#Ceramic Sliding Bearing

[ozzgin]

I'm the anon who asked if your requests are open and i got busy assignments + presentations that i almost forgot about the request but now i remembered and it's based on my dream i saw that night..

How about a vampire who lost his relic (presumably a ring) and reader happens find it and tries it on, now the vampire is all panicking because guess what? That was a betrothal relic and it has binded the vampire's soul with the one of reader. They can't pull it out/take it of.. oh well, now they are stuck and obviously the vampire hates the idea of being stuck with a pesky human but hey they are kinda stupid..? How tf they tripped on thin air? Or how they are still alive even after being food poisoned 5 times a month? Vampire is now babysitter for his human *sighs * what has he gotten himself in..

(Please add yandere elements later on, my brain stoopid but i want a hot Victorian era vampire being obsessed with me ^^ muah!)

(I'm sorry this is so lengthy TT)

Yandere! Vampire x Reader

Featuring a ridiculously lucky Reader who constantly manages to escape a Vampire's assassination attempts. Did someone order a supernatural edition of enemies to lovers?

Content: gender neutral reader, obsessive behavior, mentions of stalking, romcom

[Monster masterlist] [Original works masterlist]

"Are you alright, (Y/N)?" your friends gasp in unison, eyes fixated on the fallen ceramic pot that scarcely missed you, now laying shattered at your feet. You laugh reassuringly and wave your hand in dismissal. "It's the fifth time it happens today. Maybe there's a storm coming?"

From within the shadows, menacing eyes glowing red follow your movements. "Damn it!" The mysterious man curses under his breath. He stares enviously at the bulky ring on your finger. The ring bearing his Family signet, where part of his very soul resides. It has stayed with him for centuries, and somehow, to his utmost shame, he lost it. By the time he rushed back to retrieve it, you were carelessly sliding it down your finger. He wanted to strangle the life out of you right then and there, but he felt it: the immediate surge of contractual power, dominating his will and holding him back from breaking your bones. "It's a little tacky, isn't it?" your friend remarked. You nodded in agreement and tried to remove it, but the metal band tightened around your skin, painfully constricting your digit. It was stuck. It was too late.

Now he has to rely on cheap trickeries like this one. Sure, he may not be able to directly plunge his fangs into your neck, but the bonding curse does not shield you from "accidents", you see. It would be a real shame if that flower pot was to land straight into your head, ending you instantly and thus breaking the connection with him. Except you simply refuse to die. A mystery, a paradox, one that enrages him to no end. It's almost as if the ring is bringing you fortune at the cost of his misery.

"Have you had any luck removing that ugly thing?" the person standing next to you mentions. The vampire lord grits his teeth at the blasphemous words. This is what's become of him: a deceitful buffoon, having to sit and listen to his inheritance being mocked relentlessly. He holds back the urge of shouting that thousands have bled to death in order to forge that magnificence. "Not at all", you respond idly. "I tried taking it to a jeweler, and she said she could try to cut it, but she ended up having a heart attack right in the middle of it. She didn't even look that old, maybe it runs in her family?"

Unbelievable. The thought of reclaiming his relic haunts every second of his day, to the point he's become your shadow. Stalking your every move, your every breath, observing his prey and waiting for an opportunity to strike. He can already picture that pathetic face of yours, twisting in pain, begging for-...huh. Well, look at that, you're reading one of his favorite books. Perhaps you do have a little taste, after all. It won't save you from your terrible fate, but he might skip the prolonged torture.

There's plenty of quotes out there about knowing your enemy in order to guarantee your victory, though one might wonder where the limit of such knowledge resides. Or what counts as useful to begin with. The vampire lord is presently wondering about this very aspect, as he mouths your coffee order from a distance. Less sugar, huh? You did mention losing your sweet tooth. He shakes his head indignantly. Absolutely not! The throb of his heart is fueled by raw hatred and nothing else. One of days he will savour your demise.

Your ridiculous luck might just end today. You've taken a shortcut on your way back home, and didn't expect a shady, burly man to block your exit. A perverted grin stains his face as he approaches you, twiddling with his pocket knife. "Alone at this hour?" You frown and try to find a way out, but the man suddenly begins to heave and convulse before your eyes, grasping at his chest as the skin shrivels and dries. He collapses at your feet, body wilted as if it's been emptied of its vitality. The Vampire Lord clicks his tongue.

To think he'd rush to rescue his sworn enemy, a pitiful mortal like you. He didn't even get the chance to consider the aftermath. You stare at the stranger, confused but observant. Pale skin, crimson eyes, unnaturally sharp canines...and the fact he just drained a living being into a bloodless corpse: everything hints to one possibility. "Are you by any chance a vampire?" you find yourself mumbling. "You must've graduated from Harvard with those deduction skills", he responds sarcastically.

Everything else unfolds in a haze. Wasn't he planning to kill you and retrieve his ring? When the hell did he offer to walk you home to avoid more creeps? Why is he twirling his hair sheepishly whenever you praise his demonic powers? Oh, but it gets worse: why did he suddenly feel the urge to kiss you before returning to his cursed lair? Why did he accept your invitation to spend the night at your place instead? One moment ago, he was doing his best to curse you off this Earth. Now he's tugging stray strands of hair away from your blushing, whining face, asking you if it hurts. Damned human.

"How did you know I like this? Have you been stalking me?" you joke, nudging your undead boyfriend and setting the gift aside. "More or less", he confesses with a yawn. He recalls all that time spent dutifully spying on your oblivious self. "You know, a human like you shouldn't be able to dodge death like that." He turns to you and scans your features. Then, abruptly embarrassed, he ruffles your hair to block you from noticing his blush. "I suppose my failure was the better outcome. It's not too bad, having you around."

[likedovesinthewindd]

dvd : patrick zweig

summary: patrick has no good hopes for your date | content/warning: reader and patrick were married (duh) and have a child, language, crying, talks of divorce settlements and stuff, suggestive content | a/n: okay guys I actually did it yay!! this really strayed away from the original idea, but I still like it, hope yall do too 𖹭

The TV was a little too loud for nine in the morning, and the smell of the first batch of burnt pancakes still hung thickly in the air, making you scrunch your nose in irritation. The dishes had been put on the backburner last night, and now the heap of ceramics and stainless steel taunts you from the dining table where you sat cutting at the not-burnt pancakes drowned in syrup.

Emmy sat across from you quietly, watching as you cut at her food, her little hands laid on the table palms down. "There you go, baby," you smiled, sliding the plastic plate full of uneven triangles over to her, which she accepted gratefully. "Thank you, mommy," she said softly as she took her plastic fork in hand.

You stood from the table, kissing the top of her head as you put the butter knife in the already full sink before moving to the small living area, seeing if any of the toys scattered around would be ones she'd like to take with her.

You spotted her brown teddy bear perched in the corner of the couch as if it were watching TV. You picked it up, fingers running over the soft pink bow at the front of its neck, color faded from time. Her dad had bought her the teddy the day she was born, and she had been attached to it since then. You were surprised it wasn't sitting next to her right now as she insisted it should most nights at dinner.

You placed it on top of her overnight bag, picking up the remote next to it to turn down the TV's volume. You look over at Emmy as she was still quietly eating breakfast, her fingers sticky because she keeps dipping her fingers into the syrup. You went into the bathroom and grab her toothbrush, taking a moment to fix your blouse in the mirror.

You put the toothbrush in the bag, once again checking to see that you had all the essentials. When you were sure you had everything, you took her plate, the last quarter piece of pancake obviously uninteresting as she had resorted to licking up the syrup on the plate instead. You placed the plate by the sink, rummaging through the drawers until you found the packet of moist towelettes, taking a few and gently wiping at her cheeks, chin and hands.

You held the sides of her squishy face, kissing her forehead before pulling back with a smile. "Are you ready to go?" you asked and she nodded excitedly, making your smile widen.

The car ride to the other side of town is fast and when you knock at the apartment door softly, bags slung over both shoulders you're half surprised to find Patrick looking like he had a full night's sleep and like he's been up for a while now. Emmy bursts with excitement, jumping into her dad's arms, who receives her with joy.

He looked good. You could tell he shaved this morning, and the tired bags under his eyes have lightened considerably since last time you've seen him. Maybe he's been sleeping better, or he managed to score a match or two on the lineup. Maybe he got laid. You tried not to think about that.

"Hey," he said, balancing the four year old on his hip as she laid her head on his shoulder. "Hi," you breathed, taking the heavy bag from your shoulder with a grunt. "I packed in her medicine bag, I think she might be coming up with a cold or something," you started, patting the side of the bag before he took it from you.

"And uh, some of her toys," you said, handing him the second bag.

"Okay," you sighed, focusing back on Emmy. "I'm gonna miss you so much, baby. Gimme a hug," you said, taking her from Patrick as she wrapped her arms around you tightly. She was surprisingly not very clingy for her age, so she wasn't too sad to see you go, but you always suspected that was just because she was more of a daddy's girl anyway. The waterworks usually started when she had to depart on Sunday nights after a weekend with her father.

The whole system you had worked out worked very well for all three of you, but it was admittedly difficult to adjust to. The whole divorce itself was a difficult process, on the cusp of becoming messy before common ground was finally found.

The two of married hastily, dumb on love and ready to start a life together. Your 26 year old self really thought it had been the best decision to marry at that point because you were truly deeply in love and it just felt like the right step. Fast forward to a few years and a baby later, things had fizzled down to too many arguments and a connection that was seemingly no longer there.

The divorce procedures stretched on for ages, and things like custody and visitation only made that process longer. Ultimately, though, things worked out seamlessly and it seemed like the two of you were happier apart. Your daughter was getting used to the new schedule Patrick started dating again and invested all of your extra energy amd time into your daughter.

It looked like Patrick had no problem moving on really. He started dating not too long after the final papers were signed but none of his conquests were permanent. On the other hand, you kind of stayed idle for a while, still licking your wounds and feeling sorry for yourself. It really wasnt until recently you started getting out there again.

It wasn't without hesitation either, but your friends wanted you to be happy again, and they weren't accepting the "too busy being a mom" excuse anymore, their reasoning being that you could be happy and be a mother. So you said yes and agreed to a date set up by one of your friends. It wasn't your thing, but it was either that or going on a dating app, and the thought of that alone made you shiver, so you trusted your friend's judgment.

✰ ⊹ ˚.

It was Saturday night, and your stomach was churning nervously as you made your way to Patrick's apartment complex. You were already made up for your date and you had to ask Patrick to watch Emmy for the night because your mother was out of town. He had no problem, hardly did, and he looked ecstatic to see the little girl when she jumped into his arms as she always did.

She tucked her head into the crook of his neck as her tiny arms wrapped around his neck and it gave him the opportunity to get a good look at you. A small smile playing on his lips and you immediately knew what he was thinking. You cursed yourself for reacting the way you did, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze as your eyes briefly shot down to your heels.

"You going out?" he asked when you handed him Emmy's overnight bag. "Mommy has a date!" the little girl said excitedly before you could answer, and Patrick's eyebrows shot up. "Emma," you said, trying to sound stern. "A date?" Patrick said as he looked over at you. "Yes, I have a date," you said. Patrick only nodded before he gently placed Emmy down, squatting down to whisper something in her ear before she was running into the apartment.

He stood back to his full height before throwing Emma's bag over his shoulder. "Do you have a few minutes? I wanna talk to you about something," he said softly, his head nodding to the inside of the apartment. You check the time on your wristwatch. It was 20:43 and the date wasn't until nine. You shrugged, making your way inside with him.

His apartment was clean, but messy. You never spent a lot of time in here anyway so you allowed yourself the chance to look around a little as you follwed Patrick.

Emma was sitting on the living room couch watching a movie on the old DVD player Patrick refused to get rid of. He showed his age with his preference of media consumption. He had a box next the TV full of movies he had collected from childhood and throughout your life and he still had his old CD player from high school with an assortment of CD's packed into one of the unoccupied kitchen cupboards.

You gently smoothed your hand over Emma's hair when you passed her as she sat watching The Little Mermaid for the umpteenth time. Patrick led you to the kitchen, and you quietly sat down by one of the kitchen table chairs pulling at your dress as it rode up your thighs just a little.

Patrick sat down across from you, his eyes on the back of the couch where Emmy sat before his attention was back on you. "So, who's this guy?" he asked, keeping his voice low. You scoffed, brows furrowing. "I thought you wanted to talk about something serious," you said. "This is serious," he reasoned. "No, you're just busy," you said with a laugh. "Of course I am. Now tell me," he said. You sat back against the chair as you crossed your arms, sighing defeatedly.

"He's one of Fran's friends," you said. Patrick nodded, giving you a look that told you he wanted you to continue. "He's an accountant, I think. Real put together guy from what I can tell," you added. Patrick's face scrunched up a little. "Sounds like a prude," he deadpanned, and you rolled your eyes. "Bye, Patrick," you said, rising from the chair and grabbing your purse on the table. You gave Emma a big kiss on her head before you made your way out of Patrick's apartment. He walked you to the door, seeing you off with a "have fun."

✰ ⊹ ˚.

Patrick was praying you were having an awful time right now. It sounded bad, terrible actually, but Patrick couldn't stand the thought of you with someone else. The thought of you laughing at some other guy's jokes made his skin crawl. It was so hypocritical and extremely selfish considering he's been on more dates than he could remember after the two of you split. They never led to anything serious, though. None if them fulfilled him, his thoughts always drifting to what you two could've been late at night.

He tossed and turned in bed, usable to fall asleep with his thoughts plaguing him. Were you enjoying yourself? Did you like this guy? Were you already talking about a possible second date? Is he taking you to his place tonight?

The soft knocking broke his train of thought and he quickly rose from bed with a grunt and made his way to the front door. He looked through the peephole, surprised to find you staring back at him with a frown on his face. He opened the door, immediately standing one side so that you could come in.

You didn't say anything as you made your way to his couch as if you lived there, plopping down as you ran a hand over your face with a sigh. "How was the date?" Patrick found himself asking, a bit of bitteness to his tone. He sat down next to you quietly.

"It was okay," you said softly. "Okay? Then why do you look so disappointed?" he asked. "I dunno, he just wasn't it. I didn't feel anything," you said, your hands smoothing over your legs. "Which makes me feel kinda bad because he was a really nice guy, y'know? But I just didn't feel that thing," you continued. You already felt hopeless and it had only been your first date after getting back into the game. You supposed that was also why your marriage ended the way it did. Why you even married in the first place. You moved very quickly, latching onto something good and letting go as soon as that feeling started dissipating. You didn't like challenges or downsides.

You hadn't even noticed the tears pooling until you felt one rolling down you cheek. It all set in and now you really felt like an idiot; crying about a failed date at your ex's house. You got up from the couch, Patrick following promptly as you turned your back to him in a poor attempt to subtly wipe your cheeks.

"But, uh. I actually wanted to come pick up Emma. Y'know since I have the night to myself," you said, looking down the hall. "I don't mind looking after her, yknow that. Give you the night to yourself?" he said and you nodded. "Yeah I know that, I just figured," you said, shrugging. "I don't mind," he repeated. "I know," you said, "I just didn't wanna be alone tonight."

You hated the way your voice cracked when you said it, the way the tears couldn't stop once Patrick wrapped his arms around you in consolation. You hated the way he still used the same cologne you loved and the way you missed his smell, your hands tightening their hold on his shirt. You hated how right it felt in the warmth of his arms.

After a while his hand gently held your face when he could feel you calmed down, wanting to see your face. He placed a kiss to your forehead and your whole body grew warm at the feeling of his lips against his skin. He pulled away and looked down at you. He didn't say anything, but you knew exactly what he wanted to say anyway. So you raised your face closer to his and you kissed him. Deeply, nothing spared, no timidity present as you kissed him like your life depended on it. Like you needed it. And Patrick returned it tenfold, holding you impossibly closer as he deepened the kiss, tasting you like a man starved. In a way he was, too; starved of you for far too long and in desperate need for another taste. And another.

His lips left yours and regained their place on your neck, kisses planted up the expanse of your skin until he found that special place right behind your ear. You hummed as you felt his hands grabbing at you greedily, refamiliarizing himself with the soft skin and pillowy curves he once knew like the back of his hand. You grabbed onto his face, once again meeting him in anthor kiss that stole all the breath from your lungs. He moved the two of you until you were both laying on his couch, him on top of you as you made out like a pair of teenagers.

By now your dress had ridden up almost all the way and Patrick took your leg by the back of your knee to bring it up to his hip. "D'you know how much I missed you?" he breathed as his lips kissed at your collarbones, pulling at the straps of your dress to get them out of the way. You unlooped your arms from his neck before taking them out of your dress' straps. When Patrick pulled the fabric down hurriedly he groaned at the sight of your bra, your tits perfectly encapsulated in the beautiful soft pink lace.

"You got all pretty for that loser, baby?" he asked but you were way to worked up to even register what he was saying, only softly moaning when his hand squeezed at one of your tits. "Huh?" he kept on as he kissed the top of your breasts that peeked from the cups before kissing over your breast in the bra, too softly for your liking but still enough to have your lower stomach jumping in anticipation.

He looked up at you, moving back up your body until his face was right by yours, noses rubbing as he looked down at you in pure admiration. Like you hung each star in the sky yourself. "I really fucking missed you," he spoke the words against your mouth, the vibrations tickling you. You closed your eyes to try and get away from his unwavering gaze but you quickly found yourself opening them, not wanting to miss a single second of this moment. "I missed you too," you spoke softly, the words foreign in your mouth now that you've said them out loud for the first time ever. He smiled widely before kissing you again.

Your hips bucked up against his impatiently and his grip on your hip tightened, lifting it as he pushed down against it to give you exactly what you wanted. You moaned into his mouth and just when you wanted to repeat the action a small voice broke out in the otherwise quiet apartment.

You both pulled away with a gasp, everything hitting you once when you realized where you were. You both seemed to realize now wouldn't be the best time or place for any of what you were planning on doing, so you moved to fix your dress while Patrick got off of you with a sigh, making his way to where Emma slept.

You waited a few minutes before joining him in the guest room. The room was already sparsely decorated, a few things she always left behind finding permanent residence there while a few of her drawing were stuck to the cupboards. Emma was already back to sleep when you made your way into the room just as Patrick tucked her in, leaving her with her kiss on her head.

He made his way over to you quietly, wrapping his arms around you once again with a sigh. You accepted it gladly, once again breathing in his scent. "I'll go get you something to change into," he spoke into your hair as he rubbed between your shoulder blades. You nodded, lifting your head to look at him. "Are you really doing this again?" you asked, the scare sobering you up a lot more. "I can't see myself with anyone else," he said truthfully and at that moment you realized you felt exactly the same, only nodding before he left into his bedroom.

[wanderingsimsfinds]

WanderingSims Fave CC - Kids/Nursery Pt. 2 List

1-3, 38-39 - johziii - Nursery Prints Set (Animalia Paintings V1, Animalia Paintings V2, Minimalist Animals Painting, Wildlife Painting)

4 - SimsDeoGloria - 4t3 Charly Pancakes SMOL Framed Animal Paintings

5-6, 15 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Syboulette Candy Nursery Set (Books, Cat Plushie, Diapers Box)

7-8 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Syboulette Charles Set (Nightstand & Potty Chair)

9, 13, 17 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Syboulette Helios Set (Crib, Folded Towels, Nursery Table)

10, 14 - SincerelyASimmer - Baby Wipes & Pack of Diapers

11 - Metisse - 4t3 Babyganics Cream Wash

12 - Metisse - 4t3 Johnson Baby Lotion

16 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Soloriya Darina Deco Toy

18 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Leosims Star Wall Lamp

19-20, 22-24 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Cowbuild Rattan Nursery Set (Protective Diaper Rash Cream, Hydrating Baby Lotion, Brush & Comb in Ceramic Glass, Soothing Baby Face Cream, Baby Shampoo & Body Wash)

21, 25 - studio-papillon - 4t3 Pinkbox Anye Diaper Bag & Diapers

26 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Cozy Nursery Extras Baby Bottle Deco

27, 29 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Cowbuild My Home Set (Rainbow Plush & Soft Bear Mini Chairs)

28 - johziii - Critters Reading Nook

30 - helen-sims - Ladder with Garland

31 - WanderingSims - Rugs 3 Collection

32-35, 41, 44-45 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Cozy Nursery Set (Changing Table, Toddler Swing, Cute Fox Baby Mobile, Retro High Chair, Baby Clothing, Sweet Home Crib, Baby Bear Bath Seat Deco)

36-37 - MainlyJustTheSims - Kids Jungle Room (Bed Base & Shelf)

40, 42-43, 46 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Cozy Nursery II Set (Rocking Horse, Activity Table, Deer Slide, Cute Cow Potty)

[lees-chaotic-brain]

For the song fic event!

Dancing with Your Ghost (Sasha Alex Sloan) with YOU KNOW WHO—Gojo Satoru, of course!—angst/mcd?

I don't really do x reader stuff, but I thought this was a cool idea so I figured why not? 😊✨️

WC: 1.1k

CW: jjk chapter 236 spoilers, mcd, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief, unhealthy coping

Note: aww, thank you so much for sending one in!! this hurt, but omg did i get in my feels writing it. so excited to be posting the first fic for this event!!

listen to this song while reading

Event Guide | Event Masterlist | JJK Masterlist | Blog Navigation

It was past midnight, well into the wee hours of the morning when you woke with a start. Reaching over, you patted the other side of the bed searching for something that would never be there. Instead of the warm body you expected, you made contact with smooth, cool sheets, the surprise jolting you back into reality. 

Remembering that no one was there, you rolled out of bed suddenly unable to bear being in it alone. Sliding your feet into slippers and wrapping a robe around your body you head to the kitchen, the soft sound of your slippers against the hardwood the only sound in the otherwise silent apartment.

Part of you wondered if it would always be like this. If you would spend the rest of your life always searching for something that wasn’t with you. Another part of you knew that you would.

Baby, why'd you go away? I'm still your girl

Knowing you weren’t going to go back to sleep you sighed and put the kettle on for some tea. As you waited for the water to boil you wrapped your arms around yourself and leaned back against the counter. The silence filling your apartment was deafening and the stillness made you uneasy. 

Taking a deep breath you sat down at the counter, staring into space as you allowed yourself to get lost in your thoughts. You don’t know how long you sat there before the shill whistle of the kettle knocked you out of your stupor. You jumped a little, the sound startling you. Moving to stand, it was only then you noticed you were crying. Your fingers reached up and brushed your cheek, and you examined the drops of water on them a little mystified. Deciding that only sleeping four hours in the last week was finally getting to you, you dried your face and turned the stove off. 

Opening the pantry to grab a tea bag, an expired box of kikufuku mochi caught your eye. Inevitably, your thoughts were drawn to him, and a fresh wave of grief hit you. Frantically, you fumbled with the box, hurriedly extracting a tea bag and slamming the pantry door shut a little too violently. The handle of the ceramic mug was cool in your hand as you dunked your tea bag and moved to sit on your couch.

You sank into the soft cushions, unable to stop yourself from grabbing your phone and opening your text chain with him. Despite knowing it was unhealthy, you often found yourself rereading the messages you sent to him that fateful night he hadn’t returned home. The messages get increasingly more panicked with each one, ending with a final “I hope it was painless. I hope you know how much I love you. I didn’t even get to say goodbye…”

Never got the chance to say a last goodbye. 

I gotta move on, but it hurts to try.

Swallowing a sob you shut your phone off and hurl it across the room. You need to move on. You know that. Never leaving your house, pushing your friends away, not sleeping, obsessing over the past, you knew it wasn’t good for you.

Day after day, voicemails and texts poured in from concerned friends and family telling you that you were self-destructing. That this wasn’t what he would have wanted for you. That he would have wanted you to move on. To live.

You know that. You know. But knowing and being able to were two very different things. How were you supposed to move on when everything reminds you of him? When you can’t sleep without his warmth.

Aside from that, your faith in others has been permanently shattered. He had promised you that he would always come back, that he would win. And you had believed him because he was the strongest. And if you couldn’t believe him then who could you? But then he had gone and left you far behind. No. You could never open your heart again. You can’t trust anyone to not leave you like he did.

How do I love? How do I love again?

How do I trust? How do I trust again?

But you were okay with being alone for the rest of your life. Even if the loneliness made it impossible to sleep. Even if his absence wrapped around your throat cutting off your air. You were okay. You didn’t need anyone else. You had your home filled with his belongings and you had yourself. That’s all that mattered.

I stay up all night, tell myself I’m alright

At least that’s what you told yourself. In reality every reminder of him was like a stab to the heart. And maybe you were a masochist because you refused to remove the traces of him from your apartment. Sitting on the sofa you could still see him dancing around the coffee table, hear his laughter fill the air. And sometimes when you closed his eyes and inhaled his scent that still lingered in the air it was like he was still next to you, his voice ringing in your ears.

Baby you’re just harder to see than most

Suddenly the silence in the living room was suffocating. Without the joy and love that used to reside in it, the room felt oppressive. Retrieving your phone from where you had flung it you hastily, you connected to your apartment’s bluetooth and clicked play on the first playlist that popped up in your feed. Some of the stress left your body when a soft dreamy song began to seep from the walls, only to return when you realized what playlist you had accidentally put on. 

Of course you accidentally played the playlist he made for you for your two year anniversary. The playlist of all the songs that reminded him of you. Going to change the playlist you froze when you accidentally hit skip and heard the song that began playing.

It was your song. The song you used to listen to together on quiet evenings. The song that the two of you slow danced to in this very living room. The song you knew all the lyrics to. Slowly, you put your phone down, leaning back and closing your eyes as the music swept over you.

I put the record on, wait ‘til I hear our song

And with the song on repeat, you sat there until the first light of day struck your face, the ghost of Gojo Satoru slow dancing around you. 

Every night I’m dancing with your ghost

Every night I’m dancing with your ghost

[aria-ashryver]

Breakfast Roast

Book: Immortal Desires

Pairing: m!Cas x m!Gabe x nb!MC (Luca O'Rinn)

Ratings/Warnings: General, language

Words: 1K

Summary: Gabriel can't resist teasing Cas and Luca over morning coffee.

A/N: I got this super cute ask, and as I was thinking about how to answer it, somehow I blinked and a little fic happened? So here you go! Someone once told me the Starlight trio was the Idiots to Lovers trope and I couldn't agree more. This is just a little slice of Starlight Idiot Hours / Fluff in a nutshell, set a few years after the events of SICSIG

Tagging: @choicesficwriterscreations, @lilyoffandoms

Things were going alarmingly well for a Monday. Gabriel had completed his morning jog in record time, there hadn’t been a queue at the coffee shop, and he’d come away from his early-morning grocery run with a couple of unexpected little gifts in tow.

Cas was hunched over a bowl of cereal when Gabriel arrived back home, scrolling idly through his phone. He shot Gabriel a sleepy grunt by way of greeting as he set the bags down on the kitchen counter. The morning sun slanted cheery and gold through the open window, bringing with it the smell of fresh spring pollen and the droning buzz of bees.

Content, Gabriel stole a moment to inhale the sharp scent of the freshly roasted coffee beans he’d picked up. He flipped the coffee machine on to heat, and began to unload the groceries.

‘They were out of hot sauce, darling.’

‘Fucking again? Arson.’

Gabriel shook his head in fond exasperation. ‘They said it’d be back in stock next week.’

Cas grumbled, low in his throat like a churlish cat. ‘…Less arson.’

Gabriel laughed. He loved hearing Cas like this; all snarly and husky, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep, yet light and unburdened of anything but the most mundane of trifles. Cas deserved mundane. He deserved domestic and peaceful and happy. Gabriel could listen to him grouse about grocery stores forever.

Even after years of waking up next to Cas, it never got old.

Huh, Gabriel thought, bemused. That’s vampirism for you.

Mellifluous laughter filled the room as Luca bounded in from the hallway.

‘Less arson, huh? However will you cope?’ Dropping a kiss on Cas’s cheek as they passed, Luca skidded into the kitchen, their threadbare socks slick against the linoleum, sliding along until they bumped cheerily into Gabriel’s side. ‘Good morning gorgeous!’

‘Good morning to you too, mi corazón.’

Gabriel dipped his head to meet him; Luca’s kisses tasted of peppermint toothpaste and pure adoration.

‘I come bearing carbs,’ Gabriel said, handing them a greased paper bag, laughing at the muffled “oh my god, I love you” he managed to decipher from a mouth somehow already crammed full with an over-ambitious bite of cinnamon roll.

Luca leaned against the counter, eyes sinking closed in sugary delight.

‘And gifts!’ Gabriel added, eyeing his two loves carefully.

Cas was barely awake, slouching about in his favourite sweatpants and one of Gabriel’s bathrobes, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. Luca’s hair stuck up at awkward angles, a smear of frosting clinging to their lip.

The pair of them were far too cute not to tease.

‘I got you a little something,’ Gabriel said carefully, casually, his mouth twitching at the corners. ‘Just there on the counter.’

He nodded at a small white box he’d set down on the counter, tucked between a potted plant and a carton of eggs. Cas shambled up to join them, slumping into a seat on the barstools with a jaw-cracking yawn. He stole a bite of Luca’s cinnamon roll as they plopped down beside him.

‘Wait, “you”, who?’ Luca asked.

Gabriel shrugged evasively, already enjoying himself far too much.

Cas’s eyes narrowed. The pair shared a suspicious glance, before Cas flipped the box open, pulling out the white ceramic mug inside.

He barked a laugh.

‘“Cute but dumb”?’

Luca snorted. ‘Well, that’s obviously for me,’ they said, reaching for the mug.

Cas jerked it out of Luca’s reach. ‘Well, hang on just a goddamn minute, O'Rinn. Who’s to say it’s not for me?’

‘Since when have you let anyone call you “cute”?’

‘Wha— I’m cute,’ Cas pouted. ‘I’m fuckin’ adorable!’

‘Cas, you’re six foot three, you’re covered in tattoos, and you threatened to fistfight a vending machine yesterday when it chewed up your dollar.’

‘Exactly.’

When Luca broke into a peal of derisive laughter, Cas cocked his head.

‘What makes you the default cute one in our relationship, huh? Being two foot tall?’ Cas crossed his arms, fixing Luca with a smug grin. ‘I’m surprised you can even see over the counter from all the way down there, New Kid.’

‘Oh! Short jokes now!’ Luca snarled. ‘Very funny. Ha ha.’

‘Yeah, I thought so.’

‘Won’t be laughing when I headbutt you in the dick,’ Luca muttered.

‘Woah, hang on a minute.’

Cas set the mug down, raising his hands in gentle placation. Gabriel allowed himself a small moment to be impressed — Cas, done with goading Luca after a bare few minutes?

That had to be some kind of record.

‘…let me find you a stepladder first.’

‘Oh, fuck you, Harlow!’

Ah. Apparently not.

Gabriel sorted some lettuce and avocados into the vegetable crisper, stowing away groceries while Luca attempted to shove Cas directly off his bar stool. He turned and fixed Gabriel with a bargaining look.

‘Gabe. Tell him it's mine. You think I’m cute, right?’

‘Of course I do.’

Gabriel’s smile turned coy as he poured the fresh coffee beans into the grinder and flipped it on, plucking up another bag of groceries to unload. The kitchen was quickly filled with the aromatic, chocolatey smell of his favourite arabica blend.

‘I think you’re both cute.’

‘Ha!’

‘Yeah, but— oh, shut up, Cas. Oi!’

Luca smacked Cas’s arm as he tried to steal a triumphant bite of their cinnamon roll.

‘But,’ Luca pressed, ‘out of the two of us, only one was so invested in a conversation they were having this morning in their own head, with themself that they walked head-first into a fucking doorframe, ergo—’

Luca snagged the mug, holding it proudly next to his face.

‘—I have clearly achieved peak idiot and this mug is mine. Hey!’

Gabriel stifled a laugh as Luca gaped at their now empty hands. He hummed idly to himself as Cas and Luca sprang from their seats, wrestling with each other in a desperate bid for "Cute but Dumb"-mug-ownership rights.

He passed a pleasant few minutes as the coffee brewed and Cas tried to stuff Luca inside his bathrobe — he was usually more of a tea drinker, in all honesty, but as this morning was proving, sometimes it was nice to indulge in the things that made you smile.

Love burgeoning in his heart, Gabriel finally deigned to unpack the second mug he’d purchased that morning, right as the coffee was done.

‘Gimme the mug,' Luca hissed.

‘No.’

‘Ass. Gimme the mug!’

‘Fight me!’

Gabriel cleared his throat, his expression carefully neutral. ‘Coffee, anyone?’

Cas and Luca froze mid-grapple, eyes locked on the second mug on the counter.

“Cute but dumber”.

Moving in tandem, they rounded on each other, challenge on both of their faces.

‘Well that one’s obviously for me!’

[ancuninfiles]

Lithium Pt. 5

Screenshot by @lavendarr00

10.1k words - F/M - Astarion x F! Durge - 18+

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Summary: Ronnie must reflect on what Astarion had told her the previous day, while she plays with the strange but somehow fitting gift he gave her.

She's to meet him at the park, and they get up to 🌶️no good🌶️ past the treeline.

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Tags: smut, AU modern setting in London UK, mental illness, p in v sex, creampie, semi-public sex, car sex, fingering, darkfic but NOT a dead dove. PLEASE READ FULL TAG LIST ON AO3.

MASTERLIST (Other works and chapters)

Read on AO3 for full tag list and proper formatting (recommended)

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Beginning notes:

I wasn't expecting to finish this chapter so soon, but I fixated on it. This might be the chapter that I'm the most proud of so far :)

This chapter is a whopping 10.1k words.

I can't believe it.

I'm still trying my best to breathe life into Ronnie, but I've been finding it very difficult so bear with me as I periodically go back to previous chapters and tweak her internal thoughts.

I'm BEGGING you to read on AO3 for proper spacing and formatting </3

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓: 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐎𝐦𝐞𝐧

꧁꧂

It'd been less than twenty-four hours since she last saw Astarion.

And she'd spent those past twenty-four hours thinking about him.

She laid in bed with her blackout curtains closed, as it was eerily dark outside by this time of night. The lamp inside her bedroom was warm, and tungsten-like. It sat on her reddish, wooden bedside table, and had a ceramic base and an off-white lampshade, stained with specs of blood.

Nag champa incense that Jen had let her take burned on her bedside table, creating a ribbon of smoke that dispersed as it flowed towards her eggshell-white ceiling.

She let herself sink into her navy-blue duvet, wearing headphones and the soft rope Astarion left—tied in a noose—draped loosely around her throat like a pearl necklace as she listened to music.

The rope… it reminded her of him.

All day, she'd been playing with the blue chrome balisong he'd gifted to her, decorated in intricate baroque-esq engravings. It was a real one—sharp as hell, and she was careful not to cut herself on it.

She ran her thumb in a line down the engravings on the handle. The metal was warm from holding it all day, and polished like its maker had put in a great deal of care.

Her lips pulled into a smile, admiring it.

When he'd given it to her, her immediate thought was that it was insensitive of him to gift her a weapon.

—Of all things.

But then, when she actually held it—felt its weight through her arm, and the smoothness of the pins—it felt like home. That was the only way she could explain it.

Something felt familiar about the balisong. 

When Astarion gave it to her, he'd taken it out of its—equally blue—velvet-lined box and given it a toss.

Everything he'd done with the knife should've been impossible to keep track of—with all of his complex tricks—but somehow, Ronnie felt names for each one on the tip of her tongue. She could almost feel the motions in her own hands as she watched him play.

Magnificent, she thought, the way he whipped it around. She couldn't wait to try it herself when he left.

When she did…

Well…

It was automatic—she could whip the blade around just as well, if not better than Astarion had. 

A part of her stirred with worry. Why was she so good at this? 

The only reasonable conclusion was that she'd done it before.

She didn't like that.

But a single consolation made the fact tolerable: Astarion would go mad once he saw her wielding the knife like a seasoned professional.

—Oh—he'll be so proud.

There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he—being the chaotic little gremlin he was—would be impressed at her skill.

The thought made her blush, and he wasn't even fucking there.

She opened the balisong and clipped its handle together, hugging it to her bare chest. She let her heels slide closer to her bottom, the blanket flitting in their wake.

Her knees came together and she closed her eyes. 

—Astarion…

   —Astarion…

      —Astarion is a vampire.

What a confession that was.

The vampire man—Astarion—had finally given her his number, but he explained that they had to talk in code, just in case his boss saw. Although, he assured her that that wouldn't happen.

The thought of it freaked her out, though, sending a chill down her spine.

—It'd better not happen.

Nevertheless, code or otherwise, she was glad to finally be able to text him.

She’d given him her work schedule, and he said he wanted to meet up with her as much as he could.

—As much as he could.

She wanted that too. Hell, she'd be elated to spend every waking hour with the bloke if it were on the table.

She'd board up all the windows in her flat—whatever it took. 

The bite mark on her neck had been itchy. She tried not to scratch it. She scratched it. It bled more, smearing blood on her fingertips and beneath her nails.

He said she was the first person he'd ever drank from. That his hunger got the best of him, but that it shouldn't have been able to.

…

He described his ties to his boss as some sort of pact, similar to a “deal with the devil”. Theoretically, it was supposed to make him physically incapable of refusing orders.

Drinking the blood of a “thinking creature” went directly against those orders. 

But he tried to run before, and he wasn't supposed to be able to do that, either, as it went against Mr Szarr’s orders. 

When Mr Szarr found him, Astarion was punished severely—he was locked and buried in a coffin for a whole year. 

Without food.

Without blood.

He didn't have time to explain everything. He had to leave Ronnie's flat before the sun came up. 

Astarion doesn't sparkle.

But, up until the moment he left, he’d been very… attentive towards Ronnie. He'd cleaned her up, and gotten her a blanket and water.

And she passed out on the couch when he showered.

The process of being carried to her bed and untied roused her from her sleep.

“See you,” she whispered, half asleep as he tossed the blankets over her.

“See you,” he responded as he walked out of her bedroom.

Ronnie worried that he might get caught. If Mr Szarr could compel him to do anything, could he force the truth out of him?

He said that he and his “siblings” had historically been able to get away with half-truths and redirects. Astarion in particular had somehow refused his compulsions entirely before. 

He wasn't sure why he could, but he said that he “couldn't afford to squander any blessings.”

“I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure that you'd be safe,” he assured her.

He sounded so… genuine. His eyes were dark and serious as he squeezed her thigh over the throw blanket.

“Trust me,” he said.

She wasn't sure yet if trusting him was wise, but intuitively, it felt right. Had he given her any reason to distrust him?

Well…

other than the first day they met, when he lured her there. 

But he wasn’t… he wouldn't do that again.

But it played in the back of her mind—turned her stomach.

It scared her, but… she didn't care because it doesn't matter what happens to her, really. She doesn't have a family, or many friends. Her life… it’s going nowhere. 

What did she have to live for? What if not for the feeling of being held? That felt like something worth living for.

Something worth dying for.

She didn't possess such hubris to deny the inevitability of her kismet.

Death and abandonment were all her cards read. That, or she’d spend the rest of her sorry life working for pennies, living in her musty basement flat, stealing, and getting fucked up. 

She'd probably end up in prison eventually—it astonished her that it hadn't happened yet.

It was inimitable—the way she’d felt in his arms. Not even Jenevelle could make her feel this way. Not ever.

But… she didn't want to kill. Was it not against everything she'd been working so hard to become?

…

But as Astarion said: Mr Szarr owns slaves—kills multiple people a week, himself. Wouldn't it be better to kill him than not? Wouldn't it actually save people? 

—Isn't that justice?

Calling the cops wouldn't work, Astarion was adamant in that—Mr Szarr had been paying them off for decades.

“He must die,” Astarion expressed, as his eyes conveyed a newly surmounted level of intensity. 

This was all too much to process in a single day… especially after they…

That was unexpected.

Maybe it was selfish, or maybe it was self-destructive—hard to tell which.

Was it okay? Her mind raced. He made her feel so… good. But she somehow felt… ugly—ugly on the inside. 

She saw a grotesque, grey pile of sludge, tar, and sticks staring back at her in the mirror of her mind's eye.

That made her feel ugly on the outside, too.

Really, even if Astarion was doing this all as a ruse to lure her and sacrifice her again, she would deserve an end like that.

Dying sounded peaceful.

—Anyways…

She didn't want to think about it—it didn't matter. 

Nothing matters. 

—But other people matter. And keeping them safe.

… But not her.

—Ugh.

Her self-loathing was draining.

When Astarion told her that he was a vampire, she considered whether or not she should believe him. The internet said that vampires aren't real, but she called Jen, and Jen said that she thinks they're real.

Jen not only said that she thinks vampires are real, but also that her family are descendants of lycanthropes. 

It all seemed a bit “woo woo”, but Astarion took a picture of Ronnie's neck with her phone, and showed her the bite marks. 

Then she noticed the blood on his lips.

And it was hot.

It made sense. She’d never seen him in the daytime, his skin was always cool, and his eyes… she had originally thought they were a deep hazel, never having seen him in daylight, but they were red.

So either he was a vampire or she was the most gullible girl in the world.

She was supposed to meet him at one of their designated meeting spots soon.

He texted her earlier. It said: “23-green”, which meant that they would meet at the park near her house at eleven PM.

If he told her to meet her somewhere, she would. 

She realised that about herself.

…

Her own thoughts and feelings were discordant—they were sickeningly overwhelming. 

—It might be a good time to take those anti-anxiety meds.

Ronnie pushed herself upright, her slippers grazing the floor as she moved. Passing by the wall where her bag hung, she idly toyed with her balisong. With a practised flick, she snapped the knife shut and fastened it. The bag came off its hook, the blade slipping inside with a muted thud.

Settling onto the sofa, she leaned into the cushions and began rummaging through her bag. Her fingers sifted through the contents, searching for the medication Astarion had given her too much of that first night.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, shamefully navigating through her crumpled receipts and loose peanuts that littered the bottom of her bag.

Finally acquiring the small orange pill bottle, she read the label for the first time ever. It said: “LORAZEPAM 0.5MG SL—Dissolve 1 tablet under the tongue when needed.”

—Huh…

—Only one…

One to curb the anxiety and five to be completely incapacitated. 

—How many should I take this time?

The bottle rattled as she poured the pills into her hand. They were tiny blue things, with an “A” on one side and “0.5” on the other. It was hard for Ronnie to believe that such a small thing could do so much.

—Maybe just one, she decided.

So she let the spare pills fall back into the bottle and inserted one under her tongue. She closed the bottle with a strong palm, and put it back in her purse.

The flavour this time was almost… sweet—notably less bitter than the last time.

—Good.

She liked the feeling of something so powerful, right beneath her tongue. As if she were changing the will of the gods.

The park was a five-minute walk—she had to leave soon. 

꧁꧂

She left early.

She would not be late this time.

Wearing a long, dark-grey peacoat that billowed open as she moved, she locked her door and ascended the stairs of her building's corridor towards the heavy, metal exit.

She pushed it open with some effort, letting it slam shut behind her, and took long strides between the parked vehicles, crossing the empty street as it glistened with the remnants of a previous storm. The air was thick with the earthy scent of rain-soaked pavement and the subtle hint of ozone, lingering in the tiniest, invisible beads that stuck to her skin.

“Ronnie?” called a rich voice from behind her.

She froze, halfway across the black, rain-slicked street, a smile spreading across her face...

—Astarion.

Stopped in her tracks, she slowly spun on her heels, her eyes locking onto his. She tried to maintain a straight face, but the corner of her lip quirked up, betraying her attempted composure.

He was leaning against her building with his hands in his pockets, smiling with a slight furrow in his brow. He wore a white button-up dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows and black formal trousers.

She took a deep breath. “I thought you wanted to meet me at the park?”

With a fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat, his cool demeanour faltering. “Well… I thought it might be safer if I walked you there.”

When he said that, it felt the same as when he had asked Ronnie, “How are you?”—as if it was his first time ever saying it.

“Right,” Ronnie said, stepping off the street and walking towards him.

She watched her own step up onto the curb, but was stopped by his gesture.

He offered his arm… again.

Her eyes flitted from his arm to his eyes, as if she didn't know what was happening. But she did—she knew he wanted her to take his arm.

And she loved it.

But she couldn't show him just how much she loved it.

He nudged his arm towards her. “Still playing coy, Ronnie?” he smirked.

She loved the way he said her name.

Gritting her teeth, she begrudgingly took his arm. “No.”

She tugged him, and they started walking across the street together.

And she realised that she had walked to him.

—Desperate.

—Fuck.

She was practically dragging him across the street—leading the way—but she forced herself to settle down when they reached the other side, loosening her grip around the back of his elbow and slowing to a more suitable pace.

She glanced up at him, and he had that stupid smile on his face. Again.

“Having fun, are we?” he asked.

“I just wanted to get across the street, and you were too slow,” she said, huffing and looking at the ground ahead as they approached a cobblestone alleyway.

“Oh, yes. Thank you kindly for saving me—your little damsel in distress. What would I do without you?” He laughed.

Ronnie clenched her fists. He was so… annoying.

—Ugh.

She wanted to rip away from him and walk ahead—to make him follow her the rest of the way. But she stayed. And they walked onwards through the dingy alleyway, past a smelly dumpster towards the street over.

Ronnie held her breath until they were far enough from the dumpster. When she finally breathed again, she tried to do so slowly—undramatically.

“So…” she began, gearing up for her question, “How are you able to come and see me if your boss’s rules are so… strict?”

Astarion sighed, pausing for a moment. “My siblings are able to pick up my slack for… this… cause,” he explained.

Ronnie felt the familiar pang of guilt in her stomach. “And by that, you mean they’re… bringing victims to Mr Szarr for you?”

“Instead of me,” he spat. “It's not as if I want him to have any more victims.” His face twisted in misplaced anger.

Ronnie had assumed what his job entailed before, but every time she thought about it, it stirred something pained and uncomfortable within her, almost like the smell of the dumpster. She didn’t want to think about it.

—But maybe talking about it would help.

She pressed more, “Dalyria… is she… having sex with people to lure them like how you did with me?” Ronnie asked.

Astarion stopped on the sidewalk, and, consequently, Ronnie did too.

He walked in front of her, gripping both of her arms at her sides.

She looked up at him, witnessing the subtle intensity in his brow.

“I’m. Sorry.”

Again, he said something as if it was his first time uttering the phrase.

Ronnie tensed her shoulders closer to her ears. He looked… scared.

His grip loosened, and his thumbs rubbed along the front of her arms. He was clearly attempting to soothe her, but it was like he’d forgotten how. He’d been caring and affectionate after their couplings, but outside of that, he was a bit… awkward—like he was trying his very best to keep something contained.

Ronnie wondered what that was.

“Hey—it’s okay.” She bit her lip.

“It was my job to bring you to him,” his words echoed in her memory. “Nobody has ever bested him like that.”

“I—I want to help you.” The words leaked from her. She didn’t know why.

“Just—” don’t leave me when this is all over, she wanted to say but didn’t. Couldn’t.

He wouldn’t lure her there again.

—He doesn’t even want to be there. Ever again.

Closing his eyes, he huffed out an exhale through his nose. He held his arm out for Ronnie again, looking ahead—away from her.

She squeezed and unsqueezed her hands a few times, noticing they were suddenly clammy. Hooking onto his arm, she followed his lead to the park.

꧁꧂

The swings creaked in the cool breeze, their metallic squeaks echoing in the still night. The grass and rocks around the playground glistened with moisture, dark and wet from the earlier rain. Beyond the playground, a dense treeline marked the beginning of a small patch of woods. The sky remained overcast, the stars obscured by clouds.

They walked across the damp ground and paused before the playground, standing side-by-side, the night air filled with the scent of wet earth and foliage.

“So… why did you want to bring me here?” Ronnie asked, her voice tense. She held her breath, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a nervous habit.

“The trees,” Astarion replied, “they make for accessible targets to practice on.” He released her arm and looked down at her. “Did you bring it?”

He hadn’t even asked her to bring it, but—of course—she did. Just more evidence of how embarrassingly obsessed she was with him. And he’d surely pick up on it.

She exhaled sharply. “Yeah, I have it.” Reaching into her bag reluctantly, she grasped the cold metal of the balisong and pulled it out, feeling its familiar weight in her hand.

She wanted to show him what she could do.

“Perfect. Can I see it for a moment?” he asked, extending his hand.

With a hint of reluctance, she placed the weapon in his hand, not saying a word.

While it remained closed, he tossed it a few inches into the air, catching it with ease as if gauging its weight. “Here—come,” he said, gesturing to the trees and beginning to walk towards them.

She hugged herself, though she wasn’t cold.

Following in his footsteps, she did as he asked.

She wanted her knife back.

When they reached the trees, he glanced back to ensure she was watching. Unclipping the balisong, he unfolded it and snapped it open with practised ease.

This time, when he tossed the knife, he threw it higher. It spun in the air before he caught it effortlessly by the hilt.

—I could do that.

He flung it at a tree, it spun on axis and it hit with a satisfying thunk, embedding itself into the wood.

—The poor tree.

“Want to try?” he asked, walking over to pull the knife out.

Easing the balisong free with a careful, vertical wiggle, he inspected the blade for damage.

Seemingly satisfied, he took steps toward her and offered her the blade on his open palm, like he was offering a treat to a bad dog.

Ronnie removed her hands from under her arms and took her balisong back, avoiding his gaze as she dropped her bag on the ground against a nearby tree.

Taking a few steps back from where he'd thrown it, she tossed the knife in the air just as he had, catching it by the hilt.

She hadn’t tried this before, but it felt as natural as breathing. She wasn't scared.

She glanced at him and saw him grinning, arms crossed.

He was looking at her like that again.

Eyes snapping back to the tree in embarrassment, she blushed unbiddenly and steadied herself on her two feet, a bend in her knee.

Inhaling slowly through her mouth, she held her breath.

Exhaling, she flung the balisong… 

And it stuck in the exact spot he'd hit.

And she wasn't scared.

Straightening up, she turned her head to him to gauge his reaction.

His eyes widened, and his arms uncrossed as he stared at the tree. He looked back at Ronnie, cleared his throat into his fist, and painted on a smile—placing his knuckles on his hips. “You've been practising?” he laughed facetiously.

Ronnie made way to the blade-struck tree, freeing it from its peril, just as Astarion had previously. She, too, inspected the blade's tip for any damage, and she was grateful that it remained just as flawless as it'd been before.

“No, I… I just know how to do it.” Ronnie forced a smile. “Retrograde amnesia. Sometimes people forget everything from their past, but retain—uh,” she paused, swinging awkwardly, “certain skills or talents like… playing the piano. And other things, apparently.” Despite her stiff demeanour, her hands shook as she undid the handle and clipped the blade closed. She stared at the balisong in her hand. “Thanks for this, by the way. It was… actually really thoughtful,” she said, holding it tightly. Her eyes flicked back to Astarion, and her lips formed a tight line.

Meeting Astarion was one of the keys to uncovering her past.

She couldn't hide from it anymore—not when it was staring at her like this.

She'd hoped that her paroxysms were only ever a consequence of her “brain injury,” but the knife…

The knife—it changed things.

The knife meant that she'd always been this way, or something like that.

Fresh out of the hospital, she only had a few large scars. Now, she was swarmed with them.

How many people had she killed? How in the hells did she know how to wield this weapon so well?

Were there any other skills she possessed but didn't know about?

She sank to her knees on the pine-needle-covered dirt ground to place her balisong back in her bag. She pushed her palm into the earth and felt the thump of the weapon as it fell to the bottom. She grabbed at the dirt, letting the pine needles poke between her fingers. It felt good.

The wind blew through the trees, shaking raindrops from their branches, and she didn't feel anything except sick.

She heard Astarion crouch beside her.

“Ronnie?”

She wondered if that was her name before.

He brushed her hair behind her ear, and when she looked at him, her vision was blurred by tears.

Her chin was seized by a gentle grip between his thumb and finger.

And she felt the nausea fade away a little bit.

She closed her eyes.

She could stay there forever.

Until she died.

But she felt his breath on her lips, and then his lips.

And they were so soft.

She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want him to go. He made her feel better. He made her feel normal.

Tilting her head, she nudged closer into him, deepening the kiss. 

He let go of her chin and slid his hand under her peacoat, to her back, grasping at the fabric of her shirt like he'd fall right off the earth if he didn't.

She could do anything with her hands, so she chose to hold his head, carding her fingers through his hair on both sides with a thumb in front of either ear.

She breathed through her nose as he pulled at her shirt, lowering her and kissing her into the dirt, his hand flattening under the weight of her ribcage.

Her arms flopped around the back of his neck as he unslotted his hand from her back only to hold her waist while his elbow dug into the dirt beside her. 

He was between her legs, and she wrapped herself around him. It was like nothing else. Nothing had ever made her feel so… safe.

She felt safe like this.

With him.

She broke their kiss. And breathed. And opened her eyes. 

And he was there… 

looking at her.

He was so beautiful.

“Astarion,” she whispered, “thank you.”

His brow tensed again.

—Was he afraid for the same reason?

He tucked his face between her head and shoulder, and she held him tighter.

Allowing himself to collapse onto her, she felt his nose nudge her neck.

He was hungry.

And if she could give him a semblance of what he'd give her, she'd do it. 

“You can drink from me again, Astarion.”

Groaning, he pushed his hips into her core. 

And she held him so close.

“I can't.” he rasped.

Ronnie closed her eyes. “Because of—” Mr Szarr? she held her tongue.

He didn't say anything, he just rocked into her, and she could feel his hardness straining against his trousers as he hid away in the crook of her neck.

“Astarion.”

“I love it when you say my name, Ronnie.”

—How is this real right now?

She released one arm from around him to rummage through her purse beside her, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape as she watched him.

When she found her balisong, her fingers curled around it. “Can you sit up?”

He nodded, pushing himself up and back to sit on his heels, her legs draped over his thighs.

Ronnie pulled the blade from her bag and placed it down in the dirt to shrug off her coat. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and onto the ground behind her.

His hands slid up her thighs, fingers tracing the skin beneath the hem of her loose t-shirt, lingering at the elastic waistband of her leggings.

It was very distracting.

She laid back on her coat and picked up her balisong, unclipping it, opening it, and admiring the detailed engravings on the blade.

It was really her, and that didn't make sense.

She held the blade to her scarred wrist, swiftly slicing a small line close to her hand. Blood immediately began to bead on the surface of her skin.

His expression shifted as he eyed the bleeding cut, restrained and hungry, like when she had bitten her lip. He watched the small droplet raptly as it journeyed over and around the other scars on her arm, trailing downwards towards her elbow.

“For you,” Ronnie whispered, “please.” She held up her wrist, offering herself to him.

He looked at her, seeking reassurance. She nodded, eyes steady, urging him on.

His gaze dropped back to her wrist as he took it in his hand, his thumb pressing into her palm. Their eyes locked as he leaned closer, propping himself up with one hand in the dirt.

She let him take his time, shivering as he kissed the backs of her fingers first.

This made her blood flutter in her veins.

She didn't know what this was—it felt like falling, but it was good, better than any drug she'd ever done.

He closed his eyes, turning her wrist along with his head, placing the flat of his tongue on the tiny trailing droplet. He closed his eyes so tight, as if savouring the taste.

She was entranced, watching him work his way up her arm.

The way he looked—she wanted to taste him, too.

The trees creaked and swayed, moonlight speckling through his curls.

He finally reached her wound, wrapping his lips around it. His groan of pleasure resonated through her.

It tickled, sending shivers down her spine.

She felt his tongue roll on her skin, and his hips roll into her.

He pressed his tongue onto her skin one last time before pulling away, leaving nothing left but the scratch she'd made.

She had stopped bleeding, but she knew it wasn’t enough.

He let go of her wrist, and she started to sit up. “Here,” she murmured, shimmying out from under him.

She stood, looked around, bent down, and grabbed her jacket. She flung it over her shoulder and laid it out beside a tree.

“You can sit with your back against this tree. What do you think?” she asked, her voice soft and inviting, hoping to make him feel comfortable.

He stood up and walked to her. “What have you got planned?” he asked, smiling.

“A treat,” she replied, smiling back and gesturing to the tree with both hands.

He looked at her sceptically but walked over and sat on her coat as she had asked.

Ronnie already started lowering herself to sit between his legs, her back pressed against his chest.

It was as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Ronnie leaned her head back on his shoulder, looking up at him. “I’m here.” She smiled, then looked away, pulling her hair to one side and exposing the bite marks from the night before. “Please—just try.”

She tilted her head for him and closed her eyes.

His arms found their way around her torso, holding her arms to her ribcage.

His breath was shaky, each inhalation expanding his chest against her back. His exhalations blew cool puffs of air against her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

She could feel his hesitation in the way he gripped her, his fingers tracing the marred skin on her arms as if unsure where to rest. The closeness of their bodies made her hyper-aware of every sensation—the lifelessness of his breath, the steady thrum of his strange heartbeat against her spine, the way his chest rose and fell.

“Please,” she whispered, “I trust you.”

His lips brushed against the tender skin of her neck, and she felt a wave of heat wash over her. The anticipation, the tension—it was intoxicating.

He hesitated for a moment longer before pressing his lips to her neck, his mouth lingering over the bite marks from the night before. She gasped softly, feeling a mix of pain and pleasure as his teeth grazed her skin.

His grip tightened around her, his hands finally finding their place as they held her closer. Each breath—each touch—was electric, sending jolts of desire through her.

“Your heart’s not racing, Ronnie. Why not?” he murmured.

—The medication.

“I took one of those little blue pills before we came here,” she said.

“You were scared?” he asked.

“I was… stressed. Just—thinking too much,” 

“About us?”

—Us?

Her cheeks bloomed with blood, the warmth spreading across her face.

“That’s better—quicker,” he noted, his breath cool against her neck.

“Do you like it better like that?” she asked, her voice breathy and trembling.

He pressed his lips to her throat. “It drives me crazy,” he whispered, grazing his fangs along her pulse point. He squeezed her arms, his grip possessive. “Stay very still, darling,” he cooed.

When he sank his fangs into her neck, she winced quietly at first as he held her taut against him.

Winced—at the pain, but it faded into a numb drumming.

It felt like everything.

He groaned again, his breath tickling her throat as he exhaled through his nose.

She tried to stay still, to keep breathing steadily—she wanted to make this easy for him.

His fingertips pulled at the skin on her arms, and she felt him take his first gulp.

She could feel him growing needy—the outline of him, against her back—and she couldn't blame him because she was feeling needy herself, with the way he held her like a vice.

Small grunts of pleasure escaped his chest as he imbibed. The more he drank, the less frantic his grip became, his hands travelling across her torso—one hand searched under her shirt, and the other ventured past her navel, slipping below her waistband.

He moved slowly and carefully, his cool fingers applying pressure to her skin on their journeys. It made it difficult for Ronnie to stay still.

She could feel her heart beating faster than before, each thump echoing in her ears. She wondered if that was why he was teasing her.

The sensation of his touch, the way he drank from her… it was stupefying, overwhelming her senses. His hands explored her body with deliberate slowness, igniting a cascade of sensations that rippled through her most sacred spots.

His one hand moved upwards, under her shirt until he was pulling down her bralette, making her breast fall out. Ronnie gasped—every way he touched her left sparks on her skin. 

He grabbed her mound, and she bit her inner lip, trying not to move or gasp like before—she had to remember to breathe.

But once he had a hold of her breast, his other hand journeyed lower—under her leggings. She parted her legs for him, and when his fingers slotted between her folds, her entire body tensed—his touch was still initially electric on her starved skin.

When he felt how wet she was, he moaned deeply into her claimed neck, and that incited her unbidden squirming further.

He moved through her folds under her tight pants, and dipped two fingers into her, palming her clit. He held her like that—close to him as he hooked into her cunt and latched onto her neck like a feral animal.

She didn't dare move—she needed him to feel comfortable.

But the longer they stayed like that, the more her stomach fluttered and her cheeks burned. She hummed a small moan—she couldn't stop it this time, but he groaned his approval at her noise, rewarding her with a wiggle of his fingers inside of her and a thumb across her nipple, which only made her moan more.

He kept going like that, and her breathing picked up—she didn't know how he expected her to stay still like this. It was torture, truly. Maybe he was evil, after all. 

He pressed his pelvis into her back—it was clear that he was hard.

Something felt different this time—like more than just sex. She thought of his mind and where it might be at, or if he felt the same way at all.

She hopes.

She thinks he does. 

He sometimes held her like this—like he was afraid of losing her. She knew she felt like that—afraid of losing him. Afraid that he'd disappear and she'd be alone again. Alone, and messy, and fucked up.

But she felt okay like this. To feel okay was an anomaly—it never happened, not really.

Not for people like her.

There was always a shadow, following her everywhere she went, casting over everything she did, like a tall building that blocked the sun and consequently stopped the flowers from blooming there.

She felt like her flowers were blooming with him.

And it was stupid.

She was stupid.

But maybe it was okay…

She felt okay.

A soft sigh escaped her as she felt the bristling trees shake themselves dry—a drop, landing on her cheek.

And she realised that things inside her were fading away—all the worst parts being washed off and leaving her pure and… free.

And he was still there…

Pulling his fangs out with a pop and pressing his lips on the wounds he made—like an apology.

He pulled his fingers out, and took his hand out of her shirt just to… hug her. He wrapped his arms around her like before, but much softer this time—like he was okay too.

Ronnie rested on him, and they stayed there, breathing together like they had all the time in the world, or like that was enough.

The clouds were all gone, and the summer air was heavy and humid, leaving a thin layer of it on their stacked bodies. 

If they were out of the city, they might have been able to see the stars, or lay in some tall grass and pick out the constellations.

She shut her eyes, and let her breaths come and go with his now-warmer arms around her.

“Thank you, too,” he murmured.

She looked up at him, and he was looking down at her. His brow was scrunched like he was afraid, again.

Ronnie turned and placed her hand on his chest. And she kissed him, like how he did for her. 

A kiss meant “I'm here”.

She broke the kiss, and gazed down to where her wrist met his chest. For some reason, looking into his eyes felt like too much—as if it made a time bomb start ticking and the only way to stop it was to look away.

She gave his shirt an affectionate scrunch before turning away again. 

They could still see the park through the trees, completely desolate except for the occasional squeak of the swings in the warm breeze. Everything was so dark and quiet—safe.

Ronnie imagined the sounds of people—children playing on the slides, parents chatting at the picnic tables. It hit her that she had never actually been to this park before. She lived so close, yet had only ever walked by.

“How do you feel?” Astarion asked from behind her.

She laughed softly. “Me? Just thinking about this park, wondering if it's always this quiet at night.” She laid her head back on his shoulder.

“Hmm… I suspect we just got lucky.”

Just then, a group of teenagers approached the park, smelling of spliff, laughing and hushing one another.

“Well now. Fun's over,” Astarion said.

Ronnie hung her head, sighed and then came onto her hands and knees to push herself up. She stretched her arms far above her head and then adjusted her bralette so it lay properly. 

With her sneakered feet standing on her coat, she turned and offered a hand to Astarion to help him up.

He stared at her hand for a moment, then took it and pushed himself up.

Every spot his body had touched her lingered. 

They began to walk away, leaving the quiet park and its fleeting serenity behind.

꧁꧂

“Do you remember being a teenager?” Ronnie asked as she walked beside Astarion down the sidewalk, her hands tucked into her peacoat pockets. It was easier that way.

“I—er—honestly, no,” he replied, his hands in his pockets as well.

Maybe he had the same idea.

“I can't remember much of my past—centuries of torment will do that to you.”

“Centuries?” Ronnie didn't know why, but she’d assumed he was younger.

“Two hundred years—give or take a few.”

“So you were here through it all. World War One? And Two?”

“Oh, yes. Work didn't stop for Mr Szarr’s spawn, either. We still had to bring…” His face twisted in disgust. “...bodies back to him.” He smiled sarcastically, turning his head to face Ronnie as they walked. “It's much easier—so to speak—to kill horrid people.” His head turned to watch the pavement in front of him. “People who the world would be better off without. By nature, my sisters are better at luring those… rotters.”

Was that what she was? A rotter?

“Here we are,” he said as they stopped on the sidewalk, between his Hummer and her building's door. “Suppose this is where we part ways.”

The aura between them was thick and heavy.

“Right.” She nodded curtly.

She stood stiffly for a moment, staring at the ground and clenching her clammy fists.

Turning to face the door, she dug in her purse for her keys, but she wasn’t ready to leave yet.

She wanted to stay with him. They still had so much time before sunrise. Still, it didn't feel right for her to pursue this; even if she could be restrained in private, it didn't change her fate.

She felt the balisong in her purse.

She began to turn to thank him again.

But he was already so close—right there.

And then he was on her—on her lips, on her everywhere.

He stole her breath with a hand through her peacoat and under her shirt, splayed out on the small of her back. His other hand carded through her hair, holding her head at the right angle.

Her own hands found purchase anywhere they could on his body with how fervently he kissed. 

His splayed hand changed its goal, as he pulled at the front of her leggings' waistband, causing her to lose footing.

Her body moved instinctively, tugging at his dress shirt to untuck it at the front and undo his leather belt.

But he grabbed her wrist to stop her. And he withdrew from their kiss.

She thought she ruined it—grossed him out, or made him uncomfortable with her eagerness.

But when he said, “My car or your flat?” she thought she might fly out of her body.

“Car,” she said.

Her whole body was becoming all too hot under her peacoat as he pulled her towards the large vehicle by her wrist. He reached into his pocket, grabbed the fob, unlocked the doors, and swung one open.

The vehicle's doors were high, and the fob was tossed somewhere on the floor inside.

With his hands around her ribs, he lifted her like a ballerina into the backseat, and she watched him crawl in gracelessly as she backed away on all fours.

Once he was in, he closed the door and pressed a button to lock it.

Every window was tinted, including the windshield—making things private but not too secluded.

Astarion sat on one heel, with his other leg off the seat, and started unlacing her sneaker.

He removed it quickly, his brow knitted in focus. The other one came off with the same level of ease.

Both sneakers were tossed on the ground and he hastily slotted his fingers under her leggings, pulling them down along with her knickers and socks in one go. The rush to undress filled the vehicle with the constant rustle of fabric.

Ronnie shimmied to sit on her bum and then shook her coat and bag off before lifting off her t-shirt and then her bralette.

Everything was happening non-stop without any time to breathe between beats.

By the time all of her clothes were off, Astarion had already thrown his own shirt on the front seat, slid off his shoes, and he'd begun to unbuckle his belt.

Ronnie thought he was the hottest person she'd ever seen, with his abs wrinkled as he slouched to view his buckle.

He focused on unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, and he stood with one knee on the seat and his foot on the ground as he used his thumbs to pull his formal trousers below his hip bones.

He stood, crouching under the Hummer roof to get the rest of his trousers off—his socks following immediately after.

He was completely naked and his cock was already hard. 

Ronnie lay back on her coat—as she had earlier that night—and parted her knees for him as he stroked himself impatiently. She was already soaking from their mischief in the trees.

He brought two fingers through her folds, slipping them inside and feeling her out for good measure. When he pulled them out, he grabbed the back of her thigh, pushing it back before lining himself up with her seam, fisting his swollen length with urgency.

Once he had the tip in, he let go of his hardness and grabbed at Ronnie’s hips to twirl himself inwards, slowly. 

The stretch felt lurid, and she pulsed around him as he worked his way to her cervix. It didn't take much effort for him to do so, and she knew it wouldn't take much effort for her to cum, either.

“Fuck, Ronnie. You're so tight and warm around me,” he cursed, pulling out almost completely before snapping back in. “And I can almost fit all the way inside of you.”

He began his motions, ebbing and flowing into her.

The inside of her coat was silky—it reminded her of a plush and expensive blanket. She felt like a princess as she jostled on it.

His thumb was already toying with her clit, and the rolls of his hips were sultry and languid—almost matching the rhythm of his thumb.

The car was probably rocking, and the windows were becoming steamy like the lid of a pot of boiling water.

He was gorgeous—his mouth hung open, exposing his fangs as his eyes lay fixed on Ronnie's body; looking from her bouncing tits to their lower entanglement. 

And then finally: her face—her eyes. 

They hadn't truly looked at one another since their coupling in the trees. It stirred something inside her—both her chest and stomach tightened and tingled, as if birds were trying to fly out of her body like it was a cage.

She didn't want to look away, but the gaze between them was no longer playful—there was something behind his eyes that synchronised with her own.

And it was terrifying.

She didn’t deserve this.

She didn't deserve any of this.

Yet he was so good to her.

It felt wrong to question what they meant to one another, but she knew he made her feel a psychotic level of yearning that was a constant effort to quell or quench. It went beyond just the physicality of it all—beyond their ready bodies that so clearly wanted each other.

And she was fitted around him like his formal wear always was. He wasn't even going fast when she came—breathing heavily as her whole body lit up with surges of ecstasy. She had to grab onto the seat to ground herself, scratching at the leather fabric with her short nails.

He rasped a lengthy “Oh” when she fluttered around him. 

Gods, he was so hot.

He kept going as she rode out the tail end of her orgasm, removing his thumb at just the right time—before he started rutting much faster… and harder.

Ronnie's body was tired and limp from her climax, and he looked her over with smouldering eyes. 

Her arms had fallen so that her hands rested lazily on her torso.

He got her body moving almost like liquid—that made it clear he wasn't done with her yet.

The sounds they made were sloppy and uninhibited—Ronnie's coat would surely be a mess by the end of this. It probably already was.

She could feel each push and pull of his hips everywhere inside her, pervasive like dry red wine on her tongue.

With tepid hands, he pushed her knees towards her shoulders by grabbing the backs of her thighs, leaning into her closely—the herbaceous scent of his cologne whelming her.

He drew out his motion. “There we go—all the way in, now,” he cooed, a thrust breaking his sentence.

Once he settled into a rhythm, his movements intensified, growing more vehement and purposeful.

She wanted to hold him. She could hold him. Again.

So she wrapped her forearms around the back of his neck, his skin sticky and glistening as she urged him towards her for a kiss.  He complied, their lips meeting in a messy, fervent lock; all while his hips were relentless.

She could still taste her ichor on him, and smell it lacing his minty breath as their lips, teeth, and tongues fumbled against one another.

When he was done with her lips, he tucked his damp head between her neck and shoulder—the undertones of his scent always perforated her the most when he did that.

He was warmer than she'd ever felt him before, but still cooler than her. Despite his coolness, he still sweated, and he somehow made that look beautiful, too. It was unfair.

She uncrossed her hands and grabbed his shoulders, beginning to slide her fingers down his back. But she felt ridges on his skin—they felt like her scars.

They were scars.

In one swift movement, he pulled away from her, grabbing one of her wrists a bit too tightly at first. 

Her heart skipped at the suddenness, breath catching in her throat and expanding the top of her chest, causing her shoulders to near her ears.

His eyes were wide, almost panicked, his hold firm as if anchoring himself to reality.

Ronnie subconsciously mirrored his expressions as he went. She just knew she did something wrong.

In the subtle intensity of his eyes and brow, Ronnie sensed that fear again.

It was a fleeting expression, but he mustn't have wanted her to feel what she'd felt on his back—his own scars.

His eyes darted away—he wasn't looking at her, but rather somewhere irrelevant as he held her wrist; half zoned out or something.

His pace became offbeat, like he didn't want to be doing this with Ronnie anymore.

She didn't want it if he didn't want it, but that wouldn't change the way she'd never forgive herself for screwing everything up.

It was always too good to be true, anyways. 

“Astarion—” she began, her voice trembling with uncertainty. She didn't want to make things worse by saying the wrong thing.

Now, she was scared.

His eyes snapped to her, intense and searching. He took a deep breath, eyes closing as his thumb traced a comforting path along her wrist before letting her go. “I—” he began, but his words faltered.

And he was still fucking her, each thrust a contradiction—steady, but full of tension. Every motion was a blend of need and hesitation, making it difficult for Ronnie to track his aura.

But her body felt so right—she still couldn’t help but lose her breath each time he went into her again. However, she could almost see the cogs turning in Astarion’s mind, like conflict was carved into every movement.

She remained silent—like no words available to her could bridge the gap. Surely, nothing she could think to say would fix what felt broken between them.

It felt like everything they'd been building together was crashing down in an instant—her hands as the wrecking-ball. All she could do was lay there and take it.

Her heart hammered in the silence—

—Why hasn't he stopped yet?

She kept herself still, her hands withdrawn—since they were the grubby creatures that fucked things up in the first place. 

She fucked things up.

The silence was heavy, punctuated only by their breaths—primarily Ronnie’s—and the lewd, wet sounds of their bodies moving together. His hands anchored him to her, thumbs skimming soothingly over her pelvis—steady, grounding. Like a wordless promise that he was alright. 

Or nearly there.

Then, a small, stuttered whine escaped him as he rocked forward, raw and unfiltered. His eyes opened, sliding slowly from where they were joined.

Up…

Up…

Up her body, until they fixed on her neck, lingering there.

Although discomforting, it made sense. Her neck was a safe spot—far from the intimacy of her eyes, where every glance felt too close, too revealing. It was a place he could focus on, even if her clothes were still on. A place where the only scars were the ones he’d left behind, not the others that marred her skin.

The ones she wished she could erase.

She would rip herself out of her own skin if she could… 

If she could have a pretty body.

But something clicked in him when his gaze met hers.

His movements grew faster and his presence hastily morphed into something needy and desperate.

He leaned in and parted her mouth with a gentle press of his thumb, tasting herself on his skin. He pressed her tongue down, eyes locked on her lips. 

She could feel every ridge of his thumbprint as he drew a line, slipping it in further.  She tried to relax, but her tongue betrayed her, flexing beneath the weight of his touch.

He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed entranced, his thumb pushing against her bottom teeth, inching toward the back of her throat. She felt like a dog being trained—told not to bite, not to act, just to receive. The thought of scaring him away kept her still, though every fibre of her being ached to respond, to give in fully.

On her taste buds, he moved left and right, like he always did when trying to soothe her, his flavour a familiar metallic tang—iron, life, her remnants.

The darkness around them was absolute—an endless void that swallowed everything. But him—he was clear, vivid, a beacon in the dark. It was her blood that reddened his cheeks, a vivid flush that belonged there, like ink sinking into the coarse fibres of parchment.

He could have it. He needed it more than she did, anyway.

If only he knew she'd give it all, would he take it?

He slid further in, pushing to the back of her tongue until his palm rested against her bottom teeth. She struggled not to gag, but he brushed so deeply into her throat that she couldn’t help it. The reflex came, and with it, watery eyes and a hope that he liked this evidence of his effect on her.

His eyes darkened, filled with a focused intensity, as if he were a schoolboy holding a magnifying glass to an anthill, watching her reactions with a mix of curiosity and control.

Retracting his thumb, he used her saliva to trace a slow, deliberate circle around her plump, swollen lips, painting them like a canvas.

Like he needed it.

Ronnie thought she might just die from that—right then and there. The way he looked at her—treated her—like she was the most precious thing in the world… like a shiny diamond ring, gleaming in the dark.

He slid his thumb in again, and she looked up at him, wanting him to proceed as he focused on playing with her mouth.  He parted her mouth wider this time, pulling her jaw down with the firm pressure of his hand beneath her chin. His face inched closer, the air between them charged with the electric hum of anticipation.

And then he kissed her.

He drank her in with a ravenous intensity, his fingers threading through her hair, while the moist imprint of his thumb caressed her cheek with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of his kiss.

Their teeth clashed, breaths mingling as they devoured each other in a frantic, primal exchange. He caught her lower lip with his fang, the sharp edge breaking the skin just enough to draw a bead of blood.

And he sucked on it and growled like a feral and possessive creature. But even as he overtook her, his fingers remained gentle, coaxing, subjugating her with the lightest touch.

And the sounds that rattled out of him were visceral and untamed.

“You make such a mess of me, Ronnie. You—” His voice broke off in a hiss—he was so close.

He parted his glistening torso from hers, reaching down to circle her bud. 

His gaze into her pupils was commanding, a silent order that left no room for hesitation, pulling Ronnie into his desire.

He was… so intoxicatingly beautiful. 

Her body was feeling so much for him.

Too much.

She had to look away.

“Eyes up here, darling,”

And then she was climbing into oblivion as soon as she looked back. 

His crimson gaze… it was like a ship aflame, drifting in the middle of a dark lake.

His hand synchronised with his hips. And with that, he brought her through that burning ship.

Through oblivion.

And he was doing it, too. He was there. With her. Swimming through the heat and darkness.

And then floating down. 

Descending onto Ronnie, and becoming a tangled mix of sweaty limbs—his weight on hers like hydrostatic pressure; it was pervading.

He was in her in so many ways, it felt surreal. 

Like possession. 

He came into her like an omen, and kissed the breath out of her lungs—kissed her face from cheek to cheek. And from cheek to neck.

It felt like worship. He was worshipping her in the back of a fucking Hummer.

She let her hands drape lazily above her head.

His hips pulled from hers and she was left feeling messily revered as he poured out of her—a trail of him.

Their breathless forms, too apathetic to catch up just yet.

His arms hugged under her head, cherishing her and her neck—clearly a spot of interest.

She grinned sadly, her brows canting up. “I'll let you drink all of me one day, Astarion.”

It felt like the ultimate way to atone for what she'd done. Not only to him, but Alfira, and anyone else she'd hurt and forgotten about.

“Don't say that,” he said into her neck. “Then who will be there for me to practise sutures on?”

She didn't deserve this, but the urge to balance how much to truly show took over, causing her mind to revert and her shell to cover her once again.

Ronnie pouted. “Mean.”

Laughing, he sat up. “I mean it. That was fun—playing with my food.” He placed his hand flatly on her stomach, looking there while he stretched out his fingers. Sighing, his grin vanished.  “It's not something I've had the chance to do until—”

Ronnie watched the pain wash over him—twisting in his brow. 

If she could take it away—fold it up into a pill and drink it down until it swelled her brain and stopped her heart—she would.

“Let's get you cleaned up,” he said.

She should've said no—that she would take care of herself so he wouldn't have to deal with the hard parts—but something drove her to accept his offer.

Something selfish and impulsive and stupid.

He led her into her apartment with an arm around her back. Her clothes were slung over her bag strap and she folded her peacoat closed, walking down the corridor stairs, wearing her chucks undone.

Although it happened very fast, everything after that felt like slow-motion.

From her coat and bag dropping to the ground, to him tying her, to the bath they took where her ropes got all wet.

And she could finally see his back while they were in the lavatory… 

Someone had carved intricate rune-like patterns into him. Like a summoning circle, or something of that nature.

She didn't pry. She didn't stare. She just let everything soak into her pores—all the soaps that he scrubbed under her restraints… under candlelight.

Maybe she could wash him, too, one day.

He patted her down, as well as himself, and then changed her ropes with the help of the cuffs on the pole—all within their sanctuary of silence.

In the bed, after all was said and done, they shared her blanket.

Until she woke up to him untying her. And with a kiss to her brow, he was gone.

He always leaves.

It hurts.

꧁꧂

Her dream had been so peaceful, similar to the one she had at the pub. 

She'd been stoking the flames of a woodstove in a cottage she lived in, heating the home for the autumn. Out the window, the tall grass had turned beige, signifying the summer's end as it blew in waves with the breeze.

A kettle whistled on the stove for tea.

“Milady?”

She ended its whistling by opening its spout and removing it from the heat. Then, she poured the steamy water into a ceramic mug, its lip lined with gold.

The water glugged into the mug, turning red from the teabag that floated towards the top.

“Milady? A word, please?”

She grabbed a steel spoon, its handle engraved with a symmetrical floral pattern. The metal clinked against the ceramic as she plopped it in the water.

She turned to her green, vintage-style fridge and pulled out a glass bottle of soy-milk. Pouring it into her tea, she stirred it slowly until the liquid reached the gold.

“Milady!”

Ronnie felt a weak tug at her blankets, waking her from her slumber. 

She strained her sleepy eyes open, her heart racing as she craned her head forward to make out what was in front of her, coated by darkness.

Hastily propping herself on her palms, she flicked on her lamp with a shaky hand at the bulb’s base.

Before her, stood a small man-like creature, only his nose was bony and beak-like, his chin and ears were long and pointed, and his skin was grey—lifeless, like a corpse.

He wore a dated suit, and tophat, standing at Ronnie's bedside, near her feet with his lips stretched into a smile.

“Milady! A most joyous day it is, indeed. At long last, I have found you, oh depraved one!” said the creature, bowing. “Sceleritas Fel—your ever-faithful and adoring butler—at your service.”

꧁꧂

End notes: I hope you liked this chapter! Sorry if the Discord link expires. I believe it only lasts 7 days. :')

[louvaem]

flickers of light — one ; kindling (reuploaded)

☆ aemond targaryen x gn!reader, house targaryen x gn!reader (platonic)

☆ summary: when the Light of the Realm – beloved in all of Westeros – begins to succumb to an illness that even the most skilled and wizened Maesters cannot treat, the royal inhabitants of the Red Keep must hold onto the flickers of light through memories of moments, before the Stranger snuffs them out. — 5k words

☆ warnings/tags: angst, terminal illness, mutual pining, friends to sort-of-lovers to strangers, dance of the dragons never happened and we'll see why, set 10 years after the dance should have happened, this is a fix-it fic basically, rhaenicent is very important to me, no use of y/n and no descriptions of reader, massive time jump, everyone gets along. enjoy!

News of the Light of the Realm's terminal state arrives at the Red Keep at the hour of the owl, on the 15th day of the twelfth moon of the year 139 AC, as a storm lashes above the Crownlands.

The halls of the Keep are empty, save for one Maester whose slipper-clad feet patter against the stone floors in earnest. A thin length of parchment threatens to crumple in his fist, and tears collect in his eyes as the words on the tiny scroll turn over and over in his mind.

A particularly loud howl of wind blows through the corridor, sweeps the cap off his head and blows out a few torch lights as it passes. The Maester continues on without pause, however, purpose and pain fueling his strides as he reaches the Queen’s quarters. 

The Dowager Queen Alicent faces the window of her solar, unable to sleep due to the relentless wails of the storm.

“It rages as if we are in Storm's End,” she mutters, her eyes tracking the rivulets of rain that slide down the glass. Worry creases her forehead over thoughts of the city folk who’ve no proper lodging, and she makes a mental note to speak to the small council about building more shelters for the needy.

A hum from behind her ripples through the quiet.

“Perhaps Lord Baratheon has convinced the gods to spare his lands for a night,” The Queen Rhaenyra jests, voice soft as she stares at the crackling flames warming the room.

She sips her tea after, eyes meeting Alicent’s as their heads both turn to look at the other. Rhaenyra’s lips curl around the edge of the teacup, a smile hidden by the ceramic. But Alicent knows it’s there, and she smiles back. 

“Thank you for lending your company, my Queen,” she starts, legs carrying her at a steady pace towards Rhaenyra. “Sleep does not come easily to me when the sky seems like it is falling.”

Alicent takes Rhaenyra’s hand not holding a teacup in both of her own. She looks down at her companion, noting the way the slope of her nose is more prominent in the orange shadows of the fire.

Rhaenyra returns her gaze through eyelashes, and her hand flips to tightly hold onto Alicent’s.

“You need not thank me, lo–”

A knock cuts the endearment off. Rhaenyra sighs, but does not pull away as Alicent grants entrance to the person at the door.

Ser Harrold steps in, bowing before the two queens. If he notices the tender aura that envelops the women, he does not mention it. Though, a conscious simper forms on his lips.

“Apologies, my lady, your grace,” he starts, and steps to fully push the doors open, “Maester Corren bears urgent news from Oldtown.”

Alicent’s brows knit together once again. Oldtown?

“Oldtown?” Rhaenyra echoes the other queen’s thoughts. “What news from Oldtown cannot wait to be heard ‘til the morning?”

The Kingsguard side-steps to let the Maester inside, the chained man swift in his movements to plant himself in the middle of the room.

“My sincerest apologies, your grace,” Maester Corren’s usually seasoned and stoic tone trembles as he speaks, and he holds his down-turned fist out to offer the parchment to Alicent.

“I would not come at this late an hour if it was not distressing,” he continues.

“Corren, what has shaken you?” Alicent questions him. After a beat, it dawns on her what news from Oldtown might mean.

“Has something happened at the High Tower? To Daeron, or my father?” She cannot help but ask aloud, not wanting to accept the parchment yet.

She receives only shakes from the head of the Maester, and his chains clank against each other from the movement. The two queens watch as the trained scholar reaches up with his other palm to wipe at his face.

“Please,” he pleads, as if a young child. “I know this is most uncouth, but I cannot bear to read it again, your graces.”

Alicent looks down at her queen, their hands still grasping one another’s. With a nod from Rhaenyra, Alicent releases her hold and turns her palm face up to accept the scroll. The Maester releases it, as if it’s burned him, and takes a step back. 

She unfurls the paper with surprisingly steady fingers, unwilling to let her nerves get the better of her. Once she reads the writing on the scroll, however, she understands why the Maester trembles all over.

The red-haired queen barely registers Rhaenyra urging the shaken Maester to sit as she herself takes a deep inhale to steady her breathing. Alicent’s eyes rake over the tiny parchment multiple times, not believing the words before her.

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra sees her turn towards the window again, head ducked and both hands clutching the scroll. “What is it? What has happened?”

Rhaenyra catches her utterance of the word light, and one look at Ser Harrold is enough to have the older knight take over with assisting Maester Corren. She tries again to capture Alicent’s mutterings, coming up right beside her to grasp her elbow in a gentle hold.

“My dear,” Rhaenyra whispers, soft enough that only she and her doe-eyed companion can hear. “Look at me, please.”

The sorrow in the Dowager Queen's gaze washes over Rhaenyra's entire being. The corners of Alicent's mouth struggle to keep from quivering as she tries to relay the news, but sounds refuse to form in her throat.

"It's alright, you do not have to speak," Rhaenyra reassures. She gestures with her palm for the scroll. "May I?"

Rhaenyra takes the miniscule parchment from Alicent, who offers no resistance. The paper curls again as Rhaenyra pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, her other hand reaching up to brush away a tear that has found its way out of Alicent's wide eyes. Her heart aches at the sight, and she wonders what news the little parchment holds to have had cast such a large wave of emotion over everyone around her.

Alicent’s eyes flutter to a close, and she ducks her head again as Rhaenyra finally looks upon the writing. She hears a gasp, and when Alicent glances up, Rhaenyra holds the same grief on her face that she’s sure she mirrors.

After a beat of silence, Maester Corren is the first to speak.

"The Prince Aemond should know."

"No," Alicent answers all too quickly. "It can wait until the morn–"

"I beg your pardon, your grace, but you know it cannot," he interrupts. He stands from where Ser Harrold has sat him down on a chaise, voice reverting back to the neutral yet firm tone of a chained Maester.

Rhaenyra watches as Alicent's posture straightens at the man's tone, watches Alicent steel and ready herself to retort at the Maester's apparent lack of respect. Before she can, however, he continues.

"You've read the scroll," he says. "By the end of the moon, the illness will take hold no later than when the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel."

Rhaenyra hears a shaky exhale come from Alicent, whose hand maneuvers to clutch at Rhaenyra's forearm for support. She surrenders it, lets the Dowager Queen lean against her.

"Corren, you must understand," Rhaenyra is gentle in her address. "This news... it will break him."

"Please, your grace," the Maester pleads. "My dear cousin has suffered far too much; this illness has taken far too much."

No one talks but the Maester, as everyone in the chamber knows the truth in his sayings.

"If you could read the letters I have received... the hurt I have deciphered, embedded in my cousin's handwriting. Please, my queens, do not sequester away things that you can so easily give."

"And what are those, Maester?" Rhaenyra poses.

"Relief," his scholarly façade ripples away for but a moment. "Healing... Love."

Rhaenyra feels her jaw clench, feels Alicent's grip on her arm tighten, feels Ser Harrold's stare on her face, waiting for a command. She glances at her friend, her closest companion– with her head bowed and shoulders heaving, a finger picking at the cuticles of the same hand. She glances back at the Maester, notes the way his voice wavers slightly at the mention of his cousin, notes the fact that he has never faltered in his duties as first and foremost a Maester of the Red Keep, until now.

When she looks at Ser Harrold, Rhaenyra notes the hesitation on his face. He knows what is right, what must be done, what must be said aloud, but cannot acknowledge what is so until she commands it so.

For the sake of the queen beside her, however, she does not say the words. As Ser Harrold's gaze meets hers, she simply nods. He knows.

Only the sound of the crackling fire can be heard, along with the clinking of the knight’s armour, as he moves to grasp Maester Corren firm on the shoulder.

Before his gloved hand can make contact, Alicent speaks.

"There is no need, Ser Harrold."

Her hold on Rhaenyra's arm loosens, and ultimately falls away. Alicent steps towards the Maester, and for a moment Rhaenyra sees fear flash in his eyes. But as Alicent reaches forward to hold Corren's upper arm in comfort, the fear is replaced with something akin to gratitude.

"You are right, Corren," Alicent says, understanding. "It will break him, yes, but perhaps... perhaps it can also heal him. As reconciliation often does."

She continues, "Your cousin had once granted me these things you speak of."

Her gaze comes back to meet Rhaenyra's, tone reminiscent.

"So, what am I if not ungrateful, if I were to deny such things from the Light of the Realm?"

The two queens' illuminated smiles hold a twinge of melancholy to them. If the men in the room know of the reasons, of the events, of the love behind such smiles, they do not say.

Prince Aemond's light dims, to a darker dullness he thought was not possible, at the beginning of the hour of the wolf.

He’s sat atop the bed, sapphire eye uncovered, knees bent to accommodate the tome he cradles in his lap. There’s a familiar heft to it, having been in the prince's possession for nearly a decade. Its spine cracked beyond care, its pages dog-eared, margins riddled with writing.

Though, the ink on the paper remains as fresh as can be. The book rarely leaves the four walls of the prince's quarters, sunlight never having the chance to fade its text.

It has become a comfort to the prince, despite its heavy weight and heavier content. Though, it is not solely the scholarly content that draws the prince to reach for the tome every night, tucked away in his bedside drawer, before he surrenders to sleep.

Tis more so what lies in between the lines: illustrations scribbled over with black coal, highlighted passages, notes, reminders to pursue treatments that he once believed would be successful.

"Once I have a dragon, we will fly to the Citadel and have the Archmaesters conduct this," he had said, underlining the title of a procedure he thought had the most chance of curing an illness that threatened his companion.

"They would not dare deny a prince of the realm, I swear it."

Aemond’s forefinger traces the curve in a diagram of the human backbone as he recalls the promise he had made and failed to keep, though to no fault of his own. Still, the ache in his chest makes itself known once again, as recognizable as the tome he clutches.

Pages fly wildly about when a gust of wind manages to slip through a crack in a window. Aemond can only watch as the candles in his room dance and writhe until most of them flicker out, the scent of melted wax left to fester in the air.

A sigh escapes him. His sole eye strains to make out a passage with whatever light remains in the room, but the darkness swallows his bed area too much. As he contemplates whether to take this as a sign from the gods to rest, or to relight the candles and continue on, a knock sounds at his door.

Brow and marred skin crease together in confusion.

"Ser Arryk?" he calls out, unsure of which knight of the Kingsguard had taken station outside his chambers for the night.

The sudden arrival of the storm had scrambled the usual routine of the Red Keep, adding to that three of the Kingsguard having left to trail after members of the royal family who had ventured out into the Kingswood for a day or two of hunting.

Of the nephews, cousins, and siblings, only Aemond chose to remain– knowing in himself that he was lately not one for prolonged interactions, even if it was solely his family he'd be around.

"I would only dampen the mood, sister," he said to Helaena, tone playful. She carried Baela's youngest in her arms, the mother having stepped away for a few moments. "Bring me back one of those rare crawling creatures you are so fond of, won’t you?"

Helaena beamed at the request. She bounced the toddler excitedly on her hip, lilted voice asking the not-yet verbal babe what insects they might find in the forests. The child giggled in response, just as Jace and Luke walked into the room, hunting gear in their arms. Aemond noted the way Jace's eyes lit up at the sound of his child's laughter.

"Nephews," Aemond greeted them. Had he been the man that he was 10 years ago, malice and disdain would've seeped into his voice. Instead, he continued, genuine concern for his family coating his following advice.

"Be wary of your surroundings," he had said, grasping Luke's shoulder, "look out for one another."

When he asks again, it is not Ser Arryk who answers.

"It is me," his mother's voice calls out instead. "And Rhaenyra."

Aemond's puzzlement only grows, though not at the presence of his half-sister. He had long ago grown accustomed to the sight of the two women near each other after his father's death and the family's reconstitution– a process which had not settled so easily in him as it did in the matriarchs of their house.

No, his uncertainty at this moment comes from their joint company at such time of night. Nothing good nor godly has ever greeted Aemond during the wolf's hour.

"May we come in?" Rhaenyra says, muffled by the wood of the chamber door.

Aemond realizes that he's only clad in his breeches and a loose white poet shirt, hardly appropriate attire to wear in front of both Queens of the realm. He scrambles to where his dressing robe hangs by his bed and wastes no time in tying it closed before he whips the door open.

"Mother," he nods to Alicent before addressing his half-sister. "Your grace."

He takes in the sheen on his mother's face, and Rhaenyra's right arm outstretched behind her, no doubt on the small of her back in a steadying effort. Their solemn expressions pierce a needle of anxiety through him, the once stoic and confident one-eyed prince now overtaken with clammy hands and shaky breaths. He remembers his family stranded by the storm in the Kingswood, protected by sworn knights yet still vulnerable to the wrath of nature.

"What is the matter?” Aemond cannot help the worrying rambles that leave his mouth. “Has something happened to the hunting party? I can take Vhagar to retrieve them from the Kingsw–"

Rhaenyra's hand raising makes him pause. "They are alright, dear brother, you needn't worry."

"Apologies, sister," he says, sheepish. Aemond steps aside to allow them entrance. "Please, come in."

Alicent is first to cross into the threshold with Rhaenyra close behind. It is only when she passes Aemond that he realizes his mother has yet to look him in the eye.

He observes as Alicent settles herself down onto a seat around the center table of his quarters. Her gaze remains downcast, not meeting his.

"A Record of Incurable Illnesses in the Known Realm," Rhaenyra says aloud, tone questioning, eyes on the cover of the tome that he had haphazardly thrown upon the table in his haste. "Do not tell me you plan on forging a maester's chain, lēkia."

"I was doing some nightly reading," Aemond admits, though he's familiar enough with Rhaenyra's joking tone that he knows she is not fully using it. She knows why he reads what he reads, and he is thankful that she does not speak it plainly.

He hears his mother breathe in at the mention of the book, as though to brace herself. Aemond thinks she might plainly speak on it.

The prince decides he shall be forthright, not pleased with the feeling of his body physically manifesting his anxiety. His jaw clenches, and sweat begins to pool in the dip of his back despite the chilly air of the night.

"As much as I enjoy your company, my queens, I must ask, why have you graced me with it at such an hour?"

"Aemond," his mother at last looks up at him. Her eyes brim with tears. "A raven from Oldtown arrived earlier, at the hour of the owl."

His mouth runs dry. "Is it Daeron? Or grandsire?"

Aemond’s mind forbids itself from wondering about the only other person residing in Oldtown worth mentioning.

He does not miss the quaking exhale from Rhaenyra, who speaks when Alicent seems at a loss for words. "It came from the Citadel."

He goes still, as if turned to stone.

A cold rush starts from the tips of his fingers, and it spreads to his arms, to his torso, and grips his spine. The last word his sister had uttered melts into a continuous ringing in his ears which grows and grows until even the storm outside ceases to exist.

Numbness has rendered him immobile, he thinks, he is rooted to his spot.

And then he mutters a name his lips had not formed in years A name that he has not heard anyone say in his vicinity, in fear of what his reaction might be.

Your name comes out in a whisper. Posed as a question that he prays they leave unanswered.

He's undeserving to speak it with full volume. He fears that merely allowing his throat to form the sounds of it will make it so, manifest it into reality.

And Aemond thinks, when Rhaenyra nods in confirmation, what a twisted reality this has become.

She continues speaking, though the pealing in his ears has grown louder ten-fold and permits him to decipher only bits and pieces.

Raven... Maester Corren... take hold...

He sees Rhaenyra pull out a strip of paper and begin to read from it.

Aemond needs to sit down. Instead, he stumbles back, shoulder bumping against the wall. He vaguely hears the scraping of a chair–vaguely registers the arms that find purchase under his to keep him upright. He hears his mother call out his name, though it sounds distant and dampened. He sees his sister halt mid-statement, arms out in a ready stance to assist Alicent if need be.

But when Aemond's eye stares into hers, when he briefly glances at the parchment curled around her fingers, she knows what he is asking for and carries on reading.

"... most likely succumb to the illness not long after the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel on the last day of this moon. We urge you – visit while you can, before the Stranger comes, while there is still time left."

"Aemond," his mother repeats. "Come, let us take a seat."

Alicent pulls her arms away from under his. She opts to clutch at his forearm instead and attempts to tug him towards a chair.

But Aemond is stock-still against the wall. The last sentence echoes in his mind.

Visit while you can.

While you are still alive.

Before the Stranger comes.

Death had not taken you yet.

While there is still time left.

He still had time.

The prince is shaken out of his stupor when another gust of wind flitters about his room, the howl of it catching his mother off-guard.

"Mother," he turns to her, places his hand atop hers that holds onto him. "I must go."

Alicent peers at her son for a moment to search his face. What she expects to find, he doesn't know. He half-expects her to argue, to protest against his admittedly rash and unspoken plan of action, and he fails to conceal his surprise when his mother does neither.

Alicent’s hands move to either side of his face, and he feels the press of a kiss to his forehead, where his scar topmost starts. A sad smile graces her face as she gazes into her son’s eyes.

“I know.”

He can see his mother's internal qualms with his leaving at such an hour, in such weather, but she does not voice them.

The Queen does, however.

"The storm is unrelenting," Rhaenyra states. "Too dangerous to face alone.”

“You’d have me wait?”

You’d have me wait, have me prolong my suffering even longer? Aemond wants to say, though he bites his tongue.

“That is not what I meant, lekia,” Rhaenyra says, soft, against his own firm voice. “You need not face it alone; I shall accompany you on Syrax."

“No,” Aemond blanches, the memories of what had almost occurred the last time dragons flew amidst a storm flashing through his mind.

“You… you are needed here, my queen,” he tries to reason.

"Aemond,” Rhaenyra tuts, worry in her voice. “You may ride the largest dragon, but even Vhagar might not be a match for the gales of wind that plague the skies tonight."

“Perhaps,” he starts. “But our family stays stranded, with no dragons, in the Kingswood. One of us should keep near, should they need assistance."

I will not be able to protect you, he wants to say. Not when my thoughts are elsewhere.

Aemond squeezes his mother's hand once, twice, smiles at her and lets her go to step towards Rhaenyra. She contemplates his statement, though part of her knows he is right.

But they are siblings, and Aemond's stubbornness is her own.

"Then perhaps wait and see if the storm breaks by sunrise," Rhaenyra suggests. "If it does not, then at the very least you will have light in the rain. But do not venture out during the night's darkest hour– not with this downpour added to it."

Aemond turns her counsel over in his mind. "Do you say this to me as queen?"

"I say this to you as your sister,” she stares at him fondly. “Though, you might consider, your older sister."

He glances at Alicent, who now stands once more beside Rhaenyra, and merely shrugs. "It is your choice, my son. I leave it to you."

There is not a trace of hesitation in his being. “Then I shall forge ahead to the Citadel.”

At that, he moves to turn to his wardrobe. He's eager to change into his riding leathers as quick as he can – when Aemond catches Rhaenyra's loving glance at his mother. And as Alicent returns the queen's gaze with equal, if not more, affection – an epiphany he had years ago, when he first lost your companionship over his foolishness and shortcomings, comes back to him.

You did this, he echoes in gratitude what he had once said to you in anger. You are the one I have to thank for this happiness.

(He still remembers the word he used then – this farce.)

“Mandia,” Aemond calls out to his sister, steps faltering. Rhaenyra meets his gaze— one that once held indifference and disdain towards her, now only full of gratitude and kinship.

“Thank you,” is all he breathes out.

Rhaenyra nods in understanding. “I shall follow after you with the others once they’ve returned from the Kingswood.”

The two queens watch as Aemond moves about with a fervor they’d not seen in the one-eyed prince for nearly a decade.

“Here you are,” Alma lifts a cup to your lips, its contents steaming. “Steady, dear.”

The fragrant tea is warm as you sip it, and you sigh in relief at the wonders it does to soothe your aches and pains. You sink deeper into the soft bed, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, still slightly heavy with sleep.

“Thank you, Alma,” you say, voice shaky, as you gaze up at her. “Your tea is magical, and tasty, as always.”

She beams at your compliment and brings the cup up for another sip.

“Thank you, though I wish I could take credit for the beneficial parts of the concoction, dear light,” Alma says. “You know it is your cousin who has developed its base, I merely added the herbs to make it more bearable for consumption.”

Her use of your epithet does not go unnoticed by you.

“Hm, still, thank you for making it so,” you hum. “And you know I’m not particularly fond of that name, Alma.”

“Tis an apt title, in my opinion,” she retorts. Alma sets the cup down on the table by your bedside, afterwards reaching over to lovingly caress your hair.

“And one most deserved,” she adds, in a quiet voice. You can only grace her with a small smile, knowing that an argument with her will only end up with you frustrated and her ever more triumphant.

Alma leaves your side to flit about the room, tidying up the blankets at the foot of your bed and using the rag on her shoulder to wipe down the dust on the many shelves of books. She chats while she moves about, though her attempts at asking you questions about what literature you crave to read next are mostly ignored.

Your attention favours the arched window on the far-right wall of your chamber— large and low enough on the wall for you to be able to look at the world beyond from where you lay, bedridden. One of its stained-glass panels had been cracked open, and a light breeze jostles the short green drapes that frame the window. Not so distantly, the High Tower gleams solid white against the blue morning sky, an ever constant and looming presence, a permanent fixture within the limited view your chamber window offers.

The sight of the tall structure, clean and angular, never fails to remind you of the man half-descended from the family charged with its care.

A small crick forms in your neck from the prolonged turn of your head, and you slowly face forward again to avoid the discomfort turning into an ache. In your periphery, the High Tower remains, and so do thoughts of the man.

You cannot help the question that leaves your mouth.

“Have any ravens arrived from the Crownlands?” From the Red Keep, you mean to say, though Alma knows you well enough to know what hides behind the generalization, but kind enough to not point it out. You’ve asked the question many times to many others in the past few days, since the Citadel raven left with the Maesters’ scroll secured to its leg.

“I’ve not heard anything from the rookery,” she turns to you with a rehearsed answer. “There’s apparently quite atrocious weather over the capital, I don’t expect creatures of any kind would want to venture out into it.”

“I see,” you say, deflated. She turns at the change of pitch in your tone.

“Soon, dear light,” Alma reassures you from her spot in front of the bookshelves, kind gaze taking in your solemn expression.

You look up at her, grace her with a small smile and a nod in understanding. “Right, soon.”

“Now,” she says, determined to distract you from your anxiety. “I do think it’s about time to break fast.”

“Oh, I’m alright,” you start. “I’m not that hungry—”

Your stomach grumbles in discontent, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of your chambers.

Alma raises her eyebrows, as if to say What were you saying?

“Fine,” you sigh. “But something small, please. I don’t have much of an appetite, truly.”

“I’ll ask the cook for a warm meal,” Alma counters. “A large, warm meal.”

“Alma—” your groan is cut off by another, stronger growl, though this time not accompanied by the familiar vibrations of hunger in your stomach. Alma lets out a laugh at the noise.

“My!” she exclaims, hands on her hips as she looks at you. “Maybe some pastries as well, then? I’ll have Blythe fetch some from the bakery.”

“That wasn’t me,” you whisper, brows furrowing. Alma’s amused expression morphs into one of confusion, likely mirroring your own.

“What—”

A roar, loud as a crack of thunder and close enough that you feel it shake your bones, rattles the chamber. Dust falls from the ceiling, and your frail trembling fingers clutch at the sheets either side of you.

“Seven Hells!” Alma yelps. She drops the rag in her hand and strides to your bed. She sits down beside you and takes your hand. “What in the gods’ name was that?”

You don’t answer her, though an inkling feeling develops in your mind as you painfully whip your head to peer out the window. The quaking had caused the pane to open even more ajar, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight you see.

The High Tower remains grand in the distance, though its domineering presence is now diminished by the shade of a winged shadow, which grows and grows until the being attached to it comes into view. It circles the tower twice around before it flies to land on an empty hill, stretching its wings and letting out another quaking roar.

Alma lets out a shaky breath beside you. “Is that…”

You nod, silently, to answer her trailed off question. The crick in your neck reappears, though you pay it no mind.

“Vhagar.”

☆ translations: lēkia= brother, mandia = sister

☆ this is a REUPLOAD bcs i didn't like the ending of the first version. also i chose the most hectic time of my life to start writing a multi-chapter fic so only the gods know when i'll be able to update this lol.

is this bad, is this good? let me know what you think!

[violettduchess]

Hi there I hope not to bother I wanted to request something like that, how Leon, Luke, Chevalier, Clavis, hope they are not too much, would react with a MC that know and use more than one language, easily sliding from one to the other, Please take your time and take care Have a wonderful day :D

A/N: Here you are lovely Julie 💜

Word Count: 1361

Leon

You’ve snuck into town to enjoy a day away from the scrutiny of the palace. Now you and Leon stroll through the town hand-in-hand under a cloudy sky, the hoods of your cloaks obscuring your faces. He’s talking, his voice bright with laughter as he recalls a story from one of his first times sneaking out. You adjust your grip on his hand, grinning back at him as you round a corner and then you both stop, surprised by the brightly colored poster plastered on the side of the flower shop. A traveling circus judging by the illustrations but the words on the poster are not the language of Rhodolite.

Leon pauses, his handsome face drawn in a frown as he rubs his chin with his free hand. “I wonder what-”

You begin reading the words out loud, the sentences flowing effortlessly from your lips. None of the odd vowels trip you up because you fell in love with the musical sound of this language when you were small and decided determinedly you would decipher its secrets. You devoured music and books until you could speak it as well as your own native tongue. 

And now Leon stares, his eyes the sunshine the sky is missing as he listens to you. You pause, then begin translating what you just read. When you’re finished, there is silence and you pull your gaze away from the bright poster to look at him and what you see makes your heart stumble: wonder and respect twined together in expression of absolute love. He laughs softly, a short huff of air and slight shake of the head, before leaning down.

“God, I love you,” he whispers roughly before winding an arm around your waist and kissing you with a tenderness born of his admiration for you.

Luke

You find him in the palace kitchen after hours, when the shadows of dusk are creeping into corners and the light through the windows has faded from warm yellow to pale lavender-blue. Luke is sitting at a wooden table in the corner by the still-warm stove, flipping through a recipe book with an expression of dismay.

Pilfering a vanilla cookie from the ceramic jar on the counter, you slide into the chair next to him. You snap the crunchy treat in half, offering him one and he sighs, taking it and biting despondently.

“What’s wrong?”

“Cook was gifted this recipe book from a merchant travelling from Iolite, but no one here can read it. And look.” He points with a long finger at the pictures on the pages he’s been mooning over: They are clearly from some kind of honey cake recipe but all the text is written in Iolitian. 

You glance at him, then back to the book and then begin reading. “Hmm….you need brown sugar, cold, unsalted butter, and….hmm…vanilla bean paste and–” 

“You can read this?!” He cuts you off, his moss green eyes wide with surprise. You nod, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “I taught myself Iolitian when the bookstore was having a slow day. I never thought it might come in handy but-”

You’re cut off again but this time it’s because you are being wrapped in the biggest, warmest bear hug you've ever experienced. Your smile softens as you hug him back. It takes so little to make him so happy….and you’re grateful you have the chance to see the bright light of joy illuminate those soft springtime eyes. 

“So what do you say? Up for a little evening baking?”

Chevalier

You scan the library shelves, your fingers walking their way lightly along the leather-embossed spines of the books, wandering over the soft ridges, hoping to find the one that just screams “Read me tonight!” So engrossed are you in all the titles that you miss when the door opens and Chevalier enters.

He already has a book in his hand which he returns to exactly the right spot on the shelf. You feel the way he is ignoring you, the force of his disregard for you rolling through the room like waves in an ocean. You grit your teeth and ignore him right back, dropping down to read the titles of the books further down the bookshelf. 

Blue eyes, annoyed by your sudden movement, narrow and he turns his head. He watches the way you are intently reading the titles and one royal brow lifts. “Those are all foreign language books. I doubt you have need of them.”

Oh, his tone does things to you. The words roll across your skin, catching like little burrs. You reach for the first book in front of you, an epic poem written in the native language of Benitoite. Pointedly you rise, march over to a nearby table and sit, opening the book. Perhaps a tad dramatically.

He turns and then addresses you in perfect Benitoitian. Clearly he believes you've just grabbed any book at random and are pretending to read it in order to prove him wrong. But he knows nothing of your education. And of your passion for language. You straighten your spine, turn, and answer him in the same language. Your accent flawless, your pronunciation perfect. 

And you are rewarded by something as rare as the moon eclipsing the sun: surprise flashes for a moment in the depths of Chevalier’s sky-colored eyes. And suddenly your heart begins beating harder. And you want to see it again. So you switch, asking him "Would you prefer to speak in this tongue?" this time in the native tongue of Obsidian. And you ask him the same question again in Iolitian. And Tanzanitian. And Tourmaline.

You could go on but he raises his hand, stopping you. His gaze holds yours and now your heart is practically thundering in your chest because what you see those blue depths now isn’t surprise….but interest.

Clavis

A hand settles on your shoulder and a handsome, curious face is suddenly next to yours. “What has captured your attention so thoroughly when I am in the room?” You laugh, reaching up with one hand to affectionately cup his cheek. “I’m reading about the linguistic history of this area.” You point at the page you are on which has a list of all the different languages historically spoken throughout the kingdom as well as its neighbors and examples of how to say “hello” in all of them. He begins reading them out loud and finds himself stumbling when he gets to the language spoken in many parts of Obsidian.

You helpfully correct him and he blinks, brows raised in surprise as he stares at you. “Wait….you speak Obsidian?”

Nodding, you see delight suddenly sparking within the depths of his golden eyes. “Can you say…..’Clavis is amazing’.” Now you laugh, and repeat it back to him in Obsidian. His grin grows as he reaches for both your hands, pulling you up and away from your desk.

“And now can you say…..’Clavis is the most wonderful man in the entire kingdom’?” Your fingers interlock with his as you look up into the face you love so much and repeat it back to him, slowly, speaking ever so slightly below your normal register. A faint pink colors his cheeks as he listens to your voice, the one he is so familiar with, the one he dreams about, suddenly producing new sounds, sounds that twist and turn in ways he doesn’t know, can’t expect. His heart begins a heavier, excited beat in his chest.

“Can you…..” He gently pulls your locked hands closer, escaping your grip in order to slide his arms around your waist and pressing you close to him. “Say…..’Clavis….’ His head dips, his forehead touching yours, eyes glowing like golden stars. “....’I love you….’?” 

Your heartbeat echoes his, drumming loudly in your ears. Your gazes lock and you feel a cascade of sparks tumble down your spine, igniting something warm and exciting inside. When you speak, it’s in a soft, almost breathless voice. “Ich liebe dich, Clavis Lelouch. Ich brauche dich. Ich will dich…..”

His kiss stops the flow of Obsidian and as he lifts you into his arms, striding towards your bed, you understand that while spoken language is important, there are some things that require no words at all.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart

[blainesebastian]

mutually assured satisfaction (pt4)

words: 3,026 ship: austin butler x reader summary: reader’s agent approaches her with a PR stunt to date austin butler and promote both their careers. a mapped out plan, an electric relationship–what could possibly go wrong?   notes: masterlist is on my sidebar! :) previous parts can be found there. if you’d like to be added to the tag list, please let me know warnings: none tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, @gigisworldsstuff, @kittenlittle24, @slowsweetlove, @namoreno, @strokesofstokes, @callthedarknessdown, @kibumslatina, @al-co-hol-youlater, @frogoerson, @dancer4j 

Time moves forward, another day into a few weeks and things are going completely smooth that you almost forget that none of it is real. There’s dates and events and interviews and you and Austin get along so well together, you enjoy spending time with him, you’re actually starting to look forward to it. But it’s not just you, you can see it on Austin’s face too—at least you think you can? Sometimes it’s hard to gauge, hard to read between the lines. What does it even mean for something to be real between you anyways?

Sometimes you hold hands when no one’s watching, or share a kiss just because Austin is scrunching his nose a certain way or you’re teasing him about a shirt he’s got on. Could be literally nothing and your lips lock.

What’s real? What’s genuine? –Everything about the two of you together is a lie. Why does it matter to you so much that you want to figure it out? You’ll be breaking up with one another at the beginning of next month. Your head is a constant whirling, a washing machine stuck on a spin cycle.

And the more you allow yourself to think about it, the more Elvis’s lyrics make sense to you, a song that’s stuck in your head over the past two days: I’m caught in a trap, I can’t get out.

To Christina’s credit, she doesn’t even attempt to tell you ‘I told you so’; at least there’s that. Regardless, the only thing you’re concerned about is brushing it underneath a rug and powering forward. Once this whole thing is over and you’re out of this rose-colored daze that’s Austin Butler, you’ll start to get your bearings again.

It’s like looking at a few broken pieces of ceramic up close for so long that you forget it’s part of a bigger mosaic.

Glancing at a missed call from your mom, you hover over her name to tap and call her back. There’s this…bad feeling settling low in your stomach that it might have something to do with your grandmother. Or…or maybe it’s nothing, right? Knowing her she’s called to have a twenty-minute conversation about this new recipe she tried or that she watched your latest interview on YouTube.

Nothing that can’t wait.

You slide your phone into your purse and glance over at Austin in the back of a SUV, pulling in across the street of an event you’re going to tonight. It’s been on your calendar for a while, long past the whole ‘plan’ with Austin—a charity event at a museum that benefits an ‘arts in schools’ program. The goal is to auction off children’s art pieces that are in the program and all the money raised goes directly back into the pot. You’ve done it for two years in a row now, you really enjoy the charity and feeling like you’re able to give something back. You loved art as a teenager and even thought you might teach it for a while in college.

Though, you’re not exactly heartbroken about where your path has taken you in life.

Sharing a small smile with Austin, you undo your seatbelt, running a hand through your hair. Austin gently touches your elbow, causing you to pause from getting out of the SUV, “You alright? You’re quiet tonight.”

Despite not being in a ‘relationship’ with you for very long, he picks up on cues incredibly well. He reads people, looks at you like an open book, fingers grazing along words. Regardless, now is not the time to talk about this. And even if you wanted to say something about it, which…you kind of do? —Austin’s surprisingly a good listener, stuff with your grandmother is just not his problem. He doesn’t have to worry about that for you.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just got a lot going on.”

Austin nods softly but doesn’t press, “We don’t have to go, you know.”

Tilting your head back with a soft sigh, you know he’s right but, “We do. It’s lowkey, just buying a bunch of kid’s art pieces. Besides, it’s part of our mutually agreed on dates.” And even though there’s been a lot of random additions lately? you’re attempting to stick to the plan as much as possible.

Austin’s eyebrows draw together and he shrugs. He looks good tonight—a simple outfit; black fitted slacks, a silky white button-down shirt tucked in, and a contemporary cut, casual suit jacket to match. With you wearing a black and white polka dot dress, you compliment eachother really well.

“We’re the dates, right? You and me? We can change whatever we want.”

And you hate how much you enjoy the sound of that, you and me. You cannot believe you’ve let this crush of yours run rampant. While doing something else tonight feels promising, you’ve steeled yourself into moving forward according to plan…and that includes going to this charity event.

“I’m alright,” You promise, leaning over to plant a kiss to his cheek.

That seems to be encouragement enough because Austin doesn’t attempt to argue or persuade you anymore, instead getting out of the SUV and following you across the street to the red velvet covered steps. There’s a multitude of fans for both of you on the outskirts of the event, security attempting to keep barriers up and people at bay so that they don’t overcrowd the sidewalk. This is easy proof that your PR stunt is working, especially for fans of Austin to be waiting for an event you’ve only mentioned in your Instagram story. They knew he’d be here.

While security does their best to usher you both forward, both you and Austin seem to have similar ideas of lingering to speak to people, sign autographs and pose for selfies. You’ve never been greedy with your time, never in a rush when it came to pausing and talking to people—without fans? Your world wouldn’t revolve. Period. It’s nice to see someone else who gets it, Austin is incredibly generous with making sure he talks to as many people as he can. And not just by offering one or two words but holding conversations.

That’s something genuine, special.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, Austin’s hand automatically reaches for yours, lacing fingers together. The action itself has become so second-nature that it almost feels weird when you’re not holding hands.

“Austin!”

You turn to say something to him but a voice to the right at the end of the barricade grabs your attention. A young woman behind the row of barriers calls Austin’s name again—and it’d be so easy for him to ignore her, for him to keep walking with you up the steps and into the event. But he doesn’t, he turns and seeks her out, slowly wandering towards her as she begins talking past the security guards.

“I dunno if you remember me but I worked on a movie set with you,” She’s saying, struggling against the guards. She’s not pushing but she definitely is trying to talk to Austin without the bodyguards blocking her, “It was a long time ago so I understand if you don’t—”

Austin’s face lights up in realization, a small smile on his face, “No I remember you, Meg, right?”

And you can tell it makes this girl’s night. “Yes! Meg, I uh—I didn’t expect,” She laughs, “It’s nice to see you again.” Honestly you’re a little bit impressed yourself. From what you can tell, this girl worked on a movie set but wasn’t someone who was in the main day to day, maybe…delivered coffee or was some kind of extra. Either way, the fact that Austin not only remembers her but then takes the time to reach out and squeeze her hand in a hello?

You’re definitely a bit moved. Just goes to show what kind of person he is—goes out of his way to remember anyone he interacts with. You could probably learn a thing or two from him about being graceful…not that you’d ever admit to that outloud.

Giving him another smile after he waves to Meg, takes your hand again. Leaning down, he plants a kiss on the corner of your mouth, seemingly just because, as you both start walking up the steps. You do your best to ignore (and fail) the heated feeling bubbling in your stomach and butterflying up your chest—something you’re quickly beginning to associate just from being with Austin.

--

Once you both visit the table to sign in and hear how the auction works, what time it’s starting, all the odds and ends, you both wander towards an open bar. Austin leaves you there, his hand lingering along your lower back as he excuses himself to the restroom. Your gaze flutters over him as you watch him go, disappear around the corner—there’s this buzzing in your ears that you feel like is overwhelming, some sort of strong emotion that sits in your chest when you’re together. Being with him is somehow dizzying in the best way. You just…don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, where you want to go with all this, if Austin is even on the same page or if he’s just that good of an actor.

Brushing your hand over your forehead, you order a glass of wine, feeling someone slide up beside you.

“I thought that was you.”

Turning, you recognize Nate’s voice immediately, a soft smile tugging the corners of your mouth. Your ex, dressed in a navy suit, clean sharp lines, dark hair and kind blue eyes. The color is somehow highlighted by the shade of the jacket and his hand gently reaches to squeeze your arm. You have a pretty decent friendship with Nate despite how things ended. The breakup was ugly, but your relationship wasn’t. Neither was what came after—apologies, understandings, removing layers of toxicity that either of you ever intended to be there.

“Yeah, course,” You laugh softly, moving to hug him. “Never miss this event—you know that.” You do not notice a few camera shutters going off, capturing the embrace.

You slowly pull apart, your hand reaching for the glass of wine that’s set on the counter for you. Thanking the bartender with a polite head nod, you take a small sip. Nate gives you a onceover, a not-so-subtle way of checking you out but it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,

“I’ve been meaning to text you actually, especially when I knew this event was coming—did you come with anyone?”

You swallow over what feels like glass in your throat, “My boyfriend, actually, Austin.”

He raises his eyebrows, about to reply when you feel him coming up behind you. He settles against your side, an arm sliding around your waist. When you look up at him, he’s got his eyes on Nate—curious but cautious.

“Speak of the devil,” You tease lightly, a soft laugh leaving your lips. “Austin, this is Nate—Nate, Austin.”

Nate nods his head, reaching his hand out to shake, “Nice to meet you man, heard a lot about you.”

Austin politely hums, offering his hand as well. “Nice to meet you too—wish I could say the same.” And there’s something there to the tone of Austin’s voice, something you can feel in the tenseness of his body. While this is the same sort of skin he slips on to speak to other people, a genuine kindness, you can tell he’s a bit uncomfortable as well.

Nate isn’t sure how to take that comment and well, to be fair, you have not talked a lot about your ex. It’s been a while since you’ve been together, it’s not like you actively hang out as friends. It’s moreso like this—you bump into one another at events, catch up and move on.

He powers through though, clearing his throat as he looks back at you with a smile, “Well you look beautiful.”

A soft blush kisses your cheeks and when you look up at Austin, there’s a muscle working in his jaw as he clamps his mouth shut. What is going on with him? You shake off the tension and reach out to touch Nate’s arm, “Thank you.” And you’re about to say your goodbyes, maybe throw out a ‘see you around’, meaning this event, but,

“I also just…wanted to say that I’ve been wanting to text you about your gram?” You swallow, feeling yourself go cold, “Just…ask how she was, how you are.”

That same feeling of panic wells up in your chest, that unanswered call from your mom, still needing to call her back and ask what’s going on. Wondering…a small voice in the back of your mind telling you that you already know that something’s wrong, that something bad has happened, but not wanting to admit it to yourself.

Austin, sensing your body language, squeezes you around your waist, “We’ll see you around the event, good luck with the auction.”

Nate blinks but then nods, moving to pick up his drink at the bar before giving you a light smile and walking away. Least he’s got the point and it doesn’t turn into this big thing. Austin lets his arm slip away, mostly just to turn a bit so he can face you, your back leaning against the open bar. His body almost creates a cage that feels comforting in a way that you can’t explain.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Shaking your head, you tip your chin just a little to look up at Austin and…you want to tell him, you do, but you’re not sure you even want to know yourself. If you let yourself go there, if…what your mom called about is actually happening? You’re not sure you can face that, let alone let Austin be there for you.

“Nothing,” You lie, “I hadn’t seen Nate in a while so we were just catching up.”

Austin lets out a breath through his nose, patient, “I’m not talkin’ about Nate.”

And you know that? But you scramble to come up with some other explanation, some other thing that you can talk about instead of—your eyebrows draw together as you get a good look at Austin’s face, especially after saying Nate’s name, curling your hair around your ear.

“Are you…” You trail off for a moment, amusement drawing the corners of your mouth up, “Why do you look like you’re suckin’ on a lemon right now?”

Austin frowns, his one hand drawing along the lower half of his face. “—what?”

Then your eyes widen in soft realization because, oh, oh God. “Oh my god, you’re jealous.”

Now Austin blinks at you, taking a step back, a laugh crawling up his chest. “I’m not—and besides, what’s there to be jealous of anyways?”

A scoff escapes your lips and you almost cover your mouth because that doesn’t sound defensive at all. There’s a brightness to your eyes as you laugh about this because regardless of what’s coming out Austin’s lips, his body language and the tone of his voice are saying things that are very different.

Moving closer to him, your hand rests along his chest, tipping your chin up to look at him, “I think it’s cute.” And at this point you can no longer recognize whether you’re acting or not, whether Austin’s reactions are premeditated or felt in response to you. The line is so blurred that it’s practically nonexistent.

He smiles a little down at you, shaking his head. Austin playfully grabs at your chin with his fingers, drawing you into a kiss, even as you’re laughing.

--

The auction itself goes well—both you and Austin actually buy pieces and donate money to the charity, so that feels good. It’s a night filled with drinks, food, and exploring the art in the museum that’s open during the time of the event, which feels like an extra special treat because you never seem to have time to just look at art in a gallery. You remember how much you love it and learn that Austin has quite the eye for expressionist paintings. It’s easy to fall in love with him when you hover in front of a painting and he talks about color, texture, and brush strokes.

Making your way out of the event, you hover near the SUV as Austin pauses with some fans that waited for him to leave. He’s talking with a few of them, signing autographs, posing for selfies. A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you watch him, Nate coming down the carpet walkway to go to his car as well. He offers a small wave to you in goodbye, pausing to follow your line of sight to Austin.

“Austin’s great,” Nate starts, “You seem happy.”

You hum lightly, turning your head to look at him. And you’re not sure what even makes you say it but, “Or maybe I’m just a really good actress.” You tease and Nate…looks at you for a few long moments, his eyes narrowing just lightly before he laughs.

“No, I can see it in your face. Your eyes—there’s obviously something real there.” You have no idea how to take that because…something real? What does that even mean? It couldn’t mean anything, right? This is all just pretend, a connection built on mutual satisfaction.

That’s it.

And yet, you know exactly what Nate is talking about because no sooner than the words leaving his mouth, you feel that same sensation in your chest. There is something real there, and you…are almost certain Austin senses that too.

Which is terrifying.

“Just,” Nate reaches out and gently touches your wrist, “Let him in, alright? Don’t hide yourself away.” You swallow thickly, wanting to take that advice but…always easier said than done. You accept the small kiss that he plants on your cheek before turning to leave.

Austin approaches you a few moments later, opening up the SUV door for you to slide in first. “How does late night pizza sound?”

You smile but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, “You read my mind.”

--

Thank you so much for reading! :) 4 parts left.

[dei-lab-assistant]

Tonkatsu Dinner with Joey Wheeler

Summary: You and Joey Wheeler eat dinner together in Shinjuku ward. Set post DSOD. Fun fact: I always write my Reader character based off of myself or someone I know. This means she may not be as generic as is customary for this type of story. Each reader also has a specific place in the Yu-Gi-Oh world, and is basically an OC with set connections and feelings about the various canon characters and other reader characters. This is reader V, who is dating Joey Wheeler and acting as his manager. She is a bit anxious. Word count: 1879 “How about dis place?” asked Joey, looking at the detailed plastic food in the picture window of a restaurant. You were looking at the signage with your smartphone, trying to translate. “Okay, so these are tonkatsu, and these are curry, and they also serve something called ‘shabu shabu?’” “I thought your phone was gonna translate for ya?” Joey still used a flip phone, so he liked to find instances when your smartphone failed to do what you wanted it to.

“It did for the other foods,” You stepped closer to your boyfriend, brushing up against him. Behind you, people continued to walk past on the sidewalk. Despite being after nine at night, the Shinjuku ward of Tokyo still bustled with people. “I know what curry is, da other two...” “Tonkatsu is the breaded pork with cabbage,” you pointed at the plates, “but I don’t know what shabu shabu is. This sign talks about it, but there’s not a display version.” Shoving your phone in your pocket, you joined Joey in studying the fake food. “I know my mom recommended we try tonkatsu.”

“Your mom’s a great cook, so if she says it’ll be good, den we gotta try it.” Joey reached for the door, “Ya down?” “Sure!” You figured there wasn’t much chance of disliking breaded pork. Inside, abundant wooden paneling gave the place an old-fashioned Japanese feel. Each of the tables had a dark glass cooktop built into the center. Seeing your arrival, the man behind the register said something in Japanese. Joey held up two fingers, and the man nodded, stepping away from the counter to point the two of you to a table tucked in a corner. You sat in the chair, and Joey slid onto the bench across from you, grabbing the tablet from its holder at the end of the table. “Dis should make things easier.” Slightly jealous Joey had beaten you to the electric menu and ordering device, you pulled out your phone again and grabbed the Japanese menu. Why was the restaurant so cold? Glancing up, you saw you were directly underneath an air conditioning vent. “Could we switch places?” You gestured at the vent.

Joey grinned. “Leave it ta me ta date da coldest girl in Domino.” He was already sliding off the padded bench as he finished. After switching places, you both fell silent, each studying the menu. Choosing a meal set with tonkatsu, cabbage, rice and miso soup, you waited for Joey to make up his mind about what he wanted. Beside the docking station for the tablet was a brown, ceramic kettle-ish container with a Japanese label taped onto the lid. Translating it, you discovered it held tonkatsu sauce—information you passed on to Joey but had no intention of using yourself, you never put sauce on your food. The man who greeted you at the door returned to the table bearing two glasses of water, small white towels, and chopsticks for each of you. “I guess dese are da napkins?” Asked Joey after the man left. You shrugged, “I guess. Now focus on what you want to order.” “It all looks so good, y/n.” After Joey finally decided to get a combination curry and tonkatsu meal, he input your order into the tablet. A group of five or six people who looked to be about your age entered the restaurant, happily chatting among themselves as they were seated at the larger table beside yours. It soon became apparent they had ordered the mysterious shabu shabu, which turned out to be some sort of meat and vegetable hot pot dish which was cooked right at the table. It looked fun. Although the meat and broth smelled delicious, you felt little interest in eating that many vegetables, and the extremely long, skinny, mushrooms were right out. Joey couldn’t take his eyes off the food at the next table, which made sense since neither of you had eaten since the morning.

You reached out and placed your hand over his, trying to enjoy the moment instead of focusing on the fact your food hadn’t arrived yet. It kinda worked.

Ripping his gaze back to his date, Joey smiled at you sheepishly. “If some of those K-Pop shops are still open when we’re finished here, ya wanna check one out?”

You felt torn, while you were here in the Korean section of Tokyo, you did want to pick up a few pictures of your favorite idol, but doing it with your boyfriend felt like a weird idea. Still… Joey was the one who brought it up, so maybe it would be okay? Seeing your hesitation, Joey tilted his head, “Ya still like Stray Kids, don’tcha?”

Time to play it off like you were confident, “Oh yeah. If Chan were to ask me out, I think I would have to break up with you.” You were joking, obviously.

“He’s the hot Australian?” Joey asked.

“Yeah.” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“After all da time you’ve spent listening ta me talk about Duel Monsters, rememberin’ a few facts about your favorite boy band ain’t askin’ too much of me.”

Before you could respond, the employee who had greeted you when you entered approached with your food. For a moment, neither of you thought about anything other than eating. Tantalizing scents rose in the air—the savory smell of curry, a mouthwatering whiff of pork, and a subtle undertone of oil. Your mouth watered.

Nervously, you picked up your chopsticks, afraid you would mess up and embarrass yourself in front of Joey. Despite your practice, you still weren't as confident as you wanted to be; it didn’t help that you were left handed, which always meant fewer online tutorials to watch, and your older sister who taught you was right handed. Gripped with determination, you glanced at Joey, who was far too busy eating to pay attention to you. If you weren't careful, your anxiety would get out of control and steal your appetite; Joey was on the short list of people you felt so comfortable with you could eat around him, and you would hate to lose that.

Focusing on your tonkatsu, you noticed the breading was different from what you expected. Instead of breadcrumbs, these were more like bread-shards—long and thin, which gave the surface a rough, almost spiked, texture. Raising one of the tonkatsu strips with your chopsticks, you took a bite. The breading was crispy. The pork was tender. Delicious.

For the moment, your nerves settled, and you settled into your meal. After a few moments of silent focus on food, you began to get curious about Joey’s dinner. “Could I try a bite of your curry?”

Joey looked up with puppy dog eyes, “You’d ask for part of a man’s dinner?”

“Only if I want to try it.” you gazed back with your own innocent, wide-eyed stare.

Joey’s face broke into a grin, “Yeah, dat checks out.” He licked his metal spoon clean, wiped it with a napkin, refilled it with curry and rice, and extended the handle to you.

“Thanks,” you grinned and took the spoon. Popping the curry into your mouth, you immediately regretted it. It looked like a kind of beef stew, so why was it spicy?? You almost spit it out, but that seemed gross to do in front of your boyfriend, so you gulped it down instead. “You know I don’t like spicy food, Joey!” You grabbed your small glass of water.

Joey was still grinning at you, “You were da one who asked for it. Who am I ta fight paying da girlfriend tax?”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’m slightly at fault here. But my pain and suffering is mostly your fault.” You grinned back, taking another gulp. “Can you order more water?”

Joey fussed with the tablet for a minute, “Ehh, not with dis thing.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just drink yours.”

“Dat’s fair.” Joey slid his glass towards you. “But ya shoulda known dat curry is spicy.”

“I knew some curry is spicy, and I thought you’d tell me if yours was too much for me.” You fake huffed at him.

“Sorry.” Joey was eyeing your side dishes of rice and miso soup hungrily. “How ‘bout ya let me make it up to ya?”

“By eating my food?”

“What? Oh.” He looked you in the eyes, “I got ya a little gift.”

Your eyes crinkled into a surprised smile, “You got me a present?”

“It’s not much, and I’m not sure you’re gonna like it,” he pulled his hands into his lap, “and I was gonna give it to ya tomorrow before my TV interview, but den I thought I could give it to ya now instead…”

You leaned in, “Sure! Let me see it.” You knew he had bought a couple things at one of the stores the two of you went into earlier, but never imagined he had bought anything for you.

Pulling his hands out from underneath the table, he handed you a beautifully wrapped gift box. It was light and rectangular. “The lady at da store did a great job makin’ it look pretty when I told her it was a present.”

Overwhelmed with curiosity, you tore off the paper, revealing a clear plastic box with a large white bow inside it. It was similar to your favorite hair bow, except this one had a blue, horned sheep in the center of the bow. “Aw, it’s one of the Scapegoats.” Scapegoat was one of Joey’s rarest cards, and your favorite part of his deck.

“I know ya don’t like Duel Monsters all dat much, so if ya don’t like it, I understand. But since you’re my manager, I thought it would be cute if ya had something’ with one of my cards on it.”

Joey was irresistibly endearing when he got flustered like this. You reached out and took his hands. “There are a lot of monsters from the game I would never wear, but this little guy is adorable. And you’re right, as your manager I should wear something related to your deck; it’s good for branding.”

“Ya don’t have ta like it, y/n. If ya don’t want ta wear it den—”

“Sorry, Joey, I was messing with you.” You squeezed his hands, “I don’t just like it because it’s good for your brand. I think it’s cute, and it reminds me of you, and it even shows you remembered what I like. Thank you.”

“Are ya sure?”

“Yep. I’ll wear it tomorrow.” You nodded at him in approval before pulling your hands away and resuming eating.

When you both finished, Joey took the receipt left with the food to the register, where he paid in cash, pocketing the handful of coins he received in return. As the two of you stepped out into the warm summer night, you slipped your hand into his. Tonight would be fun, with K-pop shopping and trying out a capsule hotel. It was easy to set aside your worries when you were with Joey. Tomorrow you would both have work to do, but for now, all you wanted was to spend time with the man who made you feel special and safe. “You’re the best, Joey.” If you google the following, you should be able to see the Google listing for the restaurant this story was set in. "とんかつしゃぶしゃぶにいむら 大久保店"

[tacticalhimbo]

Howdy @comrade-botanistman ! I was assigned to celebrate @sstewyhosseini 's Resident Evil Gift Exchange with ya, and I come bearing a gift!

This fic was really fun to write out, and I had a lot of fun exploring the idea of transfem!Jill with Carlos. I hope you like this bittersweet little moment between them <3

Let me know if you'd like a more permanent copy of this, too! I'd be more than happy to slide ya a PDF version or something like that :)

Under a cut for length!

The mornings were always the hardest. Watching that sleepy fog lift and give clarity to the mirror hanging just above the sink, lights shining down to illuminate every exposed inch of Jill's features. The slowly fading shadows beneath her eyes. The texture of her skin. The way her brows knitted as blonde strands of hair fell into her view, unable to shield the way the image before her morphed. The way the room turned and grew cold as an all too familiar feeling of panic settled.

'Jill. Jill—Come on. Snap out of it!'

Knuckles paled as fingers dug into the slick ceramic. Eyes narrowed at the distorted reflection. A shadow loomed just behind her, though she remained unaware. All she could see was the husk that Wesker had left in her place.

'Come on, Jill!'

A hand rose to clutch at her chest, fists balling around the loose fabric of her shirt. She winced at the empty feeling, shrinking in on herself as she finally broke her gaze and came to rest her shoulder against the adjacent wall. Breaths grew rapid as she sunk to the cooled, tile flooring. Eyes darted to the space before her as she felt herself growing dizzy. Felt a warm feeling just beside her. She froze, just able to raise her gaze enough to see a familiar face by her side.

"Are you alright?"

"Carlos..."

The man smiled a bit at the recognition, worry stricken in his features as he cautiously touched at her arm. He used his leg to nudge the discarded pair of scissors away from her side, opting to place himself between them as he kneeled. Gentle eyes met her gaze, and the mercenary found himself gently guiding her into a loose hug.

"What happened? I heard something fall, then I came in, and you were... I don't even think you saw me, but you were lookin' right at me. Least it seemed like it."

Shoulders dropped as she leaned into his side, hands hesitant to reach out and touch at his arm. To guide him closer to her as she caught her breath. She watched his hands as they moved, focused just enough to react in the event he tried anything. Deep down, she knew he wouldn't. She told herself that countless times. She was safe; Carlos was safe. Still, her nerves were taut. Drawn like that of a bow, ready to fire. She shook her head a bit, taking a breath before speaking.

"I didn't realize how much my hair's faded..."

"Huh. Yeah... It looks good." Carlos smiled a bit.

Jill scoffed, watching as the movement of her head guided the light locks to rest against her shoulder.

"I hate it."

"Because of—?"

"Yeah."

Carlos nodded a bit, watching as Jill rested by his side. Watching as she brought her knees closer, hugging them as her gaze rose to the dye on the counter. He followed, wheels turning as he reached for the scissors beside him.

"Hey, how about I help you fix it up, then? Just a warning, I didn't exactly go to cosmetology school." He laughed, nudging her arm as he stood and offered a hand.

She couldn't help the ghostly laugh that escaped her, nor the way her hand seemed to find his on its own. And so she stood with him, slow to sit herself on the counter as he’d retrieved the discarded tools and set them down beside her. Yet even that bit of comfort seemed short-lived as the nausea resettled in her gut. Conflict etched itself onto her face as Carlos finished setting up a little station, and it didn't escape him.

"Hey," his voice was soft, and his touch even softer. Calloused fingers brushed the back of her hand. "What's on your mind, supercop?"

"I..." The words failed to escape Jill as she peered over her shoulder and toward the mirror again. 

She remained present this time, allowing herself to reach up and brush a few stray hairs aside. For a moment, there was euphoria. A comfort in what she saw. But as always, Wesker lingered behind the sensation. He was there to ruin it, just as he’d (effectively) ruined her. She sighed, shaking her head.

"I should be happy it's gotten this long. I used to always have trouble growing it past a few inches. Hell, your hair's longer than I've ever managed back then." A faint laugh, accompanied by a subtle nudge to his arm.

He laughed with her, offering a playful 'hey!' as he nudged back.

"But?"

Curse him for knowing her so well.

"... But even though it makes me feel more feminine, more like me, I just can't shake that asshole from my head. This," she held up a thick string of hair, so close to just yanking it from its root," is because of him. Whatever the hell it was he did to me, this was the result."

'That's not true'. That's what he wanted to say at the moment. To tell her as he wordlessly grazed his hand against hers. Yet the words didn't escape him. He couldn't lie to her like that. Couldn't put himself in her shoes to figure out what exactly happened. She knew better than him. She was there; he wasn't. Silently reassuring her was the best he could do. To offer his hand as he stepped back and looked her over.

That was when the gears began turning.

"Well, what if we compromise on it? Cut it real short like you like it... Maybe leave some of the blonde in?" He watched her eyes snap to his face. Curiosity shone in them. "Ease ya into the idea and all."

It wasn't a bad idea. Jill could almost see it forming before her as she gathered a handful of strands and pulled them back, hiding them behind her head as her bangs fell into place. Seeing less had already made her feel more secure... and it wasn't a bad color on her. Not for the moment. Perhaps not anymore. Fingers unfurled, and lengthy strands fell back into place.

"Yeah... Okay. Maybe a little bit in the bangs? Right around..." Brows knitted together as she leaned closer to the mirror. Her fingers grasped at the loose strands just above her brow. "Here?"

"I like it." Carlos clapped his hands together, practically beaming as a hand gently tilted Jill's upward. His expression softened, lips pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead as he got to work.

Scissors sliced through hair, quick to make work of the overgrowth and allow it all to pile on the floor by the former commander's feet. Sections were pulled and set aside, though a tad lopsided, no thanks to the way Carlos' head would tilt as he attempted to find the natural parts beneath the layers. It was rough, but it was an attempt. And not a terrible one, if Jill said so herself. She did. Practically leaped at seeing the vision come to life. Already, it had felt like the weight on her chest slipped off. She ran a hand through the short cut, sighing a heavy breath of relief at the choppy feeling of the underlayer against her fingers. Those same fingers made their way forward, moving alongside her partner's to section off the small bit of bang that would remain undyed. She smiled to herself, peering at Carlos' reflection and nodding. He nodded back, grabbing the box of dye to begin the next stage of their plan. Of course, even the included set of gloves didn't stop either of them from making a mess of themselves. They shared soft laughs and playful teases, pointing out the splotches of brown that coated their hands. Jill was the first to begin the cleanup, wetting a rag and guiding Carlos to offer his hands so that she could scrub them clean. Their shared touches lingered, fingers intertwining as their lips brushed together. 

Carlos smiled, then Jill. They kissed each other tenderly, hovering tensions dissipating as a comforting blanket of warmth surrounded the duo. Hands cautiously wandered along the other, tempting the other closer to savor that warmth. Jill gripped at Carlos' shoulders lightly, attempting to distract herself from the building fire behind her eyes. The moisture building on her eyelashes. Carlos noticed the squeeze, drawing back just enough to ask if she was okay. She nodded, thanking him softly before pressing one last, chaste kiss to his cheek as she withdrew entirely. 

Soon enough, idle chatter was cut short by the sound of a phone going off. The timer had finished, and Jill abandoned her post on the countertop to lean over the sink and rinse her hair. It would have been easier to shower, but she didn't quite feel like kicking Carlos out of the bathroom just yet. So he stayed, helping her reach the back of her head and washing all the excess down the drain. He offered her a towel to wipe her face and dry her hair, to which she gladly accepted. For a moment, she considered simply keeping the towel there. Hiding herself from the reflection that eagerly awaited her. What if she hated it more? What if she didn't look any different?

What if all of this was some sick dream? A faux memory implanted into her?

'No.' She winced at the thoughts, shaking her head before taking a deep breath and removing the towel.

And before her stood herself. The Jill that awaited her was... her. She had that signature short, brown hair. Those focused eyes. And, a streak of blonde that only added to the inquisitive spark in her gaze. Beside her was Carlos, who seemed to beam at seeing the result of his handiwork. Lips curled into a bright grin, eyes squinting as he squeezed his partner's arms excitedly.

"Well? Not too bad for a hired gun, huh?" He paused, leaning in to press his cheek against hers. "What do ya think, supercop?"

Her lips mimicked his, head bumping against his as she squeezed at his hand. She looked happy. At peace with herself again. And god, was it a beautiful sight.

"Could be more even, but I like it. It has that Carlos charm." The pair laughed, exchanging yet another series of playful bumps and nudges. "I like it... Thank you."

"Anything for you, Jill. You know that. I love you."

"I love you too."

[corbenic]

For @pinkstarsdress; also paging Élysée Palace anon since Evie and Julien are very horny in this excerpt

This is the third part of the follow-up to the Princess Imperial deleted scene “Garden Proposal.” A full list of shared outtakes can be found here.

Note: this outtake involves Evie discussing a loved one’s terminal cancer diagnosis. It’s a topic I’m sensitive about after a close friend of mine died of stomach cancer, and I’ve been careful to write a story that doesn’t prick my cancer triggers—but please read with caution if cancer is a difficult subject for you

GARDEN PROPOSAL: AFTERMATH (PART THREE)

Word Count: 2,250

Summary: Evie O'Brien and her boyfriend-slash-maybe-fiancé, The Prince Imperial, go on a date. They discuss marriage over a sushi dinner before seeing Coppélia at the Palais Garnier and making out

Written: autumn 2022

Context: an early chapter two draft of my novel The Bonaparte Bride before I decided to publish it as Princess Imperial the website

Deviations from canon: the timeline (Julien proposes in October 2023 rather than March 2023), character ages, Fiona is getting married, Evie has an older brother

SUSHI DAIMYO

PARIS, ÎLE DE FRANCE, FRANCE

OCTOBER 21

We enter the restaurant through the back door. A staff member in a black apron ushers us upstairs, into a private room. A futuristic-looking chandelier hangs overhead. The walls are paneled with bamboo. A square white stone table sits in the center of the room. The chairs are black lacquer. A red and black tea kettle sits in the middle of the table, along with two matching teacups without handles and an elegant glass bottle filled with what I assume is soy sauce. A square white plate, small red bowl, fabric napkin, and black chopsticks are arranged in front of each chair. We can access a balcony through a sliding glass door.

From the balcony, I can see the rest of the restaurant. The tables on the main floor are thick slabs of blond wood with matching chairs. A handful of elegantly dressed people sip sake at the bar. Waiters bring out white platters bearing assortments of sushi rolls and sashimi. It looks delicious. My stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything today.

When I return to our private room, Julien is chatting with a staff member. They’re looking at the menu. The server glances my way as I enter. He gawks for a long moment. Julien says something, and the server leaves, taking the menu with him.

I sit down. “What was that about?”

“He was looking at your boobs.”

“They’re hard to miss.”

I’m wearing a strapless black dress. It dips in the front, cutting out a V in the valley between my breasts. I’ve paired it with black heels and a diamond tennis bracelet, plus my everyday ring stack and diamond stud earrings.

“Other people aren’t allowed to—”

I lean forward. As I expected, he glances down at my cleavage.

“Gotcha,” I say, grinning.

He doesn’t say anything, just skims a finger as far up my thigh as he can. I gasp.

Conveniently, this is when the server returns with a small ceramic boat filled with dumplings. He flushes bright red at the sight of us and scurries out of the room as quickly as possible.

“Someone’s possessive tonight.”

Julien picks up a dumpling. “I haven’t seen you in three weeks. You are not the only one with plans for the evening.”

“And what would those be?” I ask, though I suspect I already know. I grab a dumpling.

“Dinner. Ballet. Bed. The order is negotiable.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

We’ve demolished the dumplings by the time the sushi arrives. Our waiter places the platter on the table. He explains which roll is which. There are a couple of staples: the Philadelphia roll and salmon sashimi. Unusually, there’s some octopus sashimi. I don’t recognize anything else. The waiter calls one option, which seems to have salmon inside, a Champs-Elysées roll. A crab-based variation with spicy mayo on top is the Montmartre roll. We have also received a Marie-Antoinette roll, a Tuileries roll, and a Napoleon roll. The waiter vanishes after we thank him.

“This place must be popular with tourists.”

He grabs a piece of Champs-Elysées roll. “Either that or they’re extremely patriotic. We may have to come back in July to find out.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. The dumplings were tasty, but that doesn’t mean the sushi will be.”

I start with a slice of the Montmartre. Crab isn’t one of my favorite fillings, but I like the how it pairs with the other flavors, especially the spicy mayo.

“Does this have lettuce?” I ask.

Julien pokes at one of the Montmartre pieces with his chopsticks. “Looks like it.” He gestures toward the Napoleon roll. “That one is salmon with lemon, by the way.”

I guessed as much based on the paper-thin lemon slices layered on top.

Once we’ve polished off the Tuileries roll, Julien says, “About last night.”

Octopus sashimi, it turns out, is chewy. Vaguely rubbery. I nod and wave a hand to signal he should keep talking.

“Do you want me to wait to re-propose?”

I swallow hard. “What do you mean?”

“Yesterday wasn’t great timing, not because it wasn’t a Hollywood proposal—”

“Though that is important to me,” I interject.

He smiles sheepishly. “You should have mentioned that sooner. Anyway. The news about your mom is a lot to take in. Do you want the time and space to process that?”

I shrug. There’s nothing to say. I hate that my mom is dying, but it also feels like a story about someone else, something that happens to other people who live far away. I don’t think the news is going to sink in until I see her for Christmas.

Julien adds another piece of ginger to his soy sauce. “Do you think you’ll want to spend a lot of time in Chicago? If you do, I fully support you in it, but it would make our engagement more difficult. The public won’t expect you to tag along for all my work, but they’ll want to see you frequently. You can’t simultaneously visit your family in America and accompany me to events in France.”

“Why do you think I moved across the world for grad school?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“I love my family, but they are best in small doses.”

“I see.” He sounds confused.

“It’s hard to be friends with my brother when he’s a decade older than me, and you’ve met my parents. Surely you’ve noticed that they take the “only daughter” thing seriously. Like, my dad actually called me his little princess until I was thirteen and begged him to stop.”

A smug grin crosses Julien’s face. “You have mentioned that. We’ll see how he feels about you no longer being his princess.”

I grab a Marie-Antoinette roll. “Give me a real proposal and we can find out. Besides, my mom has been dreaming about my wedding for my entire life. She’ll enjoy having something to do.” I pop the roll in my mouth.

He selects a piece of salmon sashimi. “I’m not going to be upset if you change your mind. This is going to be a difficult year.”

I chew and then swallow. “I’ll be—”

He gives me a hard look. “You are not going to be fine. That is a good thing. You should not be unaffected by this.” He picks up the sashimi with his chopsticks. Half the rice falls back onto his plate.

“Having substantial things to do will help. I’m sure of it. And it will be nice to have something to work on with Mom.” This time, I select a Napoleon piece.

“I will warn you that this is not going to be a two-person job. You and I will provide input, of course, as will our parents. The Grand Master of Ceremonies will oversee it all. He might deputize a wedding planner or two to help coordinate logistics, and they’ll also have opinions.”

Instead of replying, I eat my Napoleon roll. The salmon and lemon pair beautifully together. I immediately grab a second piece. “This may be the best sushi I’ve ever had.”

“Interesting.” He places a piece of Philadelphia roll on my plate. “You’ve barely touched these. Are they not as good as the ones at Ameterasu?”

Philadelphia rolls are my favorite food. Specifically, the version made by the small sushi bar Ameterasu in the Latin Quarter, a stone’s throw from the École Normale Supérieure campus. It’s beloved by students from ENS as well as the nearby Sorbonne.

I shake my head. “They’re better. Why have we never come here before?”

“I didn’t know it existed. Hugo learned about it from his boyfriend.”

I lean in. “He’s dating again? I thought he swore off romance after that lawyer broke his heart.”

“Sadly, he’s already called it quits with this guy. At least he got a list of good restaurants first.”

“Do you know how long they were together?”

“Four months or so.”

Impressive. Hugo’s longest relationship lasted all of eight months, so four is nothing to sneeze at.

“Are you still hungry?” Julien asks.

I nod. He puts three pieces of sushi on my plate. Two of them are Napoleon rolls.

I’ve just put one in my mouth when Vincent pokes his head in the door. “It’s time.”

OPÉRA GARNIER

PARIS, ÎLE DE FRANCE, FRANCE

OCTOBER 21

The imperial box is magnificent. The seats are upholstered in scarlet velvet. Luxurious curtains in the same fabric adorn the walls. The view of the stage is magnificent.

The main floor and mezzanines are flooded with people in suits and nice dresses, chatting with their partners. Visitors come from all over the world to see the Paris Opera Ballet perform. It’s lovely to see people of all shapes and sizes and skin tones here. This will be a night they remember forever.

Julien leans in close. “Watching the show?”

A couple people in a mezzanine point towards us. They pull out their cell phones and hold them up in our direction.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask.

He’s brought me to the imperial box before, but not like this. Usually I take my seat after the show has started, and I leave right before the intermissions and again before the show ends. Not tonight. I entered with Julien. We’re seated side by side in the front row of the box.

He places a hand on my thigh. We haven’t seen each other in three weeks, but this is incredibly forward for him. “You don’t need to hide anymore.”

Throughout the room, more and more people are noticing us. I sit up straighter. I am going to be a princess. I can do this.

Thankfully, it’s not long before the lights dim and the ballet starts. Delphine Diop is every bit as skilled as I expected. She’s a tall, lithe Black woman with the most toned legs I’ve ever seen. Her performance is entrancing. Her twirls are crisp, and her jumps so powerful that she seems to float. She reminds me of the Bonapartes—they all possess a charm that makes it hard to look away from them.

All too soon, it’s time for the first intermission. I stand up and start to stretch before I remember I am here with Julien, and we’ve been spotted. The box feels secluded even though we’re visible throughout the theater.

“I see why Diop was made an étoile,” Julien says. “She’s an artist.”

“It’s a good thing they get married at the end. I would never forgive Franz for choosing a doll over her version of Swanhilda.”

He laughs. “You have higher standards than me. The worst Swanhilda is better than the finest Coppélia.”

Below us, about a quarter of the theater gawks at our box. It’s impossible to tell if this is because the building itself is so beautiful or because they recognize Julien.

I sit back down and shift closer to Julien. “Hopefully Delphine Diop won’t mind being overshadowed tonight. Do you see how many phones are pointed at us?”

“I see no problems in acknowledging the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Please. Do you see the legs on those ballerinas?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your legs. Or your hips. Or—”

I roll my eyes, then sigh. Right. Eye rolls are unladylike behavior. With my luck, someone will have gotten a clear photo of that, and it will be shared on the internet forever.

I excuse myself. There’s a small washroom just off the imperial box. I inspect my lipstick in the mirror. Unsurprisingly, I lost most of it over dinner. I reapply my red lipstick, then scrunch my hair so the waves are bouncier.

When I return to the box, the ballet has resumed. The rest of the show flies by. Swanhilda breaks into Dr. Coppelius’ house and discovers the beautiful Coppélia is just a doll. Swanhilda tricks Dr. Coppelius into thinking his doll has come to life. Franz and Swanhilda get married and the entire town celebrates. It’s beautiful.

As soon as the show is over, Julien says, “What a lovely pas de deux. I still think your legs are better.” He puts an arm around me and ushers me out of the box and into the dim hallway.

We’ve just ducked out of public view when he steers me into a wall, pressing my back against the chilly stones, and kisses me. It’s a hard, insistent kiss. I need it. I need him. So I drape my arms over his shoulders and slip my tongue into his mouth. He groans. His hands wander lower, hiking up my dress, studying the curves of my lower back and my butt.

“Oh my God, get a room,” Vincent says. He’s only a few feet away, too close for comfort.

We break apart. Julien’s mouth is stained the same red as mine.

“Right,” Julien says sheepishly. “Let’s go home.”

I grab his hand. As always, we leave out a side entrance. The sky is inky blue like the shadows in Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It’s snowing again. The flakes are small and dusty like the ones last night.

I barely get a second to take it in before a dozen cameras flash bright white, blinding me.

[carlos-in-glasses]

First Line Game Tag

Thank you so much for the tag @good-ways and @paperstorm You're such beautiful writers 🥰

Rules: Post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to ao3. if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.

Afterglow of a Supernova

Carlos speeds into the cul-de-sac and pulls up in his unit before the ambulance arrives at the scene.

To him, the McMansion appears more characterful than the staid identikit houses that flank it, beautified with hanging baskets and a climbing rose. Borders of vibrant summer blooms surround a tranquil water feature in the center of the lawn. Ceramic flowerpots either side of the porch step are lively with rotating pastel pinwheels and miniature Lone Star flags that flutter in the warm breeze. A basketball hoop fixed above the garage door sparks a memory that Carlos tries to ignore, shrugging off the past like an invisible hand on his shoulder.

Man to Man

Carlos doesn’t know where he’s going. When he reaches the end of the long drive, he has three options: turn left towards the city of Austin, turn right onto a potholed dirt track and enter the deeper darkness, or turn around and go back home. He turns right.

On an overcast night like tonight, the dark is a serious, sucking thing, like a black hole on earth. He looks up at a fractal of moonlight – a small dusty shimmer far above. Meaningless. It’s no company. But he doesn’t want company. That’s the whole point. He wants to be alone in a way that he can control, and to achieve this he had to get out, run, self-create the distance that caused his parents’ calling voices to fade to nothing behind him. Does it feel good? No. But it doesn’t feel bad, either. And that’s new. Most days he feels bad about something – and this is the worst thing he’s done for a long time.

Chasers

“Hey.” TK reaches out, brushes his fingers against the earthy red cotton of Carlos’ jacket as he turns towards the door. Carlos stops, meeting TK’s look of adoration with his warm brown eyes. They stand as if suspended in each other’s gravity, glowing for each other like stars.

“Thank you.” TK whispers, meaning his gratitude soul-deep, slightly frustrated that the words don’t convey it enough. So, he follows with, “I love you,” – really wanting to press how he feels into Carlos, so Carlos may never forget and never doubt it – although these words seem insufficient also.

The Ruins of Wonderland

The storm lands north-east of Travis County, sparing Austin the predicted chaos that for several days the emergency services have been primed to contain, with the increasing adrenaline that rises from high alerts. Instead, the city experiences the mere edge of the blizzard – a soft snowfall that settles prettily on roofs and verges. There’s a few instances of vehicles sliding out of control on icy roads, but largely the salt spreading trucks have prevented disaster. That aside, people in inappropriate footwear, totally unused to freezing conditions, slip up and bang knees and wrists, which means an uptick in X-rays at St. David’s – but TK’s Paragon EMS crew hasn’t seen much action.

In Your Adorable Glasses

Before sunrise on Christmas Eve morning, Carlos jolts awake. His eyes adjust to the dark as he stretches beneath the warm white quilt and pats around for TK, finding him low down in the bed and curled up against him like a cat. He strokes through TK's hair delicately, and when TK doesn't move Carlos slips out from under the sheets.

Folded on the chair there’s a pair of green tartan pajama pants his mom bought him last Christmas. He pulls them on quickly for warmth, and from his dresser he chooses the fleecy brown sweater that TK loves because it makes him look like a grizzly bear.

Wrestling Angels

It happens less often these days, which is some mercy, but there are times – out of nowhere – when Gwyn's death floors TK. Invisible arms lift him high off the ground, turn him upside down and slam him onto his back. He is shocked, winded, his nerves crackle with pain. Still, the abruptness of this grief playing out in front of people is rare. It usually topples him at night, at home, when he can’t occupy his mind with work. He'll slink away like a wounded cat, re-emerging only when Carlos reminds him to have dinner.

Because of the intensity of the wedding build-up, Gwyn’s loss feels greater, more recent, and lately it spikes without warning.

A Naked House

“You know we can’t roll up naked to this thing,” Carlos says, pulling on a snug pair of smoky purple boxers and turning to the bedroom mirror to smooth his hair.

TK basks stark nude on the end of the bed and grins ruefully, like he’s been presented with a challenge he knows he’ll breeze.

Carlos stays expressionless, pretending to ignore him as he heads for the closet, but TK pounces and wraps his arms around him from behind. Carlos hums, settling into TK’s warm breath against his neck.

TK sticks his tongue out and licks his ear.

Carlos chuckles from the tickle but jerks his head. “Babe, stop – we have to focus.”

Teardrop on the Fire

Thursday February 24, 2022

The 5:30 a.m. alarm doesn’t stir TK. He remains deeply asleep and curled up in the fetal position when Carlos is ready to leave for his shift.

Another twenty seconds, Carlos grants himself, to look at TK in the cool blue dawn. He leans down and softly kisses TK’s cheek, his neck, his exposed shoulder. He leaves a handwritten note next to TK on his own pillow, and reluctantly backs away.

Bathtime and Black Magic

TK had been lying awake for an hour – maybe more at this point – wondering what was wrong and why the silent-treatment. It must have been a particularly traumatic shift. All he knew for certain was that this had never happened before, and tonight broke the stable pattern of all his nights with Carlos prior.

A Rainy Day in Austin

Carlos finished his coffee and cleared up their breakfast things while TK said his wistful goodbyes to Lou, the wild alligator lizard he’d bonded with (in the way only TK could) during a medical call where he helped extract him from a gaping leg wound.

Although setting Lou free had been TK's suggestion, Carlos was tight-chested with guilt, tense in his shoulders. Not to the extent of deciding Lou could stay, but still.

Tagging @reyesstrand @bonheur-cafe @ladytessa74 and @heartstringsduet and @tailoredshirt if you haven't been tagged yet and want to share!

[aworldforastage]

favorite quotes: Governor’s Illness/督主有病 by 杨溯

“十七，人这条命留着不是为了吃喝拉撒的。总会有一个人，能让你豁出命去保护，就算她死了，你也要豁出命去报仇。” "Shiqi, people don't stay alive just to eat and shit. There will always be someone who you will want to protect with your life. Even if she dies, you will want to lay down your life for vengeance."

Chapter 45, Xiahou Lian

“信过一段时日，开过光，也求过签，也请过长生牌位。庙里那些杂七杂八的名目，挨个做了个遍。可是有什么用呢，上天听不见你的祈求，神佛也看不到你的磕头，求不得的，依旧求不得。” "I believed for a while; I got blessings, begged for fortunes, and set up longevity tablets. All those rituals in the temples, I did them all. But what's the use, the heavens can't hear your prayers, and deities can't see your bows. What you can't have, you still can't have."

Chapter 57, Shen Jue

“我身无长物，只有这一条命还值点银子。我把它送给你，你要吗？” "I have nothing, only this life is worth a few silvers. I want to gift it to you, do you want it?"

Chapter 66, Xiahou Lian

“佛爷，求你，罪是我的，报应是我的，罚我，不要罚他。” "Buddha, I beg of you, the sins are mine, the karma is mine, punish me, do not punish him."

Chapter 115 , Shen Jue

夏侯潋打开瓷坛的盖子，夏侯霈残余的骨灰映入眼帘，这是夏侯霈留在这世上最后一抔尘灰。他想起那个与他阔别了八年的女人，她有着潋滟的唇，锋利的眉，像一把刀，刀尖向前，仿佛可以斩碎万物。眼泪无声无息地划过脸颊，落进骨灰坛，那抔尘埃中顿时深了一块儿，像一个经年的疮疤。 Xiahou Lian opens the ceramic jar, and Xiahou Pei's remaining ashes comes into sight. These are the last traces Xiahou Pei has left in the world. He remembers that woman who has already left him eight years ago, her glistening lips, sharp brows, like a sabre, tip pointing forward, seemingly capable of shattering all. Tears silently slide down his cheek, falling into the jar of ashes. That bit of ash immediately darkens, like an aged scar.

Chapter 118

夏侯霈永远是那个模样，好像凭着一把横波，世上所有艰难险阻都会被斩碎成泥。他后来才知道她并非无所不能，她只是有一颗深广的心，她的心可以容纳世间万难，她的刀便可以斩灭万法。 他是夏侯霈的儿子，也必定要拥有和她一样的勇气。

Xialou Pei had always been like that, as if all the difficulties and dangers in the world can be reduced to mud with Hengbo. He only learned later that she wasn't truly invincible. She just had a great heart, and as long as her heart can bear all the difficulties in the world, her saber can cut through all its limitations. He is Xiahou Pei's son; he needs to have her kind of courage.

Chapter 118

“看见你了，少爷。你是我的极乐。” "I saw you, shaoye. You are my Nirvana."

Chapter 124, Xiahou Lian

“我觉得够了。虽然风风雨雨这么走过来，可光咱们俩相遇这一点，就足够我甜一辈子。” "I think it's enough. All though it's been a stormy road getting here, just the two of us meeting is enough sweetness to last me a lifetime"

Chapter 124, Xiahou Lian

“你怎么就不明白呢？你和我们不一样啊，我们这些人，死了就死了，埋骨荒野也没什么。可你不同，你就算死也要躺进金漆玉裹的大棺材，吃供奉受祭拜，热热闹闹的，怎么能和我们一样，死在无名之地，做无名之鬼？” "Why can't you understand? You are not like us! People like us, dying is just dying. It doesn't matter if our remains get lost in the wild. But you are different, even if you die you are going to be lying in a gilded grand coffin, receiving offerings and prayers, like it's a bustling affair. How can you be like us, dying in nameless places to become nameless ghosts?"

Chapter 132, Xiahou Lian

“去吧，”沈玦道，“你生，我去找你。你死，我去陪你。” "Go," Shen Jue says, "If you live, I'll come find you. If you die, I'll go with you."

Chapter 132

[typhoonvash]

shelter reverse

⩥ @misplacedreporter || hurt/comfort [OPEN]

SHELTER : seeing a threat barreling toward them (such as a storm, the shockwave from an explosion, or a building they’re in collapsing), sender holds the injured / incapacitated receiver close, turning their back to the threat to bear the brunt of the impact instead of the receiver. [REVERSE: Receiver protects Sender]

Vash knew it was a bad idea to hide out in this crumbling ruin to weather out the oncoming storm, but they didn't have much of a choice. It was a strange ruin—out in the middle of nowhere, no civilization in sight—but it was the only thing that'd cover himself, Meryl, and Wolfwood from the oncoming typhoon. It was all concrete, rebar, and ceramic tile; it was something too sterile to be virtuous, whatever it was.

Most importantly, it was cheaply made. Slabs slapped together quickly, flimsy roof above, and plenty of shortcuts taken by fake contractors. It wasn't shelter, it was a deathtrap.

Which is exactly what put Vash and Meryl in this situation—after hours of the building moaning and groaning under the weight of the winds and sands, it finally began to cave. Wolfwood's first instinct was to run off to see if there was anything he could do, while the other two sought shelter. The blond hated not being able to help Wolfwood out, but he was right—keeping Meryl safe was a priority.

They thought they picked a sturdy part of the building to huddle in, but as the load-bearing pillars cracked under pressure, they knew they chose wrong.

'Oh no.'

Not wanting to get lost in some closed off portion of the building, Vash swept Meryl off her feet and made a mad dash away from the collapsing portion of the structure—somewhere that Wolfwood would be able to find them in the rubble if they weren't fast enough.

But it was collapsing from both sides.

"Hold tight Meryl—!"

The lithe altruist slides on his knees, curling around the reporter. His eyes squeezed shut as an inky, black wing shot from his back—vines branched into its form. The wing darkens Meryl's world as the building crumbles around them; the last thing she hears is a bloody scream next to her ear.

[indiantradebird11]

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