#(the letter was collected an hour and a half ago)

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Will Never Leave You (Daemon x Reader)

I think this more a love letter to Rhaenyra than anything but I’m really proud of this one cause I adore writing characters like this, I hope you guys enjoy it

Rhaenyra adored her mother since she drew her first breath, yet the woman she admired the most and desperately seemed her nod of approval was her beloved aunt (y/n) Targaryen, the middle child of prince Baelon and princess Alyssa, the seat between the brothers suited her, (y/n) had the good heart and the bright mind of her older brother that went hand in hand with the wild spirit and the constant need to protect the ones she called her own that she passed down to Daemon.

(Y/n) had been by Rhaenyras side when she needed her the most, wrapping her arms around the shaking frame of the young princess burying her face at the crook of (y/n)s neck.

“Dracarys”

Even though the dragon was not (y/n)s, beautiful Syrax complied whilst Rhaenyra broke down at the arms of her aunt, (y/n) ran her fingers through Rhaenyras long hair to offer her comfort as she whispered the lullaby she would sing to her when she was little.

She had also been the one to almost harass her beloved brother and king to name Rhaenyra his heir.

“As much as I love my lord husband, he is not fit to lead, the weight of the realm will crush him until he bursts into flames, we can prevent this, you can prevent this”

“And name Rhaenyra my heir? A queen has not sat the iron throne”

“Why not name the princess your heir? She is the second born”

Otto had questioned, (y/n) side eyed the man before she looked down to collect her thoughts, the wound of her brothers digging their claws on that piece of metal had brought such mental combat between them, turning blood against one another, if she had taken a go at them then all efforts for a harmonious family would have gone to war ages ago.

“I am afraid it is too late for me to claim what could have been or some could argue “should have been” but the time is just right for my niece, Rhaenyra is the result of the love you shared with the late queen Aemma, you have already wronged her, do not turn your back on the only thing you have left of her”

(Y/n) and Daemon had wed a fortnight after Viserys and Aemma, their wedlock’s were as similar as the sun with the moon, Daemon and (y/n) mirrored one another, their fire burned bright and their thick skulls could cause the the strongest storm to lash, still at the end of the day they ended up in each others arms, holding each other tight and whispering words of love and admiration.

(Y/n) was the only one that could keep Daemon on a leash, staying by his side as he raged for the “disrespect” their brother had shown, in a delicate manner (y/n) would always grab his hand and bring it up to her cheek to ground him.

“I love you and your bravery, however I do despise when you let your rage overtake everything that’s good in you, let me fix this for you”

Daemon would always take her in his arms and kiss her lips with all the might he could master. (Y/n) was his life line, her eyes were like a much needed breath after a deep dive, her smile resembled the feeling of the brisk air on the early hours of a summer day, her hair was as soft as a birds feather as it brushed on his skin, and her touch, oh that touch of hers…like a soothing balm on Daemons wounded heart.

“What is the matter, my love?”

“We must fly to kings landing by the morrow”

“Has something happened?”

“Lucerys’s claim is at question by Vaemond, Lord Corlys has not even passed and they are already circling around Rhaenyra like crows”

(Y/n) half mumbled half explained whilst her fingers rubbed circles on her temples, (y/n) had never voiced it still a pang of guilt ate her soul as slow as the carnivores ate their dead prey whenever she exchanged letters with Rhaenyra, she gave up on her, she left her alone to fight against those Hightowers, withering away as the bastards started to tighten the rope around the heiress’s neck.

Daemon puffed out a breath, the conversation had always been the same, (y/n) would often bring up her concerns over Rhaenyras well being, asking Daemon if mayhaps they made a mistake by leaving her, fabricating elaborate scenarios of how things could have been different.

With caution Daemon approached his lady wife and once he reached her he placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles on her aching shoulders as she slouched back and a grunt of pleasure left her, the flames from the fireplace licking her face in such a complimenting light, had he not touched her he could assume she was just an extremely accurate portrait from the hands of an exceptionally gifted artist.

“Rhaenyra is strong, she will overcome this”

“Rhaenyra is alone, our brother is barely able to make a sentence, she cannot stand alone at court”

“And what do you think our presence will do? We have been cast away for far too long, no one will pay attention to what we have to say on the matter, besides, driftmark is none of our responsibility”

After the birth of their first born daughter Enora Daemon and (y/n) decided to leave kings landing and reside in Pentos, granting protection with their dragons they were gifted with land and lived like the Targaryens only knew how to live.

“It is under the Targaryen rule, our closests bond to old Valyria”

“Dragons are our bond, which we have our own”

(Y/n) stood up from her chair to face her lord husband, fury that intertwined with confusion painted across her face as her eyebrows furrowed and her lips half open from the shock that his dismiss had caused.

Daemon resented when they fought, he did not enjoy his love being cross with him, though he loved a battle he would hang on dear life on anything and say whatever to make her curl up in his arms with content.

“You do not want to come with me” (y/n) stated

“I do not believe we will change anything”

“You believe that? Out of all I thought you would be the one to get on your dragon the fastest”

“You are with child, our other children are happy here, must we indulge in that mess?”

“That mess? Our brother has been crippled, our niece tortured by the Hightower and now she asks for our aid and you think I will just ignore it”

“You are emotional”

“I am, and proud of it, I will fly to kings landing with my children, you can choose to stay and hide behind our thick and tall walls of this castle. I will not leave our legacy, our blood, to slowly perish. It is your decision at the end of the day”

Daemon puffed out of breath before he reached for (y/n)s arms to which (y/n) stepped back to avoid, her eyes that spewed fire starring right into his soul.

(Y/n) was the diplomat out of the pair, one can imagine the surprise of her stubbornness when it came to this, which also revealed how important this was for (y/n).

“You mustn’t get upset in your condition”

“That is something you should remember, I was fine until I saw that the years turned you into a coward”

(Y/n) spat inches away from his face, with hurried and swift motions she intentionally bumped his shoulder as she made her exit of their chamber, Daemon did not catch a wink of sleep, (y/n) had never slept at another chamber separately since they had wed.

As the sun started to shyly make its descent (y/n) was assisting her three children on their dragons for their journey to kings landing.

“Hold on”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder to find her husband with his dragon walking towards them, she had to admit that leaving without him would have costed her a great deal, she wanted him by her side, to help her, to hold her, to have her.

“What made you change your mind?”

“My astonishing devotion to you and your stubbornness, I won’t leave you alone with the wolves”

Daemon reassured her before he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, a smile making its way to (y/n)s lips as she gazed at him with love, that sparkle of joy was what kept Daemon alive, he would risk anything to see her well.

A giggle that came from their youngest children interrupted their sweet moment, Daemon and (y/n) looked up as the twins sat on their dragons, admiring the deep affection that oozed out of their parents, Daemon only winked at his children in response and turned back to his lady wife.

“Allow me dearest”

A shriek was heard when Daemon swiped the princess off her feet and lifted her up at her green dragon Zephyr. The family landed unexpectedly since they had not given any information to their visit, Otto and Alicent were fuming upon their arrival, the pair would stir the pot and cause chaos all in the princesses name, Otto was certain of it.

However no one could expect the ever defiant (y/n) holding Viserys by his right arm and the stoic prince Daemon holding the king by the left.

“King Viserys of house Targaryen, first of his name, king of the andals, and the rhoynar and the first men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, with princess (y/n) Targaryen and Prince Daemon Targaryen”

Time stood still as they entered the throne room, (y/n) had persisted on visiting her brother, encouraging him to stand and back Rhaenyras claim, begging him to find his strength and sit on the iron throne.

“I will sit the throne today”

Viserys was able to say to Otto who only bowed his head and stepped aside. When (y/n) gently assisted her brother to sit comfortably his crown managed to move and fall, Daemon was the one that caught it and placed it back on Viserys head. As the pair took a step back (y/n) was the first to curtsy in front of him.

“My king”

She whispered before she smiled, Viserys managed to get a hold of her hand and bring it up to his deformed lips, as cold and slimy the weird texture of his lips left on her hand (y/n) looked back on that memory until the end of her days, as many times as they fought (y/n) held a spot for Viserys, one of loyalty and respect.

Daemon snaked his arm around her waist as they went down the steps and took their place next to a baffled and ecstatic Rhaenyra, (y/n) subtly nodded and side eyed Rhaenyra letting her know she is her for her.

As Viserys reaffirmed Lucerys claim and Rhaenys announced the betrothal of Baela and Rhaena (y/n) was ready to turn and hug her dear niece when Vaemond stepped in front of the king, interrupting the glorious moment.

“You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir, don’t you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon, No, I will not allow it”

“Allow it? I do not think anyone hear asked for your opinion Ser…. Apologies I haven’t been at court in so long, what is your name?”

(Y/n)s words sliced through Vaemond like Valyrian steel and Rhaenyra struggled to hide her chuckle, Daemon stood proudly by her side though his grip tightened around her waist when Vaemonds eyes fell on her for a brief moment before he pointed to Lucerys.

“THAT! is no true Velaryon and certainly not a nephew of mine”

Rhaenyra as the mother that she is took a step forward to stand closer to Vaemond and in front of Lucerys, what no one had seen was an important question that (y/n) had whispered at her husband.

“Which side is your sword on today?”

“Go to your chambers, you’ve said enough”

“Lucerys is my true born grandson and you are no more than the second son of drift mark”

“You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine, my house survived the doom”

“To which you owe it to much greater men than you Vaemond, men that knew their place and played their part in history, something that you refuse to do”

“And you think that you can tell me what my place is? Your brother skipped over you and gave the name of heir to your niece, the gods know what you have done to make him skip over you and your… husband, my name survived and gods be damned I will not see it ended on the account of this”

“Say it, say it”

Daemon antagonised the man, (y/n) assumed her position and slipped away from Daemons grip, her hand gliding from his back all the way down to his sword, dark sister, and pulled it out the sound of metal brushing against its scabbard was enough to make (y/n) grind her teeth in annoyance, thankfully no one seemed to pay attention to what she was up to.

Except Daemon whom had already a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he internally thanked whoever blessed him to change his mind and was now going to be a witness on this wonderful event and as he viewed it “important milestone” in his lady wife’s life.

Vaemond was caught in his own fury and sense of entitlement to see his end coming, even if he had seen (y/n) with a sword he would pay her no mind, a man of such ignorance wouldn’t feel threaten by a woman with a swollen belly or any woman for that matter.

“Her children are BASTARDS and she.is.a.whore”

“I will have your tongue for that”

Daemon watched with pride as his wife lifted the sword and with one clean slice Vaemonds head was cut right above his tongue. Enora was taken aback by her mothers acts while her two siblings Alastor and Aelia hid behind their fathers legs to avoid witnessing the gruesome sight of the corpse at such a young age.

(Y/n) stood still as the sword touched the ground to support her, glaring down at the man that had so much to say, a man that thought himself as indestructible and yet he laid on the cold floor as his blood gushed out of him and pooled on the ground.

“He can keep his tongue, to explain his treachery to the gods”

“Disarm her”

Otto commanded as his voice boomed through the throne room like a proper king that would command his kings guards to obviously attack (y/n), though the real king -Viserys- had just opened his mouth to stop this when Daemon took only a step forward.

“Don’t you dare”

Daemon warned them, in a rather surprisingly composed way for the situation Daemon approached her and took the sword from her, wiping it away at his clothes lazily before he placed it back on its original spot, his hand brushed a few strands of hair that had moved and let it glide behind her shoulder, he preferred it when her hair was out of her face, so he can fully take in her beauty.

(Y/n) was seen smiling brightly, basking in her accomplishment that was so grotesque that some reported that a numerous ladies that had been witnesses had fainted or vomited at the sight.

“You must rest, my love”

“Before that”

(Y/n) proclaimed, she left her husbands side momentarily only to stand before Rhaenyra, her hands going up to cup her nieces cheeks and place a kiss on top of the heiress head, a gesture that held such affection and compassion, (y/n) had Rhaenyra in her heart and her mind as her own daughter, images of the princess running careless on the grass and finding refuge in (y/n)s hug flashed before (y/n)s eyes.

“My dear niece”

“(Y/n)” Rhaenyra breathed out

“I will never leave you, ever”

Requests are open!

[mmgwritings]

FULLY CLOTHED, STARK NAKED

Characters: Kaz Brekker / Dreg!Reader

Prompts: When Kaz felt guilty and decided to handle his problems by shoving them into a dusty, forgotten corner so he doesn’t have to face them... until now.

Warnings: angst; smut; nsfw; canon divergence.

The cart rumbled down the narrow alleyway, laden with crates of drinks, tobacco, and spices from the distant lands of Shu Han — or so it seemed from the merchants' slurred accents. One of the oxen snorted as a wheel got stuck in a muddy puddle, momentarily halting the small caravan trailing behind.

The passengers of the caravan, weary from days on the road, decided to step out of the vehicle and surround the ox cart, slowly carrying their belongings to the main street. Their worn and thick clothes marked them as ordinary people from inland villages, seeking opportunities in Ketterdam now that Shu Han had opened its borders for small exports.

It was a new government measure, introduced after years of peace negotiations between Ravka, Kerch, and Shu Han following the fall of the Fold. The law, ostensibly about simplifying the import and export of goods, was a stroke of Ravkan ingenuity. While its simplicity aimed to facilitate trade, it inadvertently opened the door to cruelty. The same freedom extended to the movement of products was also interpreted and applied to humans, leading to a troubling rise in child abductions and the proliferation of exotic brothels. This grim reality didn't go unnoticed by Inej — and, consequently, by Kaz.

A letter from Inej reached Kaz's hands just a month ago. In the meantime, the crows, who had previously managed the taverns and tourists' finances, were now stationed at the city's entrances, keeping a vigilant eye out for potential slavers. It was a straightforward task: watch people through the cracks in the city patrol loft, handle the work that the corrupt officials neglected, and, if suspicions arose, track their movements.

After that, the grimy details fell to Kaz's officers. That was the part I preferred not to know about, but I was content just imagining it.

Today, it was my turn to guard the entrance to Shu Han, northwest of the city. I sat alone on a dusty crate, peering through a crack in the attic window to keep watch over the alley. Wylan typically joined me during the early hours of the night, but today he had been given special leave to celebrate Jesper's birthday.

With a groan and the gurgling of oxen and two men, the cart — now half-empty after the merchants had collected their belongings — finally got unstuck and trundled onward into the city. I looked beyond the city gates and saw nothing but two patrol officers lounging under a street lamp, smoking cigarettes and chatting idly. Beyond them, the road stretched out, dark and empty.

With a sigh, I stretched and stood up from the crate, my eyes burning from hours of distant observation. The Stadwatch loft, once housing for patrol rookies before they were relocated to a building in the Exchange, was a spacious, open area with no partitions. It was filled with neatly arranged beds and small dressers, two desks, and a stack of old paperwork in the corner. The small, dusty windows were perfect for monitoring the street but couldn’t be opened, leaving the room with a stale smell. On the plus side, the thick walls kept the sounds from travelling outside — Wylan even used to play music when he was bored.

Even with the street empty and no sign of new arrivals at the gates of Ketterdam, I had to stick to my watch schedule until the next guard relieved me in four hours. It was while sitting at one of the desks, feet propped up and munching on a sandwich, that Kaz found me.

Despite the cane, the boots, the wooden floor, and the guards outside, I didn't hear him coming. One moment the loft door was closed, and the next, there was Kaz, his dark coat gleaming in a patch of light from the night dew. His stoic expression scanned the room with interest, his lips pursed as he took in the musty smell.

“Good evening, boss” I said, shifting in the chair and setting the sandwich aside. “Come to check on the poor soul stuck here?”

“No, I’m just joining them,” he replied, lowering his voice as he walked over and sat on my abandoned crate. “Clive can’t make it today — caught a nasty cold and can’t stop sneezing. I’ll keep watch with you.”

“Then enjoy; it’s your turn to stare at the vast nothingness,” I murmured, returning to my sandwich with a smirk. Kaz, always busy and never idle, had come personally to take on a task that involved doing absolutely nothing. And above all, spend a considerable amount of time in my company. Someone he had been avoiding like the plague for the past few weeks.

That would be funny.

As anticipated, five minutes later, the complete silence was broken by his first sigh of boredom. Seven minutes after that, he began rummaging through some of the old paperwork.

When the dust started to rise, I decided it was time to stop. I didn’t want to end up competing with Clive and his sneezing.

“So, have you decided whether it really happened, or are you going to keep avoiding it?” I asked, my eyes fixed on him. Though he had his back to me, I saw him stiffen as he grasped the weight of my question. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, you even stationed me here at this end of the world, so far from everyone that Wylan felt sorry enough to keep me company.”

“I didn’t mean to put you here; it’s part of your job—”

“Don’t even start, Kaz. You know exactly what you’re doing. You felt guilty and decided to handle your problems—me—by shoving them into a dusty, forgotten corner so you don’t have to face them.”

Kaz, still with his back turned and hiding his emotions as he always does when cornered, remained silent. The weight of the truth settled in the attic, spreading through the shadows.

Over the past few weeks, as I spent hours watching the city, I replayed our past interactions in my mind and planned what I would say to Kaz when I finally saw him.

I fantasized about him offering a gentlemanly apology, imagining him walking through the door, confessing some naïve and heartfelt sentiments, and making promises. But once I accepted that it was all just a fantasy, my frustration grew. Clive, my watch partner, sometimes found me with angry tears streaming down my face. He’d ask what was wrong, but what could I tell him? That his boss was a smug asshole who was indifferent to other people’s feelings?

And that this same smug asshole was in front of me and still didn't say anything?

“It’s not my fault that you love Inej. It’s not my fault you’re hung up on someone who hasn’t been around for seven years. And it’s definitely not my fault that I love you more than you even like me,” I said, my voice cracking, the weight of my emotions evident as tears threatened to spill.

I stood up from my chair and grabbed my coat. “If you want to live like this, fine. But don’t pretend like nothing happened… because it did.”

Kaz sighed, slowly turning to face me. His expression was almost tortured, his eyes bright and warm.

I waited, but no words came from him. It wasn't necessary, not when in three quick steps he was in front of me, with his hands adorning my face, with his lips on mine, demanding a desolate kiss.

His tongue slid across my lips, which, with my surprise, parted in a breathless sigh, allowing him to greedily suck my tongue and massage it with his own. I was too stunned to react, surrendering any control over my body as I followed his lead. His hands moved persistently from my face to my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies pressed together.

Noticing my lack of reaction—or perhaps sensing my need to breathe—Kaz pulled his face slightly away from mine. He placed gentle kisses on my flushed cheeks and trailed them halfway down my chin. “You are the stupidest person in the world for not realizing that if there was a lack of words on my part, it was because I couldn't explain how much I want you”

“You’re the stupidest person in the world for not realizing that if I was at a loss for words, it was because I couldn’t find a way to express how much I want you,” he said, his eyes finally meeting mine. “If there was any ghost from the past, you’ve exorcised it. Any teenage feelings are nothing compared to what you make me feel. Don’t you understand? You didn't realize any of this when, that night, I was more yours than I ever was mine?”

His eyes were clear and filled with truth—the same eyes I gradually fell in love with over the years. One night, driven by youthful impulse and drink, I boldly declared my feelings to Kaz with a kiss. That kiss led to a messy night in his room, only for me to wake up alone and to live with his indifference. Or that's what I thought.

"That doesn't make any sense. Nina told me you're still-" my thoughts didn't align.

“And what does Nina know about my feelings? What does she know about all the times I think about you? I’m sorry; I didn’t know what to do that day. I was an asshole, irresponsible, a coward—any term you want to use. But I don’t deny that I do love you, and it’s much more than you love me.”

Kaz’s voice was assertive, as if he were stating an undeniable truth. He loved me. He’d made a mistake out of fear. I was scared too, but nothing compared to the fear that gripped me when he admitted, in so many words, that he loved me.

His lips found mine again, this time demanding much more. His hands moved to pull my body even closer, fingers reaching for the ties of my vest and moving up to my breasts, squeezing them as he guided me towards one of the beds.

My heart raced and my body was covered in goosebumps.

“Kaz, please,” I murmured, trying to pull him closer. I didn't even know what I was begging for, I just wanted more.

It felt so good to have him there, feeling the heat of his body, his weight pressing down on me, and his lips trailing kisses across my chest. Pulling my shirt aside, his lips find my nipple, pebbled by his fingers.

It was all so different from last time, that we were scared enough to take off our clothes, just finding pleasure through our hands.

Now, Kaz suddenly stopped. His eyes marveling at my bare breasts. And I marveled at him. With his swollen lips, heavy breathing, which made his chest rise and fall quickly. With his body pressed against mine, hips unconsciously rubbing against mine in search of relief.

Finding some independence, my hands pushed him until Kaz was kneeling over me. That way, I completely removed my blouse, and when I heard a sigh coming from him, I smiled. "Beautiful" he whispered.

My hands then went towards his vest, agilely undoing it and throwing it onto one of the dressers. The black, long-sleeved shirt remained on his body.

I knew enough about Kaz to see his limits. Clothes were his limit. But not mine.

Gathering up some courage, I hugged Kaz and in a kiss, pulled him on top of me again, and when we were lying down, I rolled on top of him.

"I want to try something." I whispered in his ear, my hand trailing down his body, caressing his abdomen and trailing down to his groin.

There, I found the bulge of his dick, and when I stroked it again I got a deep breath from him. "Yes, do whatever you want," Kaz replied, already too lost in his desires.

I got up quickly, Kaz was surprised and looked at me questioningly. Then he understood when I started pulling my pants down, removing my boots too. I laughed a little when I lost my balance while removing one of my shoes and fell with my face on Kaz's abdomen, too close to his crotch.

Taking advantage of the moment, I planted a playful kiss on Kaz's face and went down to the end of the bed to remove his boots.

He was in a good mood and trying to contain himself from laughing. His face was red, his hair was messy and he had an anxious expression.

"There, done. I hope you don't mind the socks" I said pointing to my mismatched socks with a smile on my face.

"I couldn't care less," he replied, hands resting on my waist as I straddled him. "But I care about one thing..." she spoke, her fingers lightly tugging at the hem of my panties.

"Worry about this little thing?" I asked, adjusting myself into a better, much more comfortable position, one that was on...

"I'm a petty man" He sighed, his eyebrows furrowing and betraying his pleasure. I moved a little, enough to make him abandon any kind of argument he was making.

His fingers found space between the hem of my panties, lightly caressing the crease between my leg. But not there, not where I wanted most, where I needed it. Just close.

Truly, a petty man.

Kaz's vibrant blue eyes were completely dilated as I began rubbing myself over his cock. Trying to find some pleasurable point, my panties were wet over the seam of his pants.

His other hand, not needed to guide me, moved up towards my nipple, squeezing it painfully, only to be tamed by his warm tongue. Now, the two of us sitting, me straddling him and Kaz sucking my tits, were like two teenagers in heat.

"I can't," I said, almost crying. My face hidden in his hair, my hands gripping his shoulders.

Then Kaz mercifully slid his fingers over my core. Not inside, where I wanted most, where my walls squeezed with emptiness. "Please, Kaz." I whispered in his ear, seeking his lips for a sloppy kiss.

As we kissed, as I sucked his tongue and kneaded his shirt, Kaz's hands went down to his pants, undoing the button and zipper, trying to pull them down. Realizing this, I helped him, putting my hand in his pants and freeing his dick.

It was wet with cum, it was big and it stood completely hard. It was as pink as Kaz's swollen lips, and all I could think about was how good it would taste in my mouth.

But I didn't have time for that. I felt like I was going to cum just from rubbing against Kaz. And he also felt the same way, as he quickly pulled my panties to the side and I guided the head of his cock towards my clitoris, rubbing it lightly, enough to make everything wet with my desire and his.

Kaz groaned throatily. Laying down on the bed and watching me as I slid down his cock, my folds wetting him all over and my white panties were almost transparent.

Unable to hold it any longer, I stood up and pushed his cock into my pussy. Feeling myself open up as he slid in, all the way to the base. Allowing myself to stand still for a moment, with goosebumps rising through my body, a painful moan escaped my lips in unison with Kaz's.

Me, stark naked and Kaz completely clothed. My hands found support on his chest as I slowly moved up and down his dick, finding a good rhythm for both of us. Kaz's eyes met mine, and that way, as he filled me and rolled his hips to meet my pussy mid-motion.

His mouth, swollen from all the kisses, was open, panting. His cheeks were pink, his forehead was sweaty and his hair stuck to it. Kaz was a beautiful sight.

With his eyes locked on mine, Kaz's hands went to my ass, helping me with the rhythm. Making me slide on it instead of going up and down. This way, my clitoris rubbed against the base of his dick, finding the perfect friction in the movement.

"Good?" he asked as I closed my eyes and groaned. "Perfect" I replied with a drunken smile.

"Open your mouth" I order Kaz, with a tone very similar to the one he used in meetings with the Dregs.

I opened it, my eyes still closed. I felt Kaz sit down, his chest against mine, my sensitive nipples against his shirt. Kaz, stuck a thumb in my mouth, gently touching my tongue and massaging it.

Instinctively I closed my mouth over his finger and sucked. Kaz put his face to mine and moaned. I thought I was going to keep that substitute for his cock in my mouth, but Kaz removed his finger and replaced it with his tongue.

His thumb, coated with saliva, trailed down to our junction. His dick filled me very well, but the need for more arose from the moment Kaz started massaging my pussy. I thought it couldn't get any better.

It was instinctive, as I had never experienced any of that rationally before. I moaned into his kiss and hugged him, trying to get closer, rubbing myself even more, trying to find relief from that sweet torment.

Kaz also felt the same, his dick moved inside me, trying to go deeper. I felt our sweaty bodies clinging to each other and Kaz's moans, not at all shy, made me shudder.

It was like we were boiling, feeling something tighten in my groin, feeling the need to have something faster, stronger, bigger, inside me. Until, when Kaz hugged me, his nails scratching my sweaty back, his other hand squeezing my ass and his hips pushing deeper into me, I felt like I was going to come apart.

Breaking our kiss for a gasp, I came, my face still placed on his, I felt tears running down his face. I felt, moments later, as my walls squeezed his cock and my body trembled, his hot cum filled me and then slowly slid out, even though he still had his cock stuck inside me.

Kaz then slowly lay down, taking me with him. Our chests rising and falling in search of air. Exhaustion taking over us and happiness bubbling up through our bodies.

We were still united, there was no need for us to separate now. So I adjusted myself to a more comfortable position, and looked at him. The tears were Kaz's, who was so overcome with pleasure that he didn't even notice he had cried. I kissed his face, chin and his lips.

Kaz's hands slowly caressed my body: my back, my arms, my hair, until finally he rested on my ass, playing with the hem of my panties.

We had nothing to talk about when, later, we separated enough to settle into a tired embrace and fall asleep. Kaz still in his clothes and without any criticism regarding my socks and panties.

[houseofhyde]

v. another man's legacy

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. prince aemond calls all with fire in their blood forth to dragonstone with promise of a grand announcement, unawares of the king's own announcement. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, extended family drama, possible spoilers for events that take place in fire & blood! smut ( unprotected piv, creampie, [redacted]'s cum used as lube, fingering, exhibitionism? possibly? maybe? if you squint? ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 13k. hyde’s input. i ideally wanted this posted a week ago but i've unexpectedly had quite a busy month, sorry besties. lowkey hate how this turned out, wrote it in a rush, but hopefully you enjoy the chapter x ( if you see a typo, no you didn't )

another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october ) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The ravens are put to work.

Daybreak, nightfall. Sunrise, sundown. Highwinds, dry air. Blue sky, grey storms. Between man’s certainty of life and death, a new one arises: the promise of feathered wings flying high over the streets of King’s Landing. Dark wings, dark words  — a phrase your late septa had sworn by, fear in her eyes everytime a bird dared arrive at Winterfell carrying a message — it does not ring true to the ink that fills the recent parchments.

The guardsmen saw me home safely through the southron sands, past the Stormlands, and alas, to King’s Landing. I pray for safety in your own travels.

You had written it in a hurry and sent it with even more haste, the innocent intentions of wishing well to a man bound to you in marriage. You had awaited no reply, in truth, yet when the raven perched itself upon your window sill at the Hour of the Wolf, you felt your heart try to flee out of your chest.

Whispers travel faster than ravens, I knew of your arrival already. It is good to read of it in your own hand. You need not fret on my safe-being, for I sit upon a mount from where no man may harm me. 

No name, no signature. A rule unspoken yet well-kept. Should words be seen by unintended eyes, there is no space for errors, big nor small, for errors lead to questions, questions lead to answers, and answers lead to exposure.

It is truly a bore to attend courts as of late. No one lends me the privilege of a dance and, the few who do, seem to possess two left feet. I fear for the health of my toes, crushed under the weight of misplaced steps.

Your days in Dorne have come to mark a significant shift in your life, moulding you into a different version of a woman who always existed within you. You returned to the capital not only wearing a new dress, but a new attitude. A life divided by two key phases: Before Dorne, and After Dorne. And, yet, all that has truly changed in your life is this: the letters.

We danced this evening, when you visited my sleeping mind. Naked, sweet, pliant. It felt so real. I could taste you, smell you, feel you. I woke with a most horrible discomfort in my loins. You have ignited a longing in me befitting a petulant child, not a man of my class. How am I expected to live with never having you again?

There is a creature inside you that wishes to collect his words,  like a crow collects a shiny trinket. Assign them a drawer at your bedside, a place for them to live near your resting head and hopefully whisper themselves into your dreams, the only lands you are able to get a glimpse of his blonde hair, and lean arms, and soft mouth. That would mean danger, however, a trail of evidence for someone to find. Each parchment lives on as nothing more than a pile of ash in your hearth.

There is rumour of Lohar’s death. Assassination, they say. It ripped apart the triarchy, half of them fighting, the other half fleeing. I must be honest when speaking on the swelling of my own pride. You not only heed my warnings, but also took my advice. Perhaps my next advice will be that you meet me beneath moon and sky, and let only our bodies and the gods bear witness to what we do.

Words grow bolder as minds grow desperate. You find yourself in a rut, counting days as if it does not add to your own torture. Insatiable, a term you have scarcely used to describe yourself in past times, yet it is all that feels adequate since that night upon foreign sheets. Your husband takes you, like a hound takes its bitch, and you welcome him. Close your eyes, picture that same silver hair, but another’s face, hands, voice. It ends how all couplings end between you — an unanswered prayer between your thighs, a bud on the permanent precipice of bursting into bloom, only for Aegon to rip it out by its roots and spill his own seed in its place. But for a moment, while his hips beat relentlessly against the swell of your arse and his nails dig crescents into your skin, you feel it: a subtle, low-burning pleasure. Not much, but enough, more than before. 

Give me cause and I shall give you no rest, my Lady.

“Are you not enjoying the boar, wife?” Aegon’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts and brings your surroundings back into focus.

The King’s chambers, a table set for two, a handful of maids carrying pitchers of wine, and a nervous harpist, plucking a disjointed tune with shaky fingers. You pity the man. It is one thing to play to a court of dancing bodies and chattering mouths, it is another to play in the privacy of the King and Queen Consort as they dine in one another’s company.

You cough out a denial, shake your head as if to emphasise, “it is as tender today as it was yesterday, my King.”

“You’ve hardly touched it.”

“My thoughts feed me tonight.”

“Any that you care to share?”

No. “Of course,” Aemond takes the centre frame in your mind’s eye, not so much an image as he is a concept. You push him aside. “I attended this morning. Your dealings with the smallfolk, I watched from the balcony that sits over the throne room.”

“I saw,” he seems to light up as the topic is brought forth. Intrigued enough to lay down his cup and rest his forearms along the table, leaning closer as if awaiting some great secret to spill from your lips. You wonder if he would be half as amused if your mouth followed through on his unspoken request. “Well go on then! What did you think?”

“What did I… Think?” Your husband nods his head with enthusiasm, his unruly locks of hair shaking as he does so. It is hard to picture him any other way than this, unkept and unbothered, nothing like the rest of his Valyrian bloodline, with their meticulous braids and their well pampered image. Were it not for the striking colour that grows out his scalp, you would hardly believe Aegon is a Targaryen. His dark eyebrows shoot up expectantly. “You did well. You were cooperative and understanding. Just, too. No matter the personal issue they laid at your feet, you truly tried to solve things as best you could. You were… Aegon, you were kingly.”

“Do not sound so surprised,” rose tinted cheeks, a splash of bloodrush upon his soft skin. The wine must be getting to him and yet… And yet you wonder if it is something more, a rush of excitement at praise. He had never wanted this — the crown, the throne, you — until push came to shove and he felt the sweet weight of the Conqueror’s legacy rest upon his head and the grip of Blackfyre in his fist. Whether driven by ego or a genuine wish to do well by the people of his realm, Aegon has taken on his duties as of late with a grace no one, not even his own blood, had expected of him. A mess made in times of war, he spears ahead to clean up what rubble and ashes remain of the land. “I’m sure you’re wondering what prompted my invite to sup here, alone.”

“You are my husband, I am your wife. Who else would I share my meals with?”

“I am sure there are names ahead of mine on that list,” the smile he flashes is jaded. “Sometimes I worry you wish to forget our marriage.”

“Aegon, husband, I would never do such a thing.” And yet, you have. Naked in the Dornish heat, another name upon your tongue, another man inside your cunt. 

“Leave us,” two words, enough to send the serving wenches out in a flurry of footsteps. The drag of a harp across the floor, loud and resounding as the musician slips his way out the room, closing the door behind himself. And then it is truly just the two of you, inspecting the other under a gaze cold enough it reminds you of the snow that falls over Winterfell. “The letter,” your heart leaps to your throat, blocking the space and robbing you of your breath. He knows, he knows, he knows. He knows of the letters, and the deceit, and all those complicated feelings you hold for- “That I sent to you during your time with my sister. I have not forgotten it. I expect you haven’t either.”

Air fills your lungs, your heart settles back down in the cage of your chest. The shake in your hand remains, and so you fill it with the weight of your other hand, clasp them both into stillness. “No.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll recall my mention of a chat we’re overdue. There is no time like the present,” the little of your dinner that sits in your stomach stirs. Flips. Threatens to claw its way back up and out of you, spill itself all over the table. That would not rouse any suspicion, surely. It would be a perfectly rational response to your husband, bound to you in cloth beneath the Seven, requesting to chat with you. Aegon continues, as if unaware or simply unbothered by the distress bursting out of your seams. “It is not lost on me, you know? The looks you cast my way, the disdain that has slowly wiped itself over our union, a permanent stain that hovers over every interaction we share. I believe it is time to admit to-”

The chamber doors burst open anew.

“Your grace,” Maester Orwyle, out of breath, sweat lining his brow, and his chain hanging heavy from his neck. Never has his face been such a welcomed sight.

“I believe I ordered that my wife and I be left alone.”

“Apologies, your grace, but this is a pressing matter,” the maester holds up a scrap of paper, the edges curling in on themselves. “I carry word from the Crown Prince, Aemond Targaryen.”

You sit up a little straighter at the mention of his name. Days of private correspondence, nights of fantasised meetings, you have forgotten just how commanding his name sounds when spoken aloud. 

Aegon sinks deeper into his chair, a boredom taking over his features as he waves his hand, “well then, go on, spit it out!”

“Prince Aemond has requested the presence of all members of House Targaryen at Dragonstone,” his sandal-covered feet make gentle pitter-patter against the floor as he approaches the table, laying out the note for Aegon to grab at and inspect for himself. “The letter brings promise of an announcement from the prince.”

The great Targaryen dynasty.

Built on the ashes of burnt kingdoms and the man-shaped collateral damage of one family’s lust for control. Centuries of legacy, an infinite amount of tales that better fit the stuff of legends and scriptures. Lavish castles, luxurious clothing, Valyrian steel. A puritan bloodline, a family tree that circles itself. The smell of a dragon’s breath, the shine of silver-blessed hair. And this is what it has been reduced to.

Four dragons. Two crippled by war, wings with crooked bones and punctured skin. One a mere hatchling, no older than three, with a sickly pale colour and an unhealthy disposition that keeps it curled around its bonded rider’s shoulder, unwilling to stray far. And then there is the eldest of them, unchanged by the war, already well-versed in the age-old Targaryen tradition of burning enemies to a crisp. 

The Martells are the first to arrive. A small boat, with a handful of guardsmen, two ladies in waiting, a wet nurse, Princess Helaena, and her two children. The Prince of Dorne has remained at the seat of his house, unwilling to leave it defenceless in the early hours of peace.

The Hightowers arrive next. Three great ships, stuffed to the brim with armed men, and mute maids, and shy squires. Amongst them, the lowly Garmund Hightower stands at command, but it is his wife who’s presence has truly been requested: Rhaena Targaryen. The last time you had seen her, no war had transpired and she had been betrothed to another. If only Aemond had not taken to the skies that fateful night…

Above the Hightower fleet, another representative of House Targaryen flies, sat atop the blue beauty, Tessarion, the left side of her still marred with scars and puncture wounds littering her left wing from the battles she had endured during the war of kin. Daeron had insisted she fly, however, having not taken to the skies in moons, since the wedding at Winterfell.

The Velaryons do not answer the summoning. It is said Baela Targaryen, infuriated at her cousin’s request, had to be shackled to her bedpost, ranting and raving threats of greeting  Aemond Targaryen in Dragonstone — with a sword down his throat.

And then, at last, the King’s fleet arrives. An outlandish six ships, with more guards than dare fit on the island, enough chamber-maids to fill the Great Hall, and the main figureheads of the Green Council. Up above flies Sunfyre, a watchful eye amid the clouds, yet his back remains riderless. The King, instead, stands at your side aboard the ship, his mother and grandsire on the opposite end of him.

At last, you step foot on Dragonstone, and that is when you notice her.

Vhagar, a mass resting atop a hill, too large to nest within the caves, too lonesome to answer the call of her kind, the excited screeches taking place on sand as Tesarion and Sunfyre circle one another, jostling against the keepers who attempt to wrangle the pair into the mouth of a cave. You watch as the giant she-dragon merely lifts her head, peering at the antics, before laying back down, uninterested in the commotion of everyone’s arrival.

To tell the truth, you are not all that interested in greeting everyone either, too many heads bowing in your direction as you smile and exchange pleasantries by your husband’s side. The commotion of an extended bloodline retracing the halls of its ancestral home, unwanted as it may have been, only makes it all the more easy to slip away once you cross the threshold of the castle, however, letting your feet sneak off to your own private summoning.

Once you arrive, I recommend you find your way to the library. Alone.

The raven had arrived hours before you departed the capital, shaking out its feathers as you awoke from your slumber. You barely had the time to read over it once before the doors to your chambers came barreling open, an army of ladies waiting to grab all your loose threads and sort them back into place. Wash your hair, scrub your skin, rouge your lips. Tighten your bodice, clasp your necklace, rest the dainty tiara atop your head.

Running your thumb over the dried ink, you trace the words he wrote to you, before tucking the note safely back into the sleeve of your dress.

The library is miniscule in comparison to the one living within the Keep, yet it still manages to steal your breath away, stumbling through the door. Rows of dark oak bookcases, stuffed full of colourful, aged, leather-bound, cloth-bound spines of books. The smell of old, the smell of history, with a hint of spice and a flare of cinnamon. Candles with their wax melting into the surfaces they rest upon. Chairs, cushioned by green leather and detailed with dragon-like carvings. A table littered with scrolls, and ink, and feather quills, signs of life having been here. But no sign of Aemond Targaryen.

Boredom brings your feet to a halt within the row of bookcases furthest from the door, curiosity leads your hand to pulling at the spine of an aged book. Dragons: A Record of the Hatched. The smell of dust infects your nostrils as you flick through the wrinkled pages, from end to beginning.

Morning has yet to be listed. You let a few pages flick past, find yourself staring at the sketch of a familiar creature. Syrax. A splotch of ink covers the name of her rider. Turn to the next page, and there sits the Blood Wyrm, with Aemon Targaryen followed by a splotch of ink listed under his riders. Page after page, dragon after dragon, sketch after sketch, the names of the Black Council sit hidden behind stains of black ink.

An uneasy feeling stirs in your stomach and a sadness burns at your eyes, staring down at how easily their existences are being erased from history. How long, you wonder, until Rhaenyra Targaryen is nothing but the beggar Queen in a folk song, another name lost to time and another life lost to the throne? How long until the stories of the Black Council are more myth than fact?

How fickle of a thing, life. Order dictates that a name promises a legacy, a memory, a marking in a family tree to be listed until the end of time. And, yet, so easily man picks and chooses the scraps of history that will remain, when time has long passed and all who lived through it have perished back into the ground.

The sickening feeling wells inside you, uncomfortable and heavy, and so you turn another page, and another, and another, until you find yourself faced with Vhagar. The sketch does no justice to her sheer size, cramped within the page, but your eyes do not linger long enough to care. Instead, they are reading over the list of riders to find the one they seek. Aemond Targaryen. You lift a hand off the edge of the book, fingers skirting forward to trace over the lustrous A of his name.

The weight of the book shifts, resting carefully in the palm of your left hand, teetering on the edge of slipping, when something grabs at you. With a great smack, the book crashes to the floor, a cloud of dust bursting out as its pages snap shut. Arms wind around your waist, loose yet firm in their hold, and a spread of warmth blankets over your back.

“They just reached the crypts. We have less time than I had hoped.”

The voice is a whisper in your ear, a fleeting kiss against your neck, the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Gentle, soothing, delicate. Something given only to you, meant only for you. It warms a chill within you, melts away the frost encasing your heart, heating you to the bone and soothing the uneasy feeling in your loins. It is the feeling of tired limbs sinking into soft sheets, it is the feeling of stepping through the familiar gates of Winterfell, it is the feeling of home. It is Aemond.

The arms that bind you to him pull a little tighter, a momentary rob of your breath. Your hands claw at his wrists, squeezing down to feel the firmness of bone beneath skin, skin beneath leather. No ink, no paper, no written promises. Tangible, tactile, sentient. Him, him, him. Firm at your back, calm in your heart, forgiving in your ear. Your tongue itches to tell him you have endured that longing, the very same he confessed to, head deep in his cups, mouth stained in the strawberry jam of your tarts.

“You erased them. Their names, they no longer exist,” the words are an accusation, your tone is not. It is just — sad, empty, disbelieving. The mourning of strangers, a family you met once upon a time, a table set in honour of a dying man, a family feud brushed falsely aside. Until the tension snapped, until Aemond raised his cup. Final tribute.

Final.

Tribute.

“Traitors have no place in our history,” fingers tug at the green velvet of your dress, moulding the golden stitching of a dragon out of shape. You resist his call to turn, not when his words feel so cold compared to his touch. “By order of the King.” 

“They were your family, your blood,” you say, willing it to mean something, willing him to show a moment of vulnerability, like his confession amid tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets. A rusty chain in need of oiling, his remorse sits buried beneath layers of oxidised irony, a faux coldness the sorrowful look in his eye so often contradicts.

You turn, at your own will, and find that very look staring back at you. Momentarily, it bleeds with something, the sharpness in his stare softening as he takes in the features of your face, as if he needs reminding of how you look, to tune his imagination more deftly to your true image.

“They tried to kill you,” it is a whisper yet the prince almost seems to spit it out, as though it is a struggle to let the words form on his tongue, his eye widening as if the memories all come barreling in, the sight of blood on your skin, blood on your sleeping gown, coin beneath his table. “Do not ask me to mourn them.”

“And what of it, if I do ask it of you?” It is daring, to straighten your back and tighten your grip on his wrists, only to drop them and grab for his face, instead, as he tries to flee from your eyes. You hold him there, thumb smoothing over scarred cheek. “Would you mourn them?”

His mouth does not answer.

Instead, it kisses you.

Everything melts away under his lips, all thoughts, and questions, and pleadings. Words drift away, your mind rids itself of all the letters that do not belong to him. Aemond. Why would you ever need more than those six letters?

It is the seventh time the prince has joined his mouth to yours. You know this not because you have tried to keep count, but because each one is as striking as the last, as utterly world-bending, and fear-ending, and noteworthy.

There was the night in your chambers, from sudden kiss, to hesitant lips, to sinful tongues. Two nights later, the weight of Helaena’s teary eyes still heavy on your shoulders, you fell tangled amongst sheets with him once more. Breaths exchanged, whimpered names, a carnal hunger that only grew the more you both fed it. Twice, with no respite between, as the moon hung stars in the sky. And when the sun began to paint an orange hue, he woke you just to have you once more, eyes barely departing from sleep, bodies laying on their sides, a leg thrown over his waist, and a hand cradling your mouth against his own.

The last kiss had tasted of sorrow and longing. In the early hours of the morning, a flurry of soft knocks at a door opened to him, wide awake and dishevelled.

“I could not do it,” he had muttered, cradling you closer with each step he took into the room. “Not again.”

Though the matter of this it had never been clarified, you knew, you understood. You agreed. Not again could you see yourselves departed from another, without so much as a proper goodbye. Suddenly, that momentary longing you had to return to the Keep had been nothing but a bout of insanity, and all you wished was to fall asleep one more night in Dornish sheets. Instead, you would later count sheep whilst attempting to ignore the turning of wheels and the whinnying of tired horses.

That kiss came with no warning, his mouth on yours in one blink of a teary eye, and lingered longer than either of you dared acknowledge. Each time one seemed ready to let go, the other pulled closer, pressed harder, kissed deeper. An ending, no pause. No see you later, only goodbye. A picture-perfect ending to an affair already gone too far with, left behind by both of you as you raced to return to reality, abandoning the whispers, and the sighs, and the unspoken vows to bury themselves beneath layers of sand and silk.

But this kiss, the one that has your back pressed against the wooden bookshelves and all sense bleeding out of your ears and spilling onto stone floor, is no goodbye. It is hello. It is I missed you. It is welcome home. 

It is a kiss for the simple sake of a kiss, like true lovers do, meant nothing more but to fulfil a craving for one another’s taste. 

“You look lovely in green,” he brushes the compliment against your lips, eye slipping shut and unaware of how your own trace down the healing flesh atop his eyepatch, no sign of the thread of your dress still embedded in his skin. You should be happy he has healed up, yet there is a twist in your gut that longs for the return of something belonging to you being threaded into him, a physical marking of your place in his life, no matter how small a space it occupies. “Have I ever told you so?”

A sting in your eyes. You try to recollect the last time anyone had told you such a thing, paid you such an earnest compliment, and come up empty handed.

You shake your head.

“What a coward. I should have told you, everytime,” he gifts you an eighth kiss, a fleeting peck against your mouth, yet the tingly feeling lingers on, a reminder that he has touched you. “I thought it, each time I saw you wear it.” A ninth kiss. “Each time I saw you wear anything,” a tenth, eleventh, twelfth kiss. “Each time I saw you.”

“Aemond,” you pull back from him, in hope of remembering what you had been saying before he laid his mouth on you.

The brush of a hand up your thigh has you forgetting all over again, head falling back against the books with a gentle thud and a subtle sigh. If he notices the way your legs slip open with no resistance, or how the left one hooks itself so easily over his hip, the prince says nothing. 

A trail of goosebumps, following the path of his palm up the length of your inner thigh, tugging at the layers of underclothing and smallclothes, meaningless scraps of cotton that only waste time.

Time. 

“We don’t have much time,” you hate yourself for saying it, and even more when he reminds you of the bliss of his kiss down your neck. “You said it.”

“Then we make do and act with haste.”

It takes you longer to register what Aemond says than it does for his fingers to make good on his promise, slipping wordlessly beneath garments and meeting warm skin, wet skin, a buzzing bud of nerves that lives between the apex of your thighs. 

In a pathetic display, a singular circular rub against you, followed by a gentle stroke between your lower lips, has you biting the inside of your cheek, noise stifled in the act. Satisfaction crosses through the prince’s eye, a quirk in the corner of his razor sharp lips. Teasing, playful, he is watching you writhe over his touch.

A harrowing memory dawns over you a moment too late, when Aemond has already gone and spoken his thoughts aloud.

“Eager, Lady Stark?” The tips of two fingers, long, and lithe, and a welcome intrusion in your cunt as the prince curls them, pressing against an eye-roll inducing spot within you. “Tell me, your grace, was it the taste of my tongue or the ludicrous act of sneaking off to meet me, under the very same roof as your husband, that has you soaking my fingers?”

Your lips part. You try to speak, no words are produced.

The prince must mistake it for bashfulness, a challenge to best, for he slowly thrusts his fingers, back and forth, brushing a little deeper each time, curling a little more sinfully against the soft walls of your core, the occasional brush of his thumb over the warmth of your pearl.

No longer biting your cheek, a traitor’s moan, gentile and heard only in the space between you, bursts out your mouth. You speak his name, trying to get the words right, trying to warn him of the unknown spoils he is knuckles-deep in.

Aemond mistakes it for just another call of pleasure.

And then, all by himself, the realisation seems to fall over him.

Hand slips out from under cotton smallclothes and green velvet, fingers that shine wet, shine white beneath candlelight. You stare at them in a mixture of horror, shame, and ruined dignity, apologies already rushing off your tongue before the prince can even speak a word of the seed that drips down his knuckles.

“Aegon, he- Gods, I am sorry,” his silent observation of the white fluid only makes your loins tangle in their own web, a twisted sickness creeping to the back of your throat, the blood draining from your face. “He insisted on coupling, this morning. I did not think-”

Your rambling is interrupted by the sudden intrusion of Aemond’s soiled fingers, thrust against your tongue and coating it in your husband’s flavour.

It should disgust you. It should bring a wave of shame, flooding over you and dragging you beneath its unforgiving surface, drowning you in its overwhelming currents. Remains of an act of marriage, mixed with the taste of your act of passion, and the taste of his skin, beneath it all.

But it is hard to feel shame, when Aemond looks at you with so much approval in his eye, when he’s feeding his fingers deeper, till they bump the palate of your mouth and trigger that teary-eyed effect you remember, all too well, from his chambers’ floor, your knees bruising into stone, his hips fighting against the urge to buck up into the warmth of your mouth.

“It seems I owe my brother some gratitude,” the clink of metal, a belt tugged loose. Somewhere, beneath where your eyes dare stray from his hypnotic gaze, his free hand works himself free from the confines of his breeches. Shooting under your skirts and dragging them up the length of your legs as you lick one last time at his fingers, watching how they slip out your mouth and shine once again beneath the candlelight. Not a trace of Aegon remains, except for between your thighs. “He’s gotten you prepared for me, whether he be so aware or not.”

With one leg hooked around his waist and the layers of your gown bunched around your own, the prince pins you between the bookcase and a hard place, a hard thing, notching at your centre and reminding you of the pleasures of the flesh, the pleasures of Aemond’s flesh.

With one roll, then a second, and a third, of his hips, the prince’s cock sinks slowly inside your cunt. There is a small ache, a sensitivity left behind by Aegon’s earlier frantic motions over the edge of a table, the corner of it digging into the meat of your thigh over, and over, and over again with each uncoordinated thrust. The wince escapes you before you can even try to correct it. The prince stills, instantly, a hand cupping at your cheek and a kiss pressing against the tip of your nose.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he whispers. Gentle, earnest, reassuring. Tears well at your eyes again, you try to blink them away, and scold yourself for getting so wet in the eye, so often. A tear escapes you regardless, charting its own course down your cheek. Aemond catches it with the tip of his tongue, warm against the cold of your face. “Tell me, it will not cause me anger. Tell me if you do not want this.”

Memories of those same words, that same voice, the same body. But a different room, a different position, a different state of undress. Naked, denial, hesitation, then. Clothed, touching, anticipation, now. The prince, buried deep inside you physically, is still giving you the option of an end, of an exit, of pushing him away and repositioning your clothing and leaving, like nothing has ever happened.

It only serves to reaffirm what you do want.

Him. 

Somehow, the surety of this threatens a new wave of tears that you almost shed. You want to collapse into him, sink into the vessels of his arms, let yourself be lost to eternity within his hold. You want to tell him the truth, to tell him what Aegon had wanted of you in his letter, in his chambers, to tell him what Helaena had prophesied. The Stranger. The truth feels too complicated a thing, however, and the sin of lust is a more pleasurable subject to get lost within. You do not have much time, the prince would not wish to waste it on silly things, like feelings, and fears, and where your relationship with your husband stands.

The leg at his waist holds him closer, reaffirming your grip at the first sign of him stepping back. You don’t let him, won’t let him, “it’s fine. I’m fine. Please, don’t let me go.”

The prince proves he can listen well, no more questions falling from his lips, movement resuming in his hips. Slow, smooth, back and forth gyrations, a remedy to the dull ache below your womb, the lubrication of Aegon’s seed aiding in the slide of his cock within you.

A back that digs into the surface behind it, yet you ignore it in favour of the delightful thrill of Aemond working into you each time a little faster, a little harder, a little less restrained. A hand that finds cause amidst his Targaryen tresses, tangling in the locks as the prince’s forehead lays itself to rest upon your own. A set of mouths that hover inches apart, a single breath of air exchanged back and forth in sync with the rhythm of his thrusts.

Time. Time. You do not have much time.

But who is counting the seconds while the pair of you merge into one against the spines of books carrying the words of history? It is best it all be forgotten — the duty, the King, the announcement Aemond has promised his kin — in exchange for just another moment here, pressed one to the other, forgoing titles like Prince, and Queen, remembering only the shape of mouths, and the burn of skin.

The prince’s fingerprints carve out bruises along your thigh, gripping, and pulling, and kneading at the skin, a leverage to grasp onto as he continues to fuck into you. Sweat drips down your neck like wax drips down lit candles, disappearing beneath the lace atop your dress’ bodice and slipping between the valley of your breasts. Warm all over, you crave no refuge from it, from him, tugging him closer, arching your back, losing yourself in the feeling of friction. One foot still pressed to the floor, perching on your tip-toes, your composure buckles alongside your knee and, if not for Aemond’s fast-moving hands, quick-thinking mind, you would be moments away from crashing, elbow first, down to the floor.

Instead, you feel the prince hoist your leg around his waist, ankles locking behind his back with a reinforced grip as he takes on the weight of both your bodies. The effort he puts into fucking you manifests in a series of grunts, clenched teeth that hold back words, bite back filth.

One hand still tangled in his hair, the other stretches up, reaches behind you, scrambling to find purchase on a panel of wood from the bookcase. It finds, instead, the top of a book, slipping down its leather spine. The book falls, crashing to the ground near the one you had been reading with a great sound. A domino effect, in which two, three, four more heavy, bound by string and wrapped in leather, books fall from the shelves. Thud after thud, after thud, no doubt heard from anyone passing by.

The prince does not flee. If anything, he appears almost spurred on by the scandal and mess, a hand sliding from your waist to pull and bunch the layers of your dress higher, as if wishing to unveil to the naked eye the sins transpiring beneath the green of it, the repeated plunge of his manhood into your core, soaked in a vile mixture of your own pleasure and Aegon’s spend.

“This is what you wanted, hmm? What you needed, Lady Stark,” his voice is a whisper, his teeth biting at the lobe of your ear and pulling a shocked gasp from you. “To be filled by a man’s seed, the kind that knows how to get the job done. Not the King’s poor excuse. No. No, not Aegon’s. Mine.”

Time, and how little of it you both have, feels all the more unimportant, that familiar feeling — of everything warm, and soft, and delightful — begins to tighten at your loins, poking and proding at your dizzied conscious as you feel his cock bullying itself deeper, and deeper, impossibly deeper inside of you. The end is near, within your grasp, waiting for the right thrust, or the perfect grind, or the best friction, to finally let the thread snap.

A knock, loud and forceful, at the wooden doors to the library, is followed instantly by a voice. “Is someone in there?”

Movement stops, both of you frozen, bodies tangled in a crucifiable state.

The handle turns, you gasp, Aemond slaps a hand over your mouth. 

For a moment, you feel a weight fall off your shoulders, that ever-looming fear you have dragged along with you — a ball and chain attached to your heart, ever since your return to the capital  — that all your guilt sits written upon your face and, soon, someone will read it and see the treason you have committed, the adultery you have engaged in. For certain, they will have your head separated from the rest of you. Perhaps, the King will find enough grace in his heart to forgive his brother. After all, what blame does he truly possess? He is a man, unmarried and unburdened by the threat of a bastard’s life ever swelling within him. At the very least, you will die swiftly and be able to put all your lamenting to rest at last.

Then, the door fails to open and the prince’s voice is in your ear.

“I locked it. Do not worry.”

Mouth still covered, all you manage is to continue staring at him, eyes wide with fear, heart beating against the confines of your ribs. As if to worsen things, you watch as something flashes behind his eye, and he pulls his hips back only to thrust right back into you, the bookcase rattling softly behind you.

“Who goes there?” Aemond calls out, voice steady, unwavering. Even as he repeats the movement, the slow pull-back of his cock, the quick refilling of your core. “Announce your intentions to your prince.”

The golden handle goes still, a throat clears, and metal clinks, as if a knight were straightening his posture. “Forgive me, Prince Aemond, I did not mean to interrupt, I know how dedicated you are to your studies,” the voice is familiar, something that strikes deeper fear within you and more daring in Aemond’s features.

“Do you think he knows,” the prince croons against your skin, a sickly sweet, well-deep sound that entices you to throw yourself, head first, into it. The dull pleasure between your thighs is slowly rebuilding itself into something monstrous, something you lost sight of at the echo of knuckles on wood, with each thrust the prince drives into you. “Just how dedicated I am to studying you?”

“I was sent in pursuit of the queen,” the man at the door continues when he receives no word from Aemond. Your nails dig scratches into the bookcase. Your heart doubles, triples in speed with each beat it takes, yet you do not push Aemond away, you do not shake your head, you do not so much as move an inch away from him. Your ankles tighten their grip on one another at his back. “Have you seen her?”

Aemond nods, a cheeky grin taking shape upon those lips. As if staring right into your soul, the prince reads you effortlessly, watching as the seconds pass by and sanity slips surely out of your reach, the haze of lust fully overtaking the fear that fights against it.

Another book falls from the case. The man outside is too consumed by the sound of his own voice to notice. At least, you hope. “I’m her sworn shield, you see. Ser Arryk Carg-”

“Have you tried any of the guest chambers?” He cuts the knight off, confident in his words, as if he does not stand mere inches from your face, manhood buried to the hilt inside of you. “Perhaps Lady Stark grew tired of our Graces’ company and desired some much needed respite?”

With a rush of flustered agreements, and a couple of apologies, Ser Arryk clinks away, a mass of metal that grows further away with each step he takes. Not a moment too soon does he leave, for at last the tension snaps and you’re crying out into the prince’s palm, eyes rolling back into your skull as you reach your peak. He follows not long after, a series of grunts that follow the pistoning of his hips before he stills, as deep within you as either of your bodies allow, spilling himself inside your walls.

A few laboured breaths pass between the culmination of your coupling. Your feet meet the ground once more, the aid of Aemond’s hands guiding them down from their pedestal. Weak in the knees, you sink forward, sink into him, hands reaching for any inch of him. The prince meets you halfway, mouth finding your own once more, lips melting together in a fleeting kiss.

Time. You don’t have much time. 

“Aemond,” you whisper, half to grab his attention, half to savour the shape of his name on your tongue. Now is the time to tell him, even if it is rushed out amid heavy breathing and on shaky legs. He needs to hear of it from you, before the threat of Aegon grabs ahold of him, thrusts the news upon him off-guard. “Aemond, there is something you must know-”

He cuts you off, a chaste kiss against your forehead before hands shift your weight backwards, resting you against the bookcase. The same hands adjust the skirts of your dress.

“Turn left down the hall and up the first staircase you see. There you shall find some guest rooms,” he steps back and takes the warmth of him too, leaving goose-skin to bloom along your neck as cold air bites at sweaty skin. “You will need to move with haste, before your sworn shield reaches that wing of the castle.”

The door to the library shuts gently at his back, and there the prince leaves you, chest heaving, lips parted, heart racing. An ache blooming between your legs and the stain of his seed sliding down your thigh.

The very same state Aegon had left you in, hours earlier.

Never has the castle been so full of life.

The flicker of candlelight brightens every hall, painting shadows over slate walls. Voices of men, women, and children carry through the space, ring through every corner. It reminds him, momentarily, of hosting an army of soldiers, mind dragging him back to the dark days and darker nights lived within Harrenhall, echoes of haunted shrieks and unpleasant sleep, men huddling under the crumbling ceiling, mere leagues away from the charred bones of a House that no longer stands. Beneath the molten breath of a dragon, it truly does not matter what name a man wears, he will never be Strong enough to endure the skin-splitting, blood-boiling, eye-popping heat.

In truth, Aemond loathes the sudden company.

Moons now he has lived at peace, Lord to the island and Prince of Dragonstone, waiting idly for the day to come where his duty as heir at last calls upon him. But then he just had to go and open that damned letter, answer a call that never should have been laid at his feet, and fly out to the dusty lands of Dorne. The new warmth in the air to blame for all his impropriety, landing him tangled with you in his own muddied desires. Since then, the prince has known no peace: his bed now too quiet, his castle now too empty, his… you now too far away.

The restlessness is what drove him to act, hours spent with his nose thrust between the pages of books, wrist cramping and fingers aching as they wielded a quill, delicate swirls filling empty pages. When he ran out of things to read, and history to recount before sending it off in ravens to the maesters at Oldtown, he took to the courtyard, determined to make men out of squawking squires, so puppy-eyed and pink-cheeked, they seemed to have hardly lived a day away from their mothers’ teats. And when that became a bore, a lost cause he dumped back on the shoulders of the master of arms, the prince took to exploring. A lonesome activity, peaceful enough to find an emblem of rest for his soul in the echo of his own footsteps bouncing off cave walls. It was there, deep in the dark corners of the island, he stumbled upon a discovery, a reason to call upon the King, an excuse to see your face. After all, where the King goes, the Queen is expected to follow.

Were matters left in his hands, the only raven sent would have been the one flying out to King’s Landing. Unfortunately, the rational words of a maester had him agreeing that this was too momentous a thing to not include all those of his bloodline, no matter if that blood be thick or thin.

And here he now stands, seeking out that quiet his castle had lost the moment their ships all docked ashore. Falsely, he had believed he would find it hidden away in the hall that houses the throne of Dragonstone, away from the rapidly filling dining hall. The unwelcome sight of a crown sitting lopsided on a head of silver hair halts his step.

“Tread carefully, brother,” Aemond watches how the other man’s shoulders rise with a jump, startled by the sudden sound of his voice announcing his arrival. No guards stand nearby, no guests watch on. It is just them, the King and the Crown Prince, and the heavy presence of Dragonstone’s seat, currently being warmed beneath Aegon’s rump. “Your throne is in King’s Landing. That one belongs to your heir, to me.”

Propped upon his throne, the King swings both legs over its side. Aemond ponders over the man’s distasteful care for grace, an image that so wholly encapsulates his attitude towards ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and feels himself fighting off a frown. How can it be that the gods chose Aegon to man the task of carrying on the dragon empire?

He, a drunken fool, a boy more interested in spreading a whore’s legs than a book’s pages. He, a graceless soldier, a threat to his own safety each time he wields a blade. He, a useless husband, a leech draining the life out of a wolf-pup, locking her away in a kennel with not a lick of water nor a stroke of affection.

Aemond could recite the pages of every book, back to front.

Aemond could thrust his sword through the chest of his uncle with one hand, while the other steered Vhagar free from plummeting through the surface of the God’s Eye.

Aemond would keep the wolf at his heel — morning, noon, evening  — close by and content for eternity, free to roam beyond the four walls of a castle.

“Worry not, I just wanted to make sure you’re keeping the seat warm.” As if to make matters worse, Aegon gives him one of those smiles, the kind that flashes half of his teeth and accentuates how foolish he looks, unkempt hair swaying as he rises off the seat. The crown slides a little closer to the left, his ear caught beneath the band of it.

“The others are taking their seats at the table,” he shifts his weight, one foot to another, one hand clasped over the other behind his back — just like your ankles had been. The pommel of his sword pokes out the opening of his leather coat, pointing ahead at an approaching Aegon. Strapped to his side for nothing but purely decorative reasons, the younger brother suddenly feels the hackles rising in his neck, a need to unsheath the steel itching at his palms. No one would have to know, no one would see him hold a blade to the King’s neck. “And here you are, hiding away in a damp room, sitting in my seat, and-”

“A seat I gave you,” Aegon cuts in, a smug lilt lifting his words and delivering them harshly into Aemond’s ears. Where the younger of the two delivers accusations with the seriousness they deserve, the older brother has always thrown a blanket of humour over every argument, debasing the sentiment, luring his opponent into a false sense of safety.

“You have no child to call heir. As the eldest of your male siblings, I am next in line, by right. You have given me nothing.” Nothing but a dull ache in the head. 

That respite he had come searching for, now so out of reach. It has the prince longing, wishing he could travel back in time to being burrowed between the shelves of books and the warmth between your thighs. He should have stayed longer, kept the door locked and you close, for as long as you would allow him. 

But he had been spooked.

First by your sworn shield, a confirmation that your absence had been noted and the two of you were far away from the lack of watchful eyes of the Water Gardens. Then, by that look that came over your face, the words that left your mouth. Hesitance, vulnerability, shame. Aemond, there is something you must know. If this something was the reason for your shift in demeanour, he did not want to know. For once, he wanted to taste just how sweet ignorance could be.

A laugh pulls him back to the present.

A cackle, in truth. Shoulders shaking, cheeks wrinkling with the stretch of Aegon’s lips, eyes reflecting the dull flames that remain on the candles. The King paints an unsettling image, the mixture of lighthearted laughter lit beneath the growing darkness of the hall, the echoes of noise bouncing off the walls, swirling atop Aemond’s head like a murder of crows, each one waiting to spot something shiny to dive down and peck at.

An arm is thrown over his shoulder, five tight fingers clamping a grip on the back of his neck. Can you feel your wife’s fingerprints, singed into the skin you are touching? His brother fortunately cannot hear his inner thoughts, too busy bending himself at an awkward angle, his shorter stature struggling to turn the prince towards the door.

“Lighten up, brother!” With a clenched fist, Aegon delivers a weightless punch into his bicep, the hand at his neck squeezing him even closer, the King’s chest pressing into the prince’s elbow. Reluctantly, he follows in the footsteps of the elder, letting himself be led over and out of the hall. The door thuds shut at their backs, neither of them sparing at it. Out in the hallway, the world seems brighter, louder, a distant hum of chattering voices coming from the left. In sync, uncomfortably close, the pair move towards the noise. “Is the lack of whores in this decrepit place leaving your cock so lonesome you now see it as a weapon? Say the word and I’ll have your favourite madame shipped over. Or better yet, come home. We’ll visit the streets together, just like when we were boys.”

Boys. The word makes Aemond feel sick, empty stomach twisting up inside him. His older brother had never grown out of that mindset — boyish, foolish, reckless. At times, Aemond had wondered if the King had robbed him of his boyhood, kept those years for himself and left the younger nothing but the misery of being a man — grown, wise, calculated. 

Two sets of guards stand at either side of the double-doorway, swords hanging at their sides, armour fixed to each inch of skin, floor-length spears clenched in their right fists. One after the other, they bow their heads as the Targaryen men pass by them.

A table stands in the centre, set with the shiniest of tableware and topped by pitchers full of wines, meads, and baskets spilling fruits down their sides, and assortments of breads and cheeses. He counts a total of six birds, roasted and sitting on silver platters up the length of the table. In the very centre, an entire pig shines pink beneath the light, an apple clamped in its mouth and a bed of leaves cushioning it upon the platter. And, gathered around it all, any guest with a name worth mentioning.

Children, cousins, siblings, wives.

Martell, Hightower, Targaryen, Stark.

Across the room, standing at her husband’s side, with a stiff-lipped smile and a barely-there attempt at engaging with the woman dishing out congratulations, stands Rhaena Targaryen. Grown a head and a half taller since the cousins had last crossed paths all those years ago, sat around a table not so different from this one, her white curls cascade down the back of her black dress, denoted with the shine of red rubies and golden stitching. In a sea of Hightower green, she stands out like an aching thumb painted in colours of her dead queen. For her audacious bravery alone, Aemond feels a smirk twitch at the corner of his lips. It falters the moment you come into focus.

A vision wrapped in green, you stand before his cousin, smile a blinding light that pulls him into its vortex, numbing him to all else that surrounds him. The emerald gowns, the mustard robes, the golden chains, the auburn hairs, it all grows mute, a dull grey beside the colour you wear, possess, exude, a rainbow that strikes its mark across dark clouds.

Your lips are moving. You are talking, with both hands clasped at your front and fingers that fidget with the rings housed upon them. A pause in conversation, an exchange of laughter. There is an air of hesitance in everything you do, standing before Rhaena Targaryen and the small bump that protrudes out her midriff. The desire to swoop in by your side, to snake his hand into your own and give those nervous fingers a solid squeeze of reassurance, to watch the stress flood down the length of your spine and melt away to torment some other body, it burns at Aemond.

But, he does not move. He cannot move. And, even in a world where he can, he doubts his presence would do any good at diffusing the tension that swells in the air around his cousin. Quite the opposite, truly, his face alone may be what drives her to at last snap and drop the forced smiles.

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Aegon’s voice cuts in, and the room bursts back into colour. The hall grows loud, a renewed noise the prince had unknowingly blocked out the moment his eye found you. The same eye he drags away to look at his brother who has just caught him unapologetically staring at you like you are the only person in the hall. Humour still dances over his features, a daring grin spread upon his mouth as he glances between you and Aemond. “She’s even prettier on her back,” the hand at Aemond’s neck slips down, a sharp smack delivering itself upon it. “Maybe someday I’ll let you try her, brother, let you get a taste of how it feels to be king for the night, between her thighs.”

Visions of you, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, lips dropped open, burn behind Aemond’s eyelid with each blink. In the library, legs clinging to him, sweat slipping under your dress. On the bed, bare to his mouth, hands tugging him deeper by the hair. If that is what it feels to be king, he can die happily without ever knowing the weight of the Conqueror’s crown upon his head, because how could that possibly feel better?

“I was not aware you were so fond of her,” he finds himself retorting, stealing any excuse to look at you.

Helaena has reached your side, one arm linked with yours, and he can see how visibly relaxed you are in her presence, shoulders back down where they belong instead of pointing up to your ears.

“Perhaps I was not. But let’s say I’ve had a revelation of sorts.”

“Oh,” the sound escapes him dripping in… something. Envy, disappointment, confusion? He hates to give his brother any chance to pry into his own mind, if ever Aegon possessed the wits to do so, and finds himself clearing his throat, fixing his neutral expression back on, reopening his mouth. “And what would that revelation be exactly?”

Both you and Helaena part from where his cousin stands, arms still linked and eyes too caught up with one another to notice the way you both almost smack into two members of the Kingsguard, Giggling, like two young girls who share the biggest secret, you make your ways further down the length of the table, searching for the little cards that hold your names, mark your place along the table. He itches to follow after you both, to pull back your chair and offer it out to you. Maybe he could even lie, switch your card around with his brother’s to have you just that little bit closer.

“That I enjoy being king. And I want to continue being one, for as long as I like,” the reply has Aemond’s head snapping immediately back to his brother. No longer is he painted like a fool with humour, but something different. Something Aemond has never seen reflected on his features. Determination, it almost seems. “I do not want to just be king. I want to be good at it,” he continues speaking, head turning to where their grandfather stands, smiling politely back at you as he pulls out your chair. “And, if I want to be a good king, I need to be a good husband.”

Aemond wishes he never inquired about the revelation.

Is this what you had wanted to tell him? Is this what he must know? That no longer are you a pair split in two, but a union. A united force. A marriage. A good husband, and a good wife, and absolutely no one else in between. Had the only reason you had even gone to the library been to put an end to the madness transpiring between you and the prince? Aemond had given you an out, but had he given you enough time to truly think your answer through, before he put his hands on you once more?

“I do appreciate all the… kindness you have shown my wife,” your name curls over Aegon’s tongue and the sound is a poison to Aemond’s ears. Wrong, out of place, he does not deserve the grace of speaking such a pretty name. “Over the years, dancing with her at feasts, and even keeping her safe on that boat up north. I think I’ll do those things myself from now on, however, take that burden of mine off your shoulders.”

He wants to protest. Wants to say you are far from a burden. Wants to insist on his usefulness, on how he can keep you blissfully busy upon the ballroom floor while Aegon sneaks off to mess around with women of coin and drown in his cups. Wants to use Aegon’s own words against him, that a King should not waste his time travelling sea, or dirt, or anywhere else you may be, when he has the skies at his disposal. 

But his tongue is made of lead and he is too weak to speak, frozen as he watches you speak across the table to his mother. Suddenly, the fact that all but himself and the King have taken their seat strikes upon his conscience. That hand claps against his back again and, though it is weaker than the last, Aemond wavers under the impact, swaying slightly.

“Come, brother,” Aegon whispers, a chuckle sneaking out. “Let us sit. Your King is eager to hear what announcement you bring.”

Seventeen.

That is the number of times your eyes have betrayed you and turned to sneak a glance at him. 

He crests the top of the table, sitting by himself and staring down at his summoned guests. Power suits him, especially the kind that rolls off him in waves, pride in his eye at the way everyone is looking at him, hanging on to every last one of his words, patient anticipation for the why and the what of Aemond’s ravens. He is close. Close enough you can swell the spiced freshness you have come to recognize on his skin. All that sits between you and the prince is Aegon.

Aegon, who currently has a mouthful of pork and a hand resting, possessive, at the back of your chair. It is a distracting fact. One that robs you of the ability to pay Helaena and your good-mother the attention they deserve, only half hearing their exchanges of mutual flattery, complimentary words on dresses, and hairs, and smoothness of skins. Every so often, a young girl tugs at Helaena’s sleeve, seeking her mother’s help with cutting the food on her plate.

Otto Hightower sits across from your husband, engrossed in conversation with his three grandsons and Ser Criston, who you barely recognize out of his armour. The hand’s pendant sits pinned to the leather jerkin he doubtlessly has borrowed.

Further down the table, guests sit entranced in their own bubbles of conversation, a hollow chatter that buzzes throughout the room. The table is no longer the picture of perfection it once had been, platters of half eaten carcasses, and stains of spilled wine, and sparse grape vines housed in empty fruit-bowls.

All it takes is the clink of a knife against a glass for the bubble to burst.

Silence befalls the table as every head turns towards Aemond, expectantly, only to find him frozen and with equal question in his eye. Down the other end of the table, someone clears their throat, a chair scrapes back, and Rhaena Targaryen stands up.

Her lips are stretched wide, so far up her cheeks you can almost hear the way her skin cracks under the pressure of it. You half expect the corners of her mouth to split open. She reaches a hand down towards the table and, where you think she is going to grab at her goblet, she reaches for an empty plate and a fork.

“Pardon my intrusion,” she calls out with not a hint of apology, smug satisfaction candying her voice. All eyes follow as she steps away from her seat, yet none seem as panicked as those of her husband, who borders somewhere between scolding her and dashing after her. He remains seated, however, as the Targaryen girl travels slowly up the length of the table, plate and fork gripped tightly in her hands. “But I cannot sit still with the joy this all brings me.”

Eighteen times now.

To unsuspecting eyes, you are certain the prince appears unbothered, unshaken. The way his finger twitches over the wood beneath it tells you a different tale.

It would be so easy to reach out and intertwine your hands. Just a simple stretch of your arm, you would not even have to scoot your chair closer. If only your husband were not between you, a boulder in the shape of a man unbothered by his cousin’s display, shovelling up another mouthful of food.

“To sit here, at this table, surrounded by so much… family,” Rhaena continues her advance, coming to a halt halfway up the table. Turning her attention towards the glistening pig — or, better said, what remains of it. With no apology, she squeezes a space for herself between two seated bodies, the subtle swell of her expectant womb bumping at the shoulder of a woman you scarcely recognise — a hightower, no doubt about it, wrapped in green and the emblem of their house denoted across her left breast. “Such a beautiful site we all make. Why, I wonder, has it taken us so long to gather like this?” She pauses, only a moment, and you watch how her piercing gaze zeroes in on the man who sits at the head of the table. “Ah, that’s right. The last family feast ended in fisticuffs and.. Strong accusations. But we were just children back then, weren’t we, cousins? We have grown. I do hope so, at least. It would be such a shame to learn there is still someone among us who cannot take a mere… Joke!”

A stomach-turning noise fills the hall as you watch Rhaena stab her fork into the pig’s eye.

The left eye.

Nineteen times. Aemond’s jaw sits impossibly clenched, so much that you fear for the survival of his teeth.

Back by the pig, Rhaena raises her fork to the air in a sickening toast, eye secure in its prongs as she smiles a little wider and loudly proclaims, “To House Targaryen! Long may she reign!”

Heads shift, back and forth, no hands moving for their cups until the King himself does so, laughter bubbling out of him followed by an obnoxious, “Hear, hear!” Within an instant, glasses rise and heads tilt back, welcoming the burn of wine down their throats.

Twenty, and you see that even Aemond follows suit, though his eye remains glued on Rhaena’s back as she carries herself triumphantly to her chair.

No sooner than she scrapes herself back into place, another clink rings out. Once again, all heads turn to the prince and, once again, he greets them with his own confusion. Close by, it is Daeron who’s legs stretch to a stand, hand clasping at a goblet. 

With a clearing of his throat, the youngest of the siblings commences. “I hesitated on whether I wished to deliver this news at the table, however, cousin, you have inspired me.” Ever the polite man, it would not be hard to take his words towards Rhaena as true, as honest, as appreciative. The fierce loyalty that exists for his Green family, on the contrary, has you believing it is nothing but a means for peace at the table. “After the many happy years I have spent living in Oldtown, I have decided it is time I take my leave. It is time I return home,” he pauses, glancing over at his mother. “To King’s Landing. And, if the King finds place for me, I would like to do so as a knight of the Kingsguard, under the command of the very man who taught me to wield my first blade, Ser Criston Cole.”

Without a pause for silence, Aegon is shooting out of his chair and rounding the table, pulling his brother into his side and clapping a hand over his chest, “I’m sure I’ll find a space for you! Seven hells, we can hang one of the other six and have his armour melted down and reworked to fit you. Can’t we, Ser Criston? Pick amongst yourselves, whoever’s the weakest link.” There’s an eruption of laughter, and you take it as an excuse to sneak a twenty-first look. The doubt on his face matches your own, a worry that the poor fools at the table think the King speaks in jest.

Cups raised, wine sipped, seats refilled. Aegon returns to your side a ball of energy, hands fidgeting without control. First, one lands on your thigh closest to him and clamps down on the meat of it. The same hand shoots up, fingertips brushing over your cheek, tangling in a loose thread of hair and tucking it behind your ear, pulling a little tighter than you think he intends. At last, he returns it to the spot behind your chair, fingers drumming a nervous energy into the carved wood, and a third knife meets a glass.

This time, it is Aemond, and you have your twenty-second chance to look at him.

And keep looking at him, just like everyone else is, eager ears awaiting to hear what brings them all to the island. 

“I will not waste your time with unnecessary words,” but you wish he would, if only to listen to the soothing lullaby of his voice enough to memorise it a little better, refine how your sleeping mind tries replicate it when you are drowning in the waters of dreams and his is the only face you want to conjure by your side. “I have already taken enough of your time, dragging you all out here.”

Pause for laughter. And for him to shoot a pointed look down the table at his cousin and her plate-full of pig’s eye. See, he seems to be saying, I can joke. 

“It is no lie that our house is half of what it used to be. War is a god, however, and it demands a sacrifice in the shape of death. The dragons we lost are not a stain on our hands, but all of those who dared mount them with treacherous intentions.”

No sound has ever haunted you as deeply as the screech of a dying dragon.

It is a memory you do best to suppress, the screech of Helaena’s she-dragon struggling to escape her attackers, horrific shrieks carried from the Dragon Pit all the way up to your window at the Keep. The momentary burst of freedom, the flash of Dreamfyre rising out the crumbling roof of the Pit, only to crash back down in one final scream, the city turning silent moments after. Your good-sister had been inconsolable for days, a mess of tears, that bond between princess and beast lost forever to the rioting of smallfolk.

“But, we can rebuild what they took from us. That is what I wish to show you all,” Aemond continues. He nods his head towards a serving wench and, with a screech, the doors of the hall open, making way for two men, a heavy chest carried between them, and a man carrying the chain of a maester around his neck. The chest travels up the hall, all the way to the prince’s side, before coming to a rest gently on the floor. With ease, he twists a key, tugs off the lock, and throws the lid open, hands disappearing within. When they emerge, it is with an oval shaped rock in each one. No, not rocks. Eggs. 

The maester at Aemond’s side holds out two more eggs. Each a different colour of scaly, rough surface. There is a golden one that reminds you of Sunfyre’s own scales. A black one that, as Aemond turns it in the light, undertones of a dark green shine through, and a pale lilac egg that appears near white. The most striking of the four — and the one you feel your eyes drawn to the moment it is unveiled — a bright, sapphire blue colour.

“A clutch of four,” he says, a look of pride on his face as he stares out at expressions of amazement. “I found them in the depths of the caves. Our maester has already confirmed to me they show promise of hatching, with time and patience. We will have a new generation of dragons.”

The first to move is Alicent, who rises out of her chair, hands clasped over her heart as she makes her way over to her son. Careful of the eggs in his hands, she wraps herself around his slim waist. “Aemond,” she speaks so softly, you doubt the other end of the table hears her. Hesitant fingers reach out, halting, only to let themselves brush down the length of the golden egg at the prince’s insistence. “This is wonderful news! You have… Oh, my sweet boy, you have saved us, ensuring the future of your house.”

Those words are enough to send the room into a ruckus of applause. Voices cheer, hands bang down on the table, cups are toasted and emptied. But you pay them no mind, not even a single glance over your shoulder.

All you care to look at is Aemond, and the earnest smile that takes over his face. Happiness looks good on him. It warms the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks, the length of his neck, a rosy hue blooming beneath porcelain skin. He deserves to look like this all the time, radiant beneath the spotlight of people’s praise, the validation of being recognised for the things he does on behalf of his family. The rug is ripped from beneath his feet, however, with the clearing of a throat and a fourth clang of a knife.

Celebrations cease and chairs are refilled as their king comes to a stand.

“I’ve never been one for speeches. In truth, I find them to be a bore,” Aegon laughs at his own honesty, and the others are quick to follow. “But, listening to you all, well, it inspired me to give it a try. First, I want to thank all of you in this room. It’s no secret the trials and tribulations that have tested our family since my coronation. You, who fought for my claim, are the true heroes of our realm, and your king is proud of you all. If only my father were still here, I’m sure he’d feel the same, pride for those who defended the heir he chose with his dying breath,” a choked back laugh echos from down the table as Rhaena saws her steak knife through the eye. “If any doubt still remains towards my claim, I believe my dear brother’s discovery is a sign from the gods, the gift of more dragons. And, for that, I thank you, Aemond.”

“It is I who must thank you, brother,” the prince interrupts, eye looking just past where the King stands, cup in hand, and at where you sit, hand tugging at your husband’s sleeve and an unspoken pleading furrowing your brows. It seems I owe my brother some gratitude, Aemond’s voice replays in your mind, so real you can almost feel the shelves at your back, the smell of dust and books in the air, the sound of Ser Arryk knocking at the door. “For naming me as your heir and gifting me Dragonstone.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, brother. These dragon eggs are the dawn of a new era for us all, one of prosperity,” heads that nod in sync, radiant joy still beaming from Alicent’s face. The smile on Aemond’s face, however, is gone, stolen by Aegon. “But they are not the only gift the gods have favoured my reign with.”

The urge to drag your husband back down into his seat spikes at those words. You want to shovel food into his mouth, fill his stomach with wine, sew his lip shut. Anything, before he says something foolish, something he should not.

But as you tug harsher at the sleeve of his doublet, the King misunderstands. He turns to you, fingers twisting themselves in an uncomfortable grip with your own and pulling you to stand at his side, that same hand curling around your back and holding you tight against him.

“Apologies, it seems my wife wants to help me do the honours,” you shake your head, shooting Aegon a look he does not even notice, too busy smiling out at the table full of his family. Too busy pulling you that little closer, both of your sides smushed together. Too busy smoothing the hand that still houses his glass down the golden embroidery of your dress, an honour to his own dragon. Too busy bringing his hand to a stop atop your lower stomach, knuckles brushing against the green velvet. “After many years of marriage, the gods have at last blessed my wife’s womb with a child of our own. A new heir.”

If anyone cheers, if anyone raises their glass alongside the King, if anyone congratulates you, you do not hear them. You do not see them.

All you see is Aemond, frozen in his chair, face a mirror for anger, and white-knuckling his grip on his chalice, refusing to drink, refusing to toast.

Refusing to look anywhere else but your sorry eyes.

You send a letter, the eve of your return. 

I did not wish for you to find out like that, from him. You must believe me. 

By morning, no reply arrives. By noon, no reply arrives. By evening, no reply arrives. As a day turns to two, and two turns into a moon, no reply arrives.

The ravens no longer perch upon your window.

+ extra hyde !

this week, a new bombshell has entered the villa! so aegon bestie is trying to be a better king/husband. how are we feeling about that, chat? definitely don't see this being a point of contention.

in completely unrelated news, rumour has it that taste by sabrina carpenter can be heard on dragonstone at full volume, on repeat, 24/7. sources say the noise is coming from prince aemond targaryen's room.

my irl bestie is reading this fic on ao3 & now i'm so hyperaware of any smut i write. hopefully, i rectify my own apprehension towards writing the filth these two deserve in time for next chapter, because they're supposed to fuck, no more of the silly couplings they've done so far. thankfully my bestie and i are long distance right now so i won't have to look her in a the eye for a while.

see you next month <3

[writer-by-the-sea]

Jdndnnd Ur work makes me giggle and kick my feet... For the request I'd love angst to comfort, light angst ofc nothing too serious;

Farmer forgetting/not having time to visit Elliott for almost two weeks bc of farm work... and finally the writer can't take it anymore and goes to the farm to confront the farmer. They're not dating but they're having very intimate friendship with mutual pinning :p

(take ur time ofc 🫶!!!!!)

Like Home.

I thought I knew loneliness.

Until now.

----------------------

Slight angst, fluff, and loneliness. Thank you for the request! I am very rusty but I hope you like it!

Read below or continue reading on AO3.

In my youth, I thought I knew what loneliness felt like. 

My mother would leave me at home for hours, picking me up and setting me down in her library. A library with books all the way up to the ceiling, encouraging me to reach as high as I could. 

I would read book after book, tearing through the pages as if it would be taken from me at any given moment. Mystery, romance, biographies, fantasy, adventure, self help, horror, anything and everything that my little hands could grasp. 

Of course, looking back on those times, those bookshelves weren't tall. The library wasn't a library at all but a small office with books collected over the years from garage sales or discount goods stores. 

But the books, the books I would always hold dear. Because even in my loneliness moments, hunched over another story, when my thoughts would drift to my own family… my mother who is never home, or my father who didn't stay– books, were my company, my friends, my family, my home. 

I thought I knew loneliness. 

Until now. 

Every morning, I stretch on the beach. Rain, snow, sleet, or hail; I make the effort to stand outside before the ocean and take in the fresh sea air. 

And every morning, my favorite farmer would join me with a steaming cup of coffee. We would sip our drinks together, stealing glances at one another over the rim of our mugs, and we would chat. About anything and everything. 

For the first time in my life, I didn't feel the need to run away to my library. I didn't feel like I was alone in the world, left out in the woods with no way home. 

Because the farmer became my company, my friend, my family, my home. In the course of a year, I'd grown as attached to them as I did my books. 

The first morning they didn't come to visit me, I took no offense. Winter was coming to an end and the ground was finally soft enough to till. It only made sense that they didn't visit. 

The third day had me rethinking our last conversation. Had I said something to offend them? Had my eyes lingered too long over their body with too obvious of want? 

On the fifth day, I began writing a very strongly worded letter. All teeth and no kindness, demanding to know why they didn't visit me and what on earth I could have done to warrant such behavior. For an entire year we would drink our coffee together, huddled close as we whispered secrets and gossip. I tore the letter to shreds, it was just caffeine withdrawal. Surely I would see the farmer again soon. 

A week and a half passed. Not a single visit. Not a single letter despite myself sending them three. They didn't come to the inn, they never stopped by the bathhouse. 

And yet– others had seen them. Pierre told me how the farmer came in a few days ago. Selling and buying goods for the farm. He smirked at me and said, “did the two love birds have a little spat?” 

I left in a huff, leaving behind the bread I was planning to purchase and made my way to the farm. All the while creating imaginary conversations with the farmer in my head. Preparing myself for the worst, preparing myself to be alone once more, left alone in a library while my tears slowly dripped down my cheeks and into the worn pages. 

When I arrived, I stopped to catch my breath and took the time to look around. A few small sprouts of new plants poked through the ground, the wind giving them a light tussle, welcoming me to the farm with their own little wave. 

Knocking at the door, I crossed my arms over my chest and waited. My foot tapped impatiently on the wooden deck. I didn't want to appear rude, or as though I owned all of the farmer's time to myself; but… a life without them wasn't something I was willing to have. 

I knocked again, harder this time.

Still no answer. 

Just as I was about to leave, gritting my teeth and making my way back down the steps; I saw them. 

The farmer was already grinning when they spotted me, waving me over excitedly before running back into their barn. 

While I wanted to ignore the little ping in my heart at finally seeing them once again, to flip my hair and turn away from the barn to make my way home– I found myself entering the barn. 

Inside the farm sat on their knees, their hands and forearms covered in dried blood. 

And a baby calf, peacefully lounging in the straw with its mother stroking her tongue all over to clear them up. The farmer laughed at the mother gave them a quick lick on the side of their face. 

“She’s been ready to deliver for nearly two weeks now,” the farmer said as they helped to clear more of the signs of birth from the babe. “I've hardly even left the farm besides running to Pierre’s to get more seeds and towels for the delivery.” 

I could only stand there in shock. Their absence has nothing to do with me. 

It had everything to do with their family. 

“I see,” I said, defeated. Perhaps… at this time, the farmer is my company, my friend, and nothing more. “Well, I will leave you to it–” 

The farmer laughed and held their hand out to me, beckoning me to join them. “Don't leave, I've missed you so much!” 

“You did?” I blurted and took a tentative step forward. 

“Of course I did,” the farmer’s smile dropped, their face twisting into confusion as they gazed back at me. “Did you not miss me?” 

I dropped to my knees beside them, pulling the farmer into my arms and hugging them tightly. The farmer wrapped their arms around me, one hand rubbing over and down my back. 

Tears I didn't know I was holding back began to fall and the farmer held me tighter. 

“I love you,” I whispered into their neck, closing my eyes and preparing for them to pull away. 

Time slowed as the farmer placed their hands on my shoulders and pushed me back. Their eyes glassy with tears, their cheek smudged with dirty, and a smear of dried blood across their forehead leading up into their hair. 

“I love you, too,” they breathed out. Their lips crashed against my own, their kiss as desperate and needy as I've felt for all this time. It was slow but overflowing with heat, their tongue sliding over my lower lip and into my mouth as I melted into them. A moan escaped me as they pushed closer, one hand slipping into my hair and tugging me towards them. 

“Moo?” 

With a laugh, the farmer took their lips away from mine, much to my displeasure. They reached over and pet the mother cow on the top of her head. 

“I've been wanting to do that for months,” the farmer smiled and grabbed my hand, rubbing their thumb over the back of it. “Since I first met you, actually,” they said, their cheeks filling with heat. 

I leaned forward and brushed my lips against their own, softly and with all the ease in the world. “My sweet farmer,” I whispered against their lips, kissing them again. “You have no idea how much you mean to me.” 

Like home. 

(Please like, comment, and reblog. I am a plant and your enjoyment is my sunlight.)

[souglias]

DAWN - Al Haitham

Al Haitham has an uninvited visitor early in the morning. He comes to feel that this visitor, namely you, is not unwelcome.

Al Haitham x gn!reader. Fluff.

Word count: 2.7k

c/w: none

note: special and very big thank you to @baeshijima for helping me ensure Al Haitham isn't ooc and also for the beta <3 <3 <3. And with this, the collection has come to an end :)

Dusk, Twilight, Dawn Masterlist

--

DAWN bestows a new beginning. The orange glow of the sun stretches up towards the night sky, granting the boundless overhead canopy a light blue shade. Pale light seeps in through Al Haitham’s window and spreads thinly onto the walls of his room through the daylight curtains. However, Al Haitham stays unaffected in his slumber. 

He only awakens to the muffled sound of knocks on his house door a while later. Al Haitham turns to his side and doesn’t open his eyes. He assumes that Kaveh forgot his keys before leaving for his crush’s house to complete their assignments together. But no matter, Kaveh can wait. 

Al Haitham is about to fall back asleep when the knocks come again. Al Haitham opens his eyes with a scowl. He hurls his blanket aside and drags himself out of bed, ready to give Kaveh a piece of his mind. But when he opens the door, all the words he had ready fail him. 

Instead of the architect, it is you standing at his door. You hold one suitcase in your hand and one sits on the ground beside you. Your hand is raised and you’re about to greet him, but you freese when you see the scowl on his face.

Al Haitham takes a moment to collect himself and asks, “Did you just come back to Sumeru City?”

You nod. 

“Then, why aren’t you going home to rest?”

“I have to go back to the Akademiya in about an hour and a half with one of these suitcases. It would be counterproductive to head to my house and carry this back in this direction again. Also… I was worried I would fall asleep if I returned home.”

Al Haitham reaches out for your suitcase on the floor and props the door wide open with one leg. Following that, he takes the one in your hand from you and his fingers brush against yours. You almost flinch from the sudden touch. 

Still carrying your suitcase, he leans his back on the door to let you in. Warmth fills your chest at his gesture and you feel heat rush to your face. You urge yourself not to look away, thinking he’d catch on to your feelings for him if you show any hint of embarrassment. You make your way to the sofa, suppressing a smile forming on your lips. 

As he sets your baggage down beside you, you start studying his features without realising it. It’s as if you’re seeing a picturesque view at a different time of the day. 

Al Haitham’s hair is untidy and somewhat of a mess, yet it is endearing to you. He’s wearing an oversized black shirt and baggy long green pants, different from his usual… skin-tight attire. You also notice his slightly bleary eyes, only then realising you woke him up from his sleep. 

You apologise, “I’m sorry, I thought Kaveh was at home or that you were already awake and about to prepare to head out to the Akademiya.”

Al Haitham’s gaze meets yours as he straightens up. He states, “Kaveh is completing his final assignment together with someone he likes. As for me, I’m going to the Akademiya slightly later today, so I didn’t wake up as early as I usually do.”

You don’t reply to him, only staring at him. He determines that you’re considering something.

“Yes?”

“I know it’ll sound weird but, you should go back to sleep. I can stay here by myself. I’ve been here many times, I know where things are if I need them.”

Al Haitham doesn’t like the idea of going to sleep when he could be catching up with you.

You left for your research trip to Mondstadt a few weeks ago, leaving him with an emptiness in his chest. A restless hand came to reside in that space and it clawed around in his chest as if it were looking for something outside. In an attempt to appease it, he tried writing some letters to you. 

However, Al Haitham could not find any words. He tried, but he was not one for small talk. The letters started with said small talk, but they always ended up being about what consumes him from the inside. These words birthed from his restlessness, he decided, were not yet meant for your eyes. The letters ended up in the trash and out of sight.

Finally, he’s seeing you and he wants to spend some time with you. Though, he sees the guilt in your eyes for waking him up and he caves for you.

“Okay. I’m heading back to sleep. You can use the kitchen and the living room as always. If anything, you can come to my room.”

After you nod, he turns around and heads to his room. He leaves the door slightly ajar and lies down on his bed. Despite the distance, he feels your presence on his back turned against the door. Even with his closed eyes, he can see you walking around his house with footsteps he strains to hear.

His thoughts are full of you, and he drifts off to a light sleep.

When he comes to again, he only hears the rustling of his sheets as he turns. The clock tells him he’s been asleep for a little more than half an hour. The absence of noise outside his room probes Al Haitham to get out of his bed and wash up faster than he usually does. 

On his way out of his room, he notices that the door has been fully closed. However, he immediately dismisses the thought he has, reasoning that the wind has nudged it shut instead. 

Al Haitham finds you asleep on the sofa. You sit slouched, your elbow propped up on the armrest and your face resting on your palm. A golden glow spills from the window onto one side of your face. On the table in front of you, there’s a cup of coffee with faint smoke wafting and a plate of Moon Pies. 

The fragrance of the coffee smells different from the one he always has every morning. 

One of your open suitcases catches his eye and he notices a box of Mondstadt coffee brews lying atop souvenir gifts for others. 

Al Haitham shifts his gaze back to you. As he watches you, he notices the eye bags under your eyes and a tiny cut below your cheekbone. You also look like you’ve lost a little weight.

That hand in his chest starts scraping on his insides again.

You’re smart and capable. One of the few people he can talk to about knowledge and research comfortably, even when both of you are from different Darshans. Al Haitham often hears of your stellar grades and he has no reason to doubt them.

You get along well with others and are friendly, always watching out for everyone and keeping others in your mind. He’s lost track of how many times you’ve shown up with something you thought he would like. Sometimes, though Al Haitham thinks it’s unnecessary, you’d bring something for Kaveh too.

But you have a habit of being too engrossed in your knowledge-seeking. A habit that vexes him more than he expected.

There was one time you barely slept for a week straight and passed out. He had found himself running out of class to find you in Birmarstan. The doctor and nurses reassured him that you were okay, but they let him be with his book by your bedside when he wouldn’t budge. He was only willing to leave when you awoke. When he returned to the Akademiya, he had an irritating lecturer to answer to. This lecturer wouldn’t let Al Haitham off with what he thought was a reassuring statement of  “I’ll catch up easily through self-study”.

Another time, you were out in the forest doing a research project and Al Haitham had decided to tag along. You had your mind so high up in the clouds with your theories, you ended up wandering off. You ended up getting cornered by several eremites. 

Realising that you left his sight, Al Haitham took off immediately to find you. When he had found you, you were battered and bruised. One last standing eremite stood ready to pounce at you. 

Catching both you and the eremite off guard, Al Haitham finished the eremite off. Right after that, he lost his temper. It was a first for you to see him so infuriated, and you hated that his anger was directed at you. You argued with him that you could have fended them off, but he refused to listen to you. He didn’t even realise how strong his grip was on you until you flung your hand back towards yourself. The war of words only ended when you shouted at him.

“I’m fine now! Why are you so angry and… stubborn?”

Al Haitham remembers so vividly being lost for words. With no answer for you, all he could offer was an apology. The walk back out of the forest was silent and you only apologised to him too for being so careless when you arrived back in Sumeru City. Both of you made up with a meal at Lambad’s Tavern. There was even a slight bicker over who was going to pay for the meal. But somehow, the gears between the two of you shifted since then.

Stolen glances. Accidental touches which occur way too often. Going out of his way to do something for you, only to pretend that it was nothing or that he had no involvement in it. Allowing certain things that he wouldn’t have normally allowed for others. One being his headphones. He has never lent his headphones to anyone, yet he’s personally put them on your head. 

It was difficult for Al Haitham back when he realised he had fallen for you. He thought he was sick until he realised this was what people called infatuation, which could turn into love. It was difficult to manage, but it wasn’t unwelcome and never will be.

His hand twitches. Fingers start stretching towards you.

Al Haitham’s finger only grazes the faint cut on your cheek. For once, he is afraid, afraid to let his hand do anything more than hover above your skin. His eyes still on you, he mumbles in a foreign language, “Don’t make loving you so difficult.” 

Awoken by his voice, you wake up bleary and ask, “Sorry, what did you say?”

He pulls his hand back as if he touched something he shouldn’t have. You look at him, lost as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. 

“Hello??” you say as you outstretch your hands and try to wave at him.

He sees your hand wave in front of his face, but he can’t find the words to excuse himself. If what he feels has become so unbearable that he cannot contain it, the most rational move for him is to tell you how he feels.

You see something behind you and you hop out of your seat. “I have to leave soon. Okay listen- are you listening?”

If he likes you, he should tell you. Now. That’s how straightforward it is. That’s how it should be. That’s how it’s always been. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t told you yet. How many times has he told this to himself?

You scramble to your suitcase and pull out some books. “Okay, these are for you-”

Any other way is nonsensical.

“[Name].”

It catches you by surprise and your voice trails off, “Yes…?”

He wants to be on your mind so much more, so much so there’s no capacity for anyone else. He desires more mornings with you and your brewed coffee for him.

“I like you.”

Your breath hitches and you freeze. Al Haitham sees the gears in your head shift. 

“You’re not joking, are you? I’m sure you said something entirely different in whatever language you used earlier.” 

“You’re not wrong. But I’m not joking.”

Searching his face, you try to find an ounce of humour in his expression. When your search turns up empty, you resort to replaying his words in your mind to analyse his tone. Throughout your friendship, you learn that Al Haitham makes jokes with a straight face. However, you don't detect even a glimmer of cheekiness. The “I’m joking” phrase you’ve been waiting for the entire time doesn’t fall off his lips either. 

You plop down on his sofa and bury your face in your hands. Your voice comes out muffled as you say, “Archons, you’re always like this!”

“Like what?”

You hurl your hands away from your flushed face and you look up. Gazes locked for a split second, your eyes dart away from him and your voice softens.

“You’re always so straightforward.”

Al Haitham lowers himself, levelling his eyes with yours. His hands tentatively wrap around yours, as if he’s about to pick up a priceless gem. When you don’t pull your hand away, he presses your fingertips on the spot where the gem on his chest is underneath his shirt. 

The image of the green gem you’ve seen umpteenth times surfaces in your mind. You see it so vividly. It reminds you of the green glowing blades that came raining down on that last eremite he rescued you from back then. You would never admit it to him, but if he hadn’t arrived, you think it would have been the end of you.

You only spare your hand, encased in his, a glance. The magnetic pull of his eyes pulls your gaze back. Even though you could, you find yourself unable to look away from the mesmerising teal and amber of his eyes. 

Those are the eyes that root you when you think that you are losing yourself. Yet those are the same eyes, half-lidded now, that make your world spin. 

He whispers, “And you have always been the object of my desires.”

Your heart hammers furiously against the walls of your chest. It wants to jump out of its confines and present itself to Al Haitham. Euphoria is your blood and the vessels that hold them are passages of love.

For all that he's done for you and said to you, there's only one thing you could ever say back to him.

You whisper back, “I like you too.”

“Then let’s get together.”

Together. Al Haitham finds it sweet on his tongue. Both your hands intertwine slowly, settling into each other’s touch. He holds onto it tightly. Even as you pack your research materials into your suitcase, his grasp doesn’t loosen.

“Archons, that was so… out of nowhere,” you comment as you organise and shove the papers into your suitcase with one hand. Al Haitham notices your flushed cheeks.

“How was that sudden?”

“I was trying to give you some books I got for you. Then, you just caught me off guard and said that you…” your voice trails off.

“Well, what did I say?”

You only scoff at him when you see a smirk form on his lips. You absolutely refuse to play his game. Besides, there’ll be plenty of time for you to catch him off guard as payback. He hums, trying to probe an answer out of you, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of it.

Al Haitham only lets go of your hand when you open the door, somewhat reluctant to do so with how his fingers linger and glide slowly along yours as he pulls his hands away from yours. As you are about to leave, you abruptly turn back and pull him into a hug. His arms encircle around yours like he’s embraced you many times. You rest your head on his chest for a moment, and you hear his hammering heart that has the same beat as yours. He straightens your attire when you pull away and a subtle smile of his graces you.

“See you later.”

With that, you rush off to the Akademiya with red-rimmed ears. 

Silence starts to fill the house again and Al Haitham notes that the house feels a little empty without you. He walks back to the sofa, finally processing the butterflies in his stomach. He places his palm on his lips, right on the spot where your touch ghosts his hand. With that, he starts eating the breakfast you made. For him.

He hums. It is still warm, just like daybreak after a cold night.

--

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed this! All likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated <3

[ktbeets]

Bridgerton Masterlist

Colin & Penelope

Chaptered

Only You | E | Regency | After a heated argument leaves their friendship in tatters, Penelope and Colin wake to find the entirety of London abandoned

You, Me, and the Bed (in collaboration with Elle018, Stillpink & wantisamlindyla) | E | Modern AU | Three times Penelope and Colin shared a bed accidentally and one time they shared a bed on purpose

Hang Society | E | Regency | Penelope is acting strange, and Colin can’t seem to satisfy his curiosity

Colin and Penelope’s Excellent Adventure | E | Modern AU | An impromptu road trip leads to embarrassing revelations, sunscreen seductions, not-so-sober shenanigans and confessions of all kinds

I Hope This Email Finds You | E | Modern AU | Penelope find herself in a bind when she accidentally sends her smutty fanfiction to a co-worker

Letters | E | Regency | Colin and Penelope take to writing to each other in the offseason, and their growing closeness does not escape the notice of the Ton

Anthology

Sinful | E | Modern + Regency | A collection of one-shots themed after each of the seven deadly sins

Series

hands | E | Modern AU | Colin and Penelope push the boundaries of their friendship into something more after a particularly handsy night out (3rd installment coming based off those insane interview clips; written in collaboration w/ @liziana)

Shouldn't, Couldn't, Wouldn't | E | Regency | Two lovers continuously find their way back to each other, even when the choices they made long ago seek to keep them apart

One Shots

Almosts | M | Modern AU | 5 times Colin and Penelope nearly kissed and one time they actually did - Christmas edition 🎄

Waking Hours | M | Modern AU | In the middle of the night, Penelope sneaks into Colin’s room…or is he simply dreaming again?

Tactile Sensation | E | Modern AU | Her dreams of Colin so vivid and frequent, Penelope works through her intense feelings the only way she knows how

Very Good | E | Regency | "You really are very good, you know that?" A re-telling of S1x06

Hush | E | Modern AU | How refreshing it was that they didn’t need words to understand each other

Drive-In | M | Modern AU | A movie night leads to more

Look What You Made Me Do | M | Regency | 5 times Penelope & Colin didn’t realize their arguments were foreplay and 1 time they did

Take Me To Church | E | Regency | Tensions run high as Colin and Penelope take a heated carriage ride back from the city

By The Book | E | Regency | Can Colin maintain his honor when confronted with an emboldened Penelope alone in the library of Aubrey Hall?

Twister | E | Modern AU | Colin & Penelope play a game

Game Night | M | Modern AU | Penelope joins a Bridgerton game night and gets more than she bargained for

Half-Past Midnight | E | Modern AU | All afternoon Colin and Penelope toe the line of their friendship, until a house party turned impromptu sleepover sends them over the edge

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

The first openly transgender state representative in Montana history is facing either censure or outright expulsion, after she said Republicans would have “blood on their hands” for passing a ban on gender-affirming care for minors.

Rep. Zooey Zephyr was sworn in just three months ago after winning a Missoula-based seat in November. GOP leaders have refused to recognize her in floor debates until she apologizes for the comment. On Monday, supporters rallied on the steps of the state Capitol, and chants of “Let her speak!” shut down proceedings in the House for nearly a half-hour, as Zephyr hoisted her microphone above her head.

On Tuesday, Zephyr tweeted a letter she received from leaders in the Republican-controlled chamber declaring their intention to bring a motion “with respect to the conduct of Representative Zooey Zephyr.”

The House will “determine if [Zephyr]’s conduct on the Floor of the House on April 24, 2023 violated the rules, collective rights, safety, dignity, integrity, or decorum of the House of Representatives, and if so, whether to impose disciplinary consequences for those actions,” according to the letter sent to Zephyr. The House will meet Wednesday afternoon.

“I have been informed that during tomorrow’s floor session there will be a motion to either censure or expel me,” Zephyr said in a Tuesday tweet. “I’ve also been told I’ll get a chance to speak. I will do as I have always done—rise on behalf of my constituents, in defense of my community, & for democracy itself.”

Zephyr’s clash with the GOP began last week when she made the comment during a floor debate on the transition care ban. Since then, Republicans have refused to let her participate in floor debates entirely, even when she’s requested to speak last week, the far-right Montana Freedom Caucus demanded Zephyr’s immediate censure while misgendering her in their statement.

The move to silence Zephyr has been met with fierce protests. On Monday, supporters rallied on the steps of the state Capitol, and chants of “Let her speak!” shut down proceedings in the House for nearly a half-hour, as Zephyr hoisted her microphone above her head.

Riot cops who were called to the chamber arrested seven protesters. Republicans claimed that the protests had turned violent, though the protesters were charged only with criminal trespassing, a misdemeanor. In the letter, Republican leaders said the House gallery, where Montana citizens are able to watch proceedings, will be closed Wednesday during the debate on whether to punish Zephyr.

“It’s not enough for them to get the harmful bills through,” Zephyr told reporters Monday. “When someone stands up and calls out their bills for the harm they cause, for the deaths they cause, they want silence. And we will not be complicit in our eradication.”

Montana House Speaker Matt Regier said in a statement Tuesday that “the choice not to follow House rules is one that Rep. Zephyr has made.”

“The only person silencing Rep. Zephyr is Rep. Zephyr. The Montana House will not be bullied,” Regier said.

Tensions have escalated in state legislatures such as Montana’s this year, as Republicans across the country have used simple rules violations as a pretext to crack down on dissent.

Earlier this month, the Tennessee House of Representatives expelled two young Black lawmakers, Rep. Justin Pearson of Memphis and Rep. Justin Jones of Nashville, and nearly expelled a third white lawmaker from Knoxville, after the trio protested for gun law reforms in the wake of the Covenant School shooting in Nashville in March.

The move, however, backfired spectacularly. Pearson and Jones became national figures overnight, they were quickly re-appointed to the seats they’d been expelled from, and both are expected to run in special elections to determine a replacement for, well, themselves. They met with President Joe Biden at the White House earlier this week.

Tennessee Republicans have also drawn increased scrutiny to themselves, after expelling Jones and Pearson for bringing “disorder and dishonor” to the legislature; a member of the leadership abruptly resigned last week after a complaint that he’d sexually harassed an intern became public, and the Speaker of the Tennessee House, Cameron Sexton, has faced new questions about whether he really resides in his district.

On Tuesday, Pearson offered his support to Zephyr in a tweet.

“Voices across the country continue to rise for justice and expose the anti-democratic behavior of people in Republican led states,” Pearson said. “We will not let our democracy die without fighting for every voice. We are in this fight from Memphis to Montana!”

[resident-gay-bitch]

“oh, look, you were still a filthy little shit as a child too, my love.” remus said with a doting smile, holding up a picture frame with an image of sirius and regulus as small children. in it, regulus looked like the perfect angel child, and sirius was picking his nose.

“you are so good to me, moony.” sirius glanced at him, “such a kind soul.”

“i do try.” remus grinned and set the picture down.

they were cleaning out the bedrooms in the old black estate so there would be beds for the weasleys, and harry, and the granger girl, and whoever else needed shelter here. it was the first time since azkaban that sirius had been able to step foot in regulus’s room. its the first time he’s stepped foot in it since he left for the potters whilst still in school.

that seemed like a lifetime and a half ago now.

“how are you feeling with all this, padfoot?” remus asked, tossing more junk into the box he had under his arm.

“alright, considering…” he shrugged, because he really was doing the best he could. it was hard, being in here, still grieving the loss of his brother. never getting the closure he needed. he still grieved for everyone, even remus, “the abnormally romantically desperate poetry is keeping me sane- you know, if regulus was here right now, he’d actually cut off my hand and gouge out my eyes for reading his journals.”

remus laughed.

sirius held up one of the journals, an old one, “i remember when we were boys, regulus had just started to write and he’d left his page open on his desk and i… i started to read, and he stabbed my hand with his pen.”

remus just looked at him.

“you can laugh, you know? it’s funny.”

remus tried his best not to laugh.

“he was an aggressive little creiten.” sirius said with a smile, “you know, i’m wishing more than anything that he just… pop up out of thin air and stab me with his pen again for reading all these.”

remus let a little laugh out at that.

“i shouldn’t snoop, i know i shouldn’t, but…” he sighed and slapped the book down into the box he had beside him, “it’s all i have left of him, and so, i think it might be the closure i need.”

“i’m sure he’ll understand, sirius.” remus offered and then pondered the thought for a moment, “he might still have a violent outburst about it, but he’d understand.”

sirius laughed and nodded his head, “you’re right, moony. why must you always be right?”

remus tapped his noggin, “old and wise.”

“old, perhaps.” siris muttered under his breath, and remus threw an old little velvet box at him in retaliation.

sirius laughed before opening it, inspecting the insides. there lay a ring, one with regulus’s initials. sirius had a matching one, all the blacks did. a signet ring gifted to them before departing on the hogwarts express. an expectation to make the family name proud and grow into a fine young man with poise and prejudice.

fuck that.

sirius wore his ring for a total of seven hours before he’d removed it after getting sorted into gryffindor and got that horrid letter from his mother. he’d thrown it into the black lake the day he found out regulus had become like them, when his skin had been marked and his fate was sealed.

if only he knew, back then, that regulus wasn’t like them after all. that he just wanted to be seen, the same as sirius did.

sirius slid the ring onto his finger and hoped that wearing it would be enough.

he sighed and reached under the bed for another box. this one was smaller, a chest of sorts. he opened it to find a collection of letters.

sirius opened the one on top, it had the most wear and tear, and he smiled when he read the first line.

“oh, remus… have a look at this.” sirius laughed, holding up the letter, “regulus has love letters.”

“absolutely he did not.” remus shook his head.

“a whole box of them.” sirius nodded and held the paper back out to read again, “look, it says, dear regulus, my love.”

“who’s it from?” remus asked, leaning up against the counter.

“i’m not sure,” he shrugged, “it’s signed from his sun.”

remus squinted, “we’ll go on, read it out.”

“sorry, brother.” sirius said and cleared his throat, “dear regulus, my love, i hope this letter finds you well. i can’t bear to be without you. this summer break has been most painful, i miss you dearly. as you told me before we parted ways, you will look to the sun to find me, but i’ve noticed the sun has hidden away these past few days, so i am writing to you so you may find me like this instead. i still look to the sky every night and blow a kiss to your star. i think of you as i lay awake at night. i dream of you when sleep finally takes me, but it always comes easier with you in my arms- oh, remus. whoever this sun is, they’re a bloody sap.”

remus laughed, “yes, almost as sappy as you, sirius.” he smiled, “reminds me of james, a bit… he was such a romantic with lily.”

“don’t remind me.” sirius glared at him, “i had to hear every musing of that love fest.”

“i think i’ve heard enough, have you?” remus sighed, “you don’t want to invade their privacy any longer.”

“oh, but he was in love, moony.” sirius sighed, “there is no name! and i’ll only read this one.”

“i really don’t think you should-“

“sometimes, when i miss you so much it hurts my heart, i hold my hands up to block out your brothers face and pretend his smile is yours. it’s not quite the same, but it’s close enough. i find you everywhere, reg- wait, oh, they- they blocked out my smile?” sirius glanced up.

remus swallowed, “you should really put that down, sirius.”

“you know something.” sirius glared at him.

“i don’t.” remus pressed, averting his eyes.

“you do. you are a terrible liar!” he gasped, “you can’t lie to me, moony- what do you know?”

“it’s none of your business, sirius.” remus huffed, “your brothers' relationships are no matter to you.”

“but he was in love!” sirius pressed, “my little brother was in love, remus! he was in love with one of my- oh my goodness, is it you? did you write these-“

“oh, sirius, shut up.” remus sighed and glared at him, “your brother was a very handsome boy back in school, but i prefer long haired shit heads.”

sirius smiled with a little pout, “you are such a romantic, moony… and speaking of romantics-“

“sirius.” remus pressed.

“it’s torture not telling sirius about this, i tell him everything, but for you i’ll keep this safe. for you i would do anything, my love. i hope you don’t mind, but i may have told remus- you do know!” sirius gasped, “what do you know!”

“i made a vow to never tell you, sirius.” remus shook his head out, “i made a vow to the both of them, and even though he’s dead, i do not intend on breaking a vow with regulus black.”

sirius hummed, “you’re probably right to do that. he’s slimy. he’ll find a way to harm you for it.”

remus nodded.

sirius sighed and looked back at the letter, “i’m going to keep reading.”

“okay.” remus groaned, “but you can’t get mad.”

“why would i get mad?”

“you just would.” remus said.

“oh, it was lily.” sirius nodded, and the way that remus scrunched up his face told sirius that it certainly wasn’t lily, “peter? that… bastard-“

“not peter.” remus shook his head and got back to cleaning.

sirius sighed and read the letter again, “i just couldn’t keep this to myself anymore. he vowed to never tell a soul, and promised to make the same vow to you if you’d like. i have to tell someone about you, my love, about your letters. about your poetry. about your love. you are my everything, and i hold you so dear in my heart. i love you, regulus, more than all the stars in the galaxy. enjoy your solace, bask in it, i have to go listen to sirius talk about david bowie for another three hours, and then we’re going shopping with mum, so- wait!” sirius froze and read the last part out again, he could see remus tense up out of the corner of his eye, “shopping with mum, so pray for me. i’m kidding, i do love your brother very much. i hope we can tell him about this soon, i hope he will be happy for us. love, your sun. oh remus…”

“yes?” remus asked.

“it’s james… isn’t it?” he swallowed, “james was the one in love with my brother?”

“i can neither confirm nor deny.”

sirius dove back into the box of letters and kept searching until he found one with an address written on it, as well as a bedroom- james room. it was james. james had been writing his brother. james was in love with his brother. james was- “what the fuck?!” sirius shouted, waving the letters out and looking up to the sky, “you filthy, lying, brother-fucker! james- oh! i’ll- when i get up there, you’re dead! how could you lie for… for so long- oh, james… you- i’m so sorry.”

remus swallowed, “he wanted to tell you… after regulus died. he- he couldn’t bring himself to after he was marked, james felt completely betrayed. but… when he died, it hurt you so deeply, he didn’t want to risk angering you or hurting you more. and then after that, he just… he never found the time.”

sirius’s heart clenched for his best friend. he loved him. he loved his brother, and he braved the pain of losing him alone. he let sirius cry to him day in and day out about the pain and loss of regulus, and he was feeling the same. he was feeling it too. but he put on a brave face just so sirius wouldn’t hurt so much. so sirius had a stoic shoulder to cry on.

oh james.

you beautiful mess.

sirius prayed he had peace there, in the afterlife, wherever it may be. he hoped he had lily close by, and regulus too. he hoped james was happy again, and he’d be there soon. and the very first thing sirius plans to do when he meets his fate, is hold james just as tightly as james had held him all those years ago, and then he’d hold his brother the same.

sirius sighed and looked down at the letter in his hand, “we’re they… they were happy?”

“very.” remus nodded, “from what i know, james loved him very much.”

“oh, james.” sirius sniffled, holding back some tears, “my brother, why didn’t you tell me? you were- you were hurting just the same as i was- you- you let yourself go through all of that alone?”

“he wasn’t alone, sirius.”

sirius looked up at remus with a weak smile and nodded, “thank you, remus… for looking after us both.” 

remus walked over and crouched down in front of sirius, swept some of his hair back behind his ear, “is that not what love is for? caring for one another?”

“it is.” sirius clutched the letter to his chest and let out a tear, “i’m glad regulus had love, remus… before he died- both of them. they both deserve so much love.”

“and they have it.” remus whispered and kissed sirius between his brows, “as do you. i love you. they love you, even in death.”

“i miss them.” sirius sobbed, “oh, i miss them so much.”

“me too, my love.” remus let himself cry too, “me too.”

[xxbottlecapx]

I saw a video about a girl having focal seizures and this plot bunny came up 

Steve was an idiot. 

It was one of the only things that the party collectively agreed on. They loved him, don’t get them wrong, and they would never want him to leave them, or to even know that they thought it, but that was the way things were. He hadn’t done too well in school, unlike everyone else. Which was how the party would explain away all the weird things about him that they ascertained were simply him being an idiot. Zoning off constantly, confusion, taking increasingly long allotments of time to answer simple questions, mixing his words up. It was just Steve being Steve. A little dumb, slow on the uptake, but kind. 

That is, until Eddie.

°•. ✿ .•°

“Your class is essentially your profession, and it'll outline the kind of role you’ll have within the party as a result.” Dustin said from the floor. He had a DND manual laying flat on the carpet. Steve was sitting criss cross beside him, staring almost too intently at the colorful pages, squinting. 

“And your race will determine how your character looks, as well as giving you exclusive skills and features.” 

The entire party was over for a sleepover. Robin, Argyle, and Jonathan were out by the pool smoking (if they had given Max some weed to help with joint pain, no one had to know)  Nancy was teaching Eleven how to braid hair. Steve had given her one of his mothers wigs as a text subject. They  have taken over half the livingroom floor. 

Lucas was recovering from a hangover (which Steve was going to give him so much shit for once he had drank all his water and took some painkillers) and Will was stacking old slices of bread on Lucas’s face, the tower was 13 stacks long so far. Mike was sitting next to Will, watching him like a hawk. Erica was keeping a running tally of how many breads Will could stack before they fell. She was practicing rock balancing on lucas’s shin with the designer rocks from next door (don’t ask Steve why they were called designer rocks, he hadn’t asked, he just knows that’s what they’re called because once about a year ago he had cut across their rock-filled lawn and had gotten a mouthful for stepping on their designer rocks. Sue him. He helped Erica steal them a few hours ago.) she had 14 stacked, which was extremely impressive to everyone who saw it. 

And Steve was trying to learn how to play DND. Dustin didn’t know that Steve actually had purchased his own dnd manual a few months back, but he had such a hard time reading (the letters moved!) that he had finally agreed to let Dustin teach him. Eddie was on the couch watching. He had been doing that a lot lately, they all had noticed. Watching Steve. The party had a betting pool on when Eddie was going to ask Steve out, since Eddie seemed to be the only one in the party who didn’t know Steve liked men.  

“These features can include ability score increases, age and life expectancy changes, size differences, increased speeds, and unique languages.” Dustin moved his hands to show Steve a chart. 

Steve swallowed hard once, twice, his left hand clenched and unclenched a few times. He blinked about seven times before speaking (Erica liked counting, she knew the exact average amount of times everyone in the party blinked in an hour. Steve had much more then the rest of them.) 

“… What?” 

“Oh my God, Steve. It’s not that hard. What do you not get?” Dustin rolled his eyes. He was starting to think this was a useless endeavor. Eddie quickly got up and grabbed a bottle from the table. 

Steve squinted at him again, looked down to the paper, eyebrows drawn down. 

“I- uh, en-“ Steve stumbled over his words. This could go on for minutes, in Dustin’s experience. 

“That’s enough for now,” Eddie interrupted, setting the water into Steve’s lap. He quickly grabs at it with his right hand, gripping it hard enough that it almost broke.  

“This would be so much easier if you just paid attention.” Dustin said, exasperated. 

It took Steve a few seconds to roll his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” He said eventually, sloppily knocking Dustin’s hat off his head.  That sets Dustin off on a long rant about the history of hats and why they should be respected.

From above, Eddie looked like he was in pain. Dustin chose not to question why. 

°•. ✿ .•°

Steve had made a pretty large chicken casserole for dinner, along with a cheesy salad looking thing and Bomboloni for desert. 

“What soda do you want, Steve?” Robin asked, bending down to open the bottom of the fridge. It was absolutely humongous, with thirty different sections and labels on said sections. They all assumed that Steve’s parents had done that. He didn’t correct them. He just wanted them to always be able to find exactly what they were looking for if they were hungry. 

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. Eddie turned quickly from his place to Steve’s left. 

“Ash…” Steve closed his mouth again. “Ad-“ 

Dustin snorted so hard that he started choking. Will silently clapped his back. Robin grinned from her place near the fridge, shaking her head. He did this frequently. 

After about a minute of confused mumbling, Steve finally gets his words across. 

“A Slice Strawberry Soda.” 

Robin gently poked fun at him as she handed it to him. The rest of the party proceeded to start in their little let’s joke about Steve debacle, which Steve always took like a champ. 

And then of course, Eddie had to be the one to set them straight. 

“Steve,” Eddie said gently. “Do you know you’ve been having seizures?”  

°•. ✿ .•°

It was called a Focal seizure. Most common with those who have had frequent head injuries. Symptoms were: motor spasms (like aggressive swallowing, blinking, and hand clenching) Staring blankly into space, confusion, sight issues, and speech problems. 

They didn’t look like the seizures you were used to seeing. A lot of the time, people wouldn’t even know that they were having them. You can be fully conscious when they happen, mistake them for a panic attack or a simple migraine. 

Eddie only caught it because his mother had had them before she died.

At first, the party thinks he’s being delusional. But then Dustin decides the party is going to skip school and check the library. 

They all come to the collective decision that Steve definitely was having focal seizures. Steve wasn't an idiot. He was having seizures the entire time.

They don’t apologize for making fun of him, but they do feel bad about it. They do stop making fun of him for being stupid, though. At least until he tells them they’re allowed to smile at him when he’s having one. Steve claims it makes him feel weird when they all suddenly start acting like he’s going to die. 

“Ha- wait, tsh-“ Steve paused, his hand spasming around the dice he had been about to throw. 

It took them a while, but teaching Steve DND was much easier when they just spent more time letting him figure it out without pressuring him. This was his first session. It was proving to be a success, since Eddie (a very brutal DM) had such a soft spot for Steve that he was letting a lot more things slide when he was there. 

“Youre having a seizure, Steve.” Eddie told him, bringing his hands down to his notes. Will had just rolled a nat-20 and saved half the party from getting eaten by a dragon. 

“Ween-“ Steve squinted his eyes. 

“A seizure, Steve. Can you say seizure?” Eddie took the sharp dice out of Steve’s hand so he wouldn’t hurt himself (they were made by Argyle, who didn’t how to properly use a sander. Erica, Lucas, and Mike all already had splinters from holding it) Dustin and the rest started talking about what to do next to get past a river full of lava. 

"Hnnn” 

“Try again.” Sometimes Steve wouldn’t catch the seizure, and think he was saying something that made sense when it didn’t. It explained a lot. So sometimes when someone else caught it, they’d let him know so he knew why no one knew what he was saying. 

“Shhh,” 

Eddie smiled gently at him. He looked like one of those cartoon characters that have hearts shooting out of their eyes (Erica words) “You got it.” 

“Sheizure,” Steve mumbled, “seizure.” 

“There we go, you’re back.” 

The game continued. 

Sources  

https://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/health/conditions-and-diseases/epilepsy/focal-seizures

https://www.nationwidechildrens.org/conditions/seizures-focal-partial

https://milesanthonysmith.com/blog/33-nostalgic-discontinued-reintroduced-sodas-from-the-80s-90s-00s/

Https://www.foodandwine.com/desserts/italian-desserts

Https://www.gamesradar.com/how-to-create-your-first-character-in-dandd/

https://www.epilepsynorcal.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/Partial_Seizures.pdf

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Whatcha doing?”

Keith’s voice right next to his ear startles Lance a bit, making Keith laugh quietly. Lance feels the rumble of it in his shoulder, where Keith is resting his head to peer at his work.

“My math homework.”

Lance feels rather than sees Keith make a face. “That’s not math. I don’t see a single number in all that. I don’t even see letters.”

Lance chuckles. “It’s just calculus, babe. It’s mostly symbols, sure, but still math.”

“Ugh.” Keith pulls away after pressing a kiss to Lance’s cheek, shaking his head. “That’s disgusting.” He starts haphazardly shoving his fancy pencils into their case, then into his backpack, followed by his sketchbook. “Your horrible homework made me lose my desire to do anything and everything school related.”

Shaking his head fondly, Lance returns his gaze to his worksheet. “You’re such a dork. It’s only math.”

“The fact that you can look at those equations and they not only mean something to you, but they make sense, blows my mind every day. I’m still half convinced you’re a witch.”

“Now is that the math, or the fact that I’ve put a spell on your heart?”

“Boo,” Keith says, cupping his hands around his mouth. “That was garbage. I’m reporting you to the horrible pun police.”

“Stop making me laugh,” Lance says, throwing an eraser at Keith’s head. “You’re distracting me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Doctor McClain. You could skip every single one of your lectures and still pass with a 95.”

Lance flushes, pleased by both the compliment and Keith calling him doctor. As much as he knows Keith is teasing — he absolutely does need to attend class, Lord above — his boyfriend’s faith in him always makes his insides all soft and squishy.

But he has an assignment to do. He’ll kiss his amazingly supportive boyfriend after.

Lance gets in the zone, so focused on problem after problem that he forgets where he is. Hell, he pretty much forgets that he has a mortal body. His brain is 100% Greek letters and the occasional graph. And Lance likes it that way. He likes math, and not in the cheesy Cady Heron ‘math is just the same in every language’ kind of way. He just thinks that so long as he’s doing it right, figuring out puzzles is fun, in the same way some people like writing, or drawing. There are annoying parts, sure — modular functions are stupid as hell and can kiss his whole ass — but for the most part, he’s a biomed engineering major for a reason. He has shit to design, and he’s only getting there if he understands how the world fits together.

Something small hitting him square in the head snaps him out of his focus.

“You are being absorbed into your textbook,” Keith informs him. “I’m losing ya, space cadet.”

Lance shakes his head a little, blinking. He realises suddenly that, holy shit, his eyes are burning. And his throat is as dry as the desert. And he’s starving. And his muscles are cramped.

“Jesus,” he says, “how long have I been sitting here?”

Keith shrugs, but his attention is no longer on Lance. “Dunno. My phone died forever ago, so that means either two minutes or two hours. I could not tell you.”

Lance snorts. He knows part of Keith’s ADHD means he’s not great with time. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. They’ve been here long enough that it’s long past time to take a break.

“What’ve you been doing, then?” Lance asks as he starts collecting his things to put away. “If your phone’s been dead.”

“Foldin’ stuff,” Keith replies absent-mindedly, tongue peeking out of his mouth as he does, indeed, fold some papers. Lance finally gets all his stuff packed away and then turns his full attention to Keith, humming curiously. Keith, like with everything artsy, is amazing at origami, and Lance is always amazed at how he takes a piece of scrap paper and makes a mini-sculpture.

“Like what?”

“Made you this bouquet,” Keith says. His attention is still mostly on the tiny square of pink paper in front of him, but he reaches over to the empty chair next to him and blindly searches for something. He makes a triumphant noise when he finds it, and sets a brightly coloured bouquet of intricately folded paper flowers on the table.

Lance gasps, carefully picking it up and looking at it closely. Each flower is folded to perfection, crisp lines and gentle bends in the paper making perfect imitations of Lance’s favourite flowers: golden dandelions, pink peonies, deep orange poppies.

“Holy shit, Keith,” Lance breathes. He looks at his boyfriend with wide eyes. “This is… these are gorgeous!”

Keith glances away from his project for a moment to shoot Lance a big, goofy grin. “Glad you like ‘em. They’re almost as pretty as you.”

“Charmer,” Lance says, rolling his eyes, but the ruddiness of his cheeks give him away. Keith knows it, too, grinning wider.

“This is for you, too,” he says, making a final fold on the pink paper. “Hold out your left hand.”

Lance does, stupidly giddy smile making his cheeks ache.

Keith has made a paper ring, folded so it makes a heart in the centre rather than a traditional circle-shaped knob. It’s as meticulously crafted as the bouquet. He slides it up Lance’s fourth finger, then presses a gentle kiss on the knuckle.

“Since you said we can’t get married until after we finish our undergrads,” Keith says, as playfully grouchy as he always is when he brings the subject up. “This will have to do.”

Lance laughs, sliding his hand from Keith’s grip so he can rest it on the side of his boyfriend’s cheek, stroking his cheek with his thumb. Keith goes cross-eyed trying to watch the movement, lips still pouted. Lance leans forward to kiss them.

“You are so dramatic,” he mumbles, still crowded in close. “One more year, okay? You can take me to the courthouse the day we graduate, if you would like.”

“Fine,” Keith huffs. He wraps his arms around Lance’s waist. “They second our caps get thrown, you hear me?”

Lance kisses him again. And again. And a third time, for good measure.

“I hear you.”

[kultavalo]

The Horizon, Jake Kiszka/Chris Turpin

Chapter 2: Dancing On The Shore

Summary: Their fingers laced together in the sand when suddenly, in the distance, they could hear the ringing of a ship’s bell. Just one at first, and then two, and three and more and more until the entire night was filled with the sounds of an armada sailing into port. 

The new fleet had finally arrived.

Tags: AU-pirates, angst, 1700's, golden age of piracy, emotional hurt/comfort, alcohol use (wine), skinny dipping, light pining, kissing, religious references, crying, love confessions, mentions of pregnancy (background character), sadness, grinding, romance, sexual references.

Word Count: 8.2k

A/N: once again a huge thanks to my besties @scarletvanfleet and @jake-whatthefisgoingon-kiszka for the continuous support and beta reading. This is a bit of a long chapter but what can I say, it's a big story. please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in any future updates! Thanks for reading!

The candlelight, reflected on the waves, turned the rippling water into folds of molten amber. The sun had dipped low beneath the horizon, and the soft melody of the sea was the only sound that echoed through the grotto as Jake finished setting up the dinner he had prepared. 

The rocky ground was sturdy enough to support the simple wooden table and chairs he had hauled in there many moons ago. The entrance to the cave curved slightly. A narrow path on the left, flanked by a small stream on the right snaked its way into the cliffside alcove, both eventually widening out into a shallow tidepool and a larger rocky plateau.

Jake had found this location on one of his many lonely walks along the beach during his early days as an ensign. The little spot, protected from the elements and largely hidden from sight, had become a bit of a safe space for him.

Life in the navy barracks was fine and comfortable enough, but it didn’t make for much privacy. Sleeping with a dozen other young men in the same dorm meant that almost every hour of the day was spent with other people in the vicinity.

Jake needed some space for himself. A spot he could retreat to when everything became a bit too crowded. A spot where he didn’t have to worry or hide his true self.

He spent many afternoons there, slowly crafting it into a space of his own. Sweeping the plateau and creating a border between it and the water with a carefully laid row of rocks. On warmer days he’d wade into the shallow pool and clear it of the flotsam and jetsam that washed in with the tide. 

Over the years he had collected random pieces of furniture people had thrown out onto the beach. He squirreled them away into his little grotto and fixed them up using the limited skills he had picked up from watching and assisting the shipwrights. After a while he had assembled a small but sturdy collection; a small square table, two wooden chairs, a little bookcase, a chest, and an old sleeping cot.

It wasn’t much, and the cave was not completely cut off from the elements so he would still have to perform regular upkeep on the wooden furniture. But he managed to completely weatherproof the chest, which meant he could use it to keep a bedroll, some blankets, and some pillows dry and ready to use whenever the barracks became too crowded.

Chris had found him here. Like he had found him everywhere.

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The moment they met would forever be seared into his memory. It must have been about four and a half years ago by now.

Jake had been laying on his cot, reading through some of the letters he had received from home. Most were from his twin brother, Josh, their correspondence being the most frequent as they were not used to being so far away from one another.

Josh had voiced his desire to move closer to Jake. He had just finished his training as an apprentice tailor and was ready to start his own business. But their small and quiet hometown had no need for another craftsman and Josh had no desire to make the same frock and coat over and over for the rest of his life. 

Jake’s port town might not be a major metropolis, but it was a thoroughfare for all sorts of people and trade. Jake had seen the giant rolls of fabric being hauled off of ships, met the travelers from all over the globe who would pass through port on their way elsewhere, stopping for provisions and garments for other climates. Josh would be able to make a name for himself here.

As he read over his brother’s words for what felt like the hundredth time, aching for that little piece of home as he imagined Josh’s voice reading the words to him, a sudden crack of thunder rang out over the beach.

The day had been bright when Jake had entered the cave. Warm enough for him to dare a swim in his tide pool, after which he had dressed only in his breeches, not wanting to get the rest of his clothes wet.

The storm that now raged outside had come in suddenly. Dark clouds and big, heavy raindrops combined with a barrage of hailstones pummeled the beach and the surf. Jake could spy a sliver of the outside world from his spot on the bed. He regarded the ominous weather for a moment, thinking it matched his current mood rather well, before turning onto his other side and unfolding the most recent letter he had received.

The grim weather did not bother him. His little sanctuary was warm and dry. Kept that way by the candles he had placed onto the cave’s natural shelves and alcoves. He had his blankets and his letters and his books. He had even managed to make a stop by Mrs. Oliver before heading to the beach. She had supplied him with a batch of yesterday’s cinnamon muffins which were deemed too stale to be sold, but were still some of the best baked goods Jake had ever had. He could stay here all night if he wanted, wallowing in his homesickness and stuffing himself with the overflowing box of pastries.

But destiny had something else in store for him.

With his back now turned to the entrance of the cave, and the deafening roar of the thunder outside, Jake didn’t realize he was no longer alone until a trepidatious voice rang out. An uncertain “Hello?” made him shoot up, tossing his letters to one side and grasping at the dagger he had hidden beneath his pillow. He didn’t pull the weapon out yet, not wanting to immediately escalate the situation, but still preparing himself in case the voice belonged to someone looking for trouble.

But the man who had entered his domain did not look like he was looking for trouble.

He looked like an angel.

His shoulder length blond hair clung to his face in windswept tendrils. His light linen coat and shirt were soaked through, as were his black trousers. His black leather boots were obviously more suited for walking around town, or maybe a stroll in the park, than they were for a treacherous climb down the rough end of the beach, and the walking cane the man was holding completed the look of an unprepared gentleman out on a stroll on unfamiliar terrain, finding himself in a sudden storm and heading for the nearest cliff for shelter.

Jake’s grip on his dagger eased slightly but his fingers stayed wrapped around the hilt. He didn’t know this man. Had never seen him around town, and despite his soft and gentle appearance, Jake knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

“I’m-...I’m sorry to have disturbed you, I- I don’t mean to intrude, it’s just… Well, I was caught in the downpour and I saw this opening in the rocks…I…would you mind if I waited out the storm here? I can compensate you for your hospitality! I don’t have much money on me but I have some… My name is Christopher, I arrived in port about a week ago…I-” the man rattled on until Jake lifted his free hand, a gesture for him to stop speaking. Christopher quickly complied and looked down at his own hands, a slightly embarrassed expression painting his features.

“My name is Jacob.” was all he could think to say. 

Jake was an eloquent man. Soft spoken and intelligent, he did not often find himself at a loss for words. But something about this stranger had wiped all coherent thought from his mind.

His fingers slipped out from under his pillow, leaving the dagger in its resting place. Both hands now free, he quickly grabbed the shirt he had dropped at the foot of his bed, suddenly hyper aware of his state of undress. He slipped the garment over his head and tried to make himself as presentable as possible.

“Please, take a seat, you’re welcome to wait out the storm here.” Jake awkwardly gestured to the simple wooden table with its patchwork chairs. He never knew why he had bothered to drag both chairs in from the beach. He didn’t plan on bringing anyone else here and he didn’t need two chairs for himself. But the backrests had these beautifully carved birds and it had seemed like a shame to leave them behind.

The man, Christopher, bowed his head in gratitude and quickly made his way over to the chair. The silence that followed as he sat down was slightly awkward. Jake was still somewhat unsettled by the sudden presence of another soul in his little sanctuary. He felt the need to shift his melancholic mood into something more pleasant. Christopher had obviously not expected to find him here either, he was simply seeking shelter from the sudden barrage of rain and hail.

As he gathered his thoughts Jake stole a glance at him. The other man was awkwardly shifting on his chair, his rain soaked hair dripping onto his shirt, turning the fabric slightly see through. He picked at the skin around his fingernails as his eyes flitted about the cavern. They landed on the chest and the bookcase before drifting over the rows of candles along the walls.

Jake was just about to speak up, introduce himself properly, when Christopher spoke again. His voice was quiet, almost like he was afraid Jake would actually hear him, and when the words hit Jake’s ears they seemed to be steeped in sadness.

“Do you live here?”

The question snapped Jake out of his sullen mood and he let out a giggle at the absurdity of the situation. The sudden loud noise startled Christopher, who finally dared to look up and make eye contact. The expression on his face was one of confusion tinged with fear and Jake quickly stifled his laughter. Christopher must think him insane, a half naked man in a cave who laughed at simple questions. He was making a fool of himself. He cleared his throat and lightly shook his head before he answered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. Your question, as heartfelt as it seemed, simply caught me off guard. no, please let me properly introduce myself. My name is Jacob Kiszka, I am a lieutenant commander in the New England navy. I am stationed at the barracks near the ports. This place is simply my little hideaway, I come here when the base gets too crowded or I simply need to think. I’m not from around here you see, I can’t really go home on the weekends like the other fellows, so I made a bit of a space for myself here. But no, I don't live here full time.”

Jake wasn’t sure why he had said all that. He was usually a very private man, not sharing much about his personal life with anyone. It had even taken Mrs. Oliver a good few months for him to open up and tell her about his hometown and his family but even she didn’t know about the cave.

But Christopher was already here, had already seen the most private thing he had to offer. And there was such kindness in his eyes…

Jake’s words seemed to reassure him. A bit of his nervous energy dissipated and his expression turned from confused to intrigued. He listened attentively to Jake as he explained his job and his rank and the circumstances that led him from his tiny town in Sault Ste. Marie all the way to a New England port.

How being the youngest of a set of twins, but simultaneously older than his younger sister and brother left him essentially feeling a bit like the middle child. Left adrift between his other siblings who either required less or more care and supervision. From a young age he had been attracted to sailing. Having been the only child who had gladly accompanied his father as he went out with his sailboat on the weekends to catch fresh fish. A supplement to their otherwise quite boring diet. When the navy recruiters had flocked into town one summer, it had taken very little convincing for Jake to enlist.

“I was only sixteen, and in hindsight probably far too young to leave home. But they promised an education that my family simply couldn’t afford otherwise. My mother was heartbroken when I left but she knew it was for the best. I’ve managed to make a career for myself and she’s very proud of me. She writes often. I try to go back as frequently as I can.”

In return Jake hung from his very lips as Christopher told him about his life in England, how he had been an apprentice to his father, a master clockmaker, for as long as he could remember. How he, in turn, had also become a master of his craft. 

“It seems unkind to say but the reason I couldn’t stay in England is simply that my father trained me too well. He taught me everything I know but it’s all I know. And it’s all people know to expect from me. Everyone just knows me as young master Turpin, but for once in my life I would just like to just be Mr. Turpin. I love my father, as hard as it is for an Englishman to say, but I needed to leave before the constant comparisons to him made me turn sour.”

Jake had joined him at the table now. Their conversation flowed as smoothly as the tide washing in and out of the cave’s pool. There was no explaining it, as soon as they had opened their mouths there had been a connection. The awkwardness of their first few moments together had melted away and it seemed like they had known each other for years.

They talked for hours that night, not even noticing when the storm let up and the sun started to set. They ate from the box of pastries and drank from the bottles of fresh water and wine Jake had stored on the bottom shelf of his book case.

After the rain had passed the night turned humid. The air hung heavy around them. Oppressively warm as only an August evening can be, and aided by the heat of the candles burning in the cave. A layer of salt seemed to descend over everything, but whether it came from the sea or the two bodies providing conversation that echoed off of the cave walls no one could say.

The rain that had soaked Christopher to the bone had long dried on his skin but the sweltering heat was quickly becoming uncomfortable in a similar way. His shirt was sticking to the back of his neck despite him having removed his jacket hours ago. Etiquette prevented him from stripping any more items of clothing beside his waistcoat and cravat, which he had quickly taken off after he realized Jacob was also only in his shirtsleeves. He was simply not yet used to this new world heat.

Jake could read the discomfort plainly on Christopher’s features. He could feel the sweat starting to form on his own brow too and his shirt clung uncomfortably to his back. The humidity was becoming unbearable and it made it hard to focus on the conversation at hand. Emboldened by the half a bottle of wine flowing through his veins, Jake offered a way to cool down.

“Christopher, I don’t mean to be too forward, but the heat is starting to wear on me. And please correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe it has caught you as well. Would you be amicable to taking a short swim to cool off? I know the temperature of the water in this cave should be quite pleasant and I promise you it is completely safe, I swim here quite frequently during the warmer months.”

Jake tried to make himself sound as formal as possible. This would simply be a way for them to get out of the heat. A completely innocent swim to regulate their body temperatures and replace the salt of their sweat with the salt of the water. The fact that he had become more and more mesmerized with this fascinating man who had stumbled into his cave had absolutely nothing to do with it.

The flush on Christopher’s cheeks seemed to deepen for a moment, something Jake attributed to the heat and the wine but not his words. The man had been well spoken all night, voice clear and steady, never stumbling over any of his words, but suddenly his speech became jumbled.

“Well…I uhm, I don’t have a swimming costume you see, or well, at least not at hand at the moment. Nor do I have a towel or, or a clean shirt for that matter… and what if the tide comes in? Or washes out? Or however it works, I admit, I’m not familiar.” 

Jake stifled his laughter. He didn’t want to make Christopher any more uncomfortable than he already was by laughing at him. And truly he wouldn’t be laughing at him, simply at the situation. Living in the navy barracks had taught Jake to very quickly get over any sense of bodily shame he might have had. When you live with two dozen other men in very close quarters you see much more than you ever bargained for and it soon becomes routine. But Jake also realized that this was not a common thing and that the average civilian had a much more puritan way of seeing things, so he understood Christopher’s hesitation.

“I have some towels here for when I go swimming by myself. I must admit I also don’t have a swimming costume on hand. No one else ever comes here you see. I understand if my suggestion was out of line and I sincerely apologize, please, let us continue our conversation. I’d hate for you to leave.”

Jake wasn’t sure why he added that last part. Some hidden sense of desperation finally bubbling to the surface of his mind atop a sea of wine, and heat, and pleasant company. The need of finding a true friend and conversationalist finally fulfilled, he feared he had squandered it all by his overly familiar suggestion. But much to his surprise Christopher quickly shook his head and spoke up resolutely.

“No I- I think a swim would do me good.”

Jake lost the struggle to keep a smile off of his face at those words. He quickly stood and walked over to the weather proofed chest, retrieving two clean towels he had stolen from the Navy’s laundry room when he was on wash duty. They were slightly worn but still functioned well enough. When he turned back around he was met with the vision of Christopher pulling off his unbuttoned shirt and neatly hanging it over the back of his chair. His skin was pale and unblemished. Completely unlike Jake who, in his line of duty, had become tanned and scarred.

He could see the sinewy muscles shift underneath Christopher’s skin and for a moment Jake became enamored by the curve of his shoulder and the way his hair fell across it as he bent down to unbuckle his shoes. He realized he was staring as Christopher sat back up and he quickly averted his eyes, moving instead to place the towels on the table and move a few of the rocks that made up the border of the tide pool so they would have an easier time entering and exiting the water.

Shirt, shoes, and socks now shed, all that rested Christopher were his trousers. Jake could sense his hesitation and quickly started stripping off his own clothes in order to make the other man feel more at ease. Being naked was uncomfortable for most, but being naked while others were still dressed always seemed worse somehow. Jake undressed with the utmost nonchalance. He figured if he treated this as he would any other swim, or communal shower at the barracks, he’d have the most chance of making Christopher as comfortable as possible.

Jake had only bothered to dress in his shirt and pants after his solo swim earlier that day and thus reached the same state of undress as Christopher within seconds. Continuing in one fluid motion from shucking off his shirt, he deftly undid the row of buttons keeping his pants closed and easily stepped out of them. He neatly folded them over the back of his chair and sat down on the cleared edge of the pool, lazily dipping his legs into the water and letting out a content sigh at the coolness that enveloped them.

As he let himself submerge fully into the water he could hear the rustle of fabric behind him and the sound of one of the chairs scooting back across the rocky ground. Jake opted not to turn back around until he heard the splash of another body entering the pool, granting Christopher at least that modicum of privacy.

He could hear the other man let out a similar sigh of relief at the coolness of the water and as Jake turned, he caught just the slightest glimpse of tiny blond curls sinking into the darkness before the rest of Christopher’s abdomen and torso followed. Soon he was submerged down to his chest. The pool was shallow enough for both men to stand, and in the corner farthest from the entrance it even held a small, underwater ledge which could function as a natural bench. Jake made his way over and took a seat, planning on staying in the water for a while, or at least until they had both cooled off enough to brave the humidity of the rest of the cave once more.

As Christopher made his way over to take a seat next to him, Jake busied himself by scooping handfuls of water up over his hair and face, washing away the sweat and slicking back his already damp locks.

Before Christopher sat down he fully submerged himself for a second or two in a similar attempt to rid himself of the sticky sweat that clung to his skin.

As he reemerged Jake adjusted his previous observation. Christopher didn’t look like an angel, he looked like a siren. The way his hair clung to his face, the intense pale blue green of his eyes, amplified only by the slight redness in the whites from the sea salt, the way the candle light played across his pale skin. Jake was completely enraptured by him and in a moment of weakness, he reached out and tucked a strand of the damp hair behind one of Christopher’s ears.

Shocked at his own actions Jake quickly retracted his hand and went to apologize. But he only managed to draw his hand back a few inches before Christopher caught it, and all the words he managed to squeeze out were simply the other man’s name. 

“Christopher”

They stared at each other in silence for a singular, everlasting second, Jake’s wrist caught in Christopher’s hand and his gaze captured in those sea glass eyes.

“Please Jacob.. Call me Chris.” Chris said in a whisper, a smile playing along his lips and a glint of…something in his eyes.

“Jake… please call me Jake” was all Jake could reply before Chris placed the hand he had captured back onto his cheek and leaned into his touch.

That first meeting had been almost four and a half years ago to the day. Chris had visited the cave nearly every night after that. They would talk, and swim, and talk some more. Becoming closer and closer as the days passed. Never once had Chris thought to bring a swimming costume.

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After nearly six months of almost daily visits, Jake had become utterly devoted to Chris. The man occupied his mind all hours of the day and night. Every waking moment he longed for the other man’s company and in his dreams their relationship blossomed into a beautiful intimacy, the likes of which he had never experienced before.

Jake kept these thoughts to himself of course.

Besides having become closer to Chris in their constant conversations, they had also grown somewhat closer physically.

After that first night where Chris had refused to let go of his hand, opting instead to nuzzle into it as Jake stroked his thumb across his cheek, their touches had become more and more frequent.

They would greet each other with an embrace during which Chris would always tangle his fingers into Jake’s hair, untying whatever ribbon he had used to keep it in a neat ponytail and making it flow loosely over his shoulders and back instead.

In turn Jake would assist Chris in taking off his coat and placing it over the back of one of the chairs. As the nights went on and they became more comfortable, more and more items of clothing would be shed, often resulting in them conversing in nothing but their pants, or even completely naked, submerged in the moonlit water of the pool.

It was during one of these nights, once again aided by a fair helping of stolen wine, that Jake had thrown caution to the wind and fully crossed the line into the unknown.

The night had once again been unbearably hot, and it had taken them no time at all to end up in the pool once more. Having become more comfortable with each other’s nudity, Jake had flung his clothes in Chris’ general direction, laughing as they hit the other man square in the face, and diving into the pool with a great big splash. Chris joined in his laughter and dove in after him, surfacing right in front of Jake’s face and splashing him with water. Jake splashed him back, starting a brief but intense water fight that ended when Jake managed to capture Chris’ hands. They were both heaving with laughter, reveling in the childish games their age didn’t often permit them.

As both men caught their breath, hands still clasped together, stray giggles forced out between pants, Jake simply couldn’t stop himself. His body moved as if possessed, lowering their entwined hands into the water, forcing their bodies closer together. The cave was quiet, save for the crashing of the waves on the shore outside and their slowly steadying breaths which now landed on the other’s face.

Chris made no moves to distance himself from Jake. His eyes were wide, not in shock, but in an effort to absorb every millimeter of Jake’s face in the dim candlelight. The fact that Chris made no attempts to flee filled Jake with the last shred of courage he needed to finally ask the question that had been stuck in his throat since the moment he laid eyes on the other man.

“Christopher…Chris. May I kiss you?”

He had barely gotten all the words out before Chris’ lips were on his. The warmth of his skin, pressed so impossibly close to his own, flooded all of Jake’s senses. He felt enveloped by him. The way his arms roamed over his back and pressed them closer together, one of his hands snaking its way into his hair and gripping it tightly. Chris kissed like a parched man finally feeling the touch of water on his tongue. His movements were hungry, desperate, but somehow also gentle, nearly reverent.

Jake felt like he was being worshiped. A ravenous kind of devotion was placed upon his body and as Chris’ lips moved from his own, across his cheek, to his ear, and down his neck, his continuously muttered stream of “you may, you may, you may” sounded oddly like a prayer.

The feeling was overwhelming. Jake had been loved before, sure. His mother loved him, as did his father, and his siblings all loved him in their own ways. But he had never been adored before. His veins felt like they were on fire as Chris’ lips made their way down his chest. A sob thundered through Jake’s rib cage as a kiss was placed right over his heart.

Chris straightened himself faster than lighting, his eyes searching for Jake’s expression through the flood of tears that rolled down his face. His hands tenderly cradled his cheeks, thumbs wiping away the torrents that flowed down his skin.

“Jake, my dearest, my love, what happened? Did I hurt you?” Chris asked, only partially successful in his attempt to hide the panic in his voice.

Jake shook his head as hard as the hands cradling him allowed. His head was flowing over with the love he was feeling and all his body could think to do was cry.

“You are so beautiful, so beautiful.” was all he managed to force out before another sob was expelled out of him and Chris pulled him into an embrace that felt like he was holding love itself.

“Oh my love, my love…” Chris muttered against the crook of Jake’s neck and the heat of his breath made it feel like the words were being seared into Jake’s skin. He was being marked as Christopher’s love, by Christopher’s love. 

“Let out all your sorrows my dearest, I am here. You have me, I am yours.” 

Chris held him for what felt like hours, letting Jake cry onto his shoulder until all his tears were gone and all that was left was the feeling of Chris’ arms around him and the steady rise and fall of his chest against Jake’s cheek.

“I’m sorry…” Jake began to apologize but Chris just held him tighter and shushed his words away as his fingers combed through Jake’s dark locks.

“Don’t apologize Jake. you have nothing to apologize for. If we are to share this love, my only condition is that we also share our pain.”

Jake pulled himself away from Chris’ chest just enough to look into his eyes.

“Love?” Do you love me?” He asked, his voice sounding smaller than he had sounded in years. And there was that kindness In Chris’ eyes again. That gentle and easy reassurance combined with whatever that glimmer was that had flitted behind his irises that first night in the water.

“I think I do. I think I have for quite some time now, I have no other way to describe this utter devotion I feel towards you.” Chris spoke, and this time it was Jake’s turn to parch his thirst on Chris’ lips. His kisses were softer, less urgent. Jake had always been of the opinion that if something was worth doing, it was worth doing well and without hurry. 

He created a map of Chris’ body in his mind as his hands roamed his skin. The crook of his neck, the ridges of his spine, the way his hips pressed against his own when he pushed against the small of Chris’ back. It all became a part of the idol he was building in his head. It would become a tiny piece of home Jake would be able to take with him whenever his ship left the harbor. The map of Chris’ body had become the new north on his compass.

They kissed and hugged and simply held each other the whole night through. When the water had become too cold for either of them to stand they had dried themselves off and slotted their bodies together on Jake’s tiny sleeping cot. They kept each other warm that night, and many nights after in the four years that would follow.

But now, as Jake lit the final candle lined up along the walls of the cave, he wondered if that time might be coming to an end.

He had received his call to duty a day or so ago. It had been nearly a full month since the conversation Chris and him had shared on that bench outside the church. They had been given more time than they could have hoped for, but it hadn’t been enough. It would never have been enough time. 

The days had warmed up since that dreary July morning where Jake had shared the truth about the severity of the pirate problem the navy was facing. They had once again slipped into the heady heat of August, but despite the humidity Jake had still decided to dress in his Sunday best.

It might have been the last opportunity he would get.

There was no need to invite Chris to the cave. He would be there, as he had been every night Jake spent on shore and off duty for the last four years. All Jake had to tell him was to dress up and bring his good wine. The smile Chris had given him at those words had been bittersweet.

Jake had gone all out, cleaning the entirety of their shared slice of home. He had picked flowers along the dunes and placed them in old jars all around the cave, he had washed the sheets of the cot and even brought a table cloth he had found to cover their old rickety table with. He floated small tealights on pieces of driftwood, spreading the amber light even further than it had ever reached before.

The meal he had prepared wasn’t much special, just a simple dinner of meat, vegetables, and potatoes, but he had managed to convince Mrs. Oliver to bake him Chris’ favorite cake; spiced blood orange.

He had just laid out the final pieces of cutlery when he could hear the telltale approach of his beloved. Heeled boots clicking across the rocks and crunching over the fine layer of sand that managed to cover the floor no matter how much Jake swept. He turned around and there he was, his siren.

Chris was dressed in the exact same suit he had worn that first night they met. The cream colored linen had softened over the years and the shirt had become slightly tighter as Chris had grown stronger and bigger from hard work and sturdy meals, but he still looked as beautiful as he had all those years ago.

Jake could feel the tears prickling behind his eyes, but he quickly swallowed them down and replaced them with the loving smile Chris deserved.

“Hello my dearest.” Jake spoke as he walked over to help Chris take off his jacket, just like he always did. Chris smiled and planted a soft kiss on his lips before turning and allowing Jake to help rid him of the garment. When Chris turned back around his eyes finally drifted over the interior of the cave, landing on every candle and flower Jake had added before finally settling on the dinner for two that was laid out on the table.

Jake could see the same swell of tears behind Chris’ eyes but his love quickly blinked and softly cleared his throat as he spoke.

“You truly are the most adoring man that has ever lived. Every day over you make me proud that you’re the keeper of my heart.” 

Jake beamed at his words. Chris’ praise was always so poetic and it made him feel seen in a way that no one else ever had.

“Come, sit down, before the food gets cold.” Jake ushered him over to the table, pulling out a chair for Chris to take a seat before sitting down himself. They talked as they ate, discussing their day and any news from around town as they did every night.

“I think Mrs. Oliver may be with child.” Jake gossipped as he sliced into the meat on his plate.

“Really?!” Chris replied, his eyes wide in amused wonderment as he listened attentively to the rumors and daily minutiae Jake had picked up since they last spoke twenty four hours ago. He reveled in the feeling of normalcy and routine. Just for one last night.

“Hmm, I doubt she knows I noticed but with the way Mr. Oliver dotes on her you’d think she was made out of the finest china available. It’s quite adorable.” a smile danced around Jake’s lips as he looked down at his plate. He was truly happy for them.

“Well I for one would not be surprised if you were to receive a request to become a godfather. Mrs. Oliver has always said you are like a brother to her. It would only be fitting.” Chris grinned at Jake who was still staring at his plate. His smile had faltered slightly. As much as he would love to be a godfather for his best friend’s child, he knew he would be shipping out within a day. And there was no promise he’d return.

He lightly shook his head, plastering the smile back in its place as he stood up from the table and extended his hand to Chris, urging him to get up as well. 

“Come, I have something to show you.” he said as Chris placed his hand in Jake’s and allowed himself to be pulled up. Jake led him over to the book case where on the middle shelf a small, worn, wooden box rested. Chris had never seen it before, despite his frequent visits to the cave, and the presence of the item confused him slightly. All questions he might have had were expelled from his mind however as, with his free hand, Jake lifted the lid off of the box and the cave was filled with the small tinny waltz as played by a music box.

“It washed up on shore about a month ago. I must admit I’m no expert when it comes to cogs and springs but I fixed it up as well as I could and she seems to work like a charm.” Jake muttered, seemingly a little flustered at having kept his tinkering a secret for so long.

Chris couldn’t help it. The tears flowed freely down his cheeks now, and when Jake looked up from the box his hands immediately flew up to cradle Chris’ face.

“Oh I’m so sorry my love, I wanted this night to be one of joy and light but it seems now like that might have been a foolish idea. I never meant to upset you my dearest but I know the entire situation itself is upsetting.” Jake spoke as silent sobs wracked Chris’ body.

“I wish you wouldn’t have to go.” Chris lamented between labored breaths “I know it’s selfish but I wish you wouldn’t have to go. Every time you deploy it feels like my heart is carved out of my chest and stored in the hull of your ship. I wish you wouldn’t have to go.”

Jake felt his own heart shatter at Chris’ words but only because he felt the exact same way. Whenever he sailed out he couldn’t shake the feeling that part of his soul remained ashore.

“I wish that too my love, I wish that too. I am bound by duty but know I am bound to you too, and know that I will do everything in my power to return to you, I promise you that.”

Chris’ breathing evened out and the flow of tears slowly subsided. The sadness he felt was far from gone but he didn’t want to spoil their last evening together with a never ending flow of tears, and so he took a deep breath and pressed his lips against Jake’s.

Their kiss was urgent in a way. Chris tried to convey every ounce of love he felt through the connection of their skin, he hoped it would be enough.

As they parted, Jake wiped at his own eyes with the back of his hand. He sniffed once before forcing the return of his smile to his lips. The music box still played softly behind them and Jake took Chris’ hands in his own once more as he asked with a deep bow “Mr. Turpin, may I have this dance?”

The three kisses Jake received translated to the reply he knew so well; “you may, you may, you may.”

They assumed the positions for a slow and gentle waltz as the music echoed off of the walls of the cave. Their steps were clumsy and Chris could tell by the tiny movements of Jake’s mouth that he was counting along with the rhythm of the song. Neither of them were skilled dancers but they reveled in the closeness of their bodies and the shared movement. 

It didn’t take long for Chris to rest his head on Jake’s chest, the sound of his breath slowly entering and leaving his lungs, and the steady drum of Jake’s heart against his cheek was all he needed to calm him down. The music faded away into the echoes of the cave and it was just the two of them once more. Their shuffling feet and Jake’s quiet counting the only sounds that filled the air. 

The sun had set outside their rocky abode but the humidity still clung to them like flypaper. Their movements became sluggish until they finally stopped altogether.

“Could we go take some air for a moment? It’s dark now so no one should be able to see us.” Chris suggested and Jake nodded his head in agreement. Leading each other by the hand they excited their cave for a moment and sat down near the surf. It wouldn’t be long until the tide would come rolling in but they didn’t plan on sitting there long. Just long enough for some of the heat from their skin to dissipate and to breathe in the cool sea breeze.

The night was clear and the stars shone brightly above them. The light of the moon cast a silvery glow over all and the sand seemed to almost sparkle as they sat down.

“Have you told your brother you’ll be shipping out?” Chris asked softly.

“I have.” Jake answered. About two years ago Josh had finally made the big step and left Sault Ste, Marie to join Jake in New England. He had opened up a small tailor shop near the harbor and he was doing quite well for himself. Chris and Josh had met a few dozen times and Josh knew that Jake and him were good friends but despite their closeness Jake hadn’t yet been able to tell Josh what exactly Chris meant to him.

“He is anxious as well but he wished me luck and a safe and speedy return. He asked if I needed anything mended before I left so I’ll be picking up the last of my clothes from his shop tomorrow morning. It’ll be good to see him one last time before I go.” As he spoke, Jake absentmindedly traced his fingers through the sand. He drew spirals and hearts and stars until, as he came to the end of his sentence, he wrote Christopher’s name on the shore.

Chris smiled as he saw the letters of his own name appear in the sand in Jake’s handwriting and with his own hand wrote ‘Jacob” underneath.

Their fingers laced together in the sand when suddenly, in the distance, they could hear the ringing of a ship’s bell. Just one at first, and then two, and three and more and more until the entire night was filled with the sounds of an armada sailing into port. 

The new fleet had finally arrived.

Jake’s imminent departure was real now. Without the new ships it had all felt so far away. There were preparations at the docs, sure, but it hadn’t felt like an army sailing out yet. There were no ships and so nothing had felt imminent. But now there they were, pure white sails floating through the darkness like ghosts on the surf. The waves of their boughs traveled to shore on the incoming tide, washing away their writing in the sand.

Chris looked down at the vague indentations of the letters left behind.

“I suppose that was bound to happen at some point. It’s not a very permanent way to record our love.”

As he spoke he untangled his fingers from Jake’s and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and retrieved a small dark blue box.

“That’s why I made you this. So you can take me with you wherever you go.” he said, as he handed the box to Jake.

A look of surprise washed over Jake’s features as he accepted the present and took off the lid.

Inside, nestled on a piece of deep black velvet, lay a shiny golden pocket watch. The front cover was decorated with an intricately carved crescent moon, its softly smiling profile looked oddly similar to Chris’ own face and when Jake popped it open he was greeted by the beautifully painted clock face. Along the row of roman numerals, painted in tiny lettering was Chris’ brand. 

“Christopher Turpin

Master Clockmaker”

But that wasn’t what caught Jake’s eye. For on the inside of the cover, etched in Chris’ own handwriting, were two simple words, repeated thrice.

“You may, you may, you may.”

Tears welled up behind Jake’s eyes again but this time he let them flow freely as he closed the watch, placed it back into the box, closed the lid, and put the box in his pocket before crashing his lips against Chris’.

His movements were fierce, pouring all his love and hopes and wishes into the connection of skin they shared. Jake’s lips roamed across Chris’s face, covering every inch he could reach in kisses and whispered declarations of love. Chris giggled at the tickle of lips on his cheeks, and his eyelids, and his forehead. His laughter was cut off with a gasp as Jake hoisted himself onto Chris’ lap, grasping his face in both hands as he placed another kiss upon his lips. But this kiss was different from the previous ones. There was a hunger here that seemed to seep out of Jake’s bones and onto his skin. A ravenous desire that burned out of his fingertips and outward from their chests which were now pressed together.

Chris answered that hunger with his own, opening his lips to let Jake feast on him. Jake’s tongue ravaged his mouth, tasting every millimeter, deepening the lines on the map of Chris’ body that lived in his mind. Maybe if he could keep tracing those lines he’d have some sort of reassurance he would be able to make it home.

Jake’s hands slid up into Chris’ hair as his tongue flicked across his teeth. Chris in turn held onto Jake’s hips like a drowning man onto a buoy. As soon as Chris’ hands landed on him, Jake let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Their lips disconnected but their foreheads melted together instead as Jake’s hips rolled forward against Chris, seemingly on their own accord.

“I need you.” Jake breathed, his words spread an undeniable heat across Chris’ skin.

“You have me, I am yours.” Chris responded as the tide of Jake’s hips continued crashing against his own. His hands sank down and grabbed onto Jake’s backside, pulling him as close as he could, intensifying the sensation of their groins pressed together with every wave.

Jake let out a groan at the feeling of being held so tightly, his ass cradled in Chris’ strong hands while his member slid up and down the steadily growing bulge in his lover’s pants. His grip on Chris’ hair tightened, pulling his head back slightly and exposing Chris’ pale throat. Jake could almost see his panting breaths flowing through his windpipe. As his right hand held the grip on his hair, his left traveled down to feel Chris’ heartbeat pulse against the side of his throat. It fluttered against his finger so rapidly. Even through the fabric of his cravat he could feel Chris’ life beating a steady, racing, rhythm against his hands. 

The feeling was intoxicating. 

Jake tried to set the grinding of his hips in time with the beating of Chris’ heart but it proved to be an impossible task. The faster his hips moved, the faster the pulse thrummed against his fingertips. Jake was snapped out of his reverie in the end by Chris letting out a soft whine. His hands roaming across Jake’s back, grasping at the fabric of his waistcoat, fighting for any sense of purchase as the warmth of Jake’s length slid against his own.

“Jacob please,” Chris forced out as Jake finally slowed his relentless grind.

“Please, please, please, I need you too, please take me, use me, I’m yours…. I’m yours.” he babbled and as Jake looked down at his face he could see Chris’ pupils blown with lust. He released the grip on his hair and gently combed his fingers through Chris’ long locks instead.

“Tell me what you need my love, I’ll give it to you. Anything you ask for, I’ll give it to you.” Jake muttered to him as he pressed their foreheads back together. They breathed in each other’s air as Chris sorted through all the things he could possibly ask from Jake. His mind was a maelstrom of wishes but in the end he landed on a singular simple request.

“Take me to our bed Jake.”

[frost-queen]

What we choose (Reader x Spencer Reid)

Requested by: @alanalanalanalanalanna Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia,  @elllie-does-the-posts, @alex--awesome--22, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @imagines-by-her, @vviolynn, @melsunshine,  @evilcr0ne,

Laying in his arms, everything was just right. Everything just like you always wanted. Nothing more, nothing less. Blessed with a smile, you turned round feeling his arm lift gently to give you more space. Now facing him, you pushed your arms around him. – “Comfortable?” – Spencer mumbled with his eyes still closed. – “Yes.” – you said softly as he inhaled deep through his nose.

His arms tightening around your body, pressed against his bare chest. Not a half an hour ago he had proofed to you just how much he loved you. Loved every bit of your body like a holy grail. The smell of sweat still in the air from how your bodies had worked together. His leg brushed against yours underneath the sheets whilst he hummed pleasantly. You kissed his chin, laying your head back down.  Everything was just right you thought before falling asleep.

It was by accident that you found it. Perhaps lucky you found out at this stage or else it would’ve been a hell lot bloodier. It was a standard medical examine at work that every employee had to do every two years. You sat patiently waiting on a chair in the hallway. The call note in your hand. Your posture shot up when the door opened. A lady walking out with a smile on her face. You gave her a sympathetic smile back before you got called in.

Getting up, you collected all your things heading inside. The examine room wasn’t that big. Just a simple desk and some equipment. You gave the doctor your note as she accepted it. She started typing a bit on the computer, probably pulling up your medical history. She started her standard questions which you answered honestly. Followed by some custom procedures. The bomb came afterwards in a letter.

The results of your medical examination. You were healthy enough to continue your work yet something else was spoken off to. A sweet congratulations that you were with child. To many this would be indeed good news. News to cry your eyes out over and scream delightful. Yet to you it wasn’t great news. It wasn’t anything positive. Reading the words made you instantly sick. Rushing to the bathroom to throw up. Throw up with disgust at what was growing inside of you.

After the sickening feeling came the tears. Not tears of joy, no. Tears of anger, disgust, and stupidity. Stupidity of how you could’ve let it come to this. A child! There was a small person growing inside of you and it felt alien-like. Reaching for your stomach you gave your skin a good squeeze. – “I don’t want you.” – you told it with loud sniffling. It might seem cruel or rude to many others, but this was just how you thought about it. You couldn’t help it.

Ever since you were young, you proclaimed to never want children of your own. You remembered clear how your mother used to laugh it away, telling you, you’ll grow out of this idle idea. But you never did. You never outgrew it. It increased by the years. Children just weren’t for you. It never was. You didn’t feel love towards them, you couldn’t help it. Sitting down on the bath’s edge you exhaled deep.

“You are ruining everything do you know that. I was happy. I am happy and you! you ruin it with your presence.” – you said out loud. Letting the letter drop to the floor, you stared out in the distance. Mind spinning with what now. There was no way you were going to keep it. It felt unfair to the child to welcome it in the world when you felt indifferent for it. You were empathic enough to not wish that upon the child.

The door had opened as a voice echoed through the house. – “Y/n babe are you home?” – Spencer called out setting his bag down. – “Sorry I’m a bit later, it was crazy at the BAU.” – he continued while moving around the house in search for you. He frowned noticing the door to the bathroom was slightly open, light coming from inside the room. With a creaking noise pushed he the door open. – “Y/n what are you doing in here?” – he asked stepping inside.

The first thing he noticed was the letter on the floor. He immediately bend down to pick it up. His eyes darted rapidly over the words, processing the words. – “What?” – he called out stunned. – “You… you are pregnant?” – he blurted out with a smile. – “Y/n this… this is…” – he lowered the letter ready to express cheerfulness upon you, yet then he saw your face and remembered how you stood against children.

“This… is unexpected but we can see together what will happen now.” – he said. You finally moved lifting your head up to him. – “What will happen is that I will get it removed.” – you said bluntly. Plain with any emotion. – “What? Get rid of it?” – Spencer called out baffled. – “But… Y/n this… this is our child… just give us a moment to think about it.” – Spencer continued as you got up.

“Each moment I waste thinking about it, it grows larger!” – you answered loudly. – “I don’t want this! I don’t want a child and you know that!” – you accused with wild gestures. Spencer grabbed you by the shoulders. – “I know, I know but let me just think.” – he begged for a pause to let him process this properly and think clearly. – “What is there to think I want it gone!” – you shouted swaying your arm up so his grip was off you. – “What if I don’t!” – Spencer shouted back swept up in your anger and commotion.

His reaction made you stare with anger and disgust at him. – “It’s… it’s our child Y/n!” – Spencer called out trying to reason with you. – “I don’t want it!” – you repeated wanting to get it in his head. – “I do!” – he yelled out squeezing your arms tight. Tears swelled up in your eyes as they rolled down your cheek. – “I don’t want this, and you know that!” – you screamed out trying to get him to listen to reason.

“I know, but I think you are thinking irrational. Just… just give us a few moments to discuss it.” – he said gentler soothing your arms. – “What is there to discuss, I don’t want this!” – you cried out, getting frustrated that he wasn’t listening. – “I never wanted a child and you agreed with your type of work it would endanger it anyways, we were on terms with this.”

Spencer sighed deep knowing he did agreed to it. Yet to him it felt as if things might have changed with this sudden news. A chance for him to get something more in life. Something he was perhaps willing to try even if it meant failing numerous times to get it right. Sobbing loud you ran your hands through your hair. – “I’m getting it removed whether you like it or not.” – you told him. Spencer puffed brief. – “So no matter what I say, I won’t get a say in it.” – he replied as you shook your head. – “So this is it then. You are going to end the life of our child.” – you weren’t sure if he was trying to gaslight you or guilt trip, but it sure left a dirty taste in your mouth.

“If you are so eager to have a child, perhaps you should find it elsewhere!” – you called out against your better judgement. A slip of the tongue manifesting from your anger. Spencer’s eyes widened. – “Perhaps I should!” – he shouted back, taking a turn and shut the door behind you. The slam of the door startled you. Giving you that nudge to surrender completely to your tears. Sobbing loud you crashed down. In just a few hours your world had come crashing down.

Why was no one considerate towards you? It felt as if your feelings were shoved aside or labeled as unwanted or irrational. You were very much sane to know what you were speaking off. Not everyone was meant to have children and that should be alright too. It is not easy being a mom, that is a fact. So if you do not feel like having them, it shouldn’t be a crime. It was rather human to make this decision.

As the tears rolled down your cheek, you left the bathroom to make an online appointment with the abortion center. For the following days you hadn’t been seeing Spencer much. It was as if he was avoiding you. He wouldn’t be already looking for another girlfriend would he now? The waiting for the appointment was already stressful enough. You still loved Spencer very much despite the argument you had with him. You dearly wished him to be present when you would undergo it.

To have him of some comfort that you weren’t utterly alone in this world. You left a voicemail to Spencer’s phone letting him know you were going in today and that you hoped to see him there for support. The ride to the abortion center seemed dreadfully long. As if meeting the grim reaper and volunteering to give him your life like you had given up on earth. Wanting to be somewhere else where there was no pain. The moment you entered it felt heavy on your chest.

A woman announced for you to sit and wait till the doctor came. In the meantime she gave you a form to fill. Your hand trembled, knees shook at the scary thought of going through such a procedure. You knew this wasn’t the 40’s anymore where risks like this were high upon the mother. Yet you couldn’t deny the fear. Checking your phone you hoped to have heard of Spencer. There was none. Minutes ticked by as you felt yourself go numb.

You practically jumped up when it was your turn. Looking saddened back to see no sign of Spencer. How much you had hoped he would be there. To show you he still loved you and wanted to go forwards with you. His absence spoke loudly. You sat down with the doctor as she explained what would happen. She pressed on if you were certain of your choice. You were. You kind of felt sad there wasn’t any guilt inside of you towards letting it die. You couldn’t muster up the feeling. The moment you were prepared your heart started to beat faster.

Sweat forming on your forehead. Fear of what it might feel like. – “Are you certain?” – the doctor asked one last time. You nodded sternly. – “I am.” – you responded. Feeling the doctor come near, you turned to look up to the ceiling. Trying to set your mind apart from what was going to happen. If only Spencer was here. You needed him here for support. You didn’t want to do this alone. Suddenly you started to cry, sniffle loud because of Spencer’s absence. Perhaps his love for you wasn’t as deep as you imagined.

The doctor stopped and looked at you. – “I can still stop if you want. There is no shame in changing your mind.” – she said soothingly. Shaking your head you disagreed. It was then that she understood. – “You are going to be alright. I wish I could offer you my hand, but I’ll need it.” – she said with comfort. – “Do you want to hold my hand?” – she asked. You nodded with teary eyes, lip trembling.

She held her hand out to you. You grabbed it, giving it a big squeeze. – “All will be well. You are not going through this alone. I am right here with you.” – she said with a smile. The door busted open as a nurse stumbled inside after a panting Spencer. – “Y/n!” – Spencer breathed out. You instantly started to cry more opening your arms as he fell down in your embrace. The doctor nodded to the nurse that it was alright. – “I’m so sorry for being so late.” – he said to you. The doctor smiled. – “I believe she might need a hand.” – she added. Spencer nodded taking your hand in his.

“I shall begin then.” – the doctor spoke as you nodded. Spencer shushed you, stroking your hair with comfort. – “It is you and me darling. Nothing in this world can make me separate from you.” – he said as you squeezed his hand so tight you thought it would break. Spencer’s presence made the procedure less frightening. You were brought to a recovery room to come at ease.

Spencer sat down beside you, holding your hand tight. – “I didn’t think you’d come. I didn’t think you wanted me anymore.” – you told him. Spencer smiled softly. – “For a moment I didn’t think I would. Then something overcame me as I couldn’t let you go through this alone. We made a choice Y/n. A long time ago and I have been foolish for going against it. Never in a million years do I want to part from you. I will have you, all of you. Nothing in between.”

Spencer bend down to kiss you. You got up letting yourself fall against his chest. His arms wrapping tightly around you. Exhaling deep he embraced you with every emotion inside of him. – “I love you Y/n.” – he whispered making you hold on tighter to him.

-----------------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[jackiequick]

Duck, duck, duck, duck, Goose! | Top Gun Fanfic 🧸

Top Gun AU✈️

——

Pairing: Nick Bradshaw x Carole Bradshaw , Pete Mitchell & Tom Kazansky

Summary: When it came to kids Carole, Iceman and Maverick only had to worry about two. Bradley and his young brother, Dane. Then came Jenny. It seemed fit, 3 for 3! But when another Mitchell kid, came along they realized they had more on their hands. 4 for 4!

Characters mentioned/include: Audrey, Buzz, Wraith, Slider, Hazel, and the rest of the 86’ class

Timeline: Post-Top Gun (1986), Pre Top Gun Maverick

Warning: Canon character death mentioned

Fic type: Fluff and humorous, with small moments of angst

Previous fic —> Click here

———

There were moments like this where if you told Maverick and the others years ago, that kids would be part of the agenda they would’ve laughed at you so hard and through you were crazy.

But then the kids started coming over the years.

It started with Goose and Carole. High school sweethearts destined to get married and have kids of their own, where everyone can only wish to have a portion of what they had.

Of course, they had little Bradley Bradshaw or baby goose as he was nicknamed.

Adorable little blonde boy with cubby cheeks and a curious little smile that meant determination. He looked just like his father in every way, Maverick would tell his nephew that years to come.

It was great being a little group of 4. Memories made and laughs saved.

But sadly, then Goose died after a training accident while Carole and Bradley were there to visit them. Maverick felt horrible, so did Iceman, Audrey and the rest of the 86’ class. Gloomy painful days were to come after that.

However there was a flip side, a little surprise to come after the clouds were blowing away.

And that little beam of sunlight became Dane Bradshaw many months later.

Carole didn’t know she was pregnant at the time until Audrey pointed out how fuzzy she felt lately and honestly they couldn’t have been happier in that moment.

Maverick lightly joked, “Wow! I guess Goose really take you to bed.”

“Oh Mav, play nice and that was a little secret.” Replied the Carole with a smile joking back.

Sunset chuckled, “And made sure to leave a bag of surprises afterwards.”

—

Goose really did leave a bag of surprise afterwards but they didn’t know that yet until years later.

Duck, duck, duck, duck, Goose!

—

Dane Bradshaw was the spitting image of his mother with such a warmth and gentle smile to him, he was nicknamed pooh bear.

Him and Bradley were only 2-3 years apart in age, but there will be moments where they acted like they shared the same brain cell. Being silly little ducklings, surprising people with their charm and sweet tactics.

There were days Carole would come home to the kids (along with Maverick) causing a mess in the house baking. Days where the boys will go playing with water guns and end up getting Audrey’s clothes wet.

Or with Iceman, where Bradley would show their uncle an idea for an airplane to build with boxes and other items in the house. Meanwhile Dane would collect all the ideas, wanting to go big or go bold enough to shine with their plane where Ice couldn’t have the heart to say no.

Other times, Dane was the sweetest thing in the whole entire world. A gushing image is a gentle breeze holding up flowers to his aunties such as Hazel and Audrey, making get well cards for his mama. Hugging his uncle Mav and teasing his uncle Ice with a little grin.

But he was also very protective, him and his brother, being a guard dog when it comes their mother. That goes for Hazel, Valkyrie, Audrey and whatever other lady in their lives.

————

Speaking on ladies, they were surprised at the time she arrived. It was an unexpected surprise indeed as for she came at an old hour of the night. No alert, no phone call or an letter from the post man.

Just an knock on the door in a carrier held the first half of The Mitchell-Bradshaw clan. Jennifer Penelope Mitchell, or as she was nickname princess.

Don’t worry she gets a handful of nicknames later on, so do all the kids!

Pete and Ice were in total shock at the bundle of joy brought to their attention but welcomed her with open arms nonetheless.

It took Maverick a long couple of hours, even days to fully get his head around the fact he had a daughter.

It wasn’t until Carole met her and saw the cheeky little smile that she said, “Yup, Pete she’s yours alright!”

“Yes she is.” Audrey added, blowing raspberries into her cheek.

The girls fell in love with Jenny overnight, engulfed by her sweetness but since she was Mav’s kid the girl hated to sleep and very silly. According Iceman she was stubborn like her father but Audrey would say she’s stubborn like him instead.

When Carole brought the boys to meet their cousin/future best friend, Bradley was taken back by Jenny and Dane was curious rather shy about the ideas.

“Mama! Does that mean I have to share a room with her too?” Bradley asked pointed to the girl.

“Wha’ she do?” Dane added, his vocabulary and grammar not very accurate yet.

It was silly, since Dane Bradshaw was close enough be to around less than 2 years older than her but he was curious about the situation, not wanting to share the spotlight with anyone. Same thing when for Bradley, even though he was the oldest.

Carole had to correct them saying, “No boys, you don’t have to share a room with her. And she is just a baby, so she doesn’t do much yet. But I think you guys are gonna like her a lot.”

And as always, Carole Bradshaw is correct!

Since Bradley quickly warmed up to Jenny wanting to show her everything and take the girl everywhere he went like the big brother he is to Dane. Especially when Jenny got older he got to joke around, watching over her and and play with her a lot more.

Bradley nicknamed her Jenny Penny.

Dane, since they were somewhat closer in age range per say, the two were pretty close. Dane being softer, very silly toward the girl and more importantly being protective, catching up on new things with things he learned at school and playing with her a lot of the time.

He nicknamed her JenJen.

Eventually the boys would give her the classic nickname and future callsign, JenPen.

But Jenny Mitchell wasn’t the one who got nicknames, because to her Bradley was Brad Brad and Dane was Danny Boy.

Even though as the years went on, her nicknames for them changed to Chicken and Engineer.

———

Soon enough Baby Goose, Pooh Bear, and Princess had a 4th to complete the group (hopefully)…

…Daffy Duck!

Other name being used for Austin Mitchell.

If one Mitchell kid wasn’t enough, look no more to a second one! That was another surprise that left Carole, Iceman, Audrey and Maverick himself flabbergasted at the news. But it’s wasn’t an total surprise since Maverick was known for being in the dating scene a long time, falling in and out of love with several women because the attraction was a strong thing.

Like a lot things, it never lasted too long ending up in heartbreak, loneliness and confusion, thinking it was a short fling.

But as we learned that every actions has an equal opposite reaction. That resulted in his son, in which he chuckled and sighed in awe of the little smile that entered his world. He fell in love with his kid the moment he met him.

Slider joked, “Alright, either Maverick needs to do something about the love making around here or Goose had an grand ol’ conversation about bringing four ducklings with the big man upstairs when he left?!”

Iceman glared at his best friend jokingly, “Very funny, buddy. There is no way Mother Goose had this all figured out and planned for this to happened. It was just fate!”

Maverick shut them both up carrying his son in his arms and said, “Oh shut it you two! Before we know it you’re popping out kids of your own.”

Carole smiled, “My husband wouldn’t do such a thing, even if he did I think theses were gifts. Look how cute they are!”

~~~~~

Two blondes and two brunettes, all wrapped into a cute little gift baskets from Mother Goose himself.

“Yeah no Slider’s right, Nicholas Bradshaw brought down four ducking after his departure!” Audrey added a few minutes later.

~~~~~

Austin Mitchell was a spitting imagine and reminder of his father, times 10! From his brownish-green eyes to his nose, even the floppy mess of chocolate brown locks. His smile was no different, giggling about his favorite things and moving around with so much energy that he could become the next marathon runner for god’s sake.

But like any kid here, especially a kid that belongs to Maverick Mitchell, Austin was a clumsy boy knocking into everything and getting himself stuck in troubling situations. It was cute but also kinda annoying.

“A little tornado warning should come with him.” Joked Wraith once he met the boy with a smile.

Nonetheless he was loved. Jenny was only two years old when she got her baby brother, wanting to parenting him and keep the little guy out of danger with a pout. But then again, she was also very clumsy and cheeky herself so they both ended up in a little sticky situation.

Seriously, both kids were found in the kitchen once eating one of their father’s favorite sweet treat, being honeybuns, while on the floor giggling.

Iceman snorted so loud seeing his niece and nephew happily eating the dessert that his only questions was, “How did you two get your hands on it in the first place?”

“Unca Iceee!” Austin only yelled with a little smile and sticky fingers.

“You wan’ some?” Added Jenny with the similar little smile.

Other times, Austin would be the only one brave enough for certain things, dragging Bradley along to meet new people such as when they met Wraith or Buzz for the first time. Austin scared poor Wraith with his chaotic tendencies meanwhile Buzz laughed his ass off.

Plenty of times, that chaotic charm the young boy naturally held would bring a smile to the faces he meets, like when he met Ark and Hazel. When Austin finished hanging out with Hazel, she wanted to keep this boy for herself.

…but there were some moments where Austin’s shining personality mixed with the wrong crowd.

Let’s just say Ice and Mav enrolled him into little league baseball practice for one week, but midway through that same week the coach had to call Audrey to take the kid back home. Because due to Austin’s style, tiny temper and competitive nature when his team wasn’t winning, he decide to use his baseball bat and hit one of the kids from the other team with it.

The kid went as far as to chase the other children around the field in revenge and when Audrey heard that, she couldn’t help but laugh out loud. She knew it was a bad thing and they probably had to enroll him into a different sport, but the image in her head of her nephew chasing the other kids around like a Looney Tune character was too funny.

“Yup, he was definitely Pete’s son.” She said with a smile, picking up her nephew to take him out for ice cream and a small lecture onto how it’s not nice to hit people.

Let’s just say Audrey wasn’t the only one laughing at the news that day about why Austin Mitchell might not return to baseball practice that week.

————

Speaking of Austin, since he was hopefully the last baby for now at least, they decided to set up a color coordinated system for the kids.

That meant if gifts were given, certain items were being delivered, and everyday things like cups, hats, sweaters, backpacks, socks and or etc. each child had their own version of one.

Hell, each kid had certain days set on the calendar, where they all had to do something the other wanted. Like park, mall, trips to the beach and or going to the movie theater.

It was Carole’s idea! So there were no fighting, especially since they were all so little at the time.

Bradley’s things always had a cherry red dot, cute little red label or red post it note on them. (Sometimes apple or red-orange color)

Dane’s things always had a sunny yellow dot, little yellow label or yellow post it note on them. (Sometimes bumblebee or yellow-green color)

Jenny’s things always had a rosy pink dot, little pink label or pink post it note on them. (Sometimes lilac or pink-red color)

Austin’s things always had a sky blue dot, little blue label or blue post it note on them. (Sometimes olive or blue-green color)

And honestly, it was pretty helpful at the time when they were just little kids. Since they knew once they got older, all four of them would pick certain colors to wear, act differently for types of situations and understand the concept of what is not their stuff, don’t take.

But of course like any set of children, no matter what you did or how many times you had to lecture them about a topic, they will always fight about something. Like toys, bedding, backpacks, clothes, food and things to do together.

Like when Bradley and Dane were fighting over a certain Star Wars backpack they saw at Walmart to take for back to school time.

Or when Austin and Jenny were arguing about a DC LEGO sets they both wanted to buy, Batman or Superman sets.

They were kids! You can’t prepare for everything, so the parents always stepped in making the decision for them or had to settle on a small compromise on what’s the verdict. 

——

Nonetheless, they were good kids that’s what matters.

Yes, they were all different ages with vastly different views on things and personalities but that’s what makes them unique.

They care about their children way too much and thanked Goose for sending such a wonderful set of surprises and memories to come.

But the question that the adults tend to have on their minds was, how would the world handle their set of ducklings as they grow up?

What kind of experiences they will have?

Who will fall in love and who will get their heart broken?

Will there be friends or foes that come they’re way?

So many questions but only time will tell…

———

Thank you so much for reading this! 🎬 I know, it’s not exactly formatted like my other stories per say but it was an interesting way to introduce theses kids.

What was your favorite part? 💕

Please like, share and comment for more stuff like this! ✈️

Tags: @gcthvile @msrochelleromanofffelton @gaminggirlsstuff @topgun-imagines @starkleila @whitewiccan @comfortzonequeen @sherloquestea @theloveoftoms @mandylove1000 @mallowbee4 @rooster-84 @djs8891 @novavida and etc

[lost-girl-2021]

Modern, Girl Spider AU (1)

Content Warning: throwing up (not super graphic)

Spider’s dress was too short. Her hair, long and curly, was pinned out of her face with a dozen bobby pins, her feet clad in black heels that were just a bit too tall for her. She was as tall as Kiri in them, almost as tall as Lo’ak.

Kiri and Lo’ak . . . It had been a while since she’d seen her siblings. Neteyam had declined the invite, but promised to pick them up sometime around midnight. Kiri had taken an edible on the car ride over, the tiny green gummy starting to kick in just as they arrived. The last time she’d seen her, she’d been in the kitchen, picking apart the plastic fruit platters, stickers from the grocery store half scratched off the lids. She’d seen Lo’ak and Tsireya disappear up the stairs when she was on her second drink. The sickly sweetness of the mismatched syrups was almost enough to cover up the bitter tang of the alcohol. Usually, she didn’t drink, and if she did, it wasn’t punch that had flies swimming in it and a ladle that had sunk to the bottom of the large bowl. But, the beer was warm and she hated shots and didn’t want her dress to stink of weed when she got home.

Besides, it was a special occasion. Earlier that day, Spider had found out who her father was. And, despite what she’d been told her whole life, it wasn’t Jake Sully.

It was a stupid extra credit assignment. A fucking family tree. In high school.

She went through her dad’s office, digging around for old photo albums and trying her hardest to remember how many siblings her paternal grandmother had. She didn’t know anything about her birth mother’s family, but from what she’d heard, neither had Paz, when she was still alive. Spider had no recollection of the woman, distantly aware that her curls and shortness were inherited from the pilot. As far as she was concerned, her mother was Neytiri. Even if she had always held Spider at arms length, she was still the one who fed her and tailored her school uniform after every growth spurt in junior high. She’d already filled out her maternal side with Neytiri’s family, with their family.

Her father was more complicated. While his family had all died before she’d been born, she was still determined to include them in her project (there was also the fact that every family member added an extra half-point that she desperately needed in History). Her parents wouldn’t be home for another hour, so she was digging through bookshelves and boxes still stacked in the corners. They’d moved nearly a year ago, but boxes were still unpacked and collecting dust.

She let out a triumphant sound when she found a box labeled SULLY in all caps. There was an extra S in front of ‘Sully’, but Spider wrote that off as a mistake. She was the only ‘S. Sully’ in the family and all of her boxes had been unpacked months ago.

When she opened it, she realized the extra S had been purposeful. There were pictures, of her birth mom and a man that wasn’t Jake. The man had three scratch-like scars across one side of his face, which would’ve been more intimidating if he wasn’t holding a baby in his arms. Dog tags hung from his neck, too small for Spider to pick up any letters. But, she didn’t need too. 

“Dad and Milah.” She mumbled to herself, running a finger over the swoopy cursive at the bottom of the picture. 

She had found more than she ever wanted to know. The office floor was covered in the contents of the box; pictures, letters written to her, a birth certificate with the name Milah Quaritch printed across it in bold letters.  A man named Miles listed under father.

She’d puked in the wastebasket before running from the room. Kiri, Lo’ak, and her left early for the party, as soon as Neteyam got home from his after-school job and agreed to watch Tuk until their parents got home. Spider changed into a blue-green dress made from a silky-feeling material and awful heels. She let Kiri do her hair and insisted she was fine as the redhead poked and twisted her curls. She locked the study and put the key back in her parents' room. And then, with her phone and twenty bucks in emergency cash tucked into the brown leather purse she wore nearly everywhere, she left.

Kiri drove, Lo’ak sitting shotgun. Spider joked and laughed and followed them into the house party with an easy grin. And then, as soon as she was alone, she started drinking.

Now, a few hours and a few drinks later, the nausea from early returned and she bolted onto the porch with shaky steps. She recognized Roxto from school, smoking a cigarette and talking animatedly about some action movie he’d seen the week before. He waved her over, but she barely managed a wave before running down the steps and turning down the sidewalk. It was his party, she recalled. She was not going to puke on his porch.

Instead, she hurled three doors down, in some bushes. Spitting in the greenery, she straightened, tugging her dress back down. She was wearing her old volleyball shorts underneath, but she wasn’t in the mood to flash anyone, even if it was just a pair of weathered spandex. Her head was spinning and her mouth tasted of bile, but she tried to take a step without stumbling. And failed. Roxto called something from the porch, clearly a witness to her downfall.

“I’m fine!” She shouted back, forcing a laugh. “Great party, Ro!”

He laughed back, sitting back in the darkness of the porch. She kept walking the way she’d been heading, rounding the corner and spitting on the sidewalk in an attempt to clear her mouth of acid.

With a sigh, she slumped onto the curb, rubbing her eyes and frowning at the black smudges left on her hands afterward. The good buzz had been replaced by an overwhelming urge to cry. Spider hadn’t cried in the office, she hadn’t cried when they’d moved and the movers lost her skateboard. She hadn’t cried when Mom and Dad explained that Neytiri wasn’t her Sa’nok, but her stepmother, and that Paz, the lady whose picture sat on her nightstand was her real mama.

Her fingers dug into the sides of her skull, nails trying to scrape out all the bad thoughts. Mom wasn’t Mom, Dad wasn’t Dad. Her life was a lie and she was drunk in the suburbs.

“Are you okay?”

Spider looked up, face crumbling at the sight of her big brother. Neteyam was a Knight, clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a bleach-stained sweatshirt he’d ruined two weeks earlier in the wash. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she just shook her head.

He sighed, pulling her up easily and wrapping an arm around her. “Oh, Spider.”

Spider just cried harder. He older brother (and didn’t that part make so much more sense than the bullshit story about her being concieved during a ‘break’ between Neytiri and Jake?) unzipped his hoodie with one hand, breaking away only to wrap the soft material around her like a cape. 

“‘Teyem.” She sobbed, wiping snot away with the back of her hand. “Everything’s so fucked.”

“I know.” He rubbed a comforting hand up and down her back as they walked towards the running car. “Mom and Dad were freaking out. Whatever you did, you’re in for the lecture of a lifetime.”

“‘S not my fault.” She slurred as he opened the back door for her. Kiri and Lo’ak were already inside, the former waiting for her in the rear of the car. She promptly lept into her sister’s arms, burying her snotty, wet face into the crook of her neck. Either she was still riding her high or she was feeling particularly selfless, because Kiri didn’t even flinch, just hugged her tightly.

“What happened?” Lo’ak asked from the front of the car, voice clear enough that she didn’t even think he was drunk. “I don’t know.” Neteyam responded quietly, throwing the car into drive. “But, it’s something bad.”

[acgasfanchallenge]

July challenge Week 4 (22.07. - 28.07.)

Creativity/downtime 📚🎨

Books

Jane Austen

Reading (aloud to each other/ alone)

Writing (letters, notes, confessions)

Sketching

Rest and relaxation

Picnic

Gardening

To thine own self be true. - Shakespeare

You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope...I have loved none but you. - Persuasion

I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. - Pride and Prejudice

Tag this blog in your tumblr post and add fic to our collection on ao3.

Happy creating!

[amyriadfthings]

So, this post happened, and then this, so then I thought okay why not, then I went out to vote, and then this little thing happened @brindlelogs

The candle on his desk went out unceremoniously after rousing him with its violent flickering.

Alfred Hillinghead adjusted his glasses and got up to stretch his aching joints and find another stump in Charlotte´s dwindling supply in the kitchen. He groaned from limbs that had gone stiff and realization that age was happening to him whether he agreed to it or not.

It´s not that he had dozed off exactly; his eyes had just gone unfocused after staring at latin terms and intricate illustrations for too long, and the flame not only jolted him back to reality, but also returned with it a helpful, neverending loop of „H e n r y“ riding a merry-go-round in his head.

Whenever he stopped to think at any point in the last 48 hours they were the only letters his brain seemed to want to string together, so he did what he could to populate it instead with any information he could find on South American butterflies exhibited in private or public collections in London over the last six years.

Back by his chair, he lit the new candle and shuffled the leaflets of various entomological associations that were strewn across his desk. He hoped one of them would hold a clue that could save his partner before he could get himself into a situation he could not get out of (because Alfred wasn´t there with him, and Henry was always so damn reckless).

He never knew London had so many passionate butterfly collectors.

But then again, teaming up with Henry was inevitably going to deliver surprises and revelations of all kinds. It´s what made him feel alive more than anything these days. That and Henry´s hands on his skin. (No, he chided himself. He must not think of that now. Nor his hands on Henry´s strong body willingly, eagerly arching up to him, fond eyes never leaving him, soft lips inviting him in, always ready to receive him… no.)

Alfred jumped up again this time, so vivid was the image in his mind. So warm Henry´s skin in his memory as if it were life and not mere thoughts he was conjuring up. He was suddenly enveloped by a need so mighty that it took his breath away and made him clutch at his waistcoat. His whole body seemed to miss Henry, after only two days. And no contact for another one at least.

Another issue was the steady stream of Henry´s voice that was gone from his ear, but not his mind.

He could hear Henry tease him, how unable to keep his focus Mr. Detective Inspector appeared to be. He´d probably even ruffle his hair, Alfred thought, which would earn him his best glare (his own hand going up to the side of his head without thinking, to imitate Henry´s touch), but that would only widen Henry´s grin and he might ask what could possibly be distracting him from his oh-so important work. He might even sit on Alfred´s armrest or...

Alfred´s cheeks began to burn when he looked down at his desk and thought back to how they had said a last urgent goodbye right on this very surface two and a half days ago, even though they had already done that and more extensively the night before.

A knock on the front door rushed him back to the present. It sounded hurried, but before Alfred could even leave the study, or wonder why the mysterious caller did not use the door bell, he heard the door open and close hastily, key turning, locking them in. The only one with a key besides Charlotte and Polly would be…

„Henry! What in the-,“ Alfred took two fast strides forward as a sodden Henry Ashe (his Henry) stumbled into the room (when had it started raining?), a cut along one eyebrow bleeding profusely down his face and staining his shirt (how long has he been bleeding??)

„Change of plans,“ Henry announced with a weak, self-deprecating smile, and winced as Alfred´s worried hands fluttered over him.

Finally, Alfred held Henry in place in front of him and closed his eyes for a second. „Alright. Sit down. Tell me everything. I´ll get the bandages.“