#[liquid smoke musing (writings)]

[voyage-inferno]

Bet the first time Bennett spent the night in his own apartment, it was really weird.

No snoring, no shifting, no muffled mumbles escaping dreams. The Guild most likely has communal sleeping areas for those who live or need to stay there, (builds community and saves on rooms), so for the first night in his life, Bennett was sleeping under a roof. Alone.

It's not the same in the hollows of trees, or under temporary shelters. He's not alone there. The bugs and birds and bats and foxes keep him company. Even the Hilichurls count for that, technically.

So the second night, he goes back to his old bunk in the quiet of night. Just. One more time, sleeping, surrounded by the people he knows and trusts with his life. His family.

(and it becomes a thing. When everything is too much- for one reason or another- Bennett can be found in his old room, in his old bed. Sleeping as soundly as the fallen snow.)

[yumeaoka-chan]

A Witch & Her Spider

Pairing: Hobie Brown × Reader/ Demon! Hobie x Witch! Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: flirting, pining, clingy hobie, touchy hobie, lovesick reader, lovesick hobie, cursing, no physical description of reader(besides clothing), reader is AFAB, fighting(idk why I keep writing fighting scenes), blood, gore, death(it's really not as bad as it looks I promise)

Summary: And let it be known, no harm shall come to the Spider's witch, lest the culprit be webbed and eaten whole.

A/N: Credit for the lovely banners goes to @the-shroom-garden !!! Week 4 of Octobie @the-kr8tor , let's go!!! I promise the next thing will be a little more... wholesome😭🤚 Also, Hobie calls R starlight cuz her magic looks like stars💕

“Now where did I put that night orchid…?”

“...Still workin’, starlight?”

With wide eyes and a gasp, you turn around to level your intruder with a glare. A small huff leaves your lips and you place your hands on your hips, looking up at the smirking demon before you. He chuckles softly and leans down just so that your eyes are level with his, his multiple piercings glinting under the light. His long hair moves to frame his face, gold pieces adorning it like the most beautiful of jewels. You can practically feel his cool breath fanning your rapidly heating cheeks. Piercing gold eyes bore into yours as Hobie grins at you cheekily. It makes you scoff and you turn back to rummage through your cupboard of potion ingredients.

“Jumpy tonight, aren't we? Is it because it's a full moon?” You roll your eyes before handing him a a small glowing vial, a ghost of a smile on your lips. He takes it gladly, his grin turning genuine as he slips the sleeping potion into the pocket of his trousers. The demon barging into your cottage was nothing new, of course. You'd known him since you were twelve, after all. Just a young witchling who was tasked to summon a familiar during your studies. Only to accidentally summon a very powerful, very playfully annoying demon prince instead.

Hobie had been about the same age in demon years as you around the time yet, he still towered over you like it was nothing. As you had gaped at him in awe, all he did was take a look around your home and scrunch up his nose in apparent disgust.

“Not to be rude or anythin’, but it smells like a red cap had a party with a bloody ogre in here…” His words had snapped you out of your astounded daze and you let out a loud snort of laughter before pointing to your black cauldron. Black liquid bubbled inside, smoke from the brew wafting through the air.

“Tongue of wartfrogs and toenail clippings of ogre do tend to smell like shit.” His grin had been so wide that you could see the glistening pair of fangs in his mouth.

“Awful stuff, witchling. What poor bastard is gettin’ that?” After that day, you two were inseparable. He always took time out of his day to visit you, sometimes even crashing on your sofa just so he didn't have to leave. You never liked to admit it, but you enjoyed his company. Loved it, even. It was like something in your life just clicked in place when Hobie appeared and you truly wouldn't have it any other way. The feeling of arms wrapping around your middle pulls you out of your musings, a smile flitting across your face as he drapes himself over you.

You take a moment to lean back in his arms, closing your eyes as he rests his chin on your shoulder. Hobie's locs tickle your cheeks, his cool breath fanning your neck. Slowly, you turn in his arms to face him, tilting your head back as you look at him with a teasing smile. Gold eyes gazing into yours, warm and glittering and so very beautiful. It makes your breath hitch as you take time to admire his features. You've always thought Hobie looked ethereal and otherworldly, from his sharp chiseled jawline to the way his cheekbones sat high. Even his skin held this radiant glow that made it apparent that he belonged to another world entirely.

“You're awfully clingy tonight. Afraid you'll have to find someone else to cuddle though, Hobes.” You say teasingly as you pull back just a bit. He gives you a playful pout before chuckling softly, deep voice rich and warm in your ears. You hoped you didn't look as utterly taken with him as you felt. As you always have for quite a long time now. Hobie cocks his head to the side with a fond look shining in his eyes and you mentally curse the way your heart flutters in your chest.

“And why's that, starlight? Hm?” He's too gorgeous to be looking at you like that, you think as you force yourself to pull away from his embrace. Walking towards your bubbling cauldron, you wave your hand in the air, a black cloak magically appearing on your body in a shimmer of sparkles. Hobie follows you, eyebrow raised in question at the sudden summoning of your cloak. After whispering a quiet spell, the boiling liquid settles almost instantly, steam wafting through the air.

“Like you said earlier. It's a full moon. The perfect time to go foraging for ingredients.” Grabbing a wicker basket from off the shelf of your cupboard, you're surprised to turn around and find Hobie gazing down at you with an uneasy expression on his face. Brows furrowed and lips downturned into a slight frown, he crowds you until you're almost pressed against the shelf.

“Foraging? Tonight…? You don't really have to, right?” His words make you look up at him curiously. Hobie's easy going attitude is nowhere to be seen at the moment, just barely contained worry and something else. Something you couldn't quite find the name for. Giving him a smile, you press a hand softly against his cheek to ease his worries. You try not to dwell on how he instantly nuzzles his cheek against your palm when you do so.

“Afraid so. Night Orchids and certain mushrooms are only available during the night. And having a full moon means there's more in quantity.” As you move your hand back from his face, Hobie's hand is quick to gently bracelet your wrist, careful not to scratch you with his sharp nails. He places your hand right where his heart beats and you internally squeal when he leans down until your faces are inches apart.

“Why not stay here with me, yeah”, Hobie mumbles softly, gold eyes filled with warmth and shining as bright as the glittering stars. His other hand comes up to hold your chin, tilting your face up towards his more. A nervous chuckle escapes your lips and you turn your head away, pushing lightly at his chest as you try to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

“Something really is wrong with you tonight. What's with you? I'll be fine. Gone and back before you know it, promise.” You say hurriedly, voice a shaky mumble as you wriggle your way from off of the cupboard, moving so away from him and towards the door. Hobie's quick to grab you again before you can open it, his hand softly squeezing yours with something akin to urgency. You turn around to give him an exasperated look but falter when you see the pleading look in his eyes. He's serious about not letting you go out tonight. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, his eyes suddenly widen just a bit. He tilts his head to the side with a frustrated look on his face, eyes narrowed and a scowl on his lips. Moments pass before he lets out a long groan, releasing your hand so that he can scrub at his face in frustration.

“Stupid fuckers, I swear…”, he growls lowly under his breath and that's when you understand what has happened. There are times when Hobie gets mental messages from the Hells, some from his friends and others from his family, the latter he absolutely loathes. Hobie takes a deep breath before looking down at you again, his hands reaching out to gently rest on your shoulders.

“I've gotta go, starlight. I'll be gone for only a little while, then I'll come back. Please just… stay home and wait for me. Something about tonight just seems… off.” You want to laugh at his words, but the unreadable expression on his face makes you bite the chuckle back. Once you nod your head and reassure him that you won't leave, he's off with an annoyed scowl, slipping into the beckoning portal that he's suddenly opened on the floor. As soon as the portal closes over his head, you grip your basket and slip outside. The crisp night air makes you shiver just a bit and you pull up the hood on your cloak, humming a bit as you venture further into the woods behind your cottage.

Sure, Hobie might get upset that you left anyways, but he should know by now that you do what you want. Regardless of his very adamant warnings.

“He's such a worry wart. I'm a powerful and capable young witch! I can handle myself, dammit!” You huff as you kneel down to pick the patch of glowing blue mushrooms beneath a white oak tree. You spot a couple singing purple thistles a ways ahead, storing the mushrooms inside of your basket before trudging on. As you pick and search for ingredients, the one flower you've been searching for is nowhere to be found. After several minutes of looking, you let out a loud groan of exasperation. You frown as you contemplate searching deeper into the forest, glancing back at your lit cottage in the distance. Would it truly be a good idea to go so far away when Hobie said something was off around here?

As much as you trusted Hobie, you really did need more night orchids, especially for the batch of potions that your client was coming to pick up tomorrow. Steeling your resolve, you step deeper into the thick forest, the trees so tall that it seems like they're touching the moon. The stars are hard to see in such a dense part of the woods, so you utter a small spell, a pocket size ball of light magically flickering into existence. It floats in front of you, tiny shimmering sparkles trailing after it as it slowly moves in the air. It makes your foraging a bit easier.

While you travel deeper into the woods, a sudden feeling of unease creeps up your spine. It makes goosebumps appear on your arms and your heart thud loudly in your chest, so loud you can hear it in your ears. There's something like a thick aura settling around you, stifling the air and making it harder to keep calm. Your eyes dart to and fro as you start to pick up the pace, eager to find the night orchids and hurry on home. Spotting a bundle of the flowers, you quickly gather them and place them inside of your basket, clutching it to your chest as you turn to head back home. Hobie was surely waiting for you there by now, probably upset and pouting that you left despite his warnings. The idea of him waiting up for you eases the nervousness bubbling in your stomach just a bit and you speed walk towards the cottage.

The ball of light floats in front of you as you press on. It's then that you hear the rustling of leaves nearby, making you snap your head in the direction it had come from. Narrowing your eyes, you study the bush a few feet away from you, only for your stomach to drop at the sight of a pair of glowing yellow slits for eyes. Low rumbling growls surround you, the sound making sweat drip down your back, the barking the thing to make you break out into a sprint.

Werewolves, a pack of eight of them, froth at the mouth as they chase after you. Large dripping maws snapping at your heels and cloak, howls and growls ringing through the night. You can feel the saliva of one of them dripping onto your arm and you quickly flick your wrist in its direction, vines shooting up from the ground to grip its tail and yank it back away from you. Your chest heaves as you dash towards your cottage, wicker basket swinging wildly in your grip as you try to escape the pack of werewolves. Sweat beads on your forehead and the hood of your cloak falls off your head as you zoom past the trees. Glancing back, you can see another one lunging straight for your foot, quickly shouting out a spell to make it take a mouthful of flowers instead.

A yelp leaves your lips as you feel claws yank at your cloak, pulling you back. You quickly make it disappear into a pile of shimmers with a quick swipe of your hand, making the werewolf stumble and bark angrily. Just as you spot the lit cottage in the distance, sharp teeth imbed themselves into your ankle, making your scream pierce through the night sky. Gritting your teeth, you lift your hand and shoot small bolts of fire from your fingertips, hitting the werewolf in the eyes and burning its fur. It howls and rubs it's face in the dirt as you press on. Blood oozes down your ankle and makes your shoes soggy, pain flaring up every time you press down on it. You have to suck it up, have to keep going until you were home. Hobie was waiting for you, after all. You couldn't die here.

Just as you reach the yard of your home, claws sink deeply into your shoulder and teeth into your calf, and you cry out as you're thrown onto the ground. Dirt and sweat sticks to your cheeks as you groan with pain, your head having made an impact first. Crimson drips down from your shoulder onto your dress and you press a hand there to stop the bleeding. The pack of werewolves creep slowly upon you then, sharp teeth bared and claws on full display as they lick their chops. Panting from the flaring pain and the run to your home, you lift up a hand, your palm glowing a bright white as you ready yourself for their attack. Fear makes you shake and your lips tremble as you gaze at the pack of hungry creatures. You couldn't fight off this many alone, especially in your injured state. It was like you could feel Death kissing the back of your neck as you peered at your reflection in their glistening orbs.

The front door of the cottage suddenly slams open then, a thick and ominous mist spilling from inside. It makes both you and the werewolves look on with shock and anticipation. It's eerily quiet then, not a single one of you moves. Something darts out of the opened door moments later, so lightning quick that it's like a blur. There's a hiss and a sudden whimper before one of the creatures drop dead before you. Your eyes are wide with shock and disbelief as you look up. Hobie glowers at the pack menacingly, murder gleaming in his golden eyes, his pupils now thin slits. From his jaw there now sits a frightening pair of spider-like fangs, what he uses to viciously tear off the head of another werewolf. Crimson drips down his maw as the sound of bones snapping from his fangs sounds loud in your ears, and you can do nothing but watch as he spits the head into the dirt. His lower half is now that of a spider, eight legs long and black as night as he scurries over towards another. Using two legs and his claws, he tears through the creature, ripping it clean in half, blood and gore from its insides splattering his hair. Hobie mauls through the pack with ease, a fury you've never seen before marring his frightening expression.

Only one lone werewolf remains, shivering and whimpering as it watches its pack get decimated. Tail tucked between its legs and ears drooping, it turns to quickly escape, only to let out a terrified whimper when it comes face to face with the livid Spider. Hobie's hand shoots out to grip the creature by its neck, yanking it up until it's eye level with him. The werewolf whines, its feet high off of the ground now. Hobie tilts his head again, eyes cold and boring into the creature. His voice rumbles through the night and makes even your bones shiver.

“Touch her again and I'll eat you alive. You'll feel every agonizing moment of me gorging on your body. Understand me, dog…?” His threat isn't even that. It's a promise, one that you're sure he'll keep. Not even waiting for the creature to respond, he throws it away from him, his attention now on you as he slowly transforms back into his more human form. You can hear the creature howling and scampering off but you don't pay much attention to it.

All you can see is Hobie, whose frightening and menacing appearance has all but faded, his eyes once more those gold liquid pools of warmth you love so much. He's quick to bend down and scoop you up in his arms, holding you close to his chest as he walks inside of your cottage. The warmth of his arms makes you nuzzle closer to him and your eyes flutter shut as he presses a tender kiss on your forehead. There's no pain as he holds you safely in his arms, his every touch soft and delicate. You let yourself drift off to sleep as he cares for you, adrenaline wearing off and exhaustion settling in your bones. Hobie's whispered words are like the sweetest of honey, the most delectable of nectar as you slip into slumber.

“I've got you, starlight. I'm here.”

[sorcerer-felix]

A Life Reimagined

@innermostthoughtsartappreciation asked:

I desire to be transformed completely. To not only have a new body and personality, but a completely new life past, memories, present, and reality too. Can you change all of that?

You watched the sun stood high in the blue sky as you stood on the calm sidewalk in a upper-class area of the town. You had made a choice, a bold one, and now you were on your way to meet Felix, the sorcerer who promised to grant your deepest desire: a complete transformation. You stood outside Felix’s luxury apartment, the kind of place that gleamed with old-money charm, intimidating in its opulence. You took a deep breath, pushing down the discomfort of feeling out of place. This world, so polished and white, seemed foreign to you, a dark-skinned man with a yearning for transformation. You took a deep breath and stepped through the door, the air inside thick with the scent of expensive cologne. “Ah, you made it!” Felix’s voice rang out, smooth and welcoming, as he appeared in the hallway. He wore a light blue silk shirt that shimmered under the soft lights, and his blond hair fell artfully over his forehead.

“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” “No, I’m here,” you replied, your voice steadier than your heart felt. “I want this. I desire to be transformed completely. To not only have a new body and personality, but a completely new life, past, memories, present, and reality too.” Felix smirked, a glint of mischief in his blue eyes. “That’s the spirit! Come, let me show you my lab.” He motioned for you to follow him, weaving through the opulent furniture that felt foreign to you. As he led you deeper into the apartment, your anticipation mingled with anxiety. You entered a room filled with strange devices and glass tubes, each filled with colorful liquids that swirled like trapped rainbows.

A central glass tube dominated the space, and Felix gestured toward it with a flourish. “For your extensive wish, it makes sense to split you into your components and rearrange you,” he said, his tone almost playful. You swallowed hard, uncertainty gnawing at you. “Components?” “Yes! Your intellect, your appearance, your very essence. It will all be distilled into vials.” He grinned and stepped aside. “Just step inside the tube.” With a deep breath, you walked toward the glass structure. With a shaky breath, you climbed into the tube. The door sealed shut, and suddenly, a wave of vibrant colors enveloped you. *Ssssssshhh* The sound of your body dissolving into smoke echoed in your mind, the pain ripping through you like a thousand needles.

You would have screamed if your mouth hadn’t already transformed, disintegrating into a cloud of swirling hues. Felix’s voice drifted through the haze. “Don’t worry. It’s all part of the process.” As your essence condensed into small vials, you fought to hold onto your consciousness. What remained of you was an array of colorful vials. You were aware, but detached, witnessing as Felix, now wearing a lab coat, took notes and began to categorize your essence. “Intellect, prowess, libido…” He continued to write, categorizing you like an object rather than a person. Then, his pen ran dry. “Hmm,” he mused, glancing at a vial containing your skin color. “You had more than enough dark pigments anyhow!” He filled the pen with the liquid, and you felt a jolt of anger surge through you.

Felix mixed your essence with other vials, shaking them until a muscular torso began to form within a new vial.

A sense of delight washed over you, but it quickly faded as Felix placed the vial on a cupboard, leaving you in limbo.

The weeks that followed your transformation had been a blur of anticipation and anxiety. You had no idea what Felix had in store for you, and the wait felt excruciating. Then, one day, the moment of truth arrived. Miles, the chairman of a renowned corporation, entered Felix's lab, exuding an air of distinction. His gray hair and tailored pinstripe suit exuded wealth and maturity. Felix, with a mischievous glint in his eye, greeted him warmly. "Hey, Miles! I have something special for you today. The perfect solution to your little problem." Miles' eyes lit up with curiosity. "I'm all ears, Felix. What have you got?" With a dramatic flourish, Felix presented the vial containing your essence. "This, my friend, is the fountain of youth you've been seeking. A new you, ready to be unleashed." Miles took the vial, his fingers trembling slightly. "Extraordinary. How do I...?" "Just uncork it, my dear Miles. The rest will take care of itself." Felix's voice was laced with amusement. As Miles left the lab, you felt a sense of foreboding. What would become of you now?

In the luxurious bathroom of a high-end hotel, Miles stood before the mirror, his eyes fixed on the vial.

With trembling hands, he uncorked it, and a thick, blue smoke began to swirl within. The smoke, a manifestation of your essence, tried to escape, to find its own form, but it was drawn inexorably towards Miles. *No, please!* you screamed in your mind, but an irresistible force was pulling you towards him. The smoke merged with Miles, and you felt your consciousness blending with his. It was like being submerged in a rushing river, unable to swim against the current. The transformation was rapid and intense. Miles' body changed, his skin tightened, wrinkles disappearing, his hair darkening, and his physique becoming muscular and youthful and finally he sprouted a goatee. His gray suit transformed into a sleek dark blue silk shirt and dark green silk pants, emphasizing his new, younger self. "Incredible!" Miles exclaimed, his voice now deeper and more resonant. He flexed his arms, admiring his reflection. "I feel like a new man!"

You were now a part of Miles, sharing his body, his thoughts, and his desires. His libido surged, and you could sense his arousal, his cock straining against the silk fabric. You tried to protest, to make your presence known, but he was oblivious to your cries. *This is amazing!* Miles thought, *I feel powerful, virile. And look at me—young, fit, and wealthy. I'm unstoppable!* His arrogance and self-absorption were suffocating and his thoughts were a stark contrast to your values. His mind was devoid of empathy, focused solely on wealth, success, and self-gratification. He stroked his new body, his hands running over his chest and abs, and you felt disgusted, wishing you could separate yourself from him. As Miles admired his reflection, his hand drifted lower, caressing his crotch. *I could get used to this*, he thought, a satisfied hum escaping his lips, "Mmm..." You cringed, feeling trapped and violated. As he reveled in his new body, you cursed Felix, "Felix, you motherfucker!" You didn't ask to be a mere power boost for some wealthy businessman. Sure, you had wanted a new life, a transformation, but not like this. A prisoner in a stranger's body and mind, and the realization hit you hard. Felix had not given you a new life; he had taken your essence and used it to empower another—a man whose values were antithetical to everything you stood for. Little did you know, Felix's plan was far more intricate than either of you could have imagined. As you struggled to adjust to your new reality, Felix was already setting the stage for his next move, one that would change the course of your existence forever.

Meanwhile, in the luxury confines of Felix's lab, Felix stared at an empty vial, an amused expression playing on his lips. “Let’s see what we have here,” he murmured, as a blue liquid began to fill the glass. The secrets of Miles’ corporate empire were materializing in the blue liquid, siphoning away from him like sand through an hourglass. Such was the concealed cost of the transformation, and it was now being paid by the unsuspecting Miles.

“Such a shame,” Felix mused, “to lose all that potential.” A glint of satisfaction sparkled in Felix’s eyes as he lifted the vial to his lips. “Cheers!” he exclaimed, downing the contents in one swift motion. In an instant, his lab coat transformed into a luxurious dark-grey pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and a blue tie that seemed to shimmer with power. “Well, well, well,” he remarked, admiring his reflection. “Looks like I’m moving up in the world.”

A moment later, he stood in the same high-end hotel where Miles had just undergone his transformation. “Hey Felix, great to see you! Thanks for my transformation, it’s awesome!” Miles voice dripped with gratitude, blissfully unaware of the cost. “Happy you like it!” Felix replied, feigning sincerity. The smirk on his face betrayed him, hinting at something more sinister. “Guess with a body like this, I can work a bit less and enjoy my wealth!” Miles boasted, puffing out his chest. “First,” Felix interrupted, his tone shifting. “Let’s talk about the price of that transformation.” “What do you mean?” Miles asked, confusion knitting his brow. “You’ve lost all important information about your company and the secrets of its products,” Felix explained, amusement dancing in his eyes. Miles’ expression morphed from confusion to shock. “Felix, without the information, my corporate wouldn't be competitive! I need that knowledge back!” Panic seeped into his voice, the realization hitting him like a cold wave. “Relax,” Felix said, a playful glint in his gaze. “I have the knowledge now, and I will share it with you. Just transfer 30% of your shares to me, and everything will be fine again.” “Thirty percent?” Miles echoed, disbelief coloring his voice. He ran a hand through his dark hair, the reality crashing down on him. “That’s a lot! I wouldn’t have a majority anymore!” “Better than losing everything you’ve built,” Felix replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Think of it as a... partnership.” Miles hesitated, his brow furrowed. “I don’t like this. You’re taking advantage of me.” Felix shrugged, the glimmer of innocence in his demeanor undiminished. “It’s business, Miles. You wanted to be young and fit. This is the price of your wish.” With a long exhale, Miles relented. “Fine. I’ll do it. Just... make sure I don’t lose my company.” “Of course!” Felix chirped, a grin splitting his face.

The next day the air in the office hummed with unspoken anticipation as Miles adjusted his collar. You felt a flicker of hope in Miles, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. He wore a dark blue silk shirt that hugged his newly toned body, and the tight pants accentuated his muscular thighs. He looked like a man reborn—no, transformed. He had spent years building his empire, and today, he would flaunt his transformation. “Wow, this is going to be something,” Miles murmured, a grin spreading across his face. “I can’t wait to show these old dogs what I’m made of now! Let’s see how they react,” he said, opening the door and striding into the boardroom. Confidence radiated from him, the kind that came with age and power, now paired with a fresh body. You felt a chill wash over you as you entered the room in his mind, watching through his eyes. The room was filled with younger versions of the old board members—each one with a well-groomed goatee and a confident smile.

“What the hell?” Miles exclaimed. “They look just like me!” You could feel the betrayal coursing through him, but it mirrored your own horror. *Felix must have mixed potions with my essence for all of them,* you realized, panic surging.  It drove you nearly mad to be so close to your own fragmented self, scattered among these men. The sensation was maddening, a cacophony of identities colliding within you. You wanted to scream, but you just hadn't a mouth to scream anymore. “Felix, you little—” Miles muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he glanced at the door. Just then, Felix sauntered in, his blond hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights, dressed in an immaculate dark-blue pinstripe suit. He wore a smug grin that made your stomach churn.

“Gentlemen!” Felix’s voice sliced through the tension in the room. “Welcome to today’s board meeting! First of all, I’d like to thank you for transferring your shares to me, granting me a delightful 76% ownership of this lovely company.” A wave of murmurs passed through the group. Miles felt a knot tighten in his stomach and his expression faltered. “Wait, what? 76%? You can’t just—” Miles started, but Felix held up a hand, cutting him off. “Secondly, I propose we proclaim me as chairman. Don’t bother expressing your thoughts on the matter, as my vote has already sealed the deal.” He waved dismissively, his confidence radiating like heat from a flame. “Let’s focus on what’s important. Up to work, boys—earn some money for me!” Felix leaned back, crossing his arms with a satisfied grin. “And do me a favor, please wear more professional clothes. Your silk shirts and tight pants belong in a club, not an office.” Miles felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He was being dismissed as chairman, reduced to a mere asset in Felix's game. *This is ridiculous,* he thought, anger brewing inside him. But you didn’t notic as your mind was racing due to a new sensation. *What is happening?* You struggled to concentrate, the sensation of being splintered into countless pieces making the room spin. Whispers of thoughts and ambitions enveloped you, each board member a reflection of your essence—fragments of who you once were, now scattered among men who didn’t understand your values. As Felix continued to speak, his voice became a distant hum, a mere backdrop to your internal turmoil. Suddenly, a whisper danced in your mind, *“Don’t worry!”* It was Felix’s voice, echoing in your consciousness. *“Soon you will be more focused again!”* Relief and dread battled within you. You sensed something twisted beneath his playful tone. Then came his next revelation, cold as ice. *“Actually, you will be so focused after you've assimilated to your new existence that you will only have one target. You are the men's greed now.”* The realization hit you like a freight train. *What?* you screamed inwardly, panic rising. *I’m just… this?*  *“Yes,”* Felix responded, the gleeful tone in his voice unmistakable. *“You’ll appear in the particular man whenever one of them gets greedy. So I guess there���s a lot to do for you!”* Panic surged through you. *This can’t be happening.*

Your thoughts spiraled as the men’s ambitions surged around you, feeding off the greed you embodied. The envy simmering in the room was palpable, and it coursed through you like adrenaline. You were not a person anymore; you were a mere reflection of their desires. You sensed the greed simmering beneath their polished exteriors, and it was intoxicating. The thrill of ambition coursed through you, and you could feel how it twisted their thoughts. Yet, amid the chaos, a new realization began to take shape. You could influence them, stoke their desires. You sensed their eyes lingering on Felix, their thoughts turning lascivious. *More, we need to earn more,* you thought, your ambitions spiraling with their greed. *Felix, you need him! He would make a perfect trophy boy!* The idea thrilled you, a rush of power coursing through your fragmented essence. Suddenly, all inhibitions evaporated like morning mist. The greed within you surged, snaking through the men, igniting their ambition. You reveled in it, letting it swell until their thoughts became almost primal. “Felix looks good enough to eat,” one of them murmured, eyes dark with want. Another chimed in, “I’d love to see him in lace briefs, sprawled on a silk bed, offering himself submissively.”

You chuckled silently, the chaos of their desires intertwining with your own. You were no longer just a whisper; you were the embodiment of their ambition, their greed, and it felt intoxicating. Their ambitions and lusts fueled you. As they plotted and schemed, you reveled in the knowledge that you were the catalyst for their most primal instincts. “Gentlemen,” Felix said, oblivious to the storm brewing around him, “let’s get to work. I expect results.” And as they responded with fervent nods, you smiled inwardly, the thrill of control washing over you. *Yes, this is just the beginning.*

[white-poppie]

𝐆𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐋♡𝐕𝐄 — H.Shuji x reader

Synopsis: You are a small novelist, struggling for inspiration and ideas until you come across a charming gangster, called Hanma Shuji, who turns out to be your muse. Months later when your novel is published with him as the ML, the obsession only grows.

Pairing: Hanma Shuji x gn!author!reader Genre: YANDERE!, MAFIA! AU TW: crying, drinking, smoking, reader and Hanma both being twisted in the head, gore, Hanma being the sadist he is, hanma calls reader 'pretty' and 'doe', WC: 1.7K +

NOTE: I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT PROMOTE THIS KIND OF BEHAVIOUR. It is impractical scary and even gross. Violation of someone’s personal space/ life is not being romanticized in this post. Rather it is JUST A FICTIONAL TROUPE WITH FICTIONAL CHARACTERS.

A/N: Don't worry, its SFW!

Your grip is shaky, and tender as you gulp the bitter liquid down, it burns your throat in an ambrosial haze. It's as if your brain is barren with not a seed of creativity getting planted to fertilize into a bigger idea. You breathe a sob-sigh and sniffle, downing yourself in the liquid confidence.

You bury your face in your palms, and your elbows shake as you lean on the wooden counter. The music is loud and chaotic; it isn't a place for someone like you who spends most of her time, copped up in her mind, creating realms of her own as she writes.

You can't write. You can't write. You can't write. There have been no ideas, no inspirations, no random snippets of intense plotting and character-building...what will you do?

The neon lights dance on the yellowish-coloured tonic in your glass.

You hear the seat beside you being dragged. Your eyes fall towards the source of the sound, eyes meeting slender veiny hands, bejewelled with tattoos on their backs. A thick vein runs down his right hand to his elbow.

Your eyes gently trail upwards. His black long-sleeved turtleneck is rolled up to his elbows, his highlighted hair is neatly combed to one side, and then you look up at his long, chiselled face, sharp nose and dragon eyes...you realise he is already gazing at you with his lips turned into a soft smirk. You feel a sudden heat suffusing your cheeks. You try to avert your gaze, but his eyes have already captured yours and neither of you seem willing to let go. He continues to look into your eyes, and you feel yourself slipping away. You can savour the intensity of the moment, and it's almost electric. He tilts his head and asks, "What's a pretty angel like you doing crying in a place like this ?"

You breathe sharply and look away, averting your gaze from the handsome stranger, "just...going through things." You say.

He looks at you and nods, but he clearly isn't used to taking no for an answer. "Why spend your youth wallowing on the side, when you..." He raises his glass and points at the group of people huddled on the dance floor, "could be enjoying it on the stage instead."

You look at him in wonder...stage. William Shakespeare used it before: "The world is a stage and all men and women are players."

You blink and answer, "Why be the player when you can be the narrator?" You say softly, steering your eyes from the dance floor, back to him.

His eyebrows raised in delight at your words. He was used to people being scared of his appearance, his stature, his voice and tattoos. He just screamed 'danger' wherever he was. People talked to him for only a few reasons: for money, for partnership, for mercy or for him to warm their bed in such a way that he would ruin any other partners for them.

"Why be the player when you can be the narrator?" he says excitedly, "--when you can control the play from the sidelines." He says, adding his own twisted ideology to your personality-introducing a statement to him. It wasn't what you meant, but you didn't correct him. "You are an interesting one, you know?" he says and fetches a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, "you are one of the only people I've met who can keep a conversation dynamic." He grins with a wicked smirk, and you swear your heart hammers for him in a way that it has for no one.

"I didn't catch your name," you say softly.

"Hanma Shuji," he says with a proud smirk, "what's your name, pretty?" He asks.

"Y/N L/N," you say and ask again, curious about the man in front of you. You are never one for small talk, but there is just something so magnetic about him that you have to ask, "What do you do for a living, Hanma-san?"

"Just Hanma is okay," he corrects and sighs, a mischievous grin on his face, "I am a mob boss, have a big gang wrapped around my finger like fools." He studies your expression, "Did I scare ya? It's okay if you wanna leave, not gonna hold it against you or send my 'scary men' after you." He says exaggeratedly.

You blink blankly at him, studying his face. “I had my suspicions…got that vibe from you.” You say and pause, “But for some reason I am not scared.”

Hanma dissects your reply, drawing closer to you as he says quietly, his words heavy and menacing but like a siren's song, “You should be.”

“I should be,” you nod your head softly, “but I am not…"

Hanma studies your face with an unmoving stare. His breath trickles down your face, a gentle blend of cigarettes and mint. He looks at you as if he is remembering the exact proportions of your face.

"You intrigue me," he says and chuckles, "you still haven't told me why you were crying in a bar." He says and softly wipes the remaining tears from the corners of your eyes. For some reason, you don't feel revolted by this stranger's touch.

You shake your head and reply, "A writer loses all sense of the world when their mind is barren of inspiration. I was just looking for a push, I guess. But I was only met with a bottle of whiskey and more questions than answers. I can't help but feel like I'm in a never-ending cycle, blindly searching for an answer that I may never find. I'm stuck in my own head, unable to break free. I can't seem to find my way out. "

As Hanma hums, "So you're a writer, huh? Should have known by how eloquent you are." He's silent for a minute and then says, "Never was a book guy, sitting in one place just reading... it's too monotonous for an adrenaline junkie like me. In my teen years, I loved those twisted romances and thriller mangas." He chuckles in a way that makes you shiver.

You raise your eyebrow at him, "Dark romances, huh? Did they inspire you into becoming a mob boss?"

Hanma hisses with a faint smile on his face. "Not so loud, sweetheart." You chuckle and apologize.

"What do mob bosses do?" you ask curiously.

He crosses his arms and leans back. "What don't we do?" he replies. "Money laundering, smuggling, extortion, you know, the usual." He smiles, and you can see a hint of mischief in his eyes.

You can't help but smile at how nonchalant he is about it. You sense a darkish longing from both ends, like two poles of the magnet so close, just waiting for the right distance to be pulled close. It's like a course of warm ideas is injected into your brain. You can't help but feel drawn to him like he's the natural ending to your story.

It is interrupted by Hanma receiving a call. He picks up the phone and his expression immediately darkens. "I'll be there." He says and cuts the call and looks at you with longing and apology. He stands up, takes a deep breath and says, "I'm sorry, but I have to leave. I'll keep an eye on you." He takes one last look at you before turning to leave.

"I found my muse..." you mutter to yourself as you see him leave.

[1 year later]

And he meant that. He meant when he said 'I'll keep an eye on you.' He was a mob boss, so it was easy for him to find your whereabouts and know everything about you. It almost seemed like he didn't want to hide his presence from you. However, you for some odd reason didn't mind this man spying on your life; it made you excited.

By this time you had completely researched his life, persona, crimes, and remembered them like a textbook. Multiple articles of his gang's works were pasted on your apartment walls along with letters in front of your apartment. These letters had no sender or address, but the cologne smell was him. You pinned the letters to your walls, sighing and reading them multiple times a day, knowing he was watching you all the time.

You smiled softly, signing your book 'Ghastly Love' in the author convention. Having been acclaimed as one of the bestselling dark romances on booktok and bookstagram, you were elated to have met Hanma Shuji that night...the man who inspired you to write a book. You had never met him for a year. However, you felt his presence, his gaze and the imaginary version of him you created in your head.

Another happy fan comes and you sign the book for them. Multiple people praise your writing, but it feels so empty. The convention ends and everyone leaves. Everyone is wrapping up when one last fan comes.

I'm sorry I can't do anything. My train got late." He says, drawing your attention as the security guards push him away and all the other writers stare at him.

"Come on I just want Y/N L/N's sign. I've travelled far for this, I'll leave in 5 minutes." He says and you chuckle.

"Let him in," you say and smile, impressed by this fan's dedication. He walks confidently towards you

You look up and smile at another person, he is taller than the rest, your hands are ready to sign the book when you spot the familiar tattoo on his hand...Hanma.

A shocked gasp escapes your throat as you look up at him, your eyes watering. He lowers his mask and smirks. "Hey doe." He says, calling you the name your ML called your FL in the novel. "You've become quite famous over the past few months, yeah? But let me tell you, the guy you wrote about in your novel is nothing. This right here, in front of you is the real deal." He smirks.

You sob and hug him tightly. You had him now...and you wouldn't let him go. He was your muse, after all. Suddenly, he pulls away and looks deeply into your eyes. He whispers, "So freaking proud of ya'." He says and kisses you.

'Dedicated to the handsome stranger I found in the bar that night. Thank you for being my muse; I highly anticipate meeting you again, and this time I won't let you go."

DID YALL KNOW IVE WRITTEN A BOOK LIKE Y/N TOO?!?! Of Vengeance and Ashes” -> BUY NOW!!!! I am a 15-year-old author who needs support, I assure you it won't disappoint! It's okay if you don't buy, it would be enough to share the link with someone else who might be interested! I humbly request you support my career as a child author by purchasing my book. This would help me to write more books in future.

Also Check out: L'appel du vide (✔️) (Synopsis: Your husband, Hanma Shuji is dead! With no memories of what transpired two days before his death, you team up with Tachibana Naoto, Chifuyu Matsuno, Ryuguji Ken and Mitsuya Takashi, you go on a journey full of betrayals and twists. Can you find out what really happened to your husband? )

© white-poppie 2023. all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, or translate without permission. do not claim work or layout as yours.

— TOKYO REVENGERS - Fanfictions

TAGS: @akumicchi, @denkis111, @jazzylove, @lordmypantsaresocool, @futuristicallykawaiiturtle, @kristaline2dmensimp, @rintaroubby @nanaseishiro @cleaningfairylevi, @buttercupspotify

PPL WHO ASKED TO BE TAGGED IN THIS FIC (temp tags, lemme know if you wanna be added to my permanent taglist): @shujivenus, @soulhasshattered

﹒ Taglist  ﹒

[changenameno]

My Own (Chapter 1)

Summary:

Geralt finds himself once more on the path, gloomily looking at what lies ahead. And you? You had no one, no home and certainly no coin. Well that’d be something you had in common. No coin. You two are surely off to a great start… Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem. Nymph Reader

Warnings: 18+, death, blood, cursing, angst, MDNI (there may be smut in the future)

Word count: 1.5K A/N: This is my first attempt writing something that I’d actually post. Have been afraid to do so, for a very, very long time. It’s not proofread, any mistakes are my own. Please be kind, comments/rebblogs are very appreciated…Thank you❤️✨

Shout-out to the lovely @livesinfantasyland not only for her beautiful crafted moodboards (which you should totally check out!) but also her kind words of encouragement! One moodboard of yours especially sparked my writing muse, called “Bathing with the Witcher”. Thank you soooo much! You truly are a sweetheart, and I hope you will like this…

!The Witcher characters and world are not mine!

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻 CHAPTER 1 Looking back you saw the castle ablaze with fire. Smoke spirals rising into the dark sky, only adding to the clouds above. Your home was burning to the ground before your very eyes and you could do nothing to save it.

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He grunted, reproachfully opening his yellow eyes. A new day was only just breaking, not even fully light yet. It had been another night on the road, without a job, without coin… Yesterday Geralt had tried selling the Kikimora to the alderman, who in turn had promised their mage would buy the beast. Turns out, Stregobor was just another weird wizard, talking nonsense about lesser evils. Then there had been Renfri, he didn’t actually think she’d leave Balviken but he wasn’t very prepared for the market fiasco either. Now he squinted at where his swords lay next to him. With the addition of a brooch attached to one them, it should serve as a reminder that something like that would never happen again. He slowly sat up, sore and still bloody. His thigh throbbed, there was a deep gash in his black breeches where Renfri had stabbed him. Vesemir would have scolded him for not taking care of his wound right away. Grunting once more, he got up and walked to where Roach was standing near a tree. She tried to nuzzle him and he let her, petting her sturdy neck then reaching into his saddlebags and grabbing a cloth and his least favourite potion. He didn’t bother sitting down, Geralt simply poured the liquid over the wound. “Rrgg f-fuck,” he grimaced. Once the excruciating pain had subsided a little, he wrapped the white cloth around his thigh, all the while breathing through his clenched teeth. Roach nickered softly, he turned his yellow eyes toward her and lifted one of his brows “Hey don’t be mean… I know I should’ve done that yesterday.” Suddenly his head whipped to the right, he had heard something on the other side of the clearing. Though he didn’t see anything yet, Geralt was sure that there was something or more likely someone behind that huge oak tree.  

                                                               Slowly and without making a sound he made his way over to his swords, picking the one closets to him and readying his fighting stance. His nostrils flared, the reason why he picked up the sword in the first place. That smell. Unnatural. A tinge of blood but also another very pleasant scent nearly overpowering his senses. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly that scent was, but he’d never smelled anything like it. Though now that he was thinking about it more clearly, he remembered that he had smelled it before. It had been in the air, only a whiff but still the reason he woke up so early. That must mean whoever was hiding, had been there for some time now. Geralt lowered his sword, staring at the oak tree. Too tired and angry to come up with a refined plan he simply roared, “Show yourself!” With his luck, obviously nothing happened. Waiting a few more frustrating minutes, he finally made his way over to the oak tree. The dewy grass making his boots wet. As he reached the end of the clearing, he took step by soundless step around the thick tree trunk, once more sword at the ready. It was like watching a cat stalking its prey. Or so he thought. Before he could even lift his sword, a branch hit him square in the face and with such force, he stumbled backwards.

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It felt like your lungs were drowning, drowning in thick smoke. Even though the castle was dozens of miles behind you by now, it still felt like you couldn’t breathe. The cool night air doing nothing in aiding the battle of your burning lungs against your panic stricken system. They couldn’t get you. They couldn’t… Your mind supplied very unhelpfully, that they indeed could get you, because they had horses and were therefore a lot quicker than you. But you couldn’t stop. You had to get away, so you continued to stumble through the night. Then you heard it, the rumbling thunder of the rapidly approaching horses. “There she is! Quick, we’ve got her!” “Over here!!” The voices rang through the night. Before you could run any further, the riders of doom had circled you. Wide eyed and breathing heavily you looked around. Tall horses surrounding you, all of which were ridden by deadly armed men. There was no escape. Looking at the ground you saw a branch, so you swiftly picked it up. It was barely longer than your forearm, but still better than nothing. One of the man dismounted his horse chuckling, “Aaaw that’s adorable, we’ve got ourselves a fighter. But Princess don’t bother, we shall deliver you unharmed. Isn’t that right?” He laughed darkly and the other surrounding men joined in. Yet you refused to lower the branch, so he kept talking as if you were a scared little girl. Technically you were scared but surely you were no little girl.

His first mistake, dismounting his horse. His second, nearing you without drawing his weapon. And thirdly underestimating you. He couldn’t finish his next demeaning sentence before you hit him over the head with all the strength you could muster. A truly horrid scream and cracking sound followed, then his body hit the ground. Unmoving. One of the other men screamed: “That damned idiot, get her!!” You let yourself fall onto your knees, releasing the branch and putting both your palms on the ground. Digging your fingers into the dirt, you began to murmur, the only thing that could save you now. The men grew uneasy, as did the horses. “What is she doing?” “How should I know?” “Make her stop!!” Suddenly a piercing pain exploded on your right shoulder. An arrow had struck you. You whimpered but didn’t stop whispering. Then finally the ground began to shake. “What’s happening!?” The horses panicked and reared up, just as the first root shot up and knocked the three men closest to you off, of the back of their horses. The resounding thud as they hit nearby trees, let chaos further explode around you. Screams, shying horses, roots continuing to shoot from the ground, pain. It was deafening. And yet you didn’t hear anything, besides your own racing heart. Quickly you got up on wobbly feet, trying to breathe through the pain. With your left hand you struggled to get a hold of the arrow sticking out of your shoulder, but you only succeeded in breaking the shaft off. The resounding pain, made you howl loudly. “F-uck…”, you pressed out. Oddly enough right then everything had come to a halt. Spooked by what’d happed, all the horses had either run off on their own, or with more or less conscious riders still in the saddle. The remaining men strewn on the ground unmoving.

The roots now, nowhere to be seen, as if they hadn’t just been beating dozens of armed men unconscious. Only weirdly shaped holes in the ground, pointing to an unnatural maybe magically induced battle. You didn’t really care about that though. The most pressing matter was, getting away, so you steadied yourself and started walking as fast as you could manage. Because your shoulder blade throbbed with every step, you weren’t going very fast at all.

Still you soldiered on. And on… and on. Through the night. Numbed by exhaustion and the horror that came with your escape, you weren’t very aware of your surroundings. Just enough that you’d picked up the branch before you left, as a last defence against who knows what.

As you continued to stumble through the woods, the first ray of light penetrated the thick foliage overhead. So you came to a halt at the edge of a clearing, leaning against a huge oak tree and sinking to your knees. The exhaustion catching up, made you lay down on your left side to not further antagonize your injured shoulder.

You lay completely still, eyes closed, for about ten minutes only concentrating on your breath. Seconds before you could finally welcome the blessed unconsciousness of dreamland, a roar nearly made you jump out of your skin: “Show yourself!”

CHAPTER 2

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Taglist:

If you're interested in being on my taglist, please let me know! And if you want to be taken off (my taglist), feel free to tell me! ❤️✨

[hyperfixationxgirlie]

I Told You So

F!reader x Sebastian Sallow; 18+; minors do not interact

Content warning: substance use (alcohol, potions, marijuana (aka mallowsweet, inspired by a fic I saw on ao3 by Antopops called Mallowsweet Muses)), non-consensual Garreth but nothing too intense, smut

I wanted to practice writing some more and got a little idea in my head about the MC going to a party and hooking up with Sebastian. Wanted to have it be a bit slice of life to make the Hogwarts Legacy universe feel a bit more lived in. Set in modern AU and there's really no plot, lol. Always happy for feedback on my writing! I'm very new to writing and do so for fun. I may come back and re-write this at some point but wanted to get it out there.

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You had been thinking about this all summer. Each year, the Slytherin house hosted an annual (unsanctioned) party to usher in the new school year before classes bogged everyone down with boring things like assignments and deadlines. This year’s party would be unforgettable, you promised yourself, and your chest fluttered in anticipation at seeing him. It was your last year at Hogwarts and you intended to make the most of it.

“I brought whiskey!” Imelda’s voice broke you from your thoughts and you turned to her with a grin. She sauntered into your dorm holding a bottle of firewhiskey which she presented to you proudly, the liquid within sloshing as she wiggled it in your direction. “We’re going to get you nice and drunk tonight so you can finally make a move. I’m tired of watching you and Sallow circle each other. It’s dreadfully dull at this point.”

“-and besides,” she continued, her lips twisting up into a familiar smirk, “Poppy and I have a bet going that I intend to win.”

A heat rose to your face and you rolled your eyes at her, snagging the proffered bottle from her grasp and taking a deep swig. The liquid burned as it went down and it bloomed within your chest, soothing the jitters it found there and filling you with a delicious warmth.

“Is this what you’re wearing tonight?” she looked you up and down thoughtfully.

“I had thought so, what do you think?” you asked, smoothing down the fabric of your slip dress.

“He’ll love it and would be a fool to think otherwise. Now hurry up and meet us in our spot. The party won’t really start for another hour and I intend to be drunk enough to stand the sight of you making moon eyes at him for the rest of the evening.”

You rolled your eyes at her as she left and returned to the mirror with a slight frown, retouching your makeup and darkening the kohl around your eyes. This would have to do.

The Slytherin common room was bustling with activity, and Lucan Brattelby was making some final touches to his soundboard and audio equipment. It was a marvel that he and a group of enterprising Ravenclaws had managed such a feat of magic, to ensure that the Muggle audio equipment would function properly within the walls of Hogwarts. He had taken to calling himself DJ Brat (a terrible name, all things considered), but the quality and selection of his music more than made up for it. He nodded to you absently in greeting, too busy with the finishing touches to spare you any further attention.

You exited the common room as the lights were dimming and the Slytherin prefects were casting lighting charms to make the space feel like a Muggle night club. You hurried down the hallways and popped out of a nearby exit, which led to a small alcove outside where Imelda and Poppy sat on stone benches, passing the bottle of firewhiskey and a mallosweet joint between themselves.

“Finally!” Imelda exclaimed as she spotted you, “Get over here and join us. We got bored waiting and started without you.”

“Hopefully you left some for me, you fiends,” you quipped, settling beside them and grabbing the mallowsweet. The joint was impeccably rolled- you would expect no less from Poppy- and the smoke filled your lungs, causing a sweet, buzzing sensation to fill you as the mallowsweet took effect.

“This is gorgeous, Poppy!” you marveled as you exhaled, and she giggled and clapped her hands together.

“It’s my newest strain. I worked on it over the summer. I cultivated it with you and Sebastian in mind. It should have minor aphrodisiac properties,” she paused and raised her hands defensively as you shot her a dirty look, “-but only a touch!”

Imelda grinned at her. “Those losers need all the help they can get.”

“I resent that comment and am choosing to preserve our friendship by having gone temporarily deaf.”

“You would perish without me, don’t delude yourself.”

Poppy interrupted the familiar bickering by shoving the joint in Imelda’s hands.

 “Oi, what are you lot up to?” a voice rang out, and you turned to see said object of unresolved affections and sexual tension languidly strolling towards the three of you. Poppy giggled into her hand and you shot her a quelling look which she conveniently ignored, taking a sip of firewhiskey.

“Hello, Sebastian,” you smiled and felt a faint heat rising along your neck. Your body was practically vibrating with the need to grab his dumb face and kiss him as he dropped into the space next to you, and you found yourself internally cursing Poppy for her ingenuity with recreational magical plants.

“Want some?” Imelda asked sweetly, passing the joint into Sebastian’s hands (hands which were currently causing your stomach to perform a series of backflips). He plucked it from her and took a hit, his eyes drifting shut as he leaned back against the stone wall and exhaled a plume of smoke.

You pointedly ignored the conspiratorial grin Poppy and Imelda were sharing by busying yourself with a sip of firewhiskey.

“Excited for the party tonight?” Sebastian asked, taking another hit before passing the joint over to you. Your hand brushed his fingertips as you reached for it, and your eyes shot up meeting his. His eyes had a dreamy and relaxed quality to them that you recognized from the many times you had gotten high together after class, but there was something more there. His gaze burned into you and with a blooming awareness, you realized that he was looking at you the same way he looked at forbidden tomes of magic snuck from the Restricted Section. Like something to be studied and devoured late at night, away from pyring eyes.

Imelda noisily coughed, which pulled you away from each other with a start, (Poppy was giggling again) and she snagged the joint from you. “Yes it’s shaping up to be fantastic, Sallow. Now shoo. We’re having girl time.”

Sebastian grinned and his eyes met yours again for a moment as he made his exit. “Whatever, Reyes. I can see when I’m not wanted. I’ll take my leave,” he paused in the doorway and turned to you for a moment, his gaze lingering, before he finally left.

“Well, I think we can call the mallowsweet a success! He couldn’t stop looking at you.”

“Shut it, Poppy” you groaned, closing your eyes and banging your head against the stone wall as you leaned backwards. “If he liked me so much he would have done something about it by now. Merlin knows that he’s had two years and countless opportunities.”

These two would be the death of you. If you didn’t implode with unresolved desire before that point.

By the time the three of you made it back to the common room, the party was in full swing. Dozens of students, at least, were crowded in the common room. You gently pushed past a cluster of Ravenclaw girls who were dancing near the entrance and made your way through the crowd. Music thumped and pulsed, the bass causing the stone floor to slightly vibrate, and the lighting charms cast an otherworldly purple glow in an otherwise dark room. Imelda and Poppy broke off from you to dance, and you squeezed Imelda’s hand as she turned from you and smiled at her, promising that you would join up with the two of them soon.

Further inside, there was a makeshift bar with a series of cauldrons laid out, each containing colorful mixtures. Some were bubbling and emitting plumes of smoke. You wrinkled your nose as you contemplated whether or not Garreth may have had a hand in creating any of them, and if he had, whether or not you were brave enough to take that risk. You stood by the bar a bit awkwardly, scanning the crowd of faces (looking for one in particular).  

As if he was summoned by your thoughts, Garreth stepped out from a cluster of Gryffindor boys (you easily recognized Leander Prewett by the decibel of his laughter) and stood beside you.

“Fancy meeting you here, my favorite Slytherin!” he slung his arm around you and smiled at you, his eyes wrinkling. He was handsome enough, you supposed, with his curling red hair and smattering of freckles. At least you understood why some of the others thought him fanciable. But after an awkward Hogsmeade date last year, you had gently let him down and had asked to remain friends. The spark wasn’t there, and you had been unable to stop imagining a different freckled boy the entire time you were with him. It wouldn’t have been fair to him to lead him on by agreeing to another date.

“Hi Garreth. How’s your night been so far?”

“Better now that you’re here. Hey listen- I saw Sallow just a bit ago looking cozy with that 6th year Slytherin, Beatrice Rowle. I didn’t realize they were so well acquainted- if you catch my meaning.” He seemed a tad smug as he said this, and you narrowed your eyes at him as you considered his words.

“Oh really…” you muttered under your breath. Your heart felt like it was falling out of your chest, and tears burned at the corners of your eyes as you tried to swallow your disappointment.

“-but hey, I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up,” he said brightly as he pulled a bottle out of his pocket and handed it to you. The bottle contained a pink, frothy liquid that seemed to sparkle, and you contemplated the risks and benefits of drinking it.

“What’s in it?” “One of my newest concoctions. It’s the perfect brew for a party like this. Will make you want to dance and will make everything feel incredible,” he elaborated, and took a sip of his own bottle to assuage your concerns.

With your thoughts turning again to the idea of Sebastian with another girl, you steeled your resolve and chugged it back. Garreth cheered and gave you a fist bump.

“Now you’re ready to party, my friend! To the best night of the year!”

“Cheers, Garreth.”

As you stood with him and watched the crowd of students, you felt the potion taking effect. The quality of the lights seemed to change before your eyes, the glow of the purple lights twinkling were so beautiful that you almost gasped in wonder as you took it in. You slowly spun around, your body humming in delight as the music pulsed and your hips swayed in time with the beat, the movement scratching an itch in your brain and the sensation of moving your body caused tingles of pleasure to course through your body.

“This is incredible!” laughter bubbled out of you as you twirled, and he laughed alongside you as you grabbed his hands and spun him around.

“Let’s go dance, then” he grinned and led you to the center of the room, where the music was loudest and the students packed the most densely. Bodies were pressing up against you from all sides and you laughed in delight as the song changed to a more upbeat house record. The rhythm of the bass thumping was easy to dance to, and you felt so much freedom as you just let go and allowed yourself to feel and move with the chatter in your brain fading into the background. Garreth pressed himself up against you from behind and you moved your hips against his. When you felt his hands move along your waist to grab your hips, your body paused its movement and a growing discomfort crept up your spine, the icy shock of discomfort dousing you. You turned your face away as he tried to kiss your neck, and his hands squeezed tighter.

“I don’t feel comfortable with this, Garreth” you murmured, your voice getting lost in the music. You weren’t sure if he heard you, and you were too afraid to look towards him out of fear that he would take that as an invitation to move further.

His lips found your ear and he breathed hotly, the warmth of his breath was oppressive and sent a shiver of disgust through you.

“Get off me!” you pushed him aside and he stumbled, his eyes wide and he held his hands up in a defensive posture.

Taking advantage of his confusion gave you a chance to push aside a dancing couple and escape the crowd. You found a small nook away from the chaos and leaned your head back to take a moment to breathe, your head spinning as you struggled to catch your breath. Tears flooded your vision and the glowing lights which previously looked so beautiful seemed to be mocking you. Taking in a few gasps of air, you were startled out of the swirling chaos in your mind by a warm hand on your shoulder. Your eyes shot up and made contact with Sebastian, whose face was pinched in concern as he watched you.

“S-Seb…” you gasped and his hand soothed you as he rubbed it over your shoulder.

“You okay, darling?”

You melted into him as you breathed in, taking in the warm, soft scent of charcoal and old books that permeated him, even amidst the multitude of bodies packed in the common room.

“I am now,” you offered him a small smile and he watched you with heavy lidded eyes.

“What happened?” “Garreth.. I’m fine now.” You felt him tense as he wrapped his arms around you and he rocked you gently. You felt him press his face into your hair and he whispered soothing words as he held you. You felt a small shiver pass through you and you looked up at him, a small smile playing across your lips. He looked at you, and you felt the world shift, as if the universe shivered and molded into a new path forward. And with little warning, his lips were on yours. You gasped into his mouth and his soft tongue soothed yours. His hands gripped your shoulders and then your waist, and you were lifted into the air, your back hitting the cold stone wall. Unbidden, your legs wrapped around his waist and his hands gripped your thighs holding you in place. He made a small noise of pleasure and groaned into your mouth, his lips pressing and molding into yours, a question. You gave him your answer with your own, pouring years of yearning and devotion into his mouth, which he lapped up greedily. You never realized kissing could feel so good.

Pausing, he pulled away and rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him and drank in the sight of warm, honey brown eyes and counted the constellations of freckles on his nose. His lips were slightly parted and soft, warm puffs of air fanned across your face.

“I’ve been waiting years to do that,” he admitted, a small, hesitant smile curling at his lips.

You frowned. “Why didn’t you?” “I was scared… Of the pain it would cause me to lose you. Even your friendship was enough. Until it wasn’t. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m not brave like you are, but I was so afraid that I would miss my chance.”

You drank in his words as you stared at him. A small bloom of joy bubbled forth and you leaned in to kiss him again. His eyes were wide with wonder.

“You’ll never lose me,” you promised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A whirlwind of your bodies together, his hand in yours as he pulled you into his dorm. You memory was fragmented, as you were lost in the delirium of adrenaline and the mix of potions and liquor in your system.

The four-post bed as he all but slammed you onto the mattress. Soft sighs as your hand gripped into his tousled hair. It was soft and you delighted in the sensation of smoothing your hands through it, pulling through little knots and marveling at the color as you twisted strands of it around your fingers.

His lips on yours again and his eyes never leaving your face as he laved pleasure onto you, exploring the valleys of your curves with his hands.

An admission. “I’m obsessed with you.”

He vowed, a prayer on his lips in subjugation to you, “I will never go a day without ensuring that you know the depth of my devotion.”

“Let me worship you,” as he knelt between your legs and used his lips and his tongue to bring you to release. Once, twice, three times, and you lost count, your head spinning as you gripped onto his cheeks and traced circles into his face with your thumbs.

Pulling his tie off, your hands fumbling with the fabric in the dim light. And then his shirt and his pants. Your hands grasping for his cock as you sighed in relief, finally having it in your hands. You knelt before him and his eyes darkened with desire. Your lips wrapped around him and your tongue circling the tip, taking in the warmth and velvety softness. A small pause, his eyes searching yours. You beamed up at him, a smile stretching so much across your face your cheeks hurt.

“Do I have your consent, darling?” “Yes,” you breathed, and he finally entered you, his hips moving forward and you saw stars, lying back and staring up at him. The muscles of his abdomen were pronounced and you ran a hand over them, admiring the contours you found.

“More,” you urged him, and he complied.

You remember the ecstasy of the movement, as he slid in and out. His hands cupped on your ass as he held you up.

“Let me do the work, princess” he murmured, and with a final stroke inside you he came, letting out a soft groan in his release and stiffening up, his body rigid alongside yours.

You didn’t orgasm during this, and that’s fine too. You told him as much as he lay beside you, the two of you facing each other. He ran his hands over your face, his finger mapping your features as his eyes fluttered shut.

Somewhere, unbeknownst to you, galleons exchanged hands. Poppy begrudgingly tossed a pouch of galleons to Imelda, who smirked as she proclaimed, “I told you so.”

[moonspower]

8.  while there’s often a correlation between what a muse’s personal  &  inspired playlists look like,  what is your muse’ preferred genre of music?  what songs are playing if someone asks?   (think about the time you’re writing your character in). 

✨ @starfoam. meme. still accepting!

between vi's personal taste and the inspired playlists i make for him, it's a lot of just niche. for playlists i make for vi like when i write / his pinned posts you'll find: miami / atlanta bass, jersey / baltimore club, breakbeat, jungle, liquid dnb, trip hop, dream trance, lofi house. on older playlists when he was younger you'd find city pop, jazz fusion, jazzhop, picopop, shibuya kei, deconstructed pop, nu disco, dreampop, chillwave, yacht rock but not really yacht rock i don't even know how to explain it.

as for virote, he's a 90s and 2000s kids thru and thru... he's also a former mall goth lol. and while he likes his pop and hip hop and rnb, he rly used to listen to nu-metal, visual kei, heavy metal, groove metal, industrial, and shamefully he loved him some rap rock like limp bizkit... but then his taste in that area evolved to that 80s goth, synthwave / darkwave type shit, witch house, new romantic, ebm.

✨ SONGS VIROTE WOULD LISTEN TO / BROODY, DEPRESSED SMOKING ALONE IN HIS ROOM EDITION:

male tears / ❝hit me.❞

tears for fears / ❝pale shelter.❞

deftones / ❝sextape.❞

aural vampire / ❝leader of the flowers.❞

care / ❝whatever possessed you.❞

i mean he listens to a lot of things especially since he's a dancer skilled in a handful of disciplines, but his heart crawls back to the truth sometimes...

anyway, he will never be interested in arguing if deftones is nu-metal or not because he's not ready to get stabbed in the kidneys.

🌙 SONGS I WRITE VIROTE TO / WHAT THE FUCK WE GOTTA GO VOGUING AT THE CLUB, MISS THING:

le sserafim / ❝eve, psyche & the bluebeard’s wife.❞

coastdream / ❝soft moon.❞

lsdxoxo / ❝mutant exotic.❞

tinashe / ❝talk to me nice.❞

bebe yana / ❝vision getting blurred.❞

but also i'll write to any genre depending on the thread, the muse i'm writing against, and where my writing style is leaning. and you never know what i'm doing at that point. i might be listening to seapunk or i might be listening to 70s soul. like this blog is just a harmonic mashup of the coolest shit ever made tbh. subcultures on subcultures.

[iwaasfairy]

┌─ “ ! „ ROGUE

tw. incest, spit, dom/sub stuff, reader is a textbook brat, size kink, i think i mention tummy bulge once, manhandling, jealousy, virginity, aemond is mean but pussy wipped, tiny lil bit of breeding and wifing up wordcount. 7.2k

a/n. local anime blog goes rogue and writes hotd smut. yes i know okay just look away if you only like anime boys, we will get back to out usually scheduled program soon i swear i sweaarrrrrr dont judge me i have such a fat crush, i sWear i am only doing it to stay sane iT iS MY CALLING ♡

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

The heavy cover of smoke and dusty sage circles up in slow rounds towards the ceiling, like a flock of vultures. Candles burn low in the heavy air of the room, and the long curtains allow just enough fresh air into the room for the scent not to be stifling. Aemond assesses the whole of his room for a few breaths as the chambermaid softly slips out without another word, and pulls the heavy door to a clicked close behind her. Like a fleeing animal, he muses, unclasping and placing his sword upon his desk. The girl has always fled his company as fast as a mouse in a trap. Not like he’s ever done her wrong. Not like how he knows his older brother continues to do.

A small puff of annoyance comes out of his mouth as he starts to peel back some of the layers of his daywear, and drops them over the back of the chair.

Oh well, at least he’s alone.

His room is cast in a soft, golden glow that melts every want for pretense into the floor. Slowly dripping off him like wax, it seems to reveal a bit more of himself with each heavy drop. He only really notices how tired he is of spending time at court when the time comes to abandon it for the evening. Exhausting, ‘s what it is. The mastering of every trade is the lesser of the evils, but the constant ass-sucking, the looks, the reading of the room— he has no want for it. The Queen assures this is the life of a prince. He protests that it’s a simple lie to play at royalty. And no one gets to mark their own vision correct. No one gets to grab the upper hand. Because that’s the life of a prince.

Aemond finishes undressing most of the heavy, leather garb for a looser fit. Then moves to sit into the chair beside his bed, as always, and lets his eye fall to the sets of books on the desk. Few of them are untouched. For an acquiring of knowledge that is purely showy at best, because he is only a second son. A downright shame. He rolls the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth for a few moments, and instead pours the can of wine, holding onto the cup loosely, with slow sips. If only to have something to do.

The humming of the choir down in the bell tower reaches all the way up to his room, and gives the night an awfully dreary feeling, reminding of winter, of death, of the sniveling of people in the sept and those praying in the darkness. Not that he minds, or cares much— but he knows the sound well. Knows how it is the sign for Aegon to double the size of his own drink, the time for Heleana’s maid to start getting their children ready for the night, the moment his mother the Queen finally stops fretting for long enough to enjoy a moment of peace. And for you… He knows it’s a sound that makes you anxious, reminded that you’re alone for the next hours to come. And he supposes that makes the repeating, melodic chants the sign that he’s about to have company any second too, and for that he guesses he’s grateful.

Grateful for the warning, or for the company, he’s not quite sure. He swishes the burgundy liquid around the cup until he hears the familiar click of the door, and the heavy knock. “Come,” he doesn’t look up from the drink, instead perching it onto his lip.

“Her majesty the Princess, my Prince.” The guard doesn’t usher you inside as much as you waltz in, low dress falling every so softly over your frame as the man spares just a few looks and nods, retreats and closes the door back behind him without another word. Curt, quite unlike the older man. Aemond can only guess you’ve been at this for long enough now for the guard to have made peace with the fact that the Prince doesn’t care. And that whether or not he accepts, you’ll enter anyway.

“You shouldn’t walk around the palace after dark,” your brother says, taking a sip of the wine before his eye ends up falling onto you without wanting to. “You’re the first person to blame when people start spinning rumors.”

“I don’t care about the opinions of ladies in waiting or the small council. I am not the Queen,” you simply reply, pulling your dress up to sit down on his bed beside him, knocking knees. “If you’re worried about rumors, you should hear what they say about you, big brother.” You’re not a bold person, but somehow, when it comes to him… every smart remark is able to fall from you like it’s a game. It amuses Aegon to no end, and even dares bring a smile to your mother’s face from time to time. Any of them expecting an outburst, to be sure, a fiery bite back or a quick smack to the back of your skull. And if you were another of his siblings, he supposes his family would be right. But somehow… it doesn’t bother him as much when it’s you.

Still not enough to have him silenced, though. His lip lifts into a grimace. “Enlighten me.”

“I won’t.”

Your feet are bare on the stone floor and your untied hair sways softly with each movement, and like this you sit by his side late at night, as you’ve taken to doing ever since half of your family moved back to Dragonstone. You’ve always gotten along better with people, were able to ignore your grudges better. An admirable trait, if not a weak one. He searches for something to say back to your resolute refusal, but fails. And lets out a sharp breath, glaring.

Whatever is going on in your tepid, little mind, you slowly place your feet upon his thighs, and shuffle a little closer. And his hands follow to come grab your ankles, half to keep you steady, but the other half in warning. It is a fact of your family that everything exists in pairs. Your mother and Sire for one, your eldest brother and his sister the future Queen… and you seem to have taken that to mean that you and Aemond exist in a pair too.

Always shoving past his barriers like it’s your birthright, with those big, searching eyes and a dopey, genuine smile that seems to belong more to a story book than the stern darkness that is expected of your family. A part of him wants to hate you for it. For being so callous when the rest of them are struggling to stay afloat. Unburdened by responsibilities, or haunted by dramatics. He could tell you he hates you too, but that wouldn’t do him much good. Not with you.

Still trapped by his grip, you stretch your hands to his face and place them to his cheeks, and he groans. “Take your hands off of me.” The irony of your soft skin playing beneath his fingers doesn’t go lost on him. “If I wrestle you to the floor and belt your little ass, you won’t be able to go crying to the Queen for it. I’m warning you.” You don’t listen, or care, before your hands slide to the back of his head and start slowly unbuckling the clasp of his eyepatch.

“Your eye is hurting again, isn’t it? You always get difficult when the chambermaids don’t clear out the smoke.”

He squeezes his hands harder around your little ankles. “You’re not a Maester, don’t speak of things like you know them,” he snaps back, only to move his hands to support your bottom when you push closer and press to slide into his lap for better access. Settling so comfortably against him, he doesn’t move his hands. “Shouldn’t you be learning your rhymes and asking the septa for some hot blankies instead of fussing over me-”

“-If you didn’t make your own little sister fuss over you, maybe I could.” You stubbornly peel the patch away to reveal the brightly glistening stone in the candle light, casting blue flickers all over the room. But he’s too busy looking at you to notice, ignoring the way your weight is pressed upon his lap. He has to ignore it. You tuck the pink little sliver of your tongue between your teeth as you let out a nasally breath, and your lashes cast dark, little shadows into the depths of your eyes. Sure enough, he can feel the relief the second you take a wet towel from the jar to the side and press it to the irritated skin, scar pulling and sore.

You’re awfully gentle with it. With him.

“I told you to take your fucking hands off of me,” he repeats, softer this time, watching as you still and he titls his head back to lean atop the chair, and helping you up onto your knees on his thighs. This way you’re fully above him, and with better access to his face, and you stay so very quiet. Unflinching. You suck your lip into your mouth for a second before releasing it, and then slowly start wiping again.

“You shouldn’t speak to me that way.” If you make a sport out of prodding, he makes a sport out of making blows hit.

“I am your big brother, I’ll speak to you as I wish. And I wish you to know what an insolent little cunt you are.” It’s out before he stops to think about it, and you instantly let him know it lands. By slipping off of his lap with a huff and tossing the rag onto the table, while accidentally knocking over the cup and spilling it over the table. You don’t stop to see the damage you cause as you stomp toward the exit, and he’s up and pulling at your dress before you can get far.

“Get off of me, Aemond,” you screech as he wraps long arms around your waist and you let your entire weight hang into them, squirming to get out. “You’re so annoying! Agh-uhh—Seven Hells!”

He can’t help the grin that slips on as he clenches his jaw, and doubles down. Because that’s what he does. You know it, and he knows it— and you go round in circles. “I could tell your septa you’re a misbehaved brat.”

“You’re a gross pervert, you—Ugh, f- You get your dirty hands off of me.” You spew the words like hot venom in his face when you make it halfway out of his grip and dig your nails into his arm and go to bite at his hand, before he manhandles you to the cold floor and bars you from moving under his hard grip. “Ae- Aemond! You’re the worst!” One arm almost pressing onto your throat, and the other over the soft of your stomach, as he takes a few breaths. Your own equally winded, as you start blinking like crazy to avoid the onslaught of tears that is to follow. “Aemond, let go.”

“Pervert?” he raises his brows now that you’ve stopped struggling, and gives you a look that reads ‘really?’ as underlying question clear as day. One you’re not inclined to answer, because you bite your bottom lip as glare at him as a drop rolls down your temple. You’re hot in the cheeks, hair a mess with the struggle, and your body feels ever so small under him now. Reminds him that he’s been told you’re too small to defend yourself by his mother, his father, and even their uninvolved craven of a brother. But you sure don’t act like it. Even if they are right.

“Just get off of me, you’re heavy.” And there it is. When he invades too far and too aggressively, and you stop pushing back to win it, it’s suddenly like it's a matter of life and death in your mind. When you declare the game is no longer to be won, there’s not a single move that’ll sate you. The signs are easy to read. The way you avert your eyes from him is one of them, and the crinkle between your brows as you stare resolutely at the door like you’re hoping a guard will just burst in to save you. When he doesn’t move quickly enough, you change your tune. “Will you please get off of me? I want to go to bed.”

Aemond lets out a sound between a laugh and a huff, and rights himself a little, but keeps hold of your shoulders pressed to the floor. Making him feel bad is another of those magical traits you have, that he hates about you. Leave it up to his youngest sibling to make his stomach feel heavy and empty, like he hasn’t eaten in days. A hungry beast declaring war at seeing you this way. “Hate me again, do you?” he asks without much fire, and your eyes go hard, and mouth a thin line.

“All you want to do is try to hurt me,” you hiss back when his fingers creep up to wipe the silvery line of tears along your cheek, brushing hair away from your face and taking you in as you are. Before you finally look at him again as the hall outside the door stays quiet. You’ve gone through this same song and dance too many times, cried wolf a bit too often. The guards don’t want to risk disturbing him with that temper, he knows they whisper it behind his back.

But it’s of no difference to you, because if looks could kill, you’d have one brother less by now. You manage to worm your arm out of his grip to wipe your own eyes again, before lowering your tone. “If you hate me so much, feel free to kill me sooner rather than later.” As if he’d let just anyone do what you do. As if he’d be so close to someone he hates. He has only you. Still your chest rises and falls with a heavy motion. “At least I wouldn’t have to marry some ugly, old lord if you did.”

In moments like these, he remembers. You’re a burning wildfire with enough fuel to light up an entire city; and you have no intention of doing any less than the rest of them. But stupid. And ignorant. He gets up and takes his heavy body off of you to see the mark where his arm presses so hard into your collarbones, already starting to bruise. “You’re an idiot,” he simply says, and gets up from the floor and up from you. You stare as he does, but keep your mouth shut. And Aemond swears to himself and averts his eye from you to readjust his pants, with suddenly more interest in the canopy of the bed than the soft, warm body of his little sister. “Get out.”

You get up from the floor with slow movements, too slow for his liking, and he walks back over to grab your arm and hoist you up onto your feet as you cling onto his tunic. But though he wants to keep you as far as he can away from his sanity in moments like these, he doesn’t resist when you linger so close he can count your lashes, and feel your puffs of air on his lips. He keeps your dress sleeve fisted into his hand as you stand up onto your toes and pull his shoulders more down to your level, until you can nearly brush your noses and you press a kiss to his lips. Soft and warm, it makes his heart knot and roll around in his chest, and makes your little hands squeeze around his shoulders. “Aemond…”

He dips again, and connects that smart mouth of yours to his without second thought. Another long kiss is met by a soft rumble of his chest, and he is halfway to leaning into you further when you drop back onto your heels. Leaving his mouth tingling with heat. “Ser Arryc is waiting for me to return to my chambers.” You fix your dress and wait for him to slowly peel his fingers out of the fabric, before sucking hard on your bottom lip as you turn about here and there in sudden nerves. “Well, good eve.”

And then he’s left alone for the night, with the memory of your body pressed under him, withering, fighting, crying. And no one to plead him to stop as he twitches in his pants.

+

As younger siblings dare do, you have an intrinsic ability to set his nerves on end. Born and bred for it even, he’d dare say, as he lets his gaze trail after you. The dragonpit is no place for one of your disposition, and though perhaps the same could be said about Helaena, there’s a few cards laid differently between you both. Youngest sibling, and having grown up without any dragon to speak of. Blame the lack of eggs to distribute to the last of Viserys’ children. Helaena also doesn’t possess the uncanny and endlessly bothering capacity to make his blood sour in his veins with a simple look.

His older sister doesn’t really bestow a care to any of you, while you— care about being loving way too much. He can feel his brows start to pull almost distractingly as you prance around with wide eyes and flit about next in and out of the covered hall. Sunfyre is the current object of your affections, and Aegon’s glittering smirk as he watches you coo and bathe him in compliments has his hands tightening around the handle of his sword where it hangs against his side. “She’ll soon fetch a handsome collection of suitors, don’t you think?” his mother asks innocently, distractedly, as he juts out his lips in slight annoyance. She’s gone from distant and sheltering, to exceedingly fretful these last few years.

Aemond hums a vague noise, but doesn’t bother to look away from your soft shape set against the big beast— and how you shine up like a penny at his oldest brother with compliments. He clicks his tongue, and his mother distantly continues from his side. Out of all the people for you to fawn over… all the beasts to be impressed by— he attempts to focus on the conversation aimed at him, but glares around the field instead. At the guards who feel a bit too comfortable casting glances your way, or a brave squire taking a bit too fond a notice. Every second of it makes his jaw set tighter. “Your grandfather the Hand would rather see her married off sooner than later but— Oh, Aegon,” his mother suddenly speaks with a slight worry.

You’re climbing onto the dragon. No, Aegon -the fool- is making you climb up, putting his grimy hands under your bottom and just about heaving you towards the saddle himself.

“Aegon, stop that,” his mother tries again, starting to make her way down the stage as the eldest turns to look at them both, “your sister can’t be up there by herself. She’ll get hurt-”

“-I’ll get her.” For once he’s glad for his mother’s ever present concern, and hurries past to walk up to you. You, with your hair sun kissed in the evening light, and your cheeks and lips full of mirth as you glance over at your mother first, and then him. His brother’s staring up your dress by the time you’re standing fully on his shoulders, and doesn’t even bother to wipe the grin off his face, tongue peeking out in full enjoyment— Aemond doesn’t have time for this absolute mockery. “Get down,” is all he has to say, for your pretty, flushed face full of excitement to blank. You suck your bottom lip into your mouth as you stare back at him for a few seconds… before slowly starting to slide back toward him.

“Oh, Aemond, don’t be a bother—”

His hand is wrung in his older brother’s tunic before he has time to blink, glaring absolute venom his way, nostrils flaring. Alicent calls for him from a distance, but the plea goes unheeded. The fabrics of your dress are halfway obstructing Aegon’s face as you try to get down, but there’s still plenty of room for a dagger to be fit somewhere into it, a thought rings; one he banishes with some fight. Instead he simply reaches a hand for you to grab, and motions you to get down already. You jump and wobble upon landing, and he grabs your wrist tight when you try to run off. But he still hasn’t stopped glaring at Aegon, to his own surprise, chest rising and falling a bit too quickly to be normal. “You try that again-”

“-and you’ll what, little brother?”

“Don’t fight,” you quickly quip in, tugging softly on his pinky as Aemond’s mouth corners tug up, and he squeezes the fabric tight enough around his own brother’s neck to hurt. He leans in, ignoring your pulling and begging to really tower over Aegon. And Sunfyre gets restless beside them, scaring you even more. “Aemond, please. No harm was done.”

Aegon’s face turns a harsh ruddy color with each passing second, and Aemond’s never enjoyed a sight quite so much. “Shall we see how you do without your eyes, brother?” He releases all at once, just in time enough for their mother to miss how he steps back and gives you a look to keep your lips glued shut. If Aegon wants to tell, he’s at least smart enough to keep quiet, for now. The woman looks between the three of you in worry. But he has no intention of explaining. He couldn’t, really. The absolute blinding rage dies down enough for him to suck the sourness off his tongue and take your hand better, lacing fingers. “I’ll take her back to the keep.”

The Red Keep has never felt smaller as you don’t say anything until you get all the way to your chambers, staring resolutely at the floor. And though his mood hasn’t changed, there’s part — parts of him, that want you to just look his way like you usually do too much of. Your guard is quick to open your door, but stares a little too long when he lingers. “You may go see upon the King, Ser,” he says curtly, and before he can care enough to watch the man leave, closes your door behind you both. “Are you an absolute imbecile, that you’d let Aegon disrespect you in front of everyone?”

“It wasn’t anything to get upset over, he wasn’t hurting me!” you bite back as you do, making him crowd you against the door.

“Oh, no,” he rolls his eye, “he was only about to do much worse later!” You stay pressed between his body and the door as you stare up at him and hold your hands to his chest, both of you breathing hard. But you don’t back down, don’t roll over and apologize. And that bothers him. It shouldn’t, and yet… “Hah,” the sound of it is hard and sharp as he lifts your hands above your head in place with his own. Your lips are a puffy, flushed color, and eyes so focused on him that it momentarily distracts him. Before the feeling of you against him comes back full force, as always. Try as he might, he can’t escape you. “You like that sort of perversion, then?”

“I don’t know what kind of perversion you speak of.” You’re whispering now, long lashes spread over the haunting appearance of you below him. Swallowing hard, chest rising and falling. Hell, the way you look is entirely deviant, but he still leans in despite knowing better. You smell faintly of dragon, but the majority of it is still that soft, sweet innocence that drives him to grab at your chin and force your face to his. And your free hand reaches for his cheek, cold fingers brushing his skin. Your lips brush his as he allows himself to sink just a little lower, letting you moan into his mouth. “Aemond… big brother, please.”

“What do you think you’re playing at?” He lets the soft kisses be placed onto his lips in between the words, resolve growing weaker by the second. How did he get here? And why? Aemond isn’t like Aegon, so why does the sight of you all soft and needy below him have him so hot in the face. Heat burning all along his neck, chest, down to his… cock. He knows very well your poor mother would riot at his taking of your virtue. Because unlike Aegon, she knows he knows better. But you press your mouth against him again, and let your soft, little tongue push against the crack of his mouth with another moan— all while arching against him.

“Haven’t you thought about it?” He’s only half aware his hand is grabbing a handful of your ass and pulling you up against his hips as your lips make those little noises against his, lifting you so you can wrap your legs around his glutes. The pressure of your body grinding up against his is entirely wanton, your eyes glossy and lips even glossier. “Taking me to wife?”

“You’re set to marry a lord—”

“I want to marry you. Don’t you want to marry me too? Have me abide by your side, call me ‘yours’?” Your hands slide into his hair, pulling at the hair at the base of his skull just enough to have his tongue push back into a kiss and take the warmth of your mouth as his own. Hotly, with a demanding rumble of his chest you’re kissed- the sweetness of your mouth and warm, squirming tongue against his. It’s intoxicating, setting every hair on his body upright. He grabs your cheeks to keep you in place even when you try to pull back, kissing longer, deeper— like he could die in it. He probably could.

When you’re allowed to pull back you roll your hips against him with a slight smile, and pant against his mouth. “Isn’t that why you love laying on top of me?” His breathing ceases automatically, chest tightening a little more. All he ever hoped was never to hear it out loud. Don’t breathe life into it and it won’t exist, right? See no evil. Your little smile grows a little more as you kiss him again, and he doesn’t pull away, though he should. Your daring tongue moves down his jaw to his neck instead, licking along his pulse as you push. Can’t help but stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, right, a family trait? “Doesn’t that get your cock hard, big brother?”

He takes a stuttered breath as he turns and you cling onto him, walking over to the bed to lay you down and place his large hand over your mouth. “Shut. Up.” You lick the inside of his hand, and he hisses before grabbing your thigh instead, tight enough for your pretty little face to turn into a grimace, and you pull his hair a little harder. Doesn’t matter. He’s nose to nose with you, his own little sister, the one who was always so fond of him it was annoying as sin— as every bit of pretense evaporates by the second. “Do you even know what you’re talking about when you say that?”

“I know what Aegon taught me,” you breathe back against his lips, and it’s this -not any of the other stuff, though that should have done it too- that has his blood turning green with jealousy and has him shutting you up with a kiss, hands sliding up your body over the tight bodice. You’re burning underneath him, lifting your back from the mattress as he crawls further up the bed and over you. You’re so flimsy and small beneath him that it should be laughable. All it does is make his cock so much harder in his pants, as your noises ring above the smacking of mouths and tongues and teeth. Your little fingers press into his shoulders hard and needy. “Mhm-Ae-mond.”

He pulls at the clothing under his hands until you squeak and it rips, one of the too-many layers you’re wearing dropping to the side. He pulls back to stare at you and the way you’re biting your lip, eyes flicking from him to his pants. His cock is chubbed up against the fabric as much as it will allow, and starting to get too tight for his liking, but as you reach out a hand, he smacks it away. Instead he slides a hand under your head to pull your hair and you make a little noise of displeasure, until he leans back in. “When you talk like that it makes me want to smack you around. You understand that?” You whine into the silence, but don’t fight back as he makes your head nod. “You know what I am?”

“B-big brother-”

“Then treat me like it. Open your mouth.” For a few seconds and deep breaths through your nose, you seem to debate it, but whatever you see in his eye eventually has you obliging. He collects a good glob of spit and has it land onto your tongue, and you cry out something unintelligible— but let him slide his thumb into the wet mess of your tongue as your lips get even shinier with all the wetness. Before he can say anything though, you wrap your lips around his digit and whimper. It’s a little too disarming, and his cock twitches hard in his pants. Balls heavy and length straining against the confines. He lets out a little breath, before pulling back out of your suckling mouth to grab himself through his pants. “Shit.”

Your voice sounds so much more high pitched and girly when you speak again, a strange sort of mockery of him over top of you, but it works. Fuck, if it doesn’t. “Please, please, please, big brother.” You whine his name and press tens of little kisses to his mouth, he feels how his balls pull against his body at the display. You get impatient though, start pulling the top half of your dress down to reveal your shoulders and then, with another little noise, your tits. He’s ahead of you though, pulling you down more and leaning in to lock his mouth around your puffy nipple to suck hard, have you curling off the bed with pitiful whimpers. “Big brother, mh-ah- big- br-brother.”

He starts working the drawstrings of his trousers to get them down as quickly as possible too, moving to the other tit and taking as much of it into his mouth to lave his tongue all over it. You sound almost beside yourself with pleasure, kneading at his shoulders and neck like you’re losing your clouded, little mind for him. He gets out of his pants enough to kick them off the rest of the way and lay his much larger body on top of you, back to your face to kiss you with slow, deeper kisses. Then he pulls back, for only a moment of true emotion, to grab your blushy cheeks between his fingers and stare. “Are you still…”

You go limp, and embarrassed and flushed with heat all at once, and squeeze his hips between your thighs like it’s meant to hurt. All it does is push your covered cunt against his rock hard cock and make him take a sharper breath. “Of course I am-” you bite out though, digging your nails into his shoulders a bit harder like you’re just wanting him to keep going. “What- that not good enough for you?”

But he’s quick to shake his head, and press a few spare kisses along your ear, finally being able to let out a little grin at your flustering. “You’ll let me take your maidenhood?” You’re back to whining his name in that overly girly, pouty voice; and he sucks at the shell of your ear for long enough to have you shivering below him. Your little breaths and noises are too fucking cute. And the way you’re pawing at your dress to get it up your body is even cuter. “Beg big brother Aemond to have you. Take you.”

“Just do it already,” you mumble though, and your eyes tear up at the corners.

So fucking cute. He shrugs the eyepatch off too, half for comfort, half at the grabbing of your hands. And pulls back just in time to see how much it pains you to admit it out loud, and rubs his fingers over your wet, pebbled nipples while your eyes flutter and your hands go open and closed at the feeling. He keeps one hand busy by unlacing part of your dress, as the other pinches each nipple until you suck your lip into your mouth and can’t stand it anymore. “Please, big brother? ‘Mond, please-uhh. Please, please do it? W-want you to.”

His lips curl up again at your admission, as he takes you in a few more seconds, grinds his center against your thigh while he’s at it. His cock is leaking enough pre to make a wet spot on his undergarments, red head twitching every few seconds. If he’ll wait any longer he might explode— until you finally give up and wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back close to you in total embarrassment. “I saved myself for my big broth-errr—” you whine like a child, burying your face into his neck, “so please! Only wanted my big brother to- I swear. Only love my Aemond.”

This way you don’t see— just what it does. This way you don’t notice it has him hook, line and sinker, and he grunts out loud as he has to grab the base of his cock tight not to shoot hot ropes of cum all over your thighs. He lets you press your tits into him as he shudders over you, and you make a little noise as he suddenly yanks the dress down your body, over your thighs and kicks it aside. “Off, get this off…” You open your teary eyes to see him plant another kiss onto your face, down your neck and to your tits as your chest heaves against him. Your panties are absolutely soaked, and he’d make a crude comment about it if he was any more lucid— but…

He can’t possibly think about anything but sliding his heavy cock inside your little cunt. “Fuck, fuck… you want to fuck me?” His fingers slide over the wet patch as your mouth cracks open a sliver, before peeling them off you with impatient yanks. You nod wildly into it in response, and let him press another kiss onto your mouth to tangle your wet, squirming little tongue with his. It’s vile, the way he thinks about fucking you like this. But it’s all that overtakes him, rutting his leaking cock against that wet little slit. And his fingers have to push in a little to make it halfway into your wet pussy, softly scissoring you apart as your mouth opens more. “You’re dripping all over my hand,” he breathes into your mouth, and you close your eyes and pull your lips into a tight little line.

“‘M sorry.”

“You imbecile.” The dry, non-humoured chuckle is unexpected even to him, as he pulls his wet fingers from between your legs to slip them straight into his mouth and his eye rolls into the back of his skull with a low groan. His fingers go back to rub at that wet slit, as you moan and whine his name like it’s a prayer. His cock bobs heavily between his legs while he fingers you in the heat of the shared bed, and you mumble noises against his skin.

“Aemond, Aemo-ngh.. big, you’re— r-big.” You’re panting, and shivering as his fingers slide in and out and get wetness to drip all the way to your ass, all over the inside of your thighs. Not even to talk about the pride burning along his neck at the way you’re clinging to him like you mean it. Your cunt stretches each time he moves them in and out and spreads them apart, staring at the way your little pussy clenches around his thick, long fingers with each pump. “Big brother—”

“Like that?”

“Mhm-” you’re nodding like a madman, and thighs shaking a little, but your tears are still glistening at the corners of your eyes, “I- f-feels good, bu-but you’re- going so- deep.” He doesn’t tell you that what you’ll be fitting in there in a few seconds will be much bigger, and only lets you drench the bed and wait for you to push back into his hand for that wet ‘pap, pap, pap’ sound and his palm can rub over your little nub. The sapphire in his eye socket makes obnoxious flickers on the walls, that only seem to cheer him on. Not for nothing, watching his baby sister cream all over his fingers like you are. “O-oh,” you say after a while, allowing him to curl his fingers all the way into you and your spongey, perfect spot to make your lower body curl so needily. “I… feel weird, Ae— feels- good- hng.”

Your little pussy is so wet everything’s glossy and needy, and his two fingers can finally slide in and out without much more resistance; though your noises would hardly convince him otherwise. Mewling and whimpering like you’re going to cry any second— it has him rock hard and so fucking sensitive. “I need you to keep that little cunt open for me, okay?” He presses the words into your mouth before rubbing his fingers over your puffy, needy clit; and you make to wrap your thighs around his glutes to keep him right to you— not that he’d go anywhere. “‘ll put it in. Have my cock filling my little sister up.”

He pats his cock against your clit a few times, before nodding at it. “Keep your thighs open, come on.” He doesn’t wait up for you to act as he pushes the leaking tip against your pretty, clenching hole and leans over you to nose at your neck, grabbing at your perky, pretty tits to pebble up your nipples more with each swipe, before kissing you again. He can’t help it, can’t get enough of your moans into his mouth, filling up the room. He pushes in, the slowest he can bare as your hot fucking pussy envelops his cockhead and you moan and whine. “Oh, dear g— goin’ to fuck my little sister for real,” he breathes back, too much to keep it in.

“Ah, ah, ah— Aemond- Aw, oh-hmn- ah.” Your desperate little noises are impossible. Sliding in deeper with each breath, over filling that tiny pouch of your tummy like he was always meant to be inside it. His arms strain not to fuck right into you hard and fast with the way you’re wiggling and curling against him, slick a soft pink when he pulls back to thrust in deeper. “Big bro—ther,” you whine it long and needy, as it has him sliding into you until he bumps up against the walls of your tight fucking cunt. So tight it’s making his balls pull up, entire body so hot it’s almost unbearable. Your one Targaryen claim to heritage. His little sister.

“Love you, big brother, l-love you.”

“Ugh, shit, you’re so tiny. So tight, hot— and wet,” he’s rambling to himself more than to you as he rocks himself into that spongy spot in you, watching your body try to take all of him in. Your eyes are a little lidded, glistening and so pretty and desperate as he pulls back and into you again, hitting your cervix once more. You shudder, and he can’t help but press onto your tummy to make the fit even tighter. It’s too much. Your clenching walls around his big, hard cock— that tight, wet little cunt clinging onto him each time he pulls back, your face as he takes you. “You’re only mine,” he hisses, “only mine, you understand? Gon’ make you my wife and make you carry my heirs. Waiting to give your maidenhood away to the better brother, right?”

“Hng, yes- yes, yes! Please!” You kiss him first, before grinding hard against him and pulling at his hand. “Aemond, Aem— b- I feel- weird-” you admit, smacking your lips and desperately curling your toes against his glutes. “Big bro-ther-agh-h—”

He can’t possibly stop now, frown instantly digging into his brows as you cling to him. He doesn’t bother to even pretend to care as his cock kisses your pussy walls and his white pubic hair rubs over your overly sensitive nub, but you keep on whining for him. “Weird how?” He pulls his face up from your neck only to watch how your cheeks are flushed and your eyes flick all over his face, your tongue jutting out. And suddenly, it doesn’t take you explaining for him to press his rough thumb to your clit and rub rapid circles into it, for you to start going all tense. “This? You want to come for me like a good, little whore?”

You can’t speak. Only clench your eyes shut as he keeps rubbing- and grabs your face with his free hand. “Look at me. Look at me as you get to come on big brother’s cock.” You physically can’t open your eyes through your tears, but he demands it anyway, and watches as you go a bit cross-eyed at the perfect pressure. Your cunny clenches so hard around his cock it hurts, but he doesn’t stop his hips and the loud sound of skin meeting skin. “No one loves you like I do,” he says it like a prayer, whispering into the silence as your mouth drops open and you let out some broken noises, “no one.”

And you desperately claw at his back and tangle your fingers into his hair to pull, your legs tightening around his thighs to get his steady, brutal pace to slow down even a little— but nothing stops your orgasm from crashing over you with a pitched squeak of his name, and your body shuddering so hard beneath him the bed creaks with the motion. Each hard bottoming out in your small cunt having you jerking and moaning a string of unintelligible explicites into his mouth, before he kisses you long and deep. Your tongue can barely do anything except take what he gives, until he fucks you through your orgasm and his balls are so, so hot, his cock twitching every few breaths.

You look perfect as you come down and let him fuck into you even more, pussy like a vice around his too-big-for-you cock. It’s a miracle really, it didn’t happen sooner. Two of a whole. As always, you take and he gives, as is your role in the family.

All Rights Reserved © IWAASFAIRY 2022. Works are exclusive to this Tumblr.

[intrepidacious]

lavender's blue

summary: If there was one thing Jefferson could always rely upon, it was that you didn’t much care for sense.

pairing: jefferson x f!reader

word count: 6.4k

warnings: canon-typical angst?, reader with unspecified magical abilities, reader is alice-in-wonderland-appropriately weird y'all (affectionate); kind of open-ended but in a hopeful bc canon-compliant way <3

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i started this as a submission for @sparkledfirecracker's cheesy writing fest challenge, but it didn't turn out very cheesy or even remotely on time. still, thank you for the wonderful prompts your wheels of fate gave me, and congrats on your follower milestone 💛

prompts used: jefferson + friends to lovers + forehead kisses

masterlist | read on ao3

What Regina couldn’t have anticipated, what no one ever could have, really, was that you had always been unpredictable. A loose end. A ticking time bomb. An unlocked door.

It was a curse in and of itself, most of the time, albeit one with a lowercase c. You’d always craved a normal life, but that didn’t mesh too well with your impulsiveness. Normalcy craved planning, devising, executing, in that order, precise decisions and arrangements that weren’t to be changed at a whim.

You were as wild as a flower in spring.

It was what Jefferson liked most about you when you first met, back when he was still jumping worlds like one of them would give him an answer. Instead, he found you, back in the Enchanted Forest you both called home, on a day that had started out like any other.

You were smack dab in the center of the meadow the hat spat him out on, and you were spinning around yourself until, he supposed, your skirts finally circled just so, and then landing on your back, laughing. Your feet were bare and dirty from stamping the ground like you were proving a point.

When he stepped closer, you propped yourself up on your elbows and blinked up at him with a grin. The sun cast his shadow in such a way that his head seemed to touch your heart. Jefferson noticed that, even then.

"Is there a reason you’re trampling on the dandelions?" he asked.

"Some people don’t deserve a wish," you simply said.

He couldn’t argue with that.

"And what about you?" he said instead.

"Well," you mused, closing your eyes, the tilt of your lips unwavering. "I think I already got my wish for the day."

"And what was that?"

There was magic brimming within you, and a lot of it. It made Jefferson’s hands shake and the hat cough out trails of smoke, even though it didn’t need to go anywhere, but you … you didn’t even seem to notice.

"Something blue," you answered.

Curiouser and curiouser, just like your smile. That was the thing that kept him distracted long enough for you to anticipate his next question, to point, still without looking, back at the hat and the purplish haze it had wrapped itself in.

"Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly," you continued before he could voice his confusion. "I mean, I wanted flowers. But I suppose one doesn’t argue with chance, don’t you think?"

There was an almost dangerous glint in your eye when you faced him again, and that settled it.

"Why not?" he asked, and held out his hand.

You stared at it in amusement. "Are you in the habit of challenging fate, stranger?"

"Only if I know I can win," he said. "And the name’s Jefferson."

You took his hand, then, and he could never be sure if it was meant as an introduction or a leap of faith. It didn’t matter, really, when it ended up being both. When he’d pulled you to your feet, there was a small bottle in his palm, its contents glittering like liquid stardust.

He blinked.

"You can keep that if you want," you said, turning your skirt pockets out and carelessly dropping the rest of their contents on the ground. "It’s all too heavy."

Jefferson watched as you plucked a single dandelion and shook it until the wind did the wishing part for you. Then you turned without another glance at him and walked away humming, your magic patting the hat like a pet and then vanishing with you.

He’d spend weeks thinking about you simply handing him the very potion he’d intended to steal, and he still couldn’t figure out how you’d even known.

***

In this life, there are several things you know.

You know you’re a florist. You know you’re well liked, which is nice and feels new, even though you’ve lived here all your life. You know your hands can fabricate the most splendid arrangements, bouquets and wreaths in all the colors Maine has to offer, and most days, you know you’re perfectly content doing just that.

Other days, though, you know you want to see every single petal turned to ashes.

Because you also know this voice deep inside your bones, not quite your own but almost, too familiar with your habits and routines and endless, endless smalltalk. You know it keeps telling you that something is missing, something you might find again if only you set this whole damn place aflame.

So you think, what’s the harm.

And as the flames lick at your window settings and burn the roses to a crisp, you tilt your head slowly and something inside stirs, like a sleeping dragon twitching as it wakes. You realize then, that in between all the things you know, you almost missed something quite important.

Tea.

Thankfully, no else one gets hurt. The building barely even carries any damage.

When Sheriff Humbert finally lets you leave, it’s already dark outside, far too late for a neighborly visit, but you go anyway. You should have driven, but by the time you think of that, you’ve almost climbed up the hill already. The forest seems to whisper to you; you ignore it.

It’s a grand house, and you can tell it’s empty by just looking at the front of it. Not without furniture, but without a heart. You knock, knock, knock, and the sound seems to echo through the whole forest.

When the door opens, it’s with a creak that almost sounds like a yawn, and Jefferson freezes, his eyes widening as they meet yours. They’re more tired than you remember.

"I didn’t forget," you say before he can get a single word out, handing him the small parcel. The paper has worn wrinkly in your sweaty palms. "I just burned down my shop today."

If he’s surprised, or concerned, he doesn’t show it. He hovers in the doorway, his fingers carefully unwrap the delicate teacup, and there’s a wisp of a smile of his face as they trace the tiny, nonsensical little spout.

"What’s this for?" he finally asks, his voice strangely raspy.

"Don’t you remember?" you say. "It’s your unbirthday."

He lets you in, then, and your boots sink into the carpeted floor, like the ground is trying to swallow you up. The front door clicks shut.

"Tea day is Tuesdays and Thursdays," you continue on, wandering deeper into the house, making a wrong turn and taking a few steps up the stairs before suspecting—recalling—that the kitchen is to the right. You huff frustratedly. "You didn’t remind me last week!"

"Well," Jefferson calls from somewhere out of your sight. "One never knows with you."

Dark wooden cabinets. Checkerboard tiles in the kitchen. You decide you’ve broken enough rules for a day and cross them strictly diagonally until you hit a corner cabinet, pulling it open. Empty, empty. "It’s my unbirthday too, you know," you say when you hear his steps approaching again.

"What are the chances?" His voice is still hollow, in a way, as hollow as this house, and you feel like you’re missing something, but it’s so, so tiresome to think about.

"Look at that," you say, shaking the last couple of crumbs out of a crumpled up, sad-looking biscuit wrapper. "I should have come up earlier."

Jefferson sighs as he leans against the counter, watching you continue to rummage through the shelves, drawers, cupboards, trays.

It’s the saddest tea you’ve ever prepared, without a single thing to nibble on and the tea leaves trapped in silly little cotton bags, but you move opposite each other like you’re playing a game of chess, which consoles you a little.

He wins, you think, but you don’t actually know how to play.

***

Jefferson was never entirely convinced you were from the Enchanted Forest. It didn’t suit you, the dirt of this world, the whispered promises of happily ever afters and wishing upon stars so your dreams came true.

You went for the things you wanted without an ounce of remorse and without a single glance over your shoulder.

Then again, none of the other worlds he’d passed through seemed to fit you, either. Wonderland might have come closest, but you lacked its shrillness, the blunt terror in its colors and way of life. And you hated playing cards.

He wasn’t sure how you kept running into him whenever he least expected it, but you seemed to make a habit of doing just that. You seemed to enjoy pretending not to notice him staring whenever he did find you, mesmerized as if it was that first time all over again.

There was something about your presence that made any room you inhabited feel different, and the woods and sky and earth would all vibrate at a different frequency whenever you were around. It wasn’t just your magic, it was all of you.

Of course, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

"See something interesting, dearie?" a voice laced with insanity asked from behind his shoulder.

Jefferson’s eyes never left you, even as he felt Rumplestiltskin’s gaze bore into his neck. You appeared to be counting the toadstools, reciting something in sing-song he couldn’t make out from where he was standing.

"Did you make a deal with her, too?" he asked, voice carefully neutral because you never knew what the Dark One would pick up on and use against you. He already had more on him than Jefferson liked.

"Oh, no. All magic comes with a price." The same phrase, a thousand times, accompanied by the same shimmer in his eyes. He didn't have to look to know it was there. "Just because you’re yet to pay yours doesn’t mean that’s true for everyone."

"So she’s mad?"

"What’s mad?" Rumplestiltskin tutted. "We’re all mad, in our own way. The most powerful most of all."

You lifted your head to look at the two of them and waved. Jefferson lowered the hat over his forehead, finally turning away.

"Then it surprises me you don’t seem to use that to your advantage," he said, crossing his arms.

The Dark One’s grin spliced his mouth with gold. "I like the result of my bidding to be as expected."

It seemed as good enough a cue to leave as any. He didn’t come very far, though, had barely taken the hat off to embark on his next journey before you caught up to him.

"Where are you going this time?"

He smiled to himself, because even with all your whimsical moods he knew you well enough by then to understand you hated being ignored. "Camelot," he answered just as the hat began swirling.

You stepped closer, bare feet crunching the fall leaves on the ground, and when he turned to meet your gaze, the curiosity in your eyes made his heart stumble over itself as he held out his hand, again.

You took it without a moment’s hesitation.

***

There’s a road that leads into town, but it doesn’t lead out. You like how this doesn’t make any sense; it almost feels normal.

Jefferson hates it, of course. It’s easy to read on his face, contempt tinting his every look and gesture an unbecoming shade of green. He hates this world and this wrong life and the fact that everything he wants is right under his nose and yet so far out of reach.

You get that, you really do. But the constant worrying and thinking just drags you down, doesn’t it? No. Ridiculous. So you decide to make a change.

Or rather, things fall into place again.

You work at the library now. People don’t like you as much, but it’s not like that thing at the flower shop was your fault, so they get over it. You love books too much to even consider setting them on fire, and there’s a lot less customer interaction involved, which minimizes the smalltalk. You’ve never liked smalltalk.

You’re perfectly content with your life.

That Friday you find Jefferson hunched over yet another map of the area, tracing the paradoxical routes that should lead onto the interstate and yet never do. Cars break down, bikes crash into trees that appear out of nowhere, and hiking somehow just leads you to walking in circles until you find yourself on main square once again.

It’s a puzzle that’s missing half its pieces, and you’d care about it more if you had any intention of leaving.

"Where do you want to go so badly, anyway?" you asked him once, when his eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and that desperate determination.

"Home," he said, and the finality of that word made your insides twist.

Food and drinks are strictly forbidden in the reading hall, but you sneak him a thermos filled with coffee, anyway, the time for tea long passed.

He smiles at you tiredly as you take a seat opposite him, frowning at the pile of books you’re going to have to sort back onto the shelves past closing time. "Who are you today, then?" he asks, his voice hoarse as if he hasn’t talked all day. He hasn’t taken his scarf off, either, so maybe he’s getting sick.

You squint your eyes at him. "If you’re coming on to me, it’s not working."

Jefferson huffs, and then turns back to his maps. "Not at all."

Maybe it’s working a little, you think as you continue to watch him. After all, there’s method to this madness of his, passion to his pursuit, even though you don’t really understand it.

If he notices you staring, he shows no sign of it, and you’re not about to make him aware of it, not when you’re just starting to get to know each other. Besides, the longer you ponder the possibility of him, the stronger your head starts to pound.

You need to lock up at nine and Jefferson leaves you with another crooked grin that suggests more familiarity than there should be between the two of you. You return it with a bump of your shoulders, and then you watch him walk down the street with his hands in his pockets until he rounds a corner and you roll the shutters down.

Once again, you can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right here.

Because of your migraine, you spill the leftovers of the coffee over a particularly rare collection of fairy tales later that night. The gold-edged pages bleed ink all over the maps, rendering them essentially pretty trash for the perfect townsfolk of Storybrooke. You fold them up as a gift, and then you put your keys into the letterbox for them to pick up on Monday.

***

For a while, it was the two of you on his travels through the different realms, exploring and stealing and doing the unexpected. It was your specialty, after all.

And then, just like that, for a whole while, Jefferson didn’t see you again, not until after he’d met and lost Grace’s mother. It was a particularly cold night in December when he woke to his daughter tugging at his sleeve and a strange noise from outside.

It was rhythmic, swooshing, almost like the wind but accompanied by something like a hum. When he stepped to the window, though, there was nothing outside but darkness and whirling snowflakes.

He managed to get Grace back into bed after some crackers and tea, her eyes drooping closed as she huddled up with the corner of her blanket in her mouth. Jefferson watched her drift back to sleep, and then he returned to the window, because he had this feeling that he couldn’t quite shake. Like someone was calling for him without ever saying his name.

He found you clearing the path leading up to the cottage with your bare hands, the frilly cloak around your shoulders not nearly warm enough to keep out the icy sting of winter. Your fingers were already starting to turn an unhealthy color, and a thin layer of snow sat at the crown of your head like a frozen hat.

Jefferson cursed and grabbed his coat from the bench next to the door.

"What are you doing?" he hissed when he reached you, wrapping you up within seconds. You blinked up at him. Your lashes were glittering with ice.

"It needed cleaning," you said matter-of-factly, without keeping your voice down.

Quickly, he ushered you inside and made you sit next to the fireplace. You only seemed to realize the oddness of your situation now that warmth was returning to your limbs, looking around the room in slow confusion, like you were trying to piece everything together.

Jefferson was putting the kettle back into the fire when you got up again, his coat still draped around your shoulders, and stepped closer to the bed.

"You had a daughter," you said, peering at the sleeping toddler with something almost like a frown. "She’s beautiful."

"She looks like her mother."

"Nonsense. She looks just like you."

The red on his cheeks felt almost like a betrayal, but you didn’t mean that, anyway, so it didn’t count. Still, he was stunned enough to drop his mug, and the sound of it shattering on the floor woke Grace up again. She would be three in spring, then, and she was a smart girl, but she’d stopped talking months ago, instead resorting back to the wails of a much younger child whenever she was upset, and she was hard to calm.

He couldn’t blame her.

Whenever he held her like this, he felt as helpless and alone as he did that first time when she was crying for her mother and there was no one there but him.

Except this time, Jefferson wasn’t alone. To his surprise, you stepped closer and started humming, and then singing under your breath.

To his even bigger surprise, it seemed to soothe Grace.

It was an old song, a familiar song, and you placed a calming hand on his shoulder as he cradled his daughter until she finally fell asleep again. You were still cold enough he could feel it through his shirt, but your voice carried a warmth he wasn’t used to anymore.

You took your tea in comfortable silence, and when the first rays of sunshine started creeping through the branches outside, you told him that you had to leave again. He almost asked how long it would be this time.

Instead, he led you to the door and shook his head as you tried to slip out of his coat. "The weather is supposed to turn again," he said, looking you up and down because he didn’t know when to expect you next. He never did.

"You’re different," you said, and even though you didn’t sound as disappointed as he felt at those words, they still left their mark.

"You’re not," he said, and meant it as a compliment. Somehow, when you met his eye, it didn’t seem like one anymore.

"I wouldn’t be so sure," you answered, and he had no response to that.

You kissed him, then. Sweetly, like a blushing bride would. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with himself.

It was over far more quickly than he’d have liked, and you stuffed your hands into his coat pockets.

"I’m sorry," you said, and for the first time, you wouldn’t look at him.

But Jefferson could do nothing but stare, even as you finally turned and wandered down the path again, because there you were, with your heart on your sleeve, and he’d just lost his wife, and he didn’t know up from down anymore.

***

Stepping into Jefferson’s sitting room is a little like entering a creature’s belly and sitting down next to its beating heart, pressing so close you can feel it pulsating through you.

There’s a large grandfather clock staring at you from next to the fireplace, and on the mantle there’s a small, wooden alarm, and from there, it’s six and a half steps to the cuckoo clock on the far wall that makes a little rabbit appear every fifteen minutes.

Then, it’s another twenty steps past the living room table to the clock on the even farther wall and the bookcase he stores his silver pocket watch on, in a blue box on the high shelf, next to a dusty collection of fairy tales and an old hat he used to wear on Fridays.

Or was it Sundays?

"You could just go talk to her," you tell him on a Thursday, taking another sip of tea.

Jefferson sinks back in his chair, knuckles at his temples. His chin is still held high in bottomless defiance, but his eyes are so tired. "It’s not that simple."

"It’s not that complicated, either," you shrug. "You’re her father, after all."

"Except I’m the only one to know that."

"I know," you say, and you’re not sure yourself if you mean to sound reassuring or scolding. The thought is head-achingly heavy, so you drop it and pick up a tune instead, quietly humming to yourself as you continue your circles around the room.

It’s an old melody, ghosting through your mind more often than not, a little sad and happy at the same time. You feel Jefferson’s weary gaze on the back of your head, and somehow it makes you smile.

"You remember how it’s supposed to work back at home, though, right? True love conquers all." You chuckle to yourself. The song in your head starts to buzz. "Or," you continue with a dismissive lift of your eyebrow, "are you just going to wait for that savior to appear? How long has it been, ten years?"

"Eight years, three months, two-hundred and seventeen days."

Huh. You could have sworn you’ve been here much longer.

"Then there’s still nineteen years and …" You think for a moment, then shake your head. "You know what, I’m not going to get that right if I tried, and I don’t want to, so let’s just say a while."

He almost laughs at that, a soft, pained look in his eye that you’re not supposed to find charming.

"You’re going to go insane in that time," you say softly. "I would."

"I know." It’s already starting to tug at the tilt of his smile and the twitch in his eye. He hasn’t quite learned to stop caring, yet, and of course he hasn’t. That wouldn’t be like him.

He’s always been your mirror, so why would this be any different?

Things stay they same, and they stay the same, and they stay the same, and you’re sick of it. Apparently, there’s a thing such as too normal a life, and it makes your skin crawl.

So you start tailoring again. Your evenings are long and there’s just a few people that come in regularly, that ask for golden thread to fix their buttons and flaxen yarn to hem their suits. It’s quiet. Terribly quiet. Too quiet.

There’s not a single clock in your shop, and you realize you miss the ticking as soon as you crawl out of the belly of the beast. So you keep returning.

"We used to share a bed," you recall, lifting your arm so Jefferson can reach for the thread you’re holding out as you both sit on the floor, your tools and fabrics spread out over the entire room. You love watching him work, even though you don’t quite understand why he’s so obsessed with making hats. Maybe you just forgot.

"We did", he answers, not even looking at you. It makes you roll your eyes.

"So why don’t we now?"

"That would be rather complicated." His stitching is impeccable.

"Why?" Something throbs between your temples.

"Several reasons, dear." He tilts his head. "Aren’t you late?"

The unpleasant feeling in your chest disappears when you look at the clock. "Shit."

You hastily gather your things and start running to make it back to your shop in time, barely remembering to catch your breath enough to say goodbye, and so you miss the look on his face as he watches you, staying behind in the big house in the middle of the woods.

***

You visited more often, now that you knew about Grace, but Jefferson didn’t know if that was for her sake or for his. One thing that was very clear, however, was that you didn’t care at all about the dirty looks you got from everyone else whenever you strayed off the path to wander towards his cottage, unchaperoned.

Sure, they pitied him, but he was grieving, they said, and you were young and beautiful.

"They’re all so terribly starved for entertainment," you sighed, and then you handed him another pretty pebble you’d found on your way. He put it into the bowl on the window sill.

Grace was getting old enough to get used to you, then, to recognize the hands that tickled her chin and sometimes pulled her up when she fell on the forest ground. She loved your surprises, and your stories were her favorites to listen to when it was bedtime, even though she usually fell asleep long before you stopped talking.

"Did I ever tell you," you continued when the embers were barely glowing anymore but your eyes were shining in the moonlight, "about those pirates that I ran into near—"

"Why did you stay away so long?"

You blinked, and so did he. He hadn’t expected himself to actually ask, not after all this time that you had been back in his life. But the question was out now, sitting between you on the broken floorboards of his broken life, and the night stretched your silence into infinity.

"I wrote you letters," you told him, and it was true, but it wasn’t an answer. So he kept looking at you, and the silence scraped its nails against your skin. "I don’t know," you finally said in a way that told Jefferson you did know and didn’t want to tell him. There was a flustered hum to you that almost made him want to take it back, but the magic that followed each and every of your whims didn’t retreat. Not even a little.

"I was falling in love with you." He’d never admitted it out loud before. Who would he have told?

You laughed nervously, looking over at Grace. "Not very much, clearly."

"You never gave me the chance to do it properly."

"You don’t want me. I could never be a mother." Still, you talked quietly enough not to wake her, and you brought her trinkets and playthings whenever you’d been away for a while. You never brought him anything, but he still felt like he was getting a rare gift every time. It must’ve counted for something.

Besides, this was the first time you’d attempted to reason with him.

"I didn’t have her then," he said anyway, as if that was an argument.

"But you were always going to."

"And what about you and me?"

You bit your lip. "I’m inconvenient."

"I know," he said.

"You can’t rely on me."

"I know," he said.

"You deserve better than me."

Jefferson shook his head, and for the first time since he met you, you looked unsure. So, for the first time since he met you, he was the one doing the incalculable.

He kissed you.

You pulled him closer immediately, all logic forgotten as you crashed into each other, finally on the same page of this twisted story. You kissed him like you wanted him to be the happy ending to your storybook, even though you weren’t cut out for that kind of tale.

You both tried to be, anyway.

***

You’ve run the teashop now for … you’re not quite sure. Forever, maybe. It sure feels like your whole life has been spent between boxes of fragrant leaves, with a kettle always shrieking somewhere in the house and you humming whatever tune it sings to you.

But your hands are dirty, and no matter how much you brush your nails under scalding water, there always seems to be grime underneath them. Like you’re repotting plants in your sleep. Or clawing at the ground.

Your life is filled with sound, with constant chatter and gossip, because your front door is barely a five minute walk from Storybrooke secondary and the schoolgirls have developed an obsession with the shortbread and ginger muffins you serve with their tea. They reward you with whatever pocket money they can find at the bottom of their school bags and any gossip about their teachers they’ve eavesdropped on that week.

You constantly have a headache, but it’s fun, in a way. And you get to see Grace.

Your hand stops midair as you reach out for the lavender tea the girl ordered, staring unfocused until she clears her throat expectantly.

“Sorry,” you say, still dazed, “lost my train of thought there.”

The girl—Paige, you remember now, you heard her friend say her name when they entered the shop, Come on, Paige, and something about it made your stomach turn—tips her head to the side in a way that’s familiar, even though you don’t know why. “Can I have that to go?“ she adds, a quick look over her shoulder to where her friends are giggling.

“Sure.”

You only serve tea in loose leaves, because you believe trapping your window to the future in a small bag doesn’t do anyone any good, even though most of your customers don’t know how to tip their residue into their saucers in the proper way. You do it for them, sometimes, if they leave enough cold tea in their cups for you to do it after the door has clicked shut behind them. You knew about the mayor’s adoption papers going through before she knew about it herself, and you’d felt pretty smug about that.

The perfect amount of time to steep lavender tea is five minutes and forty-six seconds, and because you can’t trust a child to particularly care for such precision, you keep the steaming paper cup behind the counter until your timer goes off. You stir a dollop of honey in, humming to yourself, before you hand Paige the cup. She doesn’t really look at you, already distracted by another snippet of conversation, but she still flashes you a quick smile before hurrying to catch up with the others. The bell above the door jingles again, and the man stepping inside holds the door open for the girls to file outside, chattering excitedly. His other hand is balled up into a fist so tight it makes his knuckles stand out white.

He takes a deep breath before he turns and regards you. “You’re in a good mood.”

“I suppose so,” you say, even though it interrupts your humming. “Can I get you anything?”

His smile is small, but beautiful. “I think you already are.”

It’s then you notice you’ve pulled out one of the mugs from your good set without even asking, heaping two and a half spoonsful of your favorite blend inside like it’s the most natural thing for you to do upon his entrance.

Before you can apologize, he turns the sign in your window to 'closed' and sits down at the counter with a patient look, eyes very intense as they search yours, his face unreadable. None of it feels threatening, just … expectant.

So you continue with your instinctual movements, even though you’re not sure how you know what he’s waiting for. You feel like there’s something you’re missing, and it doesn’t come to you until you hand him his mug.

The mask falls when he says your name, your real name, and your lips twist into a smile that’s so unsure of itself it almost curls inwards.

You remember, you remember.

Every single lifetime falls back into place until the one that came first stays at the forefront. You cling to the thought like someone fights with a dream to be allowed to stay a little longer, battling oblivion with the resolution of a dragon slayer.

"How long was I gone this time?" you ask, hands clasping the counter more tightly and blinking fast as if that could keep the forgetting away.

"Hard to say," Jefferson answers. "A few weeks. You’re getting better."

You know he’s lying, because in the beginning, it would only take you a couple of days to remember. Now, your moments of clarity seem to be farther apart every time. "Was she nice?"

If you were going to remember any of this in a while, you’d really miss being the girl from the tea shop. You’ve been enjoying this version of things, the simplicity and the small dosages of variety, like little treats in this viscous monotony.

He shrugs with one shoulder. "She’s you."

"So, no."

His smile always seems sad these days. "So, nice in the ways that matter. You always are."

Somehow, you doubt that. "What day is it?" you ask.

"Seventeen years, six months, forty-five days."

You don’t ask him if there’s been any progress; you know there hasn’t been. Instead, you round the counter and put your arms around him. You feel him sag against you, his sigh of relief barely audible against your shoulder. You can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since Jefferson’s touched another person.

He pulls you close enough for you to feel his heartbeat in your own chest, and you barely breathe as you tighten the embrace even more, trying to hold both of you upright.

"Your hair’s getting longer again," you mumble after a very long time, dragging your thumb against the back of his neck.

"Don’t lie," he answers hoarsely, lifting his head without opening his eyes, your noses bumping before he rests his forehead against yours. "I miss you."

It breaks your heart, how easily it slips out.

Your lips seek his carefully, then more confident, because you don’t know how else to express your own feelings. This kiss, like all the ones before, is a promise you both know you won’t be able to keep.

Hope still tastes bitter on his tongue.

***

He’d always hated Wonderland, but he’d never hated it more than when he got stuck there and felt his sanity slip through his fingers a little bit more every day. Time didn’t make sense here, nothing did.

But if there was one thing that he could always rely upon, it was that you didn’t much care for sense.

"There you are." A voice as familiar as an old song woke him up from another nightmare. "What on earth are you doing in this hole?"

Jefferson opened his eyes. You were like a vision, not even paying attention to the disbelief in his eyes as you dusted off one of the useless hats.

"How," he croaked.

You chuckled a little and continued to look around the room. His cell. His locked cell with guards posted outside.

He sat up so quickly his vision went black for a moment. "How are you here?"

"You were gone so long," you said. "I was bored."

"You—" He held your cheek, your waist, your shoulder. You felt cool to the touch, but solid, real. Eyes innocent and glittering with your usual mischief, as if this was completely normal. "Have you seen Grace? Is she alright?"

"She misses you, too."

He didn’t even pay attention to it, then, but he remembered that little "too" at the end later, many, many times.

"Can you get me home?"

Your smile was soft and sad and sliced him in two all over again. You gently tugged at the bow around his neck, and then you simply said, "No."

So he raged. He bargained. He begged.

But you could not, would not budge, even though your eyes grew heavy as you listened to him. Like this was a disappointing development for you.

He already knew he was nothing more.

He stared at you when he was done, chest heaving, still on his knees in front of you even though he could no longer meet your eye. You didn’t say anything.

"Are you angry with me?"

"No," you said again. You brushed your hands through his hair and slowly sank down to his level.

It was only then that he realized tears were falling from his eyes. Gently, you wiped them off his cheeks, and then, holding his face in your hands, you pressed a kiss to his forehead before touching your own to the same spot.

"Grace sends this," you whispered.

Jefferson closed his eyes, heart twisting with that unspeakable ache.

"There’s something you need to know," you said, your voice already carrying the weight of it. As if all of this hadn’t been enough. "Something bad is coming."

"Isn’t it always?" he asked, but then he felt your magic flicker in a way it never had before. Like it was nervous.

And then lightning struck outside.

When he looked at your face, your eyes were rolled back and your magic was lashing out in all directions, clashing against the walls in terror. "There’s danger if I dare to stop and here’s a reason why," you sing-songed, unfocused, and Jefferson caught your hands before you clawed at your own face. "I’m over-due, no no no no, goodbye, hello." You hiccuped.

Dread washed through him in an icy shockwave. He’d seen you in a state of confusion before, many times, but this was different, not just overwhelmed but panicked. Your magic was literally spilling out of you now, like it was trying to escape whatever fate you’d seen coming, and you would’ve doubled over with it had he not held you upright.

"Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run run." You giggled. "Did you know I’m a bunny in a book?"

"Sweetheart, you need to focus."

The next thunder rolled outside and you screamed, but it seemed to knock some sense back into you because your eyes weren’t quite so glassy anymore when you looked at him again. "Oh, this next part won’t be fun."

Something knocked at the door and then it burst open, dark purple whirls of magic filling the room within seconds, accompanied by roaring winds and a thumping sound that reminded him of a beating heart. Your hands came up to cup Jefferson’s face and you gave him the saddest, most knowing smile he’d ever seen on you.

The wind almost swallowed your voice, but whatever magic hadn’t left you yet let him hear your words anyway.

"Some people really don’t deserve a wish."

Then, everything went black.

thank you for reading!! if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!! you can also buy me a ko-fi if you feel so inclined <3

[voyage-inferno]

"Does that work good?"

Tiny hands (paws? feet?) squished the moss beneath them. The creature- a newt or salamander maybe- had been slowly exploring the box Bennett had set them in. Outfitted with a water bowl, plenty of moss tugged up from the earth, and some bark shed from cuihua trees, fingers were crossed that the little thing liked it.

...He'll take the thing's plunge and wiggle in the water bowl as a good sign!

[i-did-not-mean-to]

I wonder if I could encourage you to write some Silvergifting? For example a sweet and innocent Annatar/Celebrimbor ficlet that includes a bit of teasing?

If you don't feel like it, no worries, though!

Oh...this one...I've stressed and stressed about it, I won't lie...this is some advanced pairing and I am just a good-time word-dabbler...

But...I've said that I'd do it and here it is...(after 5 hours of debating whether I should post it or not)

@elennalore I am very sorry for the sweet and innocent part....It seems a certain flame-eyed gentleman was NOT ready to cooperate with me on this! Angsty bastard!!!!

Words: 2k

Warnings: Erm, it's basically Sauron...so...be advised, I guess (?)

Characters: Infamous pairing N° 2 : Celebrimbor x Annatar

Annatar shook his head slowly, making the luscious hair shimmer like a veil of spun gold coiled against his shapely skull, and stepped into the small room with a confidence that was at least partly feigned.

The smell of hot metal and soft skin washed over him like a wave, pulling him under and cutting off his breath; the voices in his head were drowned out momentarily by the soft humming of the elven smith hunched over his work in deep concentration.

“Tyelpë,” he sighed – half a call and half a wistful statement – and frowned when tools were dropped with a clangourous thud; Celebrimbor turned around with an expectant, open expression on that timeless face that made what he surmised to be his stomach clench. He had never felt quite as ensconced in and bonded with the body he wore like a disguise before he had met this hereditary foe who had weaselled his way into what must have been his heart.

Annatar was not even sure he had a heart – a metaphorical one, that was – but how else could he explain the sudden feeling of tightness and warmth flooding his chest like a tidal wave within this borrowed, fabricated approximation of a body?

“Hullo!” Tyelpë grinned, getting up and stretching his tired limbs with the grace of a shadow-dancer, before slinging his arms enthusiastically around that midriff Annatar had been musing about for the last few moments, “How has your day been then?”

“It was uninteresting,” he replied sharply. It annoyed him somewhat that he was unable to avert his gaze from the pools of liquid silver and starlight that were Tyelpë’s eyes; it truly was ridiculous for he was certainly less beautiful than many a specimen of his race Annatar had seen – and probably killed – before, and yet he couldn’t escape the irresistible allure this particular youth exuded.

Celebrimbor was a world of his own – with his own gravitational field – and as such, he was a force to be reckoned with; at the same time, he was soft and delicate, his eyes open and full of benevolent trust, and his heart so close to the surface that Annatar sometimes felt as if he could plunge his own fingers through his skin as one dipped a brazen hand into a cool pond to retrieve a shiny stone.

“That bad, huh?” Tyelpë hummed, undoing the intricate hairdo his friend and lover had favoured on this day – always a clear indication that he had not been feeling confident about a meeting – quickly and efficiently.

Catching him by the wrists, Annatar couldn’t help but press a tempestuous kiss onto the spot where his blood pulsed under the most fragile part of that silken skin, which made the other laugh breathily and step away farther from his workbench. 

He thought of Tyelpë’s hands too much, Annatar realised, for they were extraordinary; he remembered the obscene, severed monstrosity his master had kept out of perverse pride, and he had to admit that Nelyafinwë’s hand – broad, calloused, and rough – had been akin to a vulgar hammer in comparison to the delicate instruments of sinew and bone with which his nephew made the world itself sing new creation into being.

“How about a relaxing bath while I show you what I’ve been working on?”

With every word falling from Tyelpë’s lips, contradicting urges spread like tendrils of smoke through Annatar’s awareness; on the one hand, he couldn’t deny the almost childishly destructive impulse to crush something so delicate and fragile between his ruthless fingers, and on the other hand, he could almost make himself believe that – held in those strong, impervious arms steered by an infallible moral compass – he could renounce his former ways.

He was not beyond saving, he told himself repeatedly as those honeyed lips slid over the exposed skin of his throat, etching words of hope and of love into it with the same dedicated finesse as was used to engrave precious metals with powerful runes. 

The deliciously confusing contradiction between the shockingly naïve hopefulness and the established mental strength of the puzzling and dazzling creature embracing him as if it was he who was crafted of finest crystal and threads of gold made his head spin, every doubt he’d ever known or allowed to take hold in his soul a live wire thrashing through a hollow body, sending out vicious sparks to set all his nerves alight. 

Impetuously, he hugged Tyelpë back, burying his face in the dark hair that should have made his skin crawl, but its warm smell of ash and molten metal inspired confidence and a feeling he would have identified as homesickness if it had been described to him rather than burgeoning in his own mind. 

“Oh, let’s go then,” the smith cooed, “I’ll draw you a bath and we can just talk.”

Talk, Annatar wanted to shake his head again to dispel the toxic, cloying fumes that paralysed his sharp wits and lulled his fire into abating into smouldering embers; he didn’t feel like talking, he never did, but – if he was to reveal himself to this perpetual stranger – he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Alright,” he heard himself say as he gave in; Tyelpë pulled him out of the room by the hand – his own so lithe and yet steady – and into their private quarters with so much genuine anticipation that Annatar didn’t have the heart to struggle. 

He had a meticulous, orderly mind that revelled in long-winded plans and so, he could but stand and stare as this scion of a cursed bloodline flourished into a hurricane of movement and action – each step a dance, every gesture a prayer – for the sake of a state of relaxation he could not possibly hope to achieve.

Before he had even taken a single step into the spacious bath chamber, Tyelpë was back – smiling up at him fondly – and shifting his tunic over his shoulders with gentle, steady fingers; a single sigh, drawn-out and low, trembled in the steamy air between them as that painfully brittle creature knelt in front of him to relieve him of his trousers as well.

Again, Annatar had to swallow against the rising desire to hug him so tightly that he’d end up squeezing the very life out of him; he had never thought himself obsessive – despite what people whispered behind his back – but, when it came to Tyelpë and his many inherent mysteries and contradictions, he knew that he’d rather see him dead than severed from his influence. He was consumed by the elusive charm of one who gave himself so freely that it stoked a hunger for more than he was willing and able to give in the endless darkness that thrummed like a living, beating heart within Annatar’s being.

“Come now,” Tyelpë purred seductively, “oh, you’re absolutely stunning; if I didn’t know better, I’d say you become more beautiful every day.”

The same illogical, absurd thought had already crossed Annatar’s mind as well; as if Tyelpë’s magical hands roaming across his skin, that was naught more than sheep’s clothing for the wolf, were moulding and polishing him into renewed and heightened splendour day by day, he seemed to become more hypnotising and enchanting with every second he spent in this conflicting togetherness that was his sanctuary and his prison.

Celebrimbor sighed under his breath when he saw how tense Annatar still was; he looked positively statuesque as he stood there – naked and motionless – as if he was waiting for some catastrophe to befall them that only he could see darken a horizon that looked clear and bright to anybody else. 

The recollection of other people – deeply loved, desperately cherished, and deplorably lost – staring obsessively into a faraway future welled up in Celebrimbor and he pushed the thought away with all his might; he missed his family every day and yet, he knew that he could not have changed their path neither by threat nor by pleading. 

“Look at me,” he whispered urgently, drawing that flaming gaze to his reassuring smile, “stay here with me!”

Every time the fire of his own blood, the weight of his legacy, flared up within his soul, he forced it down again inexorably; he had chosen another kind of bravery, he had opted for warmth and solace – a conscious decision that still cost him dearly – and for faith and creation instead of mindless, begrudging destruction.

They both had known the overwhelming persuasion of someone older and stronger and they had been led astray by their own willingness to obey and to serve what they had thought to be the greater good; it would not help nor heal anyone to dwell on these things, not now that they were given another chance – if not to rewrite history – to be and do better this time around.

Leading Annatar, like a blind man, over to the filled tub, he slid his hands behind the other man’s shoulder blades to let him glide gently into the hot water.

He was so blindingly beautiful that Celebrimbor – even knowing that it was all just a façade – could not help but admire the creativity of the cryptical entity sharing more than just his bed; in his expert opinion, it took a certain type of genius to even come up with a design so flawless and entrancing.

Running his fingers along the ridge of Annatar’s spine, he revelled in the sensations of smooth skin and sharp bone; he was a crafter at heart and the exquisite textures, the extraordinary balance, and the exceptional composition of his lover’s form made his heart soar and plummet weightlessly in turn.

“You’re so good to me,” Annatar grunted; it almost sounded like an accusation as if any shred of common decency was anathema to his very existence.

“Someone has to, no?” Tyelpë answered lightly, smoothing a tender palm over the now unbound hair, carding his fingers through the silken strands, and rubbing tight circles onto the abused scalp; yes, he had set his mind and heart on being a comforting presence, and not even the lingering threat in the air would dissuade him. He would show him what it meant to be cherished and cared for!

“I am not sure of that, Tyelpë, my dear,” Annatar laughed mirthlessly, “but I am thankful to you, nonetheless.”

His movements were quick and fluid – serpentine and unsettling – as he grabbed Celebrimbor’s wrist and tugged hard enough to almost make him lose his balance; twisting like molten gold or liquid glass, Annatar surged up and pressed astonishingly warm and soft lips onto his, half-open in wordless shock.

Their kiss deepened, wet fingers tangling in dark hair, and Celebrimbor sighed into the bottomless void that swirled and eddied within that glorious body; the echo – deep and hollow – didn’t take long to resound and, shrugging out of his own clothes hastily, he let himself be dragged into the tub.

Settled against the pristine, white chest of his lover, he spoke of his newest experiments with much enthusiasm while Annatar rubbed perfumed oils into his sore shoulders, humming now and then appreciatively to keep him talking.

“You are precious,” the elusive Maia then purred without prelude, “and adorable.”

“You adore me then?” Celebrimbor grinned to dissimulate the ripple of stunned pleasure coursing through his system.

“Hmmm, I do,” came the pensive answer, interrupted and punctuated by small kisses lavished upon the crown of his head, “I truly do.” 

“That is good then,” he answered earnestly, “for I am quite fond of you myself, good emissary.”

“Is that so? How about you prove it?” 

And because Celebrimbor could sense that Annatar was preoccupied and heartsick tonight, he let this monumental confession die away unheeded and uncommented, and eagerly turned around in those strong arms to face his lover, peppering his own slew of teasing kisses across his chin and jawline.

Flames were lapping at him – dark and voracious – but he was not in the mood tonight to question whether it was his heart or his flesh that was led to the pyre; he had braved fire and blood before, and he was not afraid to do so again.

I am so sorry if this is all wrong; I have given it my best shot 🙈

@medusas-hairband you said you wanted to see this, well, here it is 🥺

As always, lots of love from me (de profundis)...always willing to try, never sure to succeed...

[rosewantstowrite]

Long Forgotten memories

Chapter one: funeral run

A/n: So this story won’t be a x reader, it’s going to be a female oc x five. I haven’t written one of these stories in a long while, so please bear with me but I had an idea for this story and it was from my old rp muse from quotev so I decided to write a story about it, I don’t know how many parts there will be but I’m going to do at least three parts. If this isn’t what you like then move on please, oh and this'll have Klaus as a drug type of deal for the reader. Where the reader smoke, does weed, and drink and have sex with Klaus and goes back to that way with him after three months since that when the feelings of being shattered would return. The reader likes Klaus but they’re still in love with Five. This will take place in season one so I won’t be referring Viktor as Viktor it’ll be Vayna until furthermore I think that’s it.

Paring: Five Hargreeves x female oc

Warning: mention of sex, light sex scene (they get cockblock like all in my other books lol) , mention of drugs, some smoking of cigarettes, drinking.

On October 1st, 1989, 43 babies were born but the mothers weren’t pregnant the beginning of the day, but they give birth, and Rosaline Kwon was one of the babies, but her parents didn’t give her up when a stranger offered them money, so she was grew up as normal as she could because when her powers started to show she was punished for using them, but as she grew older she would use them, her parents moved right next door to the Academy, that’s how she met her best friend at the time Fiv, she would sneak out and go over there, and it seem like everything was fine until Reginald noticed and said if she didn’t train with his kids he would kick her off of his land, so she would go over there and train or play with the kids. She grew very close with Five and became good friends with Klaus.

Reginald would sometime help her with her powers, she learn to make shields, weapons and used her powers to turn liquid into shapes, she was about to learn how to change her body older or younger when one day Five blinked into her room, telling her about how he got into an argument with Reginald about time traveling and saying how he was ready to do it. She tried to convince him not to go, but he got angrier and blinked away and the next day when Rosaline had come to visit, Vayna said that Five didn’t return home, making Rosalina’s world turn upside down and shattered her heart. She ran home and her parents asked what happened and she told them.

She started to limit her time with the Hargreeves, but Klaus wasn’t taking it so he would sneak into her bedroom and keep her company. It started out innocent at first watching movies, cuddling, drinking hot chocolate, but one difficult night where Rosaline’s parents went to a date night which means they wouldn’t be home until midnight and it was eight pm, so there she was, sobbing over Five, unbeknownst to her, Klaus climb up to the window like normal and saw her like that he got out the window before going to the gas station down the road and when he return to her room, she was in the corner with her head in her knees, he tapped on the window considering it was locked, she open the window to let him in, the alcohol he bought was whiskey, and they drink until they were drunk. Well more like Rosaline was drunk and Klaus was buzzing, but he was high so he wasn’t in a headspace not to touch her, and she wasn’t in the mindset to stop him, next thing she knew she was naked and was being eaten out by Klaus, it was happening so quickly because next thing she knew she was underneath him with him in her, causing lewds noises to escape her throat, than she was coming undone, she had came all over his member and that’s how their little hangs out become a drinking session, smoking weed, smoking cigarettes and sex, that how their one close friendship become a ritual to make her forget about Five for periods of three months, that how it happen, how they come to an agreement to do this when she needed the numbing session, Klaus would repeat the session of numbing her.

Today was like any other day, Rosaline was sitting in her apartment rewatching Black Summer when she got a text from Klaus about Reginald’s death and that everyone would be there and it’d be nice if she was there, considering she used to be part of the family when she was always there. So deciding to go, she put on a sweetheart line black strapless shirt, with a black leather jacket, a black choker, her make up a neutral look, her hair up in a braid, her earrings has roses with crosses hanging down from the roses, black rip skinny jeans with rhinestones in between the ripped parts, and black combat boots, she grabbed her black cross body purse, Rosaline grabbed her keys and walked out of her apartment, Rosaline walked down the street and stopped at the flower shop, Rosaline gnawed on her bottom lip that held her lip ring, should she buy flowers? Deciding against it she kept walking towards the Academy, she saw the donut diner they used to hang out, so she got everyone’s favorites donuts and drinks, she paid and walked out of the diner as she carefully walked towards the Academy again as to not drop anything, once she got to the gates that was in front of the Academy, she set down the food and open it before grabbing everything before kicking the door softly, and within a minute she was greeted with Pogo the chimpanzee butler.

“Oh, miss Rosaline, we weren’t expecting you, but it’s good to see you again, come on in, everyone's in the living room.” He said and Rosaline walked into the mansion, she saw that’s nothing had change, she looked around until she heard yelling from the living room, she walked in to see Luther and Diego screaming, she arched a brow, clearing her throat but seeing that it’s doesn’t mattered, she look at Klaus that he had cup of drink, she made the water float before smacking Luther in the face before doing the same thing to Diego. When they looked around to see what happened, seeing it as a bourbon, but Klaus was away from them made them turn towards the entrance of the living room. “Rosa!” Klaus got up and ran to her picking her up and twirling around her. She groaned as she was still off of the floor, she heard his laughter before she managed to get freed from him and looked at everyone who gave her a smile beside those two guys who had been hit by alcohol. She took a seat by Allison and Vayna. She listened to everything before rolling her eyes and crossed her arms. “Luther, you’re being more ridiculous than normal. No one here would kill Reginald, you’re out of your mind.” Rosaline said but Luther shook his head. “But someone took the eye piece that he always wears.” He said and Diego snorted. “It’s worthless.” He said, causing Luther to go on about exactly that someone had to kill him.

“I’m leaving to find something in Five’s room to steal.” Rosaline said and left as everyone started to leave to go wherever they wanted to go in the house, truthfully Rosaline had only gone to Five’s room to climb her way up to the roof, but stopped at his closet and grabbed one of his blazers, normally she avoid anything of his, but it was cold out and the feeling of missing him hit her hard, she climbed up and put the blazer on and let his minty scent take over her senses, she started to fall back into the depression so she called Klaus which he instantly picked up.

“Hey hun? Why are you crying—? Shit! Hey hey, I’m coming to you, where are you?” His voice went from loud to soft and worried. She felt the tears threatening to come falling down. She blew out the air in her lungs. “I’m on the roof, hurry, I don’t think I can survive any longer. I’m stupid, but I grabbed his blazer, it smells like him, I didn’t think it’d brought back these feelings.” She cried out quietly and she heard shuffling on his end, she started to silently sob but he knew her too well. “Hey, don’t cry, you said the roof right? Did you go through his window?” Her drug asked and she sob out a ”yes,” and within ten minutes there was the drug addict wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in. Before releasing her and removing Five’s blazer before pulling her into his lap and pulling her close to his body to let his body heat warm her up. She looked up at him and her eyes were shining with brokenness. She chewed on her bottom lip but Klaus pulled her lips from her mouth with his thumb and leaned in only meters away asking to help her forget. She leaned in and they both connected their lips together, she tangled her hands in his hair and pressed her body against him. He picked her up and moved away from the ledge and laid them down on the ground that was away from the ledge, he sat up making her sit up in his lap, he shrugged off his coat and Rosaline did the same. Klaus looked at her shirt with a smirk and traced the top of her breasts. “It’s like you did this all for me, knowing you’d need me to forget.” He teased as he pulled her shirt off, he undo her bra and made a neat clothes pile, she shivered at the coldness. She took his shirt off and began to kiss the nape of his neck as she began to grind against him, her juices beginning to spread between her legs. She stopped before taking her jeans down and underwear off, she undo his belt and put her hand in his pants to reveal his member as she was about to lower herself down there was a loud boom and a sudden blue flash.

Klaus quickly helped her get dressed and got himself dressed, they raced down to the courtyard where everyone else was. She glare at the portal, she was suspicious of who this was, there was only one person who could do it, and she was just wearing his blazer before she was about to get her drug, Klaus come running out with a fire extinguisher and tried to spray the portal but it didn’t do anything so he threw it. But then there was an old male trying to push himself out but it started to change into the boy she hated but secretly still loves. Everyone gathered around and then the person fell and landed on the ground. Everyone stared at the person and she felt all those emotions on the door. Hatred, betrayed, depression, anger, loneliness. She chewed on her lip ring and watched as he stood up and her suspicion was correct. It’s Five Hargreeves that created that. “Is it just me or do I see little five?” Klaus broke her train of thought and gripped Klaus’s hand as he squeezed it comfortingly. She stared at him as he looked down, all he said was; “Shit.” She knew this is going to be a long day.

[witch-hazels-musings]

hii i see that your requests are still open :D i noticed that a lot of the characters have certain foods or drinks mentioned in their story — like zhongli with his tea/osmanthus wine, xiao and almond tofu, also albedo and his uhh petrified tree spider with spices (you can hear about this in one of his voicelines btw). can i request the three of them taking the reader to a food date and showing them how much they like this food/drink? thank you ^^

sharing favorites

Warning -> none

Includes: Zhongli, Albedo, Xiao

character x GN reader  |  Anthology

a-n: I learned some super cute things while writing this! Do you know how many recipes there are now for Zhongli’s favorite dish? Did you KNOW that Almond Tofu was a dessert!? Like how did I not know that... omg, anyway these are just too cute.

Zhongli 

There are many things in this world Zhongli is fond of. The sound of the ocean as it drifts under the harbor, the way the wind blows over the ever-changing landscape, the musings of traveling traders as they make their way from one place to another - he likes to soak it all in

In that mindset, there are also a few things that he would be eager to share with you 

Some of those experiences may be unobtainable, but the sharing of one's favorite meals or tastes is easy, and pleasurable, to do

He may bring you to these places where he can let you enjoy some of his favorites, and eagerly wait to hear your opinions on them 

“Please, taste this.” He offered the spoon to you, his hand cupped underneath so as to not let the contents spill. You leaned forward, placing your hand against your chest, and let the warm liquid fill your mouth. 

It was salty and smooth, you had no issue chewing the tender meat and bamboo. The flavors mixed very well together, and you were pleased by how these three ingredients complimented each other so well. Zhongli was looking at you so you knew he wanted to hear your thoughts.

“That was surprisingly good.” You tell him, your chest warming as the liquid spilled into your stomach. 

“Most would think this dish is quite common, but great care is taken at its preparation, and each component must blend equally with the other. Even the simplest of things can require great care.” 

He’s also want to share with you his favorite wine. While he couldn’t find those who remembered its taste from years ago, he was able to bring more people to its splendor

He was eager to share more of himself with you, eager to bring you into his memories and keep you there next to the others which warmed his heart

Albedo

Albedo is adventurous, and would often find himself trying new things - just so he could experience them and understand them 

He was excited to have you there to share in these experiences, and while you may not always enjoy what he asked you to do, or eat, you wanted to let him know you would be there to live life with him 

“Okay, close your eyes.” He was holding something behind his back. Knowing him, there was a really good chance he had something devious planned. 

“What are you going to do …” you’re hesitant, but you close your eyes anyway. 

“I want you to taste this, but I don’t want you to know what it is yet.” 

“Please, tell me it isn’t alive, or slimy.” 

“Just trust me.” 

Reluctantly, you let him place the food into your mouth. It was crunchy and musky. There are complex flavors like fresh, tangy lemon mixed with earthy, smoked tones. It was … different, but not terrible. 

“So?” 

“It’s … interesting. I can’t say I’ve had this before. What is it?” You open your eyes and he’s smirking at you, something in the back of your mind tells you ... this can’t be good. 

“I found these the other day and after a few different trials, this was the best outcome. Want another one?” As he pulls out another from his pouch you see exactly what it is. 

Your voice is shaky, “Is that … a …” 

“A spider? Yeah.” He extends his hand to you and you cover your mouth, shaking your head violently. 

Albedo is a pretty good cook

Since he typically eats light meals, it’s hard for him to go out to restaurants and waste the food he cannot eat. So he would, more often than naught, cook for you. His favorite dishes are much less questionable, and he will gladly share them with you 

Xiao

He is much more reserved than others, so he may not outwardly invite you to share in meals with him, instead, he may just tell you, “I’m going to eat,” and expect you to follow behind him 

He thinks is interesting that you want to try what he is eating, as he usually eats the same thing most of the time

He’s never really shared things in his life, so he much prefers if you order whatever you want and just eats that - but he is intrigued to know what you think of the dish he likes the most 

“You want to try my food?” He asks, swallowing another bite and looking at you with a confused expression. 

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever had Almond Tofu before. Is it sweet?” You're resting your head on your hand and looking at him. He’s so proper, the way he sits with his back straight, elbows off the table. 

“Go ahead, I guess.” He pushes the food toward you and with eager hands, you cut a piece with your utensils before bringing it to your mouth. 

It is sweet, very sweet, and practically melts in your mouth. You weren’t sure what you thought it would be, but you didn’t imagine it would be a dessert. 

“I didn’t know,” you said, placing your hand over your lips, “that this was so good. Why is this so good?” You look at him and he just stares at you. When you swallow, you can’t help but want another bite. “Let me just taste it one more time.” 

He hits your hand and pulls the plate back to him, his arm has created a barrier between your eager fork and his food. 

“Get your own.” He’s only partially serious, there is a hint of enjoyment in his eyes and you can’t help but giggle at his reaction. Once you finish with your food, you order another Almond Tofu, which the both of you share. 

He comes to enjoy eating with you, and he starts to become more adventurous in what he tries. Every once in a while he will ask you for a bite of your food or inquire as to the way your meal would taste

[pleasantanathema]

Zeke Yeager | Give and Take

Pairing: Zeke Yeager x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Spitting, Degradation, Established Relationship, Smoking Cigarettes, Zeke has leather gloves 

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: This is part of my Nine Muses Event to celebrate 9k! Follow the link to read more fanfics I’m writing to celebrate. 💛

          “I’m going to devour you,” the leather was cold, the black stitching methodically tracing over naked skin, “piece by little piece.”

           Gloved fingers pressed into your cheeks, “Open your mouth.”

           But you liked denying him, got the same sick pleasure brewing in your stomach that he did from the chase.

           He had you on your knees—again. He always liked you in some subservient position, something that made it look like you were willing. You could still smell his cigarette smoke from your place on the floor, the cherry burning like hellfire in a dark room. Zeke leaned forward on his couch, thighs spreading wider, thumb sinking deeper into your soft cheek.

           “Open your fucking mouth. And I swear to god if you say ‘make me’ I’ll unhinge your fucking jaw.”

           You reluctantly did as you were told, even letting your tongue loll out of your mouth just how he liked. The taste of leather, of pine and tar and something chemical, hit your tongue, his gloved thumb and index finger pulling at the wet muscle, “and I want you to say thank you, this time.”

           There was no time to protest, the muffled sound of swishing hitting your ears just before a string of spit pooled against your pulled, awaiting tongue. It tasted like smoke and ash, like the menthols he smoked. It always tasted the same, tasted like Zeke.

           He released your tongue and you made a show of swallowing thickly, letting that gulp satisfy him.

           You didn’t give him thanks. You didn’t want to, just like you told yourself you didn’t want him.

           “One day you’ll do as you’re told,” his glove wrapped around your throat, thumb pressing below your jaw as he pulled you up, had you clambering into his lap.

           He was fully clothed, pristine dress shirt untucked from designer pants, brands only a conceited business man wears in winter. And that’s just how he liked it; he felt the power in having you strip in front of him and kneel before him naked. Even if it meant your drooling pussy would leave a stain on his trousers before he was done.

           “Why don’t you see how you taste?” You pulled at his blonde head, fingers tying in his hair like knots.

           Glasses glinted in time with his glare, something snarky ready to spill from curling lips, only to be stifled when you plucked the cigarette from his mouth to puff on it yourself. Smoke filled your lungs and nicotine made your head feel high, fuzzy, just enough to cement your courage.

           “Open your mouth,” you mimicked him, pads of your fingers pressing into bearded cheeks.

           “Dangerous game you’re playing, kid.”

           “What? Afraid you’ll like it?”

           You didn’t wait for his smart answer. When full lips parted, you pushed your open mouth against his, letting spit drool onto his tongue and spill from the sides of his mouth. The leather of his gloves warmed against your hips as he gripped you tighter in response, hard cock straining against his belt.

           The cigarette in your hand felt heavy as you kissed him, sloppy with spit and messy with mewls and groans. For a moment you thought about ashing the smoldering stick against his skin, to watch him burn and hiss. But you weren’t mean, not like him. Instead you let it drop carelessly into the wood of the floor, left to fade out as you two came alive.

           “Think you’re clever,” Zeke purred into your mouth, coarse hairs of his beard scratching at your cheeks, his fingers skimming over your hips, thumbs circling over your lower stomach before venturing farther south, “stupid little whore.”

           He didn’t even prep you, he knew he didn’t have to, already knew you were wet and willing as he pushed two gloved fingers inside of you. You gasped as he breached that first tight ring of muscle, your hand in his hair twisting as your back arched from the pleasure. He pumped the digits a few times, letting your slick coat and stain expensive leather. Those long fingers curled inside of you, felt both foreign and familiar as the thick textile petted your most sensitive, spongy spots.

           “Fuck, that’s not fair,” you whined as his other hand wrapped around your breast, leather creaking as he toyed with your nipple.

           “All’s fair in love and—”

           Your nails scraped against his face in warning, “Don’t finish that. This isn’t—” you lost your words when his thumb swiped across your clit. Hot, piercing pleasure raced down your legs, making them shake. Your knees sunk deeper into the cushions and you held on to slim, broad shoulders for balance.

           “Oh please, you love my fingers stuffed in your cunt,” your head fell as he spoke, panting against his neck as he continued his assault, “and let’s not forget how much you love my cock.”

           You were ready to melt, little drips and pulls of ecstasy blooming over your body and following his cruel fingers. He spread his fingers apart inside of you, slick sloshing and squelching with every push of his hand, lewd sounds making you whimper as you tried to tighten your muscles and hold back an impending orgasm. He didn’t deserve the satisfaction of making you cum on his fingers—again.

           “I feel you squeezing. Fuck, want that tight pussy on me. Unbuckle my belt.”

           Your hands acted on their own accord, sliding down his chest as he continued to play with you, your hands fumbling with the metal frame before pulling at his button and zipper. You masked the hitch in your breath by sucking at his neck when your hand snaked around his fat cock. It was unfair that he was given something so big to back up his attitude.

           “Getting needy?”

           You didn’t have to answer, he got his satisfaction from feeling your teeth bite into his throat when he replaced the thumb on your clit with the heel of his palm, letting you grind down against him for friction as his fingers speared up into you. You were so close, so, so close to falling off the edge, the steady build of orgasm ready to burst with just the right touch.

           But Zeke had the power to take away that pleasure, and he did, removing his fingers from your hole and swatting your hand away from his cock so he could pump the shaft and smear your slick across the head. Just as he was able to take, he was able to give, not wasting time to pull your hips down to have you start sucking in his cock.

           “Z-Zeke,” it was just a hot breath mumbled into his throat, your sanity fading as he slowly started to fill you. Your pussy burned from the spread, every thick vein pumping against your walls and making you crazy. He always felt so good, like liquid sin, like something that crawled out of Pandora's box that you weren’t supposed to have.

           “Like how my name sounds in your mouth,” he grunted, head falling back against the sofa as his gloved thumb found your clit as your pussy fluttered around half the cock inside of you, “say it again and I’ll let you cum right now.”

           You, however, hated how his name filled the spaces in your mouth, hated how it felt too heavy on your tongue, hated how it was so stupid that his name was just Zeke. Not Ezekiel. Not even fucking Zachary. Just Zeke and all his arrogance and pride and unbearable hubris. But you’d be damned if he didn’t have the best, most filling cock, one that was making your mouth go dry even as he continued to sink inside of you.

           Your lips found his again, letting his eager tongue lick at your teeth and swallow your sounds.

           “Please, Zeke, pl-ah,ah,” he drew fast circles on your clit, open and ready for him to abuse from where it was spread over his cock.

           You broke within seconds, screaming, clenching, clawing at his shirt as you were punched in the gut with euphoria. You felt too tight, like you were wringing the life out of him as you went numb with pleasure and creamed around him.

           Zeke was caught up in your waves, being drug down into your current, even though his cock was barely seated inside of you.

           “Holy fucking shit, s-so good, fuck, fuck.”

           Your body took from him just like he took from you, the pride draining from his face as you milked his cock from the strength of your orgasm alone. You were sure that your bliss extended just from the sweet burst of victory you felt in your chest, a smile breaking over your face as your high spiraled.

           “God, you’re so fucking weak,” you chided, feeling his cum start to leak down his cock to pool in blonde curls. Your wet cunt finally took all of him in, making him groan from the sensitive feel of having you envelope him fully. His glasses were slipping down his nose as he stayed silent, chest full of deep breaths.

           “I’m just getting started,” he rocked your hips in his lap, cockhead brushing your walls, “want you dripping with my cum for days.”

[byunbaekby]

title — a clouded fate pairing — badboy!mark lee x female reader featuring — lucas wong/wong yukhei, johnny seo, lee taeyong, nakamoto yuta (mentioned), lee donghyuck (mentioned) word count — 17.2k   overall warnings — extreme drug use, drug dealing, alcohol use, language, religion, addiction, drug overdose, vomiting, one explicit smut scene smut warnings — fingering, protected sex (stay safe, always!), high sex, corruption kink for like 0.2 seconds, degradation collab — bad boy bingo collab, link here lyrics inspiration — “call it quits, call it destiny.” bruno major, easily ; “gotta stay high all the time, to keep you off my mind.” tove lo, habits writing playlist  — link here

author’s message — oh my gosh, it’s finally here! this has been a work in progress basically ever since early summer, when i started writing on this blog. this is one of my favorite pieces i’ve ever written, but not because writing it came easy to me; quite the opposite. i scrapped and rewrote this three times, consulted many people for their opinions because i simply didn’t think that it was good. a few thank you’s: my babe @jensungf​ for reading the first draft when it was at barely 5k, the lovely @ncteaxhoe​ for reading it at 7k and also the night i finished it, @taempteng​ the writing god for proofing it for me, and my amazing @starlit-jeno​ for getting me through everything. also thank you @legendnct​ for hosting this collab! it’s finally at a place where i am happy and very very proud of what i’ve written. i hope you all read and enjoy!

—DAY ONE.

The ice cold water thrown over him shocks Mark awake from his post-high sleep. 

“What the hell, man?” He exclaims, wiping the water from his face as he sits up in his bed, soaked t-shirt sticking to the curve of his clavicles. His eyes meet the source of the intrusion: his roommate and best friend Lucas, holding a now empty pitcher. 

“Dude. It’s past noon. Wake up.”

Lucas’ passive words only make Mark furrow his eyebrows in annoyance. “Shut the fuck up bitch, I’m awake.” 

“Someone’s feisty today.” Lucas retorts, tossing Mark a towel as he swings his legs over the bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he recognizes his best friend’s chastising tone in his diluted ears. “When did you get back last night? What were you doing?”

“Calm down,” Mark groans, the volume of Lucas’ voice beginning to hurt his head. Running a hand through his now wet hair, he responds, “I was smoking with Yuta. Got back around three in the morning.” 

“Yuta,” mumbles Lucas. “You know, I don’t like him. You’re always with him, getting high or something. Exams start soon, and you’re not planning to study at all? You’ve been high every day for what, like, the past two weeks?” 

This early morning lecture is enough to cause Mark’s irritation to spike. Since when is Lucas so nitpicky? Last time he checked, Lucas enjoys partying just as much as he does. Sometimes, even more than Mark himself. “Fuck, are you my roommate or my mom?”

“I’m your best friend, is what I am. I’m worried about you. All you do is party, get high, and sleep. When was the last time you even ate?” Before Mark can even think back to answer that, Lucas continues, “You’ve been like this since you broke up with Y/N, and—”

Mark cuts him off. “Don’t say her name.”

“You’re hurting, Mark. And this isn’t the right way to handle it.”

“Oh, so you take one psychology course and you think you’re an expert or something,” Mark scoffs.

This seems to stunt his roommate for a second, before he sighs looking down at the image of his best friend sitting on the edge of his bed, gaunt eyes and all. The last time he saw his friend looking so pitiful was when his dad had passed. “I’m just worried about you. You should let me be, sometimes,” replies Lucas quietly. 

“I’m an adult,” says Mark, which causes Lucas to scoff and respond, “Then act like one.” Annoyed, Mark stands and instead takes a seat at his desk chair. 

The taller male speaks up once again, starting to tear off Mark’s bed sheets that are now wet. “You need to stop. This isn’t good for you. Stop the drugs and tell Johnny you’re done. Study for your finals. Get your act together, stop acting like an idiot, and go get her back.”

When he finishes stripping the sheets and looks up, Mark’s head is in his hands. “It’s not that easy.” 

“You love her.”

“But that doesn’t mean we’re meant to be together,” Mark finally says as he looks up, voice raised in frustration at both the situation and the fact that his best friend is calling him out for it. “We can’t be together,” he declares. “I’m only going to ruin her. She’s good. I’m bad. She has a future. I don’t. She’s everything I’m not and I can’t mess it up for her. Not after... Not after—” Lucas cuts his friend off, sensing that he’s about to start hyperventilating. 

“I know. What happened, you can’t change it. It was your fault. But don’t say you’re not meant to be together. Nothing’s going to change the past. You broke up. But nothing’s going to bring you back together but yourself.” 

Mark stares at Lucas with tired, red-rimmed eyes, wondering when his tall goofy friend had grown so much. Has everything around him changed, matured, while he stayed the same?

“How do I do that?” He finally relents.

“Make yourself good enough for her. Start with the drugs. Stop doing them.” 

He knows the truth in that statement, but doesn’t want to acknowledge it. It’s a lot easier said than done. With no words to say, Mark stands and starts to walk past his friend toward the bathroom. On the way out, he accidentally kicks his guitar, on the floor propped on the wall. “Fuck,” he curses, looking down at the old wooden thing. 

Lucas follows him out as he leaves the room, and Mark steps into the bathroom. Opening the mirror cabinet, he pulls out his prescription bottle which shakes with noise. Silently he pops a pill into his mouth and swallows it with a handful of tap water. It’s probably a bad idea on an empty stomach, but he’ll eat whatever Lucas is making right after. 

“That includes the Xanax, Mark!” Lucas’ voice calls from the kitchen. 

“Baby steps,” he responds, staring endlessly into the pitiful character watching him in the mirror. 

—THE FIRST NIGHT

It isn’t his first party, but it’s his first college party. There’s a big difference.

The scale is larger, the alcohol more plentiful. And more importantly, the shame of being under the influence is nonexistent. His ziploc of kush feels heavy in his pocket, but he knows he’ll feel lighter with its effect later on. School’s only been in session a week, yet Mark’s already decided he likes university more than high school.

He hasn’t smoked yet, but clearly others have, from the haze wafting from room to room. The music is loud, the air is musty, and there’s a cloud of visible smoke surrounding a group of people in the corner. He can smell it now, the familiar scent relaxing him in a new environment. 

He’s about to venture out to said group, catching Lucas’ ashy gray hair (a horrible decision, really) sticking out from its inhabitants, but then something catches his eye. 

In a room of dark gray smoke and purple LED lights, a white dress catches his attention. He turns his head and, faded by the blurred intensity of the smoke, there you are. Leaning with your back against the wall, alone. You’re not doing much, just standing there in your awkward lonesome looking entirely out of place while swirling the contents of your red cup in your hand. With seemingly no move to drink it, you’re staring blankly into said cup, and Mark stares blankly at you. The white fabric of your dress seems to vividly attract the iridescent purple lights of the party, leaving you to stand out in the massive crowd. Though from the way you stand out from the crowd, it seems that that’s the last thing you want to do; you’d rather blend into the scene. 

But you don’t. You’re a beacon of white light in the gray bleakness of the party, and Mark contemplates his next action. He had promised Lucas that he’d be his wingman to try and win over Yuqi. But there’s something about you that pulls him. 

Oh well, he muses to himself as he slides across the room toward you. It’s not his fault Lucas needs a wingman to talk to girls, and he doesn’t. 

“Hey,” he starts, trying to make himself heard above the music. “You’re staring at that thing like you need a refill.”

At the sound of his voice you look up as though suddenly startled. Then your eyes land on him and Mark’s not entirely sure if he’s sane, but you relax. “No thanks,” you respond politely. “I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Mark glances at his red Solo cup, half filled with some sordid mixture of vodka and Fanta that Doyoung had given him earlier.

“Is that strange?” You ask curiously as he makes move to lean on the wall next to you. Except rather than lean his back to it, he presses his shoulder to the wall to face you. 

“A bit.” Mark says as he tilts his head back, pressing the red cup to his lips as he downs the rest of the liquid in his cup. 

“Maybe. I’ve learned that there are more people who drink in college than people who don’t… I guess I fall into the second category.” When he finishes his drink, he tosses it over his shoulder. 

“Nah,” he says in response. “I don’t really drink either. Only occasionally. I’m already a mess with the weed, imagine how much I’d be if I was an alcoholic.” He nearly expects you to laugh at his lame attempt at being playful, but he’s met with silence. Still, he doesn’t miss the way your eyebrows quirk slightly upward at his words. Right now, dark hair tousled and dark ripped jeans decorating his legs, Mark thinks he looks pretty good. But you don’t seem to be as interested as girls in the past. 

“You smoke…” Your words trail and Mark finds himself enraptured by the form of your lips as you talk. His mind flies, but you continue, “How’s that like?” 

He shrugs. “It’s nothing, really. Just fun. I have some right now if you want,” he says, patting his jean pocket. 

“Oh, no,” you immediately recoil, as if it were preposterous. Immediately your eyes widen and you shake your head at him. “Not-not that people who do it are bad or anything! It’s just… not my thing.”

If you didn’t drink or enjoy any substances, what were you doing here? He asks this aloud. 

“My roommate dragged me,” you explain. “We’ve only been living together for a week since the year started but she’s… something else. I’ve seen her smoke more than I’ve seen her study.” 

You almost sound scared. This causes a laugh to leave his lips, and yours. He’s finding, in the mere two minutes of conversation you’ve made, that you are very different from the girl he thought you were across the room. You were indeed like your dress that attracted him: bright, pure, and comfortable. 

And he wants you.

Your silence brings about Mark’s introduction. “I’m Mark, by the way.” His hand stretches out to you and you stare for a second.

“Y/N.” You place your hand in his, and from the jolt he feels in his heart, the first of its kind, that is the first time that Mark Lee believes in the existence of fate. 

—FIVE HOURS CLEAN.

If someone had told Mark in his freshman year of high school that he would become a drug dealer in college, he would have directed them to his father’s church and told them to pray a bit. 

Yes, prior to his entrance to adulthood and the cruel, cruel world, Mark Lee was a church boy. A good boy. He did well in school, dedicated his weekends to church and playing basketball with his boys. Up and down the high school halls, his signature laugh could be heard at any moment he wasn’t in class. 

Then the summer before his senior year, Pastor Lee passed from cancer and Mark’s boisterous laughter became a long forgotten sound. 

It was two weeks after his dad’s funeral that he met Donghyuck, a boy with shady eyes who offered him some kush. Just want to try it, Mark had tried to reason with his conscience when he took that first hit behind the school. Then he fell into the fatal world of drugs and partying. Lucas had been there since their junior high days, sad to see his friend fall so poorly, and he had forced Mark to get his shit together for graduation that year. Barely.

So yes, he was once the bright eyed boy he always wanted to be, who read the Bible front to back and wouldn’t have known how to roll a joint, but that was fantasy. He wasn’t that anymore. He’s a college student trying to get along with the little money he can make from selling weed and other things. He had first gotten into this when he met Johnny Seo, two years above him who could tell that Mark was struggling to make tuition and rent with a job at McDonald’s. Now Johnny has graduated and Mark is still doing his dirty work for him.

That’s exactly what he’s doing now, standing outside Taeyong’s house a little past 6PM with a pouch of kush in his bag. 

It’s easy money, but that never calms his nerves. 

Even when the door opens to reveal Taeyong, shirtless and red hair in disarray, Mark doesn’t stop bouncing his foot in worry. His restlessness isn’t lost on Taeyong, who had obviously just woken up. “It’s 6PM,” Mark says, eyebrow raised at his appearance.

“I was up all night working on a track.” Taeyong’s eyes flicker to Mark’s bouncing foot. “You’re bouncier than normal,” he comments as he counts his bills in his hand. 

“Haven’t had my fix today.” Mark explains simply as the older male hands over a wad of cash. As he counts it silently, Taeyong points his thumb over his shoulder to his living room. 

“Wanna come in and hit some?”

Mark looks up at his offer and sighs inwardly. It would be rather easy to just give in and smoke a bit with someone he trusted, and he wouldn’t even be paying for the weed. He’s tempted. After weeks of being stoned nearly every day, he’s starting to itch for a fix. But Lucas’ gruff voice rings in his mind and he knows that if he gives in, only five hours in, he’ll never be able to live with himself. So for now he does it for Lucas, but maybe in time he’ll see that it was for himself after all. 

“I’m good.” Mark nearly shoves the pouch of green into Taeyong’s grasp, wanting to be away from it as soon as possible. The red-haired recipient only blinks.

“You’re giving it up or something?”

“Or something,” mumbles Mark sullenly, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

“That’s good,” Taeyong declares after a short silence. Mark looks up, meeting Taeyong’s suddenly sincere eyes. “Good for you. I really couldn’t believe that you got into that stuff with Johnny’s crowd anyways.” Mark only shrugs in response. He’d long since stopped deliberating over that. This is his life now. “Still doing music?”

“In name, yeah, I’m still a music major. But I don’t have time to play.” The last time he touched his guitar was this morning when he had kicked it. The last time before that… he doesn’t know if he can’t remember due to a marijuana induced haze or if it’s because it really has been that long. 

Taeyong continues. “You know, you don’t have to do this stuff. You’re a talented guy, you’re strong. If you could dedicate yourself to your music like you do to dealing, you wouldn’t need to deal.”

This brings about a sigh from Mark. Who is Taeyong to tell him what to do, anyways? Last time he checked, he was the customer, not Mark. “You all make it sound so easy.”

“Trust me. You can do it.”

—THE FIRST KISS

The first time Mark kisses you, it’s cold outside. 

He’s walking you back to your sharehouse, down the streets of town, when he asks, “Be honest with me and tell me if that date sucked.” 

It’s been a couple weeks since the two of you first met that fated night at Doyoung’s party, and you’ve only now allowed him to take you out on a date. He doesn’t know that it’s your first. Well, in some ways, it’s his also. 

Mark’s been on a few dates, sure, but those all ended up with him getting his dick wet in the dark parking lot of a Burger King or something. He’d normally take them out for fast food, and finish with the usual fun stuff in his back seat. This time it’s… different. Not only does he figure that you wouldn’t be down for that type of date, but something in him wants it to be different. The only problem is he doesn’t know how to plan a good date.

He still took you out to get McDonalds’, but instead of retreating to the backseat, he drove the two of you to the movie theatre. It was probably a dumb choice of him in hindsight, deciding to watch an action movie, but something about the way you hid your face into his neck when one of the characters got punched out made him smile.

“No, it wasn’t… bad,” you respond, swinging your interlaced hands. You had surprised him earlier when you had grabbed his hand upon exiting his car, curling your fingers together. 

“You’re lying,” he sighs. 

“No, I’m not. Really,” you reassure him as the two of you approach the door of your home. After all, how can you have a bad date when you’ve never been on a date before? You have nothing to compare it to. “I had a good time. Actually… it was my first date.”

Mark blinks, having not expected that to be so. A groan leaves his lips as his free hand comes up to run through his hair. “Oh god, and I ruined it.”

“No, no, it was perfect. I wouldn’t change it for anything.” You smile a sickeningly sweet, charming smile at him, and he sighs. You’re too good for a guy like him. 

He’s beyond surprised actually—even though you know of his habits, his hobby of wasting time and rolling joints, you haven’t run away like others. And he likes you. A lot. Even though everything tells him that what he does is bad for you, he still wants you. You’re a comfortable presence in his life. 

“You know,” you suddenly start. Mark looks up, intrigued. “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

He wonders if the surprise on his face is painfully evident. “Really? Like, ever?”

His question is met with a shake of your head, and he blinks. So you’ve never drank or smoked. That, he can believe. But the fact that you’ve never kissed anyone? Sometimes… you shock him with your boldness. Like earlier when you grabbed his hand and at your first meeting when you had asked for his phone number before he could. But in some moments like now, he realizes just how the duality of your personality comes into play. 

“Why’s that?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, it never really felt right,” you explain as the two of you approach your doorstep. As he escorts you up the steps and to your front door, he furrows his brows deeper. Why were you telling him this?

“Does it feel right, now?” He asks softy, gaze flickering to your interlaced hands as he turns to face you. His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek, the touch soft despite the callused skin of his hands. 

“Yes,” you respond gently, simpering smile on your roseate tiers. 

The smile on your face is sweet and pure, two words that Mark isn’t.

A flood of relief shows on Mark’s face, and you bite down on your lower lip as excitement bubbles in your stomach. “Can I kiss you?” A response quickly follows. For some reason he can’t quite figure out, you let him into the maze that is you. Despite the leather jacket, his messy hair, and the lingering smell of weed on his clothes, you want him just as much as he wants you. Even though you both know that he isn’t the type of guy that you normally like, the type of guy that your mother would approve of, you trust him. It’s bewildering to him. 

Then he guides you to him. Within seconds his lips are on yours, and you melt into him. It’s surely not Mark’s first kiss but it feels like it. The initial awkwardness, then the heat on his cheeks as you both fall into a rhythm. It feels right, like it was meant to be, just as Mark had hoped. 

You’re like the kind of irreplicable drug that Mark has sought after for years. The kind that brings a euphoric high which burns his lungs and twists his stomach, but in all the right ways.

—29 HOURS CLEAN.

The smell filling the kitchen leads Lucas to scrunch his nose in distaste when he exits his room. “Dude, what the hell is that smell?”

His answer lies in the pan on the stove and Mark standing in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon. Clad in only basketball shorts, he looks absolutely foreign to the environment. Lucas sighs. “Please tell me you’re not boiling crack right here in our kitchen.”

The face the Korean makes is scandalized. “What—no, what the fuck? It’s mapo tofu. I’d be insane to try and make crack cocaine.” He adds under his breath, “In the apartment.”

Lucas leans back against the counter, cocking an eyebrow. “Then why are you cooking mapo tofu of all things? I haven’t seen you eat anything but ramen and eggs probably since we moved in here. And—put on a shirt if you’re cooking, or an apron at least. You look like a caveman.” 

“Well,” sounds Mark with a roll of his eyes at his friend’s expected lecturing. “I had a shirt on, but I spilled some spicy shit on it and took it off. And I,” he pauses, turning off the stove. “I thought we could eat your favorite food together before we head out to Hendery’s party. You know, as a… sorry for being a bitch yesterday apology.”

The taller man narrows his eyes, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to make sense of his best friend’s words. “So you… decided to make my favorite food because you felt bad that I had to wake you up and take care of your shit?”

“I guess, yeah.”

Lucas laughs, a deep sound, whilst shaking his head. “Dude, I’ve been doing that since middle school and you’re only apologizing now?”

Mark purses his lips, making a face of annoyance. “Better late than never.”

“I guess. But sorry, I wouldn’t want to eat your mapo tofu anyways. Smells more like my week’s laundry than food. Maybe next time just order from that Chinese place around the corner that I actually like,” advises Lucas.

A pitiful laugh leaves Mark’s lips. “Duly noted.”

“And anyways, I’m not going to Hendery’s party. I have plans.” This causes Mark to finally take a good look at his friend. He’s normally well-dressed, but tonight he looks even better, a little too fancy for the typical college frat party. Before Mark can even question what these other plans are, Lucas explains, “I have a date with—”

“Yuqi,” finishes Mark for him. “Figured.” Lucas grabs his wallet on the counter, nodding before tucking it into his pant pocket. “Is that why you haven’t been partying with us? Or why you’ve suddenly been on this, ‘Mark, sobriety is key’ rant?” Mark questions, lowering his voice to imitate that of his roommate’s. At Lucas’ silence, Mark scoffs. “Dude, your relationship is so fucked up, how many times are you guys going to try to make it work when it doesn’t?”

All that leaves Lucas is a sigh, but Mark continues. “This is what, your third breakup so far? And fourth time trying to make it work?”

“Some things are worth the effort,” replies Lucas easily, slipping on his shoes. As he reaches to tie his laces, Mark continues, “She takes up all of your time now, you haven’t hung with us in months, and all for a relationship that’s destined to fail.”

“Nothing’s destined to fail, Mark. It’s all about how hard you’re willing to work for it.” His voice is calm, but there’s something building beneath it. To this, Mark sighs, and says, “You’ve changed, man.”

Lucas grabs his keys, clearly at the limit with Mark’s prodding. “Sometimes people are worth changing for, Mark. Yuqi forgave me for what I did, and I forgave her for what she did. We’re trying, okay? We’re not walking away. I’m sure…” The taller male pauses on his words, as though contemplating them, before continuing. “I’m sure Y/N would’ve forgiven you for what you did, but you walked away. And that’s where we’re different.”

It hits him, and Mark tightens his jaw. Yes, his relationship with Y/N was destined to fail too, there was no denying it. To fight with his friend who he had just tried to make amends with, or apologize? He goes with the latter, only because he’s too exhausted for a yelling match right now. “Lucas, I’m sorry, okay? I’m a little… on edge.”

“I know. I’ve known you for years,” chuckles Lucas softly. “I know how you get.”

“Yeah. Have fun on your date, though.”

His best friend nods tightly. “Yeah, I will. But if you care about what I told you, don’t go to the party tonight. You know you won’t be able to control yourself.” Mark nods, sighing. “And throw out that mapo tofu while you’re at it. It stinks, and not in the good way mapo tofu’s supposed to smell.”

Mark rolls his eyes while Lucas’ laugh fills his ears. “Just leave already.”

With a few smooth movements he’s already slid out the apartment door. A sigh leaves him, alone in the apartment. He does as Lucas says, tossing his attempt at dinner in the trash. It’s gonna be a long night.

—THE FIRST TASTE.

The first time that you kiss Mark, however, it’s hot inside his apartment and sweat sticks the fabric of your tank top to your stomach. 

That doesn’t stop you from cuddling on his couch however, and you gaze up at him from your position under his arm to watch as your boyfriend, focused on the TV, lifts his blunt to his lips and takes a long drag. Underneath his arm, you observe how his lips wrap around the circumference of it, sucking in a sharp breath before releasing it into the air. He knows that over your time together, you’ve come to accept the smoking. It’s obviously clear to him that you don’t particularly approve, but Mark’s responsible enough to control himself. Now however, as you gaze up at him, you realize just how attractive your boyfriend is. Dark hair tousled and arms bared through his tank top, he looks so, so good. Somehow, he looks even better with the cig in his hand. 

You never would have thought you’d fall for such a guy like him, but you keep falling. He’s not the good guy that you dreamed of, but that’s okay, because you make him good. 

“Mark?” You ask, still looking up at him. 

He hums in response, turning to look at you. 

Your voice is soft as you ask, “Do you believe in destiny?”

Your boyfriend blinks at the sudden question. “Define destiny.”

“That like, we all have a predetermined fate. That everything happens for a reason, and every challenge is just a small piece in a bigger puzzle. That we all have soulmates we’re destined to be with.” Mark’s lips purse, pouting just the slightest in thought, a habit of his. 

Does he?

It’s a question, because he used to. He used to be a good old Christian boy, of course he believed that God had a plan for everyone. Every tribulation was just something that would make him stronger in the end. Unfortunately, the last time Mark can remember being at church, he fucked one of the choir girls in the Bible study room. 

He can’t really pinpoint when he stopped believing in fate. God? Yeah, sure he still believes in him, though the big guy upstairs will probably send him south for his irrefutable sins. But fate? Not really. If fate was real then it was really messed up to make him such a failure. 

But, he realizes, gazing at the strands of hair matted to your forehead as a result of the hot summer weather, and the pure adulation in your eyes as you gaze up to him, that perhaps because of you, his destiny isn’t too bad. Sure, he’s a fuck up with addictions and demons, but he does pretty well by keeping you happy. Because you make him happy. A smooth, suave smile spreads across his lips like butter. “I didn’t before, but I do now.”

Your eyebrow perks up. “Now you do? Why’s that?”

His arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders allows him to pull your face close. With the same smile, he presses a number of kisses to your cheek (much to your sweet protest, complaining about his sweat and smoke). As though he attempts to mask his words against your skin, he mumbles, “Because I found you.”

Mark has never told you that he loves you; it’s a bit too intimate for him, who’s never been vulnerable in that way, and you, whose every first is him. 

But he doesn’t have to say it, because you know it. 

Your lips break out into a flustered smile, though you try to hide it from him. His quiet, unsaid confession fills you with glee and more importantly, confidence. 

“Babe,” you tell him. This grabs his attention, because you rarely use such sweet nicknames. He attempts to respond, but you’re already sitting up and swinging yourself over to straddle his lap. Your movement brings about confusion on his features, and you take a deep breath. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in this position with him, but the first time you’ve made the initiative to do it yourself. Mark was always leading you. So you lean forward, placing your hands on his shoulders, and you kiss him. 

You can probably taste the smoke on your tongue, but you’ve grown accustomed to that. Mark kisses back and grips your waist with his free hand, both shocked and amused by your sudden courage. Everything feels right, it’s like it’s destiny. He’s about to slip his tongue into your mouth but you break the connection, choosing instead to linger your lips over his. Your breath is hot on his as you finally speak. 

“I want a puff.”

“Are you sure?” He looks up at you, nearly breathless at the sight of you atop him. Lip gloss smeared from your heated kiss, you look delectable. Your wide eyes, once depicting innocence, are now focused and curious. He knows you don’t necessarily approve of his habits, but here you are, sitting on top of him looking irresistible and asking for a taste. 

“Yes,” you confirm, as though reassuring yourself. Mark had always liked you, been attracted to you because of the notion that you were innocent, pure, bright. Everything he was not. He had never wanted to taint you, yet his confession still hangs in the air.

But as he lifts his blunt to his mouth, taking a long drag before blowing the diluted smoke into your waiting cavern, he starts to worry that this would be the beginning of a long downward spiral which would place no blame anywhere but on him. 

—44 HOURS CLEAN.

The withdrawal forces him from his sleep at 5AM. 

Mark wakes in a cold sweat, itching for a fix. That’s when he realizes how deep he really is. 

Shit. 

His fingers are shaking, so he moves to occupy them with the only thing he can think of. He drags himself out of bed, grabs his guitar, and makes his way out to the living room. Plopping himself down on the floor next to a window, he attempts to refamiliarize himself with the strings that he had abandoned. Lucas is still asleep, so he plucks quietly. 

He has long since forgotten what it was like to lose himself in the sound. 

There was once a time when he was passionate for something other than haze. It was music. The first time he touched a guitar, magic sprung through his fingers and he knew: he was made for this. Somehow, majoring in music composition and being forced to take so many theory and history classes had caused his passion to simmer. Now, it slowly burns again. 

He doesn’t realize how the hours pass and the sun begins to shine between the blinds. 

His mind brushes over what Taeyong had told him two days ago. Is this what he had been missing all this time? All the hours he spent blinded by a foggy smoked haze, had he been neglecting his own love for music? It’s amazing what he can accomplish when he takes a break from that life. 

He starts to feel like the old Mark again.

For a second, he stops strumming and directs his gaze to outside the window. There’s not much to see except the college town, with the glimpse of the university itself just atop the hill, but he stares and relishes in the sight of the sunlight casting a glow over the town. 

A knock on the door interrupts his deliberations.

A glance to the clock tells him it’s barely 9AM. Who would be here so early? There are two options, he decides as he stands from the floor to stretch his legs, resting his guitar on the wall. It’s either Yuqi, Lucas’ renowned off-again on-again girlfriend, or Johnny coming to deliver the week’s set. 

When he opens the door, the visitor’s face is blocked by a box, but he knows those shoes. Those white ballet flats with purple bows were always your favorite. 

Suddenly the box lowers and Mark is finally face to face with you, his ex-girlfriend. He hasn’t seen your face in the months since you’ve called it quits, even though he’s spent countless moments just staring at the leftover pictures on his phone. You look surprised to see him. 

“Oh—Mark. Lucas said you probably wouldn’t be awake.” So you had been keeping in touch with Lucas? This is news to him. Had his best friend been sharing that he had been basically wasting away the past few months without you?

“Couldn’t sleep,” explains Mark almost sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. For a moment he’s glad he had the mind to put on a shirt before coming outside.

“Oh…” You trail, your gaze traveling down to the box absentmindedly. 

He doesn’t mean to be rude, but the surprise at seeing you on his doorstep makes him a bit gruff. You’re still the same as before: same face, same shoes, same bright eyes. But there’s something about you, about your aura that’s different. More mature. More independent. Because you don’t need him anymore. “What are you doing here?”

If you’re taken aback by his coarseness, you don’t show it. “I brought a box of your stuff. It’s just... stuff that was left at my house.” You gesture to the box in your hands, and Mark is quick to take it from your arms. He prays you don’t take note of the way his hands shake. 

Slowly he places it on the floor next to the door and when he stands again, you’re leaning back and forth on your heels looking rather awkward. He doesn’t ask for an explanation but you give one anyways. You had always had a habit of talking too much when you felt nervous. “I’ve had it since...” Your breakup, but neither of you want to say it. “I put it together a couple months ago but put off bringing it over. But I figured, uh, the school year’s over in a couple weeks so I should just do it. I texted Lucas, he said he’d be awake to grab it but..”

“He’s still asleep,” Mark completes for you. 

“Yeah,” you say simply. No longer having a box to occupy your hands, you hold them behind your back which only furthers the idea that you’re uncomfortable in his presence. It makes him sad almost, how much things have changed.

He thinks back to what Lucas had told him at the start of the weekend. Maybe it was possible to change things back to the way they used to be. “Do you want to come inside? I have some coffee, or some—”

You look at him with blinking eyes. “I don’t dr—”

“I know.” He knows you don’t drink coffee. Of course he does. “I have tea. It’s even peppermint, your favorite.”

“You drink peppermint tea?” You look at him, incredulous. 

“I don’t. It’s leftover from when I bought it for you. I just... haven’t thrown it out yet.”

That’s what your love had done to him: turned him from a brooding boy into a softened man, so much that he was willing to keep your favorite drink around just in case you’d ever come back and want it.

“Oh,” you sound. Your teeth bite down gently on your bottom lip, gnawing it in contemplation as you look away from him momentarily. When you look back, he can see you’ve made your decision. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mark. I’m sorry.”

He expected it, but it doesn’t sting any less. “That’s okay. I understand.” An attempt at a smile is displayed on his face, but it doesn’t reflect any of the radiance in the smile that you mirror back at him. It’s small, the tips of your lips barely lifting, but it’s enough to remind him that you are indeed all that is good in the world, and he needs you. He loves you.

Maybe he can’t love you right now but one day, he’ll be good enough to deserve you. That day isn’t today, but it’ll come eventually. “I’ll see you around,” you say to him.

“I hope so,” is his response.

You give him another small smile before turning to leave. “I hope you’re doing okay, Mark.”

He is, or he’s trying to. When you leave, he closes the door and returns the box to his bedroom before opening it up. Inside, numerous hoodies gifted to you because they became too small for him but were still huge on you. Old songbooks from his high school days that he no longer needed. A teddy bear he had gifted you on your first anniversary. 

Pushing the box aside, he grabs a notebook and his music theory textbook. Maybe it actually would do him some good to study. 

—THE FIRST TEAR.

“What the hell, Mark?”

You don’t curse often, so when you do, it wakes him. When you find him in his room, he’s knocked out with his body half on the bed and the other half slung over the edge. His hair sticks out in numerous fluffy tufts over his pillow, but you can still smell the weed off of him. 

“He only came back like, three hours ago.” He hears Lucas’ voice selling him out, and he groans into the pillow, only lifting his head to grumble at his roommate. 

“Snitch bitch,” he says, his voice groggy and scratched. 

“Don’t get mad at him,” you suddenly speak up. “At least he answered my calls when I was calling, worried where you were because you hadn’t texted me since,” you stop to check your phone. “5PM last night!”

“I told you, I was going to Johnny’s party,” responds Mark, sitting up in his bed, head still spinning. Rubbing his eyes, he sits up, looking rather disheveled and hungover. 

“Yeah, and you never texted me to let me know you were home. How would I have known if you had overdosed, or passed out drunk, or got in a car accident? Or just died?” As your voice rises, reaching a volume you’ve rarely ever employed, you clear your throat to calm yourself and turn to Lucas. “Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” he responds, giving a nod before walking away, likely disappearing into his room.

When you turn back to gaze into Mark’s room, he’s slipped on a shirt. “What the hell were you doing out so late? 9AM is when you should be waking up, Mark, not falling asleep. Finals are next week, you were supposed to meet me at the library an hour ago!”

He makes an annoyed expression at your chastising, and you gaze at him with expectant eyes, awaiting an explanation. All he does is grimace and say, “Babe, can you like, quiet down? I’m hungover, your voice is too loud.” 

Your jaw drops. 

For a moment you stay like that, until you continue speaking, words coming out faster than Mark can understand them. “I’m just trying to help, Mark. You’ve partied more than you’ve studied this year, and I’m not going to let you just get away with it. Almost every weekend I have to stay up worrying about you, wondering when you’ll get home, unable to sleep until you text me that you’re home and okay.” 

“Maybe you should stop worrying then,” he retorts.

“Maybe stop giving me reasons to worry?”

He rolls his eyes, laying back in his bed. “Maybe you should come with me then.”

You quickly reply, “Maybe you should stop partying.”

“Maybe you should stop trying to control me,” he finally spits.

Once again, you’re rendered speechless. And when you turn your head away, focusing your gaze to the hallway instead of at him, Mark thinks he’s won. But then you sniff, an indication that your sensitive heart has once again been touched with tears. “Please,” you finally say, voice weak. This is the timbre Mark is used to hearing from you, not the tone you had used earlier when yelling at him. In this moment, he’s not sure which one he hates more. “Please stop this.”

In a swift movement you reach forward, gathering yourself on your knees before his bed. You grab his hand, pressing your lips to it as a tear makes its way down your cheek. “Please, please, please… please stop the drugs, Mark. It’s made you this… this terrible person and I know you’re not like this.” Suddenly, you’re crying into the palm of his hand while he gazes at you in surprise. “Missing dates, staying out late, yelling, I know that’s not you.”

“Y/N—”

“Please, just call Johnny and tell him you can’t do this anymore. Tell him you’re done. Please, for me.” 

Your begging causes Mark’s jaw to tighten subconsciously. What you’re hoping for is a better Mark, a different person. He’s not that person that you want him to be, he can never be that way. This is how he is and how he’ll always be. This is his fate, to be a lowlife drug dealer barely passing college, and if you can’t handle it then—“You know I can’t do that. You promised you’d be here through everything, all the good and the bad.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you destroy yourself like this, Mark.”

He rips his hand from your grasp, causing a slight squeak of surprise to leave your lips. It’s almost as if he’s not in control of himself, because he blows up. “Can’t you just be like a good girlfriend and love me through the bad shit? I’m trying my best here.”

But is he really? Suddenly, as though empowered by some kind of intangible strength, you rise to your feet, the sadness in your eyes now quickly replaced by anger. “I do love you, that’s why I’m acting like this, you asshole!” You wipe your tears furiously with the back of your hand before glowering down at him. “But if you can’t keep your mind sober long enough to see that then call me when you can.” 

He registers the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut, causing it to ring in his ears. Within the blink of an eye, you’re gone. Fate is a really messed up bitch for this. 

—1 WEEK CLEAN.

It’s been a week. 

A week since the last time he touched anything, though he had been tempted when Yuta invited him over for some sativa. The drinking and partying isn’t hard to let go of. It’s the weed, because it got him through the hardest days. 

A week in, and he’s pretty proud of himself. 

Nowadays, he tries to occupy his shaking hands with guitar or studying but he’s started playing so often that his hands are now raw and in pain. Today, because the weather’s nice outside and his fingers hurt like hell, he decides to take a walk.

It’s aimless at first, just exploring the streets around his apartment on foot. But then ten, fifteen, thirty minutes pass, and without knowing it, he’s arrived at his destination. Johnny’s place. Standing in front of the door, eyes boring into the bright red paint of the front door, Mark feels himself start to slip. No, he decides, he has to do this. This is the right thing.

A shaky knock on the door is followed by another stronger one. He waits a minute before trying again, yet as his hand lifts to place another knock on it, it slides open to reveal Johnny himself in casual wear. “Hey,” greets Johnny, giving Mark a nod. “What’s up? I told you I’d drop the next batch off at your place, you didn’t have to come out here.”

At Johnny’s question, Mark feels his breath caught in his throat. Not only is the guy taller than him and towering over him in every aspect, but he could definitely throw Mark under the bus for his own crimes. But no… he wouldn’t do that, right? He had done enough for Johnny over the past three years that he would let him off easily, surely? A gulp is heard in Mark’s throat as he straightens his position in front of Johnny. 

“That’s the thing. I… I don’t want to do this anymore.”

For a moment, Mark thinks that the taller man will be angry. Johnny stands before him, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

“I just need to.”

Johnny immediately starts to argue, tilting his head. “You know you’re my best seller, though. No one sells as much as you, and I trust you with all the big deliveries. Who am I supposed to give the heroin to now… Ten? As if, Mark.” He scoffs, shaking his head.

“I…” Mark starts, though he stops. “I need to stop. I’ll finish the batch from this week, I promise. I only have like, two deliveries left but I just, it’s not healthy for me. And it’s not because I’m planning to sell you out or anything, or find someone else but I just can’t do this anymore.” He finds himself ranting, finding more interest in anything but Johnny’s face. “I’m not happy, I’m angry and anxious all the time, and being around the drugs only makes me want to do it more, and I just… I just can’t, John.”

When he finishes his unfiltered rant, he looks back to the taller male and tries to read his expression. Will he be angry? If his earlier debate was anything, he definitely wouldn’t let Mark off without a fight. 

But instead, the older nods. “I get it. Just finish your deliveries for this week and call it done.”

Mark blinks at Johnny’s easy acquiescence. “T-That’s it? You’re not going to fight more?”

“You want me to?” Johnny asks, cocking an eyebrow that’s almost mocking. 

“No, but I…” 

“Thought you’d be worth the fight?”

“No, that’s not it.” Mark shakes his head. “I just…”

“Mark,” sighs Johnny, standing straight from where he had been leaning rather casually against the doorframe. “I’m not stupid, okay? I know that drug dealing is hard for you. And I’m also not oblivious, I know that you and your girlfriend broke up, okay? Yuta told me what happened with the coke, and I wasn’t surprised when you refused to sell it anymore.”

Mark frowns even deeper at the mention of it, but Johnny continues. “I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to do. If you say it’s not good for you, then it’s not good for you.”

“But…” Mark starts, but doesn’t find the words to continue. It was… that easy. “Okay. Uh, thanks, I guess. For everything?”

“Sure. Just don’t come crawling back when you can’t make rent on your McDonalds’ salary. Male strippers make pretty good money, if you’re interested.” It’s clear Johnny’s joking, so Mark rolls his eyes and laughs, though the sound is somewhat tight. 

“I’d love to talk to you some more about ways to get a hustle going, but I have to go find a new dealer, and teach Ten how to stop giving weed to everyone he meets because he thinks they need a pick-me-up.” Johnny sighs, as though the life of a drug dealer is the most difficult of them all, which in Mark’s experience, it might just be. 

“Alright. Uh, later, John.”

Johnny nods in acknowledgement before shutting the door. Mark breaths out a heavy breath. 

That went… surprisingly well. Maybe Lucas was right, maybe it really was this easy all this time. Perhaps he had always just been the one believing that it was difficult, because he had made it so. He had been stressing over it all this time, but Johnny was more easygoing about it than he’d thought.

As he walks the path home, he thinks he deserves a reward for his endeavors. It’s a bit selfish maybe, but he opens his phone, and you’re on his speed dial. 

“Hello?” You ask, voice bright as always but clearly a bit guarded from the name that had flashed across your screen. 

“Y/N,” Mark breathes out. It’s only been a few days since you had swung by the apartment. 

“Hey, uh… what’s up?”

He doesn’t quite know either. He had quite honestly been a bit impulsive in pressing on your contact, and now that you truly rest across the phone from him, he has no idea what his purpose was. “Um, nothing much, I just wanted to tell you…” A soft breath leaves his lips. Will you be happy for him? “I told Johnny that I quit, that I’m done.” 

There’s a momentary pause on the line, and Mark begins to worry that you’ve hung up when you finally breathe out, “That’s good, Mark. I’m… I’m proud of you.”

Proud. He had only been hoping for a “good for you,” at most, but to hear that you’re proud of him, it makes him smile to the ground as he walks the trail back to his apartment. Fuck, you’ve made him weak. “Thanks.”

“I guess you really are doing well then,” you say.

When he gets home, riding the high of his successes from standing up to Johnny to calling you, he flushes his Xanax pills down the toilet and watches as they swirl away into oblivion, as if they had never existed in his life in the first place.

—THE FIRST CRASH.

Mark connects his lips to your neck and suckles on it softly, drawing a moan out of you. The sound you make goes straight to his dick, and he releases a breathy groan against your skin. “Fuck, you sound so pretty, princess.”

Princess—that’s the name he’s given you, because all he wants to do is treat you right. And he does, especially in times like these, where you feel the heat of his body on top of yours and he devours your moans in his mouth. 

He currently lays between your spread legs, your combined figure lost in his bed sheets as he softly grinds his hardened core against yours. He’s still got his jeans on while you’re laying only clad in your panties, yet the feel of the denim is enough to have you moaning. You tilt your head back as a light mewl leaves your lips, your body subconsciously grinding down on his. 

It had been complete heaven for the both of you when you had given him your virginity, your purity, at the beginning of this year, and since then you have been basically insatiable. You had never felt such desire for anyone before him. Now as his hands rub small circles over your clothed clit, you want him once more.

You’re shaking your head, so needy for him but he doesn’t relent, only smirking more while he continues rubbing sinful circles on your clit. “Tell me what you want.” He wants to hear your beg. 

Voice soft and breathy, you say, “Please, Mark, I—”

The doorbell rings. It’s heard through the apartment and Mark groans, rolling his eyes while attempting to keep you going. “Keep going. It’s probably just Lucas forgetting his key again.”

Though the mood was momentarily killed, you both try to fall back into place. Now his fingers have left your clit, instead pulling your panties down to your midthigh. “Shit, you’re soaking,” he moans out in amazement, running a finger through your wet folds. As much as he wants to dive in and fuck you until you’re cumming all over his cock, he needs to hear your sweet voice dripping dirty words for him first. Easily, he slides a finger in, to which you groan at the stretch. But it’s not enough. 

“Don’t tease me, please.”

He smirks, slowly sliding his singular digit out of your sensitive core whilst he thumbs your clit. “Go on then, princess. Tell me what you need.”

“Fuck,” you curse and he finds it so hot. “I… I want you to—”

The doorbell again. This time, Mark audibly curses. “Fucking hell,” he sighs, removing his fingers from where you need him. Instead, he moves up and places a sweet kiss on your lips. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s still fully dressed, so he simply opens the door and slips outside before closing it again behind him. As he’s walking down the hall, the doorbell rings once again, causing him to roll his eyes. God, how many times was Lucas going to lose his keys?

The person at the door, however, isn’t his roommate. It’s Johnny, holding a black gym bag. Mark already knows what it is. He runs a hand through his hair, already crazy from how you had been running your hands through it. “Hey, John,” he says, taking the bag clearly in a rush. It’s Sunday, which means Johnny’s dropping off Mark’s deliveries for the week. 

“Hey, man,” greets Johnny, handing over the list. Mark doesn’t even bother to check that everything’s there, so the older man raises an eyebrow. “Busy?” He asks, eyeing Mark’s disheveled clothes and the fresh hickey on his collarbone. 

“Kind of.” 

“Nice. See you next week,” says Johnny with a click of his tongue and a wink, then Mark closes the door and he’s gone. Now, back to what’s important. He slings the strap over his shoulder and makes his way back to his bedroom. As soon as he enters, you look up at him with wide, anticipating eyes. 

You’ve pulled your undergarments back on, much to his displeasure. Mark drops the dark bag on the floor in the corner, and your eyes find it. “Johnny came?”

“Yeah. Just dropping off for the week,” replies Mark, his mind not exactly on it as he takes off his shirt, tossing it somewhere. He moves back over your figure on the bed, lips on the curve of your breast fully intending to return things to the intensity they were at just earlier. 

Though his lips trail up to meet yours and his hands begin tugging your panties back down, he can tell from the way you’re kissing him that you’re not fully there. So when you moan his name, he knows it’s not out of pleasure. “Mark,” you say softly against his lips.

“Hmm,” he responds, callused hands gripping your thighs and leading them open. He’s about to slip his hand inside your panties, but your hand stops him. 

“Can I have some?” When he looks at you, your eyes are not focused on him, but the bag in the corner. Your eyes are faded, clouded as your both ascend to a place of pleasure. You… wanted drugs? Sure, he’s blown a few times in your mouth but in your relationship spanning over a year already, you’ve never directly asked for any.

His dark eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure?”

You bite down on your lip. “What’s in it?” 

“I don’t know,” reveals Mark truthfully as he gets off of you and makes his way over to the package, picking it up and placing it on the bed. You’re sitting up now, peering over the bag with interest as he unzips the gym bag open. Though the exterior looks unsuspicious, the bag opens up to reveal bags of white powder and green kush. 

Cocaine. 

It’s dangerous. Mark gazes down at it, biting down on his lip. 

“Is that��� cocaine?” You ask, not unaware of the extreme drug sitting in your boyfriend’s room. 

He nods, almost ashamed. “Yeah.”

A silence falls over the two of you, both just staring at the white bags. It’s almost unbearable, how much Mark wants to throw the bag away and just resume your activities, but you’re still gazing into the bag with contemplation, fear, and even… curiosity. 

“So, can I have some?” You ask again. 

Mark sputters for a second, blinking. “Babe. I—are you sure?” 

You nod, eyes dark and curious. “Yeah.” At your confirmation, sounding like it was more to assure yourself than him, Mark stares holes into the white substance. It’s filling the bag to the brim—surely whoever he has to deliver it to won’t notice a line’s worth missing. 

So it’s with steady yet hesitant hands that he pulls a pack from the bag, directing you. “Grab your credit card,” he says, walking over to his nightstand. Unzipping the bag just the slightest, he pours out a small amount. Just a little bit, he swears. 

When you return to his side with your said card in your hand, he takes it from you and lines up the coke on the table. In a neat little line, it’s set up for you. “Okay,” he starts, looking at you. “Just hold down one nostril and—”

“I know how to do it. I’ve seen it at parties.” You interrupt him as you kneel, finally head level with the nightstand. It’s true; the few parties you have attended alongside your boyfriend, there’s more than enough depictions. He watches with interest as you lean forward, holding one side of your nose closed, and snort up the entire line in one go. 

First, you cough into the nightstand. When you turn and look at him, you’re wiping the remaining white dust from your nose. “You okay?” Your boyfriend asks you, to which you nod. “It takes a few minutes to work.”

Again, you nod silently, sitting down on the bed and gesturing Mark to come to you. When he approaches, you lay back in his bed, looking up at him with lustful eyes. “Now, hurry up and fuck me.”

The words are so rare from you. It’s all he needs to hear, unbuckling his belt and dragging his jeans to the floor in two swift movements. Within moments he’s back on top of you, feeling your heat once again. He starts slow, pressing kisses to your stomach, breasts, and neck while waiting for the drug to take effect. He knows the exact moment that it begins to work; your pupils immediately dilate, and suddenly you’re a loose, moaning mess underneath him. 

Your muscles relaxed, Mark immediately presses a long kiss to your swollen lips while dragging down your panties. He would usually opt for more foreplay, but he’s waited long enough. He pulls away for the shortest moment to slip on a condom, but before you know it he’s already flush against you again. 

It feels so good, even just his touch on you. You’re so sensitive, senses heightened by the drug that you feel everything: his large hands on your breasts over your tips, his lips marking your neck. When he leads his dick to your dripping entrance, you watch in anticipation, though you’re shaking. 

As he finally slides in, finally filling you up, you tilt your head back and let out a loud moan, the loudest yet. It just feels so good, you feel so full, and he’s so, so deep.

Everything is…. so good. Euphoria creeps into your headspace. 

He pulls out, and you moan again. “Ah,” you gasp sharply, feeling every ridge, every muscle stretched as he slides out, only the tip inside you. Then he slams back in, causing your back to arch and your toes to curl. “Oh, fuck,” you moan out again, eyes closed tightly, lost in the pleasure. 

Mark’s hand grips at your hips, eyebrows furrowed in focus as he falls into a rhythm. He would have taken some himself, but he wanted to watch you fall apart under him. Suddenly you grab at his free hand, and he intertwines your fingers. You’re squeezing him, his hand and his dick altogether, so tightly as you’re lost in your pleasure.

“Fuck, princess, you feel so good,” he moans out, closing his eyes. He immediately opens them again, not wanting to miss a second of you. “You love my cock, huh?”

Breathless, you nod without words. 

“And to think, just a year ago you were an innocent little prude. Now look at you, taking my cock like the slut you are. High on my drugs, fuck—” Mark taunts, moaning aloud as you suddenly clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so tight.” 

When he adds his hands to your clit, rubbing the nub in circles the way he knows you love it, the pleasure is heightened for your sensitive body. Your temperature rises, your heartbeat uncontrollable—all the telltale signs of that euphoric high. 

A few minutes pass like this, you completely out of it and moaning at the top of your lungs whilst your boyfriend fades in and out of your vision. You grasp onto his arm, tilting your head back. “Mark, I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he musters out, never stopping his hips. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock like the good girl you are.” 

And you do, losing it as you tighten around his length, walls clenching repeatedly. This brings him over the edge, cumming into the condom with a shaky breath. He keeps the rhythm going for both your sakes, though his thrusts go erratic as he comes down. 

You do the same, your thirty minutes of elation coming to an end soon. As soon as you’ve come down from your orgasmic high, you immediately relax. Your breathing is labored as you relax into his sheets. 

Mark pulls from you with a low groan. By the time he’s tossed the condom off into the trash and returned to his bed, you’re already asleep, chest rising softly. A post-cocaine high can do that to you. A soft chuckle leaves his lips as he slides into bed with you, slipping a hand over your waist. 

With the way your body fits right into his, one could say you were made for each other. In Mark’s mind, maybe you were. 

—3 WEEKS, 6 DAYS CLEAN

His hands shake as he curls the wrapping paper, giving it a soft lick to secure it. 

Tomorrow will be four weeks, a whole month since the last time he had done anything. He had passed his exams. After he had thrown the pills away, he was sure that everything would be smooth sailing. But he was wrong. 

He’s disappointed in himself, he is. He wanted to be better, but it’s harder than it seems. Lucas would be disappointed in him. You would be too.

Luckily, neither will find out. 

Right now he’s tucked in his bedroom away from Lucas with the excuse that he was napping, but he’s not. Instead, he’s wrapping a joint with the leftover weed tucked in his nightstand. 

It’s not because he wants to, or because he’s being peer pressured by anyone around him. It’s for one person only—his dad.

On this day, five years ago, Pastor Lee passed away. 

The first three years, the hardest ones, he had Lucas. The past two years, he had you.

No—the first three years weren’t hardest to face, this one is. He still has Lucas, but not really. Had he swallowed his pride, had he just told his best friend that he wasn’t okay when he had asked about his father’s death anniversary, things would have been okay. Lucas would have nodded in sympathy, then dropped everything he had to be there for Mark. They’d chill and drink a couple beers—no, not drink, not anymore—but maybe watch a movie and play some games until the day had passed. That would have been bearable. 

But that hadn’t happened.

When Lucas had asked Mark how he felt about the day, Mark had lied and blubbered out a, “Oh, was that today? I totally forgot.” Why had he done that? He doesn’t know. 

Because he had had too much pride to admit to his friend that he was struggling… Now he’s here, trying to take care of his pain in the only way he has left. 

He lights it, fingers still shaking, and his body relaxes into the mattress as he finally gets a taste of the clouded, sinful smoke once more. The only downfall to this is that he knows, oh he knows well, just how much pain that it causes for him and those around him. 

—THE FIRST BURN.

Over the years, Mark has grown accustomed to the warmth.

It’s what you do to him, what he associates you with. Your first kiss, despite the cold winter air, warmed his soul from the inside. Whenever he looks at you… there’s a feeling of espousement that explodes within his chest. Yes, he loves you, even if he doesn’t say it often. He doesn’t need to. You know. You’ve opened his eyes to the beauty of love, the exhilaration of showing yourself to someone and being fully accepted. In his life once frozen over with the loss of his father and the death of his innocence, you showed him warmth. 

When he wakes, you’re burning up. 

More than you should, even with the two of you naked beneath his blankets. You’re sweating, he realizes as he slides his hand, which he had slung around your waist as the two of you drifted into dreamland, over your skin. 

You must be hot underneath the blanket, so he starts to slide it off the blanket from your figures. Then he hears it: you cough, the choked sound coming out scratched and labored. Though you’re turned away from him, he can hear the struggle in it. It’s as if… there’s something blocking your throat. 

His eyes immediately widen, adrenaline spiking as he sits up, grabs your shoulders, and turns you around. No, no, it can’t be. Where you had been laying, facing the wall, there’s remnants of your vomit, though some had gotten lodged in your throat. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His fingers grab your wrist. You’re still breathing. You’ve still got a pulse, but it’s fast, too fast. So fast, he can barely count it. “Shit,” he curses. You’re overdosing. You’ve overdosed. Fuck. 

It’s the cocaine. 

“Y/N,” he calls, voice already loud enough to make the house burst into flames with the amount of desperation he puts into it. Shaking your shoulders, he tries again. “Y/N, baby, fuck—wake up!” When you don’t come to, he turns his head over his shoulder, screaming, “Lucas!” 

It’s only the early morning, will he be awake? “Lucas!”

“Mark…?” Your voice draws him out from his panic, and he turns to you with wide eyes. Your eyes, pupils dilated and shaky, fly all over the room. “W-What’s—” You don’t finish, because immediately you’re flinging yourself over the side of his bed and throwing up the remainder of what’s in your throat out on his bedroom floor. 

The door slams open. Lucas’ worried face appears. Mark is trembling, breath shaking, and you’re still vomiting over the carpet. At the moment, Mark doesn’t care that the both of you are naked in his bed. “What the hell happened?”

Mark feels himself start to slip away, only a moment from hyperventilating, but he speaks. “Hospital… cocaine—overdose, I—” 

“I’ll go start the car.” Lucas is immediately out the door, loud steps running down the hallway to grab his keys. At least somebody is in a stable state of mind. Mark starts to move, standing to dress the two of you, but you grab his arm as he steps out, perhaps using the last of your energy. Your eyes are wild, your mouth parted as you heave heavy, labored breaths. 

“I… I can’t breathe—Mark, I can’t,” you start between hurried breaths, but don’t finish. Immediately you go slack, falling back in his bed with closed eyes rolled into the back of your head. 

“Fuck,” he curses, immediately throwing on his jeans and sliding your dress over your sweltering body. Though he’s stumbling and racing to gather things, his phone, his wallet, and your’s, he picks you up into his arms bridal style, racing out of his bedroom into the living room. 

Flying out the front door, the cold morning air greets him in an unpleasant fashion, only making your perspiring body seem even warmer, reminding him of his faults. Lucas is already sitting in the front seat, ready to go, but Mark throws the two of you in the backseat. At this point you’re completely gone to the world, head thrown back against the cushion as he struggles to put on your seatbelt. It seems like an arbitrary precaution in this case. 

As Lucas starts to drive, moving as fast as he can possibly go, Mark clutches your hand. “Baby,” he finally breaths out as reality begins to set in. This is his fault, he did this to you. He doesn’t deserve to hold your hand, so instead he lets go, placing it in your lap before leaning forward to place his head in his hands.

“Oh my fucking god,” he finally lets out, exasperated.

—1 WEEK, 2 DAYS CLEAN

“My name is Hyunjoon, and I am addicted to alcohol. It has been… six weeks since my last drink.”

Mark bounces his leg erratically, glancing around the room. There’s some people he knows, recalling their faces on campus or around town, but some people he's never seen in his life. He’s supposed to reveal himself to these people? He doesn’t belong here.

Or maybe he does. After his last breakdown, it had taken him three days to fess up to Lucas. His friend, though disappointed, was more than understanding. “It’s a long road,” he had told Mark at the time. He said that he knew of an addiction support group in town, and encouraged Mark to attend. He’s right; Mark knows he can’t do this alone.

“Glad to see you’ve gone another week, Hyunjoon. Happy to see you back.”

He’s next, so he stands. “Um,” he starts, rubbing his nape and feeling awfully out of place. “I’m Mark, and I’m addicted to…” he sighs. “A lot of things.” 

The kind looking leader of the meeting offers him a smile. “You can share if you’d like.”

He takes a deep breath. There’s so many people, so many eyes. “Mostly weed. I drink a lot, or I used to. I… I was trying to stop everything then I had a—” How to describe it? “Relapse, last week. I don’t think I can do this alone.”

“We commend you for your courage, Mark.” There’s a soft round of applause in the circle. The smiling leader then continues, “We ask everyone who is new to this group, ‘why.’ Why do you want to stop your addiction? Why do you seek help? Besides the obvious reasons that it’s bad for you.”

This question doesn’t take long for him to answer. “I hurt someone. Someone that I really loved, and honestly… I hate myself for it. So I have to stop.”

There seems to be a couple of nods around the circle as Mark sits back down. He releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. This will work. Things will be okay. He will get better. He will get you back.

“Thank you for that, Mark. Welcome.”

—THE FIRST REGRET.

Mark finds himself in the same position he had been in earlier in the car, except this time he’s sitting on the floor right outside your room on the hospital floor, hiding his head in his hands. What is wrong with him?

What had he done to you? What had he allowed you to do to yourself?

God, he’s fucked up. 

Lucas is inside with you. He had wanted to be there when you woke up, but he couldn’t. He could barely look at his face in the hospital bathroom mirrors; how was he supposed to face you, IVs hooked up to your arms as a result of the drugs that he gave you? It was supposed to be fine, it was just a little bit! It was supposed to help the experience you two were having. But instead, it almost ended your life. 

He looks back now. Just two years ago, when you had first met, you didn’t even drink. You’d never been kissed, never been touched. Now he’s… done this to you. He’s despicable. You don’t deserve him. You deserve better. 

The door opens, and Mark finally pulls his head up to see Lucas step out with a somber expression. It’s a stark juxtaposition that saddens him, for Lucas is so often the light hearted joking one of the two. “She wants to see you.”

Mark parts his lips, shaky breath exhaling. “I can’t.”

Lucas takes a seat next to him on the floor, sighing. He probably looks crazy, shirtless and puffy eyed on the floor, but his best friend moves next to him anyways. “I know. She’s not angry, you know.”

“That’s the worst part,” mumbles Mark, staring out at the bleak white walls of the hospital in front of them. He doesn’t say much, but Lucas understands him it seems. 

“Something’s gotta change, Mark. Something’s gotta give.”

He knows, with a soft nod of his head. Of course, he knows what Lucas means, but what it means to him is different. He has to give something up, and it’s going to be you. Not because he can live without you or because he doesn’t love you, but because it needs to be you. You can’t be around him any longer. You’ll only continue to be hurt.

When this thought finally occurs, and he accepts it, it becomes a little easier to face you. 

He rises to his feet. “I’ll… I’ll see you later,” he finally says, twisting the doorknob to your room open.

—1 MONTH, 4 DAYS CLEAN

He doesn’t know why you asked to see him for lunch, but he does know that you look good. You look healthy, you look better than you did that day when he slipped into your hospital room and saw you there, laying lifeless and gray. But that day, you still smiled when you saw him. 

You look rather happy, like you’re doing okay without him, though he hopes that’s not that case—no, that’s not a good thing to hope for. He hopes that you’re doing okay, but that you’ll be even happier when you’re together again. Again, you smile at him over your food. Even after all this time, you still look at him like he’s the center of your universe. 

Though you had made small talk about your lives, what you were both doing, how your mom is, how Lucas is, and other unimportant things, it’s at the end of the meal when your voice finally sobers, though you keep a smile on your lips. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you out here.”

“I…” Mark starts, blinking, before nodding. “Yeah.”

You laugh, causing the slightest smile to break out across his lips. It’s still the same laugh you had, that fated night when you met. “I just wanted to see you again. And talk. We haven’t talked in a while.”

Mark’s smile turns into a bittersweet simper. “I thought that was because you didn’t want to talk.” Though you had spoken to him on that phone that one day, he had chalked that up to you being polite when he suddenly called. 

“Well, at first, yeah, but you know it’s been almost a year since we broke up and… I had some things I wanted to tell you.” Him too, but he’s not entirely sure he’s at his best just yet. Nevertheless, he smiles and nods. 

“I’m listening. You know I always am.”

You take a moment or two to simply stare at him with thoughtful eyes as you think over your words. All the while, your sweet smile never leaves your roseate tiers. Finally, hands folded over your lap, you start.

“Thank you.”

Mark blinks, but you continue. “I know that we didn’t end off on the best terms but I wanted to make sure you knew that I was thankful for you. For having you. You’ve done a lot for me. You’ve taught me a lot, and I can’t thank you more for everything you’ve done.”

You blink repeatedly, eyes fluttering before you continue, which leads Mark to think that these words might be just as emotional for you as they are for him. “Thank you for teaching me love. Because of you, I’ve grown a lot and become a better version of myself. A stronger one. I’m really thankful that you were my first everything: my first real date—” His mind flies back to that night. That movie really was a horrible movie.

“My first kiss.” Does it feel right, now? Yes. Can I kiss you? Yes.

“My first time.” It was awkward, but it felt, as it always did, right. 

“Thank you, for being the first guy I loved. I really… really loved you, Mark. But most of all,” you say, gazing at his wordless figure with those eyes of yours. They’re not as innocent and naive as they used to be. They’re matured now, hardened, but still, the sparkle is there. The same sparkle that had attracted him that night, three years ago, with that damned white dress.

“I forgive you.” Mark releases a shaky breath. “For everything. I don’t want you to blame yourself anymore. It’s not your fault, really. I’m better now, I’m healthy. Please, don’t hurt yourself anymore because of me.”

“Y/N, I—”

“I met you in my first year here. We’re going to be seniors, Mark. We’re going to graduate and be thrown into the real world, where there’s real consequences. I don’t want the consequences of what happened to weigh you down. I just want to move on, and you deserve to move on too.” From the glint in your eye, it’s clear how long you’ve pondered over these words. 

He wants to reach out to you, to grasp you and bring you back to him. Because he’s trying to let go of the past so that he can focus on loving you fully as you are. 

Sure, you can forgive him, but he needs to forgive himself first. He’s not quite fully well yet. He has to be patient.

A soft exhale leaves his lips. “Thank you. For forgiving me.”

Yet another sweet, beautiful smile spreads across your lips. It’s the smile that haunts Mark’s dreams. “You’re welcome. And thank you again for everything.” As the waitress appears, returning Mark’s credit card that he had graciously used to pay for the meal, you stand with your bag.

No, you can’t be leaving just yet. “Stay in touch, okay, Mark?”

But he has to let you leave. The day will come when it’s right. “Yeah,” he manages, swallowing the lump in his throat. Yet as he watches you walk away, he can feel that that string of fate he had always believed tied the two of you together slowly wearing, twisting, breaking.

—THE FINAL TEAR.

“What do you mean we should break up?” 

Your voice is scandalized, angry. Mark simply keeps his gaze to the living room floor, eyebrows furrowed in complete unhappiness. He never wanted it to end like this, but he’s run horrible with thoughts that the things he did brought pain to you. It’s time to end it. Not because he wants to, but because he should. 

“We just should,” he responds bleakly. “After what happened, I think it’s clear that we’re not good for each other.” 

It’s been a month now since you’ve been discharged from the hospital. After you had convinced your doctor that you weren’t addicted to drugs and in need of rehab, you had gone home. Mark had luckily had enough saved to pay off your hospital bills; neither of you wanted your parents knowing. “Mark, it’s okay. I told you it’s okay!”

“No, it’s not. It’s not just because of the overdose. Things have been like this for a while now.”

You attempt to grab his hand. If he allows himself to bask in just one moment of your kindness, he’ll give in. You beg, “Mark, please, hang on for me, for us. I promise things will get better, things can change.”

He snaps, pulling his hand from your’s. Your eyes widen up at him, shocked and appalled at his sudden movement. “No! Can’t you see? You didn’t even take that much. I took more coke in my first snort than you took in that entire line. The overdose shouldn’t have even happened, but look, it did. This is wrong.”

“What, the drugs? I’ve been telling you that. Please, we can get better. We can find help.” The fact that you’re still pleading him with kind, gentle eyes, makes this all worse. It only further proves that you’re good. He’s not.

“No, not the drugs. Us.”

“Us?”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, shaking his head in frustration. “We’re not right for each other. This isn’t working.”

“What do you mean? Tell me why.”

“We’re just not… destined to be together. What happened, it was God’s way of telling us that this is not right. We’re not right for each other,” he explains, voice exasperated as he tries his best to explain the mess of his thoughts. 

This seems to take you aback, your voice finally rising. “Oh, so now you care what God thinks?”

No, not really. But sometimes he has to listen. He doesn’t respond, so you continue. “I’ve been more than willing to make this work for two years, Mark. You think any of this was easy for me? My first boyfriend and he’s a freaking drug dealer for God’s sake. I tried to take it all because I loved you! I took care of you when you were hungover, I waited around shady areas at night so that you could drop off deals, I stuck with you for everything. Fuck,” you shout, causing Mark to tense. You rarely curse, and based on your usage of it now, he knows just how upset you are. “I even overdosed and I’m still here. Yet it’s always you pushing me away, making it difficult. Why are you running away from us?”

He’s not running away. “I’m not running away,” he declares. “I’m letting you run away.”

“And what makes you think I need to run away from you?”

“Because! You heard yourself, don’t deserve those things. You should have someone to take care of you when you’re sick, not always be the one fixing me when I’m sick. You should have someone to walk with you through the shady areas. That’s not me. I’m not… right for you.” He finally spits it out, eyebrows tightened together as he releases the thoughts that have been on his mind for a month now. 

You’re silent for a moment, taking in his words with your arms crossed over your chest. When you speak, your voice has returned to its normal speaking volume. “You told me that you believed in fate, that you believed in us. Is this fate? Fate that we met, and fell in love, and broke up? Is it fate that you hurt me over and over again and I came back, every single time? Because if that’s fate…” A single tear falls from your eyes, though you wipe it away so it’s as if it never even existed. It seems even you have some pride now, not to cry in front of him. “It seems like your idea of fate is pretty messed up.”

Mark takes a large breath, looking away to gather his thoughts before looking back to you. You’ve both come so far since that night, the image of her clouded by the purple lights, the energy of the party. Now, all that glamour is stripped away. It’s just you and him, as you are. “You had to meet someone like me, so you can know what you deserve.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to call it quits, and blame it on destiny?” Your tone is mocking, questioning his reasons and probably his sanity. 

“I’m not calling it quits,” he immediately retorts, responding sharp and quick. “I’m letting you go.”

“No,” you say as you approach him. “You’re giving up. On us, on everything we worked hard to build. Our trust, our relationship, everything.” Your finger digs into his chest, pointing an accusing blame. “I broke up with you,” you emphasize. “Not the other way around. I broke up with you because you tugged me around, you pushed me away, and you never listened to me. I got tired of it, and broke up with you.” 

With that, you pull away from him, though when he finally comes to realize the weight of the conversation you just had, he sees you grabbing your bag and slipping your white ballet flats with purple bows on. “Y/N.”

He wants to say he’s sorry, because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He hadn’t planned for the conversation to go up in flames. 

Whenever you walked out during arguments, there was always a promise to call later, to talk when your minds were stable. But now, as you turn over your shoulder, walking out of his apartment and life, you muster a goodbye.

“Don’t call me.”

—3 MONTHS CLEAN.

“Senior year!” Lucas yells as he throws open the front door with the power of the Hulk, startling Mark who’s still unpacking some boxes of cookware in the kitchen. “It’s our time, time to shine!”

A soft laugh leaves Mark as he places some cups in the cupboard. He and Lucas had left their apartment for two months for the summer to return to their homes, but here they are, back and ready to take on their final year. They had finished middle school and high school together, and now they’ll graduate college together. It makes Mark smile. 

As he leaves the kitchen to greet his best friend in the living room, he sees that the guy has already brought in a number of his boxes. “Hey, man,” calls Mark, who leads Lucas in for a dap. 

“Hey yourself, you barely talked to me this summer,” Lucas chastises playfully. “Ignoring me, I see.”

Mark laughs, shaking his head. “Not ignoring, just… working on myself.” 

“Good,” responds Lucas, turning to bring in the rest of his boxes. Yes, Mark had spent the entire summer dedicating himself to the lost cause that was himself. He started working out again, got a job, and even worked on rebuilding his relationship with his mother. Things were looking up for him.

He feels ready. Lucas’ voice interrupts his thoughts. “Hey, wanna take a break and get some food?”

His question meets a raised eyebrow from Mark. “You just got here, like, two minutes ago.”

“And?”

A laugh leaves Mark’s lips, and he shakes his head. “Nothing. But, uh, I can’t. I was going to go… see Y/N.”

“Oh?” asks Lucas, leaning down to tear the tape on one of the dark cardboard boxes filled to the brim, probably with Lucas’ pillows; the man was like a giant baby, sleeping with ten pillows. “You called her and asked to meet up?”

“No,” responds Mark, who follows these words with a deep breath. “I’m going to go see her.” 

Lucas stands straight once more, his playful expression from earlier now serious. He shoots Mark a soft smile, patting him on the shoulder. “Nice. I’m happy for you. Are you leaving now?”

“Uh, yeah, I was planning to go after I put all the kitchen stuff away.”

Lucas’ grin grows even wider, stretching from ear to ear as he gives Mark a little pat on the bum, which is supposed to be encouraging. “Well, then go get her, tiger! Good luck, man,” he yells supportively as he pushes Mark out the door. 

As he shuts the door, Mark blinks. “Dude! I don’t even have shoes on! Or my car keys,” he laughs, banging on the door.

Some time later, Mark finds himself hesitating as he parks his car a block down the street from your sharehouse, the same place he had kissed you, that many years ago. He doesn’t even know if you still live here. You had been broken up since the beginning of your junior year, who knows if you had decided to move out?

He contemplates this as he walks down the sidewalk to your place, hands in his pockets and gaze on the floor. Surely, if you’re not there, one of the girls will point him in your direction? Hopefully.

Oh, but you are there. As your home comes into view, he sees you. You’re there on the front porch, dressed in a simple white skirt and the same white ballet flats with purple bows that you can never seem to grow out of. 

But you’re not alone. 

There’s a man with you, though his back is turned to Mark’s view. He blinks. His steps stop completely. Surely it could be anyone right? A neighbor? A classmate? 

But that’s impossible. Not because class doesn’t start for three days or because you and him met the neighbors on all sides of your house, but because you lean up on your toes, the way you always did with Mark himself, and kiss the stranger’s cheek. 

It would have been easy to lie to himself, but then it’s much too clear. He realizes it then as he stares, only a few steps away from the path that would have led to your steps, the steps he took when walking you back on your first date, intertwined hands swinging between the two of you. 

He’s too late. Maybe much too late. 

He was a fool all this time. Thinking that he could be better for you, that he could defy fate with his free will and urge the universe into letting you be together. Lucas was wrong; life isn’t free will, neither is love. 

This is his fate, there’s no use denying it. 

He stands staring for a few moments, simply gazing in complete desolation at the sight before him. This is it, this is the end. He’s ready to submit to his poor fate, the internalized idea he’s housed that he’d never be able to find a love like yours ever again, but then you see him, probably because he stands out like a stain of black paint on the green canvas of your lawn. 

He doesn’t hear you, but your lips form his name, “Mark?” and your eyes blink in confusion.

He doesn’t wait too long anyways, for he’s already turned on his heels back to his car. Fuck fate and its tendencies, giving hope where there will only be heartbreak. 

—SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE FIRST TEAR AND THE FIRST CRASH.

The smell of you invades his senses, but he doesn’t care. It’s one of the first nights in a long time where you’ve agreed to go to a party with him. Though other girls beg for his attention, he’s still only got his eyes on you. Your outfit tonight is much too nostalgic.

“You know,” he whispers in your ear, dancing against your backside with a hand on your waist. “You look best in white.” 

“I know,” you respond, chuckling whilst dancing back against him. He had taught you how to dance a while ago, and you just keep getting better and better. 

“You wore this dress on purpose, didn’t you, you little minx,” he teases, though a playful laugh leaves his throat. His words draw a knowing giggle from you, and Mark feels as though he could get drunk on the sound alone. 

“Maybe,” you respond back, turning and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. This is when Mark gets a good look at you. 

It’s so easy to remember the way you first appeared to him, standing awkwardly in a corner of a party just like this. This time the lights decorating the aura of this party are not purple, but his heart is all the same. You’re wearing the same outfit now, definitely at this point to tantalize him and tease him; you loved to make fun of him after he told you that he had fallen for you because of that dress alone. 

But you’re different now.

You’re brighter, taller, more mature. Now you are not just your person carrying your own thoughts, but his as well. You know him, know his thoughts and his feelings, know his worries without asking. Your smile is bigger, it reaches your eyes more now than it did that first night, a forced simper at the strange guy coming to flirt with you. You dance with more confidence, you carry with yourself a quiet strength despite your hesitant nature. 

He loves you. God, he loves you. He tells you just as much.

With a hand over your hip, he pulls you close. You think he’s going to press another tipsy kiss to your lips, but he doesn’t. Instead he brushes his lips to your ear and he whispers, so softly you would have missed it if you hadn’t been purposely filtering the party’s music to focus on his voice: “I love you.”

You blink, and stop your dancing. It’s the first time he’s ever said this to you. 

“Mark…” you start, lips parting in surprise, but he’s pulled away to smile sweetly at you. It’s not flirtatious, the kind of smile he gives you before attempting to pull you in the bathroom for a quick one. Nor is it the knowing grin he shoots before guiltily asking you to go refill his drink. It’s a small one that barely touches the tips of his lips, and the look alone makes your heart melt in espousement. “I… I love you too.”

You had told him, of course, the other month when you had tore him apart in his bedroom after finding him hungover. But this time it’s real, and in the future you both will choose to remember this as the first time. 

Some might think that it’s unorthodox to confess such strong feelings such as love in the middle of a party, sweltering with the heat of dancing bodies and the musky smoke in the air. But for the two of you, it doesn’t matter. It’s just you two in here; you only see each other.

—3 MONTHS CLEAN, ONE HOUR LATER.

Mark’s currently in his room, completely bare except for his bed and desk, sulking away. When he had returned home with a bitter lilt in his steps, Lucas didn’t need any explanation, stepping out to “meet Yuqi.” 

Of course, it had been Lucas who had put him in this place of thinking he could get you back but in the end, it was only himself that he had to blame. He never had the chance, it was his fault for thinking he ever did.

He’s learned his lesson. 

It’s only an hour later when Lucas knocks on the door again. Fuck, Mark thinks inwardly while rolling his eyes. It’s only the first day back, has this giant managed to lose his keys, again? He makes his way out to the door, already preparing to give Lucas hell for being so irresponsible, but Lucas never makes his appearance at the door.

“Y/N.”

“Mark, I’m sorry, but—”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown up at your place uninvited.” He’s quick to interrupt you, shaking his head. It’s easy to pretend to be strong; he just needs to maintain a strong front until he shuts the door again. 

“It’s not that, I—”

“I won’t do it again, I promise. I know you said you wanted to move on and I shouldn’t be surprised, it just hurts to see it, and so, I’ll—”

“Mark—”

“I hope that you’re very happy, and that he can make you happier than I di—”

“That’s my brother, you daft idiot!” You finally cut him off, voice rising to a volume louder than his. He had flinched at your sudden peak in volume. You give him a pointed look, and when he doesn’t dare speak again, you continue. “That’s my brother, Mark. He helps me move in every year, you know that!”

That’s true, he does know that. And he’s met your brother many, many times. Shit, he realizes.

“... Oh.”

“Mark Lee, you think I could move on from you that quickly? It’s been like, two months!” You scold him, as if the idea is preposterous. 

“Well,” he reasons. “Technically we broke up a year ago.”

You seem to have the energy to argue back. “Okay, but I only really let you go when school ended this year.” 

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment following your words, before you both start to laugh. You crack first, trying to remain serious when all you want to do is envelope him in a hug, for how could you ever love anyone else? You can’t even imagine trying to date anyone right now. He follows right after, shoulders relaxing as you start to chuckle. 

“We look insane right now, you know,” he says, sighing as his chortle comes to an end.

“Yeah, and I’m insane because I drove like a madwoman chasing after my ex because he saw me with my brother,” you say with a pointed tone, to which Mark sighs.

“Okay, in my defense, I saw him from behind, and you are awfully touchy with your brother!” He starts, when you begin to laugh again, pure amusement breaking out across your visage. Wow, just five minutes ago he had been regretting all his life decisions, yet here he was with you again, making conversations like you had years ago in your relationship. 

When the laughter dies down, the two of you are left staring at each other, and reality sets in. Yeah, he had run away when he saw you with your brother of all people, and you had chased after him, your ex. Where does that place you?

Mark speaks first, breaking the short silence. “I’m sober now, you know. I haven’t done anything, anything at all, in three months now.”

Surprise seems to claim your face at the revelation, and he’s not sure if he should feel proud that he managed to shock you with his success or saddened that it seems to be that much of a surprise. “Oh?” Your surprised expression is replaced with a smile. “I’m proud.”

He nods, unsure what to say next, but luckily you add on, “What made you decide to stop?” You’re undoubtedly reminiscing on all the times you had begged him to give it up, to which he would stubbornly resist. 

“You.”

Your features contort into an incredulous expression. “Me.”

“Really,” Mark urges. “I…” he pauses, preparing himself for the words about to leave him. He had long pondered over this moment, wondering if it would truly happen. “I lost you, and I know that I said it was because we weren’t meant to be together but somewhere along the line I realized, I can live without weed, and parties, and alcohol but I can’t live without you.”

“Mark…” You start, lips parted as you grow silent.

“No, please, let me finish, I don’t want to take all the credit because it was Lucas who had to come and knock some sense into me and make me see: sure, fate can be real and that soulmate shit might be real too because I believe you’re mine, but I know that everything is a choice, including love.” His mention of Lucas has you smiling, and he has no doubt Lucas has talked to you recently, attempting to be the middleman once more. “I love you, there’s no doubt about that, I love you more than I love partying, my friends, or anything. And if I love you that much, there’s nothing that can keep me from you.”

He grasps at your hands, and thankfully, you don’t pull away. “Not God, not fate, not anybody. Only me. I was the only thing keeping us apart. I want to be with you, I want to make things better, and I promise… I promise I’ll do everything in my power to be the best for you.” Mark takes a deep breath, taking a moment to glance down at his hands holding yours before looking back to your eyes. “I can’t promise that I won’t have relapses. But I promise that as long as you’re there for me, I will be there for you. I’ll walk you through the shady areas, I won’t run away.”

“Mark—”

“I don’t know if my words will be enough for you to take me back but I swear to you on my entire being that I will be here—”

“Geez, Mark does sobriety make you extremely prone to interrupting, or what?” You butt in, but you laugh, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. Whether it’s you natural shine or tears building in your eyes, neither of you know. “Don’t even go there, or explain anymore. Of course I’ll take you back, you idiot. You think I would chase after you like that if I didn’t think about running back to you every day?”

This causes him to laugh. “I’m glad you didn’t. I wasn’t ready. I was waiting until I was good enough to run to you.”

“You ran away earlier,” you point out teasingly, and he rolls his eyes, pulling you close over the threshold of his apartment. 

“That was the last time.”

Your hands find his chest, resting upon the expanse of it as you look up at him with a cheeky smile. “Better be, mister.”

“Oh,” he muses, as you wrap your fingers around the fabric of his shirt and all feels right again. “You’re bold.”

“A year apart does that to you,” you smile, still a hint of shyness on your lips as you finally tug him in, kissing him. You melt into him and his hands immediately find themselves on your hips, just where they belong. 

Oh yes, there it is again, that feeling of euphoria. You’re the only drug, the only high he needs. 

[offtorivendell]

The Significance of Elain and a Cup of Tea 🍵

Do not screenshot this post.

Disclaimer: these are my own interpretations, and obviously not canon - though I do think that the text supports Elain and Azriel ending up together. I'm sure I'm not the first to see this connection, but I had fun writing it, so... here you go.

It's another long one, sorry. Again, maybe go and make yourself a cuppa first.

In stories that involve Seers, they often read tea leaves, using the patterns they leave at the bottom of a tea cup to predict the future.

Elain, a Seer Made by the Cauldron, seems to have an interesting relationship with tea - it symbolises her/her life, and her reactions to her surroundings while she's written with a cup of tea appear to predict her own future.

The tea predicted Elain being Made

Elain lifted her teacup. “Whatever the reason, Feyre, we are happy to see you. Alive. We thought you were—” I pulled my hood back before she could go on. Elain’s teacup rattled in its saucer as she noticed my ears. My longer, slender hands—the face that was undeniably Fae. “I was dead,” I said roughly. “I was dead, and then I was reborn—remade.” Elain set her shivering teacup onto the low-lying table between us. Amber liquid splashed over the side, pooling in the saucer.

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 23

When Feyre, together with Rhys, Azriel and Cassian, visited her family's estate in the human lands, Elain (and Nesta) discovered that Feyre had been Made into a high fae after she died at Amarantha's hands. They are grateful that she's alive - they'd understandably thought otherwise, but rattled by her transformation.

More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water. And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown.

Alive, she had to be alive, had to have wanted to live— Elain sucked in a breath...

Elain’s ears were now pointed beneath her sodden hair.

Elain was still shivering on the wet stones...

From however Elain had been Made… Nesta was different.

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 65

Later on in ACOMAF, after it is revealed that Elain and Nesta were kidnapped by the King of Hybern, Elain is lifted into the Cauldron by the Hybern soldiers, then washed over the edge a Made being, left shivering on the stone floor; in her relief that Elain was alive, Feyre noticed her newly pointed ears - a direct call back to Elain's reaction to seeing Feyre for the first time since she was Made. Feyre was shocked, this time around, and Elain was shivering on the stone ground, as opposed to her tea cup on the low-lying table.

The tea predicted Elain's failed engagement to Graysen

Nesta looked to Elain, still silent and wide-eyed. The tea she’d prepared—the finest, most exotic tea money could buy—sat undisturbed on the table. Elain thumbed the iron ring on her finger. “It is your choice,” Nesta said with unusual gentleness. For her, Nesta would go to Prythian. Elain swallowed, a doe caught in a snare. “I—I can’t. I …”

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 57

Elain, raised to be a fine lady, the prettiest (most exotic) of the Archeron sisters, will eventually lose the life for which she was "prepared," and is left "undisturbed on the table," i.e. Graysen, represented here by the iron engagement ring that he gave to Elain, refused to marry her after she was Made against her will. The ring is also important in that Elain spends a lot of her time in ACOWAR touching it, while she mourned what she lost with Graysen.

Her too-thin shoulders seemed to curve inward. “No one ever does. No one ever looked—not really.” A bramble of words. Her voice strained to a whisper. “He did. He saw me. He will not now.”

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Here Elain predicted, heartbreakingly, that Graysen would refuse to See her again - that her being Made fae would prevent him from not just loving her, but identifying with her. There are a couple of great analyses out there that discuss whether and why Elain truly loved Graysen, but what we cannot deny is that they shared a goal, and that goal gave her purpose.

All of that aside, I think we can all agree - his loss!

The tea predicted that there was nothing wrong with Elain

Nesta, sharp-eyed in the corner, had kept quiet. After a long minute, Madja asked us to join her in fetching Elain a cup of tea—with a pointed glance to the door. We both took the invitation and left our sister in her sunlit room.

“What do you mean, nothing is wrong with her?” Nesta hissed under her breath as the ancient female braced a hand on the stair railing to help herself down. I kept beside the healer, a hand in easy reach of her elbow, should she need it.

“What I mean,” Madja said at last, sizing up Nesta, then me, “is that I can find nothing wrong with her. Her body is fine—too thin and in need of more food and fresh air, but nothing amiss. And as for her mind … I cannot enter it.”

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 28

Madja, the Night Court's chief healer, informed Feyre and Nesta that there is nothing she can find wrong with Elain, other than a lack of food, which she is still refusing at this time. Nesta's words, to me, symbolised the concern that the IC and Lucien have for Elain - they're not 100% sure that she came out of the Cauldron with a sound mind - but Madja reiterated her point: there is nothing medically wrong with Elain, and she cannot enter her mind.

Is it because Madja is not a daemati, or something else entirely?

The tea appears to predict a failed relationship - and potentially a false bond - with Lucien

She’d [Jesminda] seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been… thrown at him. He glanced toward the tea service spread on a low-lying table nearby.

Forced his hands to be steady while he poured himself a cup of tea and sat in the chair opposite Nesta’s vacated one.

For a long moment, Elain’s face did not shift, but those eyes seemed to focus a bit more. “Lucien,” she said at last, and he clenched his teacup to keep from shuddering at the sound of his name on her mouth.

But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.”

She did not love him, want him, need him. Another male’s bride. A mortal man’s wife. Or she would have been.

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

The only time we've had Lucien’s POV (so far) in this series is significant, in that he almost immediately compared Elain to Jesminda, his late first love, and he mused that, while Jesminda had chosen him, had loved him without hesitation, Elain had been thrown at him - very romantic - and she certainly goes on to hesitate in any interactions she has with him. It follows, then, that Elain might not choose Lucien.

Additionally, Lucien forcing his hands to remain steady while pouring the tea, then clenching the tea cup (read: dealing with Elain), could be read as symbolic of the bond between them restricting them both. Lucien then went on to call Elain "another male's bride," which is (potentially, of course) Very Important.

Who might that other male be? We have our suspicions. 🦇

When discussing Elain's health, Madja said the following:

The ancient healer jerked her chin toward Lucien. “See what he can do. If anyone can sense if something is amiss, it’s a mate.” “How.” The word was barely more than a barked command. I braced myself to warn Nesta to be polite, but Madja said to my sister, as if she were a small child, “The mating bond. It is a bridge between souls.”

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 28

The beginning of chapter 29 in ACOWAR had Feyre experiencing "the most uncomfortable thirty minutes" that she could recall; Elain and Lucien were having tea, so that he could attempt to sense if "anything was amiss" - as Madja had instructed.

Lucien and Elain sat in stilted silence by the dim fireplace, an untouched tea service between them. I didn’t dare ask if he was trying to get into her head, or if he was feeling a bond similar to that black adamant bridge between Rhys’s mind and my own. If a normal mating bond felt wholly different.

A teacup rattled and rasped against a saucer, and Mor and I glanced over. Elain had picked up the teacup, and now sipped from it without so much as looking toward him. In the dining room across the hall, I knew Nesta was craning her neck to look.

*

The sound [Amren in the other room] seemed to startle Elain, who swiftly set down her teacup. She rose to her feet, and Lucien shot to his. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “What—what was that?” Mor put a hand on my knee to keep me from rising, too. “It—it was a tug. On the bond.”

Elain sidled toward Nesta, who seemed to be at a near-simmer. “It felt… strange,” Elain breathed. “Like you pulled on a thread tied to a rib.”

“There’s a bond—it’s a real thread,” he said, more to himself than us.

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 29

The words that signify what is between Lucien and Elain here seem quite telling - stilted, dim, untouched - a call back to the "undisturbed" tea service that Elain laid out for their meeting with the queens, which foreshadowed the end of her relationship with Graysen.

The stilted silence and dim fireplace suggest that there is no communication down their "bond," and that they lack the fire of other truly mated couples. More specifically, they could be referring to Feyre/Rhys (bond communication) and Nesta/Cassian (fire between them). Will touch play an important role in Elain's eventual romance?

Elain sipped her tea - read: will live her life - without looking to Lucien at all, while Nesta, Feyre and Mor all watched her/them. Feyre took a moment to wonder if a "normal mating bond" felt different to what she shares with Rhys, not knowing that what Elain and Lucien have may not be normal at all.

Not long after this, Lucien attemped to reach Elain down the "thread" (singular) of their bond and startled her; Elain quickly stood up, then shared that her bond felt strange - almost as if she was answering Feyre's thought. A "normal" mating bond should not feel "strange." What is wrong with the bond between Lucien and Elain? He was unable to sense anything, as Madja said a true mate would, and a little later on, Azriel figured out that Elain was a Seer.

I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said. No sign of Nuala or Cerridwen. Elain simply removed the kettle from the heat.

I knew I wasn’t truly angry with her, not angry with anyone but myself, but I said, “You couldn’t say a single word to him? A pleasant greeting?”

Elain only stared at the steaming kettle as she set it on the stone counter.

“He brought you a present.”

Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them. “And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”

“No.” I blinked. “But he is a good male.” Despite our harsh words. Despite this Band of Exiles bullshit. “He cares for you.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“You don’t give him the chance to even try to do so.”

Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.” She wanted a human man.

- Feyre, ACOFAS, chapter 18

I felt like this passage is partly prediction, and partly a way for SJM to let us into Elain's head; for Elain to speak her truths. A couple of lines did stand out to me, though:

I read Elain "watching the kettle scream" as synonymous with what must have been going on in her head at the time. Scream is an odd choice of word, as most would describe a kettle as whistling. As an aside, there is an interesting parallel that exists with Azriel, in his bonus chapter of ACOSF, where being with Elain makes the noise in his head quiet down.

Elain staring at the steaming kettle seemed to indicate that she might be evaluating her life - could the steam be a metaphor for the mist she will have to See through to find the fourth Dread Trove item? Lucien "not staying for tea" (read: Elain's life) sounded like confirmation (to me, of course) that they will not pursue a romantic relationship together.

Elain’s declaration that Lucien doesn't know her, and that he cannot buy her time or affection with gifts is *chef's kiss* good, though please don't read this as anti Lucien - it's more anti Feyre's poor choice of words.

I have discussed '"I don't want a mate. I don’t want a male.” She wanted a human man.' here, in depth, but a quick summary is that I think Elain wants someone to See all of her, including her humanity, and that her humanity will probably be helpful with her future love interest.

The tea appears to predict Elain's eventual relationship with Azriel, and maybe even a mating bond

She looked away [from Lucien]—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth. “When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.” Her too-thin shoulders seemed to curve inward. “No one ever does. No one ever looked—not really.” A bramble of words. Her voice strained to a whisper. “He did. He saw me. He will not now.”

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Firstly, and so significantly, Elain looked away from Lucien, and towards the windows, instead. We know that, earlier in that scene, Elain was talking to Feyre about being able to see the sea from where she sat, but I think that when Elain is mentioned as being around tea, her words tend to take on a deeper meaning - I interpreted this as Elain removing herself from the conversation she'd been having with Lucien. The next words out of her mouth, then - that "In my sleep, I hear your heart beating through the stone," appear to be spoken not to Lucien, but someone else.

Who do we know who always seems to be looking out windows to the garden, in search of Elain? Who could potentially be flying over Velaris, to or from the House of Wind? It looks like our flower grower might have started the trend!

Who sleeps at the House of Wind, where Elain and Nesta also stay? Aside from Lucien as a guest, there are two longterm residents. One of them is mated to Nesta, while the other one displays some strikingly familiar behaviour towards the middle Archeron sister.

Secondly, the tea burnt Lucien's mouth, then he thought to himself that there's a good chance Elain might not have been addressing him, may have intended to say that to someone else.

Lucien himself told us what was happening, which brings us to:

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports—likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City—the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it. “Why not make them mates?” I mused. “Why Lucien?” “I’d keep that question from Lucien.”

- Feyre and Rhys, ACOWAR, chapter 24

In direct contrast to the tea that Elain and Lucien shared - stilted silence, dim fireplace, untouched tea service (i.e. their bond) - Elain and Azriel sit comfortably - we can assume, due to the lack of negative adjectives - in the sun, a cup of tea (read, once more: her life) "before her." The wrought iron table could potentially be symbolic; that Elain will be hammered into shape by the events of her life, ultimately becoming strong.

Elain is, however, "silent," which may have been indicating that she will spend some time not voicing her own wishes/being passive in her life - we have seen this throughout ACOWAR and ACOFAS, until ACOSF, where she finally started to speak up. It might also mean something else, which I mention further down.

Azriel is even sunning his wings. If you haven't seen it, this is how birds sun their wings - and they look hilariously comfy as they do.

Image source. Can someone please draw the Rhys/Cass/Az version of this?!). 😅

The pose makes them vulnerable; we know exactly how sensitive and possessive Illyrians are about their wings, and how private Azriel is in general, but he trusted Elain enough to expose himself (figuratively - and also, sort of literally) right from the start, just as Elain trusted his reactions at the first "family dinner," back in ACOMAF.

I discussed the relevance of how Elain, the sun, lays bare Azriel's shadows in this post, but the mutual trust and comfort here is, in my opinion, more evidence that Elain and Az share some sort of bond, be that mate or other, that makes him feel innately secure around her. Outside the Night Court, Rhys only ever showed his wings to Feyre, and while Azriel's wings can't be summoned at will like Rhys' can, the same principle stands - protect at all costs, so the parallel is there.

I also think Az may have been showing off his wings - just a wee bit. This is when Feyre uttered her iconic - and maybe prophetic - line, "Why not make them mates?" Feyre, who had thought from the start that Elain and Azriel would make a handsome pair. This is yet another parallel to a canonically mated pair, as we saw Cassian (not so) subtly showing off his wings to Nesta in chapter 29 of ACOWAR.

Oh, and Azriel knew Feyre was watching. So did Cassian. Perhaps they didn't care?

I know Elain x Azriel is not the most popular ship for either of them, but the evidence, to me, has been here all along - not just for a chosen relationship, but also a potential bond. Of course, this shouldn't stop people from shipping who they want. 🖤

The tea predicts that Feyre will become too overprotective of Elain

Rhys smiled at me over his shoulder. Enjoy your tea, you overbearing chaperone.

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 29

" You think I stifle her?"

- Feyre (in response to Rhys), ACOSF, Feyre's bonus chapter

No matter who you ship, the one thing that almost everyone can agree on is that ACOSF demonstrated that Elain is frustrated with being coddled, protected, and not seen; she wants to grow, to come into her own and to have her help be both welcomed and valued.

Unresolved/potential predictions

The following are just bits of text that jumped out at me, that could hint at future events (or could end up being nothing, of course).

Elain thumbed the iron ring on her finger. “It is your choice,” Nesta said with unusual gentleness.

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 57

A hint that Elain's story will be revolve around her making her own choices, both in terms of her love interest and role within the Night Court.

"And as for her mind… I cannot enter it.”

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 28

Elain apparently has an impenetrable mind - will this be important when she deals with Koschei, the queens and other future enemies? Is she an anti-daemati?

But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.”

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Future foreshadowing?! I really, really hope not.

Slow blinkers tend to have quick reflexes, let's hope that this is suggesting Elain will be quick on her feet.

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports...

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Will Elain become involved with Azriel's spy service, or work with him in some capacity? Spies must be able to stay silent, to keep secrets - and we know from ACOSF that Elain is adept at secret keeping.