Blurpleuni-squid - SQuid

Partners in Death...and Life.

Part I: Radio's not dead

| Part 2: Radio Will Be Dead if He Doesn’t Explain Himself. | Masterlist| ao3 Pairings: Alastor x wife!reader Tags: fem! reader, established relationship, human!alastor, hopefully not but just in case ooc!alastor (I'm trying my best to keep him as canon as possible) acroace!alastor

"Alastor! Pleasure to meet you. Quite a pleasure!" One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. You chuckle. "I don't think it will be quite the pleasure you think." "Is that so?" Alastor's smile remains constant. "And why would that be? You show him the tray you're holding "I'm here to do your sutures"

You pass the tissue box—the third one already.

Your patient blows his nose, rubbing snot off his snout. He has to stretch his arms to reach his nose. Alligators are known for their long snouts. His nostrils flare when he sniffles. Used tissue is discarded on the pastel-pink floor despite a pastel-pink trashcan stationed by his webbed feet. It’s been the same pattern for the last fifteen-minutes.

Tissue, Sneeze. Floor.

“—and I have this…uh…like this real bad itch on my eye. I keep rubbing and rubbing but it doesn’t do shit! My eyesight’s gotten worse—It’s already fucked up but this is just different. My roommate hissed at me about getting blood all-over the carpet floors if I kept scratching my scales. Oh. Oh! I’ve been snee—achew!” Alligator snot lands on the pastel-pink floors of the clinic.

Your eyes twitch.

He takes another tissue and waves it around his head. “The top of my head is killing me. Ya’know where that is right?” He blows his nose. “It’s right here,” he says, inching his head closer to you. “The last nurse I went to was blind as a bat! Literally, she had the wings and everything. It was kinda hot.”

“I’m well aware of the location of your head,” you say. “You can lean back now.”

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.

Pastel pink floor.

Underneath the mix of feathers and hair strands, the bustling of the waiting room catches your ear. Someone curses, booming and violent at another waiting patient. A cough, a sigh, a barf. Painful curses erupt after that. You bring a hand to your ears, wincing as your eardrum rings.

Pentagon City’s best and biggest hospital needs better doors, but those lazy sloth fuckers at the top invested at the first material they found. The alligator sneezes into another tissue. He flicks it with his wrist, and it hits the pastel-pink wallpaper adorned with closed eyes. Maybe Belphegor should be the sin of Pride instead, considering all items are covered in her symbol.

“I really feel like t’was those exterminators ya’know?”

You do not, in fact, know. Half of what this young man says is incomprehensible.

His snout sways left to right when he shakes his head. “It’s only my second one, and this was a close call, and uh…well, ever since then I’ve been like this. One even got to my roommate. “

You hum, leaning back on your chair. You should petition to for thicker doors. And while you’re at it, better interior design, and better paint—something that isn’t pastel pink.

“Ugh, and it’s so not cool that this new roommate of mine’s been shedding since the day they moved in,” he says.  “Speaking of shedding, do you think it’s because of those exterminators? Do you think they like spread some sort of weird pollen to make us sick? They’re totally the type to that.”

You take your pen—your pastel-fucking-pink pen—and poke his alligator sinuses.

Hell does have its own brand of humor. You gave your 20s to studying human anatomy, only to die and find yourself with the need to re-learn the boring part of biology.  (Two books on reptiles, four on mammals, and fifteen on sea creatures.)

“YEOWCH!” His teeth stick out again. You do not know what this means.  “What kind of nurse ar—“

“Doctor.”

“—you? That’s not the top of my head!”

You push back on of the feathers on your head. “Your roommate ‘hissed’ at you? And they’ve been shedding fur for two weeks now?"

“…Yeah…?”

You stare at him. “Have you ever considered that you’re allergic to your roommate?”

“Ooooooooooh,” he says. ‘Yeah, I was allergic to cats back when I was alive.”

You grab your (pastel-fucking-pink) prescription pad from the desk drawer. “Control it with some antihistamine. Four pills every 12 hours.”

His teeth start showing. You’re not sure if he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell. “Pills, really?”

You toss what you were writing into the massive pile of germs, mucus, and tissue. “I can give you a nasal spray. I’ll flush the mucus then insert a spray that prevents build-up,” you say. “They last for two weeks and then you’ll need to come back.”

He grabs the last tissue from the box. It still lands on your floor. “Ma’am nurse, do you have any more of this?”

You sigh and reach for a fourth box of tissue. “It’s doctor,” you say. “We keep nasal sprays here in the clinic. I’ll just grab one and you’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

“No can do,” he says. “Before I died, my coach told me to stay away from that non-organic shit. It’ll mess us up real bad apparently. All those steroids.”

“You have phencyclidine sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Pheny—what?”

“…Angel Dust.”

“The porn star?”

“The drug. You have drugs sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Come on, nurse—”

Threads erupt from your fingers. It snakes around his wrist, coiling and twisting. He jerks his arm away and cries out when you tighten your hold. Your threads wrap around his legs. It pulls against his waist. Magic binds his arms, and tightens around every joint he owns. You stop, only when the alligator struggles, trashing against the clinic chair. 

His teeth bare and he snaps at whatever he can reach. You tug on one of the thousands of strings digging into his skin. His jaw snaps shut, and it will stay shut. Another tug and his back stretches to straighten. You move your fingers as if a piano laid before you, and he sits up like a good puppet.

Another month of clinic dury will be your punishment if those sloth from down below are lucid enough to do their jobs. Sadly, killing this idiot would have you suspended for three months.

“I am a doctor,” you tell him. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

The tension on your strings marks even the few scales scattered on his body. He’s a real idiot if he continues to struggle.

Delicate movements of your fingers bring him forward, his back still strained, and tilt his snout at a forty-five-degree angle. Your threads elongate as you move toward the clinic drawers. It loosens around you, careful at keeping you able to move freely. It’s one of the handier parts of your magic.

You shake your hands and the threads detach. It sticks to the floor to keep the alligator as your puppet. You scrub your hands thoroughly before taking the nasal spray and filling with with distilled water.

You place on nitrite gloves. It’s always best when dealing with bodily substances such as mucus. You place a pan underneath and jam the tube up his nostrils, hosing his sinuses with water. The tension of his binding keeps him still. (If you ignore his whining, then that’s your business. The brawl you heard from the waiting room drowned it all out anyway.) He starts breathing better when all the snot flushes to the pan.

“Finished,” you say with satisfaction. You grab your prescription pad and write one for a nasal spray. “I cleared the mucus buildup so you shouldn’t feel any more headaches. The spray will keep your nose clear for as long as you use it. Come back if you start to feel any discomfort. For the rashes just get cream.” You point at the pastel pink door. “The exit’s right there.”

The threads dissolve in the air. He rubs his wrist, trying to soothe the red marks that your strings bring. You hand him the signed prescription.

He doesn’t close the door on his way out.

The broom and dustpan are hidden in one of the taller cabinets—pastel-pink like everything else in the room.

(Well, not everything. The radio sitting on the corner of the counter gives a splash of red into the room.)

You sweep the tissues into the dustpan. Your control over your strings is much more proficient when living beings are involved. Inanimate objects whip around when you use your magic on them, and radios have been difficult to purchase recently. It’s more convenient to clean using your own hands.

“Tagatha,” you call out when the floor is clean. “You can bring in the next one in.”

Silence is your reply.

“Tagatha?”

Your ears quirk. The noises are faint—an occasional cough, silent weeping, and muted voices coming from the television. You peek out the door, eyeing the crowd formed around the corner of the hall where a pAstel-pInK television mounts on the wall.

The door closes with a faint click. You sink into the cushions of the office chair. Vox’s yapping bore you. It was probably some man-child debate about the new extermination date. Although… those serialized dramas he produces, sadly, are interesting enough to be consumed. If asked for your honest opinion, you’d tell them that they were a hot pile of smelly garbage, but you like to leave it playing mindlessly in the background.

Your husband will throw the television out the window the first chance he’ll get.

Too bad he’s occupied.

You grab a piece of paper from the drawer. Management is forcing you to write a thousand-word formal apology. There are about three-hundred words left to write.

Getting caught dissecting the dead bodies from the morgue is a mistake that won’t be repeated. One dead body and suddenly those lazy fuckers have diligence weaved into their DNA. The body was already dead, and it’s not every day a chance to poke around a chimera’s entrails appears. The sinner would contribute to something meaningful at least. You’re stuck on clinic duty until you dot your last sentence, and not a moment before

The coffee’s cold now, but consumable.

You reach across the desk, feeling for the knob of the radio. You twist until you feel the clink. Music fills the air—the same twenty-five songs on a loop. You stare at the radio for a moment. Just… a small… single moment.

…..

….

…

..

.

On your kitchen counter, that second cup of coffee should be cold by now. It’s always cold when you trudge through the door. It’s been cold and untouched for years.

Yet, without fail, that second cup you brew will always be waiting for its owner.

“Salutations!” You snap your head to the radio. “Good to be back on the air.”

…Huh? The feather on your hair bristle. You swipe the radio, your hold on it feather-light.  You turn the knob responsible for volume. The static noise stings your eardrums.

“—ile since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast. Sinners rejoice!”

Murmurs erupt outside your door. You blink and find yourself slamming it open. One foot after another, one step after the other, brings you closer to the television. Your shoulder throbs when you bump into someone, but you keep pushing until you see Vox and his tacky suit enlarged on the screen.

“What a dated voice!”

A reply comes from the radio. “Instead of a clout-chasin’ mediocre video podcast.”

Your feather rises higher. Laughter escapes your lips, it leaves a dry taste. That…that ṁ̵̭͔̲̙̦͎̝̜̲̠͙͇̂̏̃̐̂̓̊̂̕̕o̴̢̭̝̙̤̬͚͐̅͗̌̇̂̌̕ţ̷̛̝̂̿h̶̯̟̙̲̘̟̟͙͔̔̋͊̋̿̐͘͜͜ę̶̗̰͔̫͔̗̝̘̻̰̓̓̈̊͜r̵̨̂̏f̶͖̻̱̺͕̹̫̭̠̚u̸̬̺̯̟̦͖̅̂́́̌̚͝ć̴̖͙̰͈͕̉͌̈́́̈̔̀̉̍́͜͠ḳ̴̨̧̗̫̗͖̞̟̑͌̂̀̈́̀͆͒ę̷̛͓̼̟͍̆̆́͆̾͛͝r̵̹̮̤͓̗̹̈́̎̉͌̾͌̏͑̋̚͝.

“Doctor!” Tagatha screeches when she spots you. “I am so sorry. I’ll bring in the next one right away!”

Your eyes are trapped by the screen and your ears by the radio. “It’s alrig—”

Tagatha grabs the closest person to her and shoves you back into the clinic. The door slams shut just as everything goes dark and silent. (Well, it’s not completely dark, once your eyes adjust you can still see as if the lights were open. Another small perk to this body). Your radio, along with the power, stopped working.

“Oh my!” Your new patient bleats.

“We have generators,” you find yourself saying. “I’m sure the power will come on in a minute.”

The cushions of the chair do little to ease your nerves. You pat your hair, trying to get it in control. A pile of feathers starts forming on the PASTEL-FUCKING PINK FLOORS. T̴̹̜͇̅̅͗͜H̶̰̗̄Ơ̶̡̡̻̗͖̋̎̓̓S̴̨͉̝̻͋̽̆́͆Ẹ̸̡̢͐͐͠ ̷̨͚̞̙̀͒̆̆͊Ŭ̵͕̲̪͇͓͐̚G̷̹̝̦̬͊͒Ḷ̶̭͓̎̏̈͘Y̶͇̟̍̉̚ ̷̟͎͕̞͂͑̂̇À̶͉̍̄̈̚S̸͖̖͕͑̏͛̈́S̶͚̤̼̯̀ ̶̻͆P̷̬̝̉Ä̵͕́͊̌S̸̢͍̆̓͝Ṫ̸͖̲̠̾̉͜͝E̷̺͆L̷͖̏͐́͝ ̶̛̟̽͝P̷̪̔͜I̴̹̥̹͖̮͒́̏͘N̸̳̙̼̾̆̿Ķ̶̟̞̜̉͊̓̂̚ ̵͈̬̃̿̄̈́̋F̵̨̨̼̫̘͘L̸̙̠͎̓̆́O̷̧̘͚͉̤̓O̷̤̟̱̼̤͋̍͐R̷̰̝̓͌̌Ș̵̲̝̈́ "Excuse me?” You will paint this room red with the blood of management. You tap your foot again, and again, and again. “…Doctor?”

Your neck snaps in her direction, eyes wide and staring.

“The… uh… the lights are back.”

You blink at your patient—huh, she’s a goat. “I apologize,” you say, smiling. “Please, tell me, what brings you here in this hellish afternoon.”

She holds up her bleeding arm. “It’s been like this since the extermination,” she explains. “Some angle got me. Luckily, I was able to run off before I was finished. I thought it would heal on its own like it usually does but it just hasn’t. It keeps bleeding.”

“Well, angel-induced injuries are my specialty,” you say. Tucked away to the side, a mirror hangs. You catch your reflection, and you blow your hair away from your vision, your red sclerae “This will cost you. Injuries caused by angels are…difficult to stitch, but not impossible—not for me at least.”

“Oh, yes.” She bleats one more “Dear God, where are my manners? I’m sorry can I ask for your name?”

Your smile widens. “Of course. I’m—"

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow.

You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.”

“Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?”

You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” He steps closer to take a peek. You watch him as his eyes gloss over your matches then your needle driver, then the alcohol lamp. His smile wobbles when he lands on the syringe.

You move the tray, dropping it down on the little cart by the examination chair.

“There’s no need to worry.” You beam at him. “I have the steadiest hands in this city.”

“Hmmmm,” he says. “You must be the other doctor then.”

“Not at all.” You point to your uniform, where the initial ‘NP’ is embroidered next to your name. “Just the nurse practitioner.”

He takes a closer look and reads your name. “Then I have no reason to fret. None at all! In my experience, doctors usually have their noses buried in their books. It’s the nurses that actually get the hands-on experience.” Alastor’s hands move when he talks. “What’s such a talented practitioner doing in such a dinged-up clinic?”

“Management caught me in the morgue dissecting the dead—It’s how I practice my stitches.”

“Really, now?”

You bark a laugh. “Not at all—I’m far too smart to get caught.”

“A witty sense of humor and a steady hand! I am in good hands, indeed.”

You take a seat on the rolling stool. “Yes, yes,” you say, waving your wrist. “You make fine compliments, Sir. I’ll be sure to be extra gentle.” You point towards the examination chair. “But, please hurry to the chair. You’re dripping blood on my floor.”

Alastor glances down. His eyebrows furrow as he glares at where the blood seeps from his sleeve … almost… almost as if he’s angry. “My apologies,” he says, allowing his blood to drip to the floor.

Alastor shrugs off his coat. It’s rare to see such a dark red—only a few choose such a color. You hum. Alastor is a well-dressed gentleman. Lovely. Those are your favorite kind. He drapes his coat over the spare chair, ignoring the coat racks the clinic provides.

You turn away and wheel yourself closer to one of the drawers on the counter. It takes two attempts until you find the stash of sterile gloves. “Take your seat when you’re ready,” you say. “I’ll take a look once you are.” You place the gloves on the little green cart, right next to your tray.

Alastor takes his seat, landing with an audible ‘humph’. He smiles at you, sleeves rolled and arm ready. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You hold your palm out. “May I?”

His smile wobbles—it’s a small change in expression that you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking. “Of course.”

Along his forearm, a long and sharp cut wounds him. The sight of grime that covers the opened abrasions makes you inwardly cringe. You need to clean these as soon as possible. “Why was this not checked sooner?” You rest his hands on the armrest and use your foot to bring the cart closer. “This looks old, and not at all like a freshly deep cut. I prefer it when patients come to me with fresh wounds.”

You grab a bowl with distilled water and pour in a sterile solution. “I assumed it would heal on its own,” he tells you. “It was quite a surprise when it did not.”

“I need to clean this before you die of infection.” You dip his arm into the bowl. He remains silent, but you feel the tension of his muscles under your fingers. “Hopefully there will be no next time, but just in case, next time, please don’t wait a month.”

He laughs, and there, you faintly see it—a twitch in his eye. “It was only a week actually.”

You smile to yourself. “I’d prefer it if it was only a few hours.” You dry his arm with a soft towel, his arm still tensed underneath your touch. “There, much better.”  You release your hold to go to a shelf filled with different labeled vials and select the one you need. With the clean syringe, you draw the contents of the vial. “You’ll feel a bit of a pinch,” you say. You tap its side. “It’s morphine— wouldn’t want you screaming and writhing”

You study his face for a second. There’s just that same dismissively polite smile.

“You can look away if you wish,” you tell him. “It’s why we pin such…er…interesting decorations around…. May I?”

You feel it again when Alastor inches his arm closer. His muscles tense under your touch. It’s almost as if he wishes to pull away. You keep your hold feather-light, but firm.

“Are you a hunter by any chance?” you ask. You don’t prick him—not yet. Not when tension coils in your hold.

“You could describe it that way,” he says, chuckling like he’s told a humorous joke. (You don’t understand why.)

“I figured you were.”

Alastor slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You inject the morphine into his skin, right inside the soft pink tissue. Good. Alastor relaxes when he speaks, it seems. “I do love a good hunt,” he says. “How ever did you know.”

You release your hold and discard the syringe. “Your hands are rough,” you tell him. “And hunters always have this silly notion that injuries magically heal given enough time—along with farmers, actually. Although, farmers are usually much more deluded.”

He flashes that same polite smile. “I'm guessing you’re not a hunter then?”

“How ever did you know?”

You watch his eyes flicker to your palms as you re-arrange the needles. “Delicate hands.”

You flash the same polite smile right back at him. You take a match, and light the alcohol lamp.

Soap spreads all over your palms and up your arm as you scrub your hands. You slip your hands into the sterilized gloves, careful not to contaminate the surface. “I’ll begin now.”

Alastor hums in reply.

You take a scapple and pass it over the flame. You poke him, lightly, but he doesn’t react. Satisfied, you cut back fibrous tissue underneath the skin. You replace the scapple with a needle driver. There was a quiet click when you pinch the tiny curved needle. You pass it over the flame as well. “Can you do me a favor? Can you tell me how many stars are on that wall over there?

Alastor turns to look at you, but you block his eyes with your palm, shielding him from your stiches.

“The wall isn’t over here.”

“I assure you, I’m not afraid of a silly needle.”

“I’m sure you are,” you say. “However, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. The last three people who said that took one look and started squirming. One even fainted. It makes your life miserable, and my job harder.

He counts.

“Out loud please.”

He does as he’s told, rather reluctantly.

Hands steady and determination set, you pierce the soft pink tissue with your needle The tissue nearest to the surface is always delicate. You’re certain not to catch any fat in your suture, for fat dies, and a loose stitch is useless. “Well, isn’t this fun!” he says. “I really feel nothing.”

Your concentration does not break. “I don’t remember there only being twenty-six stars. I’m positive there are more.”

“Why is someone as talented as you only a nurse practitioner?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a nurse…,” you reply, tugging on the needle. “Well…we…. We certainly could be paid more.”

“Why not become an actual doctor then?”

“My father couldn’t afford it. He wouldn’t send me….and…hm…” You smoothly pull the suture thread and begin the next stitch. “And I enjoy this.”

He looks down at you. “Is this all you’ll be satisfied with?”

You focus back on your stitching, hiding your glare. You bring your needle underneath the flesh, making sure to catch the soft tissue. You’re doing an uncommon stitch, but it would be a shame to leave a scar. “You sound familiar.”

You pause to look at him, His smile brightens, and it actually looks like a genuine elated smile. “Why, I’m a radio broadcaster. You might have heard me there.”

“Oh yes...” you hum, turning back to your stitching. “Alastor... I remember now. The ladies and I listen to your broadcast as we do our crafts.”

“Knitting?”

“I personally prefer embroidery,” you say. “I get to practice my stitching and make beautiful art.” You pull the thread and begin a new one, stitching his skin like they were shoe laces. “You’re quite the humorous gentleman, I must say, and quite a lovely taste in music. We enjoy your broadcast very much”

“Do you have any of your artworks here?” he asks you. “I would be eager to see them.”

“Maybe next time.” You tug the suture, and his laceration snaps to a close. You tie a knot and snip the end. “Unfortunately, I’ve finished your stitches.”

“Next time then.”

You discard your gloves and go back to the shelf with the vials. You fill up another syringe. You jam the needle into his skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to scare him a bit. “To prevent infection.”

He jerks away from you. “What happened to that gentle touch of yours?”

“It’s still a sharp object, Sir. They tend to hurt.” You smirk and carefully clean the remaining blood on the skin around the sutured wound. You take a bandage from your cart and begin wrapping it around his forearm, covering your sutures. “Don’t forget to drink your pills every 8 hours, with a meal in your stomach, preferably. Replace the dressing every three days. You can come back here or if you’re able to do so, you can change them yourself. Any by the good God, please, visit the nearest hospital should this incident repeat.”

Alastor slides off the examination chair. He grabs his coat as if you didn’t just stitch him close. You start packing when you notice him fixing his bow tie, and smoothing his hair. Huh…There’s blood on his coat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Like he’s used to having it there. Like it’s just something he’s learned to live with. “You were wrong by the way.”

“Pardon?”

“It was quite the pleasure to meet you.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Hello, welcome to the hell that's been plaguing my head. In case you didn't know Belphegor is the ruler of the sloth ring, and she seems to be in charge of medical-related stuff in Hell. I have the story mostly plotted out, it's just a matter of writing it down. If you have any questions, ask away

Need to remind myself of this masterpiece when it updates no matter how long it takes

you're out of touch, i'm out of time

aegon ii targaryen x reader

wc: 3.3k

summary: you have a tendency to pick up strays, but when you pick up the king of westeros (who was supposed to have died hundreds of years ago), things begin to get a little complicated

cw: NSFW, f!reader, aegon being a creep (shocker), aegon being deeply pathetic (also shocker), aegon is drunk or possibly hung over, attempted sex (aegon begs for a handjob but doesn't get one)

read on ao3, divider by saradika

You’ve always been too nice. You’re aware of this unfortunate fact, though you staunchly refuse to admit it’s a weakness. Has this trait left you without necessities from time to time because you gave them to someone who needed them more? Yes, but you sleep better at night knowing that that homeless girl had sturdy new shoes, even if you had to walk home barefoot. You can always handle a bit of discomfort if it means improving someone’s day marginally. It’s not as though you’re without any sense of self preservation– you know when to say no, or when to walk away. When someone is out for their own self interest, or just plain dangerous. 

You’re smart about it. Mostly. Sometimes, though, your sympathy gene takes over, and you approach the danger because you feel there’s more beneath the surface. So far, it hasn’t put you in any troubling positions. Still, first time for everything. And as you stand on the edge of the pavement, toes of your shoes swinging down into the gutter as you sway back and forth, you wonder if you’re about to break your successful streak.

There’s a man in the busy city street, raving and desperately trying to get someone’s attention. Usually, he’s the type you’d regretfully ignore for your own safety, but he seems different. He doesn’t seem like the usual King’s Landing crackheads. He’s dressed too nice, for starters. Strange, yes, but still nice. In fact, it looks to be better quality than anything you own. And he’s young– which isn't uncommon in this situation, but it always makes your heart ache when they’re young. 

He looks desperate, terrified, and as another person ducks their head and walks past him, you feel yourself moving toward him. You don't know why. Maybe because you know if you leave now, you’ll not sleep tonight for the sheer guilt of passing him by. He spots you making your way over and turns to you, seeming to hope against hope that you’re going to acknowledge him. 

“Hi,” you say in a calm, even voice. It's a tone you’ve gotten quite good at. You’re not professionally trained by any means, but these things generally come with the territory. “Let's get you out of the road, okay? You could get hurt.”

“What the fuck are those things?” He demands of you as a car stops to let you take him across. You wave your thanks to the driver, who looks mildly disgruntled, and take the young man gently by the arms to get him onto the pavement. “Where are the horses?”

You know he must be confused, so you’re gentle with him. “There's no horses,” you say, still holding his arms as he finally looks away from the disappearing car and into your eyes. He looks so deeply afraid, but you notice he does take a moment to look you over. You let him, trying to see the best in him and hoping it's just curiosity. It doesn't matter right now anyway, you tell yourself. “Are you okay?”

“No!” He snaps. “Course I’m not bloody okay! Where am I?!”

“You’re in King’s Landing,” you say. “Let's get you somewhere quiet, okay? Are you hungry?”

“This,” he laughs in disbelief, looking around. “Is not King’s Landing, I know what King’s Landing looks like!”

“Okay,” you nod. “I believe you. Let's go sit down, I’ll buy you something to eat.”

The man looks at you with what you think is an offended scowl, but the offer of food does seem to intrigue him. “And wine?”

“No,” you say, and he deflates. 

He scratches at his chin, but nods in agreement. “Yes, fine.”

You smile, a bit of relief easing the worry in your ribs. Sometimes people won't cooperate, or they’ll turn you away when you say you won't buy them booze or give them money outright. This young man seems to be content enough without wine, so you wave your hand and lead him down the road toward the nearest fast food joint. 

He follows behind you, panicked eyes still looking around as though he's never seen the world before. It's not wonder, but something close to anger, indignation maybe. You make it to a diner you like, opening the door for him. He's clearly astounded by the ugly cacophony of colours inside, but you can't blame him. You don't come here for the aesthetics. 

“Go sit down?” You tell him gently, framing it like a suggestion as you point to your favourite booth. He scowls, but does as bid. 

The teen behind the counter takes little notice of your strange company. It's King’s Landing, he's probably seen something ten times as strange already today. Once you’ve paid, you join your new stray, sitting down across from him and folding your hands on the table. 

“So, what's your name?” You ask him, and he looks away from the bustling street outside the window to stare at you in what you assume is disbelief. 

“What’s my name?” He echoes, leaning slightly over the table. “Are you serious?”

You blink. That’s… not a question anyone’s ever been mad at you for. You learned quickly which questions to steer clear of to avoid pissing people off.

He scoffs, leaning back in his seat and tapping a dirtied fingernail against the peeling surface of the table. “Aegon,” he says, almost experimentally. Like he's testing the waters. 

You nod politely, and tell him yours.

He stares at you. “Nothing? Aegon? You’ve not heard the name Aegon?”

“Well, of course I have,” you say, confused smile pulling at your lips. “It's a common enough name. I think I knew a guy in school named Aegon–”

“You have been to school?” Aegon asks, eyebrows shooting up and a laugh spilling from his mouth. He leans back, dragging his hands over his clammy face. “Have I been drugged?!”

You’d put serious money on that being a resounding yes. 

“This is crazy,” he says, leaning forward again. He says your name slowly, glancing around before his eyes land on you. “Can you tell me what's going on?”

You bite your lip, thankful when the cashier calls out your order number. You rush to get up and get it, fearing you may be way out of your depth this time. He talks like he’s never seen the world before, and his comment about you having gone to school… none of it makes any sense. You’ve never even had the thought of dropping someone off with someone who’s better equipped to handle problems of this magnitude, but Aegon has you really considering it. When you return with the tray of food and set it down, Aegon has the specials menu in hand and is squinting at it. 

“I got you what I usually get,” you say, setting the tray down and placing his wrapped burger in front of him, leaving the fries on the tray. “Aegon, I want to help you, but I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“That certainly makes two of us,” Aegon says, unwrapping the burger curiously. “What meat is this?”

“It’s beef,” you tell him, unwrapping your own. He watches as you take a bite of yours, and he nods as though in satisfaction before taking a hefty bite of his. “Aegon, I want to understand what’s going on in your head. Can you just…”

You’re not sure how to say it, really. It’s invasive, and you don’t want him to feel like you believe he’s crazy, or lying.

“What’s your deal?”

He chews slowly on his burger, eyeing you suspiciously. “My deal,” he echoes, lips turned down in a scowl. “Is that I’m the King of Westeros.”

You nod slowly, biting into your burger so you don’t have to answer right away. You hope if you stay silent long enough, he’ll feel compelled to keep talking. 

“King Aegon,” he says slowly, like you’re the deluded one. “Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, Protector of the Realm, all the rest. Are you serious?”

You swallow your mouthful and nod. You’re not particularly well versed in history, but the titles ring a bell. It’s some sort of messiah complex, you’d wager. Trying your best not to seem dismissive, you pull out your phone. “Let me see,” you say. 

“What’s that?” He asks, leaning forward and trying to snatch it from you. You move it out of his way, yelping softly in contrition. 

“My phone!” You say. “I’m just looking you up, Aegon.”

“You’re what?” He says, looking horrified. “Give me that!”

“Dude, no! Let me just–” You stand up from your seat to be out of his reach, hurriedly typing the name he’d told you into the search bar. “Look, I know the name Targaryen, that’s the Conqueror's name!”

“Yes! Aegon the Conqueror!” He cries. “You’re finally making sense!”

“What? No, I mean Daenerys!”

“Who!?”

“Aegon, sit back down!” You snap, and he pauses in his pursuit of your phone, stunned into silence by your firm tone. Slowly, he returns to his seat, picking up a fry to eat it. 

“Only because I want to,” he says childishly. 

You frown at him, shaking your head before looking back at your phone as it pulls up the results for your search. 

‘Aegon II Targaryen, also known as Aegon the Elder, was the sixth Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne, succeeding his father, Viserys I Targaryen, as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.’

The search pulls up a picture as well, one of those terribly done paintings from the dark ages. It’s hard to say whether the Aegon in front of you looks much like the one in the painting, but he does have the same pale blonde hair and violet eyes. He’s a lot more pathetic than the portrait, too. He has the qualities of a wet cat, and you hate that it’s somewhat endearing. When you keep scrolling, you find a painting that can’t have been contemporary. This is a more detailed portrait, likely from half a century ago, where Aegon is covered in burns and lies dead in a carriage. 

You look up, meeting the wary eyes of the confused but un-burned man before you, and slowly sit back down. You know that he isn’t actually the king from nearly a millennium ago, but there’s an uncanny quality about him that makes you want to doubt the logical truth. His clothes, for one. You don’t know many homeless guys with such fine embroidery on their clothes. And there’s his features… you know them to be Valyrian, but rarely does anyone still pop up with the stark blond and violet irises. You remember well enough from your high school history classes that the Targaryen dynasty had those features.

“What does your little brick do?”

You blink, looking down at it and pulling up the contemporary portrait – part of you tells you not to show him the other. He scowls at it, but nods. “Seven hells, that’s not flattering. Where did you get this miniature? You have this and yet claim not to know me? What game do you play?”

You sigh. He truly doesn’t understand, does he? 

“Aegon, what year do you think it is?”

He rears back and regards you with more suspicion. “129 AC,” he says.

“And what were you doing before this?” 

“I will not tell you that,” he says. “You’re one of Rhaenyra’s spies, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know who Rhaenyra is,” you say softly. “I’m sorry, Aegon, I’m not a history buff.”

“History–” He stops, and goes deathly silent for a long moment, as though the whole situation is finally processing for him. You wonder if it’s the stench of wine that hangs off him explains his slow processing. “What year do you think it is?”

You tell him the year, even tack today’s date on for him. He stares are you, and you can see his brain buffering yet again. 

“Seven hells,” he murmurs. You find you share a similar sentiment. 

He picks up his burger and begins to eat it slowly. He’s silent for a long while, eyes seeming far away as he contemplates. You try not to stare at him, but it's no easy task. 

“This is going to sound crazy,” he says after a long while. “But I believe I may have travelled… through time.”

“I’d say so, yeah,” you respond. At this point, it's the only explanation. You’d usually say something about eliminating all the impossible options, but that just doesn't work here. Time travel is impossible, or it should be. And it's possible Aegon is just suffering from a deeply intense messiah complex. But that doesn't seem right. Your instincts haven't led you wrong before, you’re not about to ignore them now. 

“What am I going to do?” asks Aegon.

You want to tell him you’re going to try to find a way to get him back to his own time, but you’re struck once more with the image of him burned and twisted, dead in a carriage. How can you send him back to his fate knowing his grisly end?

You take in the man in front of you, this historical figure you’d never heard of until five minutes ago, and bite your lip. “We’ll figure it out,” you promise him. “You… can stay with me until we do.”

That’s probably dumb, and you’ll probably regret it. But not more than you would regret leaving him out on the streets.

“I suppose,” sighs Aegon like he’s spoiled for choice. You get up to ask for a bag for your food, glancing back as Aegon chews sadly on his burger. 

You get Aegon back to your place, and he wanders into the flat ahead of you. You watch him go with a soft huff, rolling your eyes. If everything else hadn’t convinced you, his attitude is proof positive that he’s from the past. He has all the entitlement of a prince and none of the consideration of those around him that modern men have (sometimes) gained. 

Your flat isn't much, two bedrooms and mostly paid for by your university. You had a flatmate for a time, but their sudden withdrawal left you without anyone and the school doesn’t seem to have noticed. Aegon can stay in the empty room until you figure him out. 

Aegon’s standing in your living room, staring in wonder at the decor you’ve collected over the course of your degree, at your television, maybe he’s just looking at all of it. He’s turning in a slow circle, eyes narrowed. 

“This is very nice for a commoner. Very strange, but it is not… disgusting.” He pauses in his assessing, looking between you and the ridiculous tapestry you purchased one night after far too many drinks. “Who is this man?”

“Oh, he’s this guy from a movie,” you say, not really processing that he won’t understand what a movie is. He stands there, dumbstruck, while you go to put your leftover food in the fridge. 

“A what?”

“Just… don’t worry about it. There’s going to be a lot for you to take in, but with any luck you won’t be here too long.” You come back over to him, taking him in. He looks out of place standing here in his king’s threads. “Let me get you something to wear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” he says, shifting and taking in your clothes. “Where is your father? Your husband?”

“My father is in my hometown, and I don’t have a husband.”

“You live without a man?” He eyes you suspiciously. “A whore?”

“Okay,” you say, gently grabbing him by the shoulders and walking him over to the sofa. “Sit here, I have some men’s clothes lying around. Do not move.”

Aegon huffs, rolling his eyes and sitting back with folded arms. You wonder, as you go into your room to find something for him, if he’s heard the word ‘no’ very much in his life. It wouldn’t seem that way, but sometimes the way he reacts to you telling him off leaves you thinking otherwise. He’s a bigger mystery than you’ve ever faced, but something tells you he’s worth it.

You emerge after a while to see him flicking through the book you’d left on your coffee table, frowning. He looks up when you enter, setting the book down. “Your home is peculiar,” he informs you. 

“I know,” you say, handing him the soft clothes you’d found. “Student housing is kind of a lottery. You can get changed in the spare room, if you want. I’m going to go shower. If you get hungry, your leftovers are in that big white box there, okay?”

“Yes, yes, whatever.” 

You watch him enter the near-empty bedroom and shut the door, heaving a heavy sigh before you go off to your own room. You don't shower. Instead, you pull out your computer and set out to learn all that you possibly can about Aegon. 

What you learn twists your stomach into knots so tight you feel that they would trap the nausea that grips your throat from escaping. Aegon was no saint, no, but what you find is that his life is steeped in tragedy. If he believes himself to be king now but remains unburned by his cousin’s dragon, he must be near the end of his life; but the worst of his troubles have yet to begin. 

It is strange to think of the pathetic and bratty man in your flat as growing into the role of a king, if one could say he ever did. He seems nothing but a lost young man, unloved but for the power he afforded his Hightower family. 

The reports on him are so extensive and exhaustive that an hour has passed before you realise you haven’t been disturbed. You get up from your desk, wondering if Aegon has somehow wandered out of your flat and back onto the street.

When you open the door, you’re greeted by the sight of your kitchen cabinets strewn open, and your cheap bottle of vodka now empty on the counter. Aegon is sprawled on your sofa, cradling a novelty ceramic beer mug you won in a pub quiz in your first year. 

“Seven hells,” you mumble, going over to him and snatching the cup from him to be met with his whining protests. You sniff the cup, nose scrunching in disgust at the acetone-y smell. “Not even a mixer…”

Aegon looks up at you, trying to reach for the cup and whining your name. At least he changed into the sweats. The King’s Landing University jumper rather suits him, actually. 

“Please,” he says, looking even more closely akin to a wet cat. He seems on the verge of tears. “You’re pretty, do you know?”

“I’ve heard,” you say, setting the cup down on the coffee table and turning to him.

He grabs your wrist, tugging you closer with surprising strength considering how sloshed he is. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers. He almost sings your name. “Will you get me off?”

“Wh- Aegon!” You snap, tearing your wrist away. “No!”

“Please! Just your hand, you’ve got such soft hands!”

“Aegon,” you hiss. “No. You’re drunk. Even if I wanted to, that wouldn't be okay. You don't know what you're saying.”

Aegon pouts at you, falling back against the sofa and letting out a soft hiccup. “That doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe not in your time,” you say, grabbing him a blanket and laying it over him. “Gods- just- just try to get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning when you're fully sober.”

“I’ll die before that,” he says, snuggling up to the soft blanket with a ridiculous cartoon of a wolf on it. Another of your decor purchases you thought would be hilarious in the moment. You grab his cup and pour what’s left of the vodka into the sink before gathering up your remaining bottles and vowing to take them to the cabinet in your room with a lock. 

“Maybe. But if you vomit on my carpet, you’ll be paying the cleaning bill, your grace.”

Making long-form webcomics is like

Preview of a book I’m writing called Wanderlust. Premiss is a bunch of misfit kids live life by hitching rides on trains, one day they take the wrong train and end up on a train to another world.

This is a draft of a scene much later of one of the main characters (Evan) and her backstory before she met the other main characters (Sebastian, aka the kids she’s supposed to ‘take care of’)

❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀

Koshechka moved with purpose through the labyrinthine corridors of the underground fighting ring. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and the unmistakable musk of raw, primal aggression. She was here on business, her sharp mind and sharper tongue making her invaluable to Don white, the imposing crime boss who ran this brutal underworld empire. Aka her boss and best client.

Today, she was doing the accounting for the latest series of fights, a task that required her to ensure the books balanced and the odds were rigged just enough to keep the gamblers coming back for more. Her bubble gum pink hair stood out in the dimly lit, smoke-filled arena, and her freckled face betrayed no emotion as she calculated the night's profits. The roaring of the crowd, the clash of flesh and bone, all faded into the background as she focused on her work.

The fighters, burly men and women covered in tattoos and scars, moved like shadows in the dim light, their grunts and cries echoing through the cavernous space. Evangeline's tan skin glowed under the flickering lights, and her full hourglass figure drew appreciative glances from the patrons and fighters alike. But she paid them no mind; her eyes were fixed on the numbers, her mind a fortress of concentration, not like any one of those meaty men could afford her.

It was in the midst of this controlled chaos that her Boss, Don, as he was known to most, approached her. His tall, burly frame cast a long shadow over her, and his presence commanded immediate attention. The snake tattoo coiled around his neck seemed almost alive in the low light, its eyes glinting with the same cold calculation that Tobias himself possessed.

“Nice work, Koshechka,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that cut through the din. “Here’s your—”

“Not to deny extra cash, just picturing you sending someone to bust my windows, but this seems like a lot more than my cut,” she interrupted, not even looking up from her ledger.

“Heh, you’re funny, kitty. But nah, I got some rat I need you to scare off. He’s been scamming my casinos,” Tobias replied, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Sounds like a problem, but I ain’t pest control. Why not get one of your new pets to do it?” she shot back, finally meeting his gaze.

“Aww, kitty, you know you’re my favorite girl,” Tobias said with a smirk.

“Keep it in your pants, Don. You know my hours,” she retorted, rolling her eyes.

“Mhm, can’t wait till Monday,” he murmured, his tone suggestive.

“Whatever—just answer, you nasty bit—”

“Retract those claws, Koshechka. I just mean you’re far more efficient, and I don’t need him dead, just incapacitated. He’s on the young side, so I’mma give him a warning. Feeling good after these wins,” he explained, his expression turning serious.

“Fine, but I’mma need more than this. I’m assuming you don’t have a clue where he could be? You at least have a picture?” she asked, her tone now businesslike.

“Here’s a file my men put together for you. Including pay. This is half upfront, and you will be paid the rest later. I’ll leave the rest to you,” Tobias said, handing her a thick envelope.

“Huh, leave me to do all the dirty work, really nitty-gritty stuff,” she said, licking her lips.

“Sorry, doll. Besides, I know you like it when things are hard,” he purred, his eyes burning with a flickering flame.

“Oh, mr white sir, you know me so well.” She responded, “How come I don’t have a dock on time?” She moved her seat closer to the coffee table which separated them. He mimicked her movements equally as slowly, palms on the surface of the oak.

“You catch on quick, my pretty kitty. I know you won’t take long; the kid’s not exactly quick on his feet,” Tobias said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

“You sure it’s not 'cause you’re sweet on me?” she teased, elbows now on the table and face cradled in her palms, even closer than before.

“I can’t completely reject that premise,” he leaned his weight on the dead wood again, mirroring her movements, his face wearing a sultry grin.

“Mmh, maybe you don’t have to wait for Monday,” she whispered, faces inches apart.

“Gasp, is my lustful little kitten willing to make an exception for wittle old me?” he teased back, his voice a low growl.

“Just maybe. If you want—”

“Yes! I mean—” he shouted eagerly, frightening her back into her seat. “Wait, I’m sorry, I—”

She giggled, her voice ringing across the room. Her sweet sounds turned his face red, and he turned bashfully.

“Aww, is someone a little eager?” she looked up at him, eyes trailing down his body, landing on the tent between his legs.

“Huh—” he followed her gaze and fell back into his chair, crossing his legs in embarrassment. “Shut up,” his face expression still cold as ice but body burning in anticipation. “It’s just you never seem so—happy? I guess participating and you initiating is really like I—fuck, just,” he covered his face in shame, finally showing his age.

“Aww, sweetheart.” She started undressing. She doesn’t feel sexual attraction or love at all, which made her job easier. She only felt any attachment or attraction toward someone when she got to know them. But when she did, she felt so strongly it hurt her, so she avoided making any friends. “I—I have some kind of feeling for you which makes me want you deeply… I don’t know how to express this, and it’s scary, but for some strange reason, I trust you. So I—” she walked around the table, leaning forward, stroking his face. Her hands moved down his neck, torso, and landed on his belt. She sat her naked body on his lap, body trembling. “Please take care of me, Tobi.”

His eyes widened, mouth agape, brain not able to function. The seconds felt like hours. Her face glowed red.

“F-fine, that was stupid of me. Let's jus—” she began, shifting to get off his lap, but he grabbed her hips.

“No,” he breathed.

“The fuck you mean, no?”

He placed his lips on hers with a fiery passion, hand pulling her hips impossibly close. “I promise you, Evan, I’ll take care of you the rest of our lives.” He ground up into her, and her manicured hands worked at taking his belt off, pulling his pants down with his boxers, desperate to feel him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just proposed to me—” she murmured.

“What if I did?” he mumbled, throwing his shirt over his head. “What if I was? Do you wanna be a pretty wife? My wife?” He shook his pants off, bouncing her slightly on his thighs, making her tits bounce. As he watched them, he had this overwhelming urge to lick and suck her pretty pink nipples raw. “Mmm, look at these. Does just the thought of being my wife make you that horny?”

She looked away and nodded. He flicked them harshly, making her whimper.

“Fuck, that’s so hot.” Without a second thought, he attached his lips to the hard little nub.

“Mmm, Tobi, no, please, I wanna—” she let out a breathy moan, tracing the dark lines of the tattoo on his neck. Don mindlessly sucked and played with her tits, using both hands to stimulate her. He sloppily licked between her breasts, from her cleavage to her navel, tasting the salty beads of her sweat. He watched her round bosom spill into his palms.

“I love hearing such whiney sounds from your mouth.” He pulled her nipples, now soaked with saliva, harshly to hear her whine his name.

“Yes, I love it when you say my name. Now tell me what you want me to do now.” Evan’s thighs shook with anticipation, feeling sticky from her dripping arousal. She rubbed her stomach, coated with his precum.

“I want you inside me.”

“Whatever my pretty kitty wants.” He moved to grab a condom from his pants on the floor, but she grabbed the tip of his dick, making him shiver.

"Fuck!" he moaned loudly.

"I want you to fill me with your cum until I can taste it."

Tobias drooled at the thought of fucking her raw. "Shit, baby," he moaned, taking her hands off him. Evan, feeling like she had crossed a line, quickly retracted her hands to her chest in fear. Seeing her uncertainty, Tobias softened, pulling her close to his chest before standing up, cradling her as if she were precious. He carried her to the bedroom connected to his office, his lips never leaving her skin as he kissed her neck and face lovingly. Evan bathed in the attention he was giving her, a large smile spreading across her face as she felt his warmth and affection.

The dim light of the office bedroom cast soft shadows across Tobias's sharp features, highlighting the contrast between his albino skin and the dark tattoos that covered his body. "Damn kitty, it's real hard to walk with this raging boner," Tobias hissed, unintentionally breaking the romantic atmosphere.

"Way to kill the mood, Tobi," Evan said with a displeased look, though her legs remained tightly wrapped around his waist. She reached out to help him turn the doorknob, her touch gentle and reassuring.

Tobias chuckled, the deep sound reverberating through his chest as he carried her to the large, inviting queen-sized bed. The bed was a stark contrast to the harshness of his office-a soft sanctuary draped in luxurious, dark linens. "Brace yourself," he warned with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"For what-" Before she could finish, he spun around and threw himself onto the bed, holding her close. The sudden movement made her bounce slightly, a surprised squeak escaping her lips.

She glared at him, her eyes narrowing, but his smile was so infectious that she couldn't help but laugh at his playful antics. The tension between them melted away, replaced by a shared joy and anticipation. They lay there for a moment, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around them like a warm blanket, their laughter blending into the quiet hum of the room.

❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀

As the morning sun began to filter through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled mess of sheets, Evangeline found herself in a moment of quiet contemplation. Her gaze lingered tenderly on the man beside her, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm as steady as the beating of her own heart.

After hours of intimate entanglement, she marveled at the unexpected tenderness of their connection. It was a sensation she had long believed herself incapable of experiencing, yet here she was, entwined with a man whose very presence ignited a fire within her soul.

With a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips, Evangeline gently traced the contours of his face, her fingers dancing over the rough edges of his stubble. He lay there, blissfully unaware, his goofy smile and drool-laden slumber a stark contrast to the formidable reputation he commanded by day.

"What a dummy," she murmured affectionately, the endearment a testament to the complexity of their relationship. Despite his status as both a crime boss and her employer, he was, in this moment, nothing more than a vulnerable man lost in the depths of sleep.

Reflecting on the unspoken rules that governed their interactions, Evangeline couldn't help but marvel at the ways in which he had effortlessly dismantled her defenses. Each breach of protocol, from the absence of condoms to the forbidden kisses and post-coital cuddles, served as a poignant reminder of his ability to unravel the carefully constructed barriers around her heart.

And yet, for all her resistance, she found herself willingly surrendering to the warmth of his embrace, basking in the glow of his affection. He was more than just a client; he was a confidant, a companion, and, against all odds, the object of her deepest affections.

As she watched him twitch and smile in his slumber, a wave of tenderness washed over her, akin to the gentle caress of a summer breeze. In his vulnerability, she found solace, a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos of their clandestine world.

With a contented sigh, Evangeline nestled closer to him, her heart swelling with a love that defied all logic and reason. For in the quiet intimacy of their shared embrace, she had found a sanctuary—a place where the complexities of their lives melted away, leaving nothing but the simple purity of two souls intertwined in the sweet embrace of love.

As Tobias bolted awake, startled by the sudden jolt of laughter, Evangeline couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his bleary-eyed confusion. With a gentle touch, she wiped away the drool that had escaped the corners of his mouth, her affectionate gesture met with a sheepish grin.

"What's so funny, honey?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Nothing, just you. You drool like a bulldog, you know," she teased, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes in the morning breeze.

"Sorry, baby. Tongue's too big for my mouth," he quipped, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Not that you ever complained," he added with a wink, his playful banter eliciting a giggle from Evangeline.

As they rose from the tangled sheets, their playful banter continued, punctuated by affectionate touches and shared laughter. The air was filled with the sweet scent of soap and steam as they made their way to the bathroom, hand in hand, eager to wash away the remnants of the night's passion.

Settling into the warmth of the large tub, Evangeline leaned back against Tobias's chest, his strong arms enveloping her in a comforting embrace. The water lapped gently at their skin, creating a soothing rhythm that matched the steady beat of their hearts.

"Did you mean it?" she whispered softly, her voice barely above a murmur.

"Mean what, kitty?" Tobias replied, his breath warm against her ear.

"About taking care of me," she clarified, her tone tinged with vulnerability.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation, his voice filled with sincerity. "My pretty kitty, it doesn't matter because I meant it. I want you to be happy, and I want you by my side, forever."

Evangeline felt tears welling in her eyes, emotions swirling within her like a tempestuous storm. Tobias leaned in close, his warmth enveloping her, his words a soothing balm to her wounded soul.

"Evan, if that's not what you want, then tell me, and I'll do whatever you-" he began, his voice faltering with concern.

"No, I want that. I want you," she interrupted, her voice trembling with raw emotion.

In that moment, as they sat entwined in the warmth of the bath, their souls laid bare before each other, Evangeline knew that she had found something worth fighting for.

And as Tobias held her close, his love surrounding her like a shield, she felt a flicker of hope ignite within her heart—a hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to build a future together, one bath at a time.

Koshechka moved with purpose through the labyrinthine corridors of the underground fighting ring. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and the unmistakable musk of raw, primal aggression. She was here on business, her sharp mind and sharper tongue making her invaluable to Don white, the imposing crime boss who ran this brutal underworld empire. Aka her boss and best client.

Today, she was doing the accounting for the latest series of fights, a task that required her to ensure the books balanced and the odds were rigged just enough to keep the gamblers coming back for more. Her bubble gum pink hair stood out in the dimly lit, smoke-filled arena, and her freckled face betrayed no emotion as she calculated the night's profits. The roaring of the crowd, the clash of flesh and bone, all faded into the background as she focused on her work.

The fighters, burly men and women covered in tattoos and scars, moved like shadows in the dim light, their grunts and cries echoing through the cavernous space. Evangeline's tan skin glowed under the flickering lights, and her full hourglass figure drew appreciative glances from the patrons and fighters alike. But she paid them no mind; her eyes were fixed on the numbers, her mind a fortress of concentration, not like any one of those meaty men could afford her.

It was in the midst of this controlled chaos that her Boss, Don, as he was known to most, approached her. His tall, burly frame cast a long shadow over her, and his presence commanded immediate attention. The snake tattoo coiled around his neck seemed almost alive in the low light, its eyes glinting with the same cold calculation that Tobias himself possessed.

“Nice work, Koshechka,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that cut through the din. “Here’s your—”

“Not to deny extra cash, just picturing you sending someone to bust my windows, but this seems like a lot more than my cut,” she interrupted, not even looking up from her ledger.

“Heh, you’re funny, kitty. But nah, I got some rat I need you to scare off. He’s been scamming my casinos,” Tobias replied, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Sounds like a problem, but I ain’t pest control. Why not get one of your new pets to do it?” she shot back, finally meeting his gaze.

“Aww, kitty, you know you’re my favorite girl,” Tobias said with a smirk.

“Keep it in your pants, Don. You know my hours,” she retorted, rolling her eyes.

“Mhm, can’t wait till Monday,” he murmured, his tone suggestive.

“Whatever—just answer, you nasty bit—”

“Retract those claws, Koshechka. I just mean you’re far more efficient, and I don’t need him dead, just incapacitated. He’s on the young side, so I’mma give him a warning. Feeling good after these wins,” he explained, his expression turning serious.

“Fine, but I’mma need more than this. I’m assuming you don’t have a clue where he could be? You at least have a picture?” she asked, her tone now businesslike.

“Here’s a file my men put together for you. Including pay. This is half upfront, and you will be paid the rest later. I’ll leave the rest to you,” Tobias said, handing her a thick envelope.

“Huh, leave me to do all the dirty work, really nitty-gritty stuff,” she said, licking her lips.

“Sorry, doll. Besides, I know you like it when things are hard,” he purred, his eyes burning with a flickering flame.

“Oh, mr white sir, you know me so well.” She responded, “How come I don’t have a dock on time?” She moved her seat closer to the coffee table which separated them. He mimicked her movements equally as slowly, palms on the surface of the oak.

“You catch on quick, my pretty kitty. I know you won’t take long; the kid’s not exactly quick on his feet,” Tobias said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

“You sure it’s not 'cause you’re sweet on me?” she teased, elbows now on the table and face cradled in her palms, even closer than before.

“I can’t completely reject that premise,” he leaned his weight on the dead wood again, mirroring her movements, his face wearing a sultry grin.

“Mmh, maybe you don’t have to wait for Monday,” she whispered, faces inches apart.

“Gasp, is my lustful little kitten willing to make an exception for wittle old me?” he teased back, his voice a low growl.

“Just maybe. If you want—”

“Yes! I mean—” he shouted eagerly, frightening her back into her seat. “Wait, I’m sorry, I—”

She giggled, her voice ringing across the room. Her sweet sounds turned his face red, and he turned bashfully.

“Aww, is someone a little eager?” she looked up at him, eyes trailing down his body, landing on the tent between his legs.

“Huh—” he followed her gaze and fell back into his chair, crossing his legs in embarrassment. “Shut up,” his face expression still cold as ice but body burning in anticipation. “It’s just you never seem so—happy? I guess participating and you initiating is really like I—fuck, just,” he covered his face in shame, finally showing his age.

“Aww, sweetheart.” She started undressing. She doesn’t feel sexual attraction or love at all, which made her job easier. She only felt any attachment or attraction toward someone when she got to know them. But when she did, she felt so strongly it hurt her, so she avoided making any friends. “I—I have some kind of feeling for you which makes me want you deeply… I don’t know how to express this, and it’s scary, but for some strange reason, I trust you. So I—” she walked around the table, leaning forward, stroking his face. Her hands moved down his neck, torso, and landed on his belt. She sat her naked body on his lap, body trembling. “Please take care of me, Tobi.”

His eyes widened, mouth agape, brain not able to function. The seconds felt like hours. Her face glowed red.

“F-fine, that was stupid of me. Let's jus—” she began, shifting to get off his lap, but he grabbed her hips.

“No,” he breathed.

“The fuck you mean, no?”

He placed his lips on hers with a fiery passion, hand pulling her hips impossibly close. “I promise you, Evan, I’ll take care of you the rest of our lives.” He ground up into her, and her manicured hands worked at taking his belt off, pulling his pants down with his boxers, desperate to feel him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just proposed to me—” she murmured.

“What if I did?” he mumbled, throwing his shirt over his head. “What if I was? Do you wanna be a pretty wife? My wife?” He shook his pants off, bouncing her slightly on his thighs, making her tits bounce. As he watched them, he had this overwhelming urge to lick and suck her pretty pink nipples raw. “Mmm, look at these. Does just the thought of being my wife make you that horny?”

She looked away and nodded. He flicked them harshly, making her whimper.

“Fuck, that’s so hot.” Without a second thought, he attached his lips to the hard little nub.

“Mmm, Tobi, no, please, I wanna—” she let out a breathy moan, tracing the dark lines of the tattoo on his neck. Don mindlessly sucked and played with her tits, using both hands to stimulate her. He sloppily licked between her breasts, from her cleavage to her navel, tasting the salty beads of her sweat. He watched her round bosom spill into his palms.

“I love hearing such whiney sounds from your mouth.” He pulled her nipples, now soaked with saliva, harshly to hear her whine his name.

“Yes, I love it when you say my name. Now tell me what you want me to do now.” Evan’s thighs shook with anticipation, feeling sticky from her dripping arousal. She rubbed her stomach, coated with his precum.

“I want you inside me.”

“Whatever my pretty kitty wants.” He moved to grab a condom from his pants on the floor, but she grabbed the tip of his dick, making him shiver.

"Fuck!" he moaned loudly.

"I want you to fill me with your cum until I can taste it."

Tobias drooled at the thought of fucking her raw. "Shit, baby," he moaned, taking her hands off him. Evan, feeling like she had crossed a line, quickly retracted her hands to her chest in fear. Seeing her uncertainty, Tobias softened, pulling her close to his chest before standing up, cradling her as if she were precious. He carried her to the bedroom connected to his office, his lips never leaving her skin as he kissed her neck and face lovingly. Evan bathed in the attention he was giving her, a large smile spreading across her face as she felt his warmth and affection.

The dim light of the office bedroom cast soft shadows across Tobias's sharp features, highlighting the contrast between his albino skin and the dark tattoos that covered his body. "Damn kitty, it's real hard to walk with this raging boner," Tobias hissed, unintentionally breaking the romantic atmosphere.

"Way to kill the mood, Tobi," Evan said with a displeased look, though her legs remained tightly wrapped around his waist. She reached out to help him turn the doorknob, her touch gentle and reassuring.

Tobias chuckled, the deep sound reverberating through his chest as he carried her to the large, inviting queen-sized bed. The bed was a stark contrast to the harshness of his office-a soft sanctuary draped in luxurious, dark linens. "Brace yourself," he warned with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"For what-" Before she could finish, he spun around and threw himself onto the bed, holding her close. The sudden movement made her bounce slightly, a surprised squeak escaping her lips.

She glared at him, her eyes narrowing, but his smile was so infectious that she couldn't help but laugh at his playful antics. The tension between them melted away, replaced by a shared joy and anticipation. They lay there for a moment, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around them like a warm blanket, their laughter blending into the quiet hum of the room.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

As the morning sun began to filter through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled mess of sheets, Evangeline found herself in a moment of quiet contemplation. Her gaze lingered tenderly on the man beside her, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm as steady as the beating of her own heart.

After hours of intimate entanglement, she marveled at the unexpected tenderness of their connection. It was a sensation she had long believed herself incapable of experiencing, yet here she was, entwined with a man whose very presence ignited a fire within her soul.

With a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips, Evangeline gently traced the contours of his face, her fingers dancing over the rough edges of his stubble. He lay there, blissfully unaware, his goofy smile and drool-laden slumber a stark contrast to the formidable reputation he commanded by day.

"What a dummy," she murmured affectionately, the endearment a testament to the complexity of their relationship. Despite his status as both a crime boss and her employer, he was, in this moment, nothing more than a vulnerable man lost in the depths of sleep.

Reflecting on the unspoken rules that governed their interactions, Evangeline couldn't help but marvel at the ways in which he had effortlessly dismantled her defenses. Each breach of protocol, from the absence of condoms to the forbidden kisses and post-coital cuddles, served as a poignant reminder of his ability to unravel the carefully constructed barriers around her heart.

And yet, for all her resistance, she found herself willingly surrendering to the warmth of his embrace, basking in the glow of his affection. He was more than just a client; he was a confidant, a companion, and, against all odds, the object of her deepest affections.

As she watched him twitch and smile in his slumber, a wave of tenderness washed over her, akin to the gentle caress of a summer breeze. In his vulnerability, she found solace, a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos of their clandestine world.

With a contented sigh, Evangeline nestled closer to him, her heart swelling with a love that defied all logic and reason. For in the quiet intimacy of their shared embrace, she had found a sanctuary—a place where the complexities of their lives melted away, leaving nothing but the simple purity of two souls intertwined in the sweet embrace of love.

As Tobias bolted awake, startled by the sudden jolt of laughter, Evangeline couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his bleary-eyed confusion. With a gentle touch, she wiped away the drool that had escaped the corners of his mouth, her affectionate gesture met with a sheepish grin.

"What's so funny, honey?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Nothing, just you. You drool like a bulldog, you know," she teased, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes in the morning breeze.

"Sorry, baby. Tongue's too big for my mouth," he quipped, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Not that you ever complained," he added with a wink, his playful banter eliciting a giggle from Evangeline.

As they rose from the tangled sheets, their playful banter continued, punctuated by affectionate touches and shared laughter. The air was filled with the sweet scent of soap and steam as they made their way to the bathroom, hand in hand, eager to wash away the remnants of the night's passion.

Settling into the warmth of the large tub, Evangeline leaned back against Tobias's chest, his strong arms enveloping her in a comforting embrace. The water lapped gently at their skin, creating a soothing rhythm that matched the steady beat of their hearts.

"Did you mean it?" she whispered softly, her voice barely above a murmur.

"Mean what, kitty?" Tobias replied, his breath warm against her ear.

"About taking care of me," she clarified, her tone tinged with vulnerability.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation, his voice filled with sincerity. "My pretty kitty, it doesn't matter because I meant it. I want you to be happy, and I want you by my side, forever."

Evangeline felt tears welling in her eyes, emotions swirling within her like a tempestuous storm. Tobias leaned in close, his warmth enveloping her, his words a soothing balm to her wounded soul.

"Evan, if that's not what you want, then tell me, and I'll do whatever you-" he began, his voice faltering with concern.

"No, I want that. I want you," she interrupted, her voice trembling with raw emotion.

In that moment, as they sat entwined in the warmth of the bath, their souls laid bare before each other, Evangeline knew that she had found something worth fighting for.

And as Tobias held her close, his love surrounding her like a shield, she felt a flicker of hope ignite within her heart—a hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to build a future together, one bath at a time.

❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀ ❀•°❀°•❀

Everything here belongs to me. @blurpleuni-squid

This is only a draft of what I want the story to be, I will be improving it but whoever reads this I would appreciate some constructive criticism.

I was exploring some ocean ruins when I noticed the roof of a village house hiding on a cliffside, and found an entire underground community inside a lush cave! (ft photobombing allays)

conveniently, I got an empty map from the ruins so I opened it up and...

there's nothing on the surface but paths

I guess it got too cold for the villagers so they moved underground

This place is my new muse