks a primal fear in her chest. Somehow she always wakes up before they go off, like her instincts can alert her of what’s coming just a second before the noise begins.

The baby starts to scream from the space beside her– since Lois has started working as an ambulance driver, she leaves Vera with them most nights. With shaking hands, Kitty takes her into her arms, keeping her close to her chest as she fixes a woolly hat over her head.

“I’m sorry darling, I know,” she says, pulling the hat over Vera’s ears. She keeps meaning to buy some earmuffs for her, but then, it’s not her baby.

It’s pitch black in the house, it has to be. No lights or candles allowed unless you want the Germans to drop a bomb on your house. Kitty keeps one hand on the wall as she finds the stairs, and hurries down to the kitchen. Mam and dad’s footsteps follow behind her.

They have a routine by now. Dad grabs a coleman and a box of matches, mam grabs a photo from the front room and a basket with bread and blackberry jam, and Kitty holds tight to Vera. Then they file out the back door, into the garden, down the ladder into the shelter. Dad shuts the door, lights the lamp, and finally they can all see each other. 

Then comes the waiting. Some nights dad sings The Fields of Athenry and Kitty joins in. Vera seems to love singing, her eyes go wide and she lays completely still against Kitty, hypnotised by the humming in her chest. 

After a few slices of bread to keep them going, dad lies along the bench and closes his eyes and mam takes Vera into her arms. “Get some rest, love,” she tells Kitty.

How can she? Beyond the shelter the world is nothing but uncertainty, sirens sounding, bombs booming, spotlights and distant fires cutting through the darkness. Only the morning will tell what the true damage is, once the sun starts to rise and the smoke and dust have settled. Houses and livelihoods will be left as rubble. More lives lost, people who didn’t sign up, people who couldn’t, people who thought they might at least be safe in their own homes.

She looks at the photograph mam always brings in from the house. It’s of the four of them, Eddie, Art, Stevie and Kitty, lined up in the front room before the eldest two Wheelans left for the continent, over a year ago now. Eddie and Art look handsome in their uniforms and Stevie is uncharacteristically glum. He hated that he didn’t sign up sooner, he said he didn’t want to look like the one being left behind.

They all came home after Dunkirk, a few precious weeks when the world felt normal again.

Only not quite.

Because she still spent every night alone, and Tom Bennett was still gone.

“Where’s Douglas?”

Kitty snaps her attention to mam, as dad starts to stir on the bench.

“Eh?” he grumbles, “he’ll be along now in a minute, I’m sure.”

They wait. 

And keep waiting.

The bombs dropping on Longsight are louder than they’ve ever been before. Closer than they’ve ever been before. Each thunderous crash rocks the ground and the walls of their shelter.

BOOM– the roof trembles.

BOOM– dust and dirt fall from above them.

“We’ll be alright, here,” dad says, beckoning Kitty to sit between the two of them. 

They huddle together. Kitty curls her knees into her chest like a child and leans into her father’s embrace. Mam has Vera on her lap and places a hand on Kitty’s knee.

BOOM– mam whimpers and Vera is crying again. Dad holds her tighter.

BOOM– Kitty reaches for one of Vera’s tiny hands, and she clutches tightly onto her finger.

Then a final, earsplitting BOOM. The bench jolts beneath them. Kitty clings to her family and squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for something awful to happen.

Only it doesn’t. The bombs become fainter.

They slowly pull away from each other, looking each other in the eyes and nodding, to make sure they’re all alright– as much as they can be.

When the all clear sounds, they make their way back into the house.

Glass litters the floor of the front room. The windows are shattered, so is the glass cabinet with mam’s best china, photographs are cracked. Anything that isn’t broken has been blown back by the force of a hit.

Through the tatters of the curtains and a haze of smoke, a fire burns out on the street. 

Dad calls her name as she runs for the front door and yanks it open, but she can’t bring herself to step past the threshold.

The feels the heat against her face, as number 27 has been reduced to a pile of burning rubble.

The AFS arrives in time to stop dad from digging through the remains in search of Douglas himself.

Everything that belongs to the Bennetts is crushed under brick or goes up in flames. 

It’s like losing Tom all over again. The house where he grew up, the kitchen where Josie used to feed the Bennett and Wheelan kids ginger beer and sandwiches, the bedroom that smelled of cigarette smoke, where he told her he loved her, exist only as memories.

She doesn’t go to bed that night– there are only a few hours until daylight anyway. She sweeps up the glass in the front room and the bedrooms while dad boards up the window frames. Hardly any light reaches inside the house, the air is still thick and hazy with lingering smoke, so they keep the back door open. It airs the place out, but lets in the cold too.

When Kitty answers the door in the morning, Lois’ back is facing her. She’s still in her uniform with her hair in a neat bun and a helmet in her hand. 

“Lois?”

She turns towards Kitty with her lips slightly parted in a passive expression. “Dad’s gone,” she mutters. And once she says it the vacancy melts into grief. “He’s gone,” she cries, “everything’s gone!”

Kitty leads her into the house, but there’s nowhere comfortable to sit. The front room is in tatters and the kitchen is a mess with everything they’ve managed to salvage piled onto the table and chairs. 

“Tea?” Kitty asks quietly, but she feels stupid for asking.

Lois leans against the wall and holds her face in her hand as she cries.

Kitty unsurely places a hand on Lois’ shoulder and tries to think of something to say, but all she can think of is “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

First her mam, then Harry, then Tom, now her dad. She must feel like her life is slipping away.

Mam appears from upstairs, dressed for the factory with Vera in her arms.

Kitty frowns as she hands the baby to her. Lois has lost her father and her home in one night, and her mother hardly looks phased.

“There’s still work to be done, Kitty,” she says, grabbing her coat before she leaves through the front door with her head and shoulders straight.

But this is just war. Men die in trenches and on beaches, bombs fall on cities, tragedy unfolds and they Keep Calm and Carry On.

Kitty carries Vera into the kitchen, but she doesn’t like the sound of her mother crying. Her little face goes red and twists before she makes a sound, then she’s crying too, burying her head into Kitty’s chest and clinging to her arms with those small, pudgy hands.

Lois doesn’t look up, like she can’t hear her daughter crying at all.

Sunday 29th September, 1940

Weeks go by. Douglas is interred with his wife, in the churchyard of St Jospeh’s. Kitty spends her days in the shop and her nights in the shelter, rocking Vera through the air raids, humming lullabies and muttering stories about her brave mam and her fearless uncle Tom.

The Wheelans never used to go to church every week, but mam insists now, anything for their family to be kept safe. As they head home, Kitty looks up the hill, to the gravestone she knows is marked Josie Bennett. She pictures Tom and Lois standing by the graveside at the funeral, twelve years ago now. It doesn’t feel that long ago they were all children.

She walks ahead of her parents– dad’s been having trouble with his knees and it slows him down. Her head is hung, she’s staring at her shoes, the same black pair of shoes she wears everywhere.

What’s she got to walk so fast for anyway? Their house doesn’t feel much like a home anymore. They at least have the windows fixed, but she tends to keep her curtains drawn, because where she used to look out to Tom’s bedroom window, there’s just empty space. 

What’s the point in rushing home to a house that isn’t safe? That’s ghostly and quiet? That has a bomb shelter instead of a garden? What’s the point in carrying on when surviving the night is something they have to hope for? When each day brings a possibility that Eddie, Art or Steive could be missing or dead? What’s the point in clinging onto hope if Tom is truly gone? What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?

Someone knocks frantically on one of the doors ahead, their door she realises. Her vision is blurry through tears, but she can make out the shape of a tall man, with dirty blond hair.

She blinks.

“Tom?”

His body collides into hers. He hugs her so tightly he crushes her chest but she doesn’t care. He could squeeze the life from her and she wouldn’t care, as long as she gets to hold him. Her hands find their way to grasp at his neck and his hair, pulling him closer and crying silently into his neck.

He doesn’t smell like cigarettes, which she finds unusual. He smells like dirt and sweat, and when he pulls away from her she realises he’s dressed in a khaki blazer, slacks that are too big for him and a mismatching grey shirt. 

“What happened–”

He looks frantic, stroking his hands over her hair and down to cup the sides of her face. “Kitty, I’m sorry, I know it’s been a mad few months but where are they, dad and Lois? Are they safe?”

He doesn’t know. How could he? Lois tried to send a letter. Where would it be now? Collecting dust or sitting at the bottom of a pile of unimportant paperwork in a naval office because there was nowhere for it to go. 

Her eyes well with tears all over again. His face is leaner, the lines of his jaw and cheeks more defined, the left side of his face littered with bruises and scars. She traces her fingers over his cheekbone, and down to the coarse, blond stubble along his jaw.

“Kitty,” he says, shortly, taking her hand away from his face. “Kitty, where are they? Tell me they’re okay.”

She glances over her shoulder. Mam and dad are approaching them now. Their faces mirror each other, confused, horrified, sympathetic.

“Come on,” she mutters, taking Tom’s hand and dragging him with her as she walks solemnly up Slade Grove. 

They stayed joined at the hip as they walk, Kitty curling slightly into his arm, their legs brushing with every stride, bumping into each other and pulling themselves back in.

His hand is warm and his grip is firm, but she can’t stop herself from shivering. As much as she wants to gaze up at him, melt into his embrace again, kiss every inch of his face, she can’t help but feel guilty. He doesn’t ask any more questions, or so much as speak a word, but the concern is written all over him, the clenched jaw and the stiff shoulders that don’t sway as he walks. 

She won’t be the one to tell him, she can’t be.

Lois has been living in a boarding house with Connie since the bomb hit. Mam had offered her a place at their house, but Lois wouldn’t take it. Luckily the house isn’t too far away, and when Lois opens the door, she’s utterly stunned.

Kitty waits outside, with her hands behind her back, leaning against the brick wall. Now her hands and her skin feel cold, so she tugs at her coat, keeping it tight around her body to keep out the autumn chill.

For a few moments she wonders if she hasn’t just made the whole thing up; Tom, waiting outside her door, running into her arms and vanishing again. She rubs her fingertips together. She had felt him as she feels her own skin now, she’s sure of it, the scars, the stubble, the hair on the back of his hand. 

Tom Bennett, her Tom Bennett, though not quite the same man he was, before whatever happened at Dunkirk, before the war, when his place in her life was vague but at least it was consistent. She knows things will be different again when he comes out of that house.

She hears raised voices through the door, the unmistakable, raspy bass of Tom’s anger. Lois shouts back. Then it goes quiet again.

Her heart leaps out of her chest when the door swings open. Tom slams it shut and turns his head around, frantically, before his eyes find her.

He opens his arms and falls into her. 

He lets out a few short gasps for breath as he leans his forehead against her shoulder and wraps his arms tightly around her waist. 

She stays like that for as long as he needs, until he pulls back for breath. His face is red, it only makes his eyes seem brighter.

“Sorry,” he mutters with a sniff, “haven’t even said a proper ‘hello’ to you yet.”

Given the circumstances, she thinks that’s forgivable. She runs her hands over the sides of his face, his ears and his overgrown mop of hair. 

“Hello,” she says.

Tom smiles, taking one of her hands in hiss and placing a peck to her knuckles. “Hello.”

They walk slowly back to Slade Grove. Tom is a little more subdued, but not quite settled.

She can only imagine the thoughts racing through his head. He wasn’t here to save his father, he wasn’t at the funeral, there was nothing he could save from his own home. Time has slipped by, the formalities have been carried out and Tom couldn’t have stopped any of it from happening. 

Mam opens the door, takes one look at Tom, and purses her lips.

Kitty rolls her eyes and pulls Tom into the hallway.

The house has been cleared up a little better recently. They’ve gotten rid of everything that was broken, mended the curtains and the tears in the sofas, only the front room feels empty and impersonal without the china cabinet and the photographs they couldn’t save. 

They walk on through to the kitchen, where dad is sitting by the wireless. He stands to take Tom’s hand. “Sorry for your loss, lad,” he says, giving it a short, firm shake.

“Cheers,” Tom mutters, “good to see you again, Mr Wheelan.”

Kitty makes tea and splits her rations of bacon and eggs between her and Tom. 

“We were part of the evacuation effort from Dunkirk,” Tom explains, looking up to Kitty as she sits beside him. “I don’t remember much, but I woke up in a hospital in Paris, bullets and shrapnel in my chest, and the doctors were telling me the Nazis had taken the city.”

“Bloody hell,” dad sighs.

Mam sits stiffly in her chair and sips her tea.

“They were telling me I had to register as a prisoner of war, but there was this American bloke, a doctor, he told me they were trying out an escape route through Gibraltar.”

“We thought you were dead,” Kitty says. “Lois showed us the telegram. We all thought you were dead.”

She can see Tom’s hand flinch as if to reach out to her, but he stops himself and clenches his fist. He turns back to her parents across the table. “I had to die, officially like, they had some spare bodies and put my name to some poor bastard with 80% burns–”

Mam clears her throat.

“Sorry,” Tom says, trying not to smile. “Had to walk to Spain, then hitched a ride with these two blokes to Gibraltar. Onto Plymouth from there, and then…” he trails off. He has a distant look in his eyes that reminds her of Lois.

“Home?” dad says.

Tom shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, ‘spose so.”

“Will you stay with Lois?” Kitty asks.

Tom gives her a pointed look.

The raised voices, the slammed door. Maybe not.

“You could stay with us,” she says.

Mam tilts her head. “Now wait a moment–”

“Of course,” dad says, “we’ve got three empty beds upstairs, I’m sure we’ll be able to spare one.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Tom says, slipping his hand under the table and brushing his fingers over Kitty’s knee. She checks her parents aren’t looking at her and tries not to smile.

Dad holds up his hand in the way that means his decision is final. “Not at all, lad. We’ve known you since you were a childer, I think it’s the least we could do for you now.” 

Lois drops Vera off at 5 o’clock, the usual time. She doesn’t ask about Tom, in fact she hardly looks Kitty in the eye as she hands the baby into her arms and places a bag by her feet. She presses a quick kiss to Vera’s head, and then she’s gone.

Tom is in the front room, splayed out on one of the sofas, flicking an unlit cigarette through his fingers– because if he smoked in the house, mam would actually kill him. He sits up when Kitty walks in with the baby on her hip.

She sits beside him and places Vera on her lap.

Tom takes one of her little hands, and his thumb is almost the size of her palm. “Can’t believe she named the kid after my fucking canary,” he grumbles.

“Tom,” Kitty chides.

“Fuck, sorry– fuck.”

Vera lets out a vague gurgling sound and Kitty giggles. “Say it enough, it might be her first word.”

He chuckles, and gently waves Vera’s arm about. “When do babies usually start talking?”

“Give her a chance, she can’t even sit up yet.”

He strokes his finger along the baby’s cheek, and grins when he coaxes a smile out of her. But it’s like he stops himself, pressing his lips together as his eyes darken.

“What happened with you and Lois?” Kitty asks.

Tom heaves a heavy breath and takes his hand away from Vera. “I lashed out.”

“Christ, Tom.”

“She left dad alone,” he says.

If she didn’t have a baby in her lap, she thinks she could throttle him. “It wasn’t her fault,” Kitty snaps. “She couldn’t have saved him. No one could have. 

He turns to face her with a devastated look in his eyes, the kind of look he makes when he knows she’s right. “How did it happen?”

She shifts Vera in her lap. “We didn’t see, we were in the shelter. We heard the bombs getting closer, and when we heard the all clear…” she blinks a few tears from her eyes. She doesn’t mean to cry, and she feels ridiculous, crying over Tom’s father when he’s sitting beside her.

Tom shifts closer to her, and wipes her cheeks with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Tom nods, running his hand over Vera’s head. “He died thinking I was gone. He didn’t know I was alright.” He draws his tongue between his lips. “But he’ll be happy now, with mum and that.”

“I hope so,” she says.

“And I didn’t leave things on a bad note,” he says, keeping his eyes on Vera, “like you told me. I shook his hand before I left.”

“See? When has my advice ever let you down?” she says, trying to sound as lighthearted as possible through the thick feeling in her throat.

Tom keeps his chin tilted down but he looks up to her. He looks more peaceful than he did this morning. His lips are settled in their natural curve, his brow is soft, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that he won’t allow to become more than a glisten.

“Never has,” he says with a smile.

He shuffles closer to her, cautiously cupping the side of her face like he’s forgotten how.

She instantly leans into him, bringing their foreheads together until she can feel his breath echoing over her lips.

It’s been so long since she’s felt him in the way she wants. She’s hardly given herself a moment to even realise that he’s here, that her months of anguish are finally done because he’s safe, he’s alive, and he still didn’t break his promise to her.

“I missed you,” she whispers. If she speaks any louder she worries her voice might falter.

Tom draws his thumb over her cheek and nudges his nose against hers. “Kitty,” he utters. His lips twitch like he can’t quite find the words he wants.

“I know,” she breathes. “I know.”

He angles his head a little before he leans in closer and presses a soft kiss to her lips, and her heart breaks a hundred times over. She feels his sadness in the tentative movements of his mouth, like he’s still scared, like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.

So she pours all her longing and reassurance into him, as far as she can without speaking or pausing for breath. She holds onto his neck and deepens their kiss with firm lips and a deft tongue. 

She wants to feel him, long after they’ve parted. She wants to remember how he feels, the warmth he gives her, the way his little hums make her feel weightless and set her skin alight.

Now, in this moment, the world feels perfect. 

Until Vera makes a whining noise that means she wants attention.

Kitty pulls away with a short gasp, moving Vera to her hip and she stands and tries to bounce her into content.

“She’s probably hungry,” Kitty says, and nods to the bag Lois dropped off earlier. “Her formula’s in there, bring it into the kitchen.”

Tom does as he’s told and pulls the tub out of the bag. He walks into the corridor first, and as Kitty goes to follow he stops, and turns to her.

“You look good with a baby by the way,” he says with a grin.

She scorns herself for the thrill it sends through her stomach. “Don’t, you’ll give my mam a heart attack.”

At 6 o’clock, they put the lights out for the blackout, with only the fading sunset to light the kitchen as Kitty makes a vegetable stew and spuds for dinner. Thankfully they have some beef stock she can throw in as well, which stops dad from complaining that “just veg doesn’t count as a meal.”

Evenings are tense and uncertain now. They all try to make small talk with each other over dinner, but silences are frequent and imposing. 

Once they’ve eaten, Kitty puts Vera to bed and mam and dad head upstairs shortly after, hoping to get as much sleep as they can before the sirens start.

Tom sits in the lounge, on a sofa by the window, keeping the curtains open just an inch, but all there is to see is black.

“It’s cloudy,” he says as Kitty appears in the doorway in her nightie. “Can’t even see the moon.”

She comes to join him, curling up into his lap and placing her head on his shoulder. “That’s good news for us.”

Tom wraps his arms around her and kisses her head.

The sky stays cloudy and quiet all night, no droning of planes, no sirens. 

All she hears is the sound of his breathing and his lips against her skin as he nuzzles into her neck, kissing and nipping at her skin.

“Did you miss me?” she finds herself saying.

Tom pauses and pulls his face away from her with a furrowed brow. “Do you really think I thought of anything else?” he says. “It was all that got me through, the thought of coming home to you.”

In the morning she wakes with a sliver of sunlight creeping over her eyes, still in Tom’s arms, still clinging to him. 

Lois comes to collect Vera before Kitty leaves for her shift at the shop.

“Is Tom with you?” Lois asks as kitty lowers Vera into the pram.

Kitty hesitates. “Yes,” she says, bracing herself for Lois to storm in and start shouting at him. 

He appears in the doorway, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m going to the churchyard,” Lois says to him, “if you’d like to see mum and dad.”

Tom looks to Kitty and she sighs, overemphasising the movement of her chest as she breathes. Don’t leave it on a bad note.

He looks back to Lois and forces a small smile. “Yeah.”

Tom stays with the Wheelans, sleeping in the boys’ bedroom, in the bed closest to the door. Each night, once Vera and her parents are asleep, Kitty steals into his bedroom and tucks herself into the space beside him.

“It feels funny like this, doesn’t it?” she whispers to him, brushing her lips over his cheek as she throws her arms around him and presses herself into his back.

“What, you being the one sneaking around?” he says, falling onto his back so she can drape herself over his bare chest.

“It’s exciting,” she says, kissing a path along his jaw and down his neck. “I don’t see why you got to have all the fun.”

“Made it worth your while, didn’t I?” She can hear him grinning as she reaches the hollow of his throat. She swipes her tongue over his skin and delights when he suppresses a grunt and grasps at her hips. 

She sits herself up, letting her nightgown hitch up to her hips as she starts to rock against him.

Tom slips a hand between her thighs and smiles when he swipes his thumb over her bare cunt. “Right little whore I’ve turned you into, hmm?”

Kitty braces herself against her chest and nods, as Tom presses into her, dragging from her entrance to her pearl.

“So fucking wet,” he whispers. “All for me?”

“All for you,” she breathes as he starts to circle over her most sensitive spot. “Fuck–”

Tom places a finger to her lips as he keeps working over her. “Shh, you have to be quiet, you know that.”

She nods again, dreamily, moving her hips against him, adding and withdrawing pressure to his movements, treading the line between pleasure and longing. Until she falls apart, shuddering, pressing her lips together tightly and snatching back the one wanton whimper that sounds in her throat.

“Good girl,” Tom snarls. His hips are bucking against her and his jaw is tight. “Good fucking girl.”

She wastes no time slipping his cock free from his briefs and sinks herself down onto his length. He’s done for with only a few rolls of her hips, pulling out before he finishes and spilling himself onto her stomach.

He’s so pretty when he comes, with a silent sigh, his jaw hanging open and his nostrils flaring. Every part of his body tenses, his abs, his neck, his shoulders, as he squeezes his eyes shut tight and throws his head back against the pillows. 

Another perfect moment, she thinks, bright and beautiful, and already slipping away.

He registers with the navy again, and in a few weeks he has his next assignment.

Before he leaves, Kitty insists on getting out Eddie’s camera (even though he’d kill her if he knew he went near it), and takes some photos of Vera for Tom to keep while he’s away.

She takes some of him too. They’re hardly high art– he wouldn’t stop laughing at his own snarky comments, but she manages one ‘serious’ one. 

His mouth is halfway to a smirk, his smile lines apparent around his mouth, but his eyes are dark and almost sinister. He hates it but there’s nothing he can do to stop her from keeping it in the envelope of one of his letters, under her pillow for safekeeping with the rest of the pieces she has of him.

He has leave in the new year, and then he’s back in October, just over two years since he first left.

By then Lois is gone. She had come into the shop, with a letter for Tom and Kitty in the pram. She had said she was going to leave her with Robina.

“Over my dead body you are,” Kitty said before she could think it through. Mam and dad were slightly horrified when she came home early from work with baby Vera in a pram and all of her belongings in a bag.

Vera is a right little character now, a stubborn but happy girl. When Tom comes back to Longsight, he stays with the Wheelans again, and he’s utterly devoted to his niece. When Kitty’s at work, he walks into the shop with Vera in his arms to buy her a bar of Cadbury’s ration chocolate. It’s awful and bitter, but it’s the only kind Vera has known and she treats it like gold dust. 

When Mr Gregory gives Kitty a few days off, she and Tom take her for walks to the park. It’s freezing, but she’s happy enough wrapped up in a coat and a woolly hat, squealing with delight when Tom picks her up and places her on his shoulders.

How remarkable are kids, that they can so easily forget about worries and fears, as long as they have something that keeps them happy.

Even with Douglas and Lois gone, she hopes Tom knows that something still remains.

Time slips away too quickly. Suddenly Tom’s in his uniform again, ditty slung over his shoulder. He takes Vera into his arms and hugs her tightly into his chest. “Be good for your aunty Kitty,” he says, “and take care of her until I get back.”

Vera nods frantically.

He says goodbye to dad like an old friend, and even mam has warmed to him a bit now. Kitty sees the way her mother looks between her and Tom, the knowing nod of her head. It’s acceptance, and she’ll take it.

“Shall we?” Tom says, taking Kitty’s hand and leading her through the door.

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, then a twenty minute ride into the city. She keeps a tight hold of Tom’s hand the entire way.

They settle in seats at the back of the bus. It’s the middle of the day, kids are in school and their parents are at work. Only a few other seats are filled.

“Thank you,” Tom says as the bus pulls away from the stop.

“For what?” Kitty says.

“For being there,” he says, “for looking out for dad when he was around, for taking care of Vera, and me.”

She wants to frown, but can’t bring herself to. “Of course,” she says, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand. “Of course.”

Tom’s been assigned to HMS Prince of Wales, docked at Scapa Flow in Scotland. His train leaves within the hour, and the moment they step off the bus onto the busy streets of Manchester, she feels herself walking slower. 

Tom keeps going, letting her fall behind him slightly, but never letting go of her.

No matter how she tries to drag this out, she cannot stop time altogether and they eventually reach the train station.

She could spend an eternity in his arms, cheek to cheek, breathing along with the rise and fall of his chest. 

“I want to do right by you,” Tom says.

“What do you mean?” she mutters. 

They still hold each other close; she doesn’t think she could bear to look at his face.

“Once the war is over, I’ll save up my wages, get us a place of our own. It’ll just be the two of us.”

“And Vera,” she adds.

“Yeah,” he says, stroking his hand up and down her back. “I’ll get a proper job. You should do that clerical training you’ve always talked about.”

No more sneaking around. No more nights cut short when he has to leave her.

He pulls away from her, keeping his hands on her waist. “I know your parents don’t trust me and your brothers think I’m a no-good-thieving-bastard. But I love you, Kitty, and I don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”

“Once the war is over?” she says.

“As soon as.”

“Tom,” she sighs. She doesn’t want to imagine the possibility, or speak it into existence, but it’s still there. “What if you don’t come back?”

Tom smiles with a small hum. “I’ve died once before, didn’t stop me coming back to you, did it?”

Kitty believes him wholeheartedly.

Thursday 11th December, 1941

Vera’s being fussy about her nap again. No matter how much Kitty tries to hush her, rock her, or hum a few lullabies, she just won’t settle.

Eventually she tries just holding Vera close to her chest, letting the side of her little head nestle just over her heart. She stops crying almost immediately.

“How hard could it be to look after a baby?” she asked herself when she refused to let Lois leave her daughter with Robina Chase. Quite hard, as it turns out. 

The peace doesn’t last for long. Mam’s shoes come clattering down the stairs, the doorbell rings and Vera starts wailing again. 

“Oh come here,” mam coos, taking Vera from Kitty’s arms. “You get the door, I’ll see this one gets her nap, eh?”

Kitty takes a quick breath before she opens the door. Hearing Vera cry makes her want to cry too. 

The postman stands below the front step with a telegram in his hands.

“Catherine,” he says with a polite smile, “haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been… busy,” she says through Vera’s wails.

The postman hands her the telegram and she reads over the address: Lois Bennett, 27 Slade Grove, Longsight, Manchester, only there’s no house for it to be delivered to, and no Lois to take it.

She feels the tears start to prickle in her eyes as she waves him off, and when she shuts the door she can no longer stand. Suddenly she’s on the floor, her back against the door, unable to catch her breath as hot, stinging tears stream down her face and the telegram crumples under her fist.

She thinks maybe Vera keeps crying and mam calls her name, trying to get her to stand but she can’t. She just… can’t. A sinking feeling washes over her and keeps her pinned down, like the waves pummeling against the shore, over and over again. 

If there’s a telegram addressed to Lois, it can only mean one thing.

Tom.

Monday 24th December, 1945

The bus to Longsight stops outside the shop. She lifts Vera under the arms of her little red coat, onto the pavement, and takes a mittened hand in hers as they head inside. Mr Gregory sold it a few months ago and she doesn’t know the name of the new owners.

The woman behind the counter smiles down at Vera. “Aren’t you a gorgeous little madam?” she coos.

Vera rolls her eyes. “I’m not a baby, I’m five,” she says.

Kitty smiles to herself. “Bottle of sherry and a bag of Yorkshire mix, please,” she says. She crouches down beside Vera and spots a shelf of Christmas wrapping. “Go and pick out some ribbon for the bottle,” she whispers.

She pays for their items and Vera comes back with a bright red ribbon.

“Perfect,” Kitty says, and ties it into a bow around the neck.

As they walk towards Slade Grove, Kitty picks out some red sweets for Vera and a pear drop for herself. The rest she saves for later, finding she now prefers the sweets she never used to eat.

It’s nice and warm inside number 28. A Chorus of Christmas carols plays through the wireless from the kitchen, a backdrop to the bustle of the house. Mam is in the kitchen, making her final preparations for tomorrow’s dinner. Art helps her, albeit, his version of helping is pouring out gin and tonics. Dad, Eddie, Stevie and Connie are sat around the table, engrossed in a game of cards. But everyone stops when Vera comes bounding into the room, Kitty close behind her.

They each take their turns to smother her, and it feels good. Stevie practically jumps up and down as he hugs her, Art hands her a drink and Eddie hugs her the tightest. 

She manages a sip of her drink and places it on the table as she goes to greet her dad, still mulling over his hand of cards as he kisses her cheek. Then she goes to her mam, and hands her the bottle of sherry. 

“I chose the bow!” Vera proclaims proudly.

“And a lovely bow it is!” mam beams, placing the bottle amongst their Christmas stash of whisky, gin and dessert wine. “I have something for you, love,” she says.

“Oh?” Kitty asks as mam disappears into the front room. She comes back with a pot of poinsettias in a red pot, thick green leaves with bursts of blood red petals and golden seeds at their hearts.

“I thought we could put them out, tonight,” mam says.

Kitty opens her mouth to thank her, but she can’t. She nods as mam places her hand on her arm.

Even months after the war has ended, meat is still scarce, especially at this time of year, but mam had saved up her rations for a beautiful joint of beef, which she presents in the centre of the table.

It’s a cheerful occasion. The boys are rowdy, dad is quizzing Connie on her latest gig with her new band, mam is fussing over Vera.

Kitty watches them all. It’s hard not to feel like a ghost, an outlier, simply observing. Sometimes she thinks the others are still too scared to talk to her, in case she bursts into tears or shatters completely. She knows she won’t though. It’s Christmas. She’s supposed to be happy, surrounded by family and people she loves.

“We’re going to see her daddy for dinner tomorrow,” Vera says, stabbing at her boiled carrots.

“What’s Christmas dinner with Robina Chase like?” Stevie asks Kitty.

Her face freezes into a terrified smile to the others’ amusement. “No, it’s fine really,” she says. “Your grandma spoils you rotten, doesn’t she missus?”

Vera nods enthusiastically.

She’s such an easy girl to love. She has bright blue eyes, plump, rosy cheeks and dark brown curls, like her mother’s, kept in pigtails. But while her face is deceptively sweet, she has an awful habit for mischief and stubbornness. Kitty doesn’t mind that though. Girls should be stubborn, she thinks.

Stevie and Connie are expecting now. Dad insists it’s going to be a boy because he saw four magpies in the garden last week. They have a modest little house a few streets away and they’ve made it nice and homely. She’s had tea there and helped Stevie set up a crib for the nursery. 

After they’ve eaten, dad insists they all go to midnight mass, as he does every year, despite Kitty’s insistence that it’s much too late for Vera. Still, she puts her in a pretty blue dress and shiny black leather shoes, and makes Stevie promise he’ll be the one to carry her home.

The church is mostly shadows at night, a few candles and lamps doing their best to fight off the darkness and the cold. Vera hates it. She pulls her woolly hat over her ears, swings her legs and on three occasions asks “is he done talking yet?” She likes the hymns though, even if she doesn’t know the words, mouthing some kind of nonsense that has them all in fits of giggles.

And once it’s over, they don’t follow the path down to the street. Kitty leads the way, with the pot of poinsettias in her hands. Stevie follows behind her, carrying a sleepy Vera in his arms, curled into his chest.

She stops before the grave she first stood by seventeen years ago.

Josie Bennett

Douglas Bennett

and in loving memory of Thomas Bennett, 1919-1941

Kitty crouches down to lay the poinsettias down when Vera gives a little squeak in protest. “I want to do it!” she cries.

“Come on then, missus,” Kitty says.

Stevie lowers Vera and she rubs her tired eyes as she staggers to Kitty. She tries to take the pot but with her mittens she can’t get a good grip on it.

“Together?” Kitty asks.

“Yes please,” Vera says.

They place the flowers down together, making sure they don’t obstruct the names.

“There,” Vera says with a little huff. She reaches out and puts her hand on the stone, brushing over the names of her granny and granddad Bennett, and then she traces over the letters of Tom’s name.

Even seeing it written in stone, she doesn’t think it will ever truly sink in. 

A report said Tom had been in the makeshift aid centre on the main deck of the HMS Prince of Wales, when the final bomb hit. He could have run for the lifeboats. He would have had plenty of time. But he didn’t. He died to save his injured crewmates, men who would have never seen their families again.

For all the times he told her he would come back, for the life he promised they would make together, for all the nights she clung onto hope, she wanted to hate him for throwing it away.

She knows now that she can’t hate him. She could never hate him.

Vera falls back into Kitty’s arms. She catches her and places a gentle kiss to her soft cheek. “They would have loved you, you know,” Kitty says. “They would have loved that you’re brave, and funny, and that you drive everybody round the bend.”

Vera giggles and turns around, flinging her arms around her neck. “I love you, aunty Kitty,” she says.

Kitty hugs her tightly into her chest, with that strange sort of urge to just squeeze her and squeeze her and never let her go. “I love you too,” she whispers, so Vera won’t hear the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

Vera manages to walk down to the gate before Stevie has to carry her, and by the time they get back to the house, she’s fast asleep.

Kitty takes her in her arms and carries her up to the little box room. Connie and Stevie have the other big bedroom, and Eddie and Art are roughing it on the sofas in the lounge.

She places Vera down in the bed, as gently as she can, and takes off her shoes and coat so she won’t have to sleep in them.

It’s almost like a ritual now, but every time she finds herself in her old bedroom, she unlocks the window and brushes her fingers over the scuff mark on the windowsill. 

Vera stirs slightly when she joins her, curling into Kitty when she places an arm around her. The bed is hardly big enough for the two of them, how she and Tom ever managed to fit seems somewhat miraculous. 

Tom Bennett should have been hers to keep. They should have spent all their savings on a little terraced house or a flat in Manchester, squabbling over the things husbands and wives argue about and making up between the bedsheets. In the winters they would have walked home from the pub through the snow, hand in hand, and huddled for warmth at night. In the summers they would have spent their evenings in the park with a punnet of strawberries, taking the train to the coast on the weekends, to Southport or Blackpool. Maybe they would have had kids of their own. She often pictures a little girl with big blue eyes and a bright smile. They might have named her Josie, after Tom’s mother, and Vera would adore her.

There is so little left of him now, the bomb that hit the Bennett’s house ensured that well enough. She would have liked to have kept his lighter, his wristwatch, maybe some of his shirts.

Instead, she finds other ways to remember him. She reads his letters every night tracing over his terrible handwriting, the imprint of the words in the paper and his fingerprint in a smudge of ink. And she has the photo she took of him on Eddie’s camera. She keeps it framed, proudly on display on the mantle in their flat in the city.

She feels him, in the smell of grass, the flick of a lighter, the smoke from a cigarette, whispered secrets between lovers and Vera Bennett’s laugh, the way she squints her eyes and shows her teeth, just like he did. 

Two decades of friendship and it wasn’t enough time. They should have known sooner, she should have knocked on his door more often and he should have spent less time getting into trouble. She should have told him to join the pacifists while it was still an option, she should have convinced him not to go away, she should have held him tighter and never, never have let him go.

In the end though, she doesn’t linger on the times they weren’t together. She remembers them being children together. She remembers the first night he climbed through her window. She remembers his warmth and his infuriating smirk. She remembers the first time they kissed and the nights they spent together, when she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. She remembers every time he told her he loved her, and she remembers every time she said it back.

She falls asleep to Vera’s fluttering breaths, the sound of the lads and Connie in the front room and the hymns playing on the radio.

The world is cruel and cold, but through it all she finds moments like these, when the tightness in her chest is replaced by something light and hopeful.

She clings to that feeling because tomorrow she’ll wake up surrounded by her family, and Vera’s little face will light up when she sees the gifts they’ve been saving for her. Dinner with Robina Chase will be worth it for the moments Harry will get with his little girl, and in the evening she’ll come home and laugh herself silly over glasses of whisky with her brothers. 

For all the grief she remembers how he loved her. She’ll keep clinging to that feeling because Tom Bennett was hers, if only just for a moment.

Disclaimer: I only skimmed through the episodes that Tom wasn’t in and don’t actually know what Lois’ deal was, so I’m taking some creative liberties here.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

Series taglist: @hanula18 @azxulaa @whoknows333

#my fics #tom bennett #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fanfic #world on fire #wof #world on fire bbc #world on fire season 2 #world on fire fanfiction #tom bennett x ofc #tom bennett x female reader #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennet x reader #ewan mitchell #tom bennett smut

[reneeofthestars]

Reunion

Excited to share the short story I wrote for "Star-Crossed: An Anidala Zine" @anidalazine ! A "Padme Lives" AU

Words: 2,585 * Read on AO3

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

Padmé Naberrie Amidala, former Queen of Naboo, former Galactic Senator, and current member of the Rebellion, had been in her share of tight spots before. 

But this was the first time the tight spot was an Imperial holding cell.

She’d already examined every inch of the enclosed dimly-lit space, searching for a weakness she could exploit, but found none. There was no access panel, no loose wiring, and no ventilation system large enough for her to squeeze through. So Padmé sat on the bench and watched the door, working on what she would say when an officer inevitably came to interrogate Sola Minnau.

After all, Padmé Amidala was dead.

For a while, Padmé thought she was dead. The galaxy around her swirled in hot reds and blues, then cold blacks and whites. Grief so raw it threatened to tear her apart, pain unlike any she had experienced, then stillness. Such perfect, silent stillness. She was weightless, drifting through some gentle embrace where there was no pain. No suffering.

It was the babies’ cries that called her back.

Once she was well enough to sit upright, she held her children close to her. Leia had Padmé’s eyes; Luke had Anakin’s. She was given privacy to cry. And once she had no more tears to shed, she set to work.

Padmé contacted Sabé, and her dearest friend organized the rest. Gathering Padmé’s former handmaidens, they worked swiftly to organize a body double and a funeral, and before long, the people of Naboo mourned the death of Padmé Amidala.

Heart aching but determined, Padmé had agreed to have her children separated – from her, and from each other. Having lost Anakin, Palpatine would turn his interest to the children if he knew they lived. Obi-Wan disappeared into the Outer Rim with Luke, and Bail falsified Leia’s birth records and took her into his home.

Over the years, Padmé – Sola Minnau, now – worked closely with Bail, Mon Mothma, and other trusted allies, establishing contacts, supply lines, and information networks. They smuggled food and medicine to communities being bled dry by the Empire, and helped those in danger disappear, all while trying to bolster support to resist the ever-growing dominance of the Empire over all worlds.

They all knew the risks. If they were caught, they could be subject to execution, or worse. But Padmé couldn’t stop. She would help, no matter the cost. She had spent her childhood on relief missions with her father, and she hadn’t been able to stand by while her people suffered when she was queen. She wouldn’t hide now.

That’s the thought that kept her focused when the contact on Rodia ended up being an Imperial informant. They had barely greeted each other before Padmé was surrounded by stormtroopers. Padmé had kept quiet, giving only her pseudonym when they initially questioned her. The troopers marched her onto a shuttle, and once they’d boarded the Star Destroyer in orbit, she’d been taken to a holding cell.

She took a deep breath and leaned back against the cold wall. In the twelve years since the fall of the Republic, Padmé had never been taken aboard a capital ship. With no communication or resources, help wasn’t coming. Padmé was on her own.

The door of the holding cell hissed open. She stood as a towering black-clad figure stepped in. Coarse, mechanical breathing filled the room; Padmé forced down a shudder. They had never crossed paths, but she recognized him from endless holos and horror stories, from the expressionless helmeted mask, from the lightsaber hanging from his belt.

Darth Vader.

*

Darth Vader’s breath would have hitched if his respirator hadn’t dragged the air from his lungs and reinflated them automatically. His heart would have stopped if the cardiac regulator hadn’t measured out steady heartbeats. The servos in his legs whirred as the galaxy was swept from under his feet and he nearly fell to his knees, so overcome with the emotions that suddenly raged inside him.

Padmé was alive. Alive, breathing, not five feet away.

No, that couldn’t be. She was dead. Vader had observed her funeral on Naboo, had mourned at her tomb. This was some trick, some deception meant to rattle him; the Emperor himself was likely behind this, testing Vader’s resolve. What was this trickery then? A PROXY droid? A Force Apparition? A Changeling? Perhaps a handmaiden?

But as Vader and his dead wife stared at one another, he shakily reached out with the Force, and felt – Padmé. Her existence thrummed in the Force, whole and strong, with that same vibrance he remembered from so long ago.

But she’d never looked at him like this. Anger burning in her eyes, resolve in the set of her lips, defiance in her stance. He’d seen her look at others like this and he’d admired her dedication and determination. But to have her glaring at him now, with loathing and defiance… he felt unsettled.

Padmé didn’t waste time. “On what grounds was I arrested?” she demanded. “It’s unlawful to take a citizen into custody without disclosing the nature of the supposed criminal activity.”

The current Admiral of The Executor had been so smug when he’d approached Vader to announce that a rebel insurgent had been captured. Vader had strode to the detention block, flanked by two stormtroopers, ready to wring out all the information he could from the rebel scum –

Of course she would be with the Rebellion. The Empire was the very thing that she had been so concerned about creating during the Clone Wars.

He forced himself to speak. “Conspiracy against the Empire.” His synthesized voice rang out in the enclosed space, so warped and pitched that she would never realize who she spoke to.

But did he really want her to know? Did he want Padmé to know what became of Anakin Skywalker? To see this broken, twisted husk of what remained? Would she want to know? Vader had killed Anakin Skywalker, had carved out everything that remained of the naïve Jedi, everything that Padmé had loved, until only Vader remained.

She was speaking, and Vader said nothing. He just… listened to her voice, bringing to mind memories of her practicing her speeches the night before important Senate sessions, as he half-listened, so happy that the Force had their paths cross all those years ago in Watto’s shop –

Fury burned in Vader’s core and he let it fester, let it burn away at the memories of the man he had killed. He turned his head, addressing the two stormtroopers standing in the cramped cell just behind him. “Leave us.”

Hastily, the troopers filed out, the door sliding closed behind them.

His breathing filled the silence; Padmé had stopped talking when Vader spoke. He felt her fear, though it did not show on her face.

“Do you have nothing to say?”

She had come to him on Mustafar, knowing what he’d done. Even as she betrayed me, she loved me.

It was the last thing she said to him; Vader heard it in his nightmares, sometimes. “Stop, stop now, come back. I love you. Anakin…”

Grief welled in him, and he spoke before he could stop himself. “I thought I lost you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve never met.”

“You were alive, I knew you were, but I felt – I felt our bond break.” His emotions roiled through him. “You were gone, he said –“

Hatred .

“He said I killed you,” Vader rumbled. “He said I killed you in a fit of anger, and when I couldn’t sense you, I believed him. The Emperor lied to me. He’s kept you from me all these years, knowing that I –”

That he what? Would have left Emperor Palpatine’s side? That he would run away with his long-lost wife? That he would kill her?

Padmé’s eyes had gone wide, frightened, incredulous as she stared at him. In a small voice, so quiet he almost didn’t hear: “…Anakin?”

The anguish threatened to consume him.

“Anakin Skywalker is dead.” He paused. “I…am what remains.”

She stared at him for so long, so silently, that Vader wondered if this might be a dream after all. “What…what happened?”

“It is because of Obi-Wan that I am like this,” he hissed.

“No! He would never hurt you! He loved you –”

“Enough! I don’t need to hear empty assurances.”

Fear lingered in her eyes, but that spark had returned. “If you can’t believe he loved you, what about our love?”

“I loved you more than I can ever express. I did everything for you – I would continue to do anything for you – ”

“Except come with me.”

“You brought Obi-Wan to kill me.”

“No! I didn’t know! I didn’t know he’d snuck aboard my ship.” And Vader was startled to hear the truth of her words reverberate in the Force. Taking a hesitant step forward, Padmé’s eyes flickered between the lenses of his mask, as though trying to see through them. “All I wanted was you. For us to be safe, and happy. We didn’t need anything else. Even…even after everything you did…”

“It was necessary. To bring order to the galaxy, to gain powers of the Force that would save –” Vader stopped abruptly. “The child. Does the child live?”

She bristled, and that was all the answer he needed.  

He turned from her, but he didn’t see the cold cell around them. He saw a child splashing in the lakes of Naboo, Padmé laughing as she chased them, and Anakin Skywalker watched them from the grass, smiling and happy, whole and unburnt.

And then his vision clouded with red, and black, and Darth Vader’s fury returned, wiping out the scene of peace that had been stolen from him. Because it had been stolen from him. If he had never pledged himself to the Emperor, never razed the Jedi Temple, never succumbed to the Dark Side, if the Emperor hadn’t lied to him about Padmé’s death… 

“Anakin?”

He jolted out of his seething reverie. Padmé’s expression was carefully controlled, but Vader could sense her unease, her fear, her… hope.

Her steady voice held more gentleness than he deserved. “What happens now?”

Now, the Emperor would die. Now, Vader would have revenge. Now…

He turned on his heel and waved his hand, the cell door opening, harsh white light spilling into the dim space.

“Bring her,” he commanded.

The stormtroopers moved immediately, pulling Padmé from her cell and marching her behind him. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his helmet, but he didn’t turn around. If he took the time to explain, he might lose his nerve.

And neither Darth Vader nor Anakin Skywalker ever lost their nerve.

*

Padmé wanted to cry. She wanted to curl into the corner of some isolated place and sob her heart out. Instead, she raised her chin and walked as upright as she could as the stormtroopers escorted her behind the towering Sith.

How had the man she loved become the most feared monster in the galaxy?

She had believed, all those years ago, that there was still good in Anakin, even as he turned his back on everything he believed because he thought it would save her. But when Obi-Wan said that Anakin was dead –

Obi-Wan. Did he know that Anakin lived? Did he know what had become of his best friend? Had Obi-Wan lied to her about Anakin’s death, the way the Emperor lied to Anakin? No, she couldn’t believe that. He had been nearly as distraught as her. He couldn’t have known.

With all her heart, Padmé wanted to believe that there was still some sliver of good left in the creature that was Darth Vader; some glimmer of Anakin that she could recognize. But the horrific things that Vader had done… She watched the Imperials scatter from him in fear as Vader led her through the maze of corridors. How many had he killed? Tortured? He continued to hunt down surviving Jedi, relentlessly pursued Rebel insurgents, left ruins in his wake.

Could there really be good left in such a man?

She had to believe there was.

The corridor opened to a hanger bay. TIE fighters, small cargo ships, and shuttles lined the platform; technicians, pilots, deck crew, officers, and troopers moved in tightly organized groups, or else with purpose from one task to another. Darth Vader ignored them all, heading straight for a shuttle.

Technicians tending to the shuttle tripped over themselves as they leapt to attention.

“Lord Vader! We weren’t informed of a scheduled departure –”

“An apt statement, as I don’t often operate on schedules.” The man flinched. “I have need of my shuttle. Is it suitable?”

“Yes, my lord! It has been returned to your specifications.”

As the deck crew hurriedly cleared away their equipment, Padmé couldn’t help a twinge of familiarity; of course Anakin would be particular about his ship. So that, at least, had remained.

Darth Vader stood at the landing ramp and faced her. The troopers shoved her forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand twitch. But he didn’t strike. Instead, he stepped in front of them. “That will be all.”

“Sir?” one of them asked confusedly.

“I am not accustomed to repeating myself.” The low, warning tone sent a shiver up Padmé’s spine.

“Yessir,” the other said hastily, stepping back. The first trooper went to speak, thought better of it, and followed his fellow soldier.

Darth Vader’s shadow fell over her as she walked into the ship. Despite the size of the shuttle, there wasn’t much room inside; half the interior was taken up by some spherical mechanism, like a ball-shaped chamber.

“What’s happening?” she asked, doing her best to keep her tone calm.

Instead of answering, Vader swept past her, cape billowing behind him as he strode to the cockpit. “Strap in until we enter hyperspace.”

Her stomach flipped. Where was he taking her? Why didn’t he bring any guards along? Tense, she lowered herself into a seat and adjusted the safety harness. Darth Vader – Anakin – no, she couldn’t think of him as Anakin – Vader sat in the pilot's seat, expertly flipping switches and adjusting controls until the ship hummed to life.

The harsh white of the hanger bay ended as they emerged into the blackness of space. She could just spy Rodia through the viewport as Vader turned the ship and input coordinates. Coordinates to where? Within moments, the stars warped and stretched, before slingshotting them into the blue-white of hyperspace.

Gathering herself, Padmé undid the harness and stood. Vader made no movement as she walked into the cockpit. Even when she stood beside him, he didn’t turn to look at her. She gazed out the viewport feeling like she was hurtling towards –

“I will take you anywhere you want to go.”

A breath escaped Padmé. “What?”

Vader said nothing.

“You’re –” she sat heavily in a little-used copilots chair. “You’re helping me escape?”

“You will be interrogated as a Rebel spy. You may be tortured, or killed. And if the Emperor discovered your identity, he may take personal interest.”

After a long moment he added softly, “I cannot lose you again.”

With a trembling hand, she reached over and touched the side of that black mask. Finally, he turned to face her. It may have been a trick of the lenses, but for just a moment, she thought she saw his eyes illuminated in the light of hyperspace. Anakin’s eyes. Luke’s eyes.

“Come with me.”

#anidala #andiala zine #anakin skywalker #darth vader #padme amidala #vaderdala #padme lives au #rebel padme au #star wars #star wars prequels #star wars empire era #star wars original trilogy #star wars fic #star wars fanfic #renee's writing #sw #padme/anakin #padme/vader #padme amidala/anakain skywalker

[songmingisthighs]

[15.41] yunho × reader

⇀ i love you before i met you and until we meet again, i'll love you enough for the both of us

⇁ tw : death/miscarriage, dark theme, grief, loss, funeral. read at your own discretion

wc : 2.6 k

genre : angst, married life!au, parent!au

a/n : read this while listening to txt's nap of a star. go on, i dare you

"Yeah, hyung, I can help review the file you just sent me," Yunho sighed as he dragged a hand down his face, tired over everything that has been happening in his life and household. "No, yeah it's no problem at all I promise," Yunho ensured as he walked towards the room at the end of the hall to take a peek inside. "Uh... (y/n)'s... She's doing fine I think..." He sighed as he looked at your figure on the rocking chair, looking blankly out the window with a seal plushie in your lap, "She's trying to cope I think but we're doing fine."

That was in fact a lie. Neither you nor he was doing fine. 'Fine' is a cover to not let his members worry for him or you, a way to politely let them know that both you and he, God, especially you, needed time to process everything and just have your space. Considering the sensitive situation and especially how it was still fresh, his members were understanding enough to give him what he needs. Heck, they were even ready to march down Kim Gyuwook's office and demand more time off, not knowing that said CEO had already given him indefinite time off, literally as much time as he needed.

It had been exactly three days since you came back from the hospital without the baby you have been waiting for, two days since you last touched him, and the last time you ever will. It was when he was in his tiny coffin before you and your husband buried the child that should have been able to enjoy the world that wanted to welcome him. He was so small, so beautiful. Even as a fetus, you could see that he resembled Yunho as crazy as it sounded. You held the fingers that should have held yours gently, you caressed the feet that let you know that you were not alone all those time, and you and your husband gently laid a picture of your wedding day on the baby as to assure him that he would never be alone and that his parents will always be with him just as he would be with them. That was then and now you were left with only yearnings of him.

Six months you spent growing and loving him, showering him with the assurance that you and his dad were waiting for him, telling him about what kind of decorations you got for his room, telling him about the people that were going to be there in his life and those who are gone but will always be with him. You have felt him before you could touch him, you have cared for him before knowing how he liked to be held, and you have loved him before you could even meet him. Yunho as well, never had you seen him so enthusiastic and so full of love, not even when you both first got married. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that while you have cared more for the baby that was in your stomach, he was the one who waited for him more. Each morning started with a kiss on your stomach and each night ended with his voice singing the baby to sleep. You remembered feeling your baby kick for the first time, it was after Yunho concluded his rendition of Kim Sunggyu's True Love and told your stomach " I love you once, I love you twice, I love you more than beans and rice" that the baby responded with a kick to your stomach, surprising the both of you so much that after Yunho repeated the same words to him and received the same response, you both spontaneously combusted into teary messes, holding onto each other to savour the first proof of your little family.

Never would you imagine that when you came into the doctor's office merely three days ago for your checkup you would be faced with the news that the doctor couldn't find a heartbeat. Just before the session started, you had just joked that your baby seemed to be mad at you or his dad it seems, being rather silent and unresponsive for quite some time. You had even joked that it was maybe because you ate something that didn't agree with you like the spicy soup you enjoyed during pregnancy which you were able to enjoy only because your pregnancy seemed to dull your tastebuds. The absolute panic and disbelief that ensued in the small room that day, was horrible for Yunho. But for you, everything was a blur. The second you heard that your son was simply... Gone, you muted the world and simply dissociated, your consciousness travelled to the realm of disbelief and absolute confusion because you couldn't have lost him, nothing happened to you nor the baby. There was no major or minor or any kind of accident whatsoever. You have been taking your prenatal vitamins regularly and had been very conscious of what you ate and even where and how you positioned yourself. So how could this happen? You didn't even remember having a meltdown when the doctor told you that she had to evacuate the baby for your own safety. You didn't remember Yunho crying as he told you he can't lose you too when you absolutely refused. You didn't even remember the details of the small funeral you set for your baby the day after he was... Evacuated. But you could remember him clearly, every little moment you and Yunho spent with him.

Everything happened so quickly that you hadn't had the chance to process your loss, your grief, and the realization that you came home with your stomach still bulging from the pregnancy but it was empty. It wasn't until earlier that day at 3.45 am that you realized what exactly happened over the past three days. Yunho was awakened from his slumber by what he could only describe as the most heart-breaking, gut-wrenching cry that he had ever heard in his life. You were inconsolable for hours and Yunho hated himself for not being able to take away or even just lessen your pain, even considering himself as an absolute failure of a husband for it. So he held you, he held you tight as you both wailed together, letting tears fall down freely as much as it could until your body went limp from exhaustion and dehydration, though you remained awake and conscious so you were aware that Yunho had helped you drink and bathe and wrap your stomach before he guided you as you trudged lifelessly like a zombie, back to the baby room you had once been so proud of only to sit yourself on the rocking chair and clutch onto the seal plushie you bought for your son.

Luckily for Yunho and you, you both had such caring people in your lives to help you through everything. Yunho's mom has been coming over in the mornings and evenings to help clean up and be there for him while your mom has been sending food which then got prepared by Yunho's mom. Your friends and his have been so accommodating by not letting their presence be known until you reached out to them, wanting nothing more than to support you but not knowing how so they just did what they thought was best. During the whole time, you were not aware of the people around you and what they were doing for you and no one could fault you. How can you fault someone who has been existing like a zombie? Someone who can't even eat or function by themselves because their body is so struck by grief that it just went numb.

Yunho was so in pain seeing you like that, barricaded with memories of what could have been and what had happened. Yet he didn't know where to start because he didn't know how you would like to process this kind of grief. Heck, he didn't even know how he wanted to process this kind of grief himself. But he knew that wallowing in sadness and loss was not the way to go and the last thing he wanted was for you to drown in sorrow. At that point, he didn't even care much about his own pain and grief as he could only think about you, who were on your way to giving him the whole world before tragedy struck and that opportunity was robbed from you. Whenever his friends called to check up on him, he would always talk about you and how you were doing which was heartbreaking to his friends because he was such a good husband to you and he would've been the best dad ever. Thoughts like those were never told to Yunho however, not yet at least.

So after his call concluded, assuring Hongjoong yet again that he was definitely able to help, he slipped his phone into his pocket and took a deep breath. When he exhaled he noticed that his breath shook but he didn't have the time nor the necessity to deal with that first. Instead, he plastered on a smile before walking into the room to be there for you. "Hey," he called softly, not wanting to surprise you. But your lack of response made him think that you might not have heard him at all. "Hongjoong hyung called today, he wanted to check in on you," he said as he slowly walked around the room to pick up some scattered stuff that he never got to clean after the breakdown you had in the morning. "I think..." Yunho had to pause to inhale deeply before continuing his words, "I think we should pack some of this stuff, yeah?" That seem to catch your attention as he noticed you turning your head from the window to look at him. You have been so unresponsive to him since that moment in the doctor's office, not a peep since that moment which worried Yunho to no end. So he took your response as a good sign and crouched in front of you to offer the gentle smile that he put on just for you. "We can pack everything slowly, okay? The boys are going to want to help and we'll make sure to pack everything as nicely and as efficiently as possible until we're ready for the next one," he said as he gently took your hands in his.

But when you pulled your hands away from him and seemingly recoiled, Yunho's smile dropped and his heart wrenched. "The next one?" you repeated, voice breaking either in disbelief or baffled with the notion of a 'next one'. Yunho still answered, though, nodding slowly at you, "Yes, honey, the next one. Our next child," there was a lump that formed in his throat that he only realized after he said the word child as if he had just realized that it was hard for him to acknowledge the notion of having another child after having just lost one so soon.

Maybe you were simply still in your mourning period, having just realized the worst loss you've experienced in your life. So hearing those words, from your husband no less, felt like betrayal to you. You swung your shaky fist at Yunho and weakly hit his shoulder, surprising him. "How could you," another weak swing from your other hand at his other shoulder, "It hasn't been half a week, how can you talk about another child?" Yunho noticed your bottom lip quivering and the tears in your eye have now freely flowed down your cheeks. Yunho couldn't say anything in reply because he didn't know how to, he too didn't want to think about new children so soon but that was just something he said for absolutely no reason. Slowly your fists became stronger and your hits became more frequent, subsequently, you cried harder than you initially did until the words that left your mouth became babbles that Yunho was still able to understand. Though the hits were getting harder and stronger, Yunho didn't move an inch and just let you hit him. If that was what it takes to help alleviate your pain, simply having someone you can throw all your frustrations to, Yunho would be more than happy to be your punching bag, as long as you were okay. "D-do you think I'm going to risk another life being lost inside of me? Do you t-think I'm going to risk another child having me, a person who should've been able to keep a baby safe inside me until said baby is ready to face the world but failed to, as a mother?"

Now Yunho knows what exactly it was that made you break. He hadn't even considered that you blamed yourself for both of your losses. In all honesty, Yunho had thought of the possibility that the miscarriage happened because of you because he was damn sure that it wasn't your fault. How can he convince you that it wasn't your fault? How can he make you not blame yourself anymore?

Not knowing what else to do, Yunho simply reached and enveloped you in his arms. Your initial response was to thrash, scream for him to let you go because in your mind you thought that you didn't deserve the comfort after what you did. You hated yourself for failing but not as much as for disappointing your husband, or you thought you disappointed your husband. With every cry that grew louder, your movements grew weaker until they slowed down and stopped. During the whole time, Yunho simply held you in his arms as tightly as he could but not so much that he hurt you. He just wanted you to realize that he was there for you and you can feel your feelings and even hurt him if that's what would help you.

"You did your best, honey. You were so great and you did such a wonderful job until the very end," he whispered into your ears.

For the second time that day, you bawled but unlike before, unlike your tears of realization that your baby died where he was supposed to grow, it was tears of leftover frustration and absolute overwhelm. It didn't feel nice hearing what Yunho said but it definitely validated you and your journey. It didn't immediately negate your belief that what happened was your fault, but it acknowledged that you had no control over it as you didn't even know what was happening inside you. Moreover, it allowed you to realize that the one other person who mattered in this experience had no ill will against you and that he even loved you no matter what. Your tears changed into gut-wrenching questions of 'why' stemming from your insecurities. But Yunho didn't care, Yunho didn't even think that you have any.

So in his arms, in your loving husband's arms, you let go of all the tears you had left in your body as he accepted them. He willingly collected all the pain-filled tears you let out and changed them to love and reassurance until you realize that he loves you despite all the things you thought of yourself. Your relief didn't come one-sided as Yunho felt a sense of relief when he finally got an answer to what was going on with you. He, too, ended up shedding his own tears of relief and pain, finally able to share the loss of his child with you.

But despite the tears shed between you two, one thing was for sure and that was the love you both shared and have for each other and your family is undeniable, unchanging, and everlasting. This, you wish for the child who came before and after.

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[probablyhuntersmom]

A Bit of Mental Health 101 with Hunter: Analyses by a Therapist

Disclaimer: This is in no way a substitute for therapy: it's only psychoeducation. Please consult a therapist and/or hotline and get the help you need if you are experiencing mental health difficulties, especially if experiencing distress or issues that feel unmanageable.

Warnings: themes such as abuse and trauma ahead.

I thought to share some pieces of info from a few counselling theories and general mental info, which are way easier to grasp when I tie them to specific Hunter scenes. These might lead you to some realizations about yourself or someone else, which you could then bring up with a therapist if you like.

1. Survival Stances/Communication Stances: You might spot these in yourself or those around you. They are responses to stress and anxiety when you interact with other people. There are 5 in total; the first 4 are indicators of low self-worth and are where our childhood wounds are; the last one means you are healthily able to be present with difficult emotions and respond with relative calmness and clear thinking. Each one involves whether or not you are acknowledging three things: yourself (Self), the people you're interacting with (Other), and viewing the situation clearly (Context). The stances come from a theory called Satir Transformational Systemic Therapy (STST), or the Satir Model, invented by Virginia Satir who earned the title of "Mother of Family Therapy".

Placating:

It disregards Self, but recognizes Other and Context. You may blame yourself for something that isn't your fault at all. This is very common, especially with many parents in society who fail to acknowledge their child's pain, and who raise parentified children. As you can imagine, the way Belos raised Hunter would make the poor kid quite a Placater.

Blaming:

The opposite of Placating. Disregards the Other, but recognizes Self and Context. Definitely rare in Hunter, but being raised in the toxic environment of the castle and holding a high rank would've contributed to these tendencies. Maybe the closest thing would be him defensively snapping at Alador as shown above. What he could've chosen to do instead was calmly persuade Alador that he was in fact, not eager to return to Belos and why, independent of what Alador might think. But to do that in a calm manner would've been tough since the Day of Unity affected everyone.

Super-Reasonable:

Disregards Self and Other, only paying attention to Context. Also very common in my experience because we as a whole are a emotions-adverse, grief-adverse and find-quick-solutions/resolve-inconveniences-quickly sort of society. Emotions aren't often given the space they need to be experienced. In the screenshot above, Hunter is emotionally detaching from the validity of his own betrayal-related pain (disregarding Self), saying Gus is foolish and that his points aren't valid (disregarding Other), and trying to use pure cold logic to intellectualize why there's no point of paying attention to what they actually need in their dynamic.

Irrelevant:

The opposite of Super-Reasonable. It disregards all three areas, and people in this category are usually the class clowns or jokester types. Their stress response is to try and lighten the mood in the room quickly with something off-topic so that they don't need to feel anxiety. I haven't noticed it in obvious ways in Hunter, but when he quickly cuts Luz off from potentially mentioning that he's a grimwalker above, trying to put on a big smile and act all jolly/positive...it's the closest he's gotten. It would become an issue if repeated jokester behavior to avoid what needs addressing, is not benefitting his relationships with people who are actually trustworthy.

Leveling:

The healthy stance out of all 5. You are a Leveler if you can be calm, firm and understanding of the current situation, and (the following is to minimize defensive reactions from the other party) respectful of both your views and other people's views, when in conflict with others. However, obviously you should never remain in a conflict if it gets actually dangerous for yourself. (Obviously I would tell anyone to run from Belos! He is physically dangerous, not just emotionally, and we know he won't listen to reason. In the above situation, poor Hunter was in a crazy life-threatening situation)

Two important notes: - Placaters and Blamers may unhealthily attract one another in romantic relationships, friendships, family dynamics, work relationships. I'm not too sure about Super-Reasonable and Irrelevant people attracting one another, though. - However, we can have all of these 5 in ourselves, e.g. you can be either a Placater or Blamer in different situations.

2. Self-Leadership: Draws from the Internal Family Systems (IFS) theory. When we are in touch with what this theory refers to us our Self, it's the best version of us, and you could also say it's your true self. It is split into 8 parts which mean it's often conveniently called The 8C's of Self-Leadership. I guess when you are able to access all 8 of them, you are at a point of self-actualization. I like how it's nicely split up so you can work on whichever areas you feel might need to discuss, with a therapist.

In Hunter's case, you can spot improvements in mental health when he gets in touch with these qualities (man, thank you Dana, directors, writers, storyboarders, animators of the show..the fact that I can easily find which frames to use shows how much quality the writing and visuals have):

Clarity

Calmness

Compassion

Connectedness

Courage

Confidence

Curiosity

Creativity

3. Psychological Flexibility

A pretty neat theory called Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) has the above title as its main goal. (The person behind this theory wrote a book called The Happiness Trap, that goes into why we have unnecessary additional stress by expecting/pressuring ourselves to be happy all the time: instead of the better option of embracing the downs in life too, not just the ups... the book is free if you find it on PDFDrive dot com..)

ACT places plenty of importance on the specific words we use when having our own self-dialogue, which forms what we think of ourselves etc. If a therapist uses the ACT route, they hope to guide their clients towards the three pillars of ACT: being Open, Centered, and Engaged. Each pillar splits into two areas...so it's a total of six aspects of psychological flexibility which I'll list below:

Pillar 1: "Open"

A) Acceptance (its negative opposite is Experiential Avoidance) The simplest way one might break down this one is it's about embracing your demons, not judging them: the parts of you that you wish weren't there e.g. the parts that feel like a burden, any private experience you've had that you never wanted. When I think of this, these precise frames of Hollow Mind and Thanks to Them came into my head:

This concept operates on the belief that any emotion (like, especially what Hunter will feel when he looks back on the above memories) wants to be seen and is welcomed, like a guest. Even if the scarier, more unruly guests are welcomed and not turned away (which sometimes cannot be done alone: you may need the safety of the therapy room or trusted loved ones), it offers the best chance that they'll soften and become less unpleasant over time.

B) Cognitive Defusion This process is to help us not be fused with the content of our unpleasant thoughts, but to instead just notice that the process of thinking is happening in ourselves (see the difference?). This doesn't mean such thoughts are not allowed or not valid, though. A great analogy to explain how getting consumed by such thoughts and feelings is: if you hold out your hands close enough in front of your face or completely cover your eyes with them, you can't see the rest of your surroundings. If you spread them out and move them further from your face, you can see the rest of the room. Defusion techniques help you get more unstuck from discomfort and remind you of e.g. you are not your thoughts and therefore not fused with them forever, and other things exist outside of them. Very important if Hunter ever has experiences like this again, so that his moments of being inevitably triggered are less intense and their duration is shortened significantly:

It'll make the ride of being sucked into terrible distress e.g. future nightmares and potentially vivid trauma reminders, a less bumpy one.

Pillar 2: "Centered"

C) Contacting the Present Connecting with the present moment, based on this theory, is to restore control. Having awareness of your senses and being able to be grounded. Instead of being caught up in rumination about the past or future. There are certainly times where the right thing to do is reflect on the past or plan for the future, but during periods where being present would serve us better, that's the time to use this skill. Hunter was already incorporating this below, grounding himself by pacing back and forth. He was in an actually dangerous situation with immediate threats, as a literal survival mechanism for a crisis, so it was on a more extreme scale than us applying in it our everyday modern life:

(my personal method is having the right kind of music in my earphones to keep me totally present)

D) Self-as-Context (its negative opposite is Self-as-Content) Involves being in touch with something called your Observing Self. An easy way to explain this is, imagine you are a big sky: containing clouds that represent your thoughts and emotions. It can certainly feel like you're caught up in a cloud if a particularly tough emotion arises, but practicing this, whereby you become aware you're the big container with these separate smaller things inside, may help. An example of applying this is your therapist guiding you to say to yourself, "I am having the thought...that I am a failure" and to internalize that statement. This kind of detachment can be helpful because it could lead on to further positive reframing, and reinforcing that reframing, as you heal more.

Intuitively I think Hunter could be in this mode (though he wouldn't be able to put a name to it without a therapist telling him) when he started to feel better after reaching out to Willow. Having a good needed cry, he was less fused with excruciating grief:

Pillar 3: "Engaged"

E) Values (negative opposite: Lack of Direction) You get to choose what values matter to you. They go deeper than goals you want to achieve, they are qualities you want to align your life with, for life to be meaningful. One value that will certainly matter to Hunter a lot is based on this:

Kindness/Gentleness. Making sure others are cared for and protected.

F) Committed Action (negative opposite: Inaction/Being Stuck) Taking action to live out the values you choose. Pretty straightforward:

4. Aspects of Grief (especially, but not limited to, Acute Grief):

Searching Behavior

Perfectly normal especially in early grief, even though the griever may think they're going crazy. You may catch glimpses of a lost loved one, or reminders of whatever you have lost, on the bus or at the grocery store, in dreams or in other places. Your brain will be thinking thoughts like "Is that them?"..."That's them! It has to be!"..."All that didn't really happen, did it?" because it can be so painful to lose a relationship (not limited to just literal people. It could be a home or job, etc) that you have to still believe on some level that it hasn't been lost. Such numbing and denial is to provide mental cushioning for your mind, or else it would be overwhelmed. This behavior should decrease over time, but there shouldn't be any expectation of it totally vanishing.

Linking Objects

Objects that are reminders of a lost loved one, and/or which belonged to them, to help the griever feel close to the lost loved one. Usually it's too painful in early grief days to have a high awareness of such objects. Maybe there are other objects that Hunter would want to keep, which Flapjack used or perched on often. And if Hunter wishes, he can create new linking objects from scratch as well, to keep remembering.

5. Self-Interruption A concept I love from the theory of Emotion-Focused Therapy (EFT). Because one of the seven therapists I've tried taught me about this, it was one of the first few milestones in my own recovery.

Notice that this boi switched quickly from being puzzled about something he wasn't even entirely sure was negative, to bounce back and point out what went fine. While he later said "I miss knowing who I'm supposed to be" which was great, there is plenty of room for him to lean into the agency he has had since Camila first welcomed him into her home. I think we self-interrupt pretty often. Self-interrupting means we restrict ourselves from expressing what we feel, we self-censor and disown the important parts of us that have natural emotional responses towards e.g. being treated unfairly. Society's emphasis on staying positive and not being a burden likely reinforces this, and I'm sure Belos disregarded and invalidated his emotions enough that he'd feel he isn't allowed to complain about most things.

A healthy upbringing would mean the freedom to express your needs and desires. It's also perfectly fine and even necessary for Hunter to reflect on positive memories he's had. I'd say it only becomes an issue if he keeps doing stuff like below and if he is cut off from recognizing his own emotional needs:

(which I don't think he'll continue doing as much: he seems to be quite on track towards healthily exploring what he has been through).

So yeah. This got on the lengthy side but I hope it was informative! Which parts stood out to you the most? Feel free to comment and share your own thoughts~

#toh hunter #golden guard #toh analysis #the owl house #loz writes a meta #mental health 101 with Hunter #long post

[nocturnalxsaint]

no one answered my last post so i guess i have to do everything myself, buckle up for some fleabag analysis.

when fleabag says “this is a love story” in season 2 episode 1, the love story is between her and claire. listen i love the hot priest as much as anyone else, but to me the most compelling arc of s2 is the sisters rebuilding, redefining, and strengthening their relationship instead of leaning into growing apart the way we’ve seen them default to doing.

when we meet them in season 1, they’re civil and clearly see each other fairly often, but they aren’t close. we only see a few conversations that don’t end in a fight. they both clearly care, but they seem incapable of interacting without accidentally pushing each other’s worst buttons. there are several pivotal points where we see them turn away from each other, whether because of other people or their own conflicting needs, insecurities, and personalities

-after their mother’s death, claire had martin and fleabag had boo. these separate support systems combined with the family dynamic their father described, wherein fleabag very much takes after and was closer to their mother, meant they almost certainly grieved separately. as we see at the funeral, grief clearly looked very different on each of them, and they did not react well to each other’s coping styles

-their father’s new relationship clearly drove a wedge between him and the girls, and while the godmother needles at both of them, she clearly targets fleabag more often (almost certainly reacting to her resemblance to her mother), only occasionally sniping at claire. as a result of this and her determination to view her own family (and marriage) in a positive light, claire maintains a level of denial about their godmother, leaving fleabag to deal with it alone

-after boo’s death claire almost certainly reached out, but the distance between them and their clashing coping styles would’ve mixed VERY badly with fleabag’s guilt over her role in the tragedy. if claire’s after what you did to boo jab at the sexhibition (almost certainly fueled by martin referencing it while telling “his side of the story” re his infidelity to claire) is anything to go by, definitely martin and possibly claire were judgemental about it, and even if it wasn’t to fleabag’s face, she would have felt it, real or imagined.

-after the incident with martin, claire again retreats to her denial and determination to be a successful person (happy marriage included), and leans into judging fleabag alongside the rest of the family, deliberately choosing to ignore the signs of crisis she has demonstrated she can see in fleabag, probably in no small part because all of her attempts to do anything or help in any way or even reach out have somehow been exactly the wrong thing to say to her “broken sister”

because it’s not that we never see them reach out to one another. there are frequent moments where one or the other tries to bridge the gap. but there’s always a defense mechanism or insecurity (or husband) in the way of the other’s ability to accept that olive branch. they both feel they’ve repeatedly tried only to be rebuffed by the other.

but in the second season, they’ve spent some time in total radio silence from one another. it has explicitly canonically been over a year since they’ve seen each other or spoken. given the space to not constantly be rubbing against each other’s raw insecurities and grief, as well as the extenuating (WILD) circumstances of the s2e1 dinner in particular, they’re finally in a position to reconnect.

by the end of season 2 they still aren’t perfect. but they’re able to have a vulnerable conversation and accept help and advice from one another and feel like they’re on the same team, quite possibly for the first time since their mother got sick. 

we’ve gone from claire sniping at fleabag to keep her nose out of other people’s marriages to refusing to let fleabag leave the room while she confronts her husband. we go from fleabag flinching away from a clearly rare hug in s1e1 to

“is it a running through the airport kind of love?”

“....the only person i’d run through an airport for is you”

#fleabag #fleabag s2 #claire fleabag

[wannab-urs]

Build Me Up Buttercup | Ch. 5

You never call, baby, when you say you will

Summary: A party. A rescue. A conversation.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Frat parties come with their own warning. Frat boy getting handsy. Mentions of death. Grief. Angst. Reader is dumb. Joel being vulnerable as hell.

A/N: I struggled really hard with this chapter. I'm still not sure if I love it, but it tells the story I wanted to tell. This will be the second to last chapter, I think. Thanks for reading babies, I love you all! Also I'm aware it's the middle of the night, but if I don't post this rn I'll delete it lmao.

Frat parties are objectively the worst place to be on a Friday night. There’s loud, shitty music being blasted over a stereo system some asshole’s dad bought for them. There’s about 100 people crammed into a space made to house three or four at the most. And there’s the douchebag pressed into your side, yelling in your ear about football or something. 

Em and Coop convinced you to go out after you filled them in on the Professor Joel tea. Coop told you she thought it seemed too good to be true. Em suggested the frat party, and subsequently a frat boy, as a way to get him off your mind. Neither one of them were anywhere to be found now. They weren’t usually ones to ditch you, so you assume they really wanted you to go home with someone tonight. 

“Are you even listening to me?” the aforementioned douche yells in your ear. He’s tall and broad and you may have even found him attractive once upon a time. He’s not really your type anymore.

“No. Not really,” you yell back over the music. He moves in closer to you, crowding you against the wall.

“That’s alright baby, we don’t have to talk,” and he crashes his mouth into yours. You push against his chest, trying to get him away from you, but he doesn’t budge. His hand slips under your tank top and you drop your shoulder into him and shove him away from you. 

“Fuck you, dude!” you scream at him, getting stares from several people near you. You storm out of the room, hearing him call out “Fucking bitch!” at your back. 

The sea of drunk people grinding on each other makes the door hard to reach, and you can feel panic clawing at your throat as you shove through the crowd. Tears well up in your eyes, making it hard to see, and you’re so overwhelmed by the noise and the people all around you that you can’t catch your breath. 

Finally, you make it to the door and burst outside as a sob rips from your throat. The smokers on the porch eye you warily, but no one bothers you as you make your way to the side of the house. You lean against the siding and drop to the ground, pulling out your phone. 

You have a couple messages in your group chat, a “happy hunting ;)” from Coop and a “wrap it before you tap it,” from Em. They’re idiots, but you love them. You take a deep breath and pull up your contacts, searching for Joel’s name. 

The phone rings for a long time before he picks up and gives you a sleepy, “Hello?” You can’t bring yourself to say anything for a long time, just breathing into the phone. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks, seeming more awake now, worry creeping into his voice. You start fully sobbing now, not just about the frat boy but about everything. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Can- can you come get me?” you whimper, ashamed that you need him right now. 

“Of course, darlin’. Where are you?” 

“Farmer Avenue. It’s a frat party.” 

“I know it. Be there in 5, baby. Do you need me to stay on the phone with you?”

“No, it’s okay, J- Joel. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” 

You hang up the phone and shoot the girls a message telling them you’re heading home with someone and you’ll fill them in tomorrow, promising you only had one drink and you’re fine. 

A big white truck pulls up to the curb and you scramble off the ground, half jogging to the truck and yanking the door open. Joel stares down at you from the driver’s seat, and you suddenly remember you’re supposed to be mad at him. Kind of hard to be pissed when he’s saving your ass like a knight in shining armor… white steed and all. 

“Hi… thanks for the rescue,” you mumble as you pull yourself up into the passenger seat. 

“Anytime, sweetheart, put your seatbelt on,” Joel says gently. 

You put it on and look out the window, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world for having to call him. 

“Can I ask what you were doing at a frat party, darlin’?” And that makes it a thousand times worse. 

“No,” it’s none of his fucking business what you do in your free time.

Joel sighs and rolls his eyes, “My place okay?” 

“Won’t your wife be pissed?” you snap at him, shooting him a glare. He doesn’t respond, but you see his hand tighten on the wheel. 

“Doubt it.”

You’re both silent for the rest of the short drive. 

Joel pulls into the driveway of a small, one story brick house and is out of the truck and in the door before you can even get your seatbelt off. You make your way inside and find yourself in the living room. There’s a couch separating the entryway from the rest of the room and bookshelves on either side of a TV on the far wall. There aren’t a lot of decorations and, honestly, the place looks like a bachelor pad. Joel appears from the hallway with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in his hand. 

“I’ll take the couch. You can have my bed. Bathroom is on the left, bedroom’s on the right. It’s the only one. You can’t miss it,” Joel snarks. 

“Okay. Thank you,” you squeak, a blush rising to your cheeks. If there’s only one room, he probably doesn’t have a kid living here. Maybe he got divorced? But then why would he have a picture of his ex-wife on his desk? “Actually, Joel…” you trail off, trying to find the courage to ask him what you need to ask him. “Can we talk?” 

“It’s late. You’ve been drinking-”

“No! I only had one drink, like 2 hours ago. Please, Joel.” You won’t be able to sleep until you talk to him. Anxiety and dread will keep you up for the rest of the night, going over every possibility. 

Joel heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “Go change, I’ll make you some tea.”

You walk over and take the clothing from him, staring up into his face for a moment. He looks tired and sad, a deep crease between his brows and a look in his eyes you haven’t seen before. Joel turns and heads to the kitchen. You shake your head and go find the bathroom to change. 

A few minutes later, you sit at Joel’s kitchen table as he pulls the kettle off the stove and pours boiling water into two mugs. He sets your tea in front of you and  sits at the table across from you. It’s a small table. The whole house is small. 3 people wouldn’t live here.

“So. Who are the woman and kid in that picture, Joel? I need to know,” you ask the question that’s been on your mind for two full days. You dread the answer.

“My wife Ashley and my daughter Sarah.” You meet his eyes. It’s exactly the answer you expected, but you had hoped it wasn’t true. 

“So I am your side piece. You really thought I’d be okay with that Joel? What the fuck is wrong with you?” All your anger comes rushing back to the surface.

“They’re dead.” 

Oh. Oh shit. “Fuck.”

Joel looks down at his mug, twirling it in his fingers.

“I’m so sorry, Joel, fuck.” You are so fucking stupid.

“Don’t.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ Don’t apologize. No way you coulda known, darlin’” 

He doesn’t sound angry with you. Just sad. So fucking sad. His shoulders are hunched in and his whole face is pinched and his breaths are coming out shaky. You have no idea what to say, so you don’t say anything. You stand up from the table and warily make your way over to him. You settle a hand on his shoulder and he immediately turns and buries his face in your stomach, wrapping his arms around you. You slide your arms around his head and hold him close, savoring the feeling of him pressed against you.  

He takes a few more shaky breaths. “It was a car accident. 20 years ago… I- I was driving,” he whispers into your (his) shirt. You drop a kiss to the top of his head. 

“I’m so fucking sorry, Joel,” you breathe into his hair. 

He squeezes you hard, then pulls back and peers up at you, eyes watery. “It was a long time ago. Sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“I’m sorry I just ran out on you. And didn’t call. And skipped class today. Fuck Joel, I’m such an asshole.” Joel stands up and kisses you on the forehead. 

“We can talk more tomorrow, if you want. It’s late, let’s go to bed darlin’.” He grabs your hand and pulls you to his bedroom. There’s a large bed in the center of the room, a nightstand on the right side but not the left, and a dresser under the window. Again, the evidence that he lives alone is all but screaming in your face. 

You stand in the doorway as he strips off his jeans and tosses them into the corner of the room. He pads over to the bed and crawls under the covers, laying on his side facing you. “You comin’?” He looks at you with wide puppy-dog eyes. 

Your mouth quirks into a one-sided grin. He looks adorable right now. Nothing like the hardened asshole you thought you knew. You walk around to the other side of the bed and slip under the covers with him. You press your chest against his back and throw your arm around him, nestling your face into the crook of his neck. You press little kisses against his clothed shoulder and squeeze him as tight as you can. 

“Goodnight, Joel.”

“Night, Darlin’.”

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