#Also would it be funny if I told you the reason why I started to ponder about all of this was because of a ship?

[glitter-stained]

Stephcass as some of my platonic relationships' most intense moments :

Cass: what are you doing?

Steph: oh, writing a play!

Cass: cool what's it about?

Steph : it's a tragedy about lesbians being burned at the pyre. The main character is kind of a self-insert. I mean, not that it means anything, lol, I'm straight.

Cass: oh.

Steph: also don't take this the wrong way but can I say something weird?

Cass: uh, sure.

Steph: I feel like since I've met you, the lesbian love interest has started resembling you more and more -she's mostly based on you, now. Not that that means anything.

****

Steph: You couldn't dom me if you tried.

Cass: the fuck I couldn't?

Steph: No you couldn't!

Cass: The only reason I'm not domming you because I don't want to!

Steph : You couldn't even if you wanted to!

Cass: I so could!

Steph: oh yeah? Prove it.

Cass: You don't even want me to!

Steph: But you couldn't. If I did want you to.

****

Steph : It's like... You know, I'm never really this tactile... It's hard for me, even with friends, to touch or hug them... You're different, though. I don't know why, what's different about you, but the way it feels hugging you... It just feels right with you.

Cass: You smell nice. Do you wear perfume?

Steph: oh? No, it's probably just my shampoo.

Cass: Your hair smells really nice.

****

Cass: Yeah, so I went to that lesbian bar and it was such a disappointment... I was hoping to get fucked in the bathroom so bad!

Steph: and you didn't invite me??

Cass: I didn't expect you to want to be there!

Steph: of course I did!

****

Cass: I think you're my soulmate... I never met someone who completed me so deeply before.

Steph: like, romantically?

Cass: It's more like, you're a star, and I'm the moon. We should get matching profile pictures.

Steph: whenever I look at the moon I think of you.

Cass: I was going to name a plant after you, but I thought if I gave it your name it would break my heart when you died, so I named it after a goddess that made me think of you.

****

Steph: I wish we had broken up.

Cass: We would make such good exes.

Steph: We would be so bitter about it!

Cass: so toxic...

****

Cass: your eyes are so beautiful... Did you ever notice they change colours with the light?

Steph: you... um, you've already told me that.

Cass: I know. I just really like looking at them.

*****

Cass: You think if we were fictional characters people would ship us?

Steph: oh my god definitely. The ultimate otp.

Cass: people would cancel us for queerbaiting.

Steph : you know what would be really funny? If we wrote a show with our self-inserts having the same relationship as us.

Cass: both canonically sapphic.

Steph: one of them dies tragically and the other just loses it. Tries to summon her back to life.

Cass: goes on a killing spree.

Steph: friends to lovers except they never kiss. They have a child together.

Cass: you get it.

Steph: Even I am starting to ship them.

****

Timsteph!era steph gets an eyelash stuck on her cheek: *looking deep into cass's eyes*

Cass: make a wish

Steph: *closes her eyes and guesses wrong*

Cass, gently wiping the eyelash off her cheek with her thumb: what did you wish for?

Steph: that I were dating you instead of Tim

Cass: *looking away so steph doesn't see the tears brimming in her eyes*

****

Steph, playing with her hair: hey so I really like you and would love to know you better. Would you like to grab coffee sometimes, as a date?

Cass: oh, of course, I'd love that!

[mzannthropy]

Anne of the Island Book Club Chapter 28

A good one today!

Not only have I titled a post on my photography blog after this chapter, I have also quoted Anne and Marilla's exchange about June in the said blog post. It is indeed a pretty month, saying this as someone who has been doing photography for 13 years. Anyway.

Aunt Atossa croaks; as was to be expected, nobody shed any tears. Mrs Lynde says "The Elisha Wrights are thankful to be rid of her"--Mrs Elisha Wright was one of those women who visited Anne the day before her departure for Redmond to tell her college will be bad for her. I wonder if this was just a woman who turned bitter from having to have such an unpleasant person as Aunt Atossa? Mrs Lynde is a better person than me bc I would not have pitied Aunt Atossa. She chose to be like that, stupid name or not.

Davy is so funny. "Milty said his mother said Aunt Atossa would be sure to rise up in her coffin and say sarcastic things to the folks that come to see her buried. But Marilla said she didn’t." Did he believe it would happen? He'd certainly want to know.

I like people to have a little nonsense about them.

A good line from Anne! You've got have a bit of a nonsense, sometimes. Reminds of when Matthew told Anne to keep some romance, when she swore off it after her Elaine incident.

The fact that in her childhood Diana wanted to marry a bad man so that she could reform him makes me laugh in view of our current times' 'I can fix him' meme. I have zero opinion on Fred Wright owing to his zero characterisation. I don't think he ever had a line of dialogue... did he?

Now I'm coming to one of the lines in this book that have stayed with me ever since I read it for the first time.

I wouldn’t want to marry anybody who was wicked, but I think I’d like it if he could be wicked and wouldn’t.

You have to have a dark side so that nobody will mess with you. At the beginning of The Count of Monte Cristo, Edmond Dantes is a young man, naive and idealistic and you want to shout at him: "watch out for the snakes!" So yes, one should marry a good man, but one who could be wicked if circumstances arose.

Reading this chapter today, it occurred to me that Avonleans would find out about Anne refusing Gilbert eventually. At Redmond, people had to know, bc everybody would have noticed their relationship had changed. (Especially after she met Roy and he started to hang out with Christine.) And this would easily travel to Avonlea. Sure, Gilbert has spent two summer holidays in a row in Kingsport, but he would have been home for Christmas of Junior year and everyone would have noticed he is not visiting Green Gables anymore. It doesn't take a Miss Marple to guess. I mean, the narrative tells us that Moody Spurgeon's mum spread the news that Anne had a new beau, so logically, Gilbert is not her 'beau' any longer.

Also like. Okay. Anne told Miss Lavendar that Gilbert wanted to be more than friends but she didn't. But Marilla had to hear it from the local gossip...? Was Anne afraid to confide in her adoptive mother?

Lol at Mrs Rachel losing her faith in the Providence.

I can't say I relate to Anne's feelings about Diana getting married (I've never really had close friends and I moved to another country at the age of 22 so didn't go through the seeing your peers get married and start families thing anyway) but like Anne, I can imagine it. I've been listening to the book The Let Them Theory by Mel Robbins, who also touches on friendships. It's completely normal for childhood friends drift apart once they reach young adulthood and it's nothing personal. It's just life. And it's really the theme of this instalment of Anne series.

Btw I find it interesting that Mrs Barry insisted that Diana won't marry until she is 21. We're not given the reason why, but it worked for Diana and Fred bc in that time, they got to know each other well.

[aemondsbabygirl]

I’ve found my hatred for Mertha can still grow! Hate that bitch. Can’t wait till she dies.

Dae better not be seriously thinking of using the berries on herself!!! I loved her discussion with Edelin. And Dae reading Edelin. She’s really the voice of reason about Mertha. I wish Dae would just tell Aemond! But I get why she doesn’t want to. I’m glad her and Edelin came to an understanding and they trust each other.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission” HELL NO. Mertha is deserving to be hanged.

“”What will it take? Must I piss on all the furniture to rid myself of your presence?”

A sharp clatter split the air.”

This was just hilarious! I can only imagine Edelins face.

I’m so happy you went the route of having Aemond tell her about this. Maybe it can be a start of them getting closer. Aemond reaching out to her to comfort her was so sweet. 🥲 he can’t help but want to touch her. The fact that he tried to talk about Luke!!!! He’s trying!!

When Dae thought the baby she saw in her dream is her sister, it just broke my heart BECAUSE WE KNOW. We know who she saw but she doesn’t know it yet!! Pain is coming.

Also, her slapping his hand was so funny to me!

I loved how Aemond defended her herbs. I can’t believe Merthas insolence. The way she even dares to try and refuse the prince. Who the fuck does she think she is ? She is dirt beneath their shoes but she still thinks of herself as above them. I hate her. Aemond should be starting to see what Dae has to deal with every single moment. I was so happy Edelin defied Mertha with the tea. Mertha really is a tyrant.

And Larys! Of course he would notice the missing tapestry! I’m glad Dae told him to fuck off.

“”Lord Larys.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Cold steel wrapped in quiet authority. “Refrain from speaking to my wife.”

YESSSSS TELL HIM!!! The possessiveness, the protection!!!!!! I LOVE IT.

I laughed out loud at the back and forth with the name. I can’t believe she went as far as using her ex husbands name. It was so hilarious. She is so stubborn!

“”Daenera Strong, or so my stupid, long-faced, one-eyed prick of a husband likes to call me.””

“(…)this was always how it was going to end.” Yep. Aemond was so determined to making her his wife, he is not allowing her to deny it now 🤭. It was seriously so funny.

I LOVED LOVED LOVED this chapter ! The snark, the sarcasm, the banter, even through the pain of finding out about her sibling’s death, was so well done! I feel like this moment brought them closer. I’m glad she saw that aemond is trying despite still being, well, Aemond and her brother’s killer. The fact that he told her that the baby wouldn’t have survived whether she was born now or later, must have given her some comfort. And him protecting her, from Larys, from Mertha, from the search in general, was so important to me! You did such a great job with this chapter, as usual!

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 3

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 3: Word of the Dead

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion. 

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone. 

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her. 

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her. 

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha. 

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined. 

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.” 

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand. 

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion. 

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer. 

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment. 

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. 

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent. 

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was. 

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now. 

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart. 

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach. 

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall. 

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice. 

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same. 

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought. 

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose. 

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death. 

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered. 

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening. 

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.  

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes. 

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath. 

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question. 

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood. 

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words. 

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly. 

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same. 

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp. 

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help. 

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection. 

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses. 

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed. 

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend. 

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade. 

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes. 

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike. 

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue. 

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read. 

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered. 

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone. 

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further. 

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left. 

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now. 

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her. 

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question. 

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room. 

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim. 

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted. 

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance. 

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

The night had stretched into an eternity, an unending cycle of drifting in and out of fitful sleep, caught between waking and dreaming. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and uneasy, frayed at the edges by restless thoughts that refused to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the depths of the Sept, standing in the cold, candlelit silence as the Silent Sisters worked over the lifeless boy laid out before her. His skin was pale, waxen, his golden curls damp and darkened in death. Their knives moved with reverence, slicing into his flesh, prying open his ribs as they reached inside to extract his organs–one by one–while she could do nothing but watch. 

Sometimes, the boy on the stone slab was not golden-haired at all. Sometimes, his pale curls had bled into a deeper hue, shifting, thickening, taking on the unruly wildness she knew so well. And suddenly, it was not him, not the boy she had poisoned, but someone else. A brother. 

His skin was pallid, his lips drawn into the ashen stillness of death, the cold finality of it settling over him like a shroud. The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows over lifeless features, hollowing the soft curve of his cheeks, deepening the sunken stillness of his closed eyes.

She could almost hear the whisper of her own voice, soft and coaxing, weaving lies as gently as a mother tucks a child into bed. You are going home, Patrick. Words that had been meant to soothe, to soften the edge of his fear, yet had been nothing more than empty breath–cruel deceptions clothed in mercy.

And as she gazed at the boy laid bare upon the cold stone, she wondered if Luke, too, had believed he was going home. Had he looked toward the horizon with relief, with the quiet certainty that he would see his mother again, that he would sleep once more beneath Dragonstone’s sky? Or had he known, as Vhagar’s shadow swallowed the storm, that home was a place he would never reach?

When the Silent Sisters turned away, their robes whispering against the cold stone, something shifted. They moved as shadows, silent as the dead, carrying away the glass jars that held what remained of the boy’s insides. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and death, clinging to Daenera’s skin like a second shroud. She should have turned away too, should have followed them into the dim corridors beyond the chamber. But she could not.

Neither the golden-haired child she had poisoned nor the dark-haired boy who had haunted her dreams remained. Instead, something smaller lay swaddled in cloth, its frail shape stark against the hard, unyielding stone.

So small. Too small.

Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp hitch of air she could not release. The cold of the Sept pressed against her skin, but she felt nothing, as if her body had numbed to everything but the sight before her. The chamber, the distant murmur of prayers, the lingering scrape of steel against flesh–all faded into the periphery. Her world shrank, narrowed to the impossibly delicate bundle lying before her.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, longing, desperate.

And then she saw it.

A wisp of silver hair, soft and fine as gossamer, barely visible in the dim glow of the candles.

Her breath shuddered from her lips, unsteady, uneven. Too small. Too impossibly small to be here, in this place of death and decay. The chill gnawed at her bones, but she did not care.

All she wanted in that moment was to gather the bundle into her arms, to cradle it against her chest, to shield it from the cold grip of the stone. To take it from these walls, away from the death and decay that clung to the air, and let her warmth pour into it, chasing away the chill that did not belong to something so small.

Her fingers curled, desperate to grasp the soft swaddling cloth, to feel the impossible weight of it against her. If she could only hold it, she could will life into it–breathe warmth into cold flesh, whisper comfort against a too-fragile brow.

But even as she reached, the air around her seemed to still, thickening like mist, pressing heavy against her lungs. The chamber wavered at the edges of her vision, the candlelight dimming, shadows creeping in like grasping fingers. And then–

A shudder ran through her chest, sharp and sudden.

She gasped, torn from the dream, her body lurching awake as if pulled from deep waters. Sweat cooled against her skin as the room pressed down around her. The air felt thick and suffocating, clinging to her like unseen hands. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a dull ache pressing behind her eyes. The world was dark, the only illumination the flickering firelight casting restless shadows across the walls. For a moment, she simply lay there, staring at the canopy overhead, struggling to separate dream from memory. The phantom scent of incense still lingered in her nostrils, the cold touch of the Sept’s stone floor ghosting along her bare feet. 

No matter how many times she pulled the blankets over her, no matter how fiercely she willed herself back to sleep, the cycle would begin again. Each time she closed her eyes, she was back there–watching, waiting, unable to move. 

And each time, when they turned into the bundle of darkened fabric, she’d wake before reaching him. 

The only solace Daenera found in the endless, wretched hours of the night came in the form of the man she despised. It was a strange, loathsome comfort, knowing he was there–just beyond the edge of her sight, a shadow lingering at the periphery of her awareness. She could not see him, but she felt his presence like the faint warmth of a dying fire, an awareness that settled into the marrow of her bones, a tether that kept her from slipping too far into the abyss of restless dreams. And she hated herself for it.

When she finally woke, it was with a sluggish, heavy pull, as though her body had been weighted down by lead. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavy against her limbs, dragging at her movements as she pushed herself upright. She braced one arm against the mattress, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of the sheets as she rubbed at her face, trying to rid herself of the drowsy fog clinging to her thoughts.

The world around her felt strange, disjointed, as though she had woken in a place that was not her own–like a song heard through thick stone walls. The air felt cloying against her skin, thick with the scent of spent candle wax. Weariness clung to her, needling beneath her skin like trapped embers, crawling like a thousand unseen ants. 

The light streaming through the windows stabbed at her eyes, sharp and unforgiving. 

Daenera winched, turning her face slightly away, blinking against the warmth that flooded the chamber. The sun had already climbed above the walls of the Keep, its position telling her it was later than when she was usually awoken. Mertha was nothing if not punctual. The old hag roused her at the break of dawn, when the sky bled red and bruised above the horizon.

She frowned at the daylight, as if it had betrayed her. There was no evidence of the previous night’s storm–no lingering mist, no streaks of rain trailing down the glass. The sky was clear, bright, as though the day before had never happened at all. If not for the ache in her bones, the weight of her heart pressing against her ribs, she might have thought it had all been nothing more than another fevered dream.

Frowning, she rubbed her face again, the press of her fingers doing little to chase away the lingering grogginess. She forced herself more upright, her gaze drifting across the chamber, searching–until it landed on the chaise. 

Empty. 

No trace of its occupant remained. 

The pillow and blanket had been put away. There was no discarded boots, no abandoned clothes draped over its back. It was as if Aemond had never been there at all. 

Her frown deepened as a strange tightness coiled in her chest. 

The faint murmur of voices carried through the air, distant but distinct. Beyond the bedchamber, in the adjoining room, figures spoke in hushed tones, as though wary of disturbing her rest. 

Daenera’s unease curled in her chest, coiling tighter with every passing moment. She pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor with a quiet tap. For a moment, she simply sat there, listening, her senses sharpening against the strange stillness of the morning.

She pushed the blankets aside and rose from bed, bare feet meeting the cool stone floor with a shiver. Moving towards the chair, she plucked up the robe she had discarded the night before, the silk slipping like water through her fingers as she pulled it around herself. The fabric was soft, another layer of warmth, but it did little to shake the lingering heaviness in her libs. She slipped her feet into her waiting slippers, and with slow steps, she shuffled towards the adjoining chamber. 

The scent of food reached her before she stepped through the archway–warm, rich aromas of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and ripe fruit heavy in the air. Her stomach twisted, though whether in hunger or unease, she couldn’t tell. 

She halted just beyond the threshold. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in thick, golden shafts, illuminating the room in a hazy glow. The long dining table had been set in one end, its polished surface laden with an array of food–ripe fruit and shelled nuts, boiled eggs, meats sliced into neat portions, warm loaves of crusty bread. And at the far end of it all, seated with an unreadable expression, was Aemond.

Her eyes found him immediately, drawn to him before anything else. He sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed, one arm resting against the table, his long fingers absently tapping on its surface. Yet there was nothing idle about him–his presence, as always, engulfed her. His gaze drew from Edelin to her. 

With a gentle clink, Edelin set down a bowl of berries, the delicate sound barely disrupting the thick silence hanging in the room. Her movements were deliberate, careful, as if wary of disturbing something fragile, something already on the verge of splintering.

She straightened, smoothing invisible creases from her apron before lifting her gaze. Her eyes met Daenera’s–hesitant, searching–and for the briefest of moments, her expression betrayed something unspoken. A sadness, quiet and lingering, settled in the slight crease between her brows.

It was not pity, not quite, but something close to it.

“Why are you still here?” Daenera’s voice was all cool disdain as he stepped further into the room, her movements unhurried as she drifted towards the table. “I thought we had come to an understanding.”

Stopping to the chair to his left, she rested a hand against the carved wooden back, her fingers idly tracing the grain before plucking a single berry from a bowl. She rolled it between her fingers, holding it before her mouth. “I see my threats weren’t enough to deter you.” She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch for a moment. “What will it take? Must I piss on all the furniture to rid myself of your presence?”

A sharp clatter split the air.

The clatter had rung through the chamber like a struck bell, reverberating off the high stone walls. Edelin stood frozen, her fingers splayed over the tray as if by sheer force of will she could undo her mistake. Her face burned crimson, shame creeping up her throat.

Daenera barely spared her a glance. The noise had startled her, yes–sent a jolt through her ribs, coiled her nerves tighter–but she had not reacted beyond a slow, measured breath. She seemed to feel the impact echo through her bones, the feeling jarring. 

Her attention returned to Aemond. 

He did not flinch, nor did he seemed to care for the source of the commotion. His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable, the corner of his mouth curved–just slightly, just enough for her to see it. His amusement bled into something more serious, the curve flattening. 

“I have something to tell you.”

He moved then, shifting the plate before him. The scrape of metal against polished wood was soft, deliberate, as he pushed it across the surface towards her. It came to rest beside the chair she gripped, inviting her to take a seat. 

She did not sit. 

Her gaze flickered downward. The food had been arranged with thought–small portions of roasted meats, ripe fruit sliced into pieces, chilled grapes and peeled tangerines. Freshly baked bread, still warm, set alongside honey and jam. And a cinnamon cake topped with sugar. 

The scent curled into her senses. She felt a pang of hunger deep in her belly, but what fleeting warmth that came with the offering did not reach her. 

A sick, molten heat curled in her stomach. Half of her wanted to shove the plate away, to overturn it onto  his lap and let him wear his pathetic attempt at civility like the mockery it was. But she did not move. 

“Are you to soften the blow of telling me you’ve killed another of my brothers with cake and tea?” Daenera scoffed, her voice laced with venom. “Do you think it will make it easier to swallow?”

He hadn’t been gone long enough for it to be true. She knew that. But the words left her lips all the same. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, knuckles whitening as she glared at him. The scent of warm bread and sugared fruit lingered in the air, cloying and thick, but it did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest.

Edelin, wisely, said nothing. Without another word, she gathered the tray, her movements careful, practiced. She turned on her heel and slipped from the chamber, the heavy wooden door falling shut behind her with a muted thud.

Aemond remained composed, his expression an unreadable mask. Not a twitch of his jaw, not the slightest crease in his brow betrayed his thoughts. And yet, there was something in his eye–a flicker of something elusive. Amusement? Irritation? Pity? Worry? Daenera could not tell. He did not rise to her provocation, did not sneer or scoff as she expected. He merely regarded her, studying in that way of his, as though peeling back her layers to reveal her bleeding insides. 

The silence stretched between them. Then, at last, he spoke. 

“Sit,” He said, his voice smooth, measured. A urging that bordered on command. 

There was something in the way he held himself, in the deliberate calm of his tone, in the weight of his single eye upon her that made unease coil deep in her belly. It was in the quiet insistence of his words. The way he looked at her–with a gentleness so sharp that it cut her more deeply than his scorn ever could. 

A knot tightened in her throat. 

“I don’t want to,” she said, the words leaving her lips before she could stop then, a childish defiance she knew already was useless. And yet, she clung to it, as if voicing her refusal would keep at bay whatever terrible thing he meant to tell her. 

Aemond did not blink. 

“Sit down, Daenera.” This time, his voice was firm, unyielding as cold steel. 

Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, nails biting into the polished wood, pressing so hard she felt the strain in her joints. The wood did not give, would not break under her grip–so she did. She released her grip on it and lowered herself into the chair. Her hands found their place in her lap, curled into fists against the silk of her robe.

Aemond did not gloat. He did not smirk as she had expected him to–no cruel twist of his lips, no gleam of satisfaction in his eye. Instead, he regarded her with a quiet gentleness that unsettled her more than his arrogance ever could. And that, somehow, was so much worse. 

His arrogance, his cruelty–those things she could fight against. They gave her something solid to grasp, something to spit venom at, something to push against. But this… this quiet patience, this measured restraint, this softness–it felt like a dagger slipping between her ribs in slow, excruciating inches. It stripped her of armor, left her exposed and flailing. 

Whatever words he held back lingered in the air, an unspoken storm gathering in the silence between them. It clung to her skin like damp fog, coiling around her ribs, settling in her chest like water filling a drowning woman’s lungs. She felt it, the suffocating dread creeping through her, the gnawing certainty that whatever he meant to say was not anything good. 

Aemond inhaled slowly, deliberately, the movement measured and precise. His fingers twitched idly against the polished wood of the table–just the faintest motion, absent and unhurried, betraying some restless thought stirring beneath his composure. Daenera’s gaze flickered towards them before she forced herself to look away, to return her focus to his face. 

And yet, she could still feel them. 

The ghost of his touch lingered, seared into her skin as if he had only just held her, as if his grip had never loosened. She still recalled the bruising pressure of his fingers, the way they had burned into her flesh, branding her in ways she could never truly scrub away. She still carried the bruises on her thighs, small blossoms of purple. 

Aemond shifted slightly, brow contemplative. He parted his lips as if to speak, then hesitated, exhaling through his nose in a soft hum. It was not so much uncertainty that held his tongue, she thought, but something else. He was choosing his words with care, as though the right words would lessen the blow of what he wished to tell her. 

At last, he spoke. 

“We’ve received word,” he said, his voice a quiet drawl, “that your mother has returned to Dragonstone.”

Daenera exhaled, a slow and measured breath, though it did little to steady the storm within her. Her mother had left Storm’s End. Had returned home. 

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her, swift and forceful, crashing over her like a wave breaking against the shore. But just as quickly, it retreated, dragging something heavier in its wake. Grief surged to take its place, welling up inside her like the rising tide, lodging itself between her ribs. It pressed against her throat, made it difficult to swallow, difficult to breathe. 

Had her mother abandoned the search?

Or worse–had she found what she was looking for?

She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. 

And in that single moment, she saw him. 

Her brother lay upon the cold, unforgiving stone. The Silent Sisters worked over him with quiet reverence, their hands steady in their duty. She saw the pale, waterlogged flesh, the places where his skin had turned grey, kissed too long by the sea. Salt clung to him like a second burial shroud, glistening against the limp, tangle mess of his curls–curls that had once been soft, once had been warmed by the sun, now stiffened by the ocean’s embrace.

But would he truly look like that after all this time? After all that happened?

The thought coiled inside her like a living thing, sinking its fangs into the tender flesh of her heart. She almost wanted to ask him, almost wanted to force the truth from his lips, to demand if her mother had found something, anything. But the fear held her still. Because she already knew the answer. 

There was nothing left to find. 

Daenera forced herself to breathe, slow and steady, though it did little to ease the tightness coiling in her chest. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her ribs, heavy as a millstone, and the warm air of the chamber felt thick in her throat. She willed herself to keep her composure, to smother the grief before it could bloom into something she could not control. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, nails biting into the silk.

She gave a small nod, a single, curt motion that barely disturbed the strands of silver hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips parted, then pursed, as if to trap the question before it could leave her tongue. She swallowed, forcing down the bitter taste of sorrow.

And then, at last, she spoke.

“Is that all?” Her voice was a blade’s edge, honed sharp, but strained–fraying at the seams. She would not break–not in front of him.

The silence that followed was brief, but it dragged, a heartbeat too long, as if the weight of what he was about to say needed that extra breath to settle. The tension drew taut as a bows string before the arrow was released. 

Aemond’s gaze remained on her. “No,” he murmured, softer than she expected. He straightened slightly, a mere shift in posture, yet it felt deliberate, careful, as though bracing himself. His hands, long-fingered and calloused, stilled against the table. “Your mother lost the child.”

A thousand thoughts stormed through her mind, each one crashing over the next. She thought first of Jace. The last she had head, he was at Winterfell, far beyond the Green’s reach–surely beyond their reach. But then–Joffrey? Aegon? Viserys? Had something happened to them? Had the war already stolen more from her than it had already taken?

And then, at last, the truth settled in. 

It was not them. It was not one of her brothers. 

It was the child–the one her mother had been carrying. 

The realization landed like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She felt the weight of it sink into her bones, cold and merciless. Grief swelled in her chest, thick and cloying, rising like a tide she could not hold back. The air thickened, turned to something unbreathable. The room blurred at the edges, light wrapping around her vision as nausea coiled in her gut, sharp and violet. 

She rose, too quickly, the legs of the chair scraping roughly against the stone floor. The sound barely registered. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the distant murmurs of the Keep beyond these walls, drowning out the warmth of the fire, the lingering scent of sugared fruit and cinnamon still cloying in the air. 

Her composure slipped, crumbled through her fingers like sand. 

Her sibling–gone before they could even be held, before they could take their first breath. 

The grief curled inside her like a living thing, sharp-toothed and ravenous, tearing at the fragile seams of her restraint. Her throat burned, bile rising, but she forced it down.

Out of the blurred edges of her vision, Daenera caught the slightest movement–a flicker of motion that, for a moment, she mistook for hesitation. But it was not hesitation.

Aemond reached for her.

His fingers hovered just shy of her own, the barest breath of space between them, as if he meant to grasp her hand, to still her, to ground her. But she wrenched away before he could touch her, as if his fingers were flame and she had already been burned too many times. The motion was sharp, instinctual, a recoil from something she could not bear to endure. She turned her back to him, closing herself off, severing whatever fragile moment might have passed between them before it could take shape.

A sharp ache bloomed in her chest, spreading like a bruise, pressing heavy against her ribs until it felt as if they might crack beneath the weight. She strained to breathe, to force air past the tightness in her throat, but it caught and stuttered, shallow and uneven. Her hands found her hips, fingers pressing against the curve of her spine as she tried–gods, she tried–to steady herself.

Her gaze lifted skyward, as if seeking solace in the high vaulted ceiling, in the distant light that streamed through the windows. But the tears burned hot behind her eyes, threatening to spill, and she clenched her jaw, willing them away.

And she did not want him to see. 

She did not want him to watch her unravel, to bear witness to her pain, to see the raw, ugly thing that grief made of her. Vulnerability was a weapon turned against its wielder, and she would not offer him that blade–not again.  

A sob rose in her throat, thick and strangling, but she swallowed it down, forcing it into the put of her stomach where it could rot unseen. 

Her mother had wanted this child–had longed for it. Daenera had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in the quiet way she spoke of the babe, in the way she touched her stomach as if the child were already there in her arms. 

And now, there was nothing. 

Her hand rose, fingers trembling slightly as she tugged at the collar of her dress, as if loosening the fabric might somehow loosen the tightness coiling in her chest. She pressed her palm against her heart, felt the frantic beat beneath her skin, fast and uneven, as though her own body rebelled against the weight of the truth. 

Her mother had lost a son. 

And now, she had lost another child. 

Another life stolen, another piece of her mother torn away. And the gods were silent. 

Daenera closed her eyes.

For a fleeting moment, she no longer saw her brother stretched out upon the Silent Sisters’ stone table, his chest broken open, his curls stiff with salt.

Instead, she saw something smaller.

Too small.

A bundle of fabric lay upon the cold, unforgiving slab–wrong, out of place, never meant to be there. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the swaddled form, over the impossibly delicate curve of it.

And then, a wisp of silver hair.

Soft. Fine as gossamer. Barely visible in the dim light, but there all the same.

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs, aching as though something inside her had cracked. The room around her faded, the weight of the present slipping beneath the tide of grief pulling her under.

Oh, gods. The letter. 

The realization dawned on her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone. 

By now, Fenrick would be on his way to Dragonstone, carrying the letter she had written with such careful, measured words. She had tried–foolishly, naively–to offer her mother some semblance of solace, to give her something to cling to amidst the reunion on loss. She had told her that the child she carried would bring her comfort–that not everything had been lost. 

Regret was a sharp, bitter thing, curling around her ribs and sinking its teeth deep.

Behind her, Aemond spoke, his voice low, careful. “Daenera…”

She lifted her hand, fingers trembling slightly as she motioned for him to stop. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to turn, to face him, to bear the weight of his gaze pressing against her as it always did. 

Her grief twisted into something worse–guilt. It tore through her anew, sharp and relentless, pulling her apart at the seams. 

Had she done this?

Was this her punishment? A cruel retribution from the gods for what she had done to the boy who trusted her? For the poison she had slipped into his food, for the lies she had whispered as she sent him to his death?

Her breath shuddered in her chest, jagged and uneven, but she swallowed the turmoil down, forcing herself to steady. She wiped at her cheek, smearing away the single tear that had escaped before it could be seen. Before he could see it. 

“When?” Her voice came, quieter than she had intended, hoarse with the effort of keeping herself together. “When did this happen?”

Aemond was silent for a beat too long. Then–”Does it matter?”

At last, Daenera turned to face him. Her movements were slow, reluctant, as if forcing herself to meet his gaze would make the weight in her chest any easier to bear–but it did not, it only made it all the heavier. Another tear slipped free trailing in a  slow descent down her cheek before she wiped it away with a trembling hand. It was a futile effort. More clung to her lashes, catching the light like glistening shards of glass. She could feel them tremble, feel the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over again, but she refused to let them fall. 

She met his gaze, and it nearly undid her. 

His expression was carefully neutral, yet there was something guarded in the set of his jaw, something restrained in the way he held himself. And his eye–gods, his eye. It was not cold as it so often was, nor sharp with mockery, nor darkened by cruelty. Instead, there was a softness there, a quiet, somber patience that only deepened the ache in her chest.

“I–” the words caught in her throat, breaking apart before it could fully form. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Did I–?”

Her lips parted, but she could not finish the question. Was it my fault? The words remained trapped behind clenched teeth, rattling inside her skull like a dying thing. Did I do this? The thought alone sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. Had the gods seen what she had done? Had they cast their judgment, taken something from her mother in retribution for what Daenera had stolen from another?

The guilt gnawed at her, a ravenous beast sinking its teeth into her ribs. She could not bring herself to ask him, could not bear to voice the thought that had already sunk its claws into her mind. 

And worse–why, why in all the gods’ names, was she looking to him for reassurance? Why was she searching his face for some denial, some certainty that this was not her doing, that she had not willed this tragedy into being?

Hatred curled inside her–hatred for herself, for the shameful, desperate way her heart clung to his presence in this moment. She swallowed again, fingers curling into the silk of her robe as she forced her voice into something steadier, something more composed, though it still trembled. “When did it happen?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, watching her in that way he always did–like he saw more than what she gave. He studied her, peeling back the layers of her composure as though he could see the raw, open wounds beneath. 

“It was before.”

Before. 

Before she had killed Patrick. Before she had sealed her own damnation.

For the briefest of moments, the relief came swift and sharp, crashing through her like a desperate breath breaking the surface of deep waters. It was a cruel, fleeting thing, barely there before it was swallowed whole by something far worse. A wave of guilt surged up in its place, heavier than before, pressing down on her like a boulder against her chest. She felt sick with it, sick with herself. What did it matter when it had happened? What difference did it make? The child was still gone, lost before ever taking a breath. And yet, for the smallest fraction of time, she had felt relief that it had not been her fault. That it had not been her sin that had stolen another life from her mother’s arms. 

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms until she could feel the sting of it, grounding herself in the pain. She could not allow herself that feeling, could not let herself grasp onto it. Her mother had lost her son, and now she had lost another child. 

There was no comfort in the timing of it, no absolution in the fact that it had been before Patrick. And yet, she had sought it anyway, like a coward grasping at scraps of solace in the face of an unbearable truth. 

She forced her shoulders back, forced the breath into her lungs, forced the grief into something small and quiet, something she could lock away until she was alone. Because no matter how much she might feel as though she was drowning, she could not afford to let herself sink. 

“Before,” Daenera echoed, the word curling bitterly on her tongue. Her brow furrowed, and something inside her twisted. The grief threatening to pull her under began to harden, cooling into something sharper and accusatory. “When before?”

Aemond inhaled through his nose, slow and measured, though his posture stiffened slightly. He bore the weight of her accusation as he bore all others–like armor, as though he had long since learned to let such words slide from his skin like rain against steel. He did not flinch, nor did he waver. Instead, his head tilted, just enough for the sunlight to catch the angular lines of his face. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was the same even, measured tone. “Before.”

Before Patrick.

Before Luke.

The child had been lost before he had ridden to Storm’s End, before he had given chase in the rain, his rage and wounded pride spurring him forward, before the storm had swallowed them both whole. Before the sky had split with the crack of thunder, before Vhagar’s massive jaws had closed around Luke and torn him from the sky. Before the sea had claimed whatever was left, dragging it down into the cold, endless depths, leaving nothing but salt and silence in its wake. Beforeher mother had searched those very waves, desperate, grieving, calling for a son who would never answer. BeforeDaenera’s own hands had been stained with the blood of the innocent, before poison had coated her fingertips, before death had followed in her shadow.

Before everything.

And yet, no matter how she turned it over in her mind, no matter how she tried to unravel the cruel weaving of fate, she could not shake the truth of it.

It did not matter.

The order of their suffering changed nothing. The loss remained. The grief endured. The dead did not return.

“It seems the news of our father’s passing brought it upon her,” Aemond continued, his voice careful. And yet, his fingers–long and deft, ever steady–began to tap idly against the polished wood of the table. A restless habit, though whether born of irritation or impatience, she could not tell. 

Daenera’s lips parted, but only a breath escaped before her grief twisted into something else entirely–something raw and seething, something blistering beneath her skin like an open wound. 

“When her rightful claim was usurped.” She did not temper her hanger, did not bite back the words before they could lash out. She wanted them to land.

Not only had her mother lost her father, but her very birthright had been stolen from beneath her, torn away by those who had sworn loyalty and then betrayed her in the same breath. Her throne had been usurped, her claim trampled beneath the weight of ambition and treachery. She had carried a child, nurtured it within her, only for it to be wrenched from her before it could ever take its first breath. And then, as if the gods had not yet finished their cruel work, she had lost her son–her sweet, bright boy–swallowed by the storm, by the beast, by the sea.

The gods were vicious, their judgment as merciless as it was senseless. They were no wise and righteous overseers, no keepers of justice and fate. They were cruel, capricious, laughing down from their lofty halls as mortals broke beneath their whims. What justice was there in this? What righteousness? There was none–only suffering, only grief, only the relentless toll of loss upon loss, piling higher like bodies left to rot upon the battlefield.

How could they punish her–her mother, whose only crime had been existing as her father’s heir–while those who had taken, those who had stolen, those who had murdered were left to rule, to thrive, to wear crowns dripping with the blood of the innocent?

The gods had no justice. They only had cruelty.

Aemond’s jaw tensed, just slightly. A small shift, a twitch of muscle, but she saw it. 

“How many more must die for your family’s ambition?” She bit out, fury coiling around her grief like a viper. 

“The fault is not ours,” Aemond siad, his tone composed, infuriatingly patient, as though he expected her anger, as though he would simply weather it like a storm passing overhead.  “The child was malformed, he continued, his voice careful, as if he were offering her something close to reassurance. “It is said it had horns, scales…a tail.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It would not have survived, whether it came now or later.”

“Who?” Her voice was sharp, demanding, slicing through the thick silence between them. “Who said this? How do they know?”

Her breath quickened, her hands curling into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms. The words felt too heavy, too cruel to accept without a fight. Aemond had spoken them so plainly, as if they were mere facts and not a sentence of grief carved into her very bones.

“How do you know it's the truth?” She challenged, stepping closer now, her gaze burning into his.

Daenera seethed, but she could feel her fury unraveling at the edges, slipping through her fingers like sand. She needed someone to blame, needed it to make sense of it all, needed somewhere to aim her anger before it ebbed out entirely, only leaving behind an aching emptiness. But Aemond did not flinch, did not rise to her anger. 

“We have received multiple accounts,” he said, his voice dreadfully gentle, offering her no cruelty, no satisfaction, only the quiet inevitability of truth. 

Daenera felt the fight drain from her in an instant, like a blade sliding free from between her ribs, leaving behind only the gaping wound, the hollow ache where fury had once burned. The fire inside her flickered, then went out entirely, snuffed like a candle’s flame, leaving only behind the curling remnants of smoke, grief’s cold fingers creeping into its place. 

She swayed slightly on her feet, her pulse thrumming in her ears, tears pressing hard against the back of her eyes. She closed them, only to find that the darkness brought no relief. The image waiting for her there–waiting in the hollow spaces behind her ribs, in the marrow of her bones. The small bundle wrapped in cloth. The wisp of silver hair barely visible. Unbearable stillness. 

She rubbed her hand across her face, as though she could wipe away the vision along with the tears that threatened to spill. With a quiet, weary sigh, she sank back into her chair. 

She wished she had been there. 

Wished she could be there now–with her mother, beside her, as she mourned her children. 

Daenera was growing weary of grief, of loss. It clung to her like a second skin, a weight that hadn’t lessened yet, only shifted, pressing down on her in different ways, at different times. She was drowning in it. The loss of this sibling–one she had never met, one she had only allowed herself to hope for–was but a drop in the ocean of sorrow that had already swallowed her whole. 

It was a cruel thing to admit, even to herself, but it was the truth. Compared to Luke, compared to the gaping, irreparable wound his absence had left inside of her, this loss felt small–manageable. A shallow wound against a deeper, festering one. 

Perhaps that was not so strange. 

And perhaps, there was only so much grief one could carry before it became to heavy to bear. So she gathered this small sorrow, cupped it in her hands like water, and let it slip through her fingers, pouring it into some quiet place within herself where it could no longer drown her. 

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Aemond said softly. 

Her gaze lifted to meet his, and this time, there was no scorn in her eyes, no reproach or bitter edge to her expression. Only something quieter, something more measured. A tired understanding, perhaps. A truce, however fragile, however brief. 

The sunglint spilled through the high windows, cutting through the coldness of the chamber, catching the strands of his pale hair and turning them to gold. The light softened him, rounded the edges of his sharp features, took the severity of him and made him something almost gentle. Almost human.

Daenera swallowed, drawing in a slow, steady breath, holding it deep in her lungs before releasing it, exhaling the grief, the weight, the ache–if only for a moment. 

“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured at last. 

Aemond studied her, his gaze lingering. And then, quiet, deliberately he ventured, “I wanted to tell you about–”

“But you didn’t,” Daenera cut him off, her voice regaining an edge–something brittle. A simmering ember of anger licked at her ribs. It did not blaze into a roaring fire, but it smoldered there, deep and slow-burning, waiting. 

“I waited for you,” she said, the strain in her voice betraying the wounds that had yet to close, the kind that festered beneath the skin and leaked poison into the blood. “I waited for you, but you never came.”

For the first time, Aemond broke her gaze. He turned his face ever so slightly, his eye flickering away, his shoulders going taut beneath the fabric of his doublet. The shift was small, but she saw it bathed in the light of day as it was–the tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible curl of his lips, the way his fingers twitched against the table as if resisting the urge to move. It could have been mistaken for annoyance, but it wasn’t. 

Shame, she thought. Regret, perhaps.

His next words came as softly as they had the last time, spoken with the same quiet weight, the same bitter aftertaste. “I wanted to give you one more night.”

The same words he had spoken when they sat together in the ruin of her chambers, amidst shattered glass and scattered blood. One more night believing her brother was alive. An explanation. A bitter solace. A stinging mistake. 

One more night–one night too long. And yet far too little. 

“It wasn’t enough,” Daenera murmured. Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “It would never be enough.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the silence between them thick with everything neither of them would say. Words unspoken tangled in the space between them, unsaid truths pressing against the weight of air. 

And still, neither of them looked away.

“You should have been the one to tell me,” she murmured, finally breaking her gaze, her voice quieter now. “Just as I should be the one to tell Patrick’s parents of their son. 

Her fingers curled slightly against the table’s surface as she lifted her gaze back to him. “I do not expect it to bring them peace. But at least they will know. I owe them that much.” It was the kindest thing she could offer. “Let me write to them. Let me be the one to inform them of his passing.”

Aemond studied her. His lips pressed together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face–perhaps a sharp remark, a cutting jest waiting on his tongue, but if so, he swallowed it. Instead, his gaze flickered downward, settling on the plate of food in front of her, untouched, the warm of it long since dissipated.

“If you eat,” he said at last. 

Daenera blinked at him, caught off guard by the audacity of it. It was so unexpected, so absurdly him that she nearly let out a sharp, humorous laugh. Instead, her expression darkened, her brows pulling together as a scowl twisted her lips. She briefly entertained the idea of overturning the plate onto his pristine doublet, watching the food spill into his lap with a pure, spiteful satisfaction. She could already picture it–the way his lips would tighten, the sharp edge of his glare, the inevitable snap of his patience. 

The thought was tempting. 

Spite crackled beneath her skin, hot and restless, but she forced it down. 

It should be her that told Patrick’s parents. She had taken their son’s life–whatever justification, whatever mercy she had told herself had softened it, it was still her hand that had ended it. And for that reason alone, she begrudgingly reached for the plate, sliding it towards herself with slow, reluctant movements. She picked up a piece of tangerine, lifting it to her lips without breaking her glare, scowling at Aemond as she chewed. 

Across the table, the corner of his lips curled–just slightly, just enough to make her scowl deepen. 

The first few bites were an effort, her throat constricting, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt as though it might reject the food entirely. But the more she ate, the more the tension eased, the tightness giving way to something else–something she had not realized had been gnawing at her. Hunger.

She had barely eaten since the day before yesterday. Perhaps even longer than that. She had forced herself to move, to speak, to endure, but she had done so on nothing but sheer will. And on some level, she suspected Aemond knew.

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly as she caught him watching her. “Are you not going to eat?” she asked, her tone sharp, edged with irritation. 

“I’ve eaten,” Aemond replied, entirely unbothered.

“Are you just going to stare at me while I eat? If so, I’d much prefer if you left.”

If anything, he seemed amused by her hostility. His hand lifted lazily from the surface of the table, reaching for her plate with deliberate slowness, plucking a single grape between his fingers.

Daenera reacted before she could think.

Her hand snapped out, slapping against his with a sharp smack. The sound echoed between them, louder than she had expected, but she did not regret it. Resentment flared in her chest, hot and immediate. If he had wanted to sit here, if he had wanted to share her food the way they had once done before, then perhaps he shouldn’t have murdered her brother.

The vitriol did not make it to her voice, though. Nor did it reach the glare she leveled at him. Instead, her tone was cold, flat, edged with something quieter, something just as sharp. “If you’ve eaten, then leave. Or get your own food. Don’t steal mine.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to where she had struck his hand, then back to her, something unreadable passing over his expression.

Then, with an infuriating little smirk, he popped the stolen grape into his mouth.

The doors swung open with a quiet creak, and the sharp rhythm of approaching steps cut through the silence. Daenera barely had time to register the intrusion before Mertha stood before her, her hands folded neatly, her face in that ever-present mask of tight-lipped disapproval–though now, it was drawn even tighter, as though she had bitten into something sour and found it worse than expected. 

Edelin hovered behind her, expression worried. 

“My prince,” Lady Mertha said stiffly, inclining her head. “Forgive the intrusion, but the Lord Confessor’s patience has worn thin. He insists that they begin the search now.”

At the words, Aemond leaned back slightly in his chair, the shift slow, deliberate. Whatever flicker of amusement that had lingered in his features vanished in an instant, his face hardening into something cold and impassive–his familiar mask of steel and ice. Every trace of that infuriating smugness from moments before was gone, replaced by something unreadable, something distant. 

His fingers twitched idly on the tabletop, betraying the only sign of his irritation. He inhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but edged with something restrained. 

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice carrying no emotion, nothing but the crisp weight of obligation. 

Mertha did not move. She did not bow her head in dismissal, did not turn to fetch the Lord Confessor. Instead, she lingered, her dull gray eyes dragging from Aemond to Daenera, her gaze narrowing as her expression tightened. 

“Princess,” she said, her tone stiff with expectation. “We must get you dressed properly. You are in no state for company.” With a sharp flick of her wrist, she gestured for Daenera to follow, already turning towards the bedchamber. 

A cold prickle of unease ran down Daenera’s spine, a familiar dread twisting deep in her chest. She knew what waited for her behind the dressing screen, beyond the sight of others. Knew what Mertha’s cruel hands would do. The evidence of it still lingering on her skin–every cruel pinch, every warning squeeze, every silent reproach. The thought of it–of standing there, bare beneath Mertha’s fingers as she worked over her with disapproving hands and sharp, muttered words–made tension coil in her stomach. 

But still, she rose to her feet. 

“Lady Mertha,” Edelin interjected smoothly, stepping forward with an air of quiet insistence. “Allow me to see to the princess. I will dress her.”

Mertha’s head snapped toward her, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

Edelin did not falter. “The Lord Confessor’s men will need to be supervised,” she continued, her tone carefully even. “They will tear through this chamber like hounds after scraps. Someone must ensure they do not leave a mess we will only have to clean later.”

Mertha’s lips twitched, her displeasure barely concealed. She exhaled sharply though her nose and turned back to Daenera, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. Her gaze lingered for a beat, as if considering whether to press the matter, to drag Daenera to the screen herself. 

But then, without a word, she pivoted sharply on her heel. “Very well, make her presentable,” she said and strode to the doors, her skirts sweeping across the stone floor as she went to admit the Lord Confessor and his men. 

Daenera let out a slow, controlled breath, grateful for Edelin. 

She stepped into the bedchamber, the warmth of the late morning sun filtering through the tall windows, casting golden light against the cool stone walls. The air was still, thick with the lingering scents of candle wax and the morning meal. 

Crossing the room, she made her way to the basin, dipping her hands into the cool water before bringing it to her face. The sudden chill sent a shiver down her spine, but she welcomed it, relished the way it momentarily cleared the haze from her mind–and washed the salt from her face. Droplets slipped down her skin, trailing along her jaw, and she reached for a cloth to dry them away, pressing the fabric against her cheeks with slow, deliberate movements. 

When she finally lifted her gaze to the mirror above the basin, she understood why Mertha had been so quick to comment on her appearance. 

Strands of hair had slipped free from their braids, some curling in wild disarray around her face, the carefully woven plaits loosened from restless sleep and the wear of the day. The silk strips woven into them had come undone, some hanging limply, others barely clinging to the braid at all. Shadows bloomed beneath her eyes, a testament to the fitful rest that had done little to ease the weight pressing on her shoulders. 

She looked tired. Worn. 

And she was. 

The distant murmur of voices drifted through the open archway, punctuated by the shuffle of boots against stone. Low, hushed tones woven together, an indistinctive hum of men speaking, orders given. Yet amidst it all, one sound stood apart–the rhythmic, deliberate tap of a cane against the floor. 

Daenera’s breath stilled for a fraction of a moment, an instinctive reaction, though she forced herself not to tense. The sound unsettled her. The slow, measured beat of it, never hurried, never uncertain. A herald of unpleasant things. 

Edelin’s hands remained gentle, undisturbed by the noise beyond the chamber. With practiced efficiency, she helped Daenera out of her nightgown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders in a whisper of silk. A moment later, she was easing her into a fresh gown–a modest, loose-fitting dress of grayish-blue brocade, its fabric soft against her skin. 

The girl worked swiftly, fingers deft as she moved to Daenera’s hair, undoing the intricate weaving she had secured the night before. The ties slipped free one by one, and with them, the last remnants of braids unraveled. Her dark hair spilled down her back, loose and soft, waves curling from where it had been bound. 

Edelin hesitated briefly, as if expecting some instruction, some desire for her to gather it up, to set it with pins and ribbons. But Daenera gave none. She let her hair fall as it was, unbound and unstyled, unwilling to fuss with it. She had neither the patience nor the mood for it. 

“Would you prepare ink and parchment?” Daenera asked, her voice quiet but firm as Edelin removed the final braid from her hair. Strands slipped free, falling in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back, pooling like dark silk. “I expect I will need more than one sheet.”

Edelin gave a small nod, setting aside the silk strip she had unwoven and placing it neatly on the surface of the dressing table before turning to fulfill Daenera’s request.

Daenera exhaled, lifting her hands to her hair, running her fingers through the long, thick strands to smooth them out. Rising from the chair, she swept the mass of it over her shoulder before letting it fall back behind her. It cascaded down past her hips, heavy and unbound.

Mertha would surely find fault with her appearance–the simplicity of her dress, the lack of jewelry, the way she left her hair undone instead of setting it in careful plaits and coils as a lady ought to. But Daenera could not bring herself to care. Not today.

Without another word, she turned from the mirror and made her way toward the common room.

The room was a whirlwind of movement, a flurry of restless energy as men tore through every corner of the space with methodical precision. Cupboards were thrown open, drawers upended, books lifted and set aside, decorations shifted from their places as hands dragged across every surface in search of something unseen–something they would not find. The scrape of wood, the rustling of parchment, the dull thud of objects being set down or discarded–all of it filled the air, mingling with the thick oppressive tension that hung like a storm waiting to break. 

As Daenera stood at the threshold of the room, men moved past her with single-minded purpose. They did not pause, did not acknowledge her presence beyond the necessity of stepping around her, their focus set entirely on the task at hand. 

Her gaze swept across the room, cutting through the chaos–until it landed on him. 

Larys Strong. 

The Lord Confessor stood apart from the frenzy, watching rather than searching, his sharp gaze meeting hers. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. But the way he looked at her–calculated, considering–made something crawl beneath her skin, made indignation flare within her chest. 

She gritted her teeth and turned away from him, tearing her gaze from his prying stare, intent on ignoring him. 

Her eyes drifted to the far end of the table, where Edelin had already set out the ink and parchment with meticulous care. The quill rested neatly beside them, its tip glistening faintly in the afternoon light. Her seat from earlier had been pushed in, the remnants of her interrupted meal cleared away–no trace of the bread or fruit remained.

Only the cup of tea lingered.

It had been moved, no longer in its original place, but now sitting beside the pot of ink at the opposite end of the table, as if subtly repositioned to accompany her new task. The gesture was a small one, yet Daenera recognized Edelin’s quiet consideration in it. A reminder. A kindness. A way to steady her hands before she set ink to parchment and wrote the words she did not want to write.

But she hardly had time to register the small act of consideration, her gaze barely flickering over the carefully arranged parchment and ink before her attention was drawn elsewhere–to him.

Her eyes found him without meaning to, latching onto his presence as though pulled by an unseen force. Aemond.

He had not moved. He sat where he had before, poised yet at ease, as if entirely unaffected by the commotion around him. His profile was sharp in the glow of the sunlight, the golden strands of his hair catching in its warmth, making him seem almost otherworldly–almost soft. But Daenera knew better.

She had half-expected–half-hoped–that he would have left by now. It would have been easier, cleaner, not to have to share space with him, not to be reminded of the tangled, wretched mess that existed between them. And yet, bitterly, begrudgingly, she felt something cold and treacherous loosen in her chest at the sight of him still lingering. She could not call it relief–she refused to call it that.

She said nothing as she passed him, her steps measured, controlled. She felt herself brush past him without sparing him a glance, settling into the chair before the parchment–at the opposite end of the table where he was sitting. Her fingers smoothed over the parchment’s surface, grounding herself in the task. 

“Her herbs are over here,” Mertha said, her voice clipped as she gestured towards the far corner of the long room. Her tone held its usual note of authority, sharp and reproachful. 

At the entry to the apartments stood Maester Gilbar and his apprentice, their washed-out gray robes blending into the stone walls, their presence unassuming. The eldest maester’s hands were clasped before him, knotted with age, while his much younger charge stood attentively at his side, watching, waiting. 

“You can remove all of it–”

“No,” Aemond’s voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade. 

From his place at the other end of the table, he barely shifted, only tilting his head slightly as he spoke. He lounged against the wooden surface, leaning lazily on one elbow, his posture deliberately relaxed, yet anything but careless. A book lay flat before him, its pages untouched, as it had merely been something to occupy his hands rather than his mind. 

“You will look through it,” he continued, his voice steady, cool, leaving no room for argument. “Remove only what is necessary. The rest, you will return as it was.”

Mertha stiffened, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her disapproval was palpable, her fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of her skirts. “The Dowager Queen ordered it all removed.”

“And I am giving you new orders.”

Aemond’s gaze met hers, cold and controlled, his brow lifting ever so slightly in challenge. There was no raised voice, no outward sign of irritation–just that quiet, unwavering authority that left little room for defiance. His mere presence seemed to consume the room, filling every empty space, pressing against the walls like something unseen but undeniable. There was an air of danger about him, something quiet and coiled, like a blade resting in its sheath–hidden, but no less lethal.

He did not need to raise his voice, did not need to move with any grand display of power. It was in the way he carried himself, the effortless command in his posture, the sharp edge to his gaze. He was a man who did not need to remind others of his authority–he simply was.

And everyone in the room felt it.

Maester Gilbar cleared his throat, the sound rasping in the thick silence, his aged frame shifting slightly as he adjusted his stance. The chain around his neck swayed with the movement, metal links clinging together in quiet protest. His apprentice remained still beside him, rigid, uncertain, while Mertha lingered a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words seemingly pressing against her lips. 

Reproach flickered in her eyes, her mouth tightening as if she might yet voice her displeasure. But in the end, she swallowed it down, gritting her teeth. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and gestured for the maester to follow. 

Daenera barely spared them a glance. 

She could still feel Aemond’s gaze on her, heavy, unwavering, pressing against her like the ghost of a touch. It prickled against her skin, demanding acknowledgement, but she refused to meet it–refused to feel grateful that he would let her have her herbs. Instead, she turned her attention to the parchment before her, dipping her quill into the inkwell. The dark ink clung to the tip, and she tapped it twice against the edge to shake off the excess, watching the tiny droplets stain the rim. 

The quill hovered over the parchment, poised and ready.

But no words came. 

Her mind, once full of thought, so burdened with what needed to be said, now sat empty, blank as the page before her. The silence stretched, her breath shallow, her fingers tightening around the quell as though she could will the words into existence. 

The nose of the search continued around her, a steady drum of disruption–the shuffling of boots, the scrape of furniture being moved, the voices cutting through the space as orders were given and carried out. Daenera remained still, putting it out of her mind as she stared at the blank expanse of parchment before her. 

How do I even begin?

What words could she possibly offer? What comfort could she give when she knew there was none to be had? No sentence, no carefully chosen words could soften the sting of their loss. 

She dipped the quill into the ink, pressing the tip lightly to the parchment, watching as the black stain bleed into the fibers. The soft scratch of the quill met the paper, delicate, hesitant, but the wound was swallowed by the nose around her. 

Lord and Lady–

The words sat before her. She stared at them, then with a frustrated breath, dragged the quill through them, striking them out.

Setting the quill aside, she crumbled the ruined parchment, tossing it aside before reaching for a fresh sheet. 

I have no words to offer you comfort in this–

Her jaw clenched. No, that wasn’t right either. It was the truth, but the truth was a hollow thing. She scratched through the sentence, crumbling the parchment and tossing it aside again, reaching for another. 

The pile of discarded parchment had grown into a small mountain of frustration, crumpled remnants of failed attempts littering the table like fallen leaves. Each rejected letter, each scratched-out sentence, only fed the gnawing irritation curling in her chest. The right words would not come–not ones that mattered, not the ones that might dull the edge of grief for the parents of the boy she had taken. Nothing was enough, nothing could be enough, and the futility of it all made her stomach twist. 

With an aggravated sigh, she set the quill aside, fingers stained with ink curling slightly before she flexed them in an attempt to rid herself of the tension coiling in her knuckles. 

Leaning back in ehr chair, she pressed her spine against the unforgiving wood, tilting her head until it met the backrest with a dull thud. She stared at the ceiling, letting her breath escape in a slow exhale before dragging her gaze back to the ruined parchment strewn across the table. A waste of paper.

Her hand lifted, fingers ghosting over the rim of the now-cool teacup beside her inkpot before she sighed once more, this time softer, quieter. “Edelin,” she murmured, her voice no longer edged with irritation but something wearier. “Bring me more tea.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And pour one for yourself as well, if you’d like.”

Edelin, who had remained silent at her side, flinched slightly, as if the request had startled her. Daenera turned her head just enough to watch the girl’s expression shift, the small crease between her brows deepening with confusion.

“I’d like it if you’d join me,” she said, offering a simple invitation. 

“Princess?”

“You can practice your letters,” Daenera continued, her voice softer now, almost absent as she reached for one of the discarded parchments. Her fingers smoothed out the crumpled sheet, revealing the tangled mess of scratched-out words, failed beginnings that never found their end. “Or draw, if you’d rather,” she added, turning the parchment slightly in her hands before glancing back at Edelin. “It seems such a waste to discard them entirely.”

Edelin’s eyes widened in surprised. Then, before she could stop herself, her lips curled into a smile. “Really?”

Daenera gave a small nod, watching as Edelin tried–and failed–to temper her excitement. There was something almost childlike in the way her expression brightened, a rare glimpse of unguarded joy that had no place in a world like this.

But before Edelin could utter another word, a sharp, disapproving noise cut through the moment like the scrape of steel against stone.

Mertha.

The older woman stood rigid, her scowl carved deep into her face, hands planted firmly on her hips, her entire stance radiating displeasure. Her lips curled downward, thin and bloodless, eyes narrowing as she fixed Edelin with a look meant to wither whatever foolish notion had taken root.

Edelin hesitated, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides. For a fleeting moment, she looked down, studying her hands as though considering whether to retreat, to bow her head and fall back into the quiet, obedient role expected of her.

Then, as if making a decision, she lifted her gaze once more–this time meeting Daenera’s eyes.

“I would like that,” she said at last, her voice steady despite the deepening scowl Mertha shot her way. A quiet defiance, a choice made.

She reached for the empty teacup, fingers wrapping around it with deliberate intent.

“Thank you,” she added, as if daring Mertha to object.

As Edelin moved through the room towards the pot of tea hanging over the fire in the hearth, her steps light but unwavering, she seemed intent on ignoring Mertha’s sharp, narrow-eyed scowl. The older woman’s silent disapproval lingered, thick as smoke, still, Edelin did not falter. If anything, she carried herself with more purpose, as though determined to have this small act of defiance. 

The Lord Confessor’s men continued their search–ransacking, really–their hands trailing over every surface, their eyes scanning each object as if the very stones of the room might whisper her secrets. Drawers scraped open, rugs were lifted, shelves emptied only to be hastily repacked–much to Mertha’s displeasure. No corner was left undisturbed, no possession too insignificant to escape their notice. They moved with the cold efficiency of hounds on the scent of prey, though whatever they sought would not be found. Because there was nothing to find.

And then, amidst the chaos, Larys Strong moved. 

Unlike the others he did not search. He did not paw through her belongings or upset the furniture with prying hands. He did leave the marks of disturbance in his wake. Instead, he drifted through the chamber like a shadow, his presence deliberate, unhurried. The slow, steady tap of his cane accompanied each of his steps, the sound too precise to be anything but intentional. 

It was not necessity. It was a reminder.

Larys was not a man who commanded a space the way Aemond did, with his sharp-edged presence and the sheer weight of his gaze. No, he was something far more unassuming. He did not demand attention–he crept into awareness, slipping through the cracks of conversation and silence alike. A cripple who wore his affliction like a mask, a man who allowed others to see only what he wished to see–less–while beneath the surface, his mind wove its webs. 

His presence felt like a violation. 

Not just his, but theirs. The men rifling through her things again, treating what little she had as though it belonged to them. The first time had been her old chambers, where every object, every piece of fabric, every book had been hers. They had torn through it as they did not, leaving nothing untouched. 

And now, in this new chamber, this space meant to be hers, meant to be a sanctuary–even if it was the one she had desired–it felt the same. 

Violating.

It reminded her too much of that night–of how he had ordered her stripped, of how his men’s rough, indifferent hands had seized her, pulling at laces and fabric with the same disregard they now showed to her drawers and cupboards. They had peeled her apart, layer by layer, until she had been left standing in nothing but her smallclothes, the cold pressing against her skin.

The memory curdled in her mind, but she pushed it down.

The tap of his cane against the stone made the muscles in her spine tense, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling as Larys approached. This time, his gaze was not on her–his attention was, however. His head tiled slightly, his sharp eyes flickering towards the far wall, where a great tapestry of the finest greens hung. It was a beautiful piece, expertly woven, depicting a vast forest bathed in golden light, its canopy breaking just enough to allow the sun to dapple the moss-laden earth below. 

“Such fine work,” he murmured, his voice smooth, carrying the careful cadence of a man who measured every word before he spoke it. His fingers curled over the head of his cane, watching the tapestry with something unreadable in his expression. “The details are exquisite.”

Then, his gaze slid back to her, keen and knowing. 

“But I wonder, Princess… Were you displeased with the ones I gifted you”

Daenera inhaled slowly through her nose, her fingers tightening around the quill before she dipped it into the inkwell, watching as the dark liquid clung to the tip. She set her gaze firmly on the parchment before her, the fine script of her unfinished letter waiting to be continued. The quill hovered above the sheet, ink threatening to drop onto the page as she let her silence stretch just a little longer than necessary. 

“I did not care for them,” she said at last, her words cool, edged with quiet finality. She saw no reason why she shouldn’t be so blunt. 

She did not want his gifts. Did not want anything hanging in her chambers that bore his influence, anything that served as a reminder of his betrayal and all that had followed. She did not want his eyes watching her–even in something as inanimate as a tapestry. 

Larys did not so much as blink at her curtness. 

“I had thought they were just to your liking,” he mused, unbothered. “They are not so different from the ones you have up now. I had them woven with such care, you see… selected by my own hand. A thoughtful gesture,” he continued, his fingers drumming idly atop the head of his cane. “I had hoped they might bring you some joy–a touch of something familiar, perhaps. After all, I know how fond you once were of your time in the Kingswood along with my brother. 

Daenera’s fingers tightened around the quill, ink pooling at its tip as it hovered above the parchment. Her jaw clenched, fire burning in her chest. When she lifted her gaze, she met Larys’s sharp stare with a glare of her own, her lashes fluttering slightly as she steeled herself against the venom curling on her tongue.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice cool and flat, though there was no mistaking the sharp edge beneath it. “I do have fond memories of your brother.” She let the words linger, let them settle between them like a blade laid across the table. “He was a good man. Honorable. Trustworthy.”

Unlike you.

“He understood loyalty was not something to be bartered but something to be upheld,” Daenera continued, her voice smooth but edged with quiet steel. “A shame such virtues are not inherited by blood.” Her quill tapped lightly against the parchment. “He was a man who deserved better fate than that that befell him. He would be disappointed in you.”

Larys came to a slow halt before her, the steady tap of his cane ceasing as he reached for one of the many crumbled pages strewn across the table. His fingers plucked a discarded letter, smoothing over the creased parchment, peeling it open with a care that felt almost like mockery. 

“Perhaps,” he mused, almost a hum. “But he is not the only one who deserved a better fate than the one that befell him…”

The soft scratch of parchment unfurling filled the space between them, the sound prickling against her skin like the scrape of a dull blade. 

Daenera remained still, her breath shallow, as she watched his gaze skim over the parchment, absorbing the tangled scrawl of condolences, of words she had tried and failed to shape into something meaningful. The weight of it, the intrusion, made her stomach twist. Though the letter was unfinished, though it contained nothing but fragmented apologies and half-formed regrets, it was hers-

It was as though he were peeling back the layers of her skin, prying into the raw, festering wound beneath, sinking his fingers tino the rot of her guilt and pressing–just to see where she would break. 

Daenera gritted her teeth. Grief, anger, and shame stirred tight within her chest, each emotion tangled so thickly she could no longer separate one from the other. She refused to meet his gaze, would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words struck. Instead, she focused on the quill in her hand, though it trembled ever so slightly. Ink pooled where the tip met the parchment, spreading across the sheet like spilled blood, soaking greedily into the fibers. 

“It is not an easy thing, is it? Larys mused, as if he understood, as if he had ever understood. “Writing to the bereaved.” His tone carried the same insidious softness, the kind that soothed while it pried. “He was a young boy. Such a shame…”

The words slithered between them, curling in the space like smoke, like something that could not be battered away.

A sharp, seething urge shot through her–to reach across the table, to rip the letter from his hands, to tear it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left for him to inspect, nothing left for him to pick at.

“A shame, indeed,” she said, her voice cool but brittle.  He was a child, yet you imprisoned him as though he were a traitor grown. A child who fell ill in a cell, a child who could have been saved had any of you thought to do so.”

“Children grow into men, Princess. And men take up swords,” Larys murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate, each word measured as though he were weaving a trap with silk instead of steel. “It would be foolish to ignore the seeds of treason simply because they have yet to bear fruit.”

His fingers released the crumpled parchment, letting it fall open on the table before her, the unfurled words laid bare like an exposed wound. His head tilted slightly as he regarded it, as if contemplating the weight of what she had tried–and failed–to say.

“I do not envy your task, Princess,” he continued, his tone almost gentle, as though he were offering condolences instead of pressing a blade deeper into an already festering wound. “Telling grieving parents of their child’s fate… such a burden.”

The way he said it sent a slow, crawling heat up Daenera’s spine, something between fury and unease. But before she could summon a response, before she could shape her anger into words, he exhaled softly–almost thoughtfully–and added,

“I do hope they will find solace in your words. That they will read them and know their son was… cared for.” His gaze flickered back to her then, his lips curling in something that was not quite a smile. “Unfortunately, he put his life in the wrong hands.”

“Lord Larys.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Cold steel wrapped in quiet authority.

“Refrain from speaking to my wife.”

He did not so much as glance up from the book before him, his posture as composed as ever, as if the matter was beneath his notice–as if Larys himself was beneath his notice. Yet there was no mistaking the warning beneath his words, the subtle finality that severed whatever the Lord Confessor might have continued to say.

“You are not here for company,” Aemond continued, turning a page with deliberate ease, as though entirely unbothered. “You are here to supervise the search. Do your job.”

Silence settled between them for a heartbeat, thick and weighted.

Then, Larys released a slow, measured breath, his expression unreadable. “Of course, my prince,” he murmured, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Forgive me.”

His gaze lingered on Daenera for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he turned away. The rhythmic tap of his cane punctuated his retreat as he drifted back into the middle of the room, vanishing into the controlled chaos of the search.

Even as he moved away, Daenera could still feel the lingering presence of his words, the weight of what had been said–and what had been left unsaid. 

Agitation and guilt simmered beneath her skin, a restless, needling sensation that refused to settle. It pricked at the edges of her composure, rising in waves, pressing against her ribs, tightening around her throat like unseen hands. It burned low and slow, like embers waiting to catch flame, and she despised the way it made her feel–feeling she could not name.

Her gaze drifted, drawn as if by some unseen pull, towards Aemond.

He sat at the far end of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, yet nothing around him was truly at ease. One elbow rested against the wood, supporting his weight, while two fingers ghosted along the sharp plane of his cheekbone, the others curled at his jaw, cradling his head in an absentminded pose. His eye remained lowered to the book before, expression unreadable, his gaze steady on the pages–but Daenera felt his attention all the same.

Even as he remained still, she knew he missed nothing. 

She watched him through her lashes, unwilling to fully turn her head, unwilling to acknowledge that she was watching at all. The midday sun poured through the high windows, spilling golden light across the room, illuminating the polished wood of the table, the cold stone walls, the shifting shadows of those still searching through her belongings. It bathed him in its glow, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them almost white, almost golden. He looked terrible and beautiful all at once.

Yet even in the warmth of the sun, even in stillness, he reamined himself–a blade, a beast dressed in civility. 

Protector. Monster.

He was both, and she did not know which unsettled her more. 

She hated that his mere presence steadied her, that even without a word, without a glance, he anchored her in a way she could not understand–did not want to understand. Hated that the weight of him in the room, the quiet force of his authority, was enough to make Larys retreat, enough to remind everyone present of who truly held power here.

She despised the way it settled the storm inside her, the way it quieted the trembling in her fingers, the unease coiling tight in her chest. That it protected her, even when she did not want it, even when she had no wish to rely on it.

And still–still–she found solace in it.

As much as she wanted to recoil, to push against the feeling, to reject the bitter comfort his presence provided, it was there nonetheless. A truth she could not deny. A truth she hated herself for.

Daenera forced her gaze downward, fixing her attention on the parchment in front of her, where a heavy blot of ink had spread like spilled blood, seeping through the sheet beneath, and the one under that. Her fingers curled around the quill, her grip too tight, too stiff, as she stared at the ruin of what should have been her letter. 

For a fleeting moment–briefly, childishly–Daenera entertained the thought of snatching up one of the crumpled letters and tossing it at his head. 

His blind side was to her–an oversight, a vulnerability he rarely allowed.

Aemond had honed his reflexes through years of relentless sword training, his body molded for combat, his instincts sharpened to near-perfection. On the battlefield, he could read an opponent’s movements before they even struck, knew the rhythm of the fight as intimately as a dancer knew the steps of their routine.

But here?

Here, where there was no battle, where he was at ease, unexpecting–he was vulnerable.

She knew he struggled with his peripheral vision, with his depth perception. A flaw he compensated for in war, in the controlled chaos of combat, but outside of it? It was different. He might catch her movement in the last instant, might sense the shift in the air, but too late–the crumpled letter would already be sailing toward him, already bouncing off his head before he could react.

She could see it so clearly in her mind–the sharp flicker of awareness flashing across his face, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the briefest beat of delay before he turned toward her. His single eye, always watchful, always seeing too much, would land on her at last.

There would be no true surprise in his gaze, only that quiet, knowing amusement he always carried, that lingering intrigue that never quite left him when it came to her. He would not scowl–not truly–nor would he chid her–no, he would smirk, if not with his lips, then with his gaze alone, a gleam of something half-mocking, half-entertained. 

And if there had been no one else in the room, perhaps he would have picked it up and tossed it back. Perhaps he still would.

She exhaled, shaking the thought from her mind, dismissing it as she reached instead for the ruined parchment. Setting aside the ones the ink had bled through, she placed them neatly near the chair beside her, making room just as Edelin returned. 

The girl carried two steaming cups of tea, the rich, earthy scent of it curling through the air, grounding Daenera in the presence. Edelin set them down with quiet care, the porcelain clinking softly against the wood before she settled beside her with a small, pleased smile. 

Without hesitation, she turned her attention to the page in front of her, her fingers curling around the dry quill, bringing its point to the words, tracing over them. A learning habit, Daenera realized. The motion of following the letters an attempt to make her body remember them, as though committing their shape to touch, she would be able to write them at a later time without jumbling their order. 

Daenera turned her attention back to the blank sheet before her, forcing herself to block out the distractions around her. The shuffling of boots across stone, the scrape of drawers being opened and closed, the rustle of pages as books were shifted from their places–she ignored it all. Even Mertha’s sharp, shrill reprimands, snapping at the men to return everything to its proper place once their prying hands had finished disturbing it, became nothing more than background noise.

The midday sun poured through the high windows, its warmth spilling over her back, pressing against her skin like a heavy cloak. It should have been comforting, that steady heat, the way it wrapped around her like a blanket. But she barely noticed it now.

Instead, she reached for the quill, dipping it into the inkwell, watching as the tip darkened before she brought it to the parchment. The first few words came hesitantly, uncertain, and before she had even formed a full sentence, she was already reaching for a fresh sheet. Again and again, she wrote–each attempt falling short, each line either too impersonal, too forced, too hollow.

It took several discarded pages, ink bleeding across the table from her hurried scratches, before she finally settled on what needed to be said.

The letter toed the line between formality and something more personal. Not distant, but not too familiar. Careful. Measured.

It would not bring comfort. She knew that much.

But at the very least, it would be something.

The letter read:

To Lord and Lady Piper,

I write to you with a heavy heart and deepest regrets to inform you of the passing of your son, Patrick. 

There are no words in this world that can mend the wound left by the loss of a child, nor do I dare offer you empty comforts, knowing they would be unworthy of your grief.  It is a poor thing to learn of such sorrow through ink and parchment, a message carried by dark wings instead of spoken by the lips of one who knew him. And yet, it is all I can offer. 

Patrick was a boy of great heart and keen mind. He was kinder than most, and I cared for him as though he were my own blood. He did not deserve the cold isolation of a cell nor the sickness that crept upon him while he was there. I do not pretend that my words will change what was done, nor will I insult you by pretending what happened was just. He was imprisoned when he should not have been. That is the fault of the men who placed him there. And mine as well.

I blame myself for his fate, for not doing more, for not being able to save him. I did all within my power to protect him, to see him freed from that cell, to have him home in your arms where he belonged–but it was all for naught. I do not ask for your forgiveness–I do not deserve it.

When the illness took hold, I was there to hold his hand. I told him he would be going home. And in the end, I can only hope that he believed me. 

I wish I could give you something more, something to make this loss less cruel, less unbearable. But I have only this truth to offer you, and the promise that I will carry his memory with me, as I carry my own grief. 

May the gods grant you the strength to endure what they have taken from you.

Daenera Velaryon.

A shallow breath shuddered from Daenera’s lips as she leaned back, watching the ink dry on the parchment. She leaned back slightly, as if putting distance between herself and the words now sealed in ink. They now sat before her, each letter etched in careful, deliberate strokes. Yet they did nothing to ease the weight pressing against her ribs, the ache deep in her bones.

She blew softly over the parchment, coaxing the ink to dry, though she knew it was more out of habit than necessity. No amount of breath could lift the weight of the words she had written, nor could it undo the truth they carried–or ease the lie that kept it all together. Her gaze lingered on the letter, her fingers gripping the edges with just enough pressure to crease the parchment. 

Ink stained her hands, dark smudges trailing across her fingertips, smeared in uneven blotches along her palm. It had dried in places, turning her skin a mottled mess of black and gray, sinking into the fine lines of her palm. The sight of it stirred something uneasy in her–it looked too much like blood. 

Her jaw clenched, and she forced herself to blink the thought away.

She traced the edges of the parchment absently, the rough fibers pressing against the pads of her fingers as her gaze flickered over the lines once more, as if searching for something she had missed. A mistake. A word too cold. A sentiment too weak. But no–there was nothing more to add, nothing that could make it enough.

A thought crept in, unbidden.

Had her mother received one such letter?

Had she held a piece of parchment in shaking hands, inked with the confirmation of her son’s death? Had it carried some semblance of comfort, or had it only deepened the wound, made it real in a way that even grief had not yet managed?

She tried to imagine it—the moment the letter arrived at Dragonstone, the moment her mother’s fingers had broken the seal, the way her breath must have caught as her eyes traced over the words. Lord and Lady Piper. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. Did it make a difference? Did the words soften the loss, or only sharpen its edge?

Was it ever a comfort?

Her fingers stilled against the parchment, her breath shallow, the ache in her chest pressing deeper.

No.

It never was.

“Edelin,” she murmured, turning slightly towards the girl at her side. Her voice was quiet, strained, as though the words caught against the tightness in her throat. “Take this to the prince.”

She held the letter out, fingers curling slightly as though reluctant to part with it. For all her certainty in her choice, a part of her still balked at the idea of handing it over–to let him be the first to read the words she had beld onto the page. 

Edelin nodded without hesitation, settling her quill down. Rising from her seat, she smoothed her skirts before stepping away, her movements quiet against the ruckus the room held. The soft rustle of fabric accompanied her as she brushed past Daenera’s chair, slipping away like a shadow towards the other end of the table. 

Daenera did not watch her go. She did not follow the letter’s small journey. Instead, she let her hands fall to her lap, curling and uncurling her ink-stained fingers as if she could shake loose the lingering weight of what she had written. 

But the stain remained.

And so did the ache. 

Aemond’s gaze lifted from the book, slow and deliberate, as though drawn from distant thought. The golden light streaming through the windows spilling over his features, casting sharp relief over the high cut of his cheekbones, the straight curve of his nose. It caught in the dark sweep of his lashes, making the silver flakes of his eye gleam as he lifted his gaze.

Edelin approached, extending the letter towards him. He took it without a word, his fingers brushing against the parchment, turning it slightly in his grasp before his eye began to move over the page.

Daenera did not turn to watch him directly, but she observed nonetheless–from the corner of her eye, from the shift in his posture, from the slight tightening at the corner of his lips as he read. He said nothing at first, only tilted his wrist slightly, as though weighing the letter, his mouth pursing.

Then, after a long pause, he handed the parchment back to Edelin with a quiet murmur, his voice low, measured.

“If you wish it sent, sign your name properly.”

A simple statement. A pointed one.

And though his tone remained smooth, unbothered, Daenera did not miss the meaning beneath it.

Frustration flared hot in her chest, her teeth grinding together as she shot Aemond a sharp glare. The audacity of his demand grated against her, and it did not help that he had made it with such maddening ease–voice soft, measure, but pointed. Across the table, he remained composed, watching without so much as a flicker of irritation, his patience sharpened by quiet amusement. 

Edelin hesitated beside her, shifting slightly before placing the letter back into her hands with a sheepish expression, as though she were a guilty child caught between warring parents.

Daenera snatched the parchment from her grasp, fingers tightening around the quill as she dipped it into ink, bringing it down with a sharp, deliberate stroke.

Velaryon–scratched out.

The ink bled into the fibers, a jagged line slashing through the name like a wound. Without pause, she wrote another in its place–Baratheon–deliberate, bold, unmissable beneath the old name. He wanted another name, then so be it. She’d give it to him. After all, had that not been her name too?

She felt a sharp flare of satisfaction at the name she had written, knowing well the sting it would carry. Her former husband’s house. A name that no longer belonged to her, but had been hers nonetheless.

She knew he would not accept it–of course, he wouldn’t. But that was never the point.

It was meant to needle him, to press against the edges of his control, to remind him–even now, even here–that she had been someone else's, and she did not yield so easily. A deliberate act of defiance, a small rebellion carved in ink, meant to test the boundaries he had set around her. 

It was childishly spiteful, she knew. A petty thing. But in that moment, she didn’t care. 

She did not look at Aemond as she thrust the letter back into Edelin’s hands, her irritation evident in the quickness of her movements. 

Edelin turned on her heels, practically flying back to Aemond’s side as though she were a raven sent across great distances, bearing news between warring houses. She presented the letter once more, and Daenera watched as Aemond’s gaze dropped immediately to the name she had chosen to sign. 

His eyes sharpened. 

His lashes fluttered ever so slightly as he glanced up at her, a slow, knowing shift of his gaze, before the corner of his lips curled–not in displeasure, but something far more infuriating. 

Unabated amusement.

He leaned back in his seat, the movement slow, deliberate, the very picture of unbothered ease. With little ceremony, he handed the letter back, his fingers releasing it effortlessly, as though the exchange was of no consequence to him–as though he had expected as much from her.

His gaze did not return to his book, nor did he so much as glance at the letter again. Instead, his eye remained fixed on her, watching, studying, waiting.

Daenera met his stare with a glare of her own, sharp and unwavering, though it only seemed to amuse him further. There was no irritation in his expression, no hint of frustration–only that quiet, infuriating amusement, lurking at the edges of his lips, flickering in the depths of his gaze.

As though he was enjoying this.

As though her defiance was not a thorn in his side, but something else entirely–something expected, something welcome.

The realization only made her grip tighten around the quill, her fingers aching with the force of it. She snatched the letter from Edelin’s hands, her movements sharp, unrestrained. The tip of the quill scraped against the parchment, the sharp sound slicing through the air as she pressed down, almost hard enough to tear through the delicate fibers of the page. Ink pooled at the tip, bleeding into the paper in thick, deliberate strokes, the force behind her writing betraying the anger simmering beneath her composed exterior.

She knew she should temper her hand, ease her grip–but she didn’t. She let the pressure build, let the sharp drag of the quill against the parchment carry the frustration she would not speak aloud. Let it show in the harshness of the lines, in the way the ink settled too dark, too heavy in places.

The tension in her fingers refused to abate, and for a fleeting moment, she almost wished the parchment would rip. At least then, it would be a tangible break, something to match the slow, grinding strain inside her.

She struck out Baratheon with a single, merciless slash, the ink bleeding into the fibers, dark and final. But she didn’t stop there.

Her grip on the quill tightened, her fingers aching from the pressure, but she barely noticed. The anger coiling in her chest, hot and unrelenting, demanded release, and so she let it spill onto the page in jagged, furious letters:

‘Daenera Strong, or so my stupid, long-faced, one-eyed prick of a husband likes to call me.’

Without pause, she shoved the letter back into Edelin’s hands, uncaring of the way the parchment wrinkled under her fingers, crumpling slightly as it was passed over once more. 

This time, when Aemond took it, the amusement in his gaze grew. 

His eye flicked over the words, his grip tightening just slightly at the edges of the parchment. The telltale shift of the corner of his lips, the slow inhale through his nose, the way his eye fluttered up to meet hers–smug.

Daenera watched him, the sharp curl of satisfaction twisting in her chest–until it soured.

Aemond, ever composed, merely handed the letter back once more, his movements slow, effortless, expectant. He had known she would do this. Had known she would try to needle him, to test the limits of his patience. And still, the outcome had been inevitable.

The only way to have the letter sent, to have it reach Patrick’s parents as she intended, was to obey.

Her pride bristled at the thought, a fresh sting of resentment flaring in her chest as Edelin returned to her side, wordlessly offering the letter back.

Daenera took it, unfolding the crumpled parchment with deliberate care, smoothing the creases between her fingers. The ink had bled slightly where she had pressed too hard, and she knew she would need to copy it onto a fresh page. A part of her burned with the urge to refuse entirely, to dig her heels in out of sheer defiance.

But her pride was not worth more than this letter.

And so, she gripped the quill with steady fingers and began again, each word carefully rewritten, each sentence weighed with the same deliberate precision as before. The slow, rhythmic scratch of ink against parchment filled the space between them, replacing the silence that had settled over the room like a thick, heavy fog.

When she reached the end, she did not hesitate.

She signed the letter, firm and unflinching:

Daenera Targaryen.

The name felt heavier than ink alone, final in a way she could not bring herself to dwell on.

Without another glance at the words, she sent it back to Aemond. Daenera’s gaze drifted toward him, drawn by something she could not quite name–resentment, perhaps, or the unwilling pull of inevitability.

She watched as Aemond read over the letter once more, his eye moving steadily across the page, his expression unreadable save for the faintest purse of his lips. But she saw it–the satisfaction lurking in the subtle pull at the corners of his mouth, a quiet triumph in the way he held himself.

When he lifted his gaze to meet hers, it was with a look of quiet acknowledgment, a brief but pointed glance that told her what she already knew: this was always how it was going to end. He gave her a single, curt nod–nothing more, nothing less–before turning his attention away, already moving on to matters of greater importance in his mind.

His gaze landed on Maester Gilbar and his young apprentice, who stood a few steps away, engaged in hushed conversation with the Lord Confessor.

“Maester,” Aemond called, his voice smooth but firm, effortlessly drawing their attention. He extended the letter toward him with the same effortless authority he wielded in all things. “See to it that this letter is sent immediately–and that the boy’s body is returned home to his parents.”

The aged maester blinked, his rheumy eyes flickering with brief hesitation before he inclined his head in acknowledgment. The chains around his neck swayed with the motion, the dull clink of metal filling the space between words. Without turning, he lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, beckoning his young apprentice forward.

The boy obeyed at once, scurrying through the room with hurried steps, weaving past the men still shifting through Daenera’s belongings. He reached the letter where Aemond had left it and plucked it up with careful fingers, clutching it as though it were something precious–hough, if the boy had any true understanding of its weight, he did not show it.

Returning to his maester’s side, the apprentice lingered, wide-eyed and eager, standing as still as a well-trained hound awaiting its next command.

The maester, for his part, barely acknowledged him.

He inclined his head once more, the movement stiff with age, offering a murmured farewell before turning on his heel.

The apprentice followed close behind, the letter tucked beneath his arm, his other hand grasping the small woven basket filled with dried herbs and tinctures–remnants of whatever search they had conducted through her chambers

Daenera did not look away.

Even as the weight of it left Aemond’s hands, even as the finality of it settled over the room, she kept her gaze on him, knowing–hating–that he had won this battle, small as it was.

Daenera swallowed, her throat tight, her emotions tangled in a bitter knot she could not untangle. She felt grateful–resentfully, unwillingly grateful–that Aemond had not only ordered the letter sent but had also ensured Patrick’s body would be returned home. It was the least that could be done, and yet the taste of that gratitude was sour on her tongue, thick with resentment.

She pushed back her chair abruptly, rising from her seat and abandoning the small ruin of failed attempts that littered the table–a mountain of crumpled parchment, discarded words that would never be read, ink-blotted sheets soaked with frustration, and the quill still dripping onto one of them, its black stain spreading outward like spilled blood.

As she stepped forward, she rubbed her stained fingers together absently, the ink smearing across her skin. She would have to scrub them clean later, but for now, she let it sit there, let it linger like something earned.

Aemond’s gaze lifted as she moved, his eye following her, tracking her without urgency.

There was something almost lazy about the way he watched her, his head tipping back against the chair, his body sinking deeper into its frame. He studied her through dark lashes, the way a cat might watch the shifting light as it basked in the sun–idle, observant, but never truly unaware.

She did not slow as she neared him.

Instead of stopping before him, she moved around his chair, stepping between him and the towering bookshelves behind him. She did not hesitate, did not break her stride, circling him with deliberate ease before coming to a halt at his side.

And then, without a word, without so much as a glance toward him, she reached down and swept the book from the table, stealing it from his grasp before he could react.

She did not want to read it.

She simply did not want him to.

The weight of the book settled in her hands, cool against her ink-stained fingers, and before he could protest, before he could even move, she turned on her heel and strode into the bedchamber, taking it with her.

[thesnazzysharky]

Something interesting about Deer Lord and Beef Demon

Something that came to my mind recently that I've been thinking about for a bit is the similarities/opposites between Deer Lord and the 100% Beef Man. Obviously I knew about how the both of them have you get teleported to a whole different dimension entirely before you get their death screen, but I've noticed some other things.

Similarities

When it comes to similarities, they're both demon-like entities with religious connotations who can go through walls, float over pits, teleport you to different dimensions entirely, and can be sealed in the Hellgate. They also both put their victims in a fate worse than death situation; with Deer Lord absorbing victims into his torso where you can see them eternally screaming and the Demon taking away his victims souls entirely. Presumably trapping them in hell or something just as horrible. One last similarity between them is that they both have something to do with children. With Deer Lord referring to the carnivorous deer as his children and the Beef Demon's locale having a play area where children would go to.

When it comes to how they're polar opposites of each other, for starters, their personalities are completely different.

Deer Lord

Deer Lord ingame is portrayed as having a sorta moral code to him. Said to be effective against violent subjects, Deer Lord presumably doesn't harm anyone that have no history of violence or aggression and don't try to harm his deer. Even once he does become aggressive towards you, he doesn't seem overly violent or aggressive about it. One of Deer Lord's motifs is submission. While hunting you down, he wants you to submit and willingly join the other suffering souls within his torso, hence him waiting for you when you're teleported to his dimension and opening up his cloak once you get closer. His chase theme being called "Your Consenting Mind" and one of the images that flashes whenever you're hit by him or his deer simply saying "join" further enforces this.

Then there's his voicelines while he's chasing you (which you can view here). Deer Lord speaks in a very matter of fact, calm, and god-like way (he is referred to as a lord for a reason after all). There's the "Join us" line which again goes back to the submission motif. There's the "Your flesh will sustain my children" and "Your submission is inevitable" lines which go along with the matter of fact part of his personality that I was talking about. The way he says these lines doesn't feel like he's trying to threaten or scare you necessarily, but rather stating a fact. He's fully confident that you WILL submit to him and your flesh will be fed to his children, whether you like it or not. Out of all of them, the most interesting line to me is the "Why do you run, child?". Once again, the way he talks doesn't come across as outright aggressive or threatening. He sounds like he's genuinely questioning why you're choosing to run away from him instead of just accepting your inevitable fate. Once again, he's fully confident that he will catch you.

Beef Demon

Then there's the Beef Demon. Not only does he lack a moral code and just targets whoever he sees, but he's also much more evil all around. While Deer Lord is about submission, the Beef Demon is about force and manipulation. He formed what was basically a cult at the failing fast food restaurant through his burgers containing his special "beef". Causing nightmares to those who eat the beef or even altering their minds entirely. Completely breaking them as a person and making them his slaves. The examples being the customer who kept mindlessly ordering excessive amounts of food and the manager slamming an employee's face on a grill as mentioned in the notes in his locale.

Being a literal demon, he's a very manipulate entity. Ruining the lives of others through a mundane fast food restaurant. You can even say his chase theme reflects this. Being innocently titled "We Have the Beef", which is a parody of the "We Have the Meats" slogan from Arby's, despite arguably being one of the most unnerving and chilling soundtracks in the game. Listening to the soundtrack itself, to me at least, it sounds like it could've once worked as a regular music track or jingle for the restaurant, but instead it's distorted and creepy sounding. Perhaps reflecting how much the demon distorted and twisted the restaurant for his own gain. There's also the fact that unlike Deer Lord, Beef Demon is much more violent and sadistic. When he captures his victims and sends them to his dimension, he later throws out their mangled and twisted corpse days later. Implying that he tortures his victims in some way before getting bored of them. But even then, the sweet release of death isn't something that his victims can be gifted with, because the demon keeps the souls of his victims. As mentioned before, perhaps sending the souls of his victims to hell or giving them a fate just as bad. When it comes to his voicelines (which you can view here) it's much more obvious that he's taunting and trying to scare the player unlike Deer Lord. The "I see you" and "I will catch you" lines being the main examples. There's also the "Turn to me" line which goes along with one of his motifs being about force rather than submission. Then there's the "Stop running away!" line, which is interesting to me in that the demon sounds noticeably frustrated while stating this. Unlike Deer Lord who is simply and calmly asking the player why they're running away, the demon is demanding the player to stop running from them in anger. Similar lines that show different perspectives.

The Beef Demon is interesting in that he's one of the very few characters in the game that you can really call evil. Most of the other specimens, monsters, and dolls have some excuse. He doesn't. The demon most likely knows that what he's doing is wrong, but he doesn't care and doubles down by taking pleasure in what he's doing.

Deer Lord has you come to him in his dimension so you can submit yourself to him. Beef Demon has you come to him in his dimension because he's a sadistic prick who likes playing with prey, with his arms wide open for embrace and all. Deer Lord just wants to be left alone for the most part. Beef Demon actively seeks his prey out. Some other opposites between the two include: Deer Lord staying close to the ground while Beef Demon floats, the axe not affecting the lord while the demon teleports away when hit, Deer Lord speaking normally while the demon speaks in reverse, Deer Lord being trapped just like all the other specimens while the demon can leave and come back whenever he pleases, Deer Lord being lean and standing upright while Beef Demon is more bulky and slouches forward, Deer Lord's locale being more natural while Beef Demon's locale is more industrial and familiar to humans, and Deer Lord is a child of Bayagototh and has his children come help him in the Hellgate chase. Meanwhile Beef Demon is a more separate and independent entity that makes others his pawns. I also brought up how they both have something to do with children, but what makes them different is that Deer Lord genuinely cares about his deer who he views as his children while Beef Demon is a manipulator towards children. Whatever went down in the play area and what happened to those children afterwards can't have possibly been good. One last thing to end this off that further relates these two to each other, not only do their chase themes fit together surprisingly well as seen in this video, but under that same video is a comment stating that apparently their themes have the same key and BPM. I'm not a musician or anything like that. So I don't fully know what that means or if it's true, but if it is, then it's another piece connecting these two to each other.

Conclusion

After thinking about and taking a closer look at all of this, I'm surprised by the results. I was always a big fan of Specimen 11, but I could understand why everyone was in the camp of him feeling like a poor man's Specimen 8 with his death sequence being so similar; as if Kira got kinda lazy while coming up with a cool death sequence and just did what Deer Lord did again because it worked the first time.

Now with everything I said and analyzed, I'm starting to think that these two being similar yet polar opposites at the same was possibly intentional. As for lore implications or what Kira was trying to imply with all of this, I'm not fully sure. You could simply view it as establishing Deer Lord and Beef Demon as rivals of sort, with them being so different in their personalities and ideals. Or you could perhaps say that the Beef Demon is connected to Bayagototh is someway somehow. Maybe one day Kira will make a game that expands on Beef Demon a bit more? Again, not sure, but it's all interesting to think about nonetheless. Needless to say, I'm fucking obsessed with this game and will forever love it to death. For such a seemingly simple game on the surface, there always seem to be something intriguing to find or think about. Well, I hope you enjoyed reading and have a snazzy day!

[minarcana]

[screampied]

‘ I JUST WANNA HEAR YOU (S)CREAMMM ! ’

ᡴꪫ sum. what’s your favorite scary movie? is it carrie? psycho? or maybe nightmare on elm street? perhaps picking up the phone was a bad idea, but you don’t scare easily! or do you?

wc. 6.0k

warnings. fem! reader, ghostface geto & ghostface nanami, college au, threesōmes, unprotected, brief phone sēx, roleplay, dirty talk, praise, overstim, implied multiple ōrgasms, spit, manhandling, brēeding, hair pulling, oral (f & m receiving), cowgirl dp.

an. from this ask!

“hello.”

“hello?”

“what’s your favorite scary movie?”

you deadpan, almost as if you’ve seen this movie before. it was around close to midnight. you were the only one sober at some random frat party you got dragged to. everyone besides you were probably wasted or shoving tongues into mouths. sitting up on a cushioned bed, you hold the landline up to your ear. “mean girls two. bye.”

“….girl what? that’s not a—”

you hang up, averting your eyes back towards the tv screen that displayed some cheesy soap opera. about precisely thirteen seconds pass before the landline screeches a loud deafening ring again.

sighing, you answer it. “stop calling this number. prank calls aren’t funny.”

“no.” the voice replies, and it’s very deep—you swear you’ve heard something like it before. a best way to describe it was that it had a gruff pitch to it, baritone running all underneath it. his voice was also a bit sly too. “i just wanna talk to you.”

“bother some other girl. bye.”

“don’t hang up on me.”

for whatever reason, you don’t hang up. his voice sounded a bit stern—you sit up before growing quiet. you’re fully alert now.

“good girl. now, i’ll ask again. what’s your favorite scary movie?”

pressing your back against the comforter, your thighs squeeze together. with another vexed sigh, you say the most random movie that comes immediately to mind. “halloween.”

“pft. basic.”

“wha— you’re the one who asked.”

“oh, doll i’m just joking. but anyway, you like slasher movies, yeah?”

for whatever reason, the more you talked to this total stranger, you start to feel a sudden uncanny stir delve around your stomach. you weren’t scared, yet at least, but it was oddly peculiar. his voice sounds a bit familiar the more you listen to it. with how teasing the caller on the other line appeared, it was strangely intriguing. you kind of didn’t wanna hang up anymore, besides this party you were at was quite … not the best.

“not really. i am a jamie lee curtis fan though, i only watched because i make fun of the deaths.” you mumble.

“hmmm,” the voice hums through the other end. it’s as if he’s pondering what his next choice of words will be to you. “so…you got a boyfriend?”

you were taken aback by how abrupt the change of subject was. the man on the other end laughs at your awkward silence before you finally speak.

“no, and it’s not like it’s any of your business.”

“easy, girl. i’m just curious. besides, what if i wanna ask ya out?”

you grow quiet again before rubbing your neck, you were growing a bit hot.

“whatever. no, i don’t have a … boyfriend.”

“ooh. you hesitated there.”

you grumble. “shut up. i’m hanging up.”

the man immediately replies with a chortle.

“wait, wait. heh, serious though. you never told me your name, doll face.”

with an eye roll, you utter, “why do you wanna know my name?”

“because i wanna know who i’m looking at.”

“what?”

“what?”

each word he spoke breaks through the phone due the deep mess of his voice. a few rough sparks from his dialogue punctures through the soundbox of the device. again, he did sound oddly familiar. you just couldn’t put your foot on it.

the man chuckles before responding in a more sly tone—changing the subject again.

“you know doll, you sound kind of out of breath. call me crazy, but before i called you, were you playing with yourself?”

your legs suddenly squeeze shut, you were wearing one of your borrowed hoodies and shorts underneath. any sane person would have hung up eons ago, but for whatever reason—you felt your heartbeat start to race. the more you listened to the deep voice on the other end, the more you started to grow more curious. what’s wrong with playing around for a little bit? besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen—you dying?

you scoff, thinking this was nothing more than a dumb prank call—you decided that playing along wouldn’t hurt. you had nothing else to do anyway.

“so what if i was playing with myself?”

“i bet you didn’t even make yourself finish, doll.”

his voice, the more it spoke in that rough pitched tone—you couldn’t help but press the landline up to your ear just a bit further. you furrow your curled up brows, lowering your guard a bit. probably foolish, maybe you’d regret this later, but alas, reality wasn’t on your mind at the moment.

“are you saying you can make me finish?” you mutter, growing amused now.

“oh i know i can. i can make you get off from just from my voice alone.”

he was toying with you, but it was too late to back down. you intake a honed breath before humming.

“okay, prove it then.”

he chuckles.

“mhm. take those panties off first. actually no, slide them to the side for me.”

you really felt like you were in a movie, shamelessly at this random guy’s beck and call. as the show played in the background, you press the middle part of your thumb against the volume button to turn it down four notches. the room was practically silent now, the only noises heard were from the blaring beat drops of edm music downstairs. sprawling your legs out, you creep a shaking hand between your thighs.

the voice grows quiet, you finally move your panties toward the side before slouching back against the pillow.

“you must be really bored. talking to a random girl at the m-midnight.” you exhale.

“heh, m-maybe,” he mocks your falter. “but i’m sure you’ll keep me entertained with that cute voice of yours.”

he was so smooth. smooth as if he was prepared for every word that flew out of your mouth. as your fingers glide against your now exposed entrance, you let off a shaky breath.

he was right, out of boredom you tried to play with yourself— yet, that didn’t work out because you could never make yourself finish. your attempt was basically useless. with a frowning pout, you reply. “now what?”

“finger yourself, silly. and i wanna hear, put the phone up against that pussy for me, doll.”

he was filthy.

you felt yourself start to throb before removing the landline from against your ear and placing it right against your doused entrance.

with heavy jagged breaths becoming more irregular, the person on the other line hears the wet sloshes of your cunt up against the phone. again, he grows quiet—it’s almost like you can make out his deep attractive breaths and it makes you pulse even more.

“bet you’re so nice ‘n soaked. sounds so sloppy.”

gnawing on the softness of your bottom lip, your thumb briefly skims past the nub of your clit and you whine. you were already a bit sensitive from before, starting to stroke your fingers against it. bringing the phone back up to your ear, you ease a single finger inside. it feels warm—you were slick, coating your own finger with a nice amount of your obscene arousal. it doesn’t take long for you to start to pant, slithering another finger inside of your cunt before moaning. it fits nicely, nice and snug.

“you sound so pretty. i want you to imagine those are my fingers, pretty girl. can ya do that?”

“y-yeah,” you start to stammer, feeling a sudden spongey texture inside of you—you gasp, not expecting to reach your sweetened g-spot so soon. it was a mere bumpy texture, gloopy gummy walls involuntarily accepting your two slender fingers with an open gesture. “fuck, ‘m still a bit sensitive.”

he guffaws lowly.

“yeah, i bet you are. poor baby can’t even make herself cum.”

you swallow, the playfulness in his voice making your thighs start to tremble a bit. with relaxed fingers stretching throughout your walls, you focus on your breathing. each pant that came out of your hot breaths seemed like it was gonna be your last. after a while, your toes start to curl up in pure pleasure—you moan, feeling a sudden rush of weightlessness nirvana overtake you.

“find your g-spot for me. tell me when you do.”

“i- i already found it,” you whine, a sheaf of nerves that store inside of your pussy pulsating at a rapid speed. your head throws itself back as you’re just moaning melodically. “fuck, why don’t you just come over ‘n finish for me already.”

the voice laughs again.

“yeah? you want me to come over instead? maybe i should use my tongue since your fingers are so useless, dollface.”

at this point, you didn’t really care. maybe making simple rational decisions today just wasn’t in your favor. the eerie voice, each second you spent listening to it the more aroused you became. maybe getting off to a pure stranger’s voice was embarrassing but you were feening. the air felt suddenly thick. so thick you could cut it with a knife. with your bottom lip being chewed on like gum, you briskly shiver. cold, wintry air wafts against your skin and you moan for the nth time. an unforeseen chill runs down your spine before you hold back yet another whine.

“f-fuck, just come ‘n finish for me. i can’t do it. please.”

he grows quiet for a solid good four seconds before replying in a cheeky tone.

“okay. turn around.”

your panting stops and instantly, you turn your head the other way—of course, no one was there. figures, the only things your eyes were met with was the wooden headboard. with a disappointed grimace, pulling your occupied fingers out of your cunt, you turn back around. as you’re about to speak into the phone again, you open your mouth before pausing.

there, you’re met face first with what appears to be some guy in an infamous ghostface costume. he was tall, staggering inches on him before you don’t see one but two. they both had the same getup, ghoulish ghost mask, a long black robe, and the same spectral, tilting head-stance.

one of them takes off a mask and it’s suguru geto, your roommate.

your eyes concisely widen. once he yanks off the mask, his silky well-kept black strands fly loose. no wonder the voice sounded a tad bit familiar. the other removes his mask and it was nanami, two of them—now you really felt like you were in a movie. “you always did say how much you liked scream,” and then you glance at nanami who had a sheepish expression. “don’t be shy now, someone’s gotta help ya finish.”

“o-oh,” you remember, sitting up against the bed. now you were embarrassed. just a few seconds ago, you were getting off to your roommate’s voice. suddenly, you felt even more hot. you did end up talking their ear off about your adoration for the beloved franchise, ranting about your cute little ghostface obsession.

truth be told though, you didn’t know they’d make it a sheer reality for you. the two of them get on the bed towards you before nanami brings a gloved hand to your chin. he strokes your chin softly, and geto moves underneath.

“sorry princess,” he whispers. “suguru wanted to scare you but i told him we should just show ourselves,” and as he’s speaking, you get lost in his soft, honeydew eyes. such gentle compared to geto who was a bit more—crazed. “he didn’t scare you too bad, did he?”

you moan once you feel geto run a thumb against your already exposed cunt. with a firm head shake, you huff. “no, n-not really.”

“aw what. i thought i was pretty scary,” and you whimper out once he blows against your folds. for a concise moment, geto stares up at you—dark eyes keeping a strong gaze on you. “tell us what you want, pretty girl. you want us to help you finish?”

you nod, feeling geto spread your legs apart further.

nanami, with a gloved hand purses your lips together, forming them into a tight squeeze before humming. “words, princess. use them, okay?”

the more you feel geto’s breath fan against your clit, teasing you—you were about to go feral. you stare up at nanami before letting off a sweet whine. “i- i want you both to help me finish,” you stutter out, stumbling over your pathetic words like you’d stumble with an untied shoe. “make me cum, please kento.”

he leans in to kiss your forehead and you hear geto scoff underneath. “i’m the one between your legs but whatever,” and you feel his soft lips kiss against your pussy. “kento, keep her distracted for me, will ya?”

“you’re so pretty,” he mutters, lightly lifting up your chin. as he wore black gloves—the fabric gently brushes against your lip, popping a thumb into your mouth. he doesn’t expect for you to happily take it in his mouth, sucking on it. “oh,” he breathes, a bit speechless. you stare into nanami’s eyes, swirling your tongue around his thumb in such an erotic way. lowly hooded eyes stare at him the entire time, you moan once you feel the flatness of geto’s tongue run against your sweet clitoral hood. his tongue—the texture of it was so cold, the moment he digs in he makes you know the pure definition of sloppy. all with his tongue, he slowly flicks it against your nub before delving his tongue deeper between your soddened folds. nanami pulls your chin to face him again before softly purring, “don’t look at him, look at me pretty girl.”

as your eyes focus back towards nanami, you could already feel your legs quavering. you felt hot, the lewd way geto drags his tongue against your pussy makes you gasp out three strained second puffs of air.

“k-kento,” you moan, pawing your hands at the low part of his robe. he watches, lowering his head at you before you reach there. nanami’s bulge, he has an abashed expression as he realizes what you were fondling at. “take it off.”

“ah, ask nicely,” he coos. your lips were now glossed with your own spit he smears against you as he pulls his gloved thumb out of your mouth. even though nanami was more tame than geto, his voice had a bit more dominance in it. he grabs your chin gently, cocking his head toward the side. “tell me what you want ‘n i’ll give it to you.”

your legs felt like they were standing on its last few hinges—geto’s tongue runs down your slit, taking a moment to depart his lips and spit on it, only to then lap it up again. a few annoyed grunts escape out of him partially due to his long strands of hair getting in the way. “so sweet,” he mutters, you whimper once he prods two fingers against your outer entrance. every few seconds he’d kiss near your thighs, leaving a few bite bite marks before focusing back towards your folds. “mhm.”

barely even able to keep focus, you gaze back up at nanami who’s standing near the edge of the bed—you’re laid back against the pillows with geto between your thighs. finally, a sweet mewl of words leave your glazed lips. “i- i wanna taste, ‘ken. wanna suck you off,” and he gives you a playful eyebrow raise, prying his pink lips open a few inches apart before you correct yourself. “pretty please.”

“better,” he murmurs, a hand of his reaching towards your head to give it a good pat. “good girl. go ahead, lift it up ‘n enjoy the meal.”

with a soft slackened sigh, you lift up the obsidian black robe. you’re met with ripped jeans, for some reason you just figured he’d already be sprung out for you. as geto’s still lapping up every drop of your taste, you unzip his fly before yanking down his pants. you were so impatient— and with geto’s demented pace, you were getting close. he chuckles, watching you struggle with the zipper for a bit before finally reaching near his boxers. they were a cerulean blueish color, his bulge was just appetizing. the entire shape of it, you felt yourself starting to drool the longer your eyes made direct contact against it. so rounded and full. with clammy hands, you tug them down before his thick cock springs out.

“it’s okay,” he whispers with a nod, watching you glance up him—a silent gesture as a way of asking if you could go further. nanami brings a hand towards the crown of your head, gingerly massaging his fingers through the crevices of your scalp. “you can be a little messy for me.”

a wretched whine that was raw rips from your throat once you feel geto’s tongue latch against your cunt. by now, he was sucking against your folds. the squelches were so sloppy, a hand of yours grab onto his hair for leverage and he shoots you a sly smile.

“don’t be shy girl, yank on it.”

dark pooled irises linger into yours for a long time before you get a good grip of geto’s hair, dragging him closer towards your entrance. over and over and over.

he giggles, hot breath ghosting against your folds and you throb even more. with dilated irises staring back towards nanami, you wrap your free hand around his length—he was so thick, such full balls that you just wanted to run your tongue all across it. he had a few veins skim down his beige, weighty cock. you could make out a few drops of lustrous pre-cum that decorates near his very tip. “u-ugh,” he shakes, the warmth that your tongue provides has him smothering his lips together. nanami watches, you’re slow but deadly.

pursing your lips together, you gradually start to sink him into your mouth.

geto’s still between your thighs, shoving two fingers in and out of you now—he surrounds your clit with his mouth, the suction he creates with just his lips was brutal. you’re moaning, even whilst your noises were pretty much muffled due to nanami’s fat cock. “easy,” he whispers, tapping a thumb against your cheek. “no teeth, okay? you’re doing s-so good.”

nanami groans, goading the same thumb against your cheek before you inch yourself further and further down. he has a shy smile at the way your hair forms in musses due to his tight grip. within no time, your throat’s already stuffed and few droplets of your own saliva trickles down the sides of your mouth. geto’s still making sure to thrust his gloved digits in and out of your soaked cunt and you don’t know which roommate to focus on.

“m-mphm,” was all you could manage out, your legs in a swift spread-eagle position. as you’re outstretched, you feel yourself about to cum. you’d recognize that feeling anywhere—the feeling when a swelling pool of heat residing inside your stomach tickles throughout your entire abdomen. that same feeling of nirvana courses through your veins as you’re now leisurely bobbing your head. every time you pull on geto’s long hair, he grunts—spanking your clit in response and that only causes you to whine for more. nanami strokes your face as he starts to feel his dick prod against the roof of your mouth. for a split second as you’re breathing through each nostril—you gag, long lashes fluttering in sync together.

your legs couldn’t hold still, geto’s continuously pushing you towards your limit before you whimper out. your tongue lathers over the splotches of pre-cum that paints nanami’s tip a pretty shade of snowy white.

he just couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, especially not with a face like that.

low eyes, sheepish smile, furrowed eyebrows. you’re convulsing profusely all in geto’s mouth, the sides of your thighs occasionally hitting against his face and he titters. “such a sloppy m-mouth,” nanami inhales deeply, and he starts to gently drag your head against his cock. he’s got your mouth filled with so many inches—your cheeks were all puffed up from his immense length, sheeny slobber emanating all down the sides of your mouth before he pants. “gonna make such a mess ‘n your mouth, princess. ‘s that what you want?”

you nod, feeling the vein that runs down his girthy cock twitch in your mouth. you moan, he’s feeling weightless—you’ve got his knees trembling, a hand’s still attached to your head like velcro before gyrating your tongue all over the crownhead of his shaft. “such a pretty face,” he gruffs lowly, swiftly pulling your hair side to side to take every inch. “s-shame i gotta ruin it a little.”

even nanami’s dirty talk was tame— it was cute to witness, the way his blond brows would tug into a furrow. he’s so pent up, and out of nowhere—you feel a sudden rush erupt within your cunt. before you could even react, you end up cumming hard. it shoots out of you like a rough wave, it’s such pure bliss that it takes you a few seconds to realize. geto’s making out with your pussy, slowly sliding his two protected fingers in and out of your sopping wet entrance and you shudder. “what a fuckin’ mess,” he hums, taking sight at how saturated you were. as geto laps his tongue against your folds once more, he stares back up at you and nanami. “aw. look at you two,” and he leans down to kiss your forehead. “slobbin’ everywhere, messy girl you are.”

your eyes go back up towards nanami, he’s sweating.

he felt as if the fabric of his robe stuck against his skin. while he’s holding it up with one hand, you sneak a stare at his abs, perfect washboard abs that looked quintessentially sculpted against his body. “g-gonna cum,” and he stares at geto, growing a bit flustered once all attention’s on him. “suguru, don’t just stand there. p…praise her.”

geto scoffs, kneeling beside you on the bed before moving a few strands from your face. “so bossy,” he grits before giving you your second head pat. he leans up close to your ear, grabbing the voice changer again and brings it up to his lips. “c’mon, doll. make ‘ken cum, yeah. doin’ so good for us. you’re gonna make him whine for you, heh.”

nanami’s legs felt like mush, he throws his head back, his long black robe syncing with his movements before he’s gently pulling your head against his thick cock. he shudders, welts of twinges close in on the undersides of his thighs before he finally finishes. it builds up gradually before you find him pouring into your mouth with a nice amount of parching hot cum. it’s hot, a good mass of satiny ropes coat the flat middle part of your tongue and you moan. “f-fuuuck,” he heaves through heavy lungs, it’s still trickling, you savor the taste. it’s bitterly sweet. he pulls out of your mouth before letting off a tremulous sigh. “good girl, f-fuck.”

“aw. don’t hog her, give me attention too,” geto sneers, softly grabbing you by the neck, making you face him. with his right hand, he squeezes your lips together with a rigid grip. “ah, don’t swallow yet. c’mere.”

with half-lidded eyes, you do—leaning into his touch before geto plants his warm lips onto yours. you’re caught by surprise for the umpteenth time today, prying your mouth open for him and he lolls his tongue down your throat. you let off a whine, feeling his gloved hands rub against every inch of your body. immediately, he tastes the candied flavor of nanami’s cum and it makes him groan. he didn’t even bat an eye—you return the kiss, feeling geto’s hand slither further down towards your ass. he caresses it, giving it a mean spank to make you moan out in ecstasy.

after a while, he pulls away, humming at nanami. “ken ken, don’t be so shy. you want a taste too?”

“yeah,” he mutters, needy eyes staring at your lips that were lubricated with your own sheeny spit. “can i?”

you nod, and he’s so gentle with you. a hand nimbly wraps around your throat before he brings you into a deeper kiss. geto’s still for his hands on you, strumming his fingers near your pulled to the side panties. you let off a soft pant, feeling the spiral of nanami’s tongue go against yours. he tastes sweet — savory even, his flavor was purely mouthwatering. a thumb drags down the passageway of your throat before he pulls away. it’s slow, a polished concoction of saliva departs from each mouth and you whimper. you were throbbing, desperate for more and they both knew that. if this— whatever this was was some sort of movie, you never wanted it to end. you never wanted the credits to roll because you felt like you were floating on cloud nine.

with the two of them, you were stretched in every way possible. if you could compare who was bigger, actually you couldn’t. throughout multiple positions, you felt as if you were gonna snap in half. they had you so stupid. pink tongue rolled out, full lungs of oxygen departing out such hot breaths of air, you were the definition of stupid.

cockdrunk at its finest. each orgasm that got ruthlessly snatched out of you had your head spinning, heart racing entirely.

you felt like something was creeping up behind your shoulder, chills. whenever you’d coax out yet another teeth-shattering orgasm, all you felt was stone cold chills. time after time, it felt like pure bliss—you thought you were in a whole new world, barely even able to move your thighs an inch. being sandwiched between the two of them, perhaps you were a little greedy but you just couldn’t get enough. geto’s degrading you whilst nanami’s whispering sweet pleasures into your ear, you’ve never felt more soaked.

you didn’t wanna stop—

currently, you’re straddling nanami. he’s got two rough hands gripping your waist, intaking every inch of your pretty physique. his stare sends you butterflies, his shaft was underneath you and only then pulls out. with a cute, “phew,” he swipes a sheet of sweat that expands across his forehead. you rode him so good that he couldn’t even figure out what to say. he was so flustered, tips of his ears a reddish hot before he watches geto creep behind you. “think she wants more, suguru.”

“bet she does,” he whispers, bringing a few sweet kisses near the inner corners of your neck.

you’re promptly sat up straight. the brief sounds of booming speakers roar from downstairs as you wrap your arms around nanami. geto licks near your collarbone before purring seductively. “say, doll. how ‘bout you try to take us both? would ya like that?” and with a gloved hand he gives your ass a squeeze. “wanna be the final girl ‘n prove your worth? our final girl?”

without an inkling of hesitation—you nod, mewling out a sweet, “yes, yes jus’ hurry up, sugu. ‘m still c…close.”

“so wet, so impatient,” he whispers once more, and with two hands he makes you sit up from nanami. you gulp—swallowing whatever sanity you had left, preparing to be quite literally double stuffed with your roommates. you aren’t so sure why, but the fact that they both still had on their ghoulish costumes made you pulsate a bit more. geto’s helping you slide back down onto nanami’s length before slowly making his way into you also. “god, you’re so hot in here. gonna fuckin’ swallow me whole.”

you moan, everything goes so slow—your cunt was a ticking time bomb. you clamp down on each before slumping into nanami’s chest. you’re met with kind eyes, he strokes your forehead before kissing the bridge of your nose, panting in a hushed voice. “eyes on me, princess. just relax.”

you wriggle a bit at the positioning—being on nanami’s lap, geto directly behind you, you’re quite literally being filled in every orifice by thick inches of cock. nanami’s words were soothing, filling up your tummy with a pool of fluttering butterflies. you keep your eyes on him, clenching down on geto a bit before you hear him hiss in response. “ugh. doll open up for me a little m-more, yeah.”

his voice was deepened heavily—you let off a cute gasp once they’re both finally in and a few shaky breaths exit past your lips. “hold my hand, i got you,” nanami coos, and that’s when geto starts to rock. he had more control between the two of you, the grip on your hips was firm and you let off a sweet babble. each individual entrance was stuffed, you swallow the invisible lump in your throat as you start to feel the sweltering friction of your thighs slap against nanami. “you’re so pretty like this,” and he kisses the temple of your cheek.

every kiss presented from nanami makes your heart race—being sandwiched between nanami and geto, you really did feel like the main character.

your lip tremors, grinding back and forth between each of them, you feel geto wrap his thick fingers around your neck.

whilst you’re still straddling nanami—you moan again and again, feeling a free hand of geto’s spank your ass. the stretch that you continuously felt had your mouth watering. you heard the harmonic pap pap pap’s until it rang throughout your ears. “fuck, ya like being stuffed don’t you, pretty girl? feel full enough?” geto rasps, pressing his body right up against you. you felt his hot temperature go against your skin. making you feel every amount of his heat. your brain’s swelling up with fog. giving him an inert nod, you hear him click his tongue. “didn’t say to nod your head, doll. i wanna hear that sweet voice.”

whenever geto lowers his voice a bit, you feel the abrupt tension arise between your legs. leaning against nanami, you whine out a, “hngh y-yesss, ‘m so full, sugu. want more, stuff me more.”

“let me stuff your mouth too then.”

and before you could come up with a reply, geto removes his glove—shoving your mouth with two fat digits. he grunts, watching as you’re so compliant with your throat being filled with his fingers. nanami stares at the entire scene in front of him, his dick idly twitching inside of you. your tongue runs down his fingers before your own spit starts to seep down the corners of your lips. it was messy—you were messy. your hips jitter and judder and you knew with having both holes stuffed you weren’t gonna last that much longer. it was probably the dozenth orgasm your pussy’s been introduced with and you could feel the creeping pleasure brew up inside your abdomen.

“suguru, ‘m gonna cum.” nanami groans, bringing his own hands to wrap around your waist. you lessen your tense from his touch before gagging a bit from the prodding of geto’s fingers way back into your throat. “she’s s-squeezing me so good.”

geto snickers, making eye contact with nanami. “are you? ‘ken, you’re more whinier than usual today.”

“shut up.” he grumbles, slapping a hand over his face in embarrassment — nanami wasn’t so known to be all flustered and abashed, but whenever he was, it was so cute.

you’ve still got a mouthful of geto’s fingers before he pulls them out only to shove them into his own mouth. he hums, sharp hips snapping into you repeatedly as his other free hand tightens its secured grasp around your hip. “mhm,” he groans, feeling himself reaching his peak also. “you taste like a final girl. so sweet like candy.”

with the piston of geto’s vigorous hips, you’re so loose that you feel the fleeting sensation of your cunt gaping.

its cavernous, you jerk forward against nanami before seconds later — geto groans, abruptly finishing two seconds early. even his moans were pretty, he tugs his fingers out of your mouth to wrap them around your neck. strands of black hair glue to his forehead and he puffs out a single breath. licking a stripe near your neck, he feels thick volumes of his cum ooze into your hole. it’s so sticky, you bring your hips to a slowing halt before nanami shoots inside you too.

“f-fuck, sugu,” nanami grunts, feeling his thighs stick underneath you. he was panting heavily, each breath that ran from his lips sounding more and more wearied. “damn, so m-much.”

everything spurts into you at once. they mirror each other inside of you perfectly. callused stubby fingertips of geto’s squeeze your neck softly, watching as you’re just being filled with bulky strings of cum, it floods your cunt until it drizzles further into your womb. you’re drooling, it feels so hot, sweltering hot. it sticks against your entrance before your arms wrap around nanami. “so f-full,” you whimper, and he returns the gesture by brushing his thumb against your waist. droopy eyes hang low before nanami pulls you into another deep kiss. you decided—this was far better than some dumb party. the cottony fabric of the ghostface robe pricks against your skin as you lean into his heinous touch.

you shift your weight against nanami’s lap, feeling geto pull out before he leans down between your legs. “spread your legs,” he mutters, and in the midst of your tongue roaming down nanami’s throat, you part your thighs—gasping once you feel geto’s own tongue lap against the freshly created mess. he makes little tiny licks, tasting the ropes of crisp cum that’s sloppily easing out of every entrance—you pulsate before he chortles, warm breath ventilating against your sobbing pussy. “so messy. don’t want any spillin’ out. gotta push it back in.”

you’re moaning, after a while you break away from nanami’s lips before he strokes your cheek lovingly, a cute drowsy look before he huffs, “did you hear me, pretty?” and he gently pokes your cheek. “you always do this..”

confusion hits you before your eyes suddenly open—you jolt up, both of your roommates beside you, gawking at you with a look of deadpan. you’re leaning against geto, the third movie of scream playing in the background—it was near the ending where the killer was being revealed. you sit up, staring down at your legs and you were fully clothed—there was no geto eating between your legs, no being stuffed with nanami, nothing.

“hellooo, earth to roomie,” geto waves his hand in your face, you stare at him before furrowing your brows. “you okay? you fell asleep on me again. what’s got ya so spooked? looks like ya seen a ghost.”

so it was a dream?

a mere glimpse of your lewd imagination—?

you have a sudden sheepish look, running your fingers near the nape of your neck. “huh. oh, i’m fine. i thought the movie would be over by now.”

nanami rubs your back. “we still have like twenty minutes left,” and then he looks at you with a concerned look. so gentle—so tender. “are you sure you’re okay? we can watch a rom-com if you want.”

“i’m okay,” you insist, slumping your head back against geto.

that was weird, out of all the dreams you’ve had throughout your life—none of them ever felt as surreal as that one. for some reason, you were still aroused though. you were a bit out of breath and felt chills run all over your body.

abruptly, your phone rings,

“sugu, can you pass me my phone?” you sigh, trying to relax. you were pretty bummed you weren’t at that party getting stuffed with your two roommates but instead—in your generic dorm watching a scary movie.

he hands you the phone, grabbing the remote to turn it down a few notches.

once you take it, succinctly, your eyes scan across the screen—it reads that it’s from an unknown number. not really thinking much, you decide to answer, swiping the green button to answer. “um, hello?”

“hello.”

“hi,” you rub your eyes. “can i help y-”

“what’s your favorite scary movie?”

rolling your eyes, you peer at your two roommates beside you, nudging them and peeling the phone away from your ear for a moment. “very funny, suguru.”

geto gives you a look of confusion and nanami mimics the same. he shrugs, averting his eyes back toward the movie. “very funny what.”

and suddenly you’re laid back, an unbelieving expression was expressed on your face as you were left with a weird feeling. if it wasn’t them then who—

that same chill eerily creeps up your spine before you put the phone back near your ear. it’s that same low voice you heard from before, each word it speaks pitches deeper before you grow quiet at its final haunting response,

“oh baby, i’m not suguru or nanami..”

[dollfacefantasy]

caleb x fem!reader

you and caleb used to play fight a lot, but things are different now that you're older

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fauxcest, dry humping

a/n: um hehe just a small drabble cause i've been thinking... also i like the pipsqueak thing idgaf kiss me about it. imagine this takes place when she’s staying with him.

"isn't this around the time you'd usually cry mercy, pipsqueak?" he breathes, his smooth voice warming the air next to your ear.

a small grunt escapes you as you try to lift your arm to shove him off. your effort is pointless though. his grip tightens around your wrist, and he brings your limb back down to the floor without much effort.

“caleb, quit it!” you whine.

he just laughs at you. his body doesn’t move away an inch. he stays right where he his, hovering over your smaller frame.

the two of you used to play fight all the time as kids. you’d squabble over the remote or your toys. whiny arguments would morph into a small scuffle, a test of wills. so it felt natural today to lunge at him when he held the book you wanted to read just out of reach. getting physical made sense. you’d been so agitated with him keeping you here, you needed to blow off some steam. it just didn’t feel so good when reality set in as he wrestled you down to the floor like always.

“it’s not funny,” you say and try to jam your knee up into his abs.

he dodges the move and continues to smirk at you. “maybe not to you. but it’s pretty funny from up here. pretty cute too,” he teases.

you scowl, squirming some more. in your younger years, you’d always been able to fight back a little. you’d lose in the end, sure, but victory had been in reach a few times. now, caleb is stronger. he’s bigger, and he doesn’t fight like a scrappy high school kid but rather someone with training. you’re starting to realize you have no chance now, and part of you wonders if you ever did. or maybe he’d been going easy on you.

as if to taunt you, he slides your arms up above your head and grabs both your wrists with one hand. even with his other one free, he keeps you pinned with the same amount of force. it’s fucking humiliating. you feel your cheeks starting to heat up as he drags the back of his fingers along your jaw, cooing at you.

“you always used to get so angry like this too. so frustrated. you’d think you would’ve learned not to start fights you can’t win,” he mocks.

his thumb comes to sweep along your cheekbone, back in forth in slow strokes. he stares into your eyes while he does, almost studying you. it gets you heated for a whole other reason you don’t even want to acknowledge.

“get off of me,” you squeak, your voice much less aggressive now.

“maybe i will if you beg enough,” he taunts, “if you use your manners and say please like a good girl, i’ll consider it.”

“shut up!” you say. you kick a few more times and buck your hips to try and get loose.

in response, he grabs your hip with his free hand and slams it back to the ground. you let out a little growl, assuming you’ll have to restrategize. but then he pushes his pelvis down on top of yours.

you gasp. all the fight leaves you in a harsh blow because now, unlike any of the other times you play fought with him, you feel a solid bulge pressing between your legs.

your eyes widen, and you sputter. you’re sure you look totally stupid right now. but you don’t know what else to do. there’s no question about it. he’s got a boner, and he’s rubbing it right up against you.

“i told you. you’re not gonna win. might as well surrender,” he says. he speaks in a completely even tone, as if nothing is different.

“c-caleb. what are you doing?” you start, “don’t be weird.”

“i’m not being weird,” he defends with feigned innocence, “we always used to mess around like this. what’s got you all shy now?”

you know why he’s asking. because he knows you won’t say it. the answer is so easy, yet you can’t bring the words to leave your lips.

“you know what,” you whine softly.

he chuckles and leans in even closer to your face. “maybe i do. but i don’t think that it’s weird. we’re not kids anymore. you can’t whine and wriggle around like that and expect me not to react,” he murmurs.

your heart beats harder in your chest. you can feel every thump. before you can say anything in return, he grinds his hips again, rolling his hardened length right up against you. and this time, it feels good.

“i- caleb- we can’t,” you whimper, biting your lip.

“we can’t? we can’t what? we’re not doing anything,” he says before grinning at you, “it doesn’t count if it’s over the clothes.”

you want to smack him, but both your arms are still immobile.

“it’s still weird. we’ve never- i don’t see you like this,” you insist, though the last statement is a complete lie.

he tsks and shakes his head before pushing his erection between your legs for another time. this one draws a whine out of you. his hips jump forward at the sound, but he doesn’t let his face show that burst of desire.

“what do you see me like then?” he whispers.

silence fills the air between the two of you as you fail to answer. you know what you see him as. you know your crush on him goes back years. you know what fantasies fill your head at night when you’re alone.

but you also know how you want to see him. what you’re supposed to see him as. what you’ve tried to limit his role to for so long.

“it’s ok,” he finally says, “i won’t make you say it if it’s that hard. but i know you like this. i know you, remember?”

he grinds against you again, but this time it’s not only once. now he sets himself into a rhythm, consistent swings of his hips against your center.

“i know when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re ashamed,” he says, “i know when you want something, but you’re too scared to ask.”

ducking in, he kisses your neck. you moan in response, putting no effort into suppressing the noise now.

“that’s right, princess. your big brother knows you better than anyone, doesn’t he?” he coos mockingly.

“caleb!” you whine. you internally cringe at both titles, but outwardly, your face still contorts with pleasure.

“what?” he laughs, “that’s what you were gonna say before, wasn’t it?”

“but i didn’t,” you whimper.

“but you thought it, and it’s all the same to me,” he teases.

he refocuses his mouth on your neck again. his lips move over the column of your throat while his cock continues pressing right on your pussy. it feels better by the second. maybe it’s because he’s kissing your neck too, you’re not really sure. all you know is the hot, sparkling feeling in your stomach is building.

nipping at your pulse point, he then sucks on the skin like he wants to leave a mark. his tongue laves at it for a few moments before he pulls off.

“i’m gonna let go of your arms. you’re gonna behave, ok?” he mumbles against your skin.

“mhm,” you whimper and nod. the overt submission feels pathetic, but losing the feeling of him would be even worse.

“good girl,” he praises.

he keeps his word and releases his hold on your wrists. the air feels cool on your skin that’s all warmed up from his hands. now with his other arm in use, he can snake one around your ass and boost your hips. the new angle allows him to thrust against you harder.

“fuck, baby,” he grunts. you feel his lashes brush your neck as his eyes flutter.

your arms loop over his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. more little mewls spill from your lips. you can feel his stiff length sliding right up against your folds through your clothes. every swipe brings a blissful burst of friction to your poor throbbing clit.

“there you go. i got you. big brother’s got you,” he mumbles mindlessly. he chokes out a moan into your shoulder as his hips move like they have a mind of their own.

your body starts to squirm more. that hot feeling inside is reaching a boiling point. you clutch at his shirt, your nails digging in so hard they threaten to tear the fabric. the constant push and pull of his lower half is nearly hypnotic. it seems like you’ll be under him forever while also on the brink of letting go.

after a few moments more, he pulls back to look at you. his eyelids hang low, heavy with his desire for you.

“god, you’re so pretty. so fuckin’ beautiful now,” he says and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes shut while your breaths mingle. “i knew you wanted this too. just look at you. almost falling apart, and i haven’t even really touched you. i knew no one else could do this better.”

all you can do is whimper softly and cling to him harder. you pull on him as if trying to pull him into your body, to meld your two beings into one. the pressure down below feels dull and muted, but it’s blooming nonetheless.

“yeah… you’re gonna cum all over your pretty panties,” he mutters, “get ‘em all nice and wet so i can have some fun with ‘em later.”

“caleb…” you whine, useful words falling out of your grasp in this moment. one of your hands flies up and laces in his hair. your fingers clench into a fist, giving the strands a sharp tug.

he groans and bucks his hips extra hard. “c’mon. cum for me, baby. let me make my sweet little angel cum,” he murmurs.

it really doesn’t take much to get you there. the friction burn he’s rutting you both into works, and you feel yourself hit the high. euphoria rushes through you. a little breathy whine erupts from your lips. your back arches off the floor, but he keeps you cradled against him securely.

the whole time you’re cumming, he’s still humping you like his life depends on it. it’s when you start to come down, that he finally explodes. he buries his face in your neck, letting out the loudest moan you’ve heard so far. his arms tighten up around your frame as his fingers dig into your malleable flesh.

his hips jolt forward in random twitches now, chasing the last remnants of release while he spills inside his pants.

when he’s done, his breaths are harsh and labored. he nuzzles the crook of your neck before kissing your cheek and receding off your body. his palm runs over his face lazily.

“fuck, i gotta change now,” he says, not bothering to look down at the dark patch at the front of his pants.

without even really thinking about it, you reach forward for the waistline. you’re already craving more of him. but before your hand can get there, he takes your wrist.

“not so fast, pipsqueak. i think you should actually beat me before i let you have the real thing,” he smirks.

[lo1k-diamonds]

Sugar Rush Ride 💜

SX Seoul Series | Yoongi's Entry 💜

PAIRING: YoongixReader (You can also read it on AO3)

SUMMARY: You produced a song based on your hidden desires for your fellow producer and promised yourself that tonight, things would change. You were done pining after him, but then he arrived at the listening party.

WORD COUNT: 12.6k

GENRE: coworkers (mutually) pining to lovers

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: explicit, pwp (porn w/ plot really), drunk fight (but you sober up...sort of), bratty reader, rough but Yoongi is pro at aftercare, fingerfucking, face-fucking, edging, spankings, his hand is on your neck a lot (am I forgetting something?)

A.N. (Thank you @eerieedits for the cool banner 💜) This is based on the song of the same title by TXT 🔥 It was not planned and maybe it has been done before, but it was too good to miss 😁

Masterlist | Masterpost | Scroll my stories on Tumblr | Schedule and WIPs

Yoongi parked his car underground in a private parking lot before stepping outside into the night in Itaewon. It was crowded as usual, but he paid no mind to the passersby — he had somewhere to be.

He reached the steps that led into a famous club in the neighborhood and entered below the red lines warming up the humidity into steam: SX.

He was giving away his coat when the music from the backroom hit him, the pop music with the codename temptation resonating in the air, and in his ribcage. He stepped towards it confidently, unbothered by the instant boom of noise that hit him once the door opened and closed again behind him. No, nothing would bother him until he found what he was looking for.

He scanned the room attentively, the darkness crossed punctually and rhythmically by the flashes of lights to the beat of the songs he helped produce himself. All but one song that ended up being the main track, the reason why he had rushed to be at the listening party tonight.

He got to the bar and looked around again; he saw lots of people he knew, the artists included. None had seen him yet, so he took the chance to search even more carefully. And finally, his eyes fell on you. You were listening attentively as you held your hair to the side and someone, a man spoke into your ear above the noise. Then you burst out laughing, shoulders and chest trembling with excitement, and your hand landed on the man’s chest. Not in a smack, not to push him away, just subtly placed there in an intimate gesture, or an invitation thereof.

Yoongi was by your side before he knew it. The man with you looked up with a silent question and you flinched and looked back, eyes instantly widening in surprise.

“Yoongi! You’re back!”

You launched your arms around his neck to pull him into a hug, and he immediately knew you had alcohol in your system. Despite this, he reacted the only way he could be expected to — he wrapped a protective arm around you and looked straight into the eyes of that dude trying his luck.

“Right on time,” you grinned when you stepped back. “Inhyuk, this is Yoongi, the producer I was telling you about.”

The guy bowed and said something polite, but Yoongi wasn’t listening. You had stepped to stand beside the guy and his hand had comfortably set on your waist. For a second, his sole thought was, Since when? But then he cooled down.

“I see. Well, enjoy the party. I’ll see you later,” he told you with his eyes set on yours and you got the message.

But you didn’t want to worry about that right now, so when Inhyuk pulled you by the waist to talk to you a bit closer, you didn’t flinch. You smiled and agreed to have another drink while the crowd around you listened and enjoyed the album you helped produce. You were proud of yourself, it was the fruit of your first year of work with—

The main track started and the crowd cheered as it did every time it played. Your eyes watered as Inhyuk congratulated you and clinked his drink to yours but as you drank, there was heat building inside of you. It was funny to hear the lyrics you wrote being sung back at you and fit perfectly at that moment. But then you chuckled, as your eyes fell on Min Yoongi. Your thoughts would always stop as soon as he was back near you. That would never change.

Yet you looked up and smiled at Inhyuk, giddy with your drink and with excitement. You made a vow when you decided to let this song be performed and sung — it was you putting your feelings into your work to get rid of them. That was the deal.

Inhyuk smiled mischievously at you as if he couldn’t believe, but didn’t disapprove, of the song's lyrics speaking so openly about desire, about opening locked doors into seeing stars and asking for more. And you kept smiling and drinking. Because you made a deal with yourself and maybe tonight was the perfect time to go into a new direction.

The song was only three minutes long, but it drove Yoongi to a corner. He gripped his tonic water and faced the bar while the music kept calling to him, Come here more, let’s play more.

Just like the first time he heard it and was covered in goosebumps, wild thoughts coming to him that he had to quickly water down. He sighed; it didn’t stop him from flying back as soon as possible to talk to you about it. Confront you, more like.

He turned to the side to find you by the bar having shots with that guy, and that was it. The full album had played, you had your moment in the spotlight as you should, the artists were having a blast alongside everyone else, and he had had enough of seeing you so close to some guy.

You were on your fourth tequila shot when you felt an arm extend behind you to reach the bar, and you shivered. Not because it was cold; you were sweating from the drinks and the energy of the crowd. No, it was because you knew who it was, even if the arm didn’t touch you.

“We should go,” his voice was steady near your ear even though your head was spinning a little.

“The night is still young!” Inhyuk said as he grinned and grabbed another shot glass, waiting for you to do the same, but despite your giddiness, you hesitated. 

You looked up to Yoongi and saw his neutral beautiful lines, and you understood what he was doing.

The guy saw he was losing you, so he moved closer to get your attention, “I can take you home.”

He said it with amusement, like a tease, and you grinned. You were taken by the energy between you two; you both knew where that was going. But then a breath being slowly heaved behind you shook your foundations and you looked down. Yoongi was just doing his part of the deal, but suddenly you were fucking pissed. He couldn’t possibly understand that you needed to be with someone, anyone other than him. Desperately, before you’d fucking combust!

But he was your coworker, the genius producer of your label. And despite everything, you didn’t want to burn a bridge. Inhyuk was not that great anyway.

You shrugged almost innocently, “Maybe next time. It was nice meeting you.”

Yoongi pointed so that you’d go ahead to the exit and you did. Yet with every step, something was bubbling up your throat. There was a lump there, blocking you from voicing it while you grabbed your coats, walked the cold night to his car, and got in to be on your way.

The whole ride you argued with yourself that this was for the best. You shouldn’t have sex with someone after so many drinks, that was not how it was supposed to go. But maybe that was what you needed to have the courage to just move on. To want another man as desperately, and not the one driving you home right now. You needed it, you needed to go crazy and do something you wouldn’t normally do. You needed the regret, to stop playing safe, to stop believing your heart knew what was best for you when all it did was set on someone who saw you as nothing but a colleague.

When you arrived, he entered the private parking of your apartment building and parked swiftly. It made your stomach bubble further with anger, he was just so used to taking you home. That was the deal. Well, screw that.

“Thanks, good night.”

You pushed the door open and peeled yourself away, closing it with a bham only to seek support in the car instantly. Your legs were wobbly, the world was spinning and you cursed in irritation. It was fine before, why was it so difficult now?

His door opened and closed, the car beeped as it locked, then his steps echoed to get to you. And everything was like needles prickling your patience. He stood next to you to help you and you didn’t know what you wanted more: to scream at him or to just disappear.

But he placed his hand on your waist firmly, walked you to the lobby and the elevator, and even dialed your code to enter your apartment. It infuriated you — it reminded you of all the times over the last year that he had done his part of the deal. That he had taken you home safe and sound, and still never seen you for anything more while you pined helplessly.

So you tried to reach your living room without his help and stumbled very quickly, yet a firm grip on your arm prevented you from falling face flat. Normally, you would have blushed, thanked him, and let the politeness and decorum dictate your interactions, but not now.

You pulled your arm loose, “I don’t need a chaperone!”

“And I don't need you to fall and break a leg.”

You threw your jacket and purse over your couch finally with a frustrated huff. The world was spinning and annoying you so fucking much. You needed to scream at him once and for all and be done with it, why couldn’t it stand still?

“Why did you interfere?”

“What do you mean?” He was calmly taking his shoes off after hanging his coat by the entrance and his placidness irked you.

“I was having a good time!”

You barely saw the line crossing his face, “He was no good for you.”

“What? Why?!”

“He just wasn’t,” he stated, walking further inside your apartment like he knew it, and he did. He’d normally stay for a chat after bringing you home and made sure you were okay.

“But why?!” You insisted, eyes so wide they looked twice their size, and still the room was shaky. “What was so wrong with him that—”

“He was trying to get you drunk,” he almost scoffed as he reached your kitchen and started looking around for something.

“So?” You tried following him, annoyed that he was not paying attention to you.

He found a cup and right next to it what he was looking for. He took a black coffee capsule and put both things next to your coffee machine. “He just wanted sex.”

He seemed annoyed now as he prepped the coffee and you threw your hands in the air, “I fucking want sex!”

He paused and looked at you, at your wide eyes and red cheeks. And you held your breath, swallowing dryly. Did you just yell that at Min Yoongi? At your genius coproducer?

“You're drunk.”

He pressed the button to draw an espresso from the machine, and you felt like a volcano about to erupt.

“I’m not drunk!!” He didn’t look at you and you gripped your hair with a frustrated scream. “I’m just not only a fucking worker bee, okay?! I have needs, I want things! So what, sex is too much for you to handle or som—”

A look was all it took for you to feel your guts freeze in place. You were so attuned to this fucking man that his slightest hint of disapproval hit you like an icicle. But it wasn’t just that, it was something else. Disappointment?

And you revolted hard against it; he had no right to make you feel this way. “Then what’s the problem?! I can’t want it? Because I’m a woman or something?”

He took the coffee cup and placed it in front of you on the kitchen counter, “Drink it.”

You ignored it, “I didn’t think you were a prude or conservative, but this is me.” You stepped back and fought the traces of the spinning walls vehemently. “I want things. More than just make good music, I’m not just my work.” He was listening, he was looking at you, but all he did was push the cup the slightest in your direction. And you snorted, “Hell, that’s why my music is good. Because I want— I want things.”

You couldn’t look at him, only at his feet. You thought you wanted to scream your frustration at him, but now you realized that was pointless. It wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t into you anyway.

“We’re not talking unless you’re sober.”

You raised your eyes and his coolness hardened you. Right. You’d get a slap on the wrist for getting drunk at the listening party of the album you fucking produced. For wanting to sleep with another producer. For not being professional? Who the fuck knew why. And maybe sober you’d care about losing your dream, but right now you were just fucking done.

“Right, whatever,” you turned to head to your bedroom. “I’ll take a shower, we can talk tomorrow.”

Yoongi saw you walk a bit shakily but firmly toward your bedroom and then he sighed. He considered for a moment to do as you wished and leave, but he didn’t want to leave you alone. Selfishly, he didn’t want to wait for tomorrow. He was restless, he needed to talk to you about it. And to do that, he needed you sober.

He grabbed your coffee cup and knocked on the ajar door with his eyes glued to the floor. He called your name and you scoffed.

“You’re taking our deal too much to the letter,” your voice sounded strained and he closed his free hand into a fist. “You don’t need to worry about—”

He heard noises and he didn’t think twice; he pushed the door open and found you almost fallen to the floor trying to take your dress off. You huffed in annoyance; you should have sat on the bed but then how would the dress pass under—

A firm hand hoisted you up as if you were as light as a feather and you came face to face with him. The man in your dreams, in your mind, making you scream in your bed just at the thought of him. Making you crazy. 

“I’m fine,” you said, looking down. “I can handle myself. You don’t need to bring me home and make sure I don’t—” 

Your voice wavered, what were you— 

Your eyes filled with tears, but maybe that was exactly what needed to happen, “Yeah, let’s stop that. Our deal? Let’s end it. You don’t need to bring me home and watch over me. I know I’m a woman in a men-dominated company, but I’m not a child.”

He sighed and stepped away and your heart cracked, leaving you to hide your face with one hand and try to press your chest with the other. You knew that to move on you had to push him away, but damn did it sting and—

The scent of coffee invaded your nose and you raised your hand from over your eyes. He was holding the coffee cup in front of you.

“Stop for a second and drink it. Then, we’ll talk.”

You looked for the sincerity in his eyes, and of course, you found it. So you took the cup and chugged the espresso as if it had been just another tequila shot. Then you lowered your arm and looked at him, trying to sense if that changed anything. It didn’t really, not for you.

“Did you hear what I said?”

His lips twitched, “I heard you, but you’re not hearing me. Sober, I said.”

You shrugged, “You said drink, I did. So now we talk. No more deal. No more keeping me safe, no more watching over me or bringing me home. I need to— I need to let it all out.”

His lips pursed for a second but then he voiced quietly, “I’m listening.”

“I don’t know what else to say,” you shrugged and almost laughed at yourself. “I told you I want things.”

“You write about what you want.” You hummed. “So what is that main track?”

“What I want.”

You were looking at him, a void in your mind all of a sudden, but he hesitated. You said you wanted sex and the song was about desire. Maybe he was reading it wrong.

“What do you want?”

“It’s not a what.”

“Is it a who?”

Your mouth dried, so you nodded. You were staring right at the object of your desire but he looked confused.

He scratched his head and then tried, “Did you— Did you use those words on purpose?”

“What words?”

“What w—” He seemed bewildered, “My stage name. You used my stage name. Sugar? Was that on purpose?”

For a split second, you were frozen, livid, shocked, and then laughter bubbled out of you, “I thought I had been so clever about it. Saying sugar instead of suga.” He was staring at you and his inexpression only led you to push the air out of your lungs, “I know, you don’t have to say it. You won't touch me, even if pigs fly. I know that.”

“That's not true.”

You tilted your head, then laughed some more, “Yes, it is. You don't even see me as a woman, I'm just another producer.”

“That's also not true.”

“Right,” you chuckled. “Let me give you reasons to walk out that door right now. I not only wanted to sleep with you but wrote a whole main track about wanting you. About being dazed, overwhelmed by desire, wanting just more. Give it a listen. You know I struggle with titles, but the name of the song was the first thing I had.”

You chuckled again and turned around, rubbing your face for a moment. It was out. You didn’t care too much if anyone else knew, and if anyone had thought of it, they had been smart enough to stay quiet. But now he knew, and there was no going back. Sugar rush ride. You laughed again. You stood by that tile.

“I—” His voice sounded unsure for the first time and you turned to face him. “I don’t— Was it just a rush? You felt a rush at the thought of me and wrote that?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a world of a difference,” he insisted, eyes set on you though he hadn’t moved an inch yet. “I still haven’t heard you say what you want now.”

“What I want?” You were incredulous, “Are you even listening? I’ve been saying nothing else! What?” He was unmoving, but for the first time, you could swear you saw his eyes glistening, and you were out of filters. “I want to be with you. I want you to fuck me already.” You shivered, the strength of your own words working against you. “I have since the day we met. I forgot I had an ex and was heartbroken to finger myself to the thought of you so many times I lost count.” He opened his mouth but you didn’t let him speak, “Shut up. I know what you'll say. I’ve wasted a year of my life. We're kind of friends and we work together. I know all that,” you huffed, exhausted. “So just leave.”

You turned to get to your ensuite bathroom and this time succeeded in pulling the dress out of your body, letting it fall to the ground with a rustle. You turned to reach the makeup remover over your counter and almost missed the way he was still standing in your room, looking at you. You blinked as you faced him, and your nipples hardened without your control with the goosebumps navigating your skin. You had nothing on, you rarely did in events like those. You used it to boost your self-esteem and feel sexy, and now you guessed he knew it too.

You removed your makeup relatively quickly and were curious to look back, and he was gone. You looked down with tears pooling in your eyes; but of course. Why did it all just have to come out of your mouth like that? Now he knew your deepest darkest secrets and would never want to work together again in the future. Great.

You stepped into the shower and let the warmth wash away your worries. You were not a child. You had feelings and wants. They were perhaps misplaced, but you didn’t harm anyone. You sighed; still, maybe it was best to look for a new job in the morning.

Once you made peace with that, your mind wandered to greener pastures, to more heavenly thoughts. You reviewed the expression he had as you told him crudely what you wanted, and it was good. Tense. In your wildest fantasies maybe it could be even a little possessive. And the thought of Min Yoongi getting possessive over you turned you on like nothing ever could.

Your hand trailed south along your skin and avoided the water. Your undeniable arousal made you chuckle. You had just told him you touched yourself thinking of him, and there you were again, like clockwork. He never told you not to, he didn’t act disgusted or look at you sideways, so suddenly you felt egged on.

You tilted your ass up and out of the water and spread your folds greedily, closing your eyes to think back to his dark eyes while you were naked in front of him. It was as if he wasn’t thinking, he was just looking. You didn’t see his eyes running up and down your body, but you didn’t have to. No way he would not be curious, even if he had walked out. 

His leaving stung but fuck, was he hot. Now he knew you thought of him and what you did while thinking of him. Your heart stung for a second with the thought that you would lose his friendship, but you got back on track. You were horny and he had created that mess. You tried to kindly tell him to leave so many times, it wasn’t your fault that he lingered until you were spurting the deepest truths and stripping naked to shower. 

And now he knew. He knew you didn't like wearing underwear when you had formal events, how sensitive your nipples were to the cold, and that you had a small blue birthmark at the end of your back. Fuck. He knew you were a dirty little whore fingering yourself to the thought of his cock buried deep—

Two arms wrapped around you and you moaned, too immersed in your fantasy to be startled. You were thinking about his arms around you, his chest strong for your back to take support, hands trailing down your body to explore with long fingers ready to spell your demise so easily—

His fingers were next to yours cupping your sex and you gasped, squirming away only to be pressed against his firm chest.

“No, continue,” his voice was a taunt as his free hand seemed indecisive about where to settle on your body. “You want to touch yourself? Go on.”

You stammered his name but his fingers were quickly learning from yours how to trace your heat, spread your slick, and make you tremble. You were shaking, half embarrassed, half feverish, until his other hand finally settled on groping your breast harshly and you moaned. You moaned with a hiss dragging with how much more you wanted, with your ass bucking into him only to rub more to get a better feeling of his hard cock on your ass. He was clothed, you could feel it, but the thought of him wanting this was driving you up the wall.

He was coming to you while you showered, entering it with clothes on just to reach you, grab you, touch you, and make you moan. There was no hiding it now, no possible misunderstanding. He had fingers rubbing your clit while his other hand squeezed your tit harshly, making your legs weak. Nothing was forcing him to stay, to touch you, to listen to you moan.

You bucked your hips again, you were so close to coming it was unstoppable. Yet a logical thought still tried to push through, “Are you sure about this? We're friends— We work tog—”

If only you weren’t rubbing your ass on his crotch to feel him better, to get tighter, to force his fingers on your clit to chase you.

His reply was a whisper to your ear over your wet hair, “You said what you wanted. You can feel how much I agree.”

Your walls squeezed, you were so ready, “You— You want this?”

His hips pushed into you once and you almost fell apart. “Don’t pretend you can’t feel it. I’m asking myself how you never noticed.”

You gripped his hand over your chest and he released the pressure, instantly making you squirm and whine in a complaint. You pressed his hand and he squeezed again, hearing attentively how your moan pitched wantonly. He hummed near your ear, nuzzling your wet skin with a smile adorning his lips. So that was how you liked it.

“No, I—” Your breath hitched with how he was working you and for the second time you thought you would fall apart, but the intensity reeled back to allow you to think. “Not like this. I noticed you treated me differently but I thought it was because I was the only girl in the studio—”

You staggered with a gasp, your body rushing a cold wave under your skin to contrast with the warm water of the shower, but again the sensation eased as the seconds ticked away. And you knew then that it was him, keeping you on the edge and not letting you fall apart. Him with his smooth fingers and nuzzling behind your ear.

“No, not because of that,” his voice was tense as his lips ghosted over your wet neck. “I was… charmed,” he admitted with a chuckle, and when you bucked your hips, he gripped you closer. “But I thought you saw me as a friend.” The thought alone made his lip pull in annoyance, but the slick covering his fingers at your heat soothed him, “I could have done this so many times if you had just asked.”

He bit down on the tender flesh between your shoulder and neck and you screamed, the sting mixing with your pleasure so viscerally that you could have cum on it alone. Only he sensed it too and moved his hand away, dragging yours along so you couldn’t finish it yourself, and you laughed quietly. He was suckling on your skin with meticulous precision and you could only grin widely, euphoric sparks flying out of control inside your belly.

“You could have said something too,” you sounded like you were whining, but you couldn’t stop yourself. He was now licking where he had just marked you and you were trembling, legs so weak it was embarrassing.

He let go and nuzzled along your neck to your spine in between your wet hair, “I didn’t want you to feel pressured. You either want it or you don’t. I thought you’d say something.”

You chuckled, “I wouldn’t ever. You should have known.”

He hummed and leaned back ever so slightly to look at the curve of your ass pressed against him. Then his hand trailed up, lashed by the shower while gently feeling and pressing your soft skin. He couldn’t believe he almost missed this.

“We have to work on that, then.”

You were still smiling when you let your head fall back to his shoulder, “If you did as I said—”

“I'd be out of here without ever getting to touch you,” his annoyance was clear in his voice, and even in the way his fingers pressed less gently. “Without knowing what’s on your mind. No, you,” he wrapped his arm across your torso to gently reach the base of your neck and you looked up, giving him more space. “You are not in charge here.”

He couldn’t have known the way you were grinning. You just let yourself fall further into his embrace, his hand settling on the base of your neck in a way you found comforting. Then he turned you gently to the side and your back hit the cold wall. A hiss came out of your lips quickly, but you were still smiling. Even as his dark eyes scanned you for your reaction, with one hand keeping you still by the neck. You were waiting with a familiar ease on your features, and he relaxed. That was enough.

Suddenly, your feet parted and you were surprised. He had used his foot to spread your legs and the way his free hand was tracing your wet body like he owned it shortcircuited your brain.

“I want to know what this dirty mind of yours has been keeping from me.”

You could hear a hint of eagerness and it was enough, “I won't tell you.”

“You will.” His tone was so sure, like he held the world at his beckoning, that you trembled. You were sure then he would hold yours, turn it upside down, inside out, and you’d love every second of it. “You will tell me every dream of yours, every fantasy, every little filthy fleeting thought. Then maybe we can do something about it.”

“Maybe?” You were eager, his hand was at your lower stomach but seemingly chose to ignore where you ached most.

“Maybe. If that's something you want.”

“I do, I want everything.”

His eyes jumped to yours; he needed to know if that was a spur-of-the-moment blurted line, or if you meant it. All he found were eager glistening eyes. “Everything?”

“Everything,” you confirmed, eyes staring at him like you were seeing stars.

For a split second, he considered that this could not be what he thought it was. Maybe you were still drunk and just talking big, maybe you had no idea what you were saying. But the way you didn’t waver, even as he considered pulling the plug on everything despite being a millimeter away from snapping and making his thoughts come true did sway him. He brushed your jaw once so tenderly and you leaned into his touch. He’d take it easy while he discovered you, there was no rush.

“Alright,” he voiced and lowered his hand. “Show me first.”

“Show you what?” You were eager but you were starting to shiver.

“What you do when you think of me.”

“Didn’t you just catch me doing it?”

“You’re going to look at me this time.”

“Look?” You tilted your head slightly.

“Eyes on me,” his eyebrows twitched.

“Only my eyes?”

“And your thoughts.”

You grinned and looked away but his instant grip over your chin made you look up.

“You sure you want everything?”

You huffed with a sly smile and let your head fall back to the wall, “I’m sure.” His dark gaze was skeptical and your grin widened, “Oh, I want everything, sugar. Be sure not to hold back.”

He looked down to follow your movements and you almost laughed. Your hand was rubbing your clit so you could control your pleasure while his eyes roamed your body, the doubt lingering on his features. You could laugh again, but you didn’t. The way he doubted you was funny because he had no idea how crazy you were about him, but then it occurred to you that you also didn’t know the first thing about him. Did he like to watch? Would he guide you or leave you adrift? He had edged you three times already, did he notice? Did he do it on purpose to drive you crazy? 

Would he do it again?

Where exactly was his line? He was quiet now, eating you with his eyes and absorbing every little detail, from the way you breathed to your tongue peeking through your lips, to the way you gathered your arousal to coat your clit. You gasped ever so softly and his eyes instantly jumped to your face, and your lips twitched. You had him. How was it that you had the powerful Min Yoongi?

“What is going on in there?”

His voice was soothing and low, soft as a caress, and you smiled. “You.”

“Me how?”

“You told me to think about you,” your fingers hastened and you grinned.

“I told you I want to know your thoughts.”

You hummed with a smile and eyed him from head to toe shamelessly. You knew what he told you, what he wanted, but what about what you wanted?

Your fingers picked up the pace as your eyes gained a sly glim, and you thought he saw it. If he didn’t, he at least heard the wet sounds echoing in the bathroom.

“Do it slowly.”

You obeyed, so painfully slowly that your eyelashes fluttered, but what truly got you was the soothing of his features. He looked endeared, all because you did as he told you. He looked so sweet, so adorable, so loveable. You wanted to squeeze his precious cheeks.

So you reached forward to touch his face, but he slapped your hand away harshly, “No.” You bit your lip not to smile but his eyes were just hardening. “I’m still waiting.”

“For?”

You couldn’t help your grin as you squirmed ever so slightly against the wall. His precious dark eyes were so focused on you.

“Me how?”

But he wasn’t paying attention. “You right now.”

It didn’t surprise you that he didn’t become impatient, “Just me standing here?”

Your fingers were ever so quicker, “Stiff as a stick trying to control something that isn’t yours yet.”

His eyes glimmed and your tongue peeked out again to hide your laugh. It was fun seeing him being careful, but when would he actually touch you?

“Didn’t I say slower?”

You instantly did, and the recoil of the feeling had you fluttering your eyes closed.

“Eyes on me,” he sounded angrier now, closer too.

You did open your eyes but pursed your lips; there was still half an arm's distance between you. If he wouldn’t get the hint, then you’d have to do it yourself.

“Strip,” you asked, swallowing dryly.

He scoffed and instantly looked down, “I said slow.”

“If you want it slow, do it yourself.”

It happened so fast you couldn’t process it. Like a rubberband snapping, his hand darted to your neck pulling and pushing hard enough that your head banged the wall but not harshly enough that it hurt you. It did daze you for a second, but your lips just formed a grin until you laughed. 

Two could play that game, apparently, and he looked so fucking hot when he was mad. You loved that his hand stayed put like a necklace, a reminder that he wasn’t touching your heat, but he owned it. Along with your thoughts and your pleasure, he owned you. And that would have been enough to snap you, but what about him?

So you closed your eyes again, blatantly going against what he wanted, and were not surprised when his free hand darted to pinch your hardened nipple. You moaned instantly, facing him with the same challenge, meeting dark eyes that seemed to have given up on making you talk, but not on making you do as you were told.

So every time you blinked, he pinched you. Your nipples, your sides, your ass, earning moans every time, but nothing more, until he snapped again. He jumped on you and you just made your neck more available for him to latch on and bite. Your moan instantly pitched, and it finally seemed worth it. He was squeezing your tits and biting you while you played yourself to his presence, and he finally was involved in it too.

“Don’t come.”

The joke was that you wanted to do as he said, but you couldn’t anymore. Your moans were higher now, just like your daze, and in a second—

He yanked your hand away, “That’s enough.”

“Why? Didn’t you want to see what happens when I think of you?”

Your voice was light but your chest heaving gave your state away, and the more he kissed and bit down your neck, the worse it became. You needed him, needed more than just his thoughts or presence. You gripped his shoulders to bring him closer, you needed—

A whimper pushed out of you as you hid in his neck, but he didn’t stop. You were sure that had to be at least three fingers just pushing into you roughly with no preparation other than your repeated edging. No preparation came, whatsoever, because as soon as they were in, he started pumping his fingers in and out of you at a vicious speed. 

You instantly lost your grip on reality, though not on his shoulders, as even the air seemed to still inside your lungs. The sultry sounds echoing around you didn’t just come from his digits beckoning you closer insanely fast, but also from your whimpers. Because there was a fire burning you from the inside out with every moan as he bit and licked closer to your ear. As your nails sank through his shirt to reach his skin, your legs trembled, and the wall behind you became scorching hot while he pressed you to it.

From deep within your frenzy you couldn’t hear his growl near your ear, or feel the way his drool dripped down your neck or his fingers dag at your skin. He could hear you, pitchy moans quickly becoming an addictive sound, yet this time it was different. Your cunt was squeezing around him like a vice, and the harder it made for him to finger fuck you, the more he wanted to.

“Don’t come,” he grunted right under your ear, but you couldn’t register. You just moaned even more desperately, gripping him to you so hard he thought he’d melt. “You’ll cum when I tell you to.”

He was trying to hold on to something when he pulled away to look at you, but he could see you weren’t listening. You were flushed and panting hastily, avid with your nerves on fire. You could only see him and you had been waiting too long.

“Please,” you sounded a second away from breaking into tears and he admired you for it at that moment. You were so strong for him. And so pliable.

So he kissed your cheek gently and said your name once, taking pleasure from rolling it over his tongue. “Go on, cum.”

And it was all you needed to snap, tears coming to your eyes as your hips convulsed and searched for friction. You didn’t think you needed it because your walls were tensing, and again and again while desperate cries fell from your lips. His fingers calmed down inside you, his breath the same temperature as your blazing cheeks, and you thought a sweet blanket of lethargy would cover you soon.

Only he never stopped fucking you with his fingers, and so you whimpered and tried to push him away weakly.

“Don’t come down,” he murmured to your cheek. “Stay, don’t let it go.” 

Your nails sank on his shoulder blades again as you squinted your eyes shut. Tears roamed your eyes as you tried breathing and pushing through your sensitivity. You could handle your clit being sensitive, but inside you, that was a whole different story. You felt like you had been pounded to perfection, only to be further kneaded into sensations you had never felt before.

You looked at him, eyes droopy with whines coming out of your mouth. Why weren’t you surprised?

“Give me another one,” he asked gently, but you didn’t answer. 

How could you, he twisted his hand to reach into you deeper and your whole core burned. He was relighting a fire you thought had been extinguished, only to leave you breathless, dripping slick down his hand as you moaned between gritted teeth. 

So beautiful, so tense. He wanted to release you. 

“Look at me,” he asked softly, and you did. His eyes gave you a tenderness that made your heart convulse. How could he act sweetly like that, as if half of his hand wasn’t pounding your g-spot to bits? “You’re so good. Doing so well, giving me everything I want.” Your only reply was your moans, but you were listening. “I need you to focus for me.” He leaned to whisper in your ear, “Focus on the tension. You’re so tight around my fingers. Relax, don’t fight it. That’s it, move with me,” his voice was sweeter, and you softened. It was as if he was in it with you. As if he could feel it too. As if he was fucking you and not just sticking his fingers inside you. “You feel so good,” his whisper felt like the highest form of praise, and your moan pitched, melting alongside your nerves. He was so happy at the sound as he traced his lips down your cheek to whisper to the corner of your mouth, “Come with me.”

You moved with him once, twice, seeing in his eyes how much he was seeing and feeling you before looking at his lips, so close. He brushed yours ever so slightly in the hint of a kiss, moving with you as if you were jumping on his cock and not on his digits, and it was what pushed you. You pulled him closer and he let his mouth fall to yours, and your orgasm instantly started, forcing you to swerve so you could moan and breathe as you disintegrated. 

He let you feel your ecstasy to the fullest, biting his lip and feeding off of your release as if it were oxygen. Your trembling lips, your nails that marked his shoulders, your throbbing walls squeezing and gripping around him in sweet delight. All of you like a charming melody, sweet and utopic. Your moans were music until the very last, and by then, he had to taste it.

His free hand cupped your cheek and coaxed you into a sloppy kiss that you instantly reacted to. You were still not there, though, too dazed from the high to realize it fully; until you did. And you gasped. Yoongi’s tongue was licking at your bottom lip gently as if you were a delicacy that needed to be tasted slowly, and you couldn’t believe it.

You parted your lips to let him in and he pressed you even closer, enclosing you in such a euphoric moment you thought you’d pop like a firework. Like a cocoon filled with dazed butterflies with nowhere to go. He was kissing you and your wildest dreams seemed to have just come true. Tears were still hanging onto your waterline, and when he pressed your lips to move away and breathe, you were scared that it had all been a dream.

“So good, you’re so good.”

His voice was calm and tender, and it gave you the courage to open your eyes. He was so close with his eyes roaming your features swiftly, taking in the smallest detail as if he was finally free to. Then he smiled at your wonder, and you were convinced it was a dream.

That notion didn’t dissipate as he reached to the side to grab a towel and dry you with gentleness, enveloping you in the fluffy material as if it were a cloud. You sniffled, drained from the energy that you had just burned away and woozy from his sweet pats as he tried to dry the excess water out of your long hair.

Not even when he took your hand and pulled you back into your bedroom did the haze recede. Instead, you saw him pull the duvet open for you to get in the bed and you lost the towel and got in without a thought. Once you settled in, you did have your first thought: where was he going?

But he was back soon, and you knew in the back of your mind that he was just making the place tidy: getting the coffee cup from the floor to put it on the table, stopping the shower, and shutting the lights. Then he grabbed your towel from the floor and dried his own hair with hastened movements before throwing it aside. His eyes fell on you and your own picked up on the wet spots on his clothes. He was probably cold too.

“Come here,” you voiced hoarsely, staying in a ball to conserve the heat. He instantly stepped to you, but you pouted, “Clothes off first.”

He blinked and looked down, but then smirked and did as you asked. Of course, he couldn’t make your bed humid and uncomfortable with his clothes. Your eyes were on him, unable to separate from the soft unblemished skin revealing itself more and more. His muscles moved as he bent down, wide shoulders and soft biceps trying to hide the strength he had. But you just observed quietly, tucked in the duvet. You could still feel his fingers inside and all around you, pressing and owning you easily. But you could keep a secret, his power and strength were only for you to know.

He lowered his pants and boxers and your eyes glued to him like a magnet. He was hard and pretty, with protruding veins on a thick length that had your imagination doing cartwheels.

Your thoughts were interrupted quickly when he opened the duvet to get beside you and you shivered. You opened your arms and legs to welcome him, and in your haze, you suddenly thought that it all felt so domestic.

He grabbed your hand and pulled it away to tell you he wanted to lie behind you and you agreed instantaneously. His arms wrapped around you just as fast as you rubbed your ass to his crotch, and he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your head.

“You must be tired.”

“No,” your voice was a low whimper as his warmth relaxed your nerve ends.

“No?” He sounded amused and soft and you had to admit that his chest was the fluffiest pillow.

“No…”

You didn't want to, but you were slowly dozing off. Slowly, and a bit more with every soothing breath you took together.

You shook and forced your eyes open, “I don't want to fall asleep.”

“Why?”

Your heart beamed and your lips curved; he was still holding you with his mouth to your head.

“Because… it will end,” you admitted, falling deeper into his touch as he nuzzled your hair. Suddenly you realized his boner was half gone. “You didn't come, I haven't touched you yet. I don't want to miss the opportunity.”

“We have tomorrow.”

“You might change your mind.”

“So can you.”

“I won't,” you insisted with a hint of annoyance as you twisted to look back at him.

“I won't either,” he promised calmly, glistening eyes set on you.

Your eyes were closing, the comfort and lethargy were pulling you away. Still, you focused on his lips, “Kiss me.”

He met your lips with no hesitation and you let that sweet touch soothe you. When he pulled away and kissed your nose, you slipped asleep.

When you woke up in the morning, two things made you alert: your soreness and the lack of space. You groaned with the sweet throb between your legs but frowned because something was over you. Turning back, the most precious image graced your vision and made stars twinkle in your eyes.

Min Yoongi was sleeping as quietly as a mouse with an arm around your shoulders as if to keep you tucked in. You brushed his hair aside and his nose twitched, making you instantly melt. Why did he look so sweet asleep? How could he be such a beast as a musician, a genius producer, and a darling in private?

You kept brushing his hair soothingly, thinking that intimately he was not a darling. No, not cute, not sweet. If that throb between your legs meant something, it was that Yoongi was the kind that owned. He owned his music, his process, the studio room, and you, for all you cared. Your finger trailed his cheek as you recalled your words the night before. He said he wanted you, the same as you, and he said he wouldn't change his mind, but what if he did? What if you lost your opportunity the night before?

Maybe you were still half asleep; otherwise, the fact that you were both in bed naked would have meant something. As it stood, you were anxious about what reality could bring. So when he opened his eyes and saw you, your instinct was to kiss him.

You brushed his lips gently but surely, giving him more than enough time and place to push you away if he wanted to. So when he didn't, you became bolder. Your tongue teased the seam of his lips and your hand roamed his chest, and as you got lost, you became vulnerable. 

He waited as long as he could. He let you kiss him, let you press, let you push him a bit back into the pillow, let you cup his jaw, but you never moved away. Never stopped, and never changed your mind. You did say you wanted everything, and he thought he had given you enough time to take it back.

So he grabbed your hair and rolled over you to get on top, pushing his tongue past your lips without asking. And you moaned, instantly weak to him taking something that in all that concerned you belonged to him anyway.

You thought that meant a green light to explore him just as he was doing, passing his hand down your side to your waist, but no. You palmed the expanse of his chest and he interrupted his mission simply to grab your wrists and pull them down. He pressed them once to the mattress, then released one to pass his slender fingers between your breasts and you took the opportunity again. Your hand sneakily went under the sheets to scratch his hip up to his ass, feeling how firm he was over you, yet he caught you before you could squeeze him.

“Stay still.”

He could have been saying good morning, yet you puffed, “Let me.”

“No.”

“But I want to,” you pouted and he nibbled down your neck.

“Too bad.”

You wanted to be good to him; you liked him touching you and his hard cock ever so close to your core did make you hazy with want. But as he kissed and licked and palmed and pressed you from head to toe, you grew impatient. Incredibly so when he turned you belly down to do the same down the length of your spine as if he had all the time in the world. Even more when he raised your ass and spread your legs, nibbling at your ass cheeks and squeezing them roughly. Aggravatingly so when he noticed your wetness dripping down your inner thigh and made it his pastime to try to reach it with his tongue.

“Yoongiiiiii,” you whined at the end of your patience, waves of goosebumps driving you insane as he spread your asscheeks more to reach your wet inner thighs.

“Hmm,” he was having way too much fun.

“Let me touch you too.”

And ruin the fun? “No.”

You whined again, “But I've waited.”

“Not enough.”

“Why not?” You were sulking despite your spasms around nothing. He could feel them without directly touching you, and it drove him to bite and kiss harder. You squirmed at his lack of reply, “How long more?”

“Until I say so.”

You shook your ass half in annoyance half in desperation, “I've waited enough. At least fuck me.”

“No.”

It was as though he was shooing a fly.

“Come on,” you dragged. “Get to the good part.” He snorted but didn't move. “Fuck me, come on.”

“No.”

“But you'll feel so good.”

He sighed with your taste on his tongue, “I know.”

“So do it.”

“Hmmmm.”

You thought there would be progress as he touched your core ever so lightly. But you waited and waited for what felt like an eternity. And although the tip of his fingers explored every nook and cranny slowly and gently, even the embarrassing ones, you were still not closer to what you wanted.

And so you snapped, “I asked you to fuck me.” He hummed, but your tone was assertive, “I won't shut up until you do.”

He changed absolutely nothing, wet fingers dragging to your nipples lightly.  And so you insisted.

“I'm waiting. How long will you keep me waiting? Should I do it myself?”

Your hand moved and he put it in place instantly.

“I can show you how it's done,” your tone became mocking. “In case you’re lost.” His teeth brushed the back of your thigh and you smirked, “If you never used your cock before—”

A slap to your asscheek echoed and you grinned. It was firm, a warning, but what could you do? You always liked to talk big in bed, and you couldn’t miss the opportunity to rile him up.

“Nothing to be ashamed of— If you don't know where to go or what to do— Should I take over?”

Every slap felt like a win and that last one wasn't any different. He gave more of him when he did it, and you felt it in the sting, the touch, the attention. When he grabbed your asscheeks and squeezed until you cried out, you thought that he might be holding back.

“You talk too much,” he said quietly.

“And you fuck too little.”

He pushed you harshly to fall with your belly up and grabbed your head firmly in place, using his body over you to fully press you down the mattress.

“I like to fuck people who indulge me.”

“Liar.” It escaped your lips before you could think. You were too horny to think, but then you laughed, “Fucking liar. You're rock hard, you want to fuck me so bad is not even funny.”

“Your point?”

“You like it,” you whispered, raising your head to reach his lips, which he didn't let happen. You looked into his eyes, “You like what I'm saying. You adore every spank and every little reason I give you to do it.”

His expression didn't change except for the laughter in his eyes, “Can you blame me?”

“Fuck no.”

“Is it a problem?” He seemed cautious. 

“Yoongi,” you sighed. “I said everything.”

His lips finally showed a smile as he got on his forearms to look at you with new eyes.

“But Yoongi,” you called with a pout. “I did wait long enough.”

He grinned widely, so endearingly you wanted to kiss his entire adorable face. So loveable you wanted to drive him crazy.

“You'll wait as long as I tell you to.”

He seemed happy now as he leaned to kiss and play with your chest, pink tongue messing with your perky nipples to the point you squirmed. And it felt good, so good your legs were restless under him, opening but struggling to get him to align. He tortured your nipples, suckling and biting only to smile at your fussiness. You could only take so much.

You squealed, “If you don’t put your cock in me soon I’ll fucking scream.”

“Scream?” He was amused, barely separating his mouth from your breast.

But you sucked in a breath and screamed at the top of your lungs. Only for a second though; his hand covered your mouth and forced you to look at him.

“Shut it.”

He raised his hand carefully with your eyes locked, and all you did was roll your hips to get his cock near your dripping core. You thought he had learned something, so when he moved too but against you, keeping what you wanted purposefully at bay, you decided that holding back was not getting you anywhere.

You threw your head back and screamed again, and when his hand darted to muffle it, you bit it.

You took another breath, but before you could scream his hand wrapped around your neck firmly. You looked into his eyes as lightheadedness relaxed your neck and shoulders. He was so careful, but you were at such ease.

“Are you going to be quiet?”

His fingers were perfect around your throat, “I want to cream your cock so bad.”

Your voice was a wanton whine as your glistening eyes focused on him. You couldn't describe how much you were melting, how much he relaxed you only to tense you up the next second if he so chose to. How much that drove you to want him like crazy.

“Is that a dirty thought?” You nodded once, pleading with your eyes. He nuzzled your nose sweetly, “Not yet.”

“Then I won't be quiet.”

Your voice was gentle like a breeze but carried consequence, and when he nuzzled you further, you knew everything went both ways. He knew it too, and he wasn't stopping you.

You tentatively tried a scream and his hand wrapped firmer, observing you with sparkles in his eyes.

You huffed, cheeks becoming hot, “Why won’t you just do what I want?”

“Why won’t you quiet down?”

“And do your job for you?” 

You could see the smile in his eyes — he knew you were embarrassed. He was just seeing how far you’d go in your brattiness, but you were so horny you were lost. 

“All I’m asking for is your cock, don’t you have one?” He raised an eyebrow at your taunt; you could both feel his hard shaft pressed to your thigh. “So why don’t you shut me up? Do you need me to tell you how to use your dick?”

“Just because you’re needy and desperate, it doesn’t mean you should get what you want.”

The burn traveled to your chest; he was scolding you and it was like you’d been shaken. Of course, he’d answer you and deal with your attitude. You never thought he’d be the type to let it fly but to actually have him doing it was burning you from the inside out.

“But what I want is you,” you sighed, batting your eyelashes flagrantly. “Let me get on my knees, I’ll do whatever you like.”

He took only a second, “No, I like where you are.” You grinned in absolute joy; you also loved being under him with his hand around your neck. You felt taken care of and grounded, even as your mind became chaotic in the hazyness. “And there goes another dirty thought, hm?”

You bit your lip, “In my fantasies you always give it to me so right.”

“This isn’t a fantasy anymore.”

You grinned, “No, thank fuck. You look so much better pissed off in real life.”

He raised an eyebrow, “You want to piss me off?”

You almost laughed, “I want you to fuck me.”

“I never said I wouldn't,” he adjusted his hips but purposefully made it impossible for you to have him, and you squinted. He was smiling, “I just told you to wait.”

“And I told you I’d scream.”

You were snappy and he grinned, “Can’t we be civilized about this?”

His lips ghosted you and your chest burned again, “Nothing civilized about the way I want you to fuck me senseless.”

Your voice was wanton, bordering a moan as your hips rolled just to feel the tease of his cock near your core, and he kissed down your chin, “So you’ll scream?”

“Like hell.”

“No changing your mind?”

“Fuck no. Stop stalling,” you whined, moving your spread legs in the hopes of catching him, but he only chuckled.

“Go on, then.”

He got off you and you huffed in annoyance and screamed. It was short and you opened your eyes to see him just observing you with amusement. Why was it so funny to him when you were getting upset?

So you took a deep breath and screamed again and this time your lips pulled in a smile because what the heck were you doing?

“That’s it?”

His taunt had you take a deep breath and scream again, only to fall short. You covered your eyes and stifled a laugh. It reminded you of how you screamed on roller coasters.

“You must not have enough reasons to scream yet.”

You bit your lip, imagining the reasons you could have, the ways he could make you scream. The bed dipped next to you but you stayed in your reverie. In it, Yoongi touched you. He slapped your cunt with his cock and promised to use you. He grabbed you by the neck while he pounded into you so hard you saw stars.

You huffed in impatience, neediness making you bold; you were about to sit up and do something when you stopped. He was throwing his leg over you and his cock was so close your eyes nearly crossed. He grabbed your head in place, but you were staring, fixed, jaw falling open and lax instantly. You could pretend you wanted to scream more but you were just salivating, so when he aimed his cock at you, you just met him halfway.

His taste hit your buds quickly and moved to reach your throat, and you lost it. Your eyes rolled as you closed them, the salty traces leaving you dizzy, and the way he pushed himself down your throat made you squirm in waves of pleasure. It felt hot and intense and wild as he did it again and again, each time getting a better sense of how much you could take. You barely cared about breathing; he was finally using your mouth, fucking you, showing you how much he wanted you without holding back, and with each push, he made you feel better than the last. Elated, special — he was groaning and getting riled up down your throat because you made him feel that good.

Suddenly, he pulled back and you followed him as long as you could before he grabbed your arms and raised them above your head to stop you. He had heard you choke so he was probably worried, but you only sighed in impatience.

“So greedy,” he taunted, pressing your wrists down firmly. But he had a glint in his eyes — he was paying attention to you. Not worried, just caring.

“Aren’t you learning?” You said as you tried not to melt, but it was too late. He chuckled and his smile made you happy. “Keep going,” you asked softly, despite the tears running down to your hairline. “Please.”

He brushed his thumbs on your wrists for a second with his eyes set on you. You were such a handful and he couldn’t love it any better. Asking for him like that secretly drove him crazy, and made him want to give you everything you could ever wish for, no matter what. So when you leaned back and opened your mouth, it was his pleasure to stuff it with his dick. He grabbed your wrists more firmly and supported his weight on them to help him lean forward and give you the fucking you craved.

Time and time again he snapped his hips to get his cock down your throat, and it was challenging. His muscles were burning, but so were his lower stomach and balls as he tried not to come. You moaned and choked and bounced as he fucked your head into the mattress, and yet you were totally relaxed. Your arms and hands were still, calm as you got used and loved it. And he loved it too, but for your first time together and after skipping it the night before, he thought this time he wanted more.

He pulled away from you and it took you a second, but you instantly sulked. He settled between your legs as you cleaned the drool, “So I’m not going to swallow the sugar rush?”

He chuckled, “No, not this time.” You pursed your lips and were about to whine about him stopping so soon when he asked, “Do you have a condom?”

Your eyes widened and you instantly scrammed to conjure up one. Shit, shit shit, you thought as you turned your room upside down, then your toiletries, then your bathroom. Why the fuck didn’t you have one? Well, sure, you knew why, but you were so angry now. You could not miss this opportunity!

You turned to your kitchen, desperate at that point until you gasped. You searched for your first aid box and dug until you finally found a lost wrapper. You waved it victoriously as you strode back to your room and to bed, and Yoongi was there to receive you with a look you couldn’t identify. He grabbed your arm and threw you on the bed before pinning you down from between your legs and kissing you till you lost your breath.

If he wanted to fuck you before, now he wanted to screw you so hard you’d only ever remember his cock. To think you said you wanted to be with him the whole last year, and that you hadn’t been with anyone else because of it made him wild. Why had you both played it so safe? He had been to your apartment so many times, set you to sleep on that very same bed, and yet never once did he get the inkling that you wanted him. Not as he wanted you. But just now, you were dripping with how much you wanted him, squirming, begging for him to fuck you, and trying to rile him up so he would. You jolted at his fingers in your folds, rubbing your chest to his for any hint of a touch, moaning when he pulled your head back by your hair. You wanted him bad and he was going to give it to you.

He pulled away from you and you almost screamed in frustration, but seeing him putting the condom on cooled you just enough to stay quiet. Your hands even stayed above your head voluntarily as you waited patiently, thinking he wouldn’t waste that condom, he’d surely fuck you finally.

You moaned suddenly and looked down, confused for a second, but you weren’t dreaming. He was grabbing his cock and slapping your cunt with it right over your clit. You squirmed with need, but he kept doing it harder and harder, wet sounds echoing with your excitement.

“Fuck, I just knew it,” you mumbled, clenching around nothing right before his eyes.

“Knew what?”

“That you’d do that,” you moaned, hands tightly gripping each other so you would stay put.

He hummed as he did it quicker, seeing your slick connect to his cock, “That so? What else do you think I’ll do?”

You were burning all the way to your shoulders, trying to move with him so that his cock could give you friction, and he didn’t stop you. So you answered through gritted teeth, “Stick it in, get deep, fucking use me until I’m stuffed with your cum.”

Your voice disappeared with the lack of breath; he was dragging his cock over your clit now and it was the sweetest reward. 

“Filthy thoughts you’re having, hmm?” You were lost in your motion, rolling your hips to earn that friction so you gasped when he pushed his cock inside you, loving the burn as your core split to accommodate his girth. “Read my fucking mind.”

You screamed when he bottomed out, biting your lip with the way he was forcing himself inside you. Then you opened your eyes to see him and instantly clenched around him, and he smirked. 

“Been thinking about fucking me, huh?” You could barely hold a thought, but the opportunity to tease him was too sweet.

“It has crossed my mind,” he said and snapped his hips, and you didn’t know whether to gasp or moan. He’d hit you deep and hard, you knew he would, and it made you even tighter. His nails dag at your hips, “So many times.” He was starting slow but deep and you could do nothing but moan. “How you would moan, what you would want, how you would give in and let me take you,” every wish was pointed by a deep thrust. “Now look at you.” You looked down: your tits were bouncing with every hit, gushing sounds echoed along with your moans from how wet your heat was, and the sight of his thick cock pushing between your slit to enter you was the cherry on top. It was the can of cream about to blow you full, and you wanted to get filled. “Almost cuming even though I’ve barely started.”

“Cause you feel so good,” you breathed in a moan.

He leaned to grope your taunting tits, “You told me to use you.”

“Fuck, please.”

He gritted his teeth and adjusted you better so he could pick up the pace. And what a vicious pace it was, fast and steady, leaving you so hazed and lost, that you had no words. He slapped your tits around and you clenched, tears roaming your eyes with how good and sweet it was. It didn’t hurt, every touch sparkled pleasure in your veins, and the sight of him hitting and scratching, his squeezes on every bit of you only made you even more sensitive. More elated and euphoric, so much so you were mumbling more with every moan involuntarily. He was slapping and roughly marking your chest as you asked, and suddenly you threw your head back and looked at him.

“Harder,” you asked out of breath, and he slapped your tit so hard you screamed before moaning deeply. “Just not my face.”

You thought to tell him from within a glimpse of logic, and he nodded and took note of your limit. Instead, he leaned forward and groped both boobs again and you squirmed desperately.

“Squeeze,” you breathed, your moan pitching. He did, but it wasn’t enough, “Please!”

He did, a bit harder with every thrust into your messy cunt. It was maybe selfish, but he wanted to see how you unraveled. How you wanted those strong sensations, how you craved something more intense each time and with every bit of strength, you transformed it into a beautiful pleasure that had you bursting.

He saw you coming again, writhing around thoughtlessly with the intensity of your pleasure, so hard he didn’t have to look down to see you throbbing around his cock. He still did though, mesmerized by it, only to chuckle. You had left a ring of white around the base of his cock; you just had to have your way in the end.

He leaned in to kiss you through your haze, slowly sensing with his lips the condition you were in. At first, your reaction was delayed, the brush of your lips falling behind as you recovered. But then you reacted and pushed back against his tongue, and he knew you were good.

He pulled back and turned you around, and you helped and got on all fours instantly. He didn’t wait, he aimed his cock at you and entered your velvety embrace as soon as he could. You arched your back for him and pressed back into him a couple of times to feel him deeper, and he grinned.

“Finally. So obedient,” he taunted, squeezing your ass cheeks to spread for him.

“You’re finally fucking me senseless.”

Your voice was a whisper, and he smirked. You asked him to use you, and he was doing a good job at it. But now he wanted to make you scream, to mark you so hard you’d never be anything but his. He couldn’t help it; now that his cock was shoved deep inside you, he didn’t want anything else. Now that he knew what you tasted like, what you sounded like, and how filthy your mind and mouth could be, he wanted nothing else. He saw you trying to get him deeper, huffing and puffing as you swayed with him, and his chest tightened. The possessiveness you were inspiring in him was raw and dangerous, but he didn’t want to fight it.

So he gave you both what you wanted: he smacked your ass as he pounded into you, seeing the way it bounced in either direction until he couldn’t focus anymore. Until he was desperate to own you, to hear you scream, to know you’d beg for him forever. It wasn’t enough; no matter how hard you screamed, he wanted more and he wanted it to last. 

Grabbing your hair to pull it into showing the beautiful curve of your neck was a mistake, though. Suddenly he saw how beautiful you were, vulnerable and immersed in every sensation he gave you. He wanted you to be his, and suddenly it hit him that you already were. And you loved it.

And it snapped his senses, overthrowing his strong grip on his pleasure as if he had never had any. He became sloppy but still held on to your hips to sink and cum as deeply inside you as he possibly could. He groaned with every peak, jerking to milk the sensation between your tight walls as best as he could until he stilled. Fuck, how the hell did you do that to him?

He noticed then you were trembling and his priorities immediately surfaced, “Are you okay?”

You hummed, but he wasn’t having it. He pulled out despite your whine and helped you to softly lay on your side. Then he hopped off the bed, dealt with the condom, and searched around for water and a snack.

You were still stunned, out from the intensity of the emotions that had tensed and relaxed your body simultaneously. Your soul didn’t know how to handle what just happened, and the only thing that occurred to you before he came back was that you had totally surrendered. You didn’t force yourself to be tame and quiet, or said and did what the other person wanted so you wouldn’t ruin it for them. You were yourself, through and through, and Yoongi fucking ate you up like dessert.

The bed dipped behind you and you turned to him, sighing happily when he pulled you in to snuggle.

“Here — water and chocolate.”

You glanced at the bottle and bar and smiled widely. Your heart was right all along, and although you knew it was definitely too soon, there were special words at the tip of your tongue trying to get out.

Instead, you let him insist and sit you up to take a sip of water and a bite before letting you fall back into his arms in a sweaty embrace that you wanted with all your heart.

He was kissing your head and tracing your arm quietly when you decided to tell him, “Next time cover me with cum.”

He raised an eyebrow as he glanced at you, and you pouted.

“Just… You wanted to know what I think about.”

“You think about that?”

“Sometimes.”

He smirked and squeezed you inside his arms, “What else have you been hiding from me?”

“You have no idea,” you laughed.

You were melting and relaxing into his touch as he pecked your head when he whispered, “Are we bad?”

Your heart hurt for a second, what? But then you realized what he was saying: your song. When you wrote a conversation you once imagined you both could have had:

You're bad, you liar. 

It's me who's bad, I know this bad desire, sugar.

So you chuckled and sang along to the melody, “What did you do to me, sugar?”

[parfaitblogs]

making the bed ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your night crumbles around you, and spencer is happy to pick up the pieces. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort  tags: established relationship. (prior) alcohol consumption. reader is semi-drunk (but sobers up). post drinking depression. healthy alcohol information/discussion 🫡 word count: 2.1k a/n: do not read too much into this for you will begin to question why i still enjoy going clubbing. (joke...) 😄 plsss tell me if u liked this or even if u didnt thank u i love uuuuuu

Alcohol is a depressant. 

You remembered the God awful lecture your boyfriend had given you when you woke up one Sunday morning with this feeling of existential dread, and nothing to pin it to. A ramble about how alcohol can temporarily increase the body's production of dopamine and serotonin when entering, causing a worse crash of both chemicals when it leaves. Leaving you, evidently, depressed and anxious after a big night. 

You knew that. 

You also knew how quick you were to seclude within your mind when you were with people. Too many drinks and not enough social interaction tended to lead to your own isolation, sitting on the outer edge of the booth, absentmindedly playing with the charm on the end of your phone. 

The room no longer spun the way it had an hour ago. You missed when it spun. When it spun, you weren't thinking about how little you had to contribute to the conversations your friends were having. You weren't tallying up how many drinks you had already drank, then falling flat when you realised you couldn't remember, and that was a thought more horrifying than knowing it was over ten. You were fun, when the room was a carousel. 

Now, it's simply overwhelming. Loud chattering from both your table, and the surrounding ones. Clinking of glasses at the bar. A sports game on the television across the room. Balls on a pool table being dispersed for the first time in a game. Dancing feet. Music. People. So many fucking people.

Your phone buzzes against the table, and you pick it up before any of your friends could turn their heads to see where the vibrations were coming from. You figured they were too drunk to conclude it was you, anyways. Or to care. 

Spencer had texted you fifteen minutes ago to check in on you, and though it wasn't long ago, you not responding immediately in a flurry of half strung together sentences and emojis was worrying for him. That was probably why his name was now lighting up your screen, a funny photo of him mid-bite of an ice cream as his contact photo, enlarged. 

You hadn't responded for no reason other than the fact that you had no will to. Which should've been a big enough red flag to yourself that you should text him, and you should ask if he can pick you up. Thankfully, he loved to prove how well he could read you, and he was calling you anyways. 

"Hi," you mumble into the phone, angling your body away from your friends, hand held up to your other ear to block out some of the noise the best you could. 

"Hi," he parrots back to you. "You okay?"

An automatic yes manifests on your tongue, but you're quick enough to keep it to yourself before you can lie to him. Instead, you let out a quiet, "No."

He seems to have expected that answer, for he leaves no silence in between your admission and his response. "What can I do to help?" He also seems to be expecting your hesitance at asking him for anything that would require him to move, because he adds, "I can pick you up. Do you want me to pick you up?"

"Yes. Please?"

"I'm already leaving," he tells you, and you can hear his shoes against the wooden floor of his apartment to confirm that. "Did something happen? Are you safe?"

"No, nothing happened. I'm safe," you reassure him. "I started feeling sick so I stopped drinking an hour ago. Now I'm just sad."

"You remember what I told you about it being a depressant?"

"Vividly," you mutter, and while it isn't meant to be funny, you hear him huff a short laugh anyways. It makes you feel a little better. 

"It's important to know," he defends. "I'm sorry I shared important information with you."

"Mm."

Your lack of a verbal response was expected, but he still hated the sound of it regardless. You heard him sigh. "I have to hang up now. I'll be there in forty minutes. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you too."

No matter how much time had passed, your head lifted every time the door — that your group was so conveniently close to — opened, letting in a rush of cool air and sobering you up with every hit of it. 

True to his word, Spencer was entering the bar after forty minutes, face scrunching up at the sudden onslaught of noises and visual stimuli. Same boat as you, only he had not a drop of alcohol in his body. At least you weren't crazy about it being overstimulating. 

"This is why I don't go to bars," he says once he's approached your booth, and you had stood up next to you, his hand finding an automatic place on your waist. 

"It's usually not this bad," you tell him, but he decides not to ask you anything else upon hearing just how exhausted your voice sounds. You're grateful for that.

The goodbye to your friends is quick, Spencer rattling off a lie about him needing you home for he had work early the next morning, and you only had one key to the apartment. Even the friends who knew that wasn't the case didn't comment on it, and you made a pointless mental note to thank them for it later. You knew you wouldn't. 

The drive home was even faster. Silence, aside from the rush of the wind from your slightly cracked window as Spencer drove, that helped the sick feeling in your stomach from the alcohol you had consumed. 

It didn't seem to help the hollowness of your chest, though.

You weren't sure if anything would, really. A chemical imbalance in your brain — even one as temporary as the deflation from being drunk — was hard to fix without medication. It would go away, yes. But then you would make the mistake of drinking once more, and you would find yourself back in this brain peeling predicament. 

You showered alone. Despite Spencer's offer to join you, and your own personal desire for him to be there with you. It didn't help your fogged mind at all, and you were exiting the bathroom feeling like you had retreated further into your bones. Every movement felt clunky, your skin a heavy coat to your skeleton, restricting your movement down to short shuffles and barely lifted arm movements. 

He was reading when you reentered your bedroom, and you've never seen him put a book and his glasses back on his bedside table faster. He looked visibly tired. Keeping himself awake a seemingly difficult struggle, that you could feel your body heading towards to as well. 

"Hey," he says as you climb into the bed, and he's very patient as you figure out what position you want your bodies in. Head on his chest, but next to him, you had decided on, and his fingers entangled into your hair.

"Hi," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, counting brush strokes of the paint, as if it were possible to.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You huff at the phrase, tilting your head upwards so your eyes could land on him. "Do you have a penny?"

He pauses, then angles his head closer towards yours. "Okay, kiss for your thoughts?"

"That'll just distract me."

"Is that what you want?"

You should say no. Arguably the last thing you should be doing when you're sad is let intimacy with your boyfriend distract you. But then again, you're not the best advocate for healthy coping mechanisms anyways. 

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" he muses, and his lips brush against yours. Your heart flutters. 

"I don't really know what I want," you settle on telling him, honestly. "I want my brain to shut up."

His body deflates beneath you, and you feel guilt chip away up your spine at the killing of the less depressing atmosphere. 

"Sorry," you mumble.

"No. It's good. Be honest with me," he reassures you, quietly. His fingers tap at your scalp, "What's going on up here?"

"I'll cry if I try to verbalise it."

"Crying's good for you, you know," he hums.

"I'm pretty sure I still have eyeliner in my waterline. I'll just stain your sheets," you retort. 

"Yeah, probably. That's fine."

You're silent for a few moments, gathering your thoughts in your brain the best you could despite yourself, before you sit up, his hand dropping to the bed beside you.

"I just don't like being... here? Out? I don't know. I'm just really sick of being sad every time I drink. Is there something wrong with me? Did you get sad whenever you drank? Everyone else I know loves going out for drinks because they have fun and they're giggly drunks, or they're clingy drunks. And if I drink too much then I'm a fucking sad drunk, and I'm the only person I know that gets that way. I want to be normal."

He's silent your entire rant, and then some, waiting for your heaving chest to slow, having caught the few tears that slipped down your cheeks. You were grateful — you needed that time.

He reaches a hand out, and you let him tug you back down to the bed, slotting your body atop his own, just so he could see you properly. 

"To answer your question, no, I didn't get sad when I drank," he says, brushing your hair out of your face, before his hands rest on either side of your face. "But I wasn't really happy, either. I just talked more."

"You already talk a lot."

His lips twitch. "I do. Double whatever you think my worst is, and that was me drunk. Focus on the part where I said I wasn't a happy drunk, please."

"But you weren't sad. So there is something wrong with me."

"No, there's not. Alcohol is a depressant," he punctuates his words with a kiss to your nose, which you gratefully accept despite your emotions. "Are you willing to give up alcohol as a whole?" 

"My friends will think I'm boring, then."

He hesitates in his response, but ultimately settles on asking, "Do you think I'm boring because I don't drink?"

"No. Obviously not. And you have a real reason for not drinking, so—"

"—and being sad isn't a real reason to not drink?"

Taken aback by his sudden sternness, you go quiet, breath hitching within your throat. He was right, ultimately. No reason is reason enough. You knew that. 

Sensing your discomfort at his tone, he expels a breath of air and lowers his hands down to your hips. His voice drops to something a little less harsh, as he murmurs, "You are allowed to not want to drink alcohol if you don't like the way it makes you feel. If your friends think you're boring for that, then they're not worth it."

You silently nod your head, beginning to curse your emotional regulators. For while you had kept your tears at bay for the vast majority of this conversation, it seemed all it took was the gentle rubbing of circles onto your hip bones, and a fact checked piece of life advice from your boyfriend to make you cry. 

"Sorry," you sniffle, dropping your head to the crook of his neck to hide your newly tear stricken face. 

"Crying's good for you," he repeats his earlier words, and feels you nod your head. "You don't have to decide tonight. I'd encourage you not to, actually. You're technically still intoxicated."

"I'm sober," you protest, weakly. 

"Okay, honey." He's only agreeing with you to wane any further argument. "I don't think your friends will think you're boring, though, if that's any help."

"I don't think they will either."

He nods his head, and you're relaxing against him a little more. 

"Are you just trying to not be the only loser who doesn't drink?" you mumble, voice muffled by his skin.

"You've caught me."

He relishes in the laugh that leaves your lips, and he places the gentlest of kisses on the side of your head, which prompts you to lift it to look at him again. 

"You're not a loser for not drinking," you say, and his lips pull into a smile. 

He leans his head up, brushing his lips against yours, despite the mix of mint toothpaste and alcohol on your tongue. "I know. You wouldn't be either."

"I know."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[cutebat]

You know what, fuck it. I'm going to write my own neglectful yandere batfamily cause everyone else is doing it, but I'm going to do it in a different way.

Yandere Batfam x Neglected, but Defiant Reader

Prologue (Diary Entry)

Warning(s): Mentions of yandere themes, neglect, emotional abuse, mentions of physical abuse, forcing to drop out, attempted guilt tripping, reader is just venting out her feelings

(I made this in the reader's POV to make the whole 'diary entry' thing more sense.)

~~~~~

July 22, 2024

It's funny when someone tells their story.

Only to be told back that it's unrealistic.

Almost as if they're afraid to believe it's real...

Oh, God, that sounded dark.

~~~~~

For everyone who doesn't know,

Bruce is a billionaire who's also a shitty dad

Dick is a dick, like actually

Jason uses his trauma to let all his frustrations on me

Tim is a delusional bitch

Cass was okay until she knocked me to the ground

Damian is just a thing who you want to burn to ashes

Alfred... I guess is just Alfred

~~~~~

I was basically raised as what people would call a 'black sheep'. Kind of like... actually, I don't need to explain all that.

Basically, I was adopted by the infamous Bruce Wayne when I was ten for whatever reason. After the first day of living with him and the family and giving me the new role of Batgirl, everyone just pretended as if I didn't exist.

I tried to interact with every one of them and all I got were "sorry, can't talk right now" and "can you shut up".

Like, WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO TO THEM?!

Is it because I'm prettier than all of them and had barely any trauma in my past? Seriously, why are people so jealous about these kinds of things?

Bruce really signed all that paperwork for nothing.

Of course, my little ten year old brain would think that if I tried to impress all of them with what I could do, maybe I could gain their attention.

So by the time I was twelve with my ten year old mindset goal in my head, I did nine different after school activities, won over fifteen awards for my achievements, and went out to patrol at least six nights a week.

And none of that worked! Those fuckers wouldn't even spare me a glance!

~~~~~

After a while, you don't see a point in trying your best.

I dropped out of most of the clubs I regret joining, I just laid back in my classes, and most of all...

I quit being Batgirl.

I didn't want to, but like I said, where's the point in that?

So with that, I just gave up on everything and just... stopped trying.

~~~~~

But then one year all of that almost changed?

For the first time ever, I found myself suddenly really pretty, and after a month I entered eighth grade, I was suddenly asked out by one guy, then two, and all the way up to ten!

It was like really cool!

The popular girls became my best friends, more guys would ask me out, and the teachers started pointing out that I was their favorite student, even the ones who weren't my teachers.

It felt like I was on top of everything. That I was special. The world is revolving around me.

Finally, I was in a place to build a great reputation.

And then life was like FUCK THAT!

~~~~~

After the first semester of eighth grade, Bruce was weirdly in my room and he said wanted to have a 'talk' with me.

So, during this talk, he was basically talking about the last three years of me being neglected by him and his family. To be honest, I forgot everything he told me, but honestly, I don't really care.

He also told the others about all this and now they suddenly feel bad which I don't give a shit about. But, I knew he was doing all this to guilt trip me, which was honestly so stupid.

Now, after he dropped that bomb, he told me that I had to drop out of school to do some "bonding time" with the others along with him and the people who actually cared about me didn't really matter at all!

I JUST GOT SETTLED IN!

All I said was "FUCK YOU" and just stormed out of my room with the only thing that I took was my diary that I had for quite a while that I never used before.

~~~~~

So, yeah. I'm currently in the attic, venting my feelings all out on this stupid glitter diary with a random pen that I found on the ground.

But whatever.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters...

My life is just a game.

A sick, hopeless game.

[melminli]

ex, for a reason

summery - your boyfriend was the sweetest guy in the whole world, but maybe that was the problem.

pairing: kang dae-ho x fem. reader

word count: 1.4k

contains: modern au, angst w/ comfort, fluff

the request.

He really shouldn't worry about it as much as he did right now because the whole thing was just totally stupid, and all the stuff that had been going through his head was irrational. Dae-ho knew that and yet, he just couldn't stop himself from imagining multiple crazy scenarios in which you were breaking up with him - he didn't want any of this, why would he? The only heart that got broken in the process was his and it was all because of nothing.

Well, maybe there was this one thing, and that was that Dae-ho had been feeling a bit - well let’s just say - insecure about your relationship. He was very much aware of the fact that he had zero resemblance to the guys you usually date because he wasn't, well - he wasn't an asshole. You and even most of you’re friends make fun of it now that you two are together and it actually turned into some kind of inside joke that you broke the curse with him. Though, Dae-ho didn’t really feel like laughing about it right now.

This whole thing is so stupid, he thought to himself as he absently watched some show on the TV before he suddenly heard you laughing next to him. He just looked at you shortly and knew that it was probably because of something funny you saw on your cell phone. But, he just couldn’t restrain himself and had to remember the conversation you had a few days ago. He sighed again with a heavy heart at the memory because apparently, your last ex - some guy named Thanos? - had messaged you out of the blue and asked you what you were up to.

"Hey, look who just sent me a text. I thought I had blocked him everywhere?" you exclaimed, laughing as you shoved your cell phone in his face. Dae-ho just looked a bit confused at the message after he read it because he didn’t really get what you were talking about. He read it one more time, though, he was still kind of lost because it honestly just looked like a normal message, how was he supposed to figure out what was going on?

You then decided to reveal the whole thing since your boyfriend just continued to send you confused glances. "It's my ex. You know, I told you about him. The one I dated before we met."

Yeah, he could remember bits and pieces of that. "So, what does he want?" he asked, still not quite sure what was going on.

You sighed at his innocence. "He obviously wants to get back together.“

"Does he?" Dae-ho asked and was seriously surprised. He pointed at your phone while he talked. "But he just asked if you still had his old sweater, that could mean anything."

You waved as you laughed. "Oh, trust me. I know what that means.“ you assured him and thought back to the old days, which was something you didn’t like to do. „We were pretty much on and off in our whole relationship because I always tried to break things off after fighting - but then always take him back afterward. So, it just started to turn into a really bad cycle at some point, I guess.“ you tried to explain. „Anyway, he used to text me about some meaningless thing as soon as he wanted to get back together and this is one of those texts since he's also not the kind of person to send you a message if he doesn't want anything from you. I’m just surprised that he would try this again because I broke things up with him for real the last time, trust me.“

Oh. It felt like Dae-ho should be laughing at your ex's desperate attempt to get back together with you now, but he felt more like ugly crying, to be honest. „Yeah, that is pretty funny.“ he just decided to say with a forced smile on his face.

Since then, the whole situation just wouldn't let him go. No matter how hard he tried to. The way you told it, made it seem like you two got back together a lot and who was to say that maybe a part of you wouldn't want to try again - purely because of muscle memory? He wasn't the type to get irrationally angry over something like that, but he'd be lying if he said that all these negative thoughts didn't make him incredibly depressed the past few days.

"Hey, I know I've asked you this a few times now, but are you sure everything's okay?" you finally asked him when you noticed how he wasn't really paying attention to what was going on in his show. It was unusual for him to be so quiet when usually some comment about what was happening would leave him every minute.

He just nodded under his breath. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," he said, feeling guilty again for being the way he was right now.

You moved a little closer to him and hugged him lightly from the side. "You're lying and I'm tired of waiting for you to come to me on your own because, as you know, I'm not the most patient person on earth."

He avoided your gaze guiltily. "It's stupid."

"It's clearly not, because you've been acting like a depressed housewife for days."

He laughed lightly along with you at that little joke of yours. "And how is that supposed to look like?"

You smiled. "You know, you're like you always are - you make dinner, you bring me my favorite tea, but you sigh very loudly every now and then plus you're also a bit distant." you continued to broach the subject in a slightly joking manner to get rid of the heavy air around you two.

Of course, you would be aware of his bad mood. "Well, I just noticed that I'm not like the other guys you've dated before," he whispered casually while playing with the fabric of his shirt. Even though, you both knew that it seemed to be a topic that was bothering him.

You nodded. "So?" you just asked him, thinking something other would follow since you couldn’t see what the problem was. Though, there didn't seem to be anything more coming. "That's all? You’re upset because you're not like my shitty boyfriends in the past?" you repeated a bit in disbelief.

Dae-ho looked to the side, embarrassed. "I told you it was stupid..." he whispered. "I just don’t want you to think that I’m boring or something…"

You just took him in your arms and tried to suppress your laughter so as not to add salt to the wound. "I didn't mean it like that, but I'm telling you this now because you obviously to need to hear it," you said as you placed a kiss on his head. "You're not boring. You’re the sweetest boyfriend in the whole world and I would never trade you for any of my past relationships. I love you and I've never even said those words to any of my exes, did you know that?" you asked him, watching as he slowly looked up to you. "…really?" he asked you shyly, even though you had been together for a while now.

You smiled. "Really," you assured him and were glad to see your boyfriend in his normal happy state again. However, you then remembered the conversation you had a few days ago. "Was this whole thing about Thanos? You don't have to worry about him. I hate that guy, he like probably cheated on me more times than he admitted." you laughed and stopped when something else came to mind. "Besides, I think he also stole some money from me..."

Dae-ho looked at you worriedly as he held you even tighter. "Oh my god, are you serious? You never told me that, is that why you broke up with him?"

You looked away a little embarrassed yourself this time and didn't dare to confess to him that it had unfortunately taken a lot more than that for it to end between the two of you. Those weren't your proudest moments in your life. "Yeah, sure..."

But who cared about all that, right? You were the happiest you could ever be with Dae-ho and that was all that mattered. Maybe you should remind him more of that because he really didn't deserve to feel inferior to someone like that damn Thanos.

[dollzites]

⏦ﾟ♡︎ “WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHY?”

୨ৎ pairing: boyfriend!seunghyun x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff! so fluff.. so cute :(

୨ৎ from myeong: hello! this is such a cute request and I’m so excited to share this with you! I hope you can enjoy it x

the familiar feeling of a warm and soft hand grabbed ahold of your own and your eyes opened immediately, turning to look over at your boyfriend seunghyun who had been smiling at you. “we’re here, my love.” his deep voice always sent shivers down your spine. always? well, you two haven’t been a couple for too long and this was only the third date but since knowing him and spending the time you already did with him, his voice was music to your eyes and you wanted to continue hearing it until the end of your days. giving him a small nod you fix your hair and outfit making sure everything looked good before opening the door and stepping out of the car. the museum he wanted to take you too was a few hours away from the city you both lived in and though you didn’t mind the drive at all, your feet were killing you. “isn’t this so exciting? I’m sorry about the drive sweetheart.. I hope you’ll be okay to walk around with me. if not I can give you my shoes or we can find a store nearby and I’ll buy you a new pair, hm?” that was exactly how seunghyun was, a sweet gentleman. many thought of him as weird or different but you didn’t see it. you saw him as kind, caring, funny, and so loving. he did a fantastic job at showing such a good side of himself that others weren’t exposed too. you were special that’s why you got to see this side of him.

as you both walk through the large glass doors hand in hand he pulls you closer to wrap an arm around your waist and starts pointing with his other hand, showing you a piece that he was a huge fan of. what he didn’t know is that you didn’t.. how should you say this? particularly care about art and the culture of it all. it was something that didn’t ever cross your mind and even though you were a fan of painting rocks or marbles to make them pop, it was nothing like what was here at the museum. your lips curled up into a gentle smile as you nodded and listened to him speak about the painting that was now in front of you both. “this one here? it’s a newer piece that I have become familiar with.. it’s called solitude and would you like to know why?” seunghyun didn’t give you a chance to answer but you were fine with it anyway and gave a slight head nod for him to continue, “this painting here serves as a mirror, reflecting our own experiences and emotions back at us. it’s reminding us that solitude is not a burden to bear but a canvas upon which we can paint our own narratives, find solace, and discover the depth of our own souls.” you stared at him in complete awe of everything he had just said. both hands found his and gave them a slight squeeze while you turned to take another look at the beautiful painting.

as the both of you continued to walk around he found a bench in front of another painting and gently pulled you to sit down next to him. “I don’t get it seunghyun. I don’t get art and just.. everything about it. what you had told me about the last art piece was beautiful but it seems they’re all so similar in that way.” he wasn’t upset with what you said because he knows not everything he likes you’ll like but he looks at you in shock, “y/n, my love, I know we’ll have different opinions on each subject but the beauty of art is through the deep meanings and how the artist creates them.” seunghyun paused for a moment and turned to look at you with a playful and cute smile across his soft lips that you wanted to kiss so badly but held yourself back for the obvious reasons. “focus on connecting deeply with your subject matter, exploring personal experiences and emotions. utilizing strong composition techniques and.. well considering color symbolism! it’s so important. you have to constantly refine your skills through practice and exploration while also being quite mindful of the message you want to convey to the viewer.” a warm tear rolled down your cheek and you felt like such a idiot for getting so emotional over something like this. his way of words and talking about art was so beautiful to you and all you could do was hope that this would be an everyday thing in the future for you both. his large warm hand reached up to wipe the tear away and he leaned in right after letting his lips meet yours in a sweet kiss before pulling away and turning to look back at the painting in front of you.

“another beautiful painting. I think this one.. fits the both of us quite well, what do you think?” as you stare deeply at the painting from what you could see it was a couple or what seemed to be a couple and all you could do was nod, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “I think it’s beautiful seunghyun, just like you are. thank you for bringing me here even if I don’t understand the art or the process of it all. you’ve shown me a different side of it and I respect that.” a deep chuckle comes from his throat and he kisses the top of your head while pulling you closer to him as he continues to stare at the beautiful painting in front of him. what he was thinking? how lucky he was to have you and art in his life. he wouldn’t ask for anything else.

[diamond-rozie]

Tim stepped cleanly inside the room, and carefully shut the door behind him after checking if anyone was in the hallway. “What are you-” Danny started confused. Tim was acting very unusually right now. 

“I’m Red Robin.” He said.

Danny stared at him for a few seconds. Tim had expected him to be more shocked, Danny wasn’t like Damian and Bruce in the aspect of holding back his reactions. He watched Danny carefully and noticed that he wasn’t even surprised at all. 

His shoulder shifted a little, and a look passed in his eyes. He was relieved. That didn’t make any sense unless, “You knew.”

It made an irrevocable amount of sense. The stupid excuses he didn’t question, the easy slide bys on things that didn’t add up. Tim had wondered why Danny never brought it up with any of them. He was always quick to call bullshit on things but conveniently never on their mission cover ups. 

“Yeah.” He admitted quietly, findling with the small screwdriver in his hand.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Tim asked. He felt a little ridiculous about it all now, “How long have you known?” Tim’s mind went back to the dining room argument from last night and he rolled through it in his head. “Wait, Jason knows you know, doesn’t he?” Tim blurted, “That why he- why didn’t I realize this sooner?” 

“I mean I know you guys can’t just tell whoever you want. It’s a secret identity for a reason. You guys didn’t want me to know. So I acted like I didn’t.” Danny shrugged. “I figured it out when Dick and Bruce were in Amity, and yeah, Jason knows. He also knows I’m Phantom. Cass knows too- not the Phantom thing. Or maybe she does, I don't know.”

“You knew the whole time?” Tim balked. All the effort they put in to hide the proof before he came, and he knew the whole time. Wait, did he say- “You’re Phantom?” Tim practically yelled. 

Danny blinked at him, “I thought you knew that.” He pointed the end of the screw driver at him, “Why were you guys so okay with him being in the cave then?” 

“We thought he was Thomas Jr.” Tim threw his hands up, rethinking his entire career choice. “I mean, yeah he was in Amity with you, but we figured it was like a guardian ghost thing since the time Dick met him that one time when you got lost or something he was the one- holy shit, you were following them the whole time weren’t you.” 

“You thought Thomas was Phantom?” Danny laughed, finding this ridiculous. 

“Isn’t that how supernatural stuff works or something. Like, you guys are linked because you were switched with each other and because you were with the family he was supposed to be with so he turned into a protective spirit to, like, watch over you or something.” 

Danny's look of appalment only deepened as Tim continued explaining. “Who told you that?” 

“I mean we just kinda figured it out ourselves based on past experiences.” 

“Past experience?” 

“With supernatural stuff the right conclusion is always the most unexpected and slightly irrational one.”

Danny snorted at that. “That is a really bad rule of thumb.” 

“Right, then explain how you’re the ghost Phantom when you’re also human and alive Danny.” Tim crossed his arms. He was trying really hard not to over analyze that right. Did that mean Danny was dead or that Phantom was alive? How could he be both? Well according to Schrödinger's theory- not now Tim. He should make a new file for this later and then he’d think about it. Alone. In his room where he could properly freak out over this. 

“Touche.” Danny clearly thought this was funny so no need to put a damper on the mood. Especially after everything that already happened. 

This information changed a lot of things. Tim would have to refer this back to the Fenton-Masters case. What about Damian? Did he know Danny was Phantom? Probably not, considering none of them had, apparently aside from Jason. It would be almost impossible for Tim to not tell him that since they were supposed to be working it together. Tim wasn’t sure how he would take the information. Not only that, but gave a new scope to the vultures that had attacked and the monster that had showed up from the pits. 

Later. File. Many lists. 

“Do you want to come to Mt. Justice?” Tim asked him. 

“Like the museum?”

“Yes and no. It’s also the Young Justice base. It’s top secret and no ones supposed to know about it.” 

“What! Then why are you telling me?” 

“Do you wanna go or not?” 

“Is that even allowed?”

“Definitely not.”

Danny raised a brow. “Then we can’t go?”

“It’s far but we can just take the jet. It’s like 30 minutes tops. We could take the zeta-tubes but then Bruce would find out you took the zeta-tubes and then we’d be fucked. Well, mostly me. But still.” 

“Wouldn’t he find out we took the jet then?”

“He wouldn’t know you were on the jet. It’s not weird for me to be going there since it is my team.”

“What if we get in trouble?”

“We’ll only get in trouble if we get found out.” Tim shrugged, “Do you want to go or not?”

Danny considered it for a moment before a grin tipped his face. “Yeah.”

“Sweet.” Tim reached for his phone only not realizing he didn’t have it. “I’ll let them know we’ll be coming around. They’re all already there. Tell Alfred you’ll be going out with some friends and then come meet me at Drake Manor.”

Danny seemed to embrace the situation now, forgoing his earlier hesitance. “I’ll wrap up some stuff. I should do breakfast too so Alfred doesn’t think anything is up. I’ll give you a heads up before I’m out the door. I’ll take my bike.” 

“Take the long way round since the Manor’s in the opposite direction of the city.” 

Danny nodded. “What about you?” he asked. 

“No one’s gonna ask if I go in costume.” Tim shrugged, “Speaking of costume…” Tim turned to where he knew the wardrobe to be, “Let me see your clothes.” He opened the double doors in the bathroom where the closest would be and blinked at the largely empty room. “Where are the rest of your clothes?” He asked. Danny looked confused by that, “Oh,” Tim realized, “You used a second closet. Smart. Is it in the lab?” 

 “No, Tim.” He said, pacing his words, “These are all my clothes.” 

“Oh. Why?”

“This is a normal amount of clothes to own.” 

“But it’s like barely covering a fourth of your closet. And that’s only because everything is so spread apart.” 

“That's because the closest is the size of a literal barn. Why on Earth would I need that many clothes?”

“I thought Bruce gave you an allowance?” 

“He did.” 

“Is it not enough?” 

Danny balked at him. “Did you ask to see my closet just to make fun of me?” He huffed. 

“I’m not making fun, I’m concerned.” Tim said genuinely. Did Danny not feel comfortable asking for things? It must be because they were keeping so many secrets and he thought they didn’t trust him. This clearly ran deeper than Tim originally thought. 

Danny shoved his hand in Tim’s face, pushing him back. “Can we get back to the point?”

“Right.”

--- later ---

“Give it back!” 

“No, I had it first!

“Nu-uh. I just put it down for like two seconds when you grabbed it.” 

“You were gone for the whole round.” 

“Where’s the controller you had before?” 

“It died.” 

“There's a bunch of other ones in the drawer.” 

“You can have one from there, then.” 

“No! I want the one I had back.” Tim insisted. 

“No.” Danny moved so he couldn’t reach it. 

“That controller is player 1, so give it back.” 

“Exactly why I’m not giving it back.” 

“Why would you be player 1?”

Danny looked so smug at that, “If you recall, I’m actually older than you which gives me sovereign right over player 1.” He said pushing Tim away. 

“That doesn’t even mean anything!” 

“Ah, to be young and naive.” 

“Fuck you.” Tim said, tackling him off the sofa. 

“What on God’s green Earth is going on here?” Cass asked, returning from their small intermission for snacks. 

Bart rushed up to join her. “Is Danny winning?” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No you're not! Give it back.” 

“Get off me.”

Kon was the last to come onto the site. “Guys.” He said seriously, “Superman’s coming. And there’s someone with him.”

Tim stopped trying to strangle Danny, sharing a look of panic with his team. 

“So?” Danny asked, confused.

“Danny, you're not supposed to be here.” Tim hissed at him. “Shit. How do we hide you from Superman?” 

“It was nice knowing you.” Kon said with a sarcastic smile. 

“How far is he?” Cassie asked. 

“He’ll be here in like two minutes.” 

“I’ll hide under the couch, he probably won’t look under there.” Danny offered. 

“He can hear your heartbeat.” 

Danny smiled widely. “I got it covered.” He said, pulling himself into the small space.

Bart giggled in excitement. 

“How-”

Kon gave a silent sign that Superman was here, sending a confused look towards the couch Danny had slid under. Tim’s phone buzzed with a notification. 

Just then, “Konner?” Clark called from the Mission Room. 

The team shared a silent look. They’d just have to trust Danny had this covered. 

“We’re in here.” Bart called even though Clark would already know that.

Tim put up two fingers to silently ask Kon if there was someone else with him. He received an affirmative. This was a horrible day for prospective teammate introductions. 

“Hey guys.” Clark smiled, then confused “Why are you sitting on the floor Red Robin?” He asked.

“I was checking something.” Tim said, picking up the controller Danny had been forced to abandon. 

“Oh, okay.” He nodded, not questioning it further. “I’m glad all of you are already here.”

“Are we getting a mission?” Cassie asked. 

“Sort of.” Clark said, excited. Then in Kryptonian, “ Come .” He said to someone behind him they couldn’t see. Tim couldn’t hear any footsteps. And he found out it was because the person Clark was introducing them to could fly. And Tim also found out that Clark had spoken in kryptonian because this new person was a kryptonian. One that Tim had never met before. “This is Kara. She’s my cousin. The entire situation isn’t all clear yet but as it stands we understand that her pod, while launched at the same time as mine, was caught in an asteroid belt and was only left free recently, when it landed near the Fortress of Solitude.” Clark turned to Kara and introduced them to her in Kryptonian and then added, “ Tim and Kon-el speak Kryptonian which is why I thought you would be more comfortable here instead of the Watch Tower. Though, Kon’s could use some work. ” He teased. 

“Hey, my Kryptonian is fine.” 

“Why don’t you try saying that in Kryptonian?” 

“ My fine is Kryptonian .” Kon said confidently. 

Clark laughed and Kara looked at Kon like he grew a second head. 

“I don’t even speak Kryptonian and I could tell that didn’t sound right.” Cassie laughed. 

Tim took his turn to introduce himself to the nervous and quite blonde. “ I’m Red Robin. ” He pointed to the symbol on his chest. “ It’s nice to meet you. ” He put out a hand for her to shake but Kara just stared at it. Maybe they don’t have hand shakes on Krypton. Since Clark had grown up on Earth he didn’t really know much about the customs of his home planet for them to have learned it beforehand. 

“ Nice to meet you. I am Kara Zor-el, daughter of Captain Zor-El and the Lady Alura. ” Then she stuck out her hand like Tim had. When Tim took it to shake Kara seemed surprised by it. 

“ You’ll be in good hands here, Kara. I’ll be back to check on you later but if you need anything Kon or any of the others can get a hold of me for you, okay ?” Clark said softly trying to gauge if she’d actually be okay here without him. 

Kara started at Clark for a moment like she was processing what he’d said, “ Why will anyone need to hold you? ” 

“Oh.” Clark pondered it, “ It’s an Earth phrase. It just means that they’ll send me a message or contact me if you feel like you want me to come back. ” 

Kara took another pause to process and then, “ I see. ” And does a hand gesture that Tim didn’t understand. And neither did Clark. No one commented on it. 

After Clark left the atmosphere of the room went stale. Danny was still under the couch and they weren’t sure how willing Kara would be to not tell Clark about it. But they couldn’t leave Kara. And Tim’s phone was buzzing with notifications that he did not want to check because he recognized the haptics of the health app he had. The one that had everyone, including Danny’s, vitals. Danny, who Tim was pretty sure had just stopped his heart for the entire duration of Clark being here. Which had been a very long duration.

Kara looked between them, confused. “ Is there something meant to be done? ” 

“ How’s your english, Kara?” Tim asked.

“ Only a little . Kal-El said it will take time .” 

“ Langage harding learn. ” Kon nodded. Kara lipped his words back to herself trying to make sense of it. 

“What do we do about our stowaway?” Cass whispered to Tim. She didn’t speak Kryptnoian, but she understood enough to know what Tim had asked. 

“I could dash him out. Maybe we could spend the day together at the mall and then we’ll be best friends and then he won’t want to hang with Tim anymore because he’d rather hang out with me because I’m so much more fun.” Bart said all in one breath, his words afterwards speeding up too fast for Tim to make any sense of. 

“She’ll know something’s up. We need to test her loyalty.” Tim strategized while Kon attempted to keep Kara in conversation. 

“How? And why haven't any of the supes been able to hear him yet?” Cassie asked. 

Bart took a pause on his earlier ramblings to make Tim’s life more difficult. “Oh it’s because he’s not breathing. Isn’t that so cool.” 

Cassie shot Tim an alarmed look. “He’s a meta.” Tim said off handedly, “Can we focus?” 

“Are you aware that your brother might be suffocating to death? In fact, we may need to hide a corpse and I sure as hell would love to hear how you're going to explain that away at family dinner.” 

“Oh, don’t worry Danny’s fine.” Bart said flippantly. “Danny, if you can hear us, make the room one degree colder.” 

Tim couldn’t feel anything but Kon and Kara did. Kara eyed the room confused about the change but fortunately she didn’t comment on it. 

“So cool.” Bart whistled, lapping the room. 

“Convinced yet?” Tim asked Cassie.

“He’s an ice meta how- you know what, I don’t want to know. So how are we going to test our warden?” 

The lounge room was decorated to look like a regular living room, including hanging “family pictures” on the wall. Everyone on the wall was in costume, for security reasons, but they were actual nice pictures of the team and their mentors. Tim pulled out a batarang from his pocket, and played around with it for a while, talking aloud about random things. It only needed to sound like a real sentence since Kara couldn’t understand what he was saying anyway. Then the batarang “slipped” out of his hand landing right in one of the larger framed pictures. The impact was loud and the glass of the frame shattered and spilled on the floor. 

Cassie didn’t have to fake her flinch in surprise at that, turning to Tim alarmed. Tim adding to the performance acted shocked. Kara and Kon obviously hadn’t missed the commotion and their conversation stopped. Kara looked at the destruction of the frame, analyzing Tim and Cassie’s reaction.  

“Dude.” Bart turned to him wide-eyed, stopping in his tracks, “We’re so dead.” Kara didn’t speak english, sure, but the dread in Bart’s voice was obvious enough. 

“Why did you do that?” Cassie scolded, “That was Red Tornado's favorite.” 

Tim held his head in his hands dramatically, then he let realization dawn on his features. Slowly he turned to face Kara. “ I’ll get in really big trouble if Kal-El or anyone finds out. I can hide it, but you won’t tell will you? ” He made himself sound really worried. 

“ Won’t it be noticed? The image is large .” Kara asked. She was beginning to share their concern on her face, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she would keep her mouth shut about it.

“ Clean up can. ” Kon said in a reassuring tone. Kara looked at him sideways, clearly confused. 

“ They don’t really come in here often so we can pass it off. But you can’t tell. ” Tim told her. 

Kara looked like she was having a hard time understanding him as well. An easier time than with Kon for obvious reasons but still not an easy time. Tim couldn’t understand why since he had made sure their Kryptonian was in perfect condition. “ Pass it off? ” She echoed, confused. 

Kara must not have understood the phrase.“ Pretend like it didn’t happen .” Tim explained. 

She thought about it and nodded. “ An Earth phrase? ” 

“ Yes. ” 

Kara didn’t answer right away and Tim wasn’t sure if it was because she was still deciphering what he’d said or if she was thinking about telling. “ I will not tell Kal-El or his associates since no one was hurt and it was only a minor incident .” Cassie and Bart had already cleaned up most of the mess why Tim talked to Kara. Tim had made sure to hit the frame so only the glass would be shattered and the actual picture was mostly unharmed except for the small tear in the corner. That would be easy enough to cover up. 

Kara's body language was stiff and she was watching everything very carefully. It wasn’t strange since she had been left with a group of strangers in a new environment and she didn’t speak the local language. She seemed around Tim’s age or maybe a little older. Kara was meant to land on Earth with a mission to watch and protect Clark. This implied that she was of a status and position to receive missions. This meant she would work by a set of rules and report to a supervisor. The supervisor was likely Clark who was most likely to take responsibility for her for a variety of reasons. 

Cassie gave Tim a raised eyebrow to ask how it was going as she walked away to dispose of the glass shards. 

It would be a gamble. A deadly one. But if Tim made it look like Danny being here wasn’t that big of a breach of the rules he could convince her to keep it to herself. He shared a look with Kon. 

“ I’m really thankful, Kara. ” Tim says, smiling. He pulls out his phone and texts Cassie and Bart their half of the plan. “ We can show you around the rest of the base. Would you like to do that? ”

“ Okay .” 

“ Room fun lounge after work. Play TV on games .” Kon said. 

Kara stared at him.

“How about I do the talking?” Tim put a hand on Kon’s shoulder. 

“Why? I’m doing so good.” Kon said genuinely. Tim doesn’t respond to that. 

The tour lasted minutes and Tim made sure to bide their time well so Cassie, Bart and Danny could be fully settled in before they returned. It would take a while for Danny’s heart rate to return to normal, and it would be better that he was all there before they tried to pull this off. 

Tim checked his phone when they were nearing the end of the tour. Cassie had texted him they were good on their end. 

“ Let’s go back to meet the others. They don’t speak Kryptonian but we can translate for you so don’t worry. ” Tim said. Kara seemed nice, it was the circumstances that were a bit stressful. But that didn’t mean they should let her feel left out.

“ This is your team ?” Kara asked, following Tim back to the lounge room.

“ Yes we do missions together sometimes. When we’re not working we spend time at the base because we’re friends. ” 

“ It is nice to have friends. ” Kara nodded. 

“ Did you do missions with your friends on Krypton? ” Tim asked. Maybe he could gauge what her position had been to see how she would react. 

“ Only practice. We did not graduate from training yet. ” 

“ Going what’s there ?” Kon asked. Tim had no idea what he was saying. 

“ What dialect does he speak? ” Kara asked Tim. “ I cannot understand it. ” 

 “ We learned the same Kryptonian, Kon just doesn’t practice. ” Tim laughed. Kon understood enough that he elbowed him. “ Are there dialects in Kryptonian? ” 

“ Many. You and Kal-El speak very… proper. ” She said sheepishly. “ No one speaks that way where I am from. Only in important meetings with outsiders .” Then she paused sadly, “ Mother always said it was important to learn but I did not listen. ” Tim had figured Kara spoke so rigidly because she was nervous or shy. This explained why she was having such a hard time understanding them. 

They reached the lounge to Cassie and Danny locked deeply in a game of rock, paper, scissors. Danny had pulled his hood back up and was wearing his cowl from earlier. He had picked one of the older models that covered most of his face until the end of his nose and past his cheekbones. Danny shot scissors at Cassie, beating her paper. Bart cheered loudly, throwing his hands in the air and Cassie groaned in defeat. Danny cackled as he took the last cookie. 

“Hey, D. When’d you get here?” Tim asked for the sole purpose of silently telling the others to not call Danny by his real name.

With a mouth full of cookie, “A while ago. Who’s this?” He asked, gesturing his head to Kara. 

Tim made wide gestures and spoke clearly in english so Kara could pick up what he was saying. It would be important for her to learn. “This is Kara, she’s Superboy’s cousin.”

“I thought she was his aunt?” Cassie asked. 

Danny didn’t look nervous, fortunately, and smiled easily at Kara. Then to Tim’s surprise, “ Nice to meet you. ” he said in perfect kryptonian. 

“ He speaks as well. ” Kara commented. 

“You can speak Kryptonian, too?” Kon asked. 

“Duh.” Bart answered. 

“Dead languages are my speciality.” Danny said pointedly. Bart giggled at that. 

“ Should we build a hole by playing a game? ” Danny asked, moving on the couch to give everyone else more room. 

“ Build a hole? ” Tim laughed, “What?”

Kara looked at Danny surprised, “ You know of that? ” She asked excitedly, her eyes lighting up. 

“It’s a phrase, basically like “break the ice’.” Danny answered, then for Bart and Cassie, “Do you guys know any games we can play?” 

“ You speak very well .” Kara complimented excitedly, leaving Tim’s side to talk to Danny. “ Did you also learn? ” Meaning is he a native speaker. 

“ Kind of? ” He laughed, “ You can speak more comfortably if you’d like. ” He gestures for her to sit.

Kara seems hesitant at first, but then she says something. It sounded Kryptonian but the accent was different to what Tim was used to and he could only make out some of it. To Kara’s delight and Tim’s further surprise Danny not only understood exactly what she’d said but even responded in the same way. 

It takes a while for them to settle on a game to play given all the language barriers. Kara spoke in what Tim learned was Standard Kryptonian but would often switch to her local dialect when she didn’t know how to say things. Kon and Tim could only understand Standard, and in all honesty, between them Tim was the only one who could speak it. Bart and Cassie couldn’t speak at all. 

They decided to play charades. It was awkward and hard at first, but they all got really into it by the third round. They kept the categories simple since Kara wouldn’t know any movies. Fortunately, she seemed to feel a lot more comfortable and talked a lot more, even if it was mostly just to Danny. There were times she would make an effort to say things in english. It was really broken but they all made sure to appreciate it and tried her best to understand. 

“I’m hungry guys.” Cassie said after her turn to act out her word, plopping herself in her spot between Bart and Kon. 

“Me too.” Bart agreed mournfully. 

“You’re always hungry.” 

“Should we order Pizza?” Tim asked, pulling out his phone. 

“I want pineapples on mine!” Bart said.

“Ew. No.” Cass kicked him. “I’ll have my usual.” She told Tim.

“Like mushrooms and olives are any better.” Kon snickered. 

“It’s better than pineapples.” 

Kara looked between them curiously. 

“Danny, ask Kara what she wants.” Tim instructed. 

After hearing them talk for the last hour Tim had finally been able to pick on some of the words but the grammar of it still eluded him. 

“ Everyone, something, something, food. ” Danny said.

Kara looked intrigued, “ What, something, eating, something. ” 

“ Something, something, like, something. ” He paused thoughtfully, making a circle in the air presumably to explain what a pizza was. “Something… ” Then, he pulled Tim’s phone to face them and pointed to the picture of a pizza on the website. “ This .”

Kara looked hesitant, “ ...Some…thing? ” 

Danny nodded encouragingly, “Something. Something, good.” He said. 

Glancing back at the picture, Tim could see on her face that she’d made a decision but she didn’t say anything. “Okay.” She said in english with a nod. “Have.”

“Great!” Finishing it up, “Kon, Bart.” Tim signaled. 

“Ugh. Why do we have to get it every time?” Kon complained, throwing a pillow at Tim. 

“I’m not going because I was the one that paid for it.” 

“I’m not going ‘casue I don’t want to.” Cassie said, kicking her foot onto the coffee table. 

“But you were the one who said you wanted food.” Kon complained, already standing up. 

“I could go.” Danny offered.

“You're funny. Absolutely not.” Tim shut down. 

Kara looked at Danny curious, “ Saying, something, what? ” 

“ Something, food, something, go. ” 

In english, “...Kitch...en?” She pointed in the direction of it and spoke in Standard Kryptonian, “ Is it not there? ” 

“ No. ” Tim shook his head, “ The store cooks it and we just have to give them money and take it from them .” He was careful not to throw in phrases she didn’t know.

Kara looked confused by the concept but accepted it. 

“Wait until she finds out about Drive-Thrus.” Danny joked to Tim. 

“I’m going to go check on the left-overs.” Cassie said heading to the kitchen.

Tim checked everyone's location on his phone. Danny’s was offline for obvious reasons, fortunately no one had freaked out about it yet. But he couldn’t be too sure. “I’m going to check on our smoke screen in the mission room.” Tim told Danny, “You’ll be okay here with her?” 

“What if we get abducted by non-friendly aliens in the five minutes you’ll be gone?” Danny’s tone was serious but his face was mischief. 

“I hope you do.” Tim scoffed, walking out.

---

“It’s just one slice, Red.” Danny tried to reach over his shoulder 

“No.” Tim blocked his food with his body, “You have your own.” 

“I just want to try!” 

“No! Eat yours.” 

“You let Kara have some!”

“That’s because I like Kara and I don’t like you.” 

“But yours looks so much more better than mine.” Danny whined, still reaching. 

“Lesson for next time then.” 

“C’mon, you’re not even going to finish it.”

Everyone watched them like a sitcom while they got to enjoy their food without meddling siblings. “I will. Just so you can’t have any.” Tim shoved as much of the slice in his mouth as he physically could. He was actually already full. 

“You're the worst.” Danny said, shoving Tim. 

“And you're worse.” Tim countered, pushing him back. 

Tim hadn’t pushed Danny very hard. Danny probably took harder hits during hockey practice. Tim had pushed him just hard enough that it forced Danny to take a step back to balance himself. Which was when he’d stepped on a wrapper Bart had left on the floor. Danny lost his balance and fell. But not before hitting his head hard on the metal fridge door behind him. 

Cassie gasped in shock. Kon and Bart rushed over to check on him. Kara watched wide-eyed, not sure what to do. 

Tim quickly stepped forward, “Hey, are you-” Next thing he knows there's a whole tube of ranch being squirted on his costume. His freshly washed costume. 

Danny watches Tim’s face morph from concern to absolute disgust with a deep satisfaction and cackles like the villain he is.

“You are such an asshole.” 

“Takes one to know one.” Danny’s on his feet and Tim chased him with a packet of garlic sauce that came with the pizza. 

Apparently feeling left out, Bart decided to dump his glass of juice all over Kon’s head. 

“Dude.” Kon shouts, but he’s quick to retaliate.

“Missed me.” Bart teases using the speed force to dodge. 

Cassie and Kara, the only civilized people here, sit and eat their pizzas at the island watching them. 

“They’re so dumb.” Cassie says to Kara, exasperated. 

Kara smiles following the action with her eyes. “ How fun .” She replies and they share a laugh even without understanding each other. 

snipbit from this fic

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

For the first time since they saved the world, since Steve carried Eddie out of hell, and their bat bites had healed, Eddie was finally hanging out with Steve without impending doom hanging over their heads. Robin was also there as she didn't want to miss Steve cooking, and Eddie didn't blame her.

"Holy fucking shit!" Eddie yelled, slamming down his fork. "Fucking marry me."

Steve blinked at him, blushing, and his mouth fell open. He quickly closed it and smiled.

"Okay!"

"Oh! I'll go get the book!" Robin exclaimed, clapping her hands as she ran off.

"Book?" Eddie asked. "What? What's going on?"

Robin soon came back with a large white binder with a lock on it. She slammed it on the table and pulled out a key from under her shirt, unlocking it.

"This is Steve’s wedding book. As his best man, I hold the key," Robin said.

"Wait, hold on, that wasn't a real - ," Eddie started to say.

"Ooh, some of these were definitely written before me. That's definitely Baby Steve’s handwriting. . . Ooh, I can just imagine little Stevie putting a white sheet over his perfect hair," Robin said. "So, Spring, Fall, Summer, or Winter?"

"I was thinking Fall-ish," Steve said. "Near the end of August, maybe in September. Not too cold, not too hot."

Robin closed her eyes and held a pen in the air. Where did the pen come from?

"August 30th! I feel it! Perfect day!" Robin exclaimed.

"Wait, just a goddamn minute! What are you doing?!" Eddie shrieked.

"Planning your wedding to Steve, duh," Robin said, rolling her eyes. "Now, Steve, are you sure about the groom?"

"Yeah," Steve said, grinning. "He's funny, very cute, and good with kids. Yeah, I'll take him."

"You like men?!" Eddie asked.

"Duh, babe, keep up. He's already told you this," Robin said.

"Fucking when?!" Eddie asked.

"In the hospital," Steve replied.

"When I was on painkillers?!" He asked.

"You still want Dustin to be the flower girl?" Robin asked Eddie.

"Oh, shit, that actually would be hilarious- no, nope, no way! This isn't happening!" Eddie yelled.

"Did you ask Steve to marry you?" Robin asked.

"Well, yes, but - "

"Did he say yes?"

"Again, yes, however - "

"Then you're engaged. Congratulations," Robin said.

"Ooh, we have enough money in the budget for weddings 2, 5, and 8!" Steve explained, looking over her shoulder.

"When I said that Steve should marry me, I wasn't -," Eddie said.

"Can you think of a reason why you shouldn't marry Steve?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't even know if I like men! I like women!" Eddie shrieked, running his hands over his face.

"You said something different in the hospital," Steve said.

"You mean, when I was on painkillers?!" He asked. "You're fucking with me. You guys are fucking with me."

"Babe, you seem stressed out by all this wedding planning," Steve said, taking his hand.

"I am VERY stressed out," Eddie said.

"Just let me and Robin handle it. I have been planning my wedding since I was like five, and trust me, I have never been a fan of big weddings, so it's going to be low-key and tasteful," Steve said, squeezing his hand.

"This is illegal," Eddie said weakly and in disbelief.

"Yeah, like none of us have ever done anything illegal," Steve rolled his eyes. "A marriage is more than just a piece of paper. Besides, I don't want the government at my wedding anyway."

"Fuck, yeah, me neither," Eddie said, shaking his head. "This is crazy!"

"Look, Eddie, I know this is sudden, and I know how scary it is to deal with all of this as well as speed running through a sexuality crisis. It's been a couple of months, but there were days where I sat by your bedside, hoping you would wake up, and when you did, I realized that I wanted to wake up next to you every morning," Steve said softly, rubbing his thumb. "I want to hear every single rant, even the ones where you're being as asshole. I love you, and if you really don't want to do this, then I'll back down."

Eddie looked into Steve’s hazel eyes, swallowing thickly as he imagined being married to him and waking up with him every day. He already knew that Steve could handle how chaotic he could be, how much he loved the kids despite his loud protests, and he remembered all the talks about their asshole fathers who basically abandoned them. Eddie remembered waking up in the hospital and seeing Steve’s relieved red rimmed eyes. He knew without a doubt that Steve was a partner that he could depend on.

"Okay! I've decided that I'm just going to let this happen!" Eddie said, throwing up his hand. "But I can't be domesticated! I refuse!"

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Steve grinned.

"Also, during one of the dances, we're playing Metallica!" He yelled.

"Done!"

Steve leaned over the table and kissed Eddie, who didn't waste a second kissing him back. Yeah, he liked it, and he wasn't ever going to kiss anyone else. On some level, he had known that as soon as he had slammed Steve against the wall of that boathouse.

"Oh my God! I'm marrying Steve Harrington!"

TWO DAYS LATER. . .

Eddie was sprawled out on the couch in his brand new living room when Wayne came in, back from his fishing trip. Eddie frowned as he tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

"So, how'd the dinner with Steve go?" Wayne asked.

"Well, the food was so good that I asked Steve to marry me, and he said yes," Eddie said. "It's on August 30th, save the date."

"You're hilarious, son," Wayne said, rolling his eyes. "You should be a comedian."

Suddenly, Steve burst out of the kitchen, looking flustered.

"Okay, I decided to be the bigger person here. I'm going to invite my parents to the wedding," Steve said. "If they don't come, they don't come. Hopper's already agreed to walk me down the aisle. Oh, hey, Wayne. I hope you don't mind, I wanted to cook for my fiancé and my future father in law. How was the fishing trip?"

Wayne stared at him, blinking at Steve and then at Eddie. Wayne sighed, shaking his head.

"Not a goddamn bite. Waste of a trip," Wayne said.

"Damn," Steve said and looked at the kitchen. "I have to check on the food. Sorry. I want to hear more about it!"

"Smells good, son!" Wayne yelled and plopped down on the couch next to Eddie.

"You accepted that pretty quickly," Eddie said.

"You can't do better than Steve. He went to hell and back for you. He never left your side. . .he loves you, and I can't ask for a better partner for my boy. . .speaking of why aren't you in there helping your fella?" Wayne asked.

"He kicked me out," Eddie pouted.

"You almost took my head off with a skillet!" Steve exclaimed.

"I nearly took him out, and he still wants to be with me," Eddie sighed happily and tucked his head into Wayne's shoulder. "By the way, when you walk me down the aisle, you can't let me fall, you know how I am."

"I would never let you fall."

Eddie smiled. Despite everything that happened, that's still happening. . .Eddie was happy, and he was getting married to the most wonderful guy in the entire world. Suddenly, Eddie sat up.

"Oh, no," Eddie said.

"What?"

"We told Dustin and the kids, but I didn't think to tell Ronnie," Eddie gasped.

"You mean, your best friend since you were eight?" Wayne asked.

"Yeah, I am in deep - "

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, and Ronnie Ecker stood there in all her long-legged glory.

"You're getting married to Steve Harrington?!" She asked. "And I had to hear about it from a 12 year old?!"

"He's 14, actually," Eddie said casually. "How was the trip from New York?"

Eddie suddenly remembered the thing Robin had reminded him to do: don't forget to tell your platonic soulmate.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

older brother touya au, endeavor is still an asshole, shouto interacts w his siblings lol, bby shouto, hyper active kinda rough reader (you tackle shouto), shouto and touya have an unspecified age gap but i was thinkin like 10 years (so touya is 17 and shou is 7), just a liiiil bit angsty but mostly fluffy, lemme know if i missed sum else !

touya knows his little brother shouto is kinda weird.

he rarely ever sees him happy, or with any sort of emotion on his face for that matter. he has little habits that he hates not being able to follow and he's incredibly nit picky about them. he doesn't outwardly emote but that doesn't mean he couldn't be bratty when he wanted to be, cus he is but that's also about super specific weird stuff like what he wants to have for dinner (which always ends up being cold soba anyways).

he's also not much of a talker. he's a little shy, but he also just doesn't like talking. it's impossible to miss the huge red scar around his eye, he doesn't like to play outside and roughhouse like touya did when he was his age and he still doesn't have any friends at school. shouto never seemed to be bothered by it, though touya assumes that his peers might find him weird too.

except they better not, because touya's the only one who can call his brother weird. and deep down, he worries a little for him.

until he comes back home from school, his sweater is tucked out and there's a dirt stain on it. his hair is messy and his backpack is haphazardly closed, his little notebooks propped inside and his pencil case threatening to fall out.

natsuo, the one charged to pick him up that day, sheepishly scratches at his neck "he won't tell me what happened to him." he explains as touya practically charges towards shouto, he doesn't look hurt, so his older brother roughly turns him around to check his bag.

" but i told you what happened, natsu-nii."

"you don't have to lie, shouto--"

"what happened to you ?" touya cuts in, looking inside his brothers bag to check if nothing was missing, it looks intact from what he can tell.

"i played with my friend." shouto says simply, like that explains why he looked like he'd just walked through a hurricane. touya already knows he's gonna get an earful about this from his father. he inwardly groans.

"you sure your friend didn't just mug you ?" he flips his brother around and shouto's little arms flail as he does, unbothered by his brother's rough treatment. he tilts his head, touya sighs.

"bully you, i mean."

shouto's eyes widen, then he hurriedly shakes his head, denying him ever getting bullied and simply claiming he was playing. touya shares a look with natsuo, who looks just as unconvinced as him at his brothers words.

"who's this friend of yours, shou ?"

"yn."

"yn ?" both brothers say at the same time. shouto nods and touya catches a small little glint in his eyes as he looks back at him "she's really nice."

"this doesn't seem nice. you look like you got robbed." touya furrows his brows, sneering at his brothers dirty shirt. he starts dragging the youngest toward the bathroom. hopefully he'd be fully clean before their father got home and he wouldn't have to get in trouble. for god knows what reason. enji todoroki would probably find a way to place the blame on him, something about how he should've been the one to pick him up or gotten there earlier he guesses.

"yn likes to play games where you move around a lot." is what he offers as explanation. touya hums absentmindedly as he ushers his brother into the bathroom, deciding on how he should deal with his youngest brother's first ever bully. because of the age gap he doubts the kid is any smaller than his brother is, so he thinks he'll probably just try to scare off whoever this yn is.

"how 'bout i pick you up from school tomorrow and i can meet yn. that sound good ?" and shouto excitedly nods at the idea, gushing about how funny and nice you are and that you share your snacks with him. it's weird how fondly he talks about his bully, but touya knows his brother's always been a little weird, he probably has no idea what's happening to him. the thought makes him frown just a bit harder.

the next day after school, touya is already at the gates before they've even opened ready to scare the pants off of his brothers harasser. he sees shouto walking out of the gates with a few other kids, alone. the little boy perks up once he sees him and sends him a high wave, which touya returns with one of his own lazier one's.

"where's your friend ?" he tries his best not the spit the word too venomously, shouto doesn't seem to notice.

"yn is coming. her bag isn't closing well, so she told me to go ahead without her." he explains, reaching for his brother's hand absentmindedly.

touya is about to respond when he hears yelling. yelling that gets closer and closer to them until he notices too late that a little person is rushing towards his brother. before he can pull him out of the way the person has jumped onto shouto and knocked the both of them onto the ground. and touya watches flabbergasted as his younger brother does not look surprised at all, like shit like this just happened every tuesday. his mouth falls open when the little girl that had charged into his brother excitedly starts hopping slightly on top of him.

"shouto !"

"hi, yn."

touya is going to fucking lose his mind.

you get closer to shouto's face still sitting on him, touya assumes to make sure he could hear you even thought he doubts he couldn't before. " i thought ya left without me, i couldn't see you !"

shouto shakes his head, still on the floor "i said i would wait for you." he says seriously. and you practically beam, nudging your cheek to his and rubbing it against his affectionately. shouto doesn't seem fazed by it, but he definitely doesn't seem angry.

you don't seem like a bully, at least.

you finally realise you're not alone, looking up at touya strangely "who're you ?" you ask bluntly. shouto responds before he could. "touya- nii's my older brother, he's the one i wanted to show you."

you don't seem like a bully, especially not when you immediately turn to shouto the moment he opens his mouth, holding onto every word you hear. your eyes widen looking between touya and him, "that's your brother ?!" shouto nods proudly. you finally get off of him allowing shouto to get up too.

"coool !" you exclaim, but then you quickly turn towards shouto " but you're cooler, shouto !" shouto's eyes widen, before he almost bashfully looks away, claiming that his touya-nii is was way cooler than him. touya has never seen his brother this expressive before. it might not be much for others, and if he were anybody else he'd think so too. but even the fact his brows raise when you speak and he actually engages in conversation with you, as short as he keeps it, is surprising.

but from that small interaction, he can assume that you're not a bully. and he understands why his brother looked like he got jumped yesterday.

you're so much more different then him though, it's weird. you're hyper and giggly and chatty. you jump around and you can't seem to pull yourself away from shouto, who really doesn't seem unhappy although you're a bit rough about it. it’s like you’re glued to him.

shouto who barely even talks to his family talks to easily with you, even though you start the conversation all the time. shouto who only ever eats cold soba gleams at your promise to bring more snacks to share with him, like you apparently do every day. and shouto who touya barely ever sees emote, smiles when you tell him something funny. he can't tell wether his little brother smiles because he actually finds what you said funny or because you do. but whatever it is, it's making him happy.

touya is so shocked simply staring at his brother interact with another human being that he fails to use the little 'leave my brother alone if you know what's good for you.' speech he'd practiced the night before and suddenly you have to go. waving at him and shouto (not before hugging him with all your might first), who sadly waves back as he watches you leave. though he cheers up just a bit when with a last wave you tell him that you'll see him tomorrow.

touya, despite not having said a word feels incredibly tired, so he starts pulling his brother along home with him.

"so..that was your friend."

shouto nods "yn." he says.

"yn." touya parrots, eyes drifting from his brother to the road ahead of him. "she's kinda weird, huh ?"

at that, shouto's eyebrows furrow hard and he furiously shakes his head, tugging at his brother’s hand "no. she's nice." he corrects adamantly. touya stares at his brother, before looking away again "right.." he sighs "well, she seems to like you a lot."

his little brother nods again, a faint smile forms on his face "cus the people in class are mean to her. cus she's new and they say she's weird, but i don't think she is." he rambles, he actually rambles, touya blinks. he doesn't think he's ever been more surprised than he's been today. "yeah ?" is all he utters.

"yeah. people think i'm weird too, but yn says she thinks i'm cool." touya's eyes soften at his brothers words. he raises his arm up so his little brother is slightly lifted in the air. "course you're cool, you're my little brother." smiling softly to himself when shouto giggles.

touya knows that his little brother is weird, but he doesn't have to be worried anymore. cus it seems you like him, that you think he's cool and that you're weird too, in your own way. shouto keeps coming back home with dirty clothes and messy hair after that, but with happy and satisfied eyes and little candies he shares with his siblings that he made them promise to keep a secret. and he thinks his little brother will be fine, as weird as he is.

[lightaflaem]

𝐩𝐨𝐯: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭.

pairing: tattoo artist!suna x f!reader

genre: semi-angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive

word count: 5.1k

content warnings: profanities, suggestive themes, mentions of needles, sticks, poking, sharp objects, blood, mentions of abuse, scars, violence, trauma, addiction

summary: after countless attempts to convince your tattoo artist college friend, suna rintaro, to do your body art, you couldn’t understand why he keeps on rejecting you. not until he told and showed you the real reason why.

“Is this the chair where your clients sit to get their tattoos done?” you asked, pointing at the leather chair in front of you.

“Yeah, where else do you think I got it done?” Suna answered, not removing his eyes from the patterned tape he’s been wrapping on the grip on the gun.

“So, when are you going to do mine?” you hopped on the leather material, arm resting on the extended side as you clean your antecubital area with your other free hand. It’s obviously not set for your height as you tried making yourself comfortable on the depthness of the chair.

“Very funny, Y/N. Now get off that chair and help me set these up. There's small sized gloves under the cabinet beside that chair, wear those before touching anything.” he ordered, not giving a single fuck about your question. Rolling your eyes, you stood up and started searching for the gloves in the compartment.

“Why won’t you do my tatts?”

“‘Cause you're my friend.”

“Seriously, Rintaro? You have favoritism.”

“Seriously, Y/N. I don’t have favoritism and I don’t do tatts for my friends because I already know them. My brain becomes a mush when it comes to thinking of designs when I already know the person.”

Your jaw dropped at his answer. You don’t buy it. Seriously, what the fuck is he playing with? Irked, you intentionally wore the pair of latex with much more force, making it slap against your wrist hard enough to leave marks. You placed a sterile mat on the stainless surface of the table, aligning the vaseline-coated small cups horizontally and started loading it up with black and red inks.

“You’d make a great apprentice.” he commented as he watched you do the preparations the same way he does it before every session. Each and every step was done with fragility, just like how you retained his routine by watching him do the same thing for the past few years of being with him.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to get a red tattoo,” you spoke as you continued filling the cups. “It’s sexy and I think I’ll look hot in it.”

“But you always look hot, with or without that red ink.” Suna said casually, making your heartbeat accelerate but you didn’t let it get into you because he probably said it to his clients most of the time.

“I know right. That’s why when my college friend became a tattoo artist, the force of getting it done doubled up. Specifically by him.” you know that you didn’t fail to emphasize how badly you wanted to get your body art done by him but maybe for him, he saw it as nothing but a mere compliment for his works.

Who would have thought that the quiet kid from one of your elective classes way back in college a few years ago who subsequently also became your close friend because of a mutual friend, the Miya twins, who were your classmates since you’re in elementary school, will become a famous tattoo artist specializing in line arts, minimalism, and patchworks.

Suna also probably never saw that his future will be like this. From just surviving everyday to a big time personality of inks and needles. With the freedom and peace he gained from following his calling, he also took a leap of faith to change his physical appearance from cropping his hair shorter, both arms, chest, and neck full of patchwork of random tattoos, and his signature snake bites that captivated the hearts of his crowd.

He never liked fame, though. He always hides whenever he’s got the chance to escape from paparazzi and respectfully declines the clients he doesn't want to work with and cannot work with. He's hard to get. That makes him more fascinating in the eyes of others. It’s like he’s hidden behind those inks and it will take thousands of needles to uncover. He’s surely one of a kind.

His skill in generating different designs specifically for each client is no joke. A lot of local and international artists and internet personalities are hitting up his instagram direct messages, asking for his details of booking. You vividly remember one of his interviews wherein he was asked if he ever recycled a design for different clients and what makes him unique from other tattoo artists. He answered“Each client has their own blueprint depending on their cup of tea. That’s what makes me unique from other artists. I created my own scheme and let it align on my client’s skin like it’s running out of breath and ink’s the only thing it needed to satisfy its hunger.”

He’s distinct. He’s consistent. He’s a genius.

But why the hell wouldn't he do your tattoo?

“You're an ink virgin, right? Why do you want to get your tattoo done by me so much?” With much curiosity, Suna leaned against the chair, arms crossing against his chest as his eyes squeezed, waiting to scrutinize your answer.

“Why not? It’s because it’s you.” you simply answered back, finally capping the bottle of ink. In your peripheral vision, you saw how Suna’s eyes dilated but still kept his unpleasant posture. “But if you don’t want to ink my body then it’s fine with me. I’ve been pestering you about it since you started and it’s been a few years. I’m not getting any younger, that's why I wanted to at least get my first tattoo before I turn 27.”

Taken aback by your statement, Suna stayed quiet for a few seconds. Finished with your extra lending hands with his set up, you threw the pair of gloves into the yellow trash bag and finally faced the 6 '1 guy. Suna’s lips were pursed before he licked the lower part, tasting the cold metal of his lip piercing.

“Where do you want to get your first tatts?” he questioned as his gaze started lingering on your bare skin.

“I don’t know, do you have a preferred part?” you threw back, not having a single clue on where you wanted to get your first one.

Removing himself from the chair, he took a step forward, slowly making his way towards you. You weren’t sure why but your feet felt like it was glued on the ground. The vision started to get blurry, almost feeling dizzy but you found your vision focusing more on Suna, who’s already in front of you with a small curve of smile written on his face.

“If you ask me where,” he lifted his hand, letting his delicate fingers glide from your shoulder up to your collarbone that sent shivers to your spine. “I prefer it to be somewhere where others can’t see it. Somewhere where I’m the only one who can see it. Somewhere exclusive only for me.” he smirked and pulled himself away from you. “Kidding. Your body, your rules.”

His touch left your skin yet you could still feel his cold fingertips against yours. You felt your breathing stopped as you held it the whole moment he was in front of you and whispered those words to you. Damn you, Suna. He surely knew how to shake your whole existence in a few words.

“I’ll be going away for three days. I’ll go to Tokyo to attend a tattoo convention.” he spoke, not letting his gaze wander to anywhere except you. “If you happen to finally be decisive about the placement before I get back, I’ll do your tatts. In exchange, I’ll tell and show you something.” 

You grinned, finally hitting the jackpot. Bingo.

“Deal. I’ll see you in three days.” 

Suna let out a small chuckle when he saw how happy your eyes were. Silly, he thought. Who knew that a single tattoo could mean the world to a 25-year-old adult like you?

“Oh before I forget,” he suddenly remembered, turning to you once more. “Don’t worry. I’ll update for the next three days.”

“Holy shit, Rintaro finally agreed to do yer tatts?!” Atsumu exclaimed, almost flipping the table.

“Shut your mouth, you’re spitting the best burger in Hyogo all over the place!” His twin brother, Osamu snarked at him.

Despite graduating from college and living your lives separately, one becoming a professional volleyball player for Japan, the other opening his own onigiri business, and you having your own clothing line, you couldn’t ignore the fact that the Miya twins literally have a special place in your heart. So here you are, sitting across them in a fast food chain with burgers and fries stuffed in your mouth as you continued catching up with each other’s lives after a few months of not seeing each other.

The twins know how much you wanted to get your first tattoo from Rintaro. Giving all their best shots and trying everything within their might, they still cannot lure their old mate into the trap. They were always shut down by Suna, especially Atsumu since he’s the one who’s been doing all of the talking and bargaining because apparently, he’s got a big mouth according to their fox-eyed friend.

They even went as far as recruiting the innocent Sakusa Kiyoomi, also one of their tattoo artist friends who recently opened his shop to blackmail Suna into inking your body; however, the latter just scoffed at their failed idea and told them to try harder again next time. With that, Atsumu shouldered Sakusa’s business permit expenses as a “payment” for pestering him.

“I mean, I’m also surprised, ‘yah know? It took me years to persuade him and now I just have to decide for the placement. But I would love to get it in red ink, though.” you shared your thoughts as you sipped from your diet cola.

“Did you already have a placement in your mind? Maybe your shoulders?” Osamu pointed at your exposed skin from wearing a tank top.

You just shrugged because honestly, you haven’t given it much thought yet. “I have an idea. But Rin told me that he prefers to do it somewhere exclusive only for him.” 

Atsumu bursted out, laughing his whole ass off that earned a few stares from the people around you. You and Osamu were puzzled, giving him a tyrannical look.

“Fucking hell, man. I am so proud,” he said between his laughs. “Rinrin has grown into a man! He’s got balls, Y/N! He finally got the dick, Samu!”

The rest of the night went well as you guys hit karaoke and arcade after dinner just like the old days. If it wasn’t for Atsumu’s official schedule the following day, the three of you plan to invite Suna for a drink because he’s finally returning back tonight from his 3-day tattoo convention in Tokyo. 

He kept his word on updating you. The very first thing that you saw when you opened your eyes on his first day in Tokyo was a ‘good morning’ text, followed by a mirror picture of him wearing a featured shirt from your summer collection. You blushed at the fact that he’s wearing your own creation even though he’s very supportive of it since the very start. He looked really good in your design.You told him that he doesn’t need to update you that much but his response was ‘Na uh. I’ll still update you so hurry up and think about where you wanted to get it, Ma’am.’. You knew that it was just a polite term yet, it’s enough to make your knees feel weak. But you were quick enough to shake the thoughts off, thinking that it’s just a friendly term to address his future client.

As the darkness engulfed the sky, the twins dropped you off in front of your apartment and bid them goodbye. It’s already 9 in the evening and you wonder if Suna’s already back in Hyogo because your message was left delivered and you haven’t received a single text from him since this afternoon.

As if on cue, your phone buzzed, flashing Suna’s contact photo on the screen.

Rintaro is calling…

“Yo.” you answered, unlocking the door of your unit.

“Ma’am? Did you just get home?” his raspy voice boomed on the other line of the phone. You never knew how much you longed for his presence, not until you heard his voice again for the first time in 3 days.

“Yup. We went to karaoke and arcade after dinner. We’re supposed to invite you for drinks but Tsumu’s got an official sched tomorrow.” you paused, kicking your shoe on the rack. “How about you? Did you just get home?”

“Yeah. Just got here and the first thing I did was to call you after fully charging my phone. It’s been dead since afternoon because I lost my charger. M’sorry for not messaging you.” you don’t know if you’re just a little bit tired from earlier but you could sense the hidden craving behind his voice.

“It’s okay, Rin. It’s no big deal,” you assured, as it was really not a big deal for you. “So, about the offer.”

You heard him clicking his tongue, followed by a soft chuckle. “Have you thought where you wanted to get your first ones, Ma’am?”

“Mhm. You wanna know where?” 

“Surprise me.”

It made you giggle like a highschool kid talking to her crush for the first time. Suna is really good with his words. On the other line, Suna was leaning his head against his black bed frame, unintentionally scratching his bare chest as he’s not used to wearing a top inside his house and saw it. He took a deep breath before biting his lower lip to surpass the fact that he’s thrilled with the thought of him finally marking your skin.

“Where do you want to get it done? It can be in my studio but I can also do home service, exclusive only for you.”

“I want to get it done in the studio. I wanted to experience sitting in your leather chair as a client, Sir.”

Damn. Something ignited inside Suna when he heard you calling Sir, right back when he started calling you Ma’am. It’s like a switch being flipped on. Composing his mind and shaking any thoughts, he nodded as if you’re seeing him right now.

“Alright then. We’ll start tomorrow at nine in the morning. Make sure to get enough sleep, eat breakfast and drink water. I’ll brief you tomorrow once we’re there, Ma’am. Remember that in exchange, I’ll tell and show you something.” he reminded, knowing that you don’t like going to bed early.

“Wow, your customer service is top tier.” you commended as your mind started intensifying with the thought of finally doing it tomorrow.

“Exclusive only for you, Ma’am.” he reminded once again, trying to hint you up.

“Okay, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you. Good night, Y/N.”

Fuck. It’s not the first time Suna has said that to you but your insides are rumbling. You felt your blood rushing as your vital organ increased the pumping because anytime now, you could feel suffocated from the excitement. Calm down. Calm down.

“Good night, Rin.”

With that, he let you hang up the call. Later that night, you tried your best to get a good night's sleep yet in your fantasy, you still feel like you’re sleep calling with Suna. You couldn’t take your mind off with his words earlier. He’s going to tell and show you something? Still trying to squeeze every cell of your brain, you cannot pulp any idea on what it’s going to be.

You just hope it’s nothing serious because it’s actually scary, the thought of him being dead serious on something. You shrugged off any negative thoughts and wished that it's nothing because you wouldn’t be able to grasp if it’s going to significantly impact your life in a pessimistic way. You might lose your shit because you know that you’re clearly, madly, deeply attached to Suna Rintaro.

“So this is how it feels like to sit right here.” you spoke with awe as you comfortably aligned yourself with the chair’s depth. It was adjusted perfectly for your height.

Suna grinned, setting up the materials on the stainless table beside you. You offered to help but he quickly declined it, reasoning that you’re here as a client today, not as his self-labeled apprentice.

Despite being here lots of time already, it felt like this was the first time you’ve seen his studio. The details you didn’t notice before suddenly popped in your vision, such as the fern green wallpaper and plants that he’s been watering regularly. On the outside, it looks like Suna’s more of a monochrome guy but in reality, he adores green so much because according to him, it brings the dull color into life. For him, it feels like life.

You also noticed the usual well-lit led ceiling lights wrapped around the four corners of his studio are now dimly-lit as well as the aroma of lavender mint from his scented candles that he ignited for the first time since he got it lingering probably to cover up the smell of blood, dead skin, and ink. Oh, and there’s also an inspired portrait of his favorite characters from his favorite movies drawn in his own artstyle framed and hung on the walls. His usual arctic monkeys and heavy metal playlist was replaced with some 88rising, r&b, and keshi which are you favorite artists and genre at the moment,

You never took your time to appreciate Suna’s studio this much until now. 

“Okay Ma’am, show me where you wanted it to be placed.” he asked, almost ordering you. Taking a deep inhale, you were surely nervous as heck right now but you already made your mind. Somewhere where he’s the only one who can see it. Somewhere exclusive only for him, huh?

You slowly lifted your white shirt, revealing your red lace bralette that perfectly hugged your breasts. You specifically chose this outfit for this occasion. Swallowing a lump, you pointed at your waist up to the side of your right boob, passing it and nearly up to your armpit. “Here. I wanted to get it here.”

Suna was quiet the whole time yet his widened foxy eyes tell you otherwise. He’s speechless. His eyes were fixated on you, admiring the view which he saw for the first time. He knows that you’re sexy and elegant, but he didn’t expect that you’re this sexy. In his eyes, you are the most beautiful art he’s ever seen in his whole life. He fought the urge to hold you in your waist because he wanted to feel your skin against his.

“Tough spot. Damn Ma’am, you’re courageous.” he commented on your preference. You felt your cheeks heating up as embarrassment started creeping in because Suna hasn’t removed his gaze yet on your body. “Can I…touch it? I’ll just…assess it.”

You nodded, pressing your lips together as Suna’s gloved hand made its way to your body. He traced your torso up to your ribcage and he couldn’t help but to squeeze a small smile in between.

“Will it hurt?” you hesitantly asked.

“It will. But I’ll be gentle, I promise.” you almost choked on his answer because it gave you other ideas. “Now make yourself comfortable. Tell me if it hurts, we’ll take a break. I’ll do my best to make it painless but I cannot guarantee.”

You fixed your position on the inclined chair, making yourself at home on your left side but your torso was slightly flattened down, facing him to get a better access to the area, especially your sides up to your armpit. Suna sat down in the swivel stool and faced you from your left, maintaining his demeanor as he grabbed the stencil he prepared. You intentionally didn’t ask about the design he planned because you also wanted to surprise yourself with Suna's creativity. You wanted to astonish yourself and it pretty much tells how big your trust is when it comes to Suna.

Once he’s done with shaving the excess hair, the paper hits your side, tickling your skin as Suna’s gloved hand starts flattening it against your body. It was followed by the cold sensation of the adhesive washing the paper. His right pinky accidentally brushed against your boob, making you scream internally. In no time, he’s already removing the piece of paper, indicating that the stencil’s already in place.

Suna licked his lower lip and you noticed how he wore his usual snake bites differently today by swapping the horseshoe jewelry into a plain one. He pushed himself forward but still maintained the distance between the two of you. Reaching out for the tattoo gun, you’ve already had an idea how it sounded but when he tested it and made a whirring sound that buzzed on your ears, you found yourself clutching the hem of Suna’s shirt due to the tense building up inside your stomach.

“You alright, Y/N?” he asked, staring down at you. The whole point of view sent you to spiral as you never imagined yourself being under Suna.

“Yeah, sorry. I hope you don’t mind this.” you pointed at your hands curled into his shirt which earned him a few laughs. Suna thought that it was so fucking cute when look so small to him.

“You’re free to hold me wherever.” he smiled, caressing your exposed shoulder as a sign of assurance. “Remember that if it hurts too much, just tap out and we can take a break, Ma’am.”

Bobbing your head, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath as the sound of the gun reverberated once again. Suna started poking the needle against your skin. The first five minutes were much more uncomfortable rather than painful - almost feeling like a slow rug burn. However, as he moved upwards and started hitting the bones of your side ribs, it started feeling hell that you couldn’t help but small whimpers escaped from your mouth. It stings like crazy.

“Are you okay? We can take a break. Do you want some water?” Suna offered concern as he saw your forehead creased into an agonizing expression.

“N-no, just continue. I’ll eventually get used to it.” you declared, not wanting to raise your white flag.

Suna nodded and started working on it again. You could feel like he’s outlining something in more of a swivel way. You could also feel like there’s a lot of lines and shading going on. The next 30 minutes were spent with the two of you talking about college, reminiscing the memories you shared together as well as with the Miya twins. Another 30 minutes and he’s already wrapping up by taking one last wipe before applying the tattoo jelly on the area. 

“I thought that it will be painful as fuck,” you said truthfully. “You wrecked my expectations, Rin.” 

“Well, it’s an honor to be complimented by you. I told you, I’ll be gentle.” he winked, removing his gloves on his hands. “Congratulations, Y/N. You’re no longer a tattoo virgin.”

Laughters echoed in the room as he clapped at your achievement. He grabbed the mirror that was lying beside your chair and signaled you to sit up. Obeying him, you lifted yourself as you felt your skin being stretched.

“I hope you like my design, Y/N.” flipping the mirror, you saw your inked skin for the first time.

Your mouth parted, eyes filled with wonderstruck. 

There’s a lot of fine lines from the upper part of your side, down to your ribs, and finally your waist. The lines were broken yet some of them were connected with each other. In the middle, there’s multiple flowers drawn in outline, looking like they have bloomed together. You couldn’t elucidate the design in words yet your brain could tell how it looks and your heart could tell how it feels like to be inked distinctively.

You finally understood why they call Suna a genius. Because he’s the only one who has the ability to make you feel like you're abstract and he’s the only one who can understand you.

“Do you like it?” he asked, a little bit nervous as you stayed silent.

“Like?” you questioned. “I fucking love it, Rintarou. I love it so much that it made me speechless… Thank you. Wow…Seriously, thank you.”

You’re not kidding. You’re not exaggerating. You were at a loss for words because only the silence of appreciation could speak for right now on how you feel about the design.

Pleased, a genuine smile carved on Suna’s lips as he watched you beaming with joy on your first body art done by none other than him.

“Now in exchange, I want you to pop my shirt.” he cleared his throat, bringing the mirror down as he signaled you.. Your face was puzzled. Pop…his shirt? “Come here, Y/N. Take off my shirt.”

You were hesitant at first but you gradually moved towards him and lifted his shirt out of his body. You have never seen him shirtless before because as far as you know, it makes him uncomfortable to show some skin to others before that’s why you never saw him wearing sleeveless before. And now he’s asking you to pop his shirt for what reason?

Pulling the fabric above, Suna’s exposed skin was hit with the cool air. You gasped when you saw multiple scars across the chest and lower body. Some of them formed multiple layers above each other, making the skin rise from its base. He doesn’t have any tattoo in his lower body but he has one in his chest, near his heart. And it was…shit. Could it be…?

“You see, Y/N, I never really talked about this before but my dad used to uh, beat me up with a socket wrench when I was a child,” he spoke, voice filled with coldness. “He’s an addict and whenever he doesn’t have the money to support his damn addiction, he’ll find another way to release his stress and that is to beat me up whenever he’s got the fucking chance.”

You felt like all the nerves in your body were paralyzed as your eyes slowly widened, sinking his words inside your head. He’s dad is what? Beating him? With a socket wrench? Fuck.

“I thought I wouldn’t be able to reach college, ya know? That’s why when I was given the privilege to still continue my education, I didn’t let it go to waste as I thought that it was the only way to escape from the madness of my life.” his fingers brushed against his scars. It was healed, probably years ago yet you could visibly see the paint being painted on his face as he felt the trace of his yesterday.

“And suddenly, all of this turned all the way around when I became friends with the twins and you.” he lifted his gaze, maintaining his eye contact with you. Something ignited inside Suna when he met your orbs. He felt like colors bursted in his eyes. “When my dad finally got the help he needed and I made peace with whatever demons I have, that’s when I felt like I had another chance with life. That’s why when I started taking interest in inking, I took it very seriously because for the first time, I saw that I finally saw that I got the chance to stand in life. To live, not just to survive.”

The sincere confession made a short pang inside your heart. All this time, he was hurting. All the damn time, he’s living his life in hell. And being friends with him, just being by his side, made him realize that he can finally free himself from the uncanny of his life.

“The reason why I keep on rejecting your request is because I am not ready yet. Y/N, I spent my whole career crafting the most unique design I could ever create for you. Just for you. I wanted to make it the best among the rest. Also, as cheesy as it may sound, I wanted to be the man worthy of inking your very first tattoo.”

You felt like your heart’s going feral inside your ribcage. Suna stood up in front of you, bare bodies touching each other. You could feel his minty hot breath tickling your nose despite the coldness of the room. Slowly, he grabbed both of your hands and intertwined your fingers together before bringing it in front of you to plant a soft kiss on it.

“I’m sorry that it took me this much time to be worthy of everything. Thank you for not giving up on me. You may notice the lines in your tattoos, it represents the thought of despite being broken, you could still find your way back and bloom within it. Y/N, you gave me that reason to bloom again at my own pace.”

He dragged your hands in his chest, making you feel the only tattoo he has on his upper body. “Y/N, this is your initials. This was my very first tattoo and I intentionally got it in my heart so that whenever I hold my heart, I’ll always remember that you’re here.”

Suna’s eyes glimmered, mirroring yours as you could feel him getting more emotional any second. Giving up, you stood on your toes, enclosing the centimeters given between the two of you by latching your lips to his. Without giving it a second thought, Suna pulled you closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. It was a hot, wet kiss that the two of you shared as tears started tearing down in your cheeks. When Suna tasted the salty liquid, he finally let his guard down and cried himself between the sloppy kiss.

Pulling away, both of you were panting as your cheeks were stained with the liquid that you shared. You let out a chuckle and pulled him into a tight hug which he gladly returned.

“You’re never late, Suna. You will always be the tattoo artist that captivated my heart, no matter what and no matter how long it takes. I’ll always wait for your creations, and I’ll kiss every one of your flaws until you realize you’re love.”

© lightaflaem. do not repost on any platform.

bonus

y/n's "exclusive" tattoo made it to suna's instagram :]