#'you look so much like your mother in certain lights'

[mamiya-a]

Playing dangerous

Mother Miranda/reader

Warning for explicit content.

Chapter 16: Fate

Summary:

Noticeable tension in the mansion is growing thick without you - your quick and sudden return saves the suffering. However you're soon asked to attend a party with Miranda, to which you agree, not knowing it will lead to unspoken truths finally coming to be.

Eva believes exiting her room is not the most precise decision she can take today, but to be honest with herself, she has grown awfully bored from her isolation. A large chasm between the little girl and her family always appears once her symptoms start manifesting as usual. She doesn't understand why her mother forces her to stay in her room. It's not like she's able to transfer her sickness to anybody, let alone Miranda or Eveline. Yet for the sake of making her mother happy, she listens and obeys. Now, however, the atmosphere is different. Although left alone, she receives at least two checks up at every round hour. Today, as well as yesterday, Miranda has neglected her, without counting how she slept in the master bedroom instead of her own, in case she begins to struggle with her breathing at night. The girl is not to one to get mad when not spoiled with attention, but in this situation she's certain her mother's behaviour has nothing to do with her. 

But instead with her, currently missing, babysitter. 

Your absence surely is ruining Miranda's facade, even if she tries her best to hide it. The woman's bad mood roams around the mansion like a silent ghost, searching for something lost. It's depressing. It bothers the little girl's head so much, because it reminds her of the ugly past. Days when Eva's body was changing, when Miranda had to crack a smile upon seeing her, while still fighting her inner feelings for the previous woman, who has left her. Eva tends to hate everything and everyone, who dares to wrong her mother - the closest person she'll ever have to herself. She remembers how fierce her father used to be and all the clever ways her mother protected her from his nature. At the end of the day everything falls upon Miranda's back, heavy on her shoulders. And the persistent woman she is, her mother didn't stop until she gained back her sole happiness in her long, long life. Eva. So naturally, the girl has a sense of obligation to return provided protection back. 

The girl's little steps are perfectly silent as she slowly exits her bedroom, few butterflies still flying around it. With shut windows and door she mustn't fear their escape. The corridor reveals itself upon her gaze, large in size, but lacking light. Despite all the doors kept closed, there's a singular one standing wide open. Eva doesn't think much of it, guessing the reason her mother has left your bedroom so invitingly looking, in particular, is because she wishes to manifest your return as soon as possible. She shakes her head, as if in disbelief, her legs now cleverly guiding her down the stairs. Few paintings on the grand walls are missing, although replaced with much more cheerful and colourful ones, Eva notices. Finally she reaches the end of the stairs, a bit out of breath due to exhaustion. After all she's still sick, never mind how much she pretends to be  absolutely fine.

As promised from yesterday, the first floor of the mansion is still and unmoving. No pleasant aroma from the kitchen slowly dancing around the rooms, no noises from the television in the living room, not even the lowest hertz of collective talking. Eva enjoys peace as the feeling is calming, in fact quiet nights with her small family are a favourite activity, but such drastic change of warmth to ice in the house is bothering. And she's yet to begin wondering why exactly her mother feels so tightly connected to another person, who's most likely end up breaking her heart again. The answer is in front of her very eyes. 

The kitchen has never been this empty. There's always something cooking, a place on the table, dish in the oven or  snacks left around for both Eva and Eveline, and Miranda herself from time to time since all of them are weak over a small piece of chocolate or anything covered in sugar. Maybe, just maybe it's a habit, due to the fact Eva refused to eat normal food upon her formal return. In the little girl's eyes, sweets were more than just tempting.  Miranda didn't mind it, knowing a balanced diet has no effect on them nevertheless. Her mother likes to cook, and since she usually sends away anyone who dares to bother her during these hours, she's uses the activity as a form of relaxation. An escape of her own reality, in a way. Currently, however, there is a lack of aroma, born from mixing up a delicious dish in the kitchen, and instead Eva's nose manages to get a hint of potent, sharp odor. It bites her smelling senses a second before her eyes fix on a new formed stain on the floor, few large pieces of broken glass spread around it in an usual pattern. 

"I broke a cup, Eva." - the sudden sonority of Miranda's voice urges a startled reaction out of the little girl. Her tone is not harsh, not at all, but it's rather alarming solely because Eva is observing from behind an almost closed door. In fact, from this angle she's not able to even spot her mother. A warning follows. - "You might get cut if you walk in." 

Eva nods her head, clearly understand her mother wishes to be unbothered yet again. It pains her to just leave, but it can't be helped. As she begins to walk away from the kitchen, the door completely closes behind her. She gives it one last look, before deciding she's now more interested in finding and talking to Eveline instead. 

Meanwhile Miranda moves clumsily around the lonely room, aiming to return back in her original spot, in which she stood before sensing her daughter's presence. Ignoring her own concerns of possibilities for an injury, she walks freely along the floor, without a care if the glass from the cup she shattered on purpose will harm her or not. Finally she reaches the kitchen's window, the only one with a perfect view of the front yard, her parked jeep standing still in the mansion's shadow. With your own car missing, hers seems lonely. Miranda grits her teeth, fingers squeezing a half empty whisky bottle, threatening it with the same fate as the cup from earlier. She got mad over the capacity of it and decided the bottle will do better. She thinks about taking another large sip of alcohol, however the idea is rejected. She can't get drunk, no matter how much she tries. All she can do is drown in her own misery. Miranda grabs her forehead, with both hands covering her eyes, eventually dropping the whiskey bottle on the ground. Alcohol might not be of concern for her, but she's surely addicted. 

Gods and it has only been a day.

. 

. 

. 

Eva smiles, easily spotting a raven haired girl sitting comfortably on the living room's sofa. Her eyes are focused on the TV in front of her, some kind of musical show playing on it while Eveline hums along. She jumps in her place like a scared cat once her sister decides to stomp right next to her, clearly not alarming her of her sudden appearance. They share a suspicious look, then they both crack smiles as reactions. 

"Feeling better?" - Eveline asks with curiosity, grabbing the tv remote, in order to turn down the volume a little. She has watched the movie before, and as much as the enjoys the current scene, she fixes her attention on her sister. 

"For now, yes." - Eva murmurs a bit unsurely, lifting her shoulder upwards to express her uncertainty. Then she grabs a straight strand of her hair, flicking the blonde ends around her fingers. - "But you know how it goes, it's a matter of fact before I return to feeling like a corpse again." 

"Hasn't mom found someone suitable yet?" - Eveline tilts her head to a side, her lively hair covering a part of her face. She observes the way her sister rolls her eyes and cups the part of her arm, from which Miranda takes blood samples. It's clear the girl isn't keen on the spoken matter. Perhaps it's because Eveline has grown used to all kinds of tests and experiments to the point of no fear upon faced with a fierce needle, eager to pierce her skin, but she can't feel the irritation Eva suffers from when those times come for her as well. At least she's thankful for how their mother handles  their situations, she's careful and provides the needed medicine for both of them. She's keen on keeping them alive, keeping them with her. 

"My symptoms only commenced yesterday." - the girl's blue eyes wander around the room, as if in search for someone invisible. - "...it's starting to get more frequently and she wants...to run some tests." - before she knows it, Eva begins to squeeze her arm to the point of extreme pressure. Her sister notices and places a gentle palm over her hand. - "Mommy said she's going to work harder for a solution from now on, especially since she has found her new company, but... I'm afraid I'm just getting worse and worse and I will-" 

"Don't say that." - her words are quickly cut off. - "mother is capable of many things, including saving you from fate itself." - loosing Eva again would probably send Miranda into complete madness. The dark haired girl doesn't even want to think about the consequences. 

"She's finally looking happy." - even in her vague memories from years ago, Miranda's happiness was forced, along with her smile and calm behaviour. She was locked in society chains, keeping her restraint. Even when mother and daughter were alone, sadness from the unfair life still wandered around them, in every corner and shadow. Eva would hate to bring her mother back to zero, to having nothing and no one. Although... - "Well if we don't count...how she handles the absence of you know who." 

"I warned her -  mother sucks  at relationships." - Eva's lips curl up in a mocking grin, which Eveline returns. But the hard topic stays, Miranda is has not been herself since yesterday. And not only the blonde girl has noticed it. Eveline's fingers press against the fabric of the sofa as she forms a question out. - "Was she like this when...Mia and left her as well?" - curiosity overflows her, since she herself wasn't with her now called mother figure at the time. 

"Back then mommy was more than just miserable." - the word seems way too weak to describe Miranda's condition from around more than four years ago. Eva tangles her fingers together, her face changing drastically as she speaks. - "but It wasn't just because of that woman, I too...saddened her, she couldn't look at me, because my body wasn't my own. I wasn't me, at least not physically." - the blonde woman wasn't even sure if her daughter was really back to her. - "Despite everything mommy was going through, she made sure not to show these sorrowful emotions in front of me." - of course she suffered alone at night, when she thought Eva was asleep and not silently listening to her sobs. - "Do you understand what I'm saying? She has never been so-" 

"Vulnerable?" - Eveline adds before her sister. - "Yes, she's hurting, however it seems...she has no intention to hide it." - perhaps it's trust towards the girls, or the idea of them being old enough to understand not everything is life is cheerful or simply... Miranda has grown tired of usage and pain. - "Do you think mother is in such condition only, because she left?" - the girls never received information about your departure, only a promise for your return, without a clear date. - "Or because of the argument they clearly had?" - both Eva and  Eveline are observational, they can't miss an imbalance inside their own home. 

"No, it's not that." - Eva sighs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. - "She's in love." - deep into its depths on top of that. 

Eveline's lips part, a silent gasp leaving her. Then suddenly it hits her - an old, lost in time memory, bathed in both sorrow and delight. The vision inside her worried head is dark, bloody and close to being terrifying. That poor family of unlucky victims, innocent for their crimes, but guilty for being generous towards a little girl. Eveline is shaking from remorse, her dying body betraying her. Her fake family is dead, her dreams to be part of one shattered, while Mia... doesn't seem worthy of the mother title anymore. There is also a man, furious to the marrow in his bones, his bloody hands extend close to maximum, in order to finally get to Eveline. In the next moment, however, he flies to the other end of the room, hitting his head hard against the wall. A cracking sound echoes through the air. Is he dead?  Eveline wonders, turning her tired, old and wrinkled face to a side. Two figures stay still in front of her, silent and unmoving. One is tall and irritated, the other is small as a child, holding the hand of the bigger silhouette. 

Eveline quickly recognizes Miranda. Her creator, her Idol, her original mother. She smiles. The blonde woman was the only person who didn't see her as a weapon like everybody else and despite purposely abandoning her alone, the girl is happy to see her. But why is she here?  There is no explanation. The child next to her, a complete copy of Miranda, simply lifts her hand and says - 'Sister'. Miranda grumbles under her breath, before stepping closer, grabbing firmly Eveline's arm and injecting something into her bloodstream. Her emerald coloured eyes begin to close lazily, yet they manage to spot another person in the picture before her. Mia. Mia is back, arguing with Miranda, scaring the girl. Her so called mothers didn't fear showing affection towards each other in front of Eveline. She was curtain, back then, after a few more tests and injections the three of them were going to be family. However everything changed. Eveline got shipped away, Miranda was gone and Mia wasn't lovely anymore. Eveline struggles to understand the conversation between her fake parents, but at the end she manages to hear the blonde woman's last words. 

"I can't love anymore, Mia." - just a pause before the world goes dark. - "You cursed me so."  

"EVELINE!" - somebody screams, a hint of worry in their voice. 

The raven haired girl blinks rapidly, her eyes filled with tears. She bends her head, observing her palms, lifting her sleeve to reveal the many left dots on her skin, scars from injections, from the medicine forcing her body to age normally, as it should be. Miranda saved her back then, and since the accident she didn't stop doing so. It's a harsh life for them, but she manages. Eveline's fingers are shaking as she lifts them to her visage, touching, exploring the soft skin - devoid of the previous wrinkles. And then she catches her reflection in warm, blue eyes. With that she calms down, she's fine, she's herself again. She blinks, glaring back at the girl next to her. Her rightful sister. Eva seems worried, but as usual, she doesn't know exactly how to help in such situation. 

"What happened?" - her voice cracks with dry coughing. - "You weren't answering, as if you were in a trance." 

"Sorry, I..." - Eveline rubs her eyes, the skin below them red and puffy. - "Just a bad memory, it's nothing." - Eva swallows, refusing to push her sister further, she only grabs her hand, showing her silent support, mixed with a genuine smile. Green eyes roll towards the door as a exhausted sigh fills up the living room. - "Do you really believe it? Mother loving someone again?" 

"Oh, so you remembered that." - Eva guesses correctly, her own mind going back to the time she forced her mother to go seek, and rescue, her sister. - "Yes, I chose to believe it, although I'm not the happiest, considering last time..." - they both think of Mia, her short name summoning a bitter feeling. - "I see how she looks at her, gaze filled with nothing, but love, she's truly happier , and I think... she's already dependent to our babysitter." - Eva makes a pause, a mocking smile on her lips. - "if we can still even call her that." 

"Another mother doesn't sound too bad." - Eveline adds, nodding her head. 

"I'm still not sure about that woman." - another cough urges out from Eva's throat. This time the scene is more graphic. She cups her mouth with a small palm, ready to catch the few drops of blood, finally presenting themselves to her. She stares at her skin, occupied by little red droplets, voice cold and serious. - "She's going to hurt mommy, they are both going to hurt eachother and—" 

Eva doesn't continue her sentence. Suspicious thoughts leaving her mind as the sickness inside of her plays another trick. Her coughing escalates, relentlessly abusing her lungs, while covering her chin in unpleasant, metallic to the taste liquid. Eveline screams for her mother and after only a second or two, Miranda barges in, grabbing her dear daughter is shaking from anxiety hands and guiding her to the second floor. 

Eveline makes a mental note about the blonde's condition. Surely - miserable without you. 

***** 

Time-consuming, old, boring and unpleasantly cold. 

That is exactly how you feel about the same road you've driven on over and over again so many time since coming to the mansion. Currently, snow and ice, transform it slippery ramp, adding to the irritation you feel towards it. Considering deadly circumstances one should drive carefully in such conditions, but you've got no time for that. With every minute passing through your head like a stolen moment, you can't help but try your best to arrive at your desired destination as soon as possible. You no longer need a map or a GPS, the surrounding you trees tell you more than you should know. Your lover's home is locked out from the outside world, just like she is. 

A large smile appears on your face as you pass a familiar gas station, illuminated sign glowing on its roof. You once saw this place as salvation from uncertainty, now it's standing still as a landmark on your own imaginary map. You're close to home, comfort and a little warmth in this cold weather. In fact, with no heating in your car, you're more close to freezing than in any room in the mansion, despite the many layers of clothing you're wearing. You check your phone, happy with the time it's showing. The distance between your father's new hospital and Miranda's mansion it's calculated to be around two hours trip, however, due to your fierce driving, you're almost there in just about an hour and a half. The risks of an accident are high, but you're determined. You need, not want, to see her. Your body is barely able to stand still just by thinking of her. 

Finally, the gods give their blessings upon you. 

The giant mansion's roof greets you above the thick forest, few trees still covering the whole building. For some reason, your hearts skips a beat, before awakening again to start banging against your ribcage. Your nervous eyes ascend, hands holding the steering wheel tightly, body frozen, just as you manage to park your car next to a  well known black jeep with tinted windows. The mansion makes its presence clear by throwing its large, dark shadow over you, a veil of comfort - to welcome you home. 

You decide not to carry your luggage inside for now. All you do is calm yourself enough to exit the car and move slowly, but surely, to the main entrance. Giant doors grin towards your face, wooden elements in a form of deers messing around with your brain for thousandth time. You huff, lifting a hand in order to press down the handle, mind lost in thoughts about a certain blonde woman waiting inside. The door doesn't open. You quickly realise it's locked. Strange, it's not one of Miranda's habits to bother with locking her front door during the day, after all her daughters often go outside for fresh air and fun games in nature. Your fingers are already searching for keys in your pockets, but with no luck. You find absolutely nothing and you immediately panic. Did you really loose them? Did you left them in your hotel room, the hospital, the car? You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to accept a defeat, probably born by inattention, and shift your head to stare at the button for the doorbell. No pleasant memories come with it. Yet you have no other choice. 

As you press it, the loud noise travels inside the mansion, alerting its residents for your arrival. Few seconds past, devoid of any sound, you stand completely still, in silence, waiting for something to happen. Soon enough it happens, you hear them - quiet steps approaching the entrance. You look down at yourself, wondering if she's going to be surprised to see you , after all you never told her when exactly you're coming back. Once you hear the unlocking mechanism of the door, you straighten your back, eager to see your girlfriend. However, it's not Miranda who opens the door. 

You don't realise how much you've missed the girls as well. The thought just passing through your system like a quick impulse the moment you barge in, hands wide open and body bending down. Eveline laughs loudly when you pick her up and spin her around, her genuine surprise warming your heart. You hug her tightly, as if she's your own child. As you put her back down, your leg kicks the door closed and you allow yourself to relax, finally at home. 

"I missed you, Evie!" - you exclaim, brushing hair out of her face, then placing your hands on her shoulders, kneeling down to be at her eye level. Eveline looks amazed at your presence, but also incredibly happy. - "I missed you all, so much." 

"We missed you too!" - some more than others. - "Don't leave us again." - her face changes with her words, a hint of sadness forcing her emerald coloured eyes to lock with yours. It's certain Eveline fancies you, as she's been closer to you since the beginning, she's even ready to be your partner in crime when you wish to impress Miranda. Your bound is surely tight and loving, your connection with this small family runs deeper than it should normally. - "It felt empty without you." 

"I didn't just leave because I wanted to, Evie." - you assure her, smiling warmly. - "I had to visit my father..." - you decide to skip the details for his condition. Although Eveline is mature enough for her age, you don't desire to worry her. - "I've told you he's not feeling very well." 

"Well...mom didn't say anything about that, so I thought you left because you were mad at her." - the raven haired girl defends herself, reminding you of the tension around you and Miranda for the past two weeks. You sigh, not wanting to bother the poor girl's heads with your own problems. But then she hits you with sharp, narrow question out of the blue. - "Will you leave forever when your father gets better?" 

Eveline is smart enough to remember you came to this house solely for money. Miranda can force you to stay, but for how long...? 

"I—" - your tongue twists inside your mouth, as you can't find the proper answer. Then you shake your head. You shouldn't be thinking about this moment now, the important thing is seeking Miranda, immediately. Although you're still not sure what to do with her. You squeeze Eveline's shoulder, not hard enough to hurt her of course, but to gain her attention. - "I want to see your mother, I need... need Miranda." 

"You can't do that right now." - the girl us quick to shatter your hopes and dreams. You give her a sharp glare, jaw tightening. 

"Why not?" 

"Eva is currently sick and..." - Eveline jerks her head to a side, hinting towards the staircase. You can guess Miranda is upstairs with Eva, so close yet still so far away from you. You shift your position, lifting your body up, ready to go talk to her. A small hand immediately stops you. - "she was coughing really badly this morning, you can't just-" - her words don't exist, you just continue walking to your end. - "mother will be mad if you go now, let her come to you— hey! Are you even listening??" 

You want to listen, you want to respect Miranda's wish to be alone while taking care of her daughter in need. But you can't, you simply can't. Eveline's voice  rings behind you as you begin taking the stairs to the second floor, yet she does not dare stop you anymore. You're determined. You traveled the distance from the hospital as quickly as possible to get to this woman. You even refused to say goodbye to your father before leaving. You are so dependent on her. And you can't miss her now. 

The second floor of the mansion is drowning in loneliness. All the doors are closed shut, with no indicators of light coming from below their cracks. One  single room is open to the world. You doubt the idea of Miranda staying in your own bedroom, yet out of desperation, you rapidly walk to it, nervous steps leading to...an empty box. Expected. The aroma in the air, however, it's another story. You'd recognise this sweet perfume anywhere. Miranda has been here, certainly. After a quick observation, mixed with you throwing your jacket on the bed, a different path is taken. In your current, partly unstable, mind ,opening the blonde woman's door seems closely enough to ravishing a coffin. The wood creaks - a sound, reminding you of a broken musical instrument. The handle burns you as you press it, inviting yourself without a shame in the world. Only to find her bedroom completely dark and devoid of any living creature. You eyes scan your surroundings - the massive bed has never been in such unkept form, creating the idea Miranda has spent most of her alone time curled up in the sheets. Another disturbing note is how messy her normally composed personal space is - jewellery and clothing laying around in chaotic positions. At last you check the bathroom and balcony, disappointing yourself for the last time. 

"Miranda..." - you whisper, voice angry, stepping over an used cigarette box, now empty, just like everything around you. - "You vile woman." - you take a breath, trying your best to think clearly. With her bedroom gone from the list of possibilities, your mind begins to mentally prepare you, while you decide the blonde woman should probably be in Eva's room. 

And then you hear it. A click. 

Poking your head through the door frame, observing closely the long corridor, you manage to spot not anyone else but Miranda herself, carefully walking out of her daughter's bedroom. Your miserable feelings force you to swallow hard, while your chest muscles tighten to the point you begin to struggle over something as simple as breathing. You even suppress the need to cough. As your eyes connect with hers, as you loose yourself just for a second in the colour of evening sky, your body runs to Miranda, as if controlled by someone else. 

You practically glue yourself to her skin, almost knocking her down with the strong impact of your hug. Due to you being shorter in height, your head get buried in her chest, a lower neckline from her clothing allowing you to feel exactly how warm her flesh is and the way you were freezing till now. Your hands squeeze her impossibly tight, running up and down her lower back, still respecting her desire to not be touched where she's vulnerable. As you allow yourself to relax, finally next to her, your nose rubs against her collarbone, getting a nice taste of her sweet aroma. Miranda hesitates for a long time, still processing the happening, but eventually her own slender arms wrap around your body and you  suppress the urge to whimper in her embrace. You've missed her, gods you've missed her so much. Yet the center of your fondness is not concerned about not seeing her for almost two days, which for both of you is a record. 

"Darling...?" - her gentle voice leaves her throat, you manage to feel her muscles moving as it does. Miranda runs her fingers through your hair, calling out for you again. Her tone suggests confusion and she's obviously questioning you about something. You can guess  many things she wishes to know - for example your sudden return or hugging her after a period of neglect. 

"Thank you." - you murmur out, biting your lower lip, squeezing her until she gasps and you blink, slowly awakening out of your dreams to the real world. - "Thank you so much, Miranda, I'm so thankful." - this time her fingers don't just play with your hair, they pull your locks until your head lifts up. And she notices tears running down your cheeks. - "I don't know...how to repay you." 

"What are you talking about, little deer?" - her smile is vicious, her white, perfect, teeth looking a bit more sharp than usual. Looking at her now, from this specific angle, Miranda doesn't look like herself, or anything human at all. But you struggle to decide if the woman in front of you is a goddess or a devil. Especially after she wipes your salty tears away. 

"You know very well, don't act clueless." - you bite back, falling into the hole she's purposely pushing you into. Miranda grin extends in size, her eyes loosing colour. She wants you to say it, but you know it can lead to you being devoured by her. - "Only you can do this, only you are going to help." 

"You sound so sure in your words, but...I haven't done anything." - you can't decide if you're being mocked or teased, perhaps both. - "...yet." 

"You're the most reliable and competent person I know, Miranda." - her knowledge about practically anything is endless. Without her help, your exams would have been a misery. However, Miranda is the best teacher you know and you trust her to insanity. - "I know only you are going to save my father." - after you thank her a few more times she laughs. 

"You are giving me too much credit." - in your own humble opinion it's not credit - it's trust. Miranda hums, her palm cupping your face. - "Your name is also on that list, correct?" - it's true, according to the hospital's documents you're part of your father's new medical team. The idea both excites and terrifies you. 

"I haven't even graduated." - you husk out a breath. - "I don't have the education." 

"That's insignificant for me." - Miranda presses you into her and you melt, feeling more than safe in her arms. - "I  put in our personalized unit, because I wanted to and because I can." - she talks like she's always the one  pulling the reins in her work place, you doubt this time will be any different. - "But remind me again, darling, who is the reason behind the success of forming this team of specialists, who helped with that email?" - she kisses your forehead, then whispers. - "under my guidance you'll be more than perfect for the job. And your father will come back to you in no time." 

Miranda pours lie after lie down your throat, forcing you to swallow until you get violently drunk in her desire to provide you everything you ask for. You wanted help with your father, she got you help, even allowed you to participate. But...that couldn't have been her plan from the beginning, she was searching for a new company long before you shared your worries about his never improving condition. What exactly does she want? As much as you want to ask her, you stop yourself. Instead you lift your body on your toes, in an attempt to get closer to her face. Your hands grab a hold of it and you give her a sad smile. 

"Are you real?" - your thumbs manage to press on her soft lips, as she stays still, allowing you to touch her visage as much as you want. Then your hands reach the roots of her hair and you run them through it, eventually guiding your fingers back to her neck, then going up, enjoying her defined jawline. - "Are you really going to save him?" 

"I'll... try my best." - Miranda answers. But then she reconsiders. - "Yes, I will." - she sounds more confident now. - "Shall it brings you happiness." 

"Kiss me." - you command. - "Convince me."  

Your back gets slammed against a nearby, corridor wall. The hit is hard and painful, normally you would immediately argue and try to break free. But what comes after the sudden movement almost forces you to swallow your tongue down your throat. Miranda starts gently, just a small kiss at the corner of your lips, as her dark blue eyes keep their contact with yours, telling you how she's still testing the waters. You nod your head, grabbing at her sleeve for support and you physically feel her grin against your skin. She has been hungry, because she does nothing more but devour. 

Miranda's lips crash onto yours, eagerly claiming what she thinks is hers. You try your best to keep up with, yet eventually you find yourself out of breath. She bites on your lower lip, hard, a groan of pain, as she's not gentle with pulling down on this soft tissue of flesh, leaves your throat. It motives her even more. Your eyes widen when you begin to taste blood inside your mouth, while her tongue penetrates it. The smell and taste of alcohol is overwhelming, but you don't seem to care. This time, she groans, and even though it sounds animalistic, your knees go weak. Still you gain enough control to push her shoulders back, removing her lips from yours. Miranda follows your unspoken instructions, looking down at you while your bottom lip is bleeding, you're practically out of breath and a string of saliva is running down your chin. There is a mischievous look in her eyes and before you know it, she's all over you again, but this time her painful kisses land on your jaw and neck. 

"I missed you." - you whimper out, instead of trying to stop her. Which would be reasonable, considering you're pretty much exposed to every curious person, lurking around. Leading Miranda to her bedroom, or any other room at all, will definitely escalate to drastic matters. However you remember what you promised her before your departure and even now - you feel more than obligated to follow her wishes. So you don't attempt to do anything more, just wrapping your hands around her neck as she casually bites your skin over and over again. Part of you is starting to think you might be dating a vampire. 

"I can't—" - she huffs,  - "... just take it slow with you." - Miranda stops her torture over your skin and lift her head. Her eyes are ignoring you, making you feel out of place. Then she laughs, confusing you. - "A day— it's pathetic isn't it? Only a day without you and I got madly consumed by my feelings." - her voice is now shaky and clearly irritated, yet her gentle touch finds your face, comforting you, while she speaks her truth. - "And, darling, you've always been so...perfect towards me, so much that I got angry and scared...the best solution that came to mind was to push you away." - oh, so that was going in with her for the past two weeks. You've been warned of course, Miranda is not the typical woman you date without consequences. But you've never thought she'll be this bad. Her previous wall of denied emotions and actions towards you was strong and standing tall, however, it's almost comical how easily it shattered down once she had a taste of truly not having you around and not just ignoring your existence. And Miranda even thought of sending you away as a solution for her overwhelmed mind, ridiculous.- "Yet I can't do it, I can't." 

"I understand, Mira." - you find her waist, carefully placing your hands there, creating space and support for both of you. Her body is not vibrating in excitement anymore, instead you catch hint of pure exhaustion. At least she looks calm, tired, but calm. -"it's hard for you." 

Miranda let's out a sound, something between a groan and a sigh. It's heavy, bitter and clearly unpleasant. You can guess she's trying to find her words, while still being thankful for your rapid response and reasonable understanding. As she makes up her mind, a feather like touch lands upon your lips, summoning shivers down your spine. The pad of her thumb is cottony soft as she drags it over your small, yet still bleeding, wound from her sharp teeth. She wipes until the gathered red liquid soaks her thumb and she guides it back to her own mouth, her her pupil dilating. You run out of breath once she lowers her head for one last kiss, before tiredly pressing her forehead to your shoulder, letting you bother with the weight of her head. Then she speaks. 

"I'm... obsessive over something I don't think I can have." - or deserve. But she chooses the right term  to describe it. Obsession can easily lead to insanity. 

"Me too." - you answer, almost without thinking. Still you have long realised - desire is stronger than reason, never mind how sinful or hurtful it is. Your voice comes out dry, throat itching. -"But I know I'm not like... any of the people you've met before, just like you're not like any of the people I've met before." - perhaps that's your ultimate attraction between the two of you. 

"Yet we're far from strangers." - Miranda reaches the conclusion of your shared conversation. You agree. 

"Correct, I think we should just...allow ourselves to be." - you want to be nothing else but honest with your feelings towards her. On the other hand, Miranda is a stubborn - she'll deny and deny until she feels at peace, however even she, herself, isn't able to decide when this time is, exactly. - "And... don't compare our story to the past." 

By doing so - it will only get ruined. You've already had the taste of that. Miranda is far different from Philip, yet you were fast to compare them as the same. Meanwhile the blonde woman still battles her inner self, who whispers about Mia's betrayal over her. One wrong step and she can turn into a caged bird again. 

Miranda lifts her head, eyes vibrating while observing you closely. She stares at your lips, the ones she has so shamelessly damaged out of desperation, then she fixes her vision to your own eyes, deeply loosing herself in it. Her glaring turns into a free walk around your face, as she takes in every detail, every curve and shape. Unknowingly, the ends of her lips begin to curl upwards, in a rather triggering way. 

"You don't know nothing about my past, darling." - despite her calm voice, Miranda's words come out sounding like a pure warning. Luckily, you stopped fearing her long ago. You are quick to shift your positions and pull her close. Your last kiss is sweeter than honey. 

"You'll tell me when you feel ready." - you whisper in her ear, lips burning against her hot skin. - "Till then I'll wait. I promise you." 

You'll wait and you'll listen, yes, but will you accept her true self? 

*****  

Despite your reunion, market with a, in your opinion, good ending, you spent the rest of your day away from Miranda. Not by choice, obviously. Your loneliness is expressed in her mother's instinct to always be around her daughter when sick. You're in no position to blame her, especially while understanding their deep connection. Instead of getting mad over it, you decide to pay attention to her now less observed kid. Eveline didn't seem in a very bad mood when you approached her for a second time today. In fact, the girl was simply watching her shows on the big TV and fidgeting with her favourite camera. You might as well take a guess and probably be correct about the raven haired girl often being left alone while her sister is not in her best health. While both sides are clearly okay with the happening, you can't just sit still. You get eager to talk and play with Eveline, she's a lively child, funny, energetic. At the end of the day you two even go outside, where you quickly shaped an improvised snowman. You even took a photo of it - wanting to show it to Miranda later. 

In a few hours, the weather got Incredible cold and any sun ray was replaced by the weak glow of the moon, between its many many star sisters. That was your indicator for dinner. Per usual, Miranda carefully prepared your meal, yet she refused to eat. Eva didn't even show up, only making you guess in how bad of a condition she is. So you forced yourself to enjoy delicious cooking, solely with Eveline. You're reminded of your first weeks in the mansion, but a lot of things have changed since then. While others... stayed the same. 

After dinner you helped Eveline to get ready for bed and with a kiss on the forehead and a goodnight wish you existed her room, chest and throat working together to release heavy sigh. Back to reality, to the present. 

A look to the side tells you Miranda's door is tightly closed, with no cracks of light from underneath it - something you adapted to check when passing by her room, just in case. You understand the meaning of isolation, if your girlfriend wanted to she would have invited you in her bedroom. For now, however, you take a sharp turn to your own and lock yourself inside. For a few moments, your back stays glued to the wooden surface of the door, the back of your head hitting against it - rooting out a dull pain in your skull. And you loose yourself in thoughts. An Idea for a warm bath pops inside your brain like a light bulb, after partly a minute you're already undressing on your way to the tub. It's relaxing, calming and it's making you feel sleepy, which you count as an excellent victory, knowing well you're yet to face another night of barely sleeping because your favourite person to hug is not with you. Enduring the situation is reasonable, but you're already walking on the edge of your restraint. 

Upon leaving the bathroom, droplets of water still rolling down your skin and hair, you spot something intriguing inside your luggage, which you did carry to your room at some point of the day, a little before dinner, to be precise. Miranda often gives you her clothes, mostly shirts, because your sizes are different and wearing her outfits would mean looking like a sack of potatoes. That's why only accept the tops for sleeping she allows you to choose from. Currently, you lift one with your hands, bringing it close to your nose to breathe in her left over scent. Without thinking twice you pull the shirt over your head, completely white over your body, and rest assured that your nightgown is practically part of Miranda. In the critical moment you couldn't be more happy. But the chase is far from over. 

No matter how many times you toss and hurt, how many times you pull the sheets further to your body or lift the collar of the shirt over your nose... you don't achieve the pleasure of falling asleep. Your face is now an irritated grimace, your body twitching in need to be moved, which is bad for you since you aim to be still so dreams can find you. Few more tries propose the same outcome - you can't sleep without her, not anymore. Yet... you can't make up with your own mind and make the decision of crossing borders. So you continue to be grumpy in your, compared to hers, uncomfortable bed. 

Until...need takes the formal place of reason. 

A clear indicator for your long enough stay in the mansion  is the way your body faces no obstacles while practically sprinting out of your bedroom, through the corridor and back in front of Miranda's wooden door. Her labyrinth is inescapable and despite your many attempts to find and an exit you always end up in the same place. It's wrong, it should be wrong, you chose the wrong time, the wrong way, the wrong person...but in your blinded by love eyes Miranda is the purest form of perfection. 

Her door squeaks as if ancient, making you grit your teeth, upon opening it. Naturally the space expanding before you  is a horizon of endless darkness. With a confident step you move inside, hoping the function of your eyes will adapt to the pitch black colour as fast as possible and soon enough it happens - you manage to distinguish outlines of different furniture. Just when your hands begin to unsurely touch around, in order to help your senses, you get absolutely blinded by a sudden piercing light - soft yellow at colour and almost as warm as the sun from today. Your knuckles are already rubbing circles above your tightly closed eyelids as you hear talking, Miranda's voice is almost silent and you don't get a single word out the  sentence, the reason being her murmuring under her nose. Eventually she moves the lamp to a side, stopping the ultimate light source from directly hitting you in the face. And then she just.. stares at you, without saying anything further, perhaps waiting for you to walk. The situation escalates, at least for you, as the awkwardness between you reddens the tips of your ears. You stand still, barely two steps into her room, body frozen as if she has caught you in a crime and you find yourself unable to make a decision for what to do next. Luckily Miranda acts first. 

You can't say for sure if the interpretation of her body language is correct, however, her eyes...can be more expressive than her tongue from time to time. Her half up torso, supported by her elbows, slowly descends back down to it's original laying on the mattress position. During her slow motions Miranda's dark blue eyes never depart from yours, she observe you from underneath her long lashes, lazily, seductively in a way...yes you've seen this glare before, the emotion behind it - an invitation. She only stops once her head finds its place in a soft pillow below her, after that her eyes close and you're pulled out of your trance. This is when you acknowledge the sleeping girl with sun kissed hair curled up in front of her mother. Eva is breathing heavily, as if struggling to catch up on air. She's as close as possible to Miranda's body, seeking heat and protection. The view makes your chest tight, but upon Eva's eyebrows twitching in annoyance, due to the lamp bothering her sleep, you quickly fix your thoughts, rush to turn off the unnecessary light source and circle around the bed, in order to climb on its other side - seeking a place behind Miranda's calm body. 

You practically melt as soon as you find it. You suppress a groan, born from the feeling of her silky sheets brushing against cool skin. You've forgotten how comfortable her bed is, how nicely it smells, how much warmth and coziness it can bring. You can die happily in here, knowing you'll be taking your last breath in bliss. If you're ready to depart from your obsession, that is. Speaking of which, Miranda doesn't elaborate further, forcing her back to you. You're not a fan of the distance this position creates. Of course you can also pull her close and bury your face in the back of her neck, but this cuddling method is a bit impractical - she'll jerk off seconds later, telling you how it doesn't feel good for her poor back. Which makes you question why exactly does she choose to sleep like this most of the time? Some kind of trap, perhaps, a test? The closer thing you can compare it to with is a cat showing you its belly right before biting and hissing, because you've touched it. It makes you laugh - after all Miranda is afraid of cats, if you're to trust Eva's words. 

Suddenly there is movement - very slight, yet extremely calculated. In a matter of seconds Miranda, as if out of reason and control, mindlessly grabs your wrist - her thin fingers holding it firmly while she pulls your arm around her, only stopping when she carefully places your palm against her lower stomach. Your breath hitches, digits moving on their own - exploring the area, enjoying the fabric of her nightgown. Soft material wrinkles between your fingerprints and you think of how easy it would be to tear it off her body, then grope, kiss, explore and take her back for all the nights you had to spend alone. But you can't risk it, not when Eva is sick and in need for attention, plus... you're not entirely certain about having sex with Miranda yet. If the woman expresses her desire for it then you're sure you'll provide, but otherwise you don't want to push her limits so soon. 

"....you too." - Miranda whispers, her voice so low in volume you almost miss it. 

"What did you say, Mira?" - you ask, lips to her ear, following a path of metal piercings - her beloved jewellery decorations. They are cold at the touch, contrasting her warm flesh. You fail to count them all, due to Miranda kindly repeating her words, this time a little bit louder for you to hear. 

"I missed you too." - there is a hint of embarrassment in her voice, which makes you smile. Her head shifts to your side, not entirely as she clearly doesn't want to move her body along, but enough so she can look at you while firmly saying. - "I missed you deeply,... unfathomably, senselessly, terribly." 

Her description is emotionally charged, powerful and... awfully familiar. You think about it for a while...and then you figure it out, faster than expected. Once you connect the dots you summon all of your self control not to burst out in laughter. 

"Are you..." - the inside of your cheek gets bitten, the sides of your lips lifting up. You want to mock her as much as you want to kiss her breathless. - "Are you reciting Kafka?" 

"I... read a lot." - is her defense, although her mouth remains open in shock. Yes, she has a point. Said woman has a giant library in her mansion and knows every book by heart, which leads to the conclusion of her possibly reading all of them at least a few times. However, you've never expected her to use the words from the books she reads to express her emotions. Especially with Kafka, since in your opinion she's more of a...Frankenstein enjoyer. You can actually almost imagine her keeping her lover's heart wrapped in love poem on her desk, similar to Mary Shelley...you just hope it's not yours. Although you'll be mad if it's somebody else's. - "And I happened to think of you while reading yesterday...the written words got stuck in my brain, the only way to get them out was to speak them directly." 

"You're so cute." - you blurt out, cursing your incapable of seeking her full face in the dark eyes. 

"I'm not cute." - she snaps back and you can almost perfectly picture her twisting her eyebrows in confusion and partly irritation. She thinks of the definition as unfit, ridiculous even, for her persona. 

"You're so very cute that you make me feel terrible." - you confess, truths spilling from your lips, messing up her head even more. 

"What?" - Miranda questions you, her voice slightly increasing in volume. - "Why?" 

"Because of all the nonsense I spoke to you yesterday..." - your fingers are running up and down her nightgown, fidgeting with the fabric while you talk. - "I didn't mean any of it.." - the air inside your lungs thickens, making it hard to breathe, as if your air ways are blocked. Inhaling through your nose is a quick solution you reach to before speaking low, next to her ear. - "I hated every moment, in which we argued." - the mean glances, the cruel words - awfully calculated so they hurt, the aftermath of hearing them. You end up squeezing her tightly, her arm moves in an surprised motion as you press down on her lower stomach. - "I'm sorry, Miranda." 

"My tongue... wasn't devoid of sharpness, as well." - she chooses to speak vaguely, not giving you completely remorse, yet Miranda allows you to hold her the way you desire. - "We tried to hurt ourselves because we thought that was what the other wanted." - she hisses when you remove any invisible walls between the two of you and shove her whole body besides yours. - "Confusing and anger can trick one's mind and-" 

"I don't want us to be like that again." - you whisper, cutting her off, feeling like a child begging for something unobtainable. Finally you press your heavy head against her shoulder blades, sighing. - "Please, Mira..." - your lips find her skin, placing a gentle kiss on the back of her neck. - "Please, don't let us be separated." 

The woman's following silence says more than you should know. There is no answer therefore no security in the future. Only hope remains, but the concept is a dangerous game to play. 

.

.

.

Morning comes with a shifting speed. Something is different. 

It's not between good or bad, in fact the spectrum doesn't even exist. Light falls upon your figure, a gentle touch, enough to summon twitching movement on your eyelids.  It's easier to breathe now, as usual there is an open window, spinning threads of a cold breeze around the room. But you're not cold, not because of the blanket on top of you, but the two warm bodies you cuddle with. The morning would be perfect, if it weren't for the unknown weight on your chest, forming a struggle against free movement. It's a bit overwhelming at first, but once you open your eyes, a bliss of comfort washes over system.

Of course Miranda is using you as a pillow again. It's not the first time to happen. Although you are a bit surprised, you weren't expecting her to cling to you so soon, so casually again. Yet at the end she just couldn't help herself, it seems. She has her head placed on top of your chest, just bellow your collarbone, every move of your diaphragm slightly moves her still, solid skull, digging into your soft breasts. One of her arms is extended, hand grabbing a full of your shirt, squeezing as if her life depends on holding to you. It's expresses possessiveness , her undying desire to control, even in her sleep. You can't deny the fact that she looks more than simply cute, although you're mainly looking at the top of her hair, few brunette roots threatening to ruin her perfect blonde colour. Besides that , however, you spot her peeking from the side nose and pouting lips. You wish to see her full peaceful face, maybe even kiss all over it. 

And so you take the liberty to pull. Her hair fits perfectly between your fingers, the reflex comes naturally - slightly tugging, enough to make her shift her body, as she's easily distracted from her dreams. Miranda murmurs, her head moving to a side, face buried completely in your chest now, her nose deliciously rubbing against your exposed skin, from the low cut collar of your shirt. She manages to summon a shiver down your spine, especially with her next move. You pull again, seeking more and she provides. Her hand lets go of the fabric of your nightwear, only to wrap around your neck and tenderly brush the edges of your jawline. And she lifts her head just enough to place a kiss on the space where your neck and shoulder connect. It's a way to say good morning, while also remaining in her improvised nest for sleeping. 

The moment you stop paying her attention and just let her be, you quickly notice something else. Since you fell  asleep somewhere in the middle of the bed you expected to see the curled up Eva to your right, her back presented to you. But once you turn to the left, you also spot... Eveline. The raven haired girl is sleeping as peacefully as her mother is, with the only difference she's occupying just barely your body, while Miranda is using you as a full time pillow. You reach out, brushing your fingers through Eveline's soft hair. Another similar thing she has to Miranda is waking up too easily, a second later her eyes open wide and she looks at you, a bit sleepy and confused. 

"Morning..." - she whispers, voice low while rubbing her eyes. She rolls to a side, stretching her rough muscles frozen from sleep. Something pops in her shoulder and you're hit with a splash of worry, but quickly calm down, realising she's only releasing pressure from between her bones. 

"Good morning, Evie." - you  smile at her, as a question arises inside your brain. She wasn't here last night after all. - "When did you get here, sweety, and w—Ow!" - you cut yourself, a weak cry from sudden pain twisting your tongue. Your sharp eyes turn directly in the direction of the distraction, which so happens to be on top of you. - "Heavy, heavy! Miranda you're heavy!" 

Her arms, normally so gently and soft, now are directly using your chest as a foundation, on which she can rise from the bed. She's firm and you get the feeling of your ribcage threatening to break. But you endure if for the sike of seeing her now sitting gracefully on top of you, flipping her blonde hair to a side - her left shoulder serves as a rocky surface, which catches the golden river, spilling carefully from the top of her head. Miranda looks rather dislocated for a moment, her blue eyes wandering between her two daughters and you. Eventually her cheeks lift up as she smiles, now looking fully woke. The  weight from her placed on your lower stomach body stays unchanged, making her presence clear. 

"It seems like my bed is a bit...preoccupied this morning." - Miranda hums, her morning voice reminding you few reasons of why exactly you love her. Then she yawns, cursing both you and Eveline to repeat this movement - like a undiscovered virus. - "I remember falling asleep with only two of my favourite girls." - you blink, a lump gathering in your throat. Her choice of words is truly precise, yet you wonder if she does it in order to tease or show compassion. Her head tilts like a bird to her older daughter. Miranda wonders for a while, her lips expressing the activity of her brain as she pouts them. Finally, she speaks. - "Bad dreams bothering you, sweetheart?" 

You make a mental note of how she doesn't use the word nightmares. As if it's forbidden. Or considered not real, which reminds you of the past again. You decide to not dig into it, but instead just listen as they whisper to eachother. With the side of your eye you see Eva slightly moving in her sleep, probably starting to wake up from the commotion. 

"No, mom, I slept well." - Eveline calms the waves of worry, which might not be as expressive on Miranda's face, but they are certainly there. The girl welcomes her mother's touch openly, as a tender hand brushes through her hair, then comes a kiss on her forehead. As much as you enjoy seeing them bonding, you can't help but hiss when Miranda's body uncomfortably rubs against your pelvic bones. You've had her many time placed there, of course, definitely for more enjoyable causes, yet currently the feeling is unpleasant. Maybe because it's still early and you've just woken up, or her uncalculated position...or she's just playing with you on purpose. - "I woke up an hour ago, I think...could be more than that" - Eveline continues her story. - "I saw you here, all together, and I... felt a bit left out." 

For some reason you laugh, which rewards you with a mean glare from Miranda and a confused look from Eveline. Predicting that the blonde woman might start moving again, as her body shifts, you grab her slightly exposed thigh to stop her. Even the furrowing of her thin eyebrows can't erase your amusement. 

"Evie, you weren't missing out at all." - your thumb brushes against Miranda's soft skin, a silent request for her to behave. Once your eyes meet hers, however, she easily spots mischief in them. Your touch is the calm before the storm. - "Sure, your mother's bed is cozy, no arguments." - you give her a grin, meanwhile her strong jawline flexes with irritation. - "But only for her." - you pause, switching between looking at Miranda to Eveline. - "You don't know at what moment during the night she's going to roll over you and try to crush you to death!" - you make it sound a bit dramatic, now fully squeezing her thigh, her flesh burning the tips of your fingers. - "You're better off in your own bed, in my opinion." - presented by personal experience.

"Ridiculous..." - Miranda mumbles under her breath. 

"It's true!" - you laugh loudly, your free hand fixing your pillow so you can obtain a half sitting position on the bed. - "your daughter is my witness, Mira. You can't deny using me as a pillow, or a chair even." - your arguments are expressed in her current condition - still placed casually on top of you. - "Am I not right, Evie?" - the girl nods her head with a giggle, clearly enjoying the show. 

"So immature, darling." - Miranda decides to finally move. Although you don't get exactly free of her grasp. She leans, bending awkwardly until she manages to get back on her original position, head on your chest, or now rather stomach, and a hand holding you firmly. Surprisingly her return is more calculated and less painful for you. But her sharp tongue doesn't miss an opportunity to presents itself. - "Hiding behind my children's backs will get you nowhere." 

"Are you sure?" - you tease one last time, noticing how her eyes are closing again. 

"Certain." - Miranda whispers, still and unmoving as a sleeping baby. 

And then, suddenly, another wave of sharp pain washes over you.  It comes unexpectedly, a wild rush of weight stomping on your poor legs and them moving to your lap and lower stomach. It takes you just a moment to move your head dramatically down to spot the reason for your agony. Little, sick, who was sleeping until now, Eva - proudly defending her mother by using her tactics against you. Your mouth remains open, chin might as well pierce your body soon. And if that wasn't simply enough, Eveline decides to join and take a warm spot on the other side of your chest. You don't know about the bed, but you surely feel preoccupied, as if pack of wild, heavy cats stomped on top of you. However, your position feels just so right. 

"Traitors." - you groan, forcing your voice to be hushed, mimicking a breathing problem. Against all her laws and principles, Miranda began to silently chuckle. You just know she's burning to say - 'I told you.', but you're certain she's going to rub it in your face later. For now, however you just enjoy the fact that her reaction got the girls laughing as well, even Eva, who's usually more distant with you. - "Traitors." - you repeat yourself. - "All of you." 

Despite everything, you've never felt so at place. Like you were meant to be here, to play the role of a foundation for their small family. You definitely wouldn't mind waking up with all of them sleeping on top of you again. Forever, you'd like to add. 

***** 

You should get a hold of yourself. 

"Darling..." - a weak groan. Your given nickname is a music to your ears. The soft voice, which spills it around the room, covers it with delicious addition of pleasure. 

You should behave, pull back, get a grip over yourself. And your current actions. 

"My darling..." - the voice grows in both desperation and obsession. Possession, even. Your fingers reach under the outline of long skirt, gathering the material in palms so the flesh beneath can be easily accessed. 

You should follow reason, not natural desires. It's a selfish act, for both of you. Yet nobody has enough power to stop. Clear mark for the inability are the parted legs, heavy breath and hanging clothes. The air is thick with tension. 

"Sweet, little deer, please..." - perhaps it's your more serious nickname or the word after it, that makes you stop. You despite it when she uses it. 'Please' - as if you're not going to give her everything she asks for. Even the impossible. So naturally, you cave in, finally pulling back. The view is heavenly. 

You love kissing Miranda, she's fond of pressing her lips to yours as well. She has explained it to you before, in her opinion this act is more intimate than any other. She has been with many women, but kissed very few. Something about her own policy of consent. You can't argue, and you cannot definitely say you're not enjoying it as well. Not when she looks the way she does after it. Her body is still, although her finger are trembling a bit. Her hair is messy, but not enough to raise questions. Her lipstick, if she wears one, usually is smudged to the side, threatening to paint her cheek. Miranda doesn't wear any this time, yet her lips remind parted, pulsating and wet from heavy kissing. Perhaps her eyes are your second favourite thing in this moment of need, the blue colour almost gone, due to her pupils dilating like a cat's. And finally her chest, always falling up and down rapidly. Miranda is out of breath, and you're the reason. It thrills you everytime, her enchanting figure so easily falling into the mercy of your arms. The amount of trust she has in you is too much to comprehend. But you're glad about it. You're glad the woman you love is as much as obsessed with you as you are with her. If only she could be brave enough to speak it out loud. These emotions stay deep inside her, locked, untouched. 

"I..." - your voice is trembling more than it should and you can only guess how blown away by passion you look in her own eyes. You clear your throat, while trying to fix the few buttons she freed from your shirt. - "I think we...got a bit carried away." 

"How can we not?" - Miranda whispers, almost silently.  Two weeks, not much at all but based on your typically touchy relationship it has been a long time since you both got to enjoy your bodies. Yet Miranda stopped you with only her words when things began to escalate. Her next sentence reminds you that you didn't came in her office to just claim her for all the nights she ignored you. No, you came because she called, no questions needed. - "I wanted us to talk." - Miranda changes the subject, without digging deeper. - "More... seriously." 

"Of course, we can..." - you cut yourself, mouth already missing her lips as you watch her fix her skirt back down, covering her stockings covered legs. She hums, reminding you of your situation. - "I can be serious." - an eyebrow is raised at you. So you correct yourself. - "I will be serious." 

"And I'll be quick." - Her eyes narrow, a thin line of tension appearing in the space between her eyebrows as she focuses on the open screen of her laptop. Miranda often does that, she even has you wondering if she needs glasses or not, after all she's older. - "I've been invited to a...formal party, regarding my departure from the previous company I worked with." - the electronic device is turned to you, its screen showing you her words, but written on a detailed document. 

"Seems fancy." - you voice out. - "Making a celebration about you, I mean." 

Miranda lets out a dry laugh and shakes her head. - “It’s not quite a celebration, darling.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s less about me and more about the fact that I’m finally out of their way,” - Miranda says simply.-  “They’re merging it with another event—some kind of fundraising gala or... whatever. My name’s just… conveniently on the invitations.”

“But it’s still you they’re mentioning.” - you cross your arms, not able to understand the underestimating. Miranda is a mad genius, if you were in their place, you would anything in your power to keep in on the team. Perhaps their common interests have inspired already. 

“Because it makes them feel generous,” - Miranda replies, something heavy on her chest. It's not in her nature to act offended, in fact she's more annoyed than anything.-  “It’s easier to raise glasses to a departure than to acknowledge they were never particularly fond of my presence.”

"And you don't want to go?" - you try to guess, voice curling up your words, tongue pressing to the top of your mouth. - "Is that the problem?" - calling you can be a way of calming me her down, but you don't understand why exactly she needs you to hear about this event. 

"I want you to come with me." - Oh. Well now she has reason. Miranda crosses her legs, obtaining an elegant pose, she also fixes her own top a little bit, it's collar now in place again. - "Going alone, would be hell, so I called you to ask...if you wanted to accompany me." - although you're presented with a choice, the answer is pretty obvious. If you're to refuse she'll be mad, or even end up not going. Not like you're ever going to refuse her, that is. 

"You needn't even question me." - you move close to her, Miranda's body standing still on her chair. You take a seat on her slightly higher desk, pushing the laptop to a side. Then you bend down, grabbing her face in your arms and descending to place a kiss on her lips. - "I'll be there with you." 

"Are you sure?" - her arms lift to hold back yours. - "You don't have a problem with publicly expressing our relationship?" - her head purposely starts to avoid you, which leads to you squeezing it, making her expose her sharp teeth to your eyes. - "Given...my age."  

A sharp line of shame, mimicking a bullet, hits you directly in the heart. So very deeply, you almost start coughing. It seems like the things, spoken in moments or anger and confusion, has struck her, even though she denies it. The last you want to do is make her insecure of the fact that she's older. It has never been a problem, if you put aside her weird, senior ways of doing things from time to time. Your fingers tremble down to her jaw, running them over its defined edges. You caress her with care, eyes drowned in sorrow. 

"You truly believe what I said it's true?" - Miranda bites her lips, clearly not feeling comfortable, but not because of her position, bur rather because of her current feelings. 

 Denial still haunts her, while she fights to overcome it. - "Mira, I don't care about your age. I never once thought about it while being with you,while kissing you or anything else we do together. I don't want and I don't see you as a number, as years in which you existed and I didn't." - you take a sharp breath, chest still reflecting guilt. You allow the blonde woman to pull away, to place her hands on the chair handles. She shakes her head, aiming to hide the pink colour of her ears with her golden hair. Yet her face still looks flustered. - "I'm sorry I made you believe something so insignificant could come between us." 

"You are not ashamed of dating me...an older woman?" - Miranda is now hiding her face from you, turning to a side, a thumb nail finding place in between her sharp teeth, as she crushes it with anxiety. A sure nervous tic. You blink in shock, you've never seen her so influenced by something you've said. And you've said much more meaner things to her. Perhaps Miranda finally feels you close enough to acknowledge them and be hurt by them. 

"No, I- never." - you confirm, shaking your head to show the absurd of her question. - “If anything, I feel lucky. You carry years I haven’t touched, and still… you choose to share them with me.”  - it's a small reaction, easily mistaken for a reflex, but you see it. The corner of her lip slightly curls up, then immediately goes down as she clears her throat. You smell the change of the topic before it can even continue. 

"So, I can count on you to be my chaperone for the party?" 

"I was going to invite myself, regardless." - Finally she's smiling and looking at you with that enchanting glare she does when it's just the two of you - most of the time doing nothing but cuddling. Your fingers roll on the surface of the desk as you break the silent barrier, which was created earlier. - "I have a condition, however." - while fixing one of her earrings,  uncomfortably caught in her hair, she does a movement with her head, letting you know she's open to the suggestion. - "You'll let me dress you." 

"Dress me, darling?" - Miranda repeats, as if to show you she heard right. - "Sure, my wardrobe is big enough for you to wander and choose instead of me." - there is no lie here, it's criminal how many clothes the woman owns. - "Do you have anything specific in mind? Do you want us to match again?" 

"No, I actually wanted you to wear the dress from your birthday..." - Miranda opens her mouth to argue, but you cut her with a lift from your hand, making her wait. - "I know it's not finished, I will make sure to do it before—when was it again?" 

"This Friday." - you quickly turn to the calendar on her wall, observing the numbers. Three days left for you to work with the fabrics as much as you can and shape her a beautiful dress. You accept the challenge.

"It's a date, then." - your confidence makes her chuckle. 

Despite your desire to stay and perhaps finish up the kissing session you had from earlier, Miranda forces herself to me extremely kind while asking you to leave her alone for now. She explains how she still needs to bother with documents for the new hospital, the medical team, your father and...you, merging into the picture just because she said you could. You jump off her desk, shoving your hands in your pockets before taking a turn around it, ready to go out the door you purposely locked when you originally came to her office. Just as you move beside the wooden furniture, your eyes dare to wander on it and then you spot it. A medium in height and thickness pile of different documents. There is very little writing on the top one, however what's below the text surprisingly catches your interest. It seems Miranda notices as well, because she's the one to snatch it right under your nose and try to put it in a lower drawer. 

"What is that?" - you're practically burning from curiosity, knowing very well what was on the piece of paper, but refusing to cooperate, wanting to get the information out of her instead. 

"It's nothing." - Miranda folds her arms, lifts her eyebrows and makes a general movement with her expression and fingers, aiming to make you leave already. 

"It's not nothing." - you practically run to the other side of her desk. You do have to fight off her best attempts to fight you while you search for that specific document paper. You end up using your whole body, mainly your back, to stop her from grabbing it herself again. Finally you reach it. - "I want to see, Mira." 

"Darling, please-" - it's too late. The woman cuts herself, her fingers cleverly hiding her lips from showing the stress of her face. 

"You drew me." - Miranda lets out a sigh, an expressive sound - something between disappointment and shame. You observe the drawing, trying not to pay attention to the grip she has on your shirt, a miserable attempt to stop you. Miranda sure has talent - just a small face sketch of you, but expressing to almost full perfection your features. - "That is..." - you'd like to say amazing, even something more praising, however, you make the mistake to turn the paper around, in wonder if she has drawn anything else. But instead you're met with your own name, written over nad over again - some curves so extended you can barely distinguish them. The word is in the margins, across the center, in the corners, in different sizes and strokes—sometimes neat and precise, sometimes shaky, almost dreamy. The pure white colour is close to disappearance. - "...a lot." 

"I... do that often." - Miranda lies, seeking a way out of this shame, only to dig herself even deeper. - "I— need to... write something in order to... keep my hand steady." 

"I'm sure you do, Mira." - you grin while nodding your head, knowing very well she writes on her laptop most of the time. You gentle fold the paper before lifting it in the air and slightly shaking it. It's the last time she's going to have any possession over it. - "I'm keeping this, by the way." - Miranda groans in defeat. 

Shared obsession feels good. You think to yourself while exiting her office. 

***** 

The week rolls around with good enough speed. Three days have passed. Friday comes faster than expected. But you're ready with your masterpiece - Miranda's dress. 

The dress  is a vision in spectral white—soft, luminous fabric that catches the light with an almost ghostlike shimmer. It is made to specifically cling delicately to her upper body, sculpting her silhouette with grace and understated seduction. The bodice is fitted, with finely sewn seams that draw the eye toward her waist, emphasizing the natural strength and elegance in her posture. The neckline is daring—a deep, expressive plunge, edged subtly in a delicate, barely-there embroidery of silver thread that mimics curling vines, like something from an old illuminated manuscript. You've put a special interest in her defined waist. There rests a statement piece: a rich, curved belt bathed in silver, shaped in intricate relief patterns. The belt is made to  cinch tightly, exaggerating the contrast between her narrow waist and the freer movement of the dress below, where the gown transforms —the fabric flows like smoke, no longer clinging but dancing around her legs. Two long slits  are cut high from the sides of her thighs downward, offering flashes of skin with each step, sensual yet elegant. The movement is fluid, as though she glides rather than walks. Her arms are enveloped in long, open sleeves, wide at the ends, trailing softly past her wrists to the very tips of her fingers. When her arms fall naturally at her sides, the sleeves drape like a veil around her hands, concealing her ring-covered fingers in a cascade of flowing fabric, broken only by the occasional glint of gold from the jewelry beneath. 

But perhaps the most captivating feature of the dress lies at the shoulders. Two long extensions, beginning at the dress straps, fall behind her like trailing ribbons—veils of white, long and regal, dragging softly across the floor as she walks. Their delicate length is not plain—at both the start and the end of these flowing trails, feathers, for which you waited and gathered from her bed, have been arranged in perfect symmetry. Subtle at first, but unmistakable in shape and texture, the black feathers offer a haunting contrast to the white fabric, adding something distinctly feral, almost ceremonial. The feathers glisten in the light, matte and sharp—reminders of something darker beneath the surface.

The dress makes her unique, beautiful, breathtaking, marvellous. Miranda looks like a queen in it, in fact something else - a goddess. While you are the the proudest you've ever been in your entire life. You dedicated those three days in coping a famous designer's model, while still adding a hint of your own imagination. And Miranda's style. You've made the fabric below her waist purposely longer so she can wear her beloved heels. On top of that, her cleavage is severely exposed , in order for her to put on as many necklaces as she wants. Miranda made a grimace when she saw the feathers, so tightly sewn to the dress, however she smiled through it. Miranda loves the dress, you do too. Your own outfit for the night is chosen to matches her, but your cheap looking dress cannot even begin to compare. Still you feel amazing standing next to her, the white on the fabric almost the same shape as the other. 

Miranda is still trying to decide either her hair should be tied up or left free down, when two familiar figures bursts through the door of her bedroom. 

"Mommy! Mommy, woah—" - Eva, who managed to enter first, stops drastically fast, almost forcing Eveline to crash into her. Both girls observe their mother, as if she's a totem of worship, their eyes sparkling with joy, hands itching to touch the fabric of the dress. You smile alongside Miranda, already thinking of trying to make few other outfits for her daughters as well. - "You look gorgeous, mommy!" - they both say, almost in sync. 

"So do you, my loves." - Miranda answers, honey dripping from her coloured lips, while she bends down, finding it extremely easy due to the dress design. She hugs her daughters tightly, allowing them to touch and explore the fabrics. They also have a similar reaction towards the feathers, which you don't understand, but aside from that— they look just as impressed as their mother was when you showed her the dress this morning. Two days of almost not sleeping was worth it. You pat yourself on the shoulder alone, as you should. 

Deciding to let them be, you take a turn to the vanity in the room, taking a comfortable seat in front of it. You observe yourself in the mirror, questioning if your makeup, which Miranda helped you with, needs a few more touches or not. You want to be presentable, but also not overdo yourself. While fixing your necklace, an old gift from your girlfriend after your first date, you overheard the conversation behind you, which so happens to be louder than before. 

"We've talked about this so many times." - Miranda's voice is now slightly irritated, as she's clearly uneasy about the topic. - "I'm not leaving you home alone, I—no, not even for one night." 

"Aren't we big enough already?" - Eva is quick to defend herself and her sister. 

"And you said we're responsible!" - Eveline joins, making Miranda grab her forehead in exhaustion. 

"Eva is still sick and I'm not taking any risks." - For a few minutes the mother and her two daughters just...stare at eachother. And it makes you laugh, the way Miranda's face is practically twitching as she tries to compose herself upon faced with the begging puppy eyes both of the girls are applying on her. Finally, she breaks. - "Fine, the best I can offer is calling a babysitter, instead of sending you to Alcina." - well that forces you to join the conversation. 

"They don't need one." - you clear your throat after they look at you confused and you realise your voice came out lower than needed. - "I'm their babysitter." 

"No, you're mine." - Miranda snaps at you without even realising and you sit back down, lifting your arms up. Can't argue with facts. Her neck swings back to Eva and Eveline, their faces obtaining annoyed expressions. They are definitely not winning — Miranda's protective nature doesn't allow it. And without your help with convincing her otherwise, they are doomed. - "The castle it is." 

Despite their unwillingness, Eva and Eveline are obedient. They gather their needed luggage and stay silent in the car. Miranda drives them to the castle, with a bit of a rush, before changing the direction of travel and taking the path to the address of the party. 

.

.

.

The location does not disappoint. 

Miranda leads you to a remote estate, similar to her own, but much more connected to society than her gothic mansion. As you enter, you can't even lie, your breath is taken away. The room you walk in is magical, massive and almost like taken from a noble castle. 

The main chamber is large and elegant, filled with the soft sound of music and people talking and laughing. The ceiling is high, painted with beautiful images, and big crystal chandeliers hang down, casting warm, golden light all around. The walls are lined with tall windows, covered by heavy red curtains tied back with golden ropes, letting in a little moonlight. The floor is made of shiny marble that reflects the light, and everything feels polished and rich. In the middle of the room, there’s a long dining table covered with delicious food—roasted meats, fruits, cheeses, pastries, and silver trays holding everything neatly. There are glasses of wine and champagne everywhere, and tall candles flicker in silver holders. Off to the side, there’s a small stage where musicians play soft, lovely music—violins, a piano, and a cello. The music fills the room gently, adding to the party’s mood. People are dressed in fancy clothes—sparkling dresses, velvet coats, polished shoes—walking around, chatting, and smiling. There’s also a cozy bar corner with a dark wood counter and shelves full of bottles. A bartender makes drinks and talks with guests while cleaning glasses. That part of the room feels a bit more relaxed and playful.Beautiful flower arrangements are placed around the room, giving off a soft, sweet scent. The whole chamber feels warm, lively, and luxurious—like a perfect place to celebrate.

But under all the beauty and joy, there’s something a little strange… a quiet feeling that something might be hiding behind the smiles and laughter. It's the people. Despite their massive grins and fancy clothes, their faces are way too expressive — they seek destruction and power. You make just a few steps in when you are suddenly hit with a wave of worry. You don't belong here. All these people have the right to look and act the way they do. If you compare them to Miranda then you can guess they are as much as intelligent and capable. It also gets you thinking about the group of medics you're going to meet next week. Are they going to make you this...pathetic as well? You're not good enough to be at their level, meanwhile Miranda just wants to throw you there and— 

"Darling, are you okay?" - The sun, or rather the moon, speak to you. Gentle hand coming down to caress your anxious face. The touch moves up to your forehead and you realise you're burning, but not from fever. - "If you're not feeling well, we can immediately go back." - the slight disappointment in her voice makes it impossible to agree. 

"No, I just— " - you lick your dry lips, eyes wandering around the grand room, they spot the bar and you smile awkwardly. - "I'm just thirsty, Mira." - you grab her arm around the wrist, fighting off bracelets in different size and colour. Tonight she's  more shiny than usual, you know because Miranda even has circles of gold around her ankles. - "Shall we?" 

After a while, not even a full hour, you start to realise why Miranda wasn't filled with desire to come. The gathering is extremely boring. Sure it looks fun from the side — good music, delicious food and people always making a small talk over something. Yet it's rather... hard when you don't know anyone and the only person you do know has something against everybody else. There isn't a minute where Miranda isn't whispering dirty secrets in your ears about every passing ex colleague of hers. At some point you commence drinking a cup after cup, at least the alcohol is rich and tasty. However, your measurement is neglected and you soon find yourself a bit tipsy. 

After a while, your mind threatens to transform into a fully liquid state. Partly because of the alcohol, partly because some people finally acknowledged the so called 'star' of the party has rewarded them with her presence. And they begin to cling to her like leashes, men and women, group of strangers gathering after eachother to exchange a few words with Miranda. You sit at her side, ignoring the side eyes all of these people are giving you, while your back is pressed against a soft pillow on a corner sofa, hand yet again lifting up a full cup to your lips. And you observe as Miranda's face becomes more and more annoyed with each passing person. She hates them all, she hates this place...so why does she insists on staying? The answer is impossible to get. You note  how they all call her 'doctor', the word rolls off their tongues with slight anger, as if she doesn't deserve the title. The situation escalates when a man with a too colourful tie comes and often a glass of wine to Miranda. She takes it, but you don't see her sipping from the red liquid even once while the man talks. Then your eyebrows furrow, he has the audacity to ask her out so they can discuss their past work in private. Eventually you understand this man's name, Brandon, and you laugh, finding it extremely funny. Miranda rejects him, less kindly than she does with you, forcing him to excuse himself, looking awfully angry at her. You laugh again, staggering forward and pressing your face into Miranda's shoulder. 

"I think you're going a bit heavy on the alcohol, my darling." - Miranda speaks with a totally different voice from earlier. If she chooses to use a bossy, mean sounding tone with her past colleagues then you're rewarded with softness and care. It makes you want to kiss her breathless. You murmur against her skin, not taking it nicely as she steals a cup out off your fingers, restricting you from the throat burning liquid. You start to drool, eyes locked at her arms and the cup she took from you. You hear her sigh. - "Are you really drunk already? We've barely been here." 

"I'm bored." - you answer with a rush. Your hand slips down to her exposed thigh. Gods, the dress fits her so well. - "So very bored, Miranda." 

"I believe there is plenty of entertainment around." - She lifts her chin as if to point somewhere, yet your burning eyes are only focused on her. You breath heavy, chest tight, arms sweating. Then she clicks her tongue. - "But if  you decide to talk to someone, I'd... advice you not to look up to future relationships, you wouldn't like it." 

"What are you talking about — I'm already in a relationship." - her warning confuses you. Isn't she your girlfriend? Why is she even talking about other people. You press yourself further to her, nose catching a hint of her rich perfume, the one that she splashes all over her pillows so her hair can smell like it all the time. The one that you absolutely adore. - "Why would I care about others..." 

"You're misunderstanding me, darling." - Miranda doesn't even look at you while replying. Instead her gaze lingers lazily around the room, her dark blue eyes sharply observing the environment. She almost looks like... she's waiting for somebody. 

"Dance with me." - She turns her head towards you, eyebrows lifted because your words were not only sudden and loud, but also sounded like an order. 

"I can't dance." - she answers firmly, lips curling up in a grimace. 

"Dance with me." - You repeat with so much force you almost bite down at your tongue. Miranda only rolls her eyes. Normally she doesn't mind your bossy side, however currently she's having none of it. You shallow hard, almost panicking over her neglect over you. 

"No, darling." - She shatters your hopes that simply. - "We'll wait for when we go back home." 

Then you turn your head to where she was previously looking at and...you freeze. At that exact moment you understand why exactly Miranda has been acting the way she was until now. It's not because this place or her previous colleagues are unpleasant, no. The reason stands with a straight back, lifted chin, beautifully made hair and dress, eyes wandering around the room in search. Suddenly they lock into yours and she grins. Miranda was waiting for her ex to come crawling around. You're looking directly at Mia Winters. 

And so you act impulsively, without much of a thought.

"Miranda?" - you call out. 

"Mm, yes darling?" - your girlfriend seems filled with boredom. You can't let her see Mia. You can't... you don't want to accept the fact that the sole reason for you to be here is because Miranda wanted to show off. If it's truly like that...then very well. 

Your arm reaches behind her head, grabbing a fist full of her hair and practically slamming her against your lips. You kiss with her need and anger. You claim, just like she does. Of course Miranda tries to push away immediately, but you hold her still, groaning into her mouth to show her just how much you want this, want her. Your other hand, which was resting on her thigh for comfort, is now fully squeezing her flesh, imprinting red marks. If it weren't for dignity, you would lift up her dress and show everyone, including Mia,  who exactly does Miranda open her legs for. Your kissing continues, turning into a drooling mess since you can't really control your normal production right now. She lets out a muffed sound the moment your tongue penetrates her mouth and your palm dares to wander underneath the fabric of her dress. A second later, she manages to break free, getting a hold of your jaw and looking down at you with mad eyes. 

"Are you really out of your mind?" - you've at least achieved one thing - Miranda is truly out of breath. Plus her hair is a bit out of place. And you've managed to partly ruin her lipstick. In your eyes she's flawed to perfection. So you smile at her, in your drunken state, you look like a pathetic jester. 

"You're so beautiful, Mira." - she barely stops herself from slapping you across the face. Instead of doing so, she fiercely bites on her lower lip, out of anger. Her hands grip your shoulders, hard enough for you to feel pain. - "so beautiful,...you make me what to do horrible things to you." 

"You can show me how beautiful I am when we get  home." - She pushes you aside, her eyebrows still twisted. - "But now you're going to be good and behave yourself." - you nod your head, even though you're barely listening to her. Your eyes dare to look at where Mia was earlier only to find the spot devoid of her existence. - "Do you even know how many people are watching us, you can't just—" 

"Do any of these people know you like I do?" - despite her best attempts to keep you at a distance, you still find your way to her like a crawling snake, embracing her and finding her jewellery covered ear. - "Do they know how how submissive you can be underneath your steady mask." - you nibble at her earlobe, feeling her trembling yet still trying to avoid you. You know you're crossing a line, but you also want to make your point clear. - "Do they know how you actually act? How brilliant you are? How you taste, how you moan..." - you pause. - "Do they know you're fucking mine?" - you speak about the people, while clearly having one person in mind. 

Miranda's mouth opens, yet she doesn't let a single sound. You believe you've left her speechless. But after a minute of two of silence, she clears her throat. - "You are absolutely ridiculous." - she shakes her head. - "Don't fall on their level if you don't like them that much." 

"I'm jealous, Miranda." - you finally reveal. A kiss is placed on her neck, however there's no fun in it. She's not trying to push you away anymore. In fact, her arms are folded and she's still, almost looking unbothered. - "You made me jealous and— 

"You're not jealous." - The blonde corrects you, her blue eyes just barely giving you a glare. - "You're drunk." 

She makes you realise just how much the world is actually spinning. Your head is a mess and you know you're talking bullshit, only getting her angry. You're certain you've already ruined her additionally bad night. You back away from her, pressing yourself to the sofa. Miranda is right, there is no threat for you in this room. She's not going to remember a single person from here after a day or two anyway. You feeling stupid, but not stupid enough to forget about a certain woman from Miranda's past. A woman, for who you know she's not indifferent. 

"...Don't want to loose you to someone else..." - you whisper, not even looking at her. Bur she hears you more than clearly and scoffs. 

"To whom exactly, my darling?" - She has a mocking smile on her face. - "Do I look interested in someone else, different than you?" 

You close your eyes and speak your mind out. - "Mia is here." 

The name struck  her. And you see it - the crack in her perfect face, the fear in her eyes. She's not like this because you told her Mia is at the party, she reacts in such abnormal way because she knew all along. And now that you've figured it out, she...looks defeated. The alcohol might not be spinning your head no more but it's surely trying to find a way out. Perhaps throwing up will wash of this unpleasant feeling of betrayal as well. It's impossible, she's impossible. All you want is for her to be yours, just like you are hers. Why does it work only one way? Why does it has to be when you confess, you're being pushed away or dragged into this party...so she can be pathetic once again. You don't understand it. You also don't understand why is she tugging on your sleeve, why is she suddenly hugging you. You hear her whispering something about leaving and then— you're back at your feet. Wobbling and trying your best to walk in a straight line. 

Only if you weren't so unlucky. 

You jerk out of  her leading touch, letting go of her arm and eventually falling to a side. You crash into someone, but not strong enough to bring them down to the floor with you. Your head becomes an even bigger mess and you groan out in pain, skull pulsating. You try your best to look up, seeking Miranda. Only to find her staring fiercely at the person next to you. 

"Last time I thought this girl was something else..." - you hear a voice through the rushing blood in your ears. But you're still unable to distinguish it. - "However, now I see it— you're yet again dating a poorly mannered beast, Miri." - oh, you're starting to remember. The insults are personal. - "Your taste has became cheap after me, It seems." 

Mia Winters has you in her feet, her sharp heels threatening to pierce your head. As you look up to her, you notice her full belly - a clear indication for her pregnancy. She doesn't look at you, doesn't even bother to look down or help you in any way. Her nature wouldn't allow it. Yet Miranda, finally out of her frozen state, bends down to lift you up. You use her strong arms as a foundation to grip and help yourself up. Mia watches you both with disgust. Before you can even think of saying something to her, Miranda cuts you off. 

"Alone at last, Mrs. Winters?" - it's a philosophical game between them. You noticed it the last time the brunette showed up to Miranda's house. There is so much left behind, so many things unsaid, so much pain and misunderstanding. Even after their breakup, both sides try their best to hurt the other. You fear this the most — not wanting to ever depart from Miranda's side. She makes it clear that she's on the same opinion by wrapping a hand around your waist. 

"How vulgar, Miri." - Mia's palms form into fists. - "To insult a woman just because her husband is not present." 

"How vulgar, Mrs. Winters." - Miranda bites back immediately. - "To talk about your affairs while being pregnant with your husband's baby..." - she makes a pause. - "if he's truly the father, that is." 

A group of people, direct witnesses to what is happening, gasp at Miranda's sharp response. Mia looks furious. She takes a step further, face just inches from Miranda's. You almost dash forward, hand itching to hit her like the last time. But your girlfriend stops you just in time, before Mia spits pure venom over her. 

"You—fuck you, Miranda!" - she bares her teeth. - "You know I hate it when you begin to think so high of yourself." 

"You should be careful with your words." - the blonde's voice is unbothered. - "On documents, I'm still your boss." 

"Shrew you and your fucking documents!" - Mia finally releases her tension, practically screaming at her ex lover. - "The only thing you're delusional enough to believe you have control over is your new rotten whore!" 

Slap! 

Mia gasps in disbelief, her head still tuned to a side from the impact of Miranda's slap. There is already a red print presenting itself on her cheek. The other woman retreats her hand, brushing it against the fabric of her dress,as if she has touched something dirty. You notice the burning hate in Mia's eyes. She doesn't dare look at the dangerous blue eyes staring down at her. 

"I told you to be careful with your words." 

"I will ruin you, Miranda." - Mia  murmurs, sounding defeated, one final promise. She turns around, ready to leave. - "You deserve to suffer." 

.

.

.

There is no real conversation between Miranda and you after Mia disappears, after that awful incident. But you both decide not to leave yet, in hope you can sober up before leaving while she can actually spare a few minutes with the small amount of people she tolerated from her previous working environment. You're now sat near the bar, drinking nothing more than water, hoping for a quick clean of your system. You regret drinking so much, as you not only you are feeling dizzy but dislocated and like your stomach is going to curl up and force you to vomit any moment now. Nobody is paying you attention anymore. Sure, a few people are looking back at you and whispering, but their mocking manner suggests they are just discussing how did you end up being with Miranda. Sometimes you wonder the same thing. 

You lift your head upon hearing your name and spot Miranda, in her gorgeous white dress, near the exit door. She lifts up a pack of cigarettes in one arm while waving and bringing her fingers to her lips, in the way she holds her cigarette, to show you she's going out to smoke. You nod your head, wondering if after that you're going to finally leave. And hopefully never go back. As you try to count exactly how many people follow her outside, a large figure suddenly takes out the space in your view. You look up to see the same man from earlier. Fun coloured tie and a suspicious face. Brandon. The man who casually tried to invite your woman to a date, right in front of you! 

"Is it true, then?" - Brandon speaks, there is an unpleasant note of an accent in his voice. You're sure it will harm your brain if he continues his talk. Unfortunately, he does. - "You're Miranda's new pet?" 

"Her girlfriend." - you correct him, suppressing a hiccup. 

"Oh, I wouldn't care if you were her wife, love." - He laughs and you almost gag at the way he refers to you. - "It's actually hard to believe...someone like her got a partner." 

"Why?" - you roll your shoulders back, aiming to fix your posture. - "Just because she rejected you, doesn't mean she doesn't want me." 

"Of course, of course..." - he's now speaking in a mocking manner, lower and slow, as if he's finally understand you're awful drunk, despite your best attempts to hide it. Her rubs his chin, a bright smile meeting your eyes. - "Mia was always talking about Miranda being...a carpet muncher, but we were never certain." - he puts his hand on the bar counter next to you. - "That's why I was still trying my luck earlier, you know better than anyone that woman is offensively beautiful." 

"A carpet muncher—?" - the only part you decide to pay attention from his sentence rolls on your tongue as you try to get its meaning. Then it hits you — and you burst out laughing. The man also joins, even though he's only awkwardly chuckling. - "If she hears you she's going go get so mad!" - you wrap hands around your stomach, slightly in pain from all the laughter and your uneasy body condition right now. - "She doesn't even like to be called a lesbian! She hates it when people put labels on her." 

"What about you, love?" - Brandon cuts off your laughing session with yet another question. Why is he still talking to you again? You find it difficult to maintain comfortable when he moves even closer. - "Are you sure Miranda is the only one for you, hm?" 

"I—yes." - you make sure to sound confident. - "She's mine." 

"I see...well I don't usually settle for less...but Miranda is just too difficult." - the man's hand finds a place on your thigh and you trembling. The chair suddenly feels way too unstable and high and you're not sure you can safely get down. Your eyes start wandering around the room, searching helplessly for Miranda. How much time does she need to finish off a cigarette? - "And if she chose you then...you should be second best in stock." 

"Stop...stop that!" - you weakly scream at him. Brandon only smiles, wrapping a palm at the base of your neck and leaning in to place a kiss on your skin, while his other hand is dangerously close to finding its way underneath your dress. Your head is a mess. - "I don't like it, I don't—" 

"Then what do you like, hm?" 

"Miranda..." - you groan, hands too weak to push him away. Your eyes are barely able to keep themselves open. You believe you see her finally entering the room again, but you're too unfocused. You hate the way his hands feel, his touch is rushed and cold, nothing compared to the one of a woman. He places another kiss on your neck, holding you firmly as you try to squirm away. Then a shadow presents itself upon the two of you. And you smile, his movements finally coming to an end. Your angel of death has arrived.- "Miranda, please..." 

"Just in time, Brandon." - the blonde woman grabs his shoulders, reflecting pain, her nails digging into his clothes, squeezing him until he cries out and lets go off you completely. The fear in his eyes is genuine. Miranda, clearly taller than him, bends down a little and allows herself to whisper in his ear. - "We were looking for a third." 

***** 

Darkness is a silent killer. Being in it long enough would be deadly - not being able to see normally would drive even the most restrained people mad. In addition, a faint but irritatingly prolonged sound is added to it. Screeching, metal bending, scratching... over and over again past the long, blackness-filled minutes. It's madness, but what's most inexplicable to the man in this darkness is why exactly he's here. 

The last thing he remembers well is escorting two women to their car. One, a complete stranger - just a beautiful lady seen at the party. But the other - she needed no introduction. She was famous even without doing anything significant. Besides her brilliant mind, she was also uniquely lovely. So the man was overjoyed as soon as he was offered a shared evening with both of them. Or so he thought. Something incredible rich in power and weight hit the back of his head the moment he reached for the car door. Everything after that was pure darkness. 

Until now, as his body and face are suddenly bathed in warm light. The man closes his eyes, the bright light piercing his pupils  mercilessly. He shakes his head, only to have it slammed into another solid metal next to him. The reflex of pain makes him kick his legs forward. They fall into something hard as well. His hands follow, trying to feel the space around him. He gasps as his palm wraps around a cold metal cylinder and realises with horror that he is  in fact locked in a small cage. So tight that the only comfortable position for him is to be hunched over. 

Still searching for answers about his situation, the man's ears are pierced by an unpleasant scraping that continues until something heavy slithers across the room. Then he hears a soft, mocking sigh and rolls his eyes in the direction of the sound. At first he sees only the cause of the scraping on the floor - two pairs of white, sharp heels. Extensions of long, crossed legs. He swallows, his throat dry as he dares to look up further. But the scant light doesn't allow it. 

"Do you believe you're an innocent man, Brandon?" - a low voice rings through the air, barely making a sound wave. The man hears leftovers of a whisper, which force cold sweat to run down his forehead. The only thing still sparkling hope for him is that he's in the  presence of a woman, therefore it wouldn't be hard for him to overcome her in a fight. If he could only get out of his cage, that is. 

The dim light barely illuminates her face—just the glint of her pale eye, the soft curve of her mouth, and the faint shimmer of her rings as she slowly approaches. He laughs, deciding to play it smart. 

"Do you have any evidence to prove the opposite?" - a sharp pain from behind his back, just at the beginning of his spine, makes itself clear and he groans, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. 

"Such denial... coming from a man, who's life is dripping in sin." - the rattling of her heels echoes off the stone walls. Brandon presses himself further into the corner, the illusion of dominance crumbling beneath each step she takes toward him. Finally he sees her face, and laughing overfills him yet again. The pain, however, follows quickly. 

"Miranda—" - he huffs, hands squeezing the back of his neck. - “If I could get out of this damn thing—”. 

You’d do what?” - Miranda tilts her head, almost curiously. “Try to lay your hands on another woman without permission?" - the man's mind suddenly proposes him a picture of a helpless, young woman - clearly drunk- squirming under his touch. The memory is still fresh. -  "Trade another child like they’re nothing but coin? Or maybe—go back to pretending you don’t have a daughter who inherited your eyes and none of your heart?” 

Brandon’s jaw clenches with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

"Mm, perhaps..." - Miranda clicks her tongue, fixing the top of her gorgeous dress. Her hair is now tied up, out of the way, not daring to bother her. Her makeup is gone, yet she's still striking. The soft smile she was forcing on her face all evening is now gone. Brandon knows he's wrong to seek any mercy from her, but he's still not convinced she can harm him in any way. - "But I know about the birth of a girl, five—no, six year ago..." - the man's eyes are daring to pop out of his skull. - "Your innocent daughter doesn't even know she has a father, because you chose to leave her in a poor woman's hand after a passionate night." 

"I— I send them both money." - Miranda rolls her eyes, the blue colour now replaced with shining gold. 

"Really?When was the last time your little girl jumped in excitement after her daddy bought her a dress or any type of candy?" 

Miranda stops for just a second to observe him, only to find him looking straight to the floor, face covered in even more sweat. She continues: 

"I understand you want to keep your reputation clear — after all you have a loving wife waiting for you at home." - a pause, still no reaction. - "What I can't tolerate, however, is your desire to experiment on children, orphans without a future, who you simply sell for money later, Brandon." 

"Don't act like you weren't doing the same, you hypocritical bitch!" - he finally lifts his head up, his teeth ready to chew on the metal bars of his cage. - "You agreed to work with us, even after understanding what we specifically do!" 

"I'm not a saint, Brandon, and I'm never going to be." - Miranda explains calmly, although a vein on her forehead is already twitching in irritation. - "My personal goal, however, was far different from yours." 

"As we could ever know!" - he's practically barking now. - "You never told us, just joined our ranks like a parasite. If you are as smart as you think you are, then why didn't you...help yourself alone?" 

"I did tell you." - Miranda exclaims, as if she's talking to someone with mental damage. - "I needed a vessel." 

"You psycho." - Brandon spits on the floor, eyes still daringly staring at the woman in front of him. He then grins. - "I heard you came back for her, even after they announced her as a failure." 

"Eveline is...far from perfect." - Miranda's mind drifts in thoughts about the girl, raised to be a weapon by them and a fitting vessel by Miranda. She was never normal, not until she reunited with her original mother again. - "But that doesn't mean she's less than us." 

"A failure, Miranda, a failure." - he taps the side of his forehead, just about his eye, with a pointy finger. - "Can't you get it into your pretty head? Our project failed." 

Miranda's answer is limited to a silent hum. She blinks slowly, forcing Brandon to wonder what exactly is going through her mind right now. Without explanation she moves backwards, her dress dragging behind her like a veil as she exists the room, leaving him alone. He breaths in and out, kicking the bars of his cage. It's pointless, he's feeling weak and is still in agonising pain. Then — Miranda comes back in. He spots something in her hand, an injection, filled with sticky looking, dark liquid. 

"I believe you're correct." - She begins again. - "Eveline failed to complete her tasks, but then again...we had different expectations about her, no?" - the blonde sways her way closer to him. Once fully in front of the small cage, she squats down, her mad eyes finding his. - "Unlike you, I'm still suffering the consequences." 

"Have you lost all reason?" - he twists his eyebrows, slightly concerned. - "What are you even talking about?" 

"From the very beginning I was questioned what my motives were..." - she starts to play with the injection, flipping it between her thin fingers, her rings making a sound with each hit. Brandon gets surprised it's still no broken yet. Then Miranda smiles and he believes it's the creepiest thing he has ever witnessed. - "So many theories,...meanwhile I only wanted my daughter back." - the man's face is still covered in confusion. - "Eveline was going to be the physical vessel for her subconscious. But as we both agreed - she couldn't exactly do it." - without a warning Miranda reaches inside the cage, gripping hard around one the man's wrist, her fingers incredibly strong. - "Not to worry, though, my little Eva came back to me through another vessel." - she squeezes enough to make his veins pop off, richly coloured in purple and blue. - "But there is a price, she can die again if I don't help her in time." 

"What are you—" 

"The body responds not to hope, but to belief. Illusion is enough, if it’s convincing. Yours will be the lie that saves her." - Miranda says, eyes empty and voice firm. Like a in some  kind of terrifying trance. 

"Crazy, fucking bitch!" - he hisses, pulling, or rather attempting, to pull his arm back. - "Let me go! I'll kill you I swear, I will—" 

"It's okay, Brandon." - she lines the injection with one of his vein, bringing the sharp tip dangerously close. - "Tonight, you're going to be the one helping her instead." 

.

.

.

There is a quiet melody coming from Miranda's bedroom. 

She hears it immediately after exiting the basement and sealing closed the metal door behind her. The sound is almost silent, but her clever ears catch it without effort. A thread of notes dripping through the air, forming a shapeless path for the blonde woman to follow. So follow she does. 

It starts slowly, sweet, tranquil. A familiar melody, an old memory for beloved music and a shiver down the spine, due to the clear favouritism towards the recognised symphony. Unknowingly, Miranda starts to hum along with the notes, while walking upstairs - every step bringing her closer and closer to the source, from where the classical music she just so happens to adore is coming from. Miranda has never hesitated to open her own bedroom room, however now she feels a bit unsure, concerned even. She took her time to help you change clothes and go to bed. Yet now there is this...music coming from inside and she doesn't know what to expect.

At last she opens the door. Only to find you out of bed, with messy hair and stumbling body, taking slow, uncalculated steps on the smooth floor. She narrows her eyes, nothing the way yet another shirt of hers, clearly a bit too big for you, is slipping down your shoulders as you continue to move around without a single care in the world. Miranda sigh loudly enough for you to hear, making you stop and turn to her direction - bright smile on your face and unfocused eyes finding her somewhere in the middle of their axes. You're still hardly influenced by the alcohol, if makes Miranda wonder how strong it was exactly. 

"I thought I put you to sleep already?" - She voices out, slightly higher than the music dancing around your ears. She speaks firmly, with a hint of maternal concern. The door behind her is closed before you can even realise she has ever opened it. Your only light source till now was one of the lamps, placed on the bedside table, but after Miranda turns on the bigger lamp on the ceiling you find yourself partly blinded and irritated by the burning feeling in your eyes. 

"I'm not one of your children, Miranda." - You scoff at her. You lift your arm, making a lazy movement through the air which shoots a bullet to Miranda's forehead and you grin upon seeing a familiar line of annoyance between her eyebrows. 

"Yes, my girls are much more behaved." - your eyes roll so further back they almost turn completely white. Miranda shakes her head and then changes her attention spawn to a very loud object in the room. A gramophone. She tilts her head like a curious bird and hum, clearly interested. After a closer observation of the vinyl, which is currently playing, she turns back to you, having to call out your name so your lazy eyes can fix on her again. Miranda then points at the gramophone. - "Where did you get this from, darling?" 

"Your closet, I found it there." - Your hands try to find pockets to be shoved into, but you're unlucky - only wearing an oversized shirt doesn't help you out. - "You have a lot of things...you don't use." 

"Always poking your nose somewhere, aren't you? That's why you—" - Miranda cuts herself mid-sentence so she can lift a finger up, neck snapping sharply to a side and she waits, eyes focused on the gramophone again. You're left confused and even more of top of that when she smiles and looks back at you, in a rather creepy manner. - "I love this one—'Death and the Maiden’." - she says, the words proudly dripping from her tongue. - "Schubert, In D minor." 

"Sounds romantic." - You grin,  hearing merely the name of the current melody. Although impressed by Miranda's ability to so easily identify title and composer by barely hearing a few notes, you don't have enough energy or interest to dive deeper into this world of music she seems to like so much.

Miranda exhales a faint laugh, playing with golden rings around her fingers. She looks like a girl who's about to talk about her niche interest, but is a bit embarrassed about it. “This movement...” - she begins, nodding toward the swells of the second violin as it trembled with melancholy,her lifted finger moving around like a pointer. -  “is a haunting push and pull between resignation and desire. Listen—do you hear how the cello drags beneath it all, like grief holding you by the waist while hope tries to twirl you?”

“Hmm… I mostly hear you, and how perfect you sound when you talk like that.” - you believe she has just made an even bigger mess of your head than it already is, but you can't deny how attractive she looks while explaining how... music feels to her. You can't remember when you saw her talking to openly for the last time. Perhaps while helping you with your studies. Those are her strong domains and she seems determined to be the best in them. 

“The first violin,” - Miranda continues, as if ignoring her - “is—a trembling woman." - you suppress a groan - both from not understanding what she means and being too exited to listen - "Barefoot in a marble hallway. She dances alone, but she remembers the warmth of someone else’s hands.”

You chuckle, drunk on the alcohol and on Miranda’s words. -  “Gods, you’re so hot when you get poetic. Say more.” - you have no shame in your chosen words, in fact you're extremely proud. After all the woman in front of you is practically all yours. - "I might faint." 

“And now the viola—do you feel it?” - she whispers, her palms almost shaking from excitement.- “It breathes beneath the melody." - she places her hand on her chest, her face twisting in an emotion you can't exactly  determine. -"Like a heartbeat pressed against your back when someone holds you close in silence.” 

 You can't take it anymore. With the beginning of the new song, you jump forward, wrapping your arms around Miranda's waist and pulling her close, until your abdomens are glued together, as much as your height difference allows. The needle of the gramophone roots out the first strong notes and Miranda's breath hitches, forcing you to groan - she didn't react to your hug but rather to the damn melody again. 

"Verdi's Requiem." - she softly whispers - "It’s so powerful, emotional, dramatic even—" 

"Dance with me, Miranda." - you command. 

"Dance?..." - She blinks, a bit out of this world, mind following the music. 

"You promised me." - You remind her, firmly. - "And you will dance with me." 

Your tone isn't playful. It's needy, it expresses longing. You can't bother with anymore of her commentary. Only her skin, warmth and closeness. You pull her again, tighter than before, breathing in her sweet perfume. Your bodies touch without shame, chest and hips pressing against eachother, as you move her to a side. Miranda cracks a smile before wrapping her own arms around you and starts to follow your movements, her lips parting when you press your head to her shoulder.  You try your best to move with the tempo of the music, although failing most of the time, since you're awfully off keys and still severely drunk. You're stepping into a nice rhythm, swaying like tranquil water in a lake. 

The next melody pulls you in—ornate, lush, tender at moments, then suddenly sharp, as if it might cut you mid-spin. There’s elegance in it, but also a sense of inevitability, like you're dancing not toward joy, but toward tragedy. The music doesn’t just play—it envelops. It whispers secrets behind a mask. It pulls you close, only to leave you breathless and wondering if you ever really knew who you were dancing with at all. Miranda absolutely loves it, her face expressing every bit of emotion. 

"Masquerade Suite..." - the woman  whispers dangerously close to your lips. She then straightens her back, shoulders rolling back. Her posture is a curve of perfection. - "It's waltz." - she explains, leaning to you. - "Do you know the steps?" 

"You will teach me." - as always. 

Miranda has to guide you through your steps so you can actually call your movements a proper dance. Nothing new under the sun, your beloved older lady being the best teacher at... practically everything. After a few more songs she has  completely taken the lead, dragging you with her and holding you firmly enough so you don't slip and fall to the floor. At some point you begin to feel something extremely unpleasant in your stomach - an alerting pain, but not strong enough to force you to stop. Miranda spins you while violins drip their notes in the air. You step over her feet while piano keys threaten to quicken the pace. You're out of breath after a good twenty minutes of dancing without a break to your girlfriend's favourite symphonies. And the best part is Miranda looks as beautiful as the music sounds. She's still in her perfect white dress, making her look deliciously charming, but...it also reminds you of the spent in bad company evening. After a few more spins Miranda finds herself pressed to a wall, the gramophone being quiet before changing to the next song. 

"Were you really waiting for her?" - you pant against her mouth, raised on tiptoes so you can actually reach her. Both of you are out of breath and it's definitely not the smartest move to be so close that you're breathing the same air. It takes Miranda a while to put herself together and reply with a husky voice, fingers wandering over your jawline.

"Are you angry with me?" - you weren't, but after she gave you a question instead of an answer, you definitely got mad. Miranda smirks playfully, shifting her head in order to try and steal a kiss, but you pull away, denying her. She bites her lower lip instead, chest still rising rapidly up and down. 

"Answer me, Miranda." - you dare to lift your hips upwards, pressing a knee  between her legs, gathering a bit of the white dress fabric so her thighs are perfectly exposed from the tao cuts on the sides. You lean completely into her, forcing her to gasp. But she doesn't pull away, she doesn't make you stop, she just...takes it. She's easy and you get scared she might be like this with everyone - starting with Mia and ending with all the women who may come after you. You shouldn't allow it. - "All night, you were waiting for Mia to show up, weren't you?"

Miranda exhales shakily, her fingers twitching against your waist. Her mouth parts again as if to speak, but you catch the flicker of guilt in her eyes—brief, faint, but unmistakable.

“I didn’t know if she would,” - she murmurs finally, voice low, hoarse. -  “But I kept looking… like a fool.” 

You pause, the weight of her honesty settling between you both like a heavy fog. It hits harder than any denial could’ve. Your jaw clenches.

“And yet you still let me touch you like this?” - you whisper, colder now, even as your knee presses firmer between her thighs. - “You wanted her, but you’re letting me have you?”

Miranda’s breath catches—whether from arousal or ache, you’re not sure. Her hand comes up to cup your cheek now, thumb brushing over your skin delicately, almost reverently. 

"I want you, only you." - you bare your teeth, uncertain if you should believe her truths or be scared from her lies. But you can't deny how good her touch feels. And how messy your head is getting, again. The slight pain in your stomach is also increasing, along with a headache. Just what is this woman doing to you... - "I asked you to come with me, didn't I?" 

"So you can show off, Miranda?" - you scoff - "So you can show your obedient puppet?" 

"It's not like that and you know it." - her thumb is nervously brushing over your lips. You can guess and probably be correct that she only wishes to kiss you and make you forget. While you...truly don't know what to do. So you listen to what she has to say. - "If you had refused me, I wouldn't have gone." - you're reminded of how you told her you were going to invite yourself regardless if she wants you or not. Seems like your ideologies aren't pretty far away. - "But I— apologies for yet again making you feel like something I don't see you as. You're nor a puppet or  pet, my darling." - she bites her lip again, from tension this time. - "You're mine, just as I'm...yours." 

"You can’t say things like that and still carry ghosts in your chest, Miranda.” 

“I’m not carrying ghosts,” - she breathes. - “I’m trying to bury them.”  

You groan from irritation. Your knee finally gives out, retreating from between Miranda's legs, which slightly twitch after the disappearance of the pressure. If it was a different situation, she would definitely be moaning in your neck right now. However now, both of you realise there is no place for such intimacy. Instead you press your throbbing forehead to her shoulder and breath in a large portion of shared air. You feel her hands coming up your back for comfort just in time. 

"I'm not feeling well, Miranda..." - you whisper against her heated skin. 

"Do you want to go back to bed?" - she suggests, but you shake your head, swallowing rapidly as saliva continues to gather more and more in your mouth. Your throat begins to burn relentlessly. - "I can join you if you—" 

There is no warning, no time to think about it. The alcohol from the evening is eager to get out of your system. Unfortunately for you it lands all over Miranda's dress. But she doesn't care much about it. She acts immediately. 

After a slow blink you find yourself with a head almost fully pushed in the toilet. Your view is a weirdly coloured liquid, which definitely contains more than half of your stomach acids. Your eyes are burning with tears while a string of saliva is trying to drip down from your parted lips. Was it the dancing, or your last argument...? You're not sure, you don't even have time to think about it, as another wave of burning pressure builds up your mouth. 

"That's it, my darling." - you hear Miranda's calming voice in your ringing ears. You suppose it's her who's kneeling down with you, holding your hair up so it doesn't get in the way. A trembling hand find her and she allows you to hold her tightly while still throwing up. - "Get all the toxins out, good girl." - the view reminds her of her own struggles in the night, so she tenderly adds. - "You're not alone, I'm here."  

"I'm never drinking again..." - you murmur the  third biggest lie against the stone cold surface of the the toilet bowl before going for another round of suffering the consequences of your own actions. 

.

.

.

This woman is a goddess. 

Miranda helped you again, she held you until you felt better then aided you with brushing your teeth so the bad taste could wash off. Later on she checked to make your shirt is not messy, meanwhile she changed her perfect,  though now ruined dress, into comfortable nightgown. At last she put you back in bed, the gramophone and the music long forgotten. Miranda climbed next to you, under the sheets, and both of you ended up cuddling in silence. And you felt like a loved kid, given Miranda's maternal nature. 

Miranda eyes are piercing, sharp and still. Two deep oceans threatening to drown you in thier dark, cold and blue waters. There's a heaviness in her gaze, not burdened, but weighted with meaning—thoughtful, aware, devastatingly present. You can't say she's even blinking, like a statue. Her eyes seem to see not just into you, but through you as a whole, like reading a memory she hasn’t spoken aloud yet. 

Meanwhile your  fingers trace along the curve of Miranda’s cheek, her jaw, the delicate bridge of her nose—slow, reverent, as if sculpting her from air. Your touch is light, almost trembling with care, as though you're afraid the moment might shatter if you press too hard. Your tongue twists in need to speak out loud just as your thumb begins to follow the path of her smile lines, coming close to her full lips. 

"You feel like silk." - you whisper, moving just an inch closer to her, heart barely beating - as if you're being frozen in time. 

“You only say that because you don’t realize how gentle you are." - Miranda's lips twitch into a smile, then follows their opening - allowing your fingertip to brush along her bottom lip. Her gaze, however, remains steady. - "How careful… how safe you make it feel to be touched.” 

There’s a hush between you after that, suspended in warmth and the faint scent of perfume, old wood and music still echoing in the background. Silently, weakly, just a distraction, a forgotten one since both of you decided not to pay anymore attention to the gramophone. You continue to touch, to explore. At some point Miranda grabs your wrist, only to place a path of kisses from your knuckles down your palm. As if worshipping the hands, which touch her so tenderly. Then she lets go, unbothered. Eventually you speak again, mind still dizzy, but bold enough to express emotions. 

“I like you so much, Miranda… so much it’s starting to feel unbearable." - your voice is slow, lazy. At the same moment your eyes begin to feel extremely heavy, so you murmur, barely looking at her anymore. - "You’re perfect. Do you even know what that means?” 

Miranda blinks slowly, her dark lashes sweeping down for a heartbeat before lifting again. “No one is perfect.”-  she whispers, for which she has no reason - it's only the two of you, yet the intimacy of the moment demands it. Her tone sounds a little shaken by the honesty. “But… I—" - Miranda hesitates, giving you one final glare before finding something else to observe. -" I...like you too, darling.” 

“No.” - you say, voice  barely more than a whisper, but extremely firm. - “You don’t understand." - you're now practically skin to skin to her. - "I like you so much… that I might actually love you.” 

Miranda’s breath stutters at that, her hand reaching to brush the back of your neck, fingers curling there gently, grounding herself in the weight of that confession. Her gaze searches your face again, eyes wide and oceans-deep. Yet...her stomach dares to turn upside down from pressure and anxiety. She swallows hard, before asking with an almost trembling voice. 

"Do you... really believe that, little deer?" 

"I'd rather know—if you believe in fate, Mira?" - you avoid her question immediately, not feeling your best yourself. A familiar dull pain is forming in the middle of your forehead, just beneath where Miranda has decided to now gently brush her fingers. But it's different this time, it's presence is well expressed, however the feeling is... barely noticeable. In wanders, in hesitation perhaps? Or it just wants to hear more before making a decision. 

"Fate, darling?" - Miranda hums, confusing dancing at the tip of her tongue.  

"Yes, I-" - you blink a few times, trying to keep yourself awake under her perfect for sleep putting touch. - "I don't think...we were ever meant to be together." - Miranda would prefer not to show her amusement, but her face betrays her, just for a second. Enough for you to understand she cares deeply. Even after she washes it off with a quiet laughter. 

"Now you're just hurting my feelings." - her fingers twists few loosen hairs around your face. The headache pain is still wondering what to do. 

"I mean it!" - you fail to lift your hand in order to get a hold of her chin and bring her close for a kiss. Instead you end up barely able to move a finger, as if your body is under a spell. In addition to that - your mind doesn't even acknowledge it. - "Just— think about it... since the beginning something felt off, the world was screaming at me not to come here, everything was eagerly pulling me back" - you remember the sudden storm from the day you took off for the mansion, you remember the innocent deer and it's tragic death, you remember the police taking too much of your time, you remember an old, creepy man telling you no luck will find you at such location and finally you remember Miranda and her mean nature in the beginning of your acquaintance. - "...Even you tried to warn me for my own good...but I didn't listen." 

"You never do." - Miranda adds, a bit playful. Her palm is now fully resting on top of your forehead and your eyes fall heavy with sleep after every pulsating impulse in your brain. 

"Fate was working against us..." - you murmur out, tongue almost unmoving while you do so. 

"Darling..." - Miranda starts, her hand move lower so it can close your eyes manually while she brings her lips towards you and places a soft kiss on your forehead and with that the presence of a dull headache is gone. But so is the real world. - "Why don't you just sleep already." 

"But I think— I've defeated fate itself..." - you fight this strong power just for a few more seconds, so you can finish your  important sentence. - "Just so I can be with you, Miranda." 

The woman's silence tells her more than she should now. You're completely still now, asleep, adorably curled next to her - face comfortably placed in the crook of her neck. Miranda stands mentally alone, as she makes sure your mind is calm and empty - at least for one night. And she... can't stop smiling. She tries, of course, her chin even shaking. But she cannot deny the facts - her burning chest, as if her heart is finally beating again, her heated skin and open wide in shock eyes. She presses her back to the mattress, pulling you impossibly close, and sighs.   Miranda is truly a pathetic woman. 

"So very drunk you just— can't stop triggering me, can  you?" - She whispers to nobody, who's able to actually hear. - "...my love."  

[wytchisle]

Otto Hightower and his wife, Alyrie Florent ASOIAF as historical paintings (26/∞)

Peace Concluded, 1856 John Everett Millais

[sugoroo]

ʚɞ warnings: fem!reader, obsessive behaviour, pervy geto, stalking, penetration (p in v), doggystyle, fingering, oral (f receiving), creampie, hints of yandere, 18+ minors dni.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who notices you the moment you first attend one of his classes, immediately singling you out among the small group of his regulars laying down their mats.

he's never seen someone so young and pretty in his studio before — most of his customers were married middle-aged women old enough to be his mother. but not you.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who takes a very keen interest in you from that very first session, his sharp gaze never leaving you for long each time you come in. to his dismay, however, you always take the spot right at the back of the room, meaning he has to crane his neck around all of the gossiping older ladies to get a good look at you. hmm, that won't do.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who keeps you behind one day after a class, subtly suggesting that you move closer to the front so he can 'get a clearer look' at your progress. and if you catch on to the real reason he wants you closer, you don't say anything; so he assumes you bought the excuse. perfect.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who, once you begin working right at the front, gets more and more handsy as time goes on. what began as just a light brush of his fingers to improve your positioning turns into him fully grasping your hips to manoeuvre your body the way he wants.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who isn't oblivious to the jealous looks cast in your direction from the other women when he does this. he just pays them no mind; he's not interested in them, after all. only you.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who finds himself becoming increasingly obsessed with you after each session, talking yoga instructor!gojo's ear off about how pretty you are and how utterly delicious the arch of your back is when he gets everyone to do the downward dog stretch.

his friend laughs but reminds him that it's strictly against the rules of the yoga studio to get involved with a customer (as if he cares about such trivial things like that.)

pervy yoga instructor!geto who starts insisting on you staying behind after every single class, claiming it would be good for you to have some one-on-one sessions with him to hone your skills. when you don't protest, he thinks you must either be completely clueless or into him just as much as he is you. he really hopes it's the latter.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who uses these private classes to get you to do various risqué positions for him that definitely aren't real yoga stretches. but what you don't know can't hurt you, right?

pervy yoga instructor!geto whose mood becomes sour once you stop attending his sessions. had he gone too far? did you think he was a creep? he didn't even care if you filed a report about him for his behaviour at this point — as long as it meant he got to see you at the subsequent meeting.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who only lasts a few weeks before he's rifling through the customer files in his office, yanking out your folder and scanning the page.

once he finds your address, he's in his car and on the way there, breaking every speed limit on the way. and before he even knows it, he's outside your house, peeking in through the window.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who spots you curled up on your couch, crying softly in front of the television while spooning ice cream into your pretty mouth. and suddenly, all his previous anger is replaced with concern. he hasn't even formed an excuse to explain why he's here before he's knocking on the door.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who hurriedly tells you that "it's company policy to check on customers who haven't attended sessions for a certain amount of time", mentally patting himself on the back when you seem to buy it and let him into your apartment.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who listens intently as you spill all the details about your cheating asshole of a boyfriend. so that's why you've been absent. but don't worry — he can make you forget all about that worthless scum. after all, he didn't deserve you anyway!

suguru could treat you so much better. and he will, if you let him.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who kisses your tears away, hushing you softly and whispering in your ear about how beautiful you are and how he's had his eye on you since you first entered his studio. (he leaves out the part where he's fucked his fist to the thought of you in those tight little yoga pants countless times. he doesn't want to scare you off!)

pervy yoga instructor!geto who starts by running his hands over your perfect body he's been imagining touching just like this for so long, burying his head between your soft thighs and eating you out like it's his last meal until you're all nice and gushy.

he only stops when your tears of sadness turn into those of pleasure, until you're practically begging him to fuck you.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who starts by fucking you nice and slow on your couch in missionary, praising you over and over in that silken purr of his like you deserve. but soon enough he's flipping your body around, putting you in the yoga position that you always do the best for him; downward dog, ruthlessly rutting his fat cock into you from behind like an animal.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who has to use all of his willpower to make sure you cum on his cock first before he lets go himself, despite the fact he could've busted a nut the second he eased into your warm, tight little pussy.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who watches in silent satisfaction as his goopy cum oozes out of your abused cunt, quickly fingering it right back inside to make sure not a single drop goes to waste. "it's all for you, sweet baby." he murmurs, voice raspy and deep.

pervy yoga instructor!geto who effortlessly carries your exhausted body to your bedroom bridal style, cooing in your ear the entire way about how you're his now, and he's going to take such good care of you, his favourite girl.

© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

NEXT PART -> pervy lifeguard!gojo

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Perfect Size

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: reader is described as short, name-calling, swearing, Daemon being a horny menace, soft!dom! Daemon, talk of impregnation, talk of pregnancy, pregnancy, smut

Summary: It was Daemon’s life mission to remind you of your size difference, in every aspect of your shared lives.

A/N: This is part of the wonderful @targaryen-dynasty 3K celebration, congrats by the way!!!! I had so much fun with this prompt. Enjoy everyone and enjoy the other wonderful and talented writers' fics. 3K Celebration Masterlist

My masterlist

The gods make humans in their image. They make them grow until they see them as perfect. Or so your Septa used to say whenever you were frustrated about your small stature. And it was no help that the greatest rake of the realm, Lord Flea Bottom, the Rouge Prince himself, made it his life’s mission to remind you of how small you were.

As children, you had been a bit taller than him. He had a problem with it. The need to be bigger than a stupid girl was great. His growth spurt came and he nearly towered over you, looking down at you with a smirk on his lips. “How is the weather down there?” He would often tease. “Just fine.” You would retort back. “I hope your small brain will get enough air up there. A shame if you lost more of it.” Was your sarcastic comeback.

The older the two of you got, the taller he would get and you would only grow a few inches if you even grew at all. First, he was slightly lanky. His muscles had yet to grow. He would remind you of a newborn horse whenever he would stumble over his two long feet as he trained with his sword. Often giggling to his dismay.

“I will cut your head off, and then you will be smaller!” He would shout in anger when he saw you snickering. Daemon’s temper seemed to grow with every inch he gained. You enjoyed it immensely when it would rise because of you.

As young adults, it was fairly certain that you would grow no more. If you stood behind one of the large dinner chairs you could easily hide behind them. Everything seemed to dwarf you.

Daemon prided himself in the knowledge that he was taller than you. Towering over you like the Hightower in Oldtown. And he never passed down the opportunity to remind you. “Shouldn’t you be with your nurse, little one? I think you got the wrong room. The nursery is that way.” Or other things.

You would glare at him. Often kicked his shin when no one was watching. He would yowl in pain. Jump around and hold his leg. “You little pest.” “Maybe you should get your head out of the clouds.” You teased back.

But there were the times he would call you more affectionate words associated with your small stature.

“Why the sour face, my little love?” He mumbled into your ear as he stepped out of the shadows. He had been hiding from his grandmother and her attempts to put boring and plain noblewoman under his nose.

A huff of annoyance escaped your throat. “Mother forced me to wear this ridiculous gown.” You seethed. Your teeth bared like a wolf snarling.

Daemon found your discomfort rather amusing. You looked like a pretty doll all dressed up. Your hair braided into the style of the land you came from. The gown so unmistakably the colours of your house, shining in the light of the candles.

"Oh, no - you're a lady and you have to wear pretty dresses and jewels and oh no, how horrible!" He teased you lightly. He leaned his head on top of yours. A habit he adopted quite recently. Loving the way you fit under him.

You snorted, very un-ladylike. But he was used to your characteristics. You were not one of those up-tied, boring wenches who tried to turn his head. He would rather gauge his eyes out before he gave them a second of his attention.

His attention was only worthy of one woman. And she was right literally under his nose.

He leaned down, just next to your ear. His hot breath fanned over the sensitive shell. “Do you think it would fit?” You could feel the smirk in his voice. You turned to him with a confused look on your pretty face.  It stayed that way until you felt something. You felt it, him. Hard as a rock, pocking you through the fabric of your wedding gown.

Your face grew hotter than the flames of Caraxes. Your body stiffened as you felt him softly rub against your buttocks. He only laughed lowly. His chest vibrates, sending chills up and down your spine. “You scoundrel!” You lowly scoffed. Your heart beating faster.

Not from his antics. Oh no, you were used to them by now. About the whole banquet finding out about Daemon’s little innuendo. “Oh, little love. I am your scoundrel now. It was ordered by the Queen herself.” He chuckled darkly.

She hit his shoulder lightly. “Stop it!” You tried to reprimand him. But your words fell on deaf ears. “Oh, my little love. How funny you will look with my seed growing inside you.” He began to whisper his lewd words. “You probably won’t be able to walk, so large your belly will grow.”

Your body grew hotter and hotter. It didn’t help that he had you pressed to his chest. His erection pressed against the cheeks of your perfect ass. His hands wander lazily over the front of your dress. Stopping over your belly before wandering further down.

“Oh my little love, will it even fit in your little tight hole? Or will I have to mould your little cunny so only my cock can fit inside?” Your breathing hitched at his dark, lustful words. Daemon’s predatory smile grew at your body's reaction to his scandalous words whispered so softly into your ear.

He often wondered if he was unfair to his wife. She was small, her body had nearly strained from the weight of the beautiful two children she had already given him.

He was right at their wedding feast. Her swollen stomach looked too large for her body. It hadn’t been long before the first signs of pregnancy made themselves known.

From the small bump only three moons after they conceived. He still can remember how his hands could cover it until she was seven moons pregnant. She had been ordered to rest. To not exhaust herself too much.

Daemon, looking at the image of her laying in their bed, their little one nestled in her belly. The sight did things to him. Things where his darkest desires seemed light in comparison. Oh, how he had spent his days behind her, driving himself into her tight cunt instead of sitting in a boring small council meeting. His wife and unborn child needed him, and he needed them.

“Another one?” You looked at him from where you stood. Children’s toys in your arms as you helped your daughters clean the room for the day.

Daemon just shrugged. “Why not? Add another one to our hoard. What about you girls? Do you want another sibling?” He crouched down so he was level with Alyssa and Visenya. Both girls looked away from their task to clean up the solar, screeching with joy as their father spoke to them.

“They are tots, Daemon.” You protested. Picking up more of the girls’ toys. “They will agree to anything if you say it with enough enthusiasm.” Daemon chuckled. “Oh, I think they know what I am saying, elillus (honey).” He smirks softly. His eyes roamed her body without shame.

“It has been so long.” “It has only been a few hours. You had me in the morrow.” You snapped back. Cleaning your daughters’ toys from the floor. Putting it into the chest designated for their toys. “I did not mean our coupling, prūmȳs ñuhus (my heart). I meant another child. The girls are six and four.” He mumbled gently.

She looked up at him sitting in the armchair at the edge of the carpet where the girls were playing moments ago. His violet eyes were dark as he watched her like the hunter his prey. “I don’t know, valzȳrys (husband). You heard the maester's words after Visenya’s birth.”

Daemon saw the change in demeanour. He nearly had you, only a small push. “It is your choice, ābrāzȳrys (wife). I do not want to force you.” He stood up, kissing your forehead before helping you with cleaning the toys up.

You were tossing and turning in bed. Nothing seemed right. Thoughts swirled through your head. So many voices at once.

You wanted to scream. But you would only wake up your family.

“Tell me what is keeping you from sleep, ābrāzȳrys (wife)” Daemon's gravel voice rang through the room. He sounded tired. His back turned to you.

“It’s nothing.” You whispered. “Bullshit!” Daemon groaned. Turning to face you. “It feels like I am sleeping next to a bloody sack of kittens. What is it.” He tiredly glared at her. Knowing full well what was going on.

“You’ve gotten into my head, you menace!” You growled out. Pouting at him. His usual smirk grew on his lips, a soft chuckle escaping. “Apologies for that, ābrāzȳrys (wife).“ „You are not sorry, Daemon.” His grin widened more. “You know me so well.”

A huff escaped your lips. “Why must you torment me so?” Daemon sat up on his forearm, looking down at you. Your hair was splayed out in a messy halo. A bright smile adorned his face as he saw the light, tired glare and the pout on your lips.

“Oh, little love, I vowed to be the bane of your existence since we played with the small dragon figurines our daughters’ play with now. And ever since it was announced you would be my dear lady wife I swore to torture you even more.” He softly nipped at your collarbone, his large hands coming to rest on your rips, just under your breasts.

“Let me help you with your decision-making. Let me enter your little cunny and stay there when I cum. Let my seed fill your womb once more.” His imposing frame loomed over you. Covering you like a blanket.

“What if the maester is right?” “The maesters are cunts who want to see me unhappy and you in doubt. They told you after Alyssa you could not carry another child. Two years later they said the same after Visenya.” He kissed your shoulder gently before his expressive violet eyes stared at you. “What is your body telling you?”

You bit your lip gently, A small rumble going through Daemon’s chest at your gesture. But he restrained himself. “I want another one.” You whispered gently.

A smile broke greater than before out on his lips, his dimples showing. “I will not let anything happen to you. The moment your body is resisting, I will get you moon tea or whatever is necessary.” You nodded gently.

His eyes darkened with lust. “Now before we can even discuss the pregnancy, we must make it happen.”

He lifted himself so his arms were on either side of your head. “Oh my sweet, I longed to fill up your little cunny. Seeing it overflow with my seed. Stuffing it back in.” He laughed gently as you shuddered.

With haste born of his pent-up desire, he ripped all of your clothes off your and his body. You gasped softly, scolding him for literally ripping your nightgown. “I never liked it anyway.” He mumbled against the skin between your breasts. Slowly moving down to your stomach.

He worshipped your body, caressing your thighs and hips. Squeezing the flesh around them, even gently nibbling on it.

He kissed each and every lightning-bold-like scar. Mumbling with every kiss a small thanks. These were the marks of his children. Evidence of your brave sacrifice.

He went further down. His lips ghosted over the soft locks, his eyes watching you heave out breaths of anticipation.

A loud scream ripped from your throat when you felt his tongue plunge deeply into your wet core. The eagerness of his lapping overwhelmed your senses. His nose ever so lightly brushed against your pearl. Teasing it to shoot lightning throughout your body.

You came undone. His tongue, nose and two of his digits working in tandem to torture you. And it worked. Your back arched off the bed. Loud cries of his name and pleas for him to stop accompanied your downward spiral into the abyss of your pleasure.

He stared down at you hungrily. His vibrant eyes were dark with lust. He looked every bit the dragon he ought to be. “Little rabbit.” He growled out. “Sweet, little rabbit. Trapped beneath the large dragon.”

He leaned down again. Like Caraxes would decent upon his pray, Daemon came down upon you. Devouring you once more.

He held your thighs wide open as he ploughed into you. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin rang through the room. His large hand wrapped around your delicate neck, softly pressing against it. Your breathing coming out in small pants.

“You should see yourself, little darling. My large hand is like a necklace on your throat. I can nearly wrap it around.” He chuckled darkly.

His words elicited shivers to run up and down your spine. This action causes your body to tense slightly. Daemon roared as he felt you squeeze his cock. “Seven fucking hells, woman! Do you want to kill me?!” He panted out. Driving his cock deeper inside you. The stretch is a familiar pain. But not too unpleasant. He had prepared you for him. And he would hate for you not to enjoy your coupling.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, sensual kiss. It was so different from the way his hips moved. So slow and loving. “I am not hurting you, am I, my little darling?” He whispered. You shook your head. “Nothing I am not used to from you.” He grinned, nipping at your lower lip, “That’s my good girl.” He whispered.

He picked up his pace. His hands on your thighs clawing into your skin. His knuckles are white. He groaned and grunted, looking down at you with an intense stare. Your own moans and cries mingle with his. Creating a symphony of pleasure.

He came with a roar of your name, his face buried into your neck. Panting heavily next to your ear. Your own climax is triggered by the feeling of being filled with his potent seed. Both your eyes closed in bliss.

He stayed inside you even as his member softened inside you. The grip on your thigh remains tight. Like he needed to be grounded by you.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, softly caressing his head. He hummed gently, letting you know he loved what you were doing. “Do not dare to stop.” He mumbled gently into your neck. You continued with your caress. Softly petting him like he was a dog.

He fell asleep like this. His spent cock inside you, keeping his precious seed inside you. His body acted like a blanket. Your hand in his hair.

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[thesecondhandwoman]

can you make sevika having baby fever but is just so subtle about it because she doesnt want reader to find out? bonus if you'll also write about them finally having a baby in the end

BABY FEVER

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: Ever since you and Sevika had gone to the market and saw a small little bundle of joy, a tiny child, Sevika has been experiencing baby fever, but tried to hide as much as you tried to hide the fact you were pregnant.

Request: Anon 🤍

The bustling Undercity market was alive with energy, a chorus of voices rising and falling like a symphony Sevika had learned to navigate with ease. Stalls lined the cobblestone streets, hawking wares ranging from fresh produce to mechanical trinkets that sparked faintly in the dim light. You had begged her to accompany you here, and though Sevika wasn’t one to enjoy the chaos, she couldn’t deny you anything.

As you weaved through the crowd, her larger frame provided a shield against the jostling bodies. You stopped at a fruit stall, inspecting the goods and chatting with the vendor. Sevika stood close behind, her attention elsewhere—until she heard your soft, delighted laugh.

“Look at that baby, Sev!”

She followed your gaze and saw her: a chubby, gurgling baby nestled in her mother’s arms. The child cooed, her tiny hands reaching for her mother’s hair, and Sevika’s heart stuttered in her chest.

“She’s adorable,” you said, your voice tinged with that warm tone Sevika loved so much. You turned back to the vendor, but Sevika lingered, watching the baby with an intensity she couldn’t quite explain.

The rest of the day passed like any other, but something shifted in Sevika. She couldn’t stop thinking about the baby, the way you had looked at her with such soft admiration.

The change started subtly. Sevika wasn’t the kind of woman to wear her emotions on her sleeve, but she found herself lingering in certain moments more than usual. It began with your kitten, Smoky, a mischievous ball of gray fluff you’d taken in months ago.

“Sev, you’re spoiling her,” you teased one evening as Sevika sat on the couch, Smoky sprawled across her chest. She was gently stroking the kitten’s fur, her usual gruff expression softened into something unreadable.

“She likes it,” Sevika grunted, though her voice lacked its usual edge.

You tilted your head, watching her closely. Smoky purred loudly, oblivious to the unspoken shift between you and Sevika.

Then came the way she watched you, specifically your stomach. At first, you thought you were imagining it, but the lingering glances became impossible to ignore. She’d sit at the kitchen table, her eyes following you as you moved around the room, her gaze always flicking down to your midsection.

“Everything okay?” you asked one day, catching her in the act.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, looking away. “Just zoning out.”

Her tone was casual, but the faint blush dusting her cheeks told a different story.

Sevika also started spending more time near the market, a place she typically avoided unless absolutely necessary. She claimed it was for “supplies,” but you knew better. She’d linger by the square, watching the children playing with sticks and scraps, their laughter echoing through the streets.

What Sevika didn’t know was that you had a secret of your own. For weeks, you had been debating how to tell her, nervous and excited all at once. You were only a few months along, but the thought of becoming parents had filled you with a joy you couldn’t contain.

You noticed little changes in your body, like the way your clothes fit differently, the occasional bout of nausea that left you gripping the sink. Sevika, even as observant as she was, hadn’t seemed to catch on yet.

One afternoon, as you folded laundry in the bedroom, you found yourself holding one of Sevika’s shirts, her scent faint but familiar. You pressed it to your chest, imagining her holding your child, her strong arms cradling the tiny life you’d created together.

The thought had nearly brought tears to form in your eyes, and you knew it was time.

One evening, as you sat together in your small home, you decided it was time. Sevika was at the table, sharpening her prosthetic arm with practiced ease. Smoky was curled up in her usual spot by the fireplace.

“Sevika?” you called softly.

“Hm?” She didn’t look up, but her focus wavered, the sharpening tool pausing mid-stroke.

“I have something to tell you.”

Her brow furrowed, and she set the tool down, turning her full attention to you. “What’s up?”

You took a deep breath, your hands trembling slightly as you forced the words out of your mouth, “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Sevika didn’t move. Her expression was unreadable, her dark eyes fixed on you as if trying to process your words. Then, slowly, her lips parted.

“You’re serious?” Her voice was quiet, almost disbelieving.

You nodded, a smile breaking across your face. “I found out a few weeks ago. I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

Sevika stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. She crossed the room in two long strides and pulled you into her arms, holding you tightly.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re so damn amazing.”

You laughed, tears welling in your eyes as you clung to her. “I was worried you’d be scared.”

“Scared?” She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hand resting gently on your stomach as tears began to form in her own eyes. “No. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, since that day at the market. I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“You had baby fever?” you teased, your grin widening.

“Shut up,” Sevika muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Fuck, baby, we are gonna be parents.”

Months passed in a blur of preparations and quiet excitement. Sevika was by your side through everything, her rough exterior melting away in private moments. She’d talk to your growing belly, her voice soft and full of wonder, and she never missed a single appointment.

When the day finally came, it was nothing short of chaos. The birth was long and grueling, but Sevika was there every step of the way, her strong hand gripping yours as you brought your child into the world.

“She’s beautiful,” Sevika whispered, her voice trembling as she cradled your newborn daughter in her arms. The baby yawned, her tiny fingers curling around Sevika’s prosthetic thumb, the sight nearly causing her to cry again.

You leaned against Sevika, exhausted but filled with a profound sense of love. “She looks like you.”

Sevika chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Lucky kid.”

As you both sat there, your little family finally complete, Sevika realized she had never been happier.

A/N: I’m sorry this is so short, but I absolutely loved writing this cute, fluffy request.

[alicentsgf]

“You look so much like your mother in certain lights.”

The Lady Alyrie Hightower (née Florent)

[sunfyredefender77]

“you look so much like your mother in certain lights”

[alvsanne]

You look so much like your mother in certain lights.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022 -) Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, her daughter Laena, and her granddaughter Rhaena.

[batboysanonymous]

The Hands That Hold Him

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel never let himself be taken care of. Never let himself be seen. But as her hands combed through his tangled hair, as she held him like he was something other than a blade, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could let himself belong to her.

The scent of blood clung to him.

It always did after a long night of patrol, thick and acrid, staining the air as much as it did his skin. It was the first thing Y/N noticed when she stepped into their bathing chamber, candlelight flickering softly against the damp stone walls.

The second thing she noticed was the stillness.

Azriel sat motionless in the large marble tub, his head tipped back against the porcelain edge, his wings draping lifelessly over the sides. His hands gripped the rim, knuckles white, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. The water around him had turned pink—evidence of the violence he’d walked through tonight.

Her stomach tightened.

Not his blood.

Thank the Mother.

But the tension didn’t fade entirely. Not when she could feel the weight he carried pressing against the bond between them, a storm rolling in the back of her mind, cold and frigid.

He didn’t look at her as she stepped closer.

Didn’t speak.

Just breathed. In and out. Like even that took effort.

Her heart twisted.

"Az."

His eyes flickered open. Golden brown, exhausted.

Shadows curled around him, sluggish and slow, shifting with the candlelight, unsure whether to reach for her or keep their master locked away in his own mind.

"You didn’t wake me," she murmured, lowering herself to kneel beside the tub.

"You need your rest," he said, voice rough, worn.

"So do you."

A flicker of something passed over his face. A ghost of a smirk, maybe. But it was gone before she could grasp it.

Y/N reached for the small glass bottle sitting beside the tub, uncorking it with nimble fingers. The scent of lavender and sage filled the air, a calming balm against the tension curling in her chest. She poured a few drops into the water, watching as the oils dispersed, washing over his scarred hands where they still rested on the marble edge.

His fingers twitched.

Slowly, carefully, she reached forward, dipping her hands into the warm water, letting them settle against his shoulders.

The muscle beneath her touch was taut, hard as stone.

"Always holding everything in."

She kneaded gently, her thumbs working into the knots lining his back, pressing against the strain coiled beneath his skin.

He exhaled sharply.

Her heart clenched.

"Let me take care of you," she whispered.

His jaw tightened.

But he didn’t move away.

The first time she had touched him like this, he had flinched.

Not from pain.

Not from fear.

But from something deeper. Something raw and unspoken, a wound buried so deep it had never seen the light of day.

He hadn’t known how to be held.

Not gently. Not with love.

But she had never seen him as a weapon.

And now, as her hands moved down his arms, as she wiped away the remnants of his night with slow, careful strokes, he let her touch him.

Let her see him.

Her fingers slid into his hair, massaging his scalp with slow, deliberate motions.

Azriel sighed.

The sound was quiet, barely there, but it unraveled something inside her, sent warmth spreading through her chest like sunrise over frozen ground.

She worked methodically, lathering soap into his tangled locks, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp. His wings twitched against the sides of the tub, as if his body didn’t quite know how to relax.

She pressed a kiss to his temple. "I’ve got you."

His throat bobbed.

The words settled between them, soft and certain, filling the empty spaces where shadows used to be.

"You’re warm tonight," she murmured, tracing the curve of his jaw, where faint stubble dusted his golden-brown skin.

"The water," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips curved. "No. You."

His fingers twitched against the rim of the tub.

She smoothed a strand of wet hair away from his forehead, her touch feather-light. "I like it when you let me take care of you."

A muscle in his jaw flexed. "I don’t deserve—"

"You do."

Her voice was soft, but unyielding.

Azriel swallowed hard, his eyes slipping shut. "I don’t know how to be this," he admitted, voice barely more than breath. "I don’t know how to—" He hesitated, something fragile breaking across his face. "How to let someone in."

Her chest ached.

"You already have," she whispered, brushing her lips over his temple. "I’m already here, Az."

His hands finally loosened.

Finally let go.

And as Y/N continued washing him, continued running her fingers down the strong lines of his back, kneading out the tension, Azriel leaned forward.

Pressed his forehead against her shoulder.

And for the first time in a long, long time—he let himself be held.

She climbed into the tub.

Azriel tensed.

But then she wrapped her arms around him from behind, her legs bracketing his waist, her hands flattening over his chest.

His breath hitched.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

Just let her hold him.

She pressed her lips to the back of his neck, to the ridge of his shoulder, her arms tightening around him like she could shield him from whatever haunted him tonight.

"You’re safe," she whispered, her fingers tracing absent patterns over his skin.

He exhaled sharply, his hands coming to rest over hers, covering them, pressing them closer.

And then—

So softly she almost didn’t hear it—

"Stay."

Her heart clenched.

She nuzzled into the curve of his neck, pressing another kiss there, her lips lingering, her breath fanning against his damp skin.

"Always."

Azriel’s shoulders finally sagged, the last of his tension bleeding away, his body melting against hers.

For the first time in his life, he let himself rest.

Let himself belong.

Let himself be loved.

Taglist: @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains, masbt1218, @antonia002, bookishcait, fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria

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[spider-stark]

PRECIPICE

Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary - Forced to attend a stuffy ball, you find yourself hiding beneath a table with Aegon.

Warnings - implied targcest as always

Word Count - 4.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

The delicious aroma of roast mutton is wafting over you as you pass one of the many long serving tables lining the walls of the ballroom. Your gaze drags along the vast spread that has been prepared for tonight; a variety of artisan breads, cooked meats, and candied desserts are laid out upon silver serving dishes. 

As you reach the end of the first table, a pile of lemon cakes snag your attention. Neatly stacked atop an ornate porcelain platter, the cakes are coated in a thin glaze that shimmers in the light. Your mouth instantly begins watering at the sight, your stomach growling in a way that would be deemed improper for a Lady. 

Beside you, holding a plate that has been loaded with mashed potatoes and honeyed chicken, Jace turns his head to cock a brow at you.

“Hungry?” He asks, chuckling softly. 

You suck in a deep breath before forcefully tearing your gaze from the cakes. “Extremely.” 

It takes an enormous amount of will power to turn away from the serving table while still empty-handed, but you somehow manage to do just that. Having hardly even walked a few steps, though, Jace is abandoning his plate to rush after you, softly seizing your wrist to keep you from moving any further. 

“If you’re hungry, then you should eat.” 

His concern is obvious, not only through his tone, but his expression as well. With his furrowed brow and tight-mouthed frown, you’re fairly certain that he’s already considering the consequences of dragging you back to the table and feeding you himself if need be. 

Jace had always been that way—not only with you, but with everyone. He was kind hearted and considerate to fault. 

“I would,” you smile, shaking your head slightly to dismiss his concern, “but I’m afraid that if I do, I might very well pop right on out of this ridiculously tight corset.” 

You wave an idle hand down to your waist, unnaturally cinched by the intricate lacing and boning of the garment beneath your evergreen gown. His eyes follow the motion, tracing along the intense curve, lingering for a moment too long. 

The explanation seems to wash away much of his concern, relieved to know that discomfort was the only reason you had chosen to abstain from the treats being served. Even so, a touch of empathy remains, accompanied by the faintest hint of desire gleaming in his amber gaze. 

Amber—an unusual color for a boy of Velaryon blood. His eyes were one of the many reasons that your mother, the Queen Alicent, felt so confident in labeling Princess Rhaenyra’s boys as bastards behind closed doors. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew that there was likely truth to her claims. Your nephews probably were bastards—but you didn’t particularly care. 

Jace was nice to you, and that was all that had ever mattered to you. 

He clears his throat, realizing that he had been gawking at your body for far longer than he should. “It looks uncomfortable,” the words spill out without permission, and you nearly laugh when his eyes go wide. “That didn’t come out right, nothing about it actually looks uncomfortable—it looks stunning! I mean, you look stunning! It’s just that, I don’t know, I imagine that having something squeeze you so tightly might be-” 

“Jace, it’s okay! Truly,” you interrupt his rambling with a soft giggle. “You should know that I’m not so easily offended,” you playfully chide. “Besides, you’re right. It is quite uncomfortable!” 

Actually, quite felt like an enormous understatement. But you didn’t figure that Jace was particularly interested in hearing about how your breasts were aching from being roughly shoved up by the tight garment. 

Jace looses a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Then why bother wearing them? Many noble-women go without corsets. Even my mother hardly ever wears one—she believes they’re vile things that only aid in the objectification of ladies.” 

Your brows rise, agreeing with the claims of your half-sister. But then you let your attention shift to the dais, meeting the rough stare of the reason why you had been forced into the tortuous garb—your mother. 

She’s already watching you when you meet her eye, her lip curled as she sends you a pointed look, silently urging you away from your nephew. It takes a great deal of effort not to shrink beneath the weight of her attention, and you’re beyond grateful for the group of women who shuffle past you towards the dance floor, giving you an excuse to break the hold she has on you. 

“I wear it because my mother wishes for all of her children to look their best,” you answer, shifting your focus back onto Jace. “And who am I to disappoint the Queen?” 

He notes the sudden callousness of your tone, as well as the way you clasp your hands together at your waist, fidgeting with the golden ring on your index finger. He doesn’t bother asking if you’re okay, however, knowing well enough that you were not—and already knowing why, as well. 

You imagine that Jace doesn’t much like your mother; both for her part in the rumors spread about him and his brothers and for the way she has treated his mother. 

It makes you upset in a strange way, a part of you always wishing to defend the Queen, no matter how abhorrent her actions. After all, she was your mother—whether you like it or not—and you knew very well that if someone were to try to hurt you or your siblings, then she would gladly lay her life on the line for you. 

You were thankful for her; even if her protection hurt, even if her maternal love only exists when your life is at stake.  

“Speaking of your siblings,” Jace suddenly notes, veering slightly off-subject as his own stare drifts towards the dais, “how did Aegon manage to weasel his way out of attending tonight?” 

Your brows snap together before letting your head snap back towards the dais, managing to avoid your mother’s nasty stare this time by looking to her right, taking note of each of your siblings. 

Aemond is sat directly by her side, his posture rigid as his eye scans across the room, alert and on-guard as usual. Next to him is Helaena, leisurely picking at her plate of food and mindlessly bobbing her head along to the symphony being played for court musicians. Daeron, who your mother insisted fly Tessarion here from Oldtown so that he might be present for tonight, is sat next to your empty chair, making idle chatter with those around him. 

But Aegon’s chair, sat between yours and Helaena’s, is vacant. 

A knot forms in your stomach when you look back at Aemond, his piercing violet eye catching yours, gleaming with a silent order—find our imbecile brother before he makes a fool of us all. 

You give him a curt nod before looking away, head whirling as you begin searching the crowd around you for any sign of your eldest brother. 

“Simple,” you huff, “he didn’t.” 

Jace hums his understanding as you politely excuse yourself, turning away from him to begin shoving through the throng of people filling the room. 

You decline invitations to dance and spout excuses as to why you can’t stop to chat as you push past noblemen-and-women from various Houses, trying to maintain the pleasant persona your mother favored while still moving fast enough that you might find Aegon before he finds any new ways to publicly bring shame upon the Targaryen name.  

It’s exhausting work—and by the time you have shoved yourself to the other end of the room without finding him, you nearly consider giving up. Your chest hurts and your scalp is itching from being poked and prodded by a dozen or so pins, all of which had been meticulously placed by servants to arrange plaits into a fanciful half-updo. 

In many ways, you look like your mother; with your elaborate hairstyle and green dress, the look is tied together by a pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star dangling from your neck. 

And, in many ways, you hate it. 

Much to the Queen’s dismay, you’ve never much liked the elegant styles preferred by many women at court. No, instead you spent much of your time donning mail with your hair lazily pulled back, joining Aemond for practice in the training yard. 

She hated how unrefined you were, how indelicate you were; fearful for how others at court might view you for it, for how much attention you might draw to yourself. 

You blow out a sigh, resisting the urge to pull all of the pins from your hair as you will yourself to keep walking, to keep looking for Aegon. A table overflowing with carafes of arbor wine and flagons of ale catches your attention, setting off alarm bells in your mind. 

If Aegon were going to choose anywhere to hide at this godsforsaken ball, then it would certainly be in close proximity to the alcohol. 

A cacophony of laughter and clinking goblets surrounds you as you approach, scanning over rows of bottles and skimming the faces of those nearby. Spinning your ring on your finger, you walk along the entire length of the long serving table, disappointed when you reach the end of it and find that your brother is still nowhere in sight. 

Chewing on your cheek, you fight the urge to pour yourself a drink when you notice a carafe of blackberry wine. The plum colored liquid seems to call your name, singing promises of sweet oblivion, an escape from the restless feeling clawing at your chest. 

You’re out of place here in court, and you always have been—you know that, and you worry that everyone around you knows, too. 

Sensical enough to recognize that alcohol would likely just exacerbate your current ill-feelings, you shun the carafe and turn towards the grand entrance. Lifting your chin and squaring your shoulders, you try to appear more composed than you feel as you saunter towards the large wooden doors. 

If Aegon had snuck off with one of the serving girls, then there was a good chance that he was still somewhere in the hall, either flirting or feeling up their skirts. And, if you were wrong, then at least he had provided you with an excuse to slip away from this mess of a ball. 

As you pass by the last serving table, the platters and dishes atop it already thoroughly picked over, you feel someone tug at your dress. You whirl around, a fiery retort already falling off your tongue, fully intending to rip into whoever had found the audacity to touch you without permission—only to find yourself insulting the air. 

There was no one there, at least not close enough to have touched you. 

For a heartbeat you begin to reel, wondering if you’ve started to lose your mind before feeling the sensation again. A sharp tug at the fabric, just by your knee. Your head snaps down towards your dress, covering your mouth before a gasp can slip your lips. 

An arm is peeking out from beneath one of the finely embellished tablecloths, and a well-groomed hand is clutching your skirts. You instantly recognize the hand as Aegon’s, having become intimately familiar with your brother’s touch throughout your life. 

Taking a step closer to the covered table, you try to look natural as you hunch over it slightly to get closer to his level, feigning an interest in a half-eaten roast duck. 

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing, Aegon?!” Your voice is hushed, not quite a whisper, but low enough so that no one other than him might hear. 

Releasing his hold on your skirts, Aegon lifts the tablecloth a little higher, revealing his face. “Get under here,” he tilts his head, motioning for you to join him beneath the table. 

“No!” 

He swiftly presses a finger to his lips in response to your incredulous shout, shushing you. You stiffen, nervously flicking your eyes to each side, checking to ensure that no one had heard you. Fortunately, the courtiers around you appear far too invested in their conversations and drinks to notice how you appear to have shouted at a roast duck. 

Aegon’s lilac eyes are wide, pleading as he shoves the tablecloth up higher, giving you more room to slip beneath it. “Would you just shut up and come?” 

It’s the sheer urgency of his tone that piques your interest, although you wish that it hadn’t. You huff out an annoyed sigh, taking another look around the room before gathering up your skirts and sinking to your knees, crawling underneath the table. 

Once you’ve successfully sat down beside him on the stone floor, he drops the cloth, shielding the two of you from any prying eyes. The material is thin enough that it allows some light to pass through it, very dimly illuminated Aegon’s grinning face, all urgency having suddenly vanished. 

“Welcome,” he almost sounds breathless, the word airy—and utterly unnecessary. 

You can faintly see the rosy coloring of his cheeks, a few messy silver waves tumbling across his face, and you’re immediately willing to bet that he’s extremely buzzed. “What are you doing, Aeg?” 

Your tone is firm, but there’s a certain gentleness to it that was specially reserved for your eldest brother. While you maintain that you love all three of them equally, it’s undeniable that your relationship with Aegon has always been… different. 

He reaches to his side, lifting a carafe from the ground beside him. “Having a party,” he says, raising it towards your face and playfully swirling the garnet colored liquid. 

“I’m unsure if you’re aware,” you motion towards the cloth shrouding you from the bustling ballroom, “but our mother has already planned quite the celebration for tonight—and she likely does not wish for it to be ruined by her drunkard son ducking beneath tables like an imbecile!” 

Aegon pokes his bottom lip out into a pout. “Why must you assume that I am drunk?” 

“Because you’re you,” you drone, cocking your head at him, “and you are always drunk.” 

Rolling his eyes, he sits the carafe down on the ground between you. There are only mere inches separating the two of you, both of you squeezing your limbs close to your body to avoid having a foot peek out from beneath the table. Sitting this close to him, you can smell the sweetness of the arbor red of his breath—as well as the faintest hint of sulfur, a sign that he had clearly gone riding on Sunfyre earlier and had failed at washing off the dragon’s strong scent. 

You take another breath, inhaling the smell of him into your lungs. It was familiar—comfortable, urging your taut muscles to slacken in his presence. 

“And what if I told you that I am sober right now?” 

A snort escapes you, sparing him an incredulous look. “Then I would call you a liar,” you tell him, tapping a finger against the rim of the half-empty carafe. 

His stare drops down towards it, watching as the liquid ripples when you pull your hand back. When he looks back up, he’s wearing a crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “Mostly sober, then.” 

It’s nearly impossible to stifle your laugh, clamping a hand over your mouth so that you might muffle the sound and prevent passersby from becoming suspicious. The sound only makes his smile grow wider and more genuine, an expression that he graced very few people with. 

“I’ll ask again,” you say, speaking only when you're confident that no more laughter will tumble out. “Why are you down here? If mother finds out then she will be furious and-” 

Aegon tosses his head back, cutting you off with a groan. “Mother will be furious no matter what,” 

Disdain drips from each syllable, thickening the air around you. He didn’t like talking about her much, and you couldn’t blame him for it. Of all your siblings, Aegon had been dealt the worst hand, simply by being born first. He got the brunt of your mothers vile behavior; and you hated that, too. 

“Because,” lazily rolling his neck so that he can look at you again, he answers, “I’d rather spend my night under here,” he flicks a hand up, lazily gesturing around himself, “than be forced to sit through even one more tedious speech from some ancient Lord of gods-know-where!” 

You bite your tongue, holding back another laugh. 

“And,” he continues, nodding in your direction, “I am now saving you from the same mundane fate. You’re welcome.” 

“What makes you think that I needed your saving?” You ask, brows rising. 

Aegon purses his lips, placing a finger against his chin as he feigns contemplation, studying the intricate styling of your hair, the modest long-sleeved gown, and the Star resting against your covered breasts. “Perhaps it was that our mother has you dressed up as though you’re an aspiring Septa.” 

Thinking of the plain women, with their simple gowns and traditional head coverings, you nearly laugh again as you ask, “How many Septa’s do you know that wear corsets and jewelry, brother?” 

“None,” he admits, shoulders lifting into an indolent shrug. “Though, if they looked more like you, then I might finally have a reason to attend prayer. Beautiful women would be more than enough to turn me into a pious man.” 

A warmth creeps up your neck as blood rushes to your cheeks, unsure if his statement was meant as a compliment—was he saying that he found you beautiful? If so, it shouldn’t have been a particularly shocking revelation. After all, Aegon had complimented you before, many times. 

In all fairness, however, most of those times had been when he was thoroughly besotted. He had a habit of sneaking into your rooms and practically draping himself off of you, muttering drunken nonsense about how breathtaking you were. You had never placed much truth in the statements though, assuming that Aegon likely didn’t even recognize who he was speaking to, much less whose bed he had crawled into. 

But even if this was a genuine and mostly sober attempt at complimenting you, the flattery of it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Your own insecurity washes back over you far quicker than you like, reminding you of just how unlike yourself you currently feel. 

“I do not believe that anything would be capable of turning you into a pious man,” you joke, trying and failing to cover up the melancholy that has settled into your bones. “Not even beautiful women.” 

“You could.” 

The answer comes far too quick, spilling from his tongue with an eagerness that even seems to catch him by surprise. 

“Though, I must say, for as exquisite as this dress makes you look,” his hand reaches across the short expanse dividing you, mindlessly running his fingers along the fabric covering your shoulder, “I much prefer the way look in armor—sweaty skin, messy hair, sword in-hand—all of it.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as his touch drifts towards the center of your chest, fingers dragging along the thin chain leading to your pendant, lifting the Star into his palm. He stares at it for a moment before yanking it roughly from your neck, grinning when you yelp. “But this,” he lifts the Seven-Pointed Star slightly, “I absolutely hate.” 

With that, he tosses it from underneath the table, sending it skittering across the floor beyond the tablecloth. 

Your jaw drops open, a hand pressed against the now-sore spot along the back of your neck. Despite yourself, your lips start to curve into a playful smile. You try fighting against it, try pressing them into a firm line, but fail. “Mother will not be happy about that-” 

“She’s never happy,” Aegon interjects. His own expression shifts, the line on his forehead deepening as he says, “Do not let yourself bear her misery. Life is too short—and you deserve more than that.” 

A palpable silence is thickening the air, and your breathing seems to synchronize as you simply stare at one another. 

Slowly, nervously, you say, “I’m not sure what it is that I deserve,” 

“You deserve,” he pauses, lips still parted despite the absence of speech. Then, swallowing back the words that had been building in his throat, he says, “you deserve whatever it is that you want, sister.” 

Your hand falls from your neck into your lap, and you avert your gaze, watching your fingers as they fidget with your ring. “And what if I do not know what I want?” 

Once, you had thought that you wanted a life like Jaces. A happy life, with a mother that knew how to love you and siblings that hadn’t been raised in fear of their half-sister ascending the throne, taught that their very existence was a threat to her power. But, suddenly, you felt as though you were no longer sure. 

Aegon hesitates, watching you carefully. His lilac eyes appear as though they’re searching for something within your own—a hint of recognition, or reciprocation. If he found what he was looking for, then you were unaware. “Then you’ll figure it out,” he sighs, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You have all the time in the world to decide.” 

There is something reassuring about his statement, making it resonate with you in a way that you hadn’t expected. You look up, holding his gaze for a heartbeat, then two, and you almost swear that you can see it—the silent invitation, the plea to delve deeper into his words, to decipher exactly what it was that he was promising you. 

You have all the time in the world—all the time in the world to decide if he might ever be something you want. 

Suddenly you find yourself dancing on the edge of a precipice, chest tightening as you grapple with the idea that, maybe, something more might exist between you and Aegon. 

That, maybe, he had always known who he was complimenting and what bed he was slipping into. 

That, for him, it had always been you. 

“Aegon, I-” 

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you have a chance to say something that he fears you may regret. Then, sliding the carafe between you to the side, he scoots closer. “If you plan on staying under my table,” he teases, clearing his throat, “then we need to do something about your hair.” 

“I thought you said I looked exquisite?” You stay still as he starts toying with the strands, trying to swallow the tumult of your own emotions. 

Aegon’s plucking various pins from your hair, tossing them to the ground. “Yes, but I also said that I prefer your hair when it’s messy. It’s more…” he sucks in a breath, unable to hide the admiration swelling in his chest when he finally exhales, “you.” 

Your cheeks are burning hot, and you’re suddenly very thankful for the lack of light around you. On instinct, you almost tell him how your mother wouldn’t agree—but then you think better of it. 

“You’re… generous.” 

Something about your voice sounds foreign in your ears. You sound nervous—and you’re not used to feeling nervous around Aegon. 

His fingers are combing through the plaits forming your updo, his brow drawn taut, framing his lilac eyes, shining bright with concentration. “Generous,” he snorts softly, nails raking lightly against your scalp as he shakes the strands loose, “I don’t hear that one often.” 

“Well perhaps you’d hear it more if you weren’t such an ass,” you shoot back, slowly trying to slip back into your usual self. 

“Me? An ass?” He’s untangled the final braid, scooting away from you slightly now as he presses a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “Never.” 

Now falling in loose waves, free of those incessant pins, you brush your hair over your shoulder. “Just earlier I heard you telling Lord Grover that if wisdom were measured in wrinkles that he would be named Grand Maester.” You point out, unable to mask your amusement while recalling the old man’s shocked expression. 

“Is it not true?” Aegon smirks. “The man is nearly seventy, and his age certainly shows.” 

“Lord Grover is only two-and-fifty, brother.” 

His brows shoot up, gaping at you. “Tell me that you’re not serious!” When you nod, confirming that you are, he sucks his teeth. “Wow—how unfortunate. He looks positively dreadful for his age, then. I thought that he surely had one foot in the grave by now.” 

“Aegon!” You rebuke through your own sputtered laughter, shaking your head at his insolence. “See? This is what I was talking about! If you weren’t so crude then you might get more compliments.” 

Swinging his arm back to grab for the carafe, Aegon’s nose scrunches slightly. “Why bother?” He implores, a hint of mischief in his tone. “My crudeness is what you like most about me, is it not? Without it, dear sister, your life would be quite boring.” 

Just before he brings the carafe to his lips, he inclines his head towards the tablecloth, emphasizing his words. A reminder—that, without him, you would still be out there, sitting miserably amongst your siblings and being forced to dance with Lord’s twice your age. 

There was something more beneath the veil of humor and arrogance, however. A craving that had him tipping the carafe back, hoping that the stinging of the alcohol might numb his gnawing desire for validation—to hear you say that you yes, my life would be boring without you. 

“I suppose you’re right,” the admission has him pausing, the carafe lingering against his bottom lip. “Truth be told, I had never put much thought into it before, but you do have a way of keeping life interesting, Aeg. So, I must agree that, without you, my life would be positively dreadful.” Staring at the ground in-between you, you smile before adding, “After all, who else would be able to convince me to risk our mother’s scorn and crawl beneath a table to drink wine and fix my hair?” 

There’s a slight tremor in his voice when he speaks, trying to mask the warmth swelling in his chest, “You have yet to drink a single drop.” 

“Then I suppose that is the next thing you’ll have to fix,” you say, sticking your hand out towards him, urging him to pass you the carafe. He hands it to you while biting back a grin. 

“Careful,” he warns, “drink too much and you may end up like your drunkard brother.” 

“I don't mind,” You mirror his expression, your own lips curving as you raise the glass upwards, the strong scent of the arbor red stinging your nostrils. “I quite like my drunkard brother.” 

His gaze burns against your flesh as you tilt your head back, allowing the alcohol to slip over your tongue, and you suddenly realize that you are no longer standing on the edge of that precipice. 

You’re falling.

a/n - i was honestly just thinking about jude and cardan hiding under a table in the cruel prince and ended up with this? so yeah, definitely inspired by jurdan content (but y'know... no coup d'etat lmao).

[peachdues]

KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR

WIND AND MOON • Sanemi x tsuguko!Reader

A/N: or, Sanemi nearly murders Maeda to protect Reader’s honor, featuring Reader getting to wear Sanemi’s haori.

A snippet from an upcoming chapter of Wind and Moon.

CW: MDNI • light strangulation (deserved) • implied past sexual assault against Reader (not described) • implied assault of Sanemi’s mother (not described) • protective Sanemi • soft Sanemi • ust kiss already jfc • violence

Sanemi Shinazugawa was never particularly keen on visiting the Corps’ tailor. His hatred for the bespeckled seamster was no secret among the slayers, nor was his reasoning. Most of the Corps disliked Maeda — particularly those female slayers forced to endure his unwanted attentions, who, when presented with too-small and too-short garments, saw his feigned incompetence for what it was: perversion.

Sanemi, however, was the one of the only few who’d ever called him out directly for being a lecherous asshole. And he certainly was one of the only ones who Maeda genuinely feared — enough so, that he became remarkably adept at his job whenever he heard so much as a whisper of the Wind Pillar’s presence.

And yet, Sanemi knew that their previous encounter — one that ended with Maeda pissing his pants while begging for forgiveness Sanemi had been in no position to give as the female slayer he’d groped stood nearby, red faced and humiliated — didn’t seem to have inspired the tailor to make any permanent changes to his deviant habits.

So no, Sanemi was already not in the best of moods as he stalked through the hallways of the Butterfly Mansion, in search of the fitting rooms where Kocho had informed him Maeda would be fitting his new tsuguko — you — for your final uniform.

He was wryly optimistic that the lecherous tailor wouldn’t try anything knowing who you were and of your proximity to him. But still, Sanemi didn’t like that he’d left you alone with Maeda for any period of time, and he was eager to get you suited up so the two of you could return to training.

Training. Sanemi had been warned that your breathing techniques, though powerful, were about as stable as a barrel of gun powder near a lit match. He would need to prioritize your precision, your control, before moving onto anything to do with your actual movements and fighting abilities.

He scowled. It would be a long day, he knew. You had an attitude and a smart mouth he was fairly sure couldn’t be beaten out of you, and grudgingly, he thought he might have to just endure it. You’d probably spend most of your time bitching; of that he was certain. But unluckily for you, you’d been assigned to the Hashira with the least amount of sympathy when it came to training; one whose disdain for complaining was rivaled only by Iguro’s.

At least he only worked his trainees to the point of vomiting or passing out; Iguro tortured the poor bastards, and he relished doing so.

And so, Sanemi began mentally tallying up the various exercises and tasks the two of you would undertake as he rounded the last corner leading to the fitting rooms. He would start with breathing techniques, he decided as he reached for the doorknob. Breathing techniques, and then physical exercises — pushups, planks, perhaps even over a bed of tacks for motivation, and then —

All of the Wind Pillar’s internal planning ground to a halt the moment he swung the door to the dressing room open. In an instant, all thoughts of endurance and strength-enhancing regiments dissolved as Sanemi’s vision turned crimson at what lay before him.

His tsuguko; and though you’d proven yourself more than capable of testing his patience, for once, it wasn’t your smart mouth that was making him see red.

It was the sight of you, standing up on a small pedestal before a great mirror, clothed in scraps of fabric that could hardly be called a uniform as the Corp’s perverted tailor circled you like a vulture does a piece of felled prey.

He didn’t need to look at you for long before his vision tunneled in on the seamster startling back from you as though burned, his eyes wide with fear as he stared at the reddening face of the Wind Hashira behind you.

Because Sanemi didn’t have to linger; he’d seen enough to know.

Your skirt hung a solid inch shorter than even the Love Hashira’s, its hem barely extending past the tops of your thighs. Your shirt was easily two or three sizes too small, preventing you from fastening anything but the bottom two buttons.

But it wasn’t the egregiously little coverage of your uniform that loosened the lid he tried to keep on his rage. It was your face. Though your back was facing him, he could see every inch of you — exposed as you were — reflected in that great mirror.

There was a rigidity in your limbs that Sanemi clocked instantly as paralysis; and the empty, haunted look in your eyes as they fixed wide and unseeing at some distant point on the floor coupled with the way you’d hadn’t so much as flinched when the door flung open signaled to him that you were not truly present in that room at all.

You were back at your family’s estate, blood-soaked and half-dead as you were forced to endure whatever it was those bandits had take upon themselves to do.

And Sanemi disappeared from the room right along with you. In that moment, he instead saw the countless other female slayers forced to endure Maeda’s greedy, wandering fingers over the years as they stood exposed under his beady little eyes.

He saw his mother turning rigid under his father’s too heavy, too rough hands as he dragged them down her body. Ma, who would force her mouth into that distant, practiced smile she always maintained in front of her children who were too young to understand why Kyogo dragged her by arm out the back of their home as he barked at them to stay inside until she returned.

He saw you; broken and bleeding in the snow, your clothes askew, unable to be left alone even in death; used.

Red. Red. Sanemi could only see red as his feet carried him across the floor.

“M-Master Shinazugawa!” Maeda squeaked as he began trembling; loud enoufh for his voice to carry down the hall, a futile effort to alert any nearby Corps members of the rage burning in Sanemi’s eyes as the latter advanced on him. “How w-wonderful it is to see you a-gain —!”

With nothing but a faint buzzing in his ears and an anger-numbed mind, Sanemi’s hand snatched the tailor around his throat before he could think the better of it.

“I thought I made myself pretty damn clear the last time I saw your ugly mug of the need for you to keep those filthy fuckin’ hands to yourself.”

Sanemi’s voice was a barely more than a growl, low and dangerous and vicious. “And I thought I told you what would happen if I caught you makin’ a mockery out of our uniform again.”

The seamster’s cheeks were rapidly turning purple as Maeda sputtered. But Sanemi only tightened his hold around the tailor’s throat, lifting him from the ground until his toes only scraped along the floorboards.

“Y’know, I’ve had to hold my tongue for far too fuckin’ long about you.” Sanemi cocked his head in consideration. A slow, wolfish smile stretched across his mouth, all sharp teeth and a vicious promise that he could and would rip out his throat. “But you’ve got some balls for someone who’s too much of a rutting coward to fight the demons we give our lives to exterminate.”

A crowd of curious and horrified junior slayers had gathered out in the hall, nervously watching as the Wind Pillar threatened to squeeze the life out of the Corp’s sole tailor.

Behind them, you remained frozen on the pedestal, though your eyes had shifted away from the floor, focusing instead on him.

Sanemi wrenched the tailor closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose, his fingers digging harshly into the soft, fleshy portion of the tailor’s neck. “And you dare make a mockery out of our uniform? You think I’m okay that you’re putting female slayers at risk by not giving them proper protection? What sort of person does that to their comrades?”

Sanemi’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. “You’re not even fuckin’ human. You’re no better than a god damn demon.”

The muscles in the Wind Pillar’s forearm rippled as his fingers crushed around Maeda’s throat. “And we’re required to put demons outta their fuckin’ misery. So, whaddya think that means for you, shitstain?”

There was a distinct wet dripping against the floorboards as Sanemi remained there, Maeda suspended before him.

Sanemi didn’t need to look down to know what it was; its scent alone was enough of a give away.

Urine.

That feral grin of his only widened. Good, Sanemi thought savagely. The bastard should fear for his life. And who gave a shit, really, if he took out the creep right then and there. It didn’t matter that he was the only tailor in their ranks capable of manufacturing their uniforms with speed and precision. Sanemi would trade his sword in for a needle, if it meant wiping away the stain that was Maeda.

But Sanemi’s wild, murderous rage was tempered by the sudden arrival of the Insect Pillar, who had appeared in the room in a blink of an eye, her small hand wrapped harshly around Sanemi’s wrist.

Her voice was hard and severe as she ordered, “Shinazugawa, stop!”

Sanemi only snarled in response, his hand squeezing tighter and tighter. Just a little more pressure and it would be over, Maeda would never harm another woman again —

Kocho wrenched on his arm once more. While her strength wasn’t enough to force his grip to relax, it did jostle Sanemi enough that he looked away, just long enough to catch the pair of eyes that watched him closely in the mirror.

Your eyes.

Sanemi found himself unable to look away as the two of you stared at one another in the mirror’s reflection. And though that haunted look remained, there was a newfound tightness in your gaze.

Pain, he recognized. There was pain in your eyes, too. And suddenly, Sanemi became all too aware of the fact you were still exposed, only now in front of a greater number of your comrades than before.

Sanemi held your eyes for one more moment before his hand opened around Maeda’s throat.

“Pissed himself like a little bitch.” He sneered, dropping the lecherous tailor to the ground where he crumbled like a napkin.

Maeda sputtered and heaved on the floor, color rapidly returning to his face as he gasped for breath.

Sanemi only looked after him with disgust.

The Butterfly Mansion’s mistress turned sharply toward the entryway. “Away.” She ordered before she turned back. But the instant the word left her lips, the gaggle of junior Corps members who had congregated in the hallway dispersed.

Sanemi cut his eyes to the Insect Hashira and saw a cold rage simmering in her eyes. Eyes that were not looking at him, but were instead glued to the sniveling mass on the floor, whimpering into a puddle of his own urine.

“P-please, forgive me, Master Shinazugawa! I must have packed the wrong uniform — I will sew a n-new one right away —“

“Save it,” Sanemi spat. “And get the fuck outta my sight.”

Though he wanted add in a kick for good measure, Sanemi held back. He was likely in deep enough shit as it was, once word reached the Master about what he’d done. He knew better than to continue testing the Corps’ limits.

Kocho inclined her head back toward the Wind Pillar. “I will see to it that a new uniform is prepared for her immediately.”

She made to step primly over Maeda’s shuddering form, but halted.

Kocho crouched down, low. “I think we both know that you’re better off keeping this to yourself and never mentioning it again, hm?”

Maeda turned his reddened face up toward the Insect Pillar and shrank under her withering glare.

Kocho’s answering smile was nothing but poisoned honey as she dropped her eyes to the wet stain that soaked the front of Maeda’s trousers. “If you wish to hold onto what’s precious to you, that is.”

She narrowed her eyes coldly, as though squinting for something, before she rose with a faint scoff, her threat hanging over Maeda like a cloud.

The Insect Hashira turned back to Sanemi. “I trust you will see yourselves out?”

Sanemi felt a rush of gratitude toward his comrade — likely only one of two among the Pillars who wouldn’t rat him out to the Master — and curtly nodded his head.

Kocho only gave him her usual, practiced smile. “Until next time, then.”

With that, the mistress of the Butterfly Estate departed. The moment the edge of her haori flapped around the corner of the doorway, Sanemi dropped his attention down to Maeda.

“Fuck off.”

The tailor made not a peep as he scrambled to his feet and he left the dressing room without a word.

——

Finally left alone, Sanemi turned to you.

“Y/N.”

You blinked, surprised. He’d addressed you by your first name — something that, until this moment, you’d been fairly sure he hadn’t known.

You made some noise in response, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, exposed as you are.

Shinazugawa didn’t seem to mind. “Let’s go.”

While you were just as eager to get the hell out of the dressing room and away from the Butterfly Mansion, you remained rooted in place upon that platform.

Not a moment had passed since Maeda had first unveiled your new attire that you hadn’t been acutely aware of your own exposure.

You gulped and cast your eyes around the room. You found the neat pile of the clothes you’d worn for the trip here folded in the corner of the dressing area. While Shinazugawa had made a point to keep his eyes on everything but you, you couldn’t fathom having to wear the scrap of a uniform you’d been given for the entire journey back to his estate.

But nor did you want to change again; you couldn’t, not when that would require you to be left alone, a possibility that seemed nearly as daunting as having to brave the trek home in little more than a loincloth.

You agonized over your options, especially as you felt Shinazugawa’s impatience mount. You shifted anxiously from foot to foot, arms wrapped tightly around your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your breasts concealed as you struggled to make the words — any words, really, dislodge from where they’d become stuck in your throat.

Annoyed by your lack of inaction, Shinazugawa looked back into the mirror. In its reflection, you saw him open his mouth, ready to snap at you, but the moment his eyes connected with yours, it closed.

An understanding passed between you right then, as heavy the silence that hung between you.

Shinazugawa considered you for a moment before his hands went to the front folds of his haori. A strange shyness fell over you while he shrugged out of it, causing you to drop your gaze as he rounded the pedestal, haori in hand.

He shoved the ball of white fabric at you, though he kept his gaze fixed pointedly at the ground. “Here. Use this to cover up.”

Timidly, you plucked the Wind Pillar’s haori from his outstretched hand and quickly turned away.

Though it sat cropped on him, the hem of Shinazugawa’s haori extended past the laughably short one of your skirt, providing your backside with a bearable degree of coverage.

It was warm; and to your surprise, it smelled nice, a familiar, grassy sweetness washing over you as you pushed your arm through one of the holes.

Shinazugawa had turned his back to you, his hands notched firmly on his hips as he waited. You tested the reach of his haori, relieved to find that you could wrap it around your front and hold it easily in place by folding your arms across your chest.

You glanced at your reflection in the mirror. The white fabric reached a good three inches down your thighs, all vulnerable areas sufficiently covered.

It would do, you decided. At least until you returned to the Wind Pillar’s estate.

“I’m ready.” You said softly after a moment. Shinazugawa only looked back at you and nodded, before the two of you quietly made your way through and out the Butterfly Estate, setting down the path that led home.

Neither of you spoke for the entire journey. Instead, you were left to stare at the broad expanse Shinazugawa’s back.

The Wind Pillar wore a slightly modified version of the Corps’ uniform, you realized. His top was sleeveless and without the presence of his haori, you saw that his biceps and shoulders were just as solid and well-defined as the rest of him.

No wonder he’d been able to lift Maeda so easily from the ground; Shinazugawa’s biceps were huge. Though, you noted with some mild interest, the skin of his arms was just as scar-specked as the rest of him.

Idly, you wondered whether the scars dotting his face and body were products of his years with the Corps — a tapestry of battles hard-won, or whether they, like yours, were part of a past he wished he could forget.

You arrived back at the Wind Pillar’s estate shortly before sunset. The moment he set foot inside the gate surrounding his manor, Shinazugawa turns to you and holds up a hand.

“Wait here.”

Without another word, he disappears inside of his manor, leaving you alone in the courtyard, slightly bemused.

The Wind Pillar returned a few moments later, a familiar, dark green fabric draped over his hand.

“Here,” he held out the material to you. “Still had one from when I was a Mizunoto. Might not fit you properly, but it’s better than nothin’.”

You accept his offering and then it over in your hands, eyes running over the crisp white destroy sewn into the back. Below the shirt is a pair of pants, in the same, dark-green tinted hue as the shirt.

“I know it doesn’t mean much,” Shinazugawa’s voice was gruff as he spoke. Curious, you lifted your eyes to find him rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “But if I’d’ve known what he was gonna pull —“

You shook your head. “Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Truthfully, you didn’t want his apologies. To apologize meant there’d been an expectation, and expectation meant there’d been some trust he’d broken. While he may have been your master — while he may have been the one whose face you could not forget from that day — nothing about either of those things meant he owed you anything.

Shinazugawa looked like he was going to argue, but he closed his mouth and turned away.

Good, you thought. At least he knew to pick his battles.

“We’ll start training once you get your uniform in.” He said after a moment, turning away to retreat into his estate. “Get settled here and once it arrives, we’ll start.”

You nod, your fingers clenching tightly around the front folds of his haori. Though you know you’re safe out here, that Shinazugawa has no interest in overstepping any of your boundaries, you still feel too exposed.

More than anything, you want to retreat to your small room at the back wing of his manor, and disappear under your covers.

The Wind Pillar seems to know, for he only gives you a curt nod, before he turns back to the great, sprawling Estate, and takes the entry stairs up two at a time.

You wait a moment before following. You’ll have to figure out how to return him his haori, you realize. Perhaps you’ll drop it off at his room later in the night, when he’s likely to be asleep, or maybe you’ll wait until breakfast —

“Y/N.”

Your foot halted mid-air as you lifted your head to him, waiting.

Shinazugawa lingered on his engawa, though he kept his back to you.

“I won’t leave you alone with another man again. That’s a promise.”

You wanted to snap at him that he shouldn’t do this — he shouldn’t create obligations that he couldn’t or wouldn’t keep. That was the only way this transaction between the two of you would work; Shinazugawa would train you and once you’d gathered enough of a grip over your own abilities, you’d fuck out of his life and pursue your own, greater ambitions.

That’s what you should say, and yet, his words strike at something soft in you. Reminds you, once again that for whatever reason, he is someone you can rely upon; someone you can trust.

The exception.

And it’s because of that, you only respond, “Thank you.”

[therosebookshop]

A Mate’s Special Touch

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Contains/Warnings: tiny bit of angst (his wings being gone, we all know he would’ve had them), clingy Xiao (self indulgent sue me), mentions of bird habits and mating

A/N: Saw a yt short about the difference between petting vs stroking ur birds and the meaning and I was suddenly inspired

Song this is named for: None

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

He didn’t let people get close to him. It was more a fear of contaminating them with his karmic debt then being antisocial, and that was what he told people such as the Traveler. It was the truth mostly, so he didn’t care.

But when you came around and you, like those other rare people, squeezed in through the barriers around his heart, he wouldn’t let anybody but you touch him. In fact, he tried to seek it out and ask for it in his own ways- light brushes of skin on skin, leaning against you, holding you a bit tighter when you wanted a hug. There was something special about your touch and he loved it. Craved it, even, after oh-so long of no touch, hardly any contact.

Anytime anybody- and he meant anybody- but you tried to touch him, even the Traveler, he would puff up like a bird and glare at them. He may not have had wings to puff up for intimidation anymore, but he sure tried. Even the slightest brush made him grumble indignantly and want to scrub his skin, but he wanted you to touch him, to stroke his hair or his back.

You could feel, under his clothes, hidden carefully, the stubs of wings. The broken bone, the still tender skin. He wishes he still has his wings to tuck you into. He knows you would’ve loved them, would’ve helped to preen his feathers into place, would’ve cuddled into them. But they’re gone now, taken from him cruelly.

You still love him despite the scars, the marks, the imperfections. And he adores you for it. He leaves you gifts, anything he thinks you’ll like, on the railing of your room balcony. Sometimes you’ll find him perched there at nighttime. He likes it more than the balcony most people look for him on, because you’ve decorated even the balcony.

When you speak even the first two letters of his name he’s there, already tucked under your arm. Your touch is like a soothing balm on his corrupted soul. Some nights he’s so worried about his karmic debt hurting you, especially with how much skin-on-skin contact you have with him. For hours he’ll struggle to keep himself away from you, from your touch and your cuddles.

But he eventually succumbs to the want to cuddle up and be content like a bird tucked under their mother’s wing. You stroke his hair, he likes that more then when you pet him like an animal- he tends to bare his little fangs at you when you do that, but he learned the hard way not to do that when you giggles about his ‘little teefies’ for several minutes.

And you don’t learn about this until you get a book about birds to learn more about his bird like tendencies, but birds only let their mates stroke them like that. Pets are platonic, but certain birds only let their mate stroke them all over. And then it clicks- the gifts, the baring of fangs when you tried to pat his head once, the happy little cooing noises when you run your hands over his back or sides, the clinginess. And when you take into account whenever even the Traveler or Mr Zhongli tries to touch him he’ll puff up and bare his fangs, but he’s always fine with your touch, it makes sense.

And now that you know what it means it’s utterly adorable. How could you not be charmed by that? That he only wants your touch? You love him even more, doting on him with kisses and more touches and making him almond tofu whenever. It’s never really official when you start dating, but the sudden appearance of lots and lots of bites and nibbles on your neck and the altogether too pleased look on Xiao’s normally emotionless face is enough for most of the people working at the inn to put two and two together.

[daycourtofficial]

Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part three

Pairing: Eris x reader x Azriel | WC: 3.3k | warnings: general angst, some violence

Summary: after a week of avoiding talking to him, Azriel invites you out for a meeting that only leaves you with a more urgent sense of jealousy

Author’s note: happy new year’s eve!! I know it hasn’t been too long since the last part, but I wanted to spread some holiday joy! This year has been awful but my time online and the friends I’ve met through here have been so lovely and kind and you guys have gotten me through a lot do here’s some pain!

Last part | Next part | Masterlist

Your conversation with Nesta left you reeling, some deep part of you rattled at her words. A deep loneliness settled in you after she left, a swirling storm of anger and jealousy threatening to fester into a hurricane out on the balcony.

‘He’s a challenge on his best days.’

Why had the Mother given her most loyal follower a mate who was so difficult? Weren’t mates supposed to be a blessing?

Rhys and Feyre, Nesta and Cassian - they all had their own fair share of turbulence. You remembered the stories from Mor about Feyre throwing her shoes at Rhysand, or Nesta’s seemingly complete apathy around Cassian.

The journals left you confused, both smitten and giddy and a deep questioning of should it be this hard? Azriel and Eris had already seen the worst of each other and still chose and defended their bond. Would the same be said of you if Azriel saw your faults? Or would one flawed mate be enough for him?

Would another fae be able to look past your status as a second choice? Would you be able to even look at other fae if Azriel rejected you?

It had only been a few weeks since the bond had snapped for you, but in that time you didn’t notice other fae. They were just background characters, no one in particular ever catching your notice.

Except Eris. That was nothing though - merely Azriel’s feelings about him swirling within you.

None of it made any sense, your body subconsciously leaving the balcony and moving to find Azriel, repeating to yourself that an answer laid in one of his journals. You stopped by your room to gather the journal before following the bond to find the shadowsinger alone in the library. He looked incredible - his large wings stretched out over the black leather, the definition of his body evident through his loose fitting clothes. He was hunched over a small table, flipping through a book and jotting things down on the paper next to him. All your time spent reading this past week made his handwriting a familiar sight.

“Hi Az.” You stopped before him, presenting him with your most recently finished journal. This one had contained much the same - fighting between Eris and Azriel, occasional snippets about Cassian and his drunken antics. It seemed Eris and Azriel were in a constant cycle of never getting too close, one or the other always finding some fault to keep their distance.

He accepted it wordlessly, the replacement journal ready in his lap. How you hadn’t noticed it says more about the focus of your attention than you would like.

“Expecting me?”

“You usually find me around this time.” He huffed, the slight smile on his face enough to know he’s being light hearted. You took the new journal, about to turn on your heel when you spotted the empty chair next to Azriel. You waited a moment, turning back to find him still looking at you. Your chest felt tight with vulnerability, looking back to the empty chair, something inside of you begging to sit in his presence.

It felt like a good sign finding him in the open. You usually found him in his room, his door closed in front of you once the exchange was made. But now he sat on display, his own work spread out before him. You weren’t certain you had ever seen him work so openly.

You took the sign as an invitation, sitting in a chair opposite him, the spine a harsh crack in the silent room. He did nothing more than watch, hazel eyes tracking the delicacy and respect you showed to the journal before looking back to his own notes.

It was silent save for the turning of pages and his scrawling. It felt so warm being in his presence, sharing this time with him. It was so easy to get lost in it that the next time you looked up you realized he had pulled out a fresh journal, scribbling away in it. It was a cleaner version of the one you spent every night hunched over, staying up until the last word was comprehensible to your sleep-addled brain.

“Have you ever done that in front of someone before?” You croaked the words out, throat dry from your lack of water in hours, too afraid if you got up, your return would show an empty room.

“No, I haven’t.” His scrawl hadn’t stopped, and you straightened up, trying to catch a glance of what he was writing, if your name made an appearance. Shadows swirled at the top of his journal, obscuring your vision. You looked at the shadow, a cross expression trying to threaten them. They only seemed to dance more rapidly, in agitation or preening beneath your gaze, you weren’t sure.

“None of that.”

You sank back deflated, surprised you were caught. Picking up the journal once more, you flicked to the page you had left off at, settling back in.

“You’ll see this one soon enough.” The book snapped shut at his words as you readjusted to sit back up.

“I will?” Azriel only nodded, finally looking up at you instead of the pages of his journal. His eyes darted around the room before a shadow curled around his ear. Whatever the shadow told him, he relaxed a little, his posture easing into his seated position.

“I gave them to you to understand Eris and I’s relationship. But I think it’s impossible to figure out this situation without getting completely up to date.”

You nearly salivated at the thought of Azriel’s present journals. To know what he’s thought about you this whole time, in his own words, even without knowing about the bond? Priceless.

He had said he had been interested in you, drawn to you.

Azriel smiled, a soft pulsing of the thread around your heart. Tonight had been a step forward - you didn’t want to push your luck and find out if he was pulling the cord tight in reassurance or suffocation. You kept the question to yourself, nestling into the chair and the comfort of Azriel’s scent.

-

Mindless chatter moved across the breakfast table, your eyes constantly flickering to Azriel. It was impossible to keep them off of him, his emotions roiling in your chest kept you up half the night once you had retired from the library. You had been avoiding him for a week now, and the hours spent in his company reminded you of just how nice it was to linger in his presence.

This past week had been an anomaly, one you weren’t certain your friends had noticed or not. Azriel was usually a source of company at some point during your day - a meal, transportation, or just someone to go out walking Velaris with you.

If this past week showed you anything, it was how ingrained into your daily life Azriel had become.

You looked at him again, your eyes lingering on the lack of sleep beneath his eyes. He was tired. You couldn’t pinpoint it exactly- it wasn’t in his face or in his movements. Was it the bond? Was it your late night insomnia that kept him up?

Could mating bonds do that?

“Azriel, what time are you leaving?” Rhys’s question brought you from your focused gaze, waiting to hear Azriel’s response. So focused on Azriel, you hadn’t bothered pretending to even eat or notice Cassian’s glances to his own mate.

“I’m leaving in the afternoon.” Azriel’s head turned to you, his hazel eyes capturing yours in a gaze you couldn’t look away from. Where was he going? You had been so wrapped up in your thoughts you had missed the beginning of the discussion.

“I think it would be better if you came with me.” The table had turned quiet, the clattering of cutlery pausing for just a moment, all eyes slowly directed your way, waiting for your response.

So they’ve noticed this weirdness between you two.

“Are you sure, Az?” Azriel didn’t look away from you at Rhysand’s question, merely waiting for your response. Something in you was drawn to his gaze, wanting to linger in it for the rest of your days. His eyes held such softness, a look he reserved just for you.

And his other mate. The bitter thought made you grimace. Azriel and Eris had something real, something tangible that they fought for every single day.

But surely the moments in the library were also real. Not as intense or passionate, but full of a warmth you had hardly experienced before, a domesticity many would dream about.

“Yes, I will. Where are we going?”

Azriel was quick to answer, one of his shadows nearly muffling Rhysand’s voice so Azriel could be the one to respond.

“I have a meeting with Eris.” You were too focused on Azriel’s face to notice Nesta’s eyes widen imperceptibly on the other side of the table.

-

Your fingers tapped against your thigh, an anxiety coursing through you at the thought of seeing Eris again. He was something - a sharp face, even sharper tongue, decadently dressed. You hated to admit it, but you could understand why the Mother had mated him to Azriel - the two were quite possibly the most gorgeous fae in all of Prythian.

You had stayed up late again pouring over Azriel’s journals. Each notebook left you more and more territorial over him, romance pouring through every page. It was so different from the books Nesta read - the fictitious couple having grandiose gestures, no depiction of how the day to day worked.

But Azriel’s notebook was filled with longing for Eris. Recaps of long conversations they have had, almost word for word detailings of what they spoke about.

They had been together for a little over a century by now. They both fought it - Azriel all but withdrew from his family, avoiding them for over a year while he figured it out.

It took nearly a decade for them to come to terms with it - one of them never quite ready to dive in, both playing the hesitant role at different points.

It seemed one day Eris just snapped. Tired of talking in circles and exhausting every avenue, he went for it. He kissed Azriel and it spiraled from there, consummating the bond. It was a romantic tale of longing and distance and overcoming any and all odds for each other.

A story you had no business playing a part in.

Azriel pulled you from your thoughts, reaching out a hand to winnow the pair of you away. You took it, remembering all too well the last time you were gathered in his arms.

You both rematerialized in a densely packed forest, the trees so close together it was difficult to move between. You steadied yourself against Azriel, hands pressed to his broad chest. Winnowing yourself anywhere wasn’t an issue, but someone else winnowing you left you unmoored, your feet unable to find solid ground for a few seconds. The bond tightened around your heart, the beat of it speeding up at the contact.

“Come to gloat?” Your head whipped towards Eris as you yanked your hands from Azriel’s chest. You didn’t notice Azriel bringing his hands back up, reaching for you, trying to keep you close.

But Eris did. He schooled his features, looking toward Azriel with hardened eyes.

“No, I brought her so we can figure this out.”

Eris scoffed, the sound loud enough to be heard over the bird song high above the group. He stomped forward in a direct path towards Azriel, a trail of smoke in his wake.

His long red hair flowed behind him as he moved, reflecting the light of the sun so beautifully the homes of the Autumn Court could be full of portraits of the male before you and his beauty would still surprise. Your heart hammered in your chest, unable to look away from him.

“I’m sure that’s exactly what you’ve been up to this past week. Trying to figure this out with her, shutting off your bond to me.” The last words came out as a whisper, the underlying accusation one Eris couldn’t bear to say. He looked almost hurt as he said it.

“Er-“ Eris cut Azriel off, pushing his back into a tree, his hands curling into the leathers. Your feet followed the action, a hot sense of protectiveness overcoming you.

“No, Azriel. You don’t get to play house with her and show up here with her.”

“She can hear you, ya know.” You pushed Eris off of Azriel, the male staggering back in shock at your actions.

“How sweet. What a waste of my time to be here if you’re going to tell me you’ve finally picked someone else when you’ve had a century to do so.”

Azriel reached out for Eris, his grip tight around Eris’s forearm. Eris tried to push Azriel away from him, but his hand remained around Eris. He pulled the redhead closer, his thumb slowly stroking over his mate’s skin. It felt so intimate you wanted to look away.

“Eris, I am not picking her. I am trying to figure this out.” Azriel’s words stung, no matter how pragmatic they were. A teeny, tiny part of you wanted to blurt out to Eris about the journals, certain it would send the Autumn male out of your life for good. The action stayed in your mind at the betrayal Azriel would feel.

Some part of you knew something so hurtful would end in Azriel having no mates.

“‘Figure this out’? What is there to figure out? Which one of us you would pick?”

“No!” Azriel’s rebuttal was frantic, his lack of sleep more prominent now in the sunlight. It didn’t stop the sun from highlighting how gorgeous his brown skin was, though. “Can’t you think past your own self for five minutes and realize my soul, my entire being is connected to the both of you?”

The words did something to Eris, causing him to finally look at you. You couldn’t help the heat rushing to your cheeks beneath his gaze, a small part of you hoping he finds something interesting. You straightened, taking the time to look over him as well. It was nearly unfair how good he looked in his riding clothes. His shirt opened just enough to see his collarbone and the top of his sternum, his pale chest decorated with freckles. His loose, billowy shirt tucked into some well fitting trousers, thighs nearly ripping the fabric.

He wasn’t as big as Azriel - a bit shorter and not nearly as broad, but he was lean and strong, and you were certain they both threw each other around the bedroom with ease.

“I suppose severing this bond would mean lifelong consequences for you.” Eris spoke to Azriel, but kept his gaze on you as he walked toward you. Heat crept up your body the closer he got, each step raising the temperature by ten degrees. It was nearly unbearable by the time he stood in front of you, so close you had to look up at him.

Eris’s anger made him more beautiful - the sharpness of his face poised and ready for attack, the red shades of anger perfectly matching his skin and hair.

Heat coursed around your neck, the flames dancing across your skin. You were enraptured with Eris, this moment only for the two of you. You could hear Azriel start to object, but paid him no notice, your full attention on Eris.

“I could end it all now, remove the most painful thorn in my side you’ve been.”

You smiled up at him, overcome with a new feeling of competition. The flames around your neck tightened, but you kept on, stepping infinitesimally closer to Eris.

“If my mere existence is a pain to you now, just wait until I’ve decided you’re worth the effort to bother. You’ve only known me for a week and already I’m worth your ire.”

“Go home to Velaris. Go be a small town healer and find a small town male for you to fake your orgasms with.”

Your jaw dropped and you felt Azriel’s hands wrap around your upper arms, trying to pull you back, but you rooted yourself to the ground, pulling from his grasp.

“At least my constituents will look me in the eye out of respect and not fear. At least my patients know I had to work for my job and that I wasn’t given it because of my father!”

The flames were choking now, your breaths coming in hard and shallow. You were trying to fight it, to win whatever this was, but breathing harder and harder, fresh air a luxury you couldn’t remember.

“Eris!” Azriel all but growled as he wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you into him. You reached up, trying to pull the collar off, tried to get any air, but it was impossible.

“The Mother is absurd for mating Azriel with someone so foolish who speaks of things she knows nothing about.” Eris relinquished his power as you sagged into Azriel’s arms, but Eris cupped a hand around your jaw. His eyes burned with fury and something you couldn’t quite make out, the amber color replaced with the blown pupils of his ire.

“Az, come back to me when you’ve decided the bitch isn’t worth your time.”

Chest heaving, you squared your jaw, a rebuttal on your tongue, but Eris had turned, walking into the trees before disappearing completely into them.

He was everything Nesta had warned you he was. He was cruel, difficult, and maddening.

And if the Mother wanted Azriel to pick one of you, you would do whatever it took to beat out Eris Vanserra for Azriel’s affections.

You’re stuck so deep in your head, you don’t even notice Azriel winnow the two of you back to the House of Wind, the two of you landing in the dining room. You turned to ask him about Eris, to talk to him about how ridiculous his mate was, but Azriel had dropped your arm, winnowing away immediately after. Your hand instinctively reached out for the shadows, but it was too late.

He was gone and he left you here.

You sighed, not knowing what you expected him to do. Coddle you? Tell you Eris didn’t mean his threats? Tell you Eris is a big meanie head?

You shook the thought away, your steps soft as you made your way through the house, a journal calling your name to pour through.

Your adrenaline was wearing off, the grime of the forest stuck to your clothes making the bathtub’s siren song call to you from many rooms away.

“How was your meeting with Eris?” Nesta’s voice found you as you were about to climb the stairs, one foot raised. You spun on your heel to look at her, her face indecipherable. Just his name filled you with anger and confusion once more. How was it him that had received Azriel’s affections?

“He’s worse than you made him seem. Vile and cruel, just like everyone says.” You spat the words at her, not receiving the reaction you wanted from her. Nesta only raised her eyebrows as her nose twitched.

“Are you sure?” Your anger had flared too much to notice her strange tone or the look in her eye.

“I’m positively certain. Anyone having to spend time with that awful, awful male is a saint or somehow even worse than he is.”

She approached you, her eyes lingering on your neck. You weren’t certain if you had scorch marks or not, unsure if Eris’s wickedness scarred. She was quiet as she looked at you, eyes of silver intense as they locked onto yours. You weren’t sure if she found what she was looking for or not before she brushed past you to go to her own chambers, her words quiet in the stillness of the house.

“If you say so.”

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

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[maxlarens]

Hi ! As a pescatarian girly and as someone who has recently started to like Lando, I kept thinking about him with pescatarian!reader, because you know opposites attracts and also it made me think of the olive theory from 'How I met your mother', can be fic or smau

(also I'm the anon who requested the Charles fic and I was wondering if you gave names or emojis to your anons 🤔)

ahhh hi😇😇 thank u sm for sending another ask in. verrryy into this! ive never watched himym but i HAVE heard of the olive theory and genuinely think it can be so true. i also think like sharing food/giving certain parts of ur meal to ur partner is so sweet so i loved this a lot🥺🥺

also, tbh i have never had a consistent enough anon to name them/give them an emoji so i would loveee LOVE to do that🙏🏻 pls let me know what i should call u❤️ (and if anyone wants to be a regular/semi-regular anon and give themselves an emoji/name pls do!!!) ANYWAY alright i hope u enjoy— it’s a just a short ficlet 😌💖

LN: quid pro quo

pairing(s): lando norris x reader [read on ao3]

word count: 1.2k

“Eugh,” Lando says, feigning a gag as he looks at the plate of food set in front of you, “That’s disgusting. I don’t understand how you can put that in your mouth.”

Slowly, you raise an eyebrow at him, looking between your plate and Lando’s screwed-up expression; you point at your food, “Salmon? You think salmon is disgusting? Are you joking right now?”

He shakes his head fervently, a grimace still stuck on his face, “It’s gross.”

A laugh, loud and guffawing erupts from your mouth as you realise he’s being entirely serious. He’s fixated on your meal, frowning as if the fish has severely insulted him in some way. Quickly, you clap your hand over your mouth, concerned you’ll offend him if you keep laughing like that. This is one of a handful of dates you’ve been on together— clearly the first you’ve ordered seafood on— and you’re still trying to make a good impression on Lando.

“Wait,” you collect yourself, breathing deeply so you don’t fall into a fit of giggles again, “You’re not allergic are you?”

“No,” he shrugs, “I just hate fish. You’ve never heard that?”

You snort a little indelicately, already going back to eating your salmon, “‘You’ve never heard that?’,” you tease, “Do you think I stalk you on the internet, Norris?”

He grins that small sheepish grin you like so much as a light blush blooms on his cheeks. You’re very fond of him really. He’s cute in a scrappy kind of way; he’s funny and charming, a little bit dumb sometimes; and he’s into you, which is always a bonus. You’re not together— not quite— just seeing each other when you both have time, but it’s been going very nicely if you do say so yourself.

You like him.

He likes you.

Lando rolls his eyes, and purses his lips in an attempt not to let you see the smile that he’s trying to hide, “Don’t you? Stalk me on the internet?”

“Never,” you answer resolutely, thinking blatantly of that night after you’d first met him when you fell down a rabbit hole, spending a good hour watching thirst traps of him on Instagram before coming to your senses, “Not once.”

He hums, unconvinced, “Alright.”

Alright. You make a face, almost stick your tongue out at him but think better of it at the last second. He laughs— giggles— at you. You look away from him, down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that spreads and spreads behind your hair. God, you like him. You’re trying not to let it get away from you. You get the impression that he’s not huge on relationships, and you’re trying hard to be casual about him. It’s difficult— mostly because everything feels so easy when you’re together.

“So,” you start as you push a forkful of salmon and leafy greens around your plate, “Hate to break it to you, but I’m a pescetarian.”

“Um,” Lando asks around a mouthful of half-chewed food, “What’s that mean?”

You stifle a laugh, “Like a vegetarian, but I eat seafood.”

He swallows and makes another face, similar to the earlier one. You can see this is hard for him to process, he clearly dislikes seafood to a degree that you hadn’t quite understood until now. It’s funny. It’s another thing to add to the growing list of reasons you fancy Lando Norris. Though you would think that as a pescetarian you’d want him to like fish, but you suppose by not eating them he’s just saving all the sea animals that you’re not— quid pro quo.

“What about, like,” he waves his fork around, evidently still wondering why you’d eat seafood voluntarily, “just being a vegetarian?”

You shrug, “Vegetables are boring.”

“Right. Better than eating fish though.”

“I like fish.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t get it… It’s— they’re slimy and they smell and they’ve got fucking beady little eyes. It’s not natural.”

“Okay,” you laugh brightly at his despondent expression, “I do need to eat them, unfortunately. Otherwise, I’d probably die of malnutrition, or I dunno, scurvy.”

He groans, hanging his head so that all you can see of his face is that mop of brown curls. You think of your second date when you’d kissed him for the first time in your stairwell and how you’d threaded a hand into it— and they were soft and not heavy with product the way that you hate. The way he’d smelt like expensive cologne and tasted both smokey and sugary at the same time, just like the whiskey and cokes he’d been having at the bar. There’s a soft smile playing at your lips when he finally looks up.

“Does it bother you?” you ask, “That I eat fish.”

He shrugs, shakes his head in a non-committal way that could be either answer and does that little grin again. The one that means he’s going to say something that you’ll find either unbearably cute or embarrassingly funny.

“Yes,” he says, grin not subsiding, “How am I supposed to kiss you when you’ve got fish breath.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and a shocked laugh bubbles from your mouth, you try to ignore the stirring feeling in your gut at the words how am I supposed to kiss you in favour of responding to his lack of tact Try, being the keyword there. It somersaults in your head, how am I supposed to kiss you he said, like he was thinking of doing it again. Which, okay, of course, he’s thinking of doing it again. You understand what this is— but there was an unmistakable fondness there that you just can't shake.

Anyway, you push thoughts of kissing him aside, he’d still accused you of having fish breath, “Wow,” you say dryly, with no malice at all as much as you try to feign it, “You say that to all the girls?”

He blushes, his tan cheeks turning a very pleasant red as he properly realises what he’d said, “Shit. No— oh my god— I’m sorry. I just meant—”

You wave him off, laughing, “I know what you meant. You’re good, Lando.”

“Phew,” he lets out a breath of relief, his nervous laughter punctuating the air between you, without meaning to he says, “God, I thought I’d just fucked it.”

You furrow your brows and frown, confused, “No. You couldn’t.”

You watch him scrub a hand over his face, embarrassed, before it falls away and he gives you a sheepish little grin that says he’s happy to hear that. Toothy, eyes squinted and carving dimples into his cheeks. Your face feels warm and you smile back, biting your bottom lip on the smile so it doesn’t grow and grow to cover your whole face.

Later, after you’ve finished lunch and spent too much time talking over a too-sticky table in your favourite pub, Lando kisses you up against a tree in the park by your apartment. You put your hand in his soft curls and you smell cologne and taste what he’s been drinking as he presses his tongue into yours. The coarse hair of his moustache brushes against your lips and you kiss back with equal gusto. You pull away when it feels like you two are veering into too inappropriate territory for this public park. He chases you, but you laugh softly, pressing a perfunctory closed-mouth kiss to the corner of his mouth. He groans, laughs, and puts his forehead against yours.

You hum, “I guess my fish breath doesn’t bother you so much, huh.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, “You’re never going to let that go are you.”

You shake your head ever so slightly, “Not as long as I live, Norris.”

[salemlunaa]

Use your senses to shift consciousness ꨄ

what would it all feel like?

I got an ask recently on someone who was unsure what to do to shift, and unlike the typical, visualise and affirm, I will ask you to accept yourself in your new reality/desired reality/ whatever you may call it. And to do that you must shift your senses and I mean really shift your senses, close your eyes and sense that you are now in your new reality, how would you feel? think of the little things

is there a window right infront of your bed that lets the natural light shine onto your eyelids?

do you have a crazy amount of siblings that you can hear all the time in the morning?

is your s/o in there bed, can you hear their little grunts as they sleep? do they wrap you in their arms to wake you up, how would it be normally?

is your mother waking you up for school, how does her voice sound sound, how do her hands feel tapping you lightly to wake up?

are you a famous artist? are your songs softly playing on the speaker in your room as you wake up?

are you a celebrity, a billionaire, an actor, a model? is your assistant waking you up for another busy day of press?

do you live somewhere with beautiful scenery, are the birds chirping as you wake up? or is it night time and the sound of the city, the cars, the people are right outside your window?

how does it feel to be in that new body? feel that you are in that body, how does your skin feel? how does your hair feel?

do you have a private chef that makes you and your family breakfast in the morning? what are they making? can you smell it?

do you have certain ambient lighting in your room, eg, leds, sunset lamps, what colour are they shining on your eyelids as you stir in bed?

are you a billionaire’s child who only sleeps on cashmere sheets? feel it on your body

what clothes (if any) do you wear to bed? feel them on your body

what’s the first thing you see when you wake up? visualise, or is it night as you wake up, what does that look like where you are?

How much happier and more motivated would you be to start the day knowing you have everything and you are living the dream? feel it in you

details details details people!! use the details in your script if you have one, this is how it becomes natural to you 👏👏

feel it, hear it, see it, smell it, taste it

These little and natural details are so important, you guys see your reality as so far fetched, so you don’t even acknowledge or consider how your senses would change. When you shift reality you shift awareness which means shifting your conscious sensations to the reality that is desired. This isn’t some cute exercise (although it can be) this IS shifting, take your senses and put the in the desired state and that is how you shift, that is how your awareness leaves this reality to go to another.

You are a god, so place yourself and your senses in a new reality and you are there. You need to make your reality natural to you and that starts with immersing yourself in the new story

Place your senses in that of who you want to be, and you will shift with ease 🐋💋

[euphoria-looney]

Hold Me, Console Me, And then I’ll Leave Without a Trace, No One Noticed by The Marias

Before we start this has many ideas for authors and some are specific, so if you notice “Hey that looks like what idea I put into my post” PLEASE TELL ME, I would love to give you credit, bc I probably would have never made this without it!

and greatgooglymoogly (my friend, I don't discriminate against other greatgogglymoogly's) if you see this scroll, admire how aesthetic this post is and scroll./j

(This has a mother!darling and a daughter!darling, and they are separate from the reader- unless you decide they aren’t 😍😍)

gn!reader (if I accidentally make them seem too feminine, I’m sorry 😞)

So Much More.

Pt. 1 Pt.2

All my life, I held onto this thin piece of thread called hope. It started off as a rope, almost strangled myself with it, but as time went on and as it started dwindling down, it started snapping.

So, now, the only thing that kept this “rope” connected was a thin piece of thread, too bad, it broke. Due to people who were honestly victims.

Bruce Wayne.

Everyone knows him, who cares if you love him, who cares if you hate him, I mean eat the rich, and who cares if you don’t care about him. To me, he’s a good-for-nothing sperm donor who was also my landlord.

My dear mother, (M/N) (L/N). What a diva she was. She gave me everything and so much more. She embraced me in such comfort that I could feel myself slipping when it disappeared from right under me.

Gotham City is one of the many crime-raided cities there is in the world, anything could go wrong.

Luckily for momma, she died through a natural death, unluckily for me, she was my everything. I mean really, a child no older than 4 frantically searching for something, anything. Desperation creeping in, dialing an emergency call, with terrible service and small fat fingers that didn’t even know how to operate such a stupid telephone that only worked if you used it at an angle.

May my dearest momma lay in a field of flowers, sunlight kissing her skin, that was the fantasy she told me she’d love to take me to. Something Gotham City could only be reached if there was no such thing as heroes, villains, or vigilantes.

If it wasn’t for my appearance I’d would had gone to an orphanage, th officer or whatever he was, Gorgan? Gordon? Doesn’t matter, he called him someone.

a man who seemed so formal and elegant showed up, he would be my father figure, for the time I would spend in the manor. Since, it just so happens I had a 100 percent match with a certain millionaire, billionaire. The man that showed up was none other than my light in the dim, depressing place.

Alfred, the butler for the Bruce Wayne.

Ecstatic, I was, that’s when the rope appeared, my thoughts ran rapid.

Do I have siblings? How many? How’s my dad?

Questions after question, answered with… I hope you’re hungry for…

nothing 😐-

Alfred had answered all my questions, of course I met them all… eventually,

Richard, other wise known as “Dick”

He tried to give the impression to the family as a caring big brother. Well, not to me obviously. When he first met me, his first words were “Who’s the kid?”

“Who’s the kid?” Dick asked

“This is your new sibling, [name] Wayne”

He was there, for y’know that one second, moving on Tim.

Tim

I’ve never held a conversation with him, he breezed past me.

Jason.

BFFs, before he died, then came back to life, then shut me out.

Barbara, Cassandra, and Stephanie

Was my idol, but they stuck their head up so high that they didn’t notice me. Making her nothing more than a second thought in my head.

Duke

Sweet kid, from what I've seen in the shadows.

Damian

He really, broke me in, hell if anyone’s impacted me, it’s him.

degrading me like I was a bug infestation.

Then he stopped, saying “I don’t have time to waste on you.”

Are you kidding me?

I did everything and more for the attention of my family.

Sports? You name it. I probably did it.

Instruments? Do you even know how many medals I've won?

Singing and dance are challenging but that doesn't mean I'm not perfect to the T.

But nothing worked, it's funny you'd think, with how pathetic I am, especially with all these attempts that idiotic thin thread would've already snapped.

No.

Do you know what made it snap? [M/D] and [D/D]. (The second D- stands for darling)

The pair were everyone's obsession.

[M/D], Bruce Wayne's one true love, if this hasn't been obvious my mother was a fling/rebound of Mr. Wayne. [M/D], beautiful, kind, and the object in the family's eyes. It's quite sad if anything, she's like a caged bird.

[D/D], younger than Damian.

Oh, I haven't given you the age scale from oldest to youngest.

Dick and Barbara are the same age, being the oldest

Jason

Tim, Stephanie, and Cassandra

Me

Duke

Damian

[D/D]

Out of these many children. Three are blood-related with Bruce Wayne, Me, Damian, and [D/D].

I'm getting off track.

[D/D], adored, so small you'd want to keep her in your pocket.

One thing was clear about these two. They were everything to the Wayne family.

That's when the string broke.

They came probably by force and hated the very thing I wanted, attention, and love.

I wish I could say I hate them, as they were parallel to me and my mother.

My mother, who was the other woman.

My mother, who never held a grudge.

My mother, who died in a cold, dark room.

My mother, who could never see what type of person I am today.

But I couldn't hate them. I can't. They were the only other ones who gave me that family bond that wanted for so long.

It didn't help that they seemed to deem me to be the favorite. [M/D] loved to be my 'mother' and in her eyes, I was her favorite child, of course behind [D/D] since I was normal compared to them.

[D/D] If I'm near her, maybe grabbing a snack while the family is having 'family game night' she'd somehow spot me, giving that puppy-eyed look, pulling me to join them.

I would, if it's not for the way I would feel these eyes boring on me.

'Why do you have to be here, why are you ruining the moment, who are you?'

I'd pull my hand away, shaking my head, patting her hair, before making it back to the dim, dark hallway, so empty, that you could hear each echo of the step.

As I sit here complaining, at least today's, the day. I'm officially 18.

That's right. 18 years of age and everything I just wrote down has been a recap of my life.

This is my 14th journal. For each year that I've been in the manor, I had a journal, that captured each year of my life, from my emo phase to my popular phase, and now here, the year I graduate, the year that I officially move out.

My first journal was a composition journal, Alfred had no idea what I would like, everyone else was busy according to him, he gave me this journal and told me to write everything I felt, and nobody would ever see it. It's stained definitely. My first-ever entry was: "I wish I got a pet to keep me company, at least that would be better than this stupid silence."

Okay, so maybe there were a lot of spelling mistakes. I don't need to write it down. Even trying to decipher that whole sentence was hard. Not the point I would lose interest every few months before coming back to it. Then it became a hobby. It's very important to me.

I graduated yesterday, too bad nobody was there. Alfred was too busy to come to celebrate it, since graduations are long and take a while, his job came first before anything. Today is my birthday, it's a joke if anything. The day before my graduation is my birthday. I bought this journal yesterday as a little celebration gift and to me in general to celebrate my birthday.

That should be all for my entry.

Yours truly,

[Name] [Last Name]

-

Standing up I glance at my bookshelf filled with different genres of books, split into non-fiction and fiction. Journals filled with information from books, facts that mattered, and scenes that hit me deeply.

Junk journals, bullet journals, and the sheld that mattered the most to me.

My personal journals. 15 journals including the one that I was holding my hand.

A knock broke my thoughts, I slipped the journal I had in my hand onto the shelf before opening the door.

"Happy birthday, young master. I made a cupcake batch for you. Even an edible candle." He held cupcakes to me arranged so delicately with a candle on the center cupcake.

I'm going to miss him so much when I leave. So much so that I didn't even notice the tears slipping from my eyes.

"Oh dear, young master, I'm so sorry that I missed your graduation yesterday, and of course, the others wanted to be there- they were-"

"No, it's not that Alfred- Thank you so much, for everything." I engulfed him in a hug. Something I hadn't done since I was a child.

He held me and consoled me before leaving as it seemed [D/D] had adopted another feral animal or something like that.

I smiled and nodded at him when he apologized for having to go, shaking my head in understanding.

I looked over everything in my room. I would leave everything behind, including my journals. Even the newly bought one. If I was going to leave. I wanted to at least have something that showed.

I existed.

I would leave without a trace that I had left in the first place. And even leaving all these books here, I'm sure you couldn't even tell this would be a room without the bed, just some library with random entries from this random room.

Like a coward, I'll leave a letter for Alfred. For him, and only him.

With that, I bid the manor goodbye. With whatever presents I had anyway.

Also if this is cringy, just let me be delusional and believe that I ate this shit up.

Kind of new to how to format on Tumblr, and how to make posts pretty.

Anyway I wrote this with Grammarly so if you see any mistakes with the writing, I say "boo"

Hoped you enjoyed, bc I'm brewing up the next part... and also how to make a masterlist and all that jazz.