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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months ago

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A Curse [Chapter 11: Westchester]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death/hospital stuff, a Targ family gathering!

Word count: 6.2k

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In the darkness of your nightscape bedroom—plumes of neon and incandescence floating beyond the window like man-made stars—you read Becca’s Instagram posts and blog entries about how brave Aegon has been in the wake of his diagnosis, and between the lines of course is her courage too: the caretaker, the self-sacrificial curator, the saintly hands his demise has been entrusted into, his long slow disintegration until only the bones are left, no memories, no dreams, no future and no past.

The last weeks of August float away like a balloon, carried high and quick into a sky that is dizzyingly hot and so bright it stings the eyes. On sidewalks, you hide under the shade of palm trees. On lunch dates with Chloe—running lines, trying perplexing new foods like escargot and sea urchin, giggling over celebrity gossip—you ask for tables inside or under the refuge of patio umbrellas. Each night in your apartment that Aegon now pays your half of the rent for, religiously deposited in your bank account by Brandon at a least one full week before it’s due, you lie in the bathtub reading the movie script or books on the Gilded Age until the water turns lukewarm and steam glistens on your skin; and into these infinitesimal black-ink worlds you disappear, a new name, a distant time, a different man who has stitched himself to you with dissolving threads.

Now you are in Chinatown with Aegon, and the ember-colored oscars are murderous and darting back and forth as he skims his fingers across the top of the tank, and you have devoured your moo goo gai pan but Aegon has barely touched his boneless spare ribs. His is listless and distracted. Strands of sandy blonde hair are falling out of their gel to rest across his forehead. There are dark shadows like smudges of ash under his eyes. Your own eyes are adorned with shimmering dusty rose powder to match your sundress, three shades blended together, all by Urban Decay: Liar, Stolen, Right Time.

“I really think you should see a doctor,” you tell Aegon, not for the first time.

“I might,” he says absently, still tormenting the oscars.

“It can only help at this point. They could confirm the diagnosis and get you on a treatment plan. I’ve been researching it and there are drugs that suppress tremors, and physical therapy, and antidepressants...and oh, these things called ‘dopamine agonists’ that are good for motor functions...and they even have Huntington’s support groups!”

Aegon sighs.

“If you make an appointment, I’ll go with you,” you say. “Any day, any time, I don’t care, I’ll go. I’ll reschedule whatever else I have on my calendar.” Workouts with your personal trainer, meetings with your dialect coach, calls with Dusty or Santi or anyone else from the film, outings with Chloe, a life that is growing abundant and bright like a full moon.

“Maybe.” Then Aegon studies his Chinese zodiac calendar, an attempt to change the subject. And you’ll let him; you don’t want to spend the time you have left arguing. “What year were you born?” he asks, as if you’ve never had this conversation before. “Which animals is yours?”

And instead of being offended, frustrated, startled, you just force a smile and hold up your hands in the shape of claws. “I’m a dragon, Aegon.”

He leans in close to read the description: You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Then he laughs. “Oh yeah, of course you are. Sounds just like you.”

“And you’re a horse.”

“Do you like horses?”

“I like one,” you say, and Aegon grins and offers you a forkful of his boneless spare ribs, dripping viscous red sauce like bad blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, August 30th, and the wedding is exactly one week away. The Targaryens are throwing a bon voyage party for Aegon at their Malibu beach house, something planned a month in advance, although it has a certain somberness to it now. Alicent keeps dabbing at her large dark eyes with a green handkerchief, collecting herself, crumpling into tears again. Guests are murmuring gravely about their vague, archaic memories of Viserys: Saw him in a wheelchair a few times...then he just disappeared...never really asked...a Hollywood legend like that...wanted to respect his privacy...such a lovely family...how awful they’re going through this all over again.

Aegon has dispatched Becca to ready the new house in Houston, a project that she is posting about on Instagram with great frequency and euphoric triumph; she has been given a vital task. If she suspects his true motivations for wanting her two time zones and 1,500 miles away, she gives no indications of it. In Becca’s absence—and much to your own surprise—you are Aegon’s plus one on this hot, golden afternoon as salt-smelling wind blows in off the Pacific Ocean and children splash in the pool.

As your floral yellow sundress billows and the breeze tangles your hair, you smile and chat with the series of guests that Aegon introduces you to, distant relatives, industry people, the new agent he keeps trying to offload you onto, a bookish young woman named Kristen who is perfectly polite and surely very knowledgeable and yet not the one you want. Kristen didn’t agree to sign you when no one else would. Kristen didn’t put her knuckles into the wall of a Beverly Hills mansion for you.

Several of the party guests recognize you from the Maroon 5 music video and congratulate you on your starring role in your upcoming indie movie, which has just been publicly announced. Each time the conversation drifts towards Aegon—his misfortunate diagnosis, his exodus to Texas—he steers it back to you. He doesn’t want to talk about himself, of course, or his situation, or the fate that awaits him in Houston, and that’s part of it; but he’s also proud of you. He’s taking full advantage of one of his last chances to advocate for you. He’s going down swinging.

Now Aegon is eating hors d’oeuvres with his other recent clients, Steve, Fatima, and Angus, all of whom have found new agents with Aegon’s assistance, and you are sitting on the ledge of the swimming pool with the hem of your dress tucked under your thighs and your legs submerged to the knees. Helaena has children, which isn’t something Aegon ever mentioned before; there are four of them, wreaking havoc in the pool as they play volleyball with their friends, hurling a beach ball back and forth over a miniature net. You are keeping score for them and serving as the cheerleader, which is much preferrable to making small talk with self-important industry executives or listening to people sigh over how selfless Becca is for assuming this burden.

Aemond wanders over to you, dressed in his version of casual: a full suit, but beige instead of black or navy. He doesn’t say anything. He observes the kids playing for a while, though you have the sense he isn’t really seeing them. You peek covertly at the scar that cuts down the left side of his grim face, and you remember what Aegon told you about Viserys: He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye.

“You’ll watch out for him, right?” you say anxiously to Aemond. “Even when he’s in Texas?”

He gives you an impatient look, like you’re stupid for asking. “I’ll always make sure he’s taken care of. There’s nowhere he could run that would be far enough to keep me away.”

You are relieved. “Good.” You glance over at Aegon to check on him; he is still mingling with his former clients, and he seems happy. Then you find Alicent in the crowd. She is ever-encircled by Helaena and Daeron, who appear to be trying to distract her. The beach house is besieged by blue balloons. A DJ is playing artists that you recognize from Aegon’s extensive Spotify playlist: Alanis Morissette, Pearl Jam, Third Eye Blind, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“I really wish he’d see a doctor,” Aemond says after a while, his voice low to be discrete. “We have great specialists here at Cedars-Sinai.”

“He has an appointment on Wednesday morning. I finally got him to make one.”

Aemond stares down at you, mystified, suspicious. “Who are you?”

“What do you mean? I’m a client.”

“Yes, I know that,” Aemond says; again, like you might be a little slow. “Why do you always know what he’s up to? Why does he care what you think? He doesn’t care what anybody thinks.”

You aren’t sure how to answer. You avoid the question by lobbing away the beach ball when a child’s spike sends it hurtling at you.

“He talks about you a lot,” Aemond says. “He insists that you’re a good actress. He asks me to help you. And then he forgets that he asked, and he asks again.”

“I don’t know why he cares what I think.”

“Sure you don’t.” Aemond’s brow is furrowed and his eyes narrowed: one real, one eternally unseeing. “Are you going with him on Wednesday?”

“I am,” you admit.

“Give me your phone.”

You comply immediately, digging it out of your floral Patricia Nash purse. Aemond Targaryen is not an easy man to refuse. He types something quickly as he stands beside the pool. One of the children giggles as they swim up to the edge and splash him with chlorinated water, wetting his beige suit and brown leather Gucci shoes. Aemond sighs irritably.

“I put myself in as a contact,” Aemond says when he returns your phone. “After his appointment, call me and tell me everything the doctor said.”

“Okay.” Aegon probably wouldn’t approve of that, but it’s good for him.

Then Aemond does something unexpected. He reaches out to you, and for a second you instinctively flinch away, but his hand is gentle; Aemond’s palm settles on the back of your neck, and you blink up at him, bewildered. “I’m sorry you’re losing him too,” Aemond says, soft and strangely tender. Then he swipes something off his right cheek and leaves, weaving through the crowd to join his mother, who is pretending to fret over a rapidly melting ice sculpture—a Texas Longhorn—so she won’t have to think about Aegon instead.

A child is tugging at you, grappling for your hand with slippery, dripping fingers and then trying to drag you into the pool. “Come swimming!” a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, is crowing with a missing-baby-teeth grin. “We’re going to play Marco Polo. You can be the person who shouts Marco! and tries to find us.”

You laugh. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit. I didn’t know this was a pool party.” Aegon neglected to mention that part.

“Please?” she begs, and now the other children are joining in, a chorus of reckless encouragement. You have the impression they aren’t often able to cajole the adults into playing with them. And the little girl looks so much like Aegon—same eyes, same hair—that you find yourself thinking: When he’s gone, will there really be nothing left of him? Is that possible?

“Alright, I’m coming in!” you announce, and the kids cheer. You shove your purse far enough away from the pool that your phone should be safe, and then you slide off the ledge and into the water: brisk blue currents that thrash as the children flee away from you, giggling as they hug the curved cement corners, poised to bolt again if you venture towards them.

“Now close your eyes,” the little girl demands, and you cover them with your palms. You feel her shoving you and it takes you a few seconds to realize what she wants: for you to spin around. You do this as quickly as you can until you are completely disoriented, stumbling, blind, laughing as you reach out with your eyes squeezed shut, your yellow sundress flowing around you in the cool water like the fanlike fins of a koi fish.

“Marco,” you say.

“Polo!” the children yell, and then squeal as you lunge for them. Waves swell through the pool, water droplets from their kicking feet spray across your face. There’s sun on your bare shoulders as your legs traverse the rough concrete floor in slow motion, your steps heavy and silent. You can hear adults muttering in scandalized disapproval: Who is that? What’s wrong with her?

“Marco?” you call out again.

“Polo!” a gaggle of children hurl back, too many; the voices seem to come from everywhere. You can’t pinpoint a direction, so you choose one at random and dive.

“Marco!” you shout, then yelp as you bump into the side of the pool and stun yourself.

Someone grabs your outstretched hands. “Polo,” Aegon says, and you open your eyes to see him kneeling at the edge of the water. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, but he’s smiling; he helps you scramble back up onto the ledge of the pool.

“They wanted me to play with them.”

“You could have said no.”

“I can never say no to kids. They walk all over me.”

“You’re too nice.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Though it doesn’t sound so much like a criticism when Aegon says it. He sits down beside you on the ledge of the pool and lets his legs dangle in the water; he has kicked off his flip-flops to rest haphazardly beside your tan wedges. He is wearing white cargo shorts and a powder blue short-sleeve Oxford that is at least a size too big for him. He’s losing weight, you think, forlorn. He’s disappearing.

Helaena arrives with a towel—very thick and soft, doubtlessly expensive—and gives it to you. She is one of the few party guests who do not seem horrified by your antics; instead, she titters and tells the children not to entrap you again, that you’ll play with them later. They resume their game of Marco Polo with a new blind explorer. As you wrap the towel around your shoulders, Aegon takes a corner and uses it to dry your face. Then he gazes out over the patio towards the Pacific Ocean, ignoring the children. He never really interacts with kids, you’ve noticed; even when he watches them with a transfixed sort of wonder, he keeps an expanse of space between them like an alcoholic trying to stay away from the drink.

“You could have done IVF,” you say, and Aegon looks at you, eyebrows raised, a how did you know what I was thinking? sort of expression. “They can screen the embryos for chromosomal defects and only implant the ones that are healthy. So you’d know the baby wouldn’t have Huntington’s.”

Aegon shrugs, kicking his feet beneath the rippling crystalline line of the water. “I think that takes a lot of trust, you know?”

You aren’t sure what he means. “To do IVF?”

“To leave a kid with someone,” he clarifies. “If I’m going to be out of the picture in a few years, I’d have to feel really confident that the mother would be the kind of person I’d trust to raise the child the right way. Not use them as a prop or something. Not raise them to be fucked up like I am.” Or like Becca is, he leaves unsaid.

And although it is ludicrous and forbidden and impossible, instantly you are doing math in your head: I’ll be done filming by winter, we could start trying in the spring. You always envisioned doing it the other way around, chasing dreams in your twenties, settling down in your thirties, but if Aegon doesn’t have much time left...

You turn to him, searching. But Aegon is in his own world, oblivious to your uninvited machinations. Of course he wouldn’t expect any discussions of the two of you staying together. You’ve already offered. He’s already declined. Now the song on the stereo is Keith Urban’s You’ll Think Of Me, and Aegon’s oceanic blue eyes begin to glisten. Everyone is crying today, you think.

“This was your dad’s favorite song,” you say gently.

Aegon nods. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

He chuckles bleakly. “Fuck, I don’t even remember.” He wipes his eyes with the heel of one hand, and you wish you could touch him; but everyone at this party knows he’s getting married in a week, and to a woman who definitely isn’t you. “When I was really young, my dad was always telling us: You are Targaryens. You have to be extraordinary. You have to be extraordinary. And to me, that meant inhuman, or unnatural, or something else that I would always be incapable of. What about the real people? What about all the people like me, we were just supposed to vanish into cubicles somewhere, or hate ourselves enough to change our bodies, our faces, our souls? No, I couldn’t stomach that. Then my dad got sick, and for the first time he tried to understand us, and we had a few good years. Then he was gone again. But it was so goddamn slow.”

You are desperate to touch him, to console him. “Just because Viserys became a monster doesn’t mean you will. Just because he was a curse to your family doesn’t mean that’s how I’d feel about you.”

Aegon swipes at his eyes again, then brightens. He pretends he hasn’t heard you. “You’re coming to the wedding, right? I told Brando to send you money for the plane ticket.”

You spent it on eyeshadow palettes and books about the Gilded Age. “I don’t think so.”

“I really want you to be there.”

“You want me to watch you standing at the end of the aisle, and then Becca frolicking to meet you in her perfect Instagram-worthy dress, and then you exchanging adorable vows and kissing while people whistle and applaud, and then I’ll endure a whole night of celebrating your wedded bliss on the beach, all so you can get a glimpse of me in the crowd and maybe talk to me for five minutes before I fly back here alone, devastated that I’ll never get to see you again?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says.

“That’s an insane idea.”

Aegon throws his arms wide, exasperated. “It might be! I have a brain disease!”

“And why would I do that?” you demand. “Because I’m so happy for you and Becca?”

“No, because I’m doing you a favor,” he hisses, sudden hushed vitriol. “Because I am sparing you from everything that will happen next.”

I want to be there. I want it to be me. You shake your head, your throat burning. “I can’t watch you marry her.”

“Okay,” Aegon relents. “It’s fine. Sunshine, it’s fine. I don’t want to fight with you.” What he means is: I don’t want to waste the time we have left.

And for a moment he rests his head on your shoulder—your pulse thudding hot and red and feverish, pool water dripping from your hair—not caring who sees.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to be here,” he says.

“I know, Aegon.” The exam room at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills is sunlit but cold, curtains drawn back from the glass walls, frigid air conditioning gusting through the vents. Your eyeshadow is a dark blue to match your sundress: Equilibrium by Natasha Denona, Madness by Urban Decay. You take Aegon’s hand and hold it tightly. He is perched restlessly on the edge of the exam table; you are standing beside him, too anxious to sit in the requisite chair for a spouse or a parent, and of course you are neither of these things.

The doctor returns, knocking politely before opening the door. He closes it behind him as he enters the room. He’s in his early-fifties, pudgy, receding reddish hair and pale skin that has been turned pink by too much time spent in the sun. He is a family man—he’s already mentioned his wife and kids several times, you imagine the desk in his office must be adorned with their ever-smiling photographs—and an unassuming, slightly nervous disposition. He’s one of the best neurologists on the West Coast. When he heard Aegon’s last name, he fit him in immediately.

Dr. Gallagher turns the computer screen towards you and brings up images from the MRI scan. He takes his pen out of the pocket of his white coat and uses it to point at the bluish specter of Aegon’s brain. His voice is soothing, sympathetic, practiced in delivering bad news. “Unfortunately, what we’re seeing here is consistent with what I would expect to find in a patient with Huntington’s disease that has progressed to the moderate stage.” His pen leaps between pertinent locations. “There is already some striatal atrophy visible, and slight frontal horn dilatation as the brain matter around it shrinks. A lot of the time, we can’t even see that on scans in people who’ve been recently diagnosed. But you...” He looks at Aegon, gives him a soft subtle nod, casual catastrophic confirmation. “You’ve had symptoms for a while, as we discussed.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says quietly. You’re still clasping his hand, like he’ll vanish if you let go.

“I’m very sorry,” Dr. Gallagher tells him.

“Not your fault, doc.”

“But there is some good news,” Dr. Gallagher says. “Now that you’re in treatment, we can get you set up with a regimen that will alleviate your symptoms as much as possible. There are prescriptions—and I’ll go over each of those with you, so you understand what they are and the possible side effects—and also excellent therapists who have experience working with patients like you, Aegon. We want to keep your quality of life intact for as long as we possibly can.”

“I’m moving to Houston,” Aegon replies, and for some reason every time he says this you feel the loss of it all over again, as if you don’t already know, as if he’s not almost gone.

“Texas, huh?” Dr. Gallagher says, like he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to spend their final years there but is determined not to be judgmental about it. “Well, best wishes to you! I have some very capable colleagues at Houston Methodist, I’ll reach out to them and transfer your records over so you won’t have to worry about any of that once you get settled in.”

“Thank you,” Aegon says, quiet, distant. Dr. Gallagher glances at you curiously; he keeps doing that. Aegon didn’t introduce you. You didn’t introduce yourself. What are you supposed to say? You aren’t his wife. You aren’t even his fiancée or his girlfriend. You’re a mistress, and soon you’ll be nobody. Better to let the gaps remain unfilled. “How long?” Aegon asks after a while. “I mean, I know it can be unpredictable, but...”

Dr. Gallagher sighs and contemplates the MRI results again. “It really is impossible to say for sure. You said your father passed away at fifty-five?”

Aegon nods. “Ten years after he was diagnosed. And he must have gotten it from his dad. My grandmother lived to be really old and was healthy up until the last few months, but my grandfather died in a car accident, and that would have been before any symptoms were obvious.”

Dr. Gallagher considers this. “So we have multiple generations of the gene being passed down patrilineally, which does exacerbate anticipation. And with these MRI results and the symptoms you’re already experiencing...memory loss, involuntary movements, difficulty working and driving, problems with sleep, loss of appetite...” He shrugs, an acknowledgement of fate’s unknowable design. Then he looks at Aegon with eyes that are deeply apologetic. “I do suspect it will be relatively quick. You’ll probably have another year or two that are decent. And then...”

“And then,” Aegon echoes bitterly, not a question but an agreement. No one knows this better than he does.

“I think you’ll see forty.” Dr. Gallagher steals another glimpse of the MRI results. “But not much beyond that.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, trying to be stoic. And then, gingerly but very deliberately, he untangles his hand from yours.

At an In-N-Out Burger down the street, Aegon pays in cash, a habit he got into not just so Becca can’t track where he is; it’s so that if she asks where he’s been and he can’t remember, she won’t think he’s purposefully lying when he tells her the wrong places. You sit together in a quiet corner booth slurping your Cherry Cokes and picking at your burgers and Animal-Style fries, the silence both heavy and weak, anemic, listless, immovable. Aegon is typing around on his phone. You are trying to imagine what the world will feel like without him in it.

“Forty is good,” Aegon says abruptly. “You know, Becca will still be in her thirties. She’ll definitely be able to marry some other guy and have kids.”

“Aegon,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I wouldn’t want to waste away for a long time anyway. I hope I don’t make it past forty.”

“Aegon,” you plead. “The doctor said you could have a few good years left, so shouldn’t you spend those here with your family?” And with me?

Aegon stands up and slides his iPhone into the pocket of his shorts. “My Uber is outside.”

“Your what?” You are alarmed. “I can drive you back to your office, it’s not that out of the way for me—”

“No, I should go.” He gathers up his barely-touched food and stuffs it in a trashcan.

“Aegon...”

“I’ve been really selfish,” he says hurriedly, like if he doesn’t get it out now he might not ever. “I’ve been holding on to you because you make me feel better, and because I didn’t want it to be over, but I...now I have to do the right thing. And this is definitely the right thing.”

“You don’t have to go yet—”

“You’ll be taken care of,” Aegon says. “The people working on your movie...they’re legit. They’re trustworthy. And you can always call Brando or Aemond, they know they’re supposed to take care of you, they’ll get you anything you need, money, a place to live, help navigating the industry, whatever. And Kristen will be your new agent.”

“I don’t want another agent.”

“I set you up as well as I possibly could have,” Aegon tells you, curt, clinical. “And now it’s September, and I’m leaving Los Angeles. That was the deal. I never promised you more than that. I explicitly warned you there would never be more than that.”

“But...” But I didn’t love you then.

“Don’t make this any harder. Say goodbye and move on.”

“Goodbye, Aegon,” you reply, unconvincingly, not meaning it. But it must be enough; he walks out of the In-N-Out Burger, and through the clear glass of the windows you watch him climb into a stranger’s car, and you think numbly, because it seems so impossible: I’ll never see him again?

You stay in the booth for a long time, sipping your Cherry Coke as tears well up in your eyes and spill over, ceaseless rivulets you dab away with napkins that your eyeshadow turns from pure white to a smudged watery blue. Then when you leave and start your shimmering gold Honda Accord, you call Aemond. He listens intently, asks a number of highly technical medical questions you can’t answer, and gets impatient. You apologize, your voice breaking. Aemond sighs, says he’s sorry, tells you with a strangled tension in his own words that he has to go and will call back in a few days to check on you. You’re his new pet, after all; Aegon has assigned you to a different Targaryen, a new agent, a life still orbiting his gravity even in his absence.

At home, your apartment is empty. Jace is at one of his PhD classes. You don’t turn the tv on, you don’t listen to any music. You lie down on the living room couch as afternoon light slants in through the windows and the muffled sounds of Harbor Gateway bleed in through the walls: car horns, shrieking sirens, pedestrians’ shouts, revving engines, stereos and their rumbling bass beats. You can’t stand this, the knowledge that life continues on uninterrupted for everyone else. Becca will get to keep Aegon for years. His family can fly east to Houston to visit him. He is only dead to you.

You pick up your phone and call him. Aegon answers after a few rings; he is startled, like he hadn’t expected to ever hear from you again, like something bad must have happened: your car broke down and you’re stranded on the side of the freeway, you got heat sickness and are trapped in a store somewhere. He says: “Hey, are you alright?”

“I miss you so much and you’re not even gone yet.”

There’s a pause that feels much longer than it is. “Are you at home?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a quivering whisper.

“Okay,” Aegon says, gentle, warm, like you’re friends again and always will be. Due north in his office in Elysian Park where there is no more work left to be done, you can hear his chair scrape against the scuffed hardwood floor as he pushes it out from his desk. “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

“Okay. Bye.” You hang up, mop the tears from your face, and begin getting ready.

When Aegon knocks, you answer the door in your pajamas, no illusions of propriety: just a L.A. Dodgers t-shirt, black sweatpants, and nothing underneath. Aegon does not pretend to be any more noble. He is through the doorway—swiftly, soundlessly, like a shadow—and then he’s here in the sunlit living room lifting away your shirt and kissing you, deep and wordless, as you stumble together towards your bedroom, you staggering out of your sweatpants as he yanks them down to the floor, you fumbling with the buttons of his green short-sleeve Oxford shirt, and you wonder: Did Becca fasten these buttons this morning? Is that why he didn’t miss one?

“Oh, thank God,” Aegon sighs when he knows he’ll be able to do it, that his body is not yet a stranger to him entirely, and as you sink into the mattress his weight settles on top of you, opening you, filling you, not disappeared yet, not long-lost like a childhood dream that turns to cynicism, only warm and sweet and real. And just like the times before, when you believe you won’t be able to finish with him, you’re wrong. Your eyes brim with tears, like Aegon knows happens when it’s good, and as he whisks them away he murmurs: “Find somebody who does this for you.”

“There’s no one else.”

“Find somebody you love.”

“I love you, Aegon.”

“You can’t, you can’t,” he moans, like he knows it’s hopeless, like he’s already lost the same war.

Not just once, but twice, and then you are exhausted—your muscles unraveled from your bones, your resistance crumbling like eons-old earth—and the world is quiet and fading, used condoms in the trashcan beside your nightstand, the sheets damp with sweat, and you’ll never have him like this again. You’ll never have anything like this again. Daylight, weakening from yellow to gold to amber to blood, pours in through the window and cascades across your bed.

“Remember me like this, okay?” Aegon whispers, kissing you one last time: lips, forehead, the apple of your cheek. “Now look away.”

You turn to the window where sunlight beckons, leaving him in darkness. You hear the bedroom door click shut as he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, September 6th, the wedding day. You have nothing planned. This is a mistake, although it isn’t exactly your fault; filming starts on Monday so everyone has this weekend off as one last respite, Chloe’s parents are in town for a visit, Baela is wrapping up the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie in Paris. You wake up ridiculously early, groggy and miserable. You wander aimlessly around the apartment. You glower at the red-ink note in the box on the calendar: Aegon’s wedding. You stare at the vase of dried sunflowers and feel like crying.

You open Instagram and scroll blindly; the blue-white glow hurts your bloodshot eyes. Becca has posted numerous stories in the past twenty-four hours, which is typical: Pinterest-worthy plates of food, teasing glimpses of her dress and shoes, selfies with her friends and family. There is a wheezing Pekingese in the background of one of her videos from the luxurious hotel suite, and you think, rather disparagingly: She flew her dogs to the Caribbean?

What’s not-so-typical is that Aegon has posted an Instagram story too, something he doesn’t do often. After several minutes of deliberation, and against your better judgment, you click on superstargaryen’s story. It’s 4 a.m. here, so 7 a.m. on Turks and Caicos. The sun has already risen there. And Aegon’s story is a simple photo of the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, as if taken from a balcony. There is no caption and no frivolous emojis: a ring, a bouquet, toasting champagne glasses, a cartoonish yellow couple. Instead, there is only a song added, a fifteen-second snippet that plays on a loop each time you re-watch the story, which you do about ten times. The song is Hard To Concentrate by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And instantly, you are there again, the night after you shot the music video in Beverly Hills, the night after Aegon saved you: flying in his convertible southbound on the 110, streetlights and headlights and neon that cut through the indigo ink of the world, Aegon’s hair flying, his right hand on the steering wheel, bruises on his knuckles, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he keeps looking over at you, as if he’s feeling the same things you are: This is right, this is real, I want this forever.

I have to be there, you realize abruptly, like a lightning strike or the jolt of an earthquake. I have to try to change his mind.

You close Instagram, open Google, search for flights from LAX to Turks and Caicos. You find one with two seats left, both in First Class. My parents are going to kill me, you think, and then put them on your credit card. You get Jace’s full name and date of birth from the driver’s license in his wallet, which he left on the kitchen counter.

You go to Baela’s bedroom and shake Jace awake. He glares at you blearily from beneath chaotic dark curls. “What do you want?” he groans.

“Do you have a passport?”

“Yeah...?”

“I have to fly to Turks and Caicos.”

“What? Where...?”

“It’s for a wedding. I don’t want to go alone. Will you go with me?”

You wait for him to say no. Instead, Jace mulls it over and then drags himself upright, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Turks and Caicos...that’s in the Caribbean, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a long flight. When are you leaving?”

“In twenty minutes. I already called the Uber.”

Jace blinks a few times, then stands up. “Island vibes,” he mutters in a Jamaican accent as he shuffles off towards the bathroom.

You throw some essentials in a carry-on bag: toiletries, makeup, clothes, TOMS wedges. The only wedding-appropriate dress you have that’s clean is the electric yellow gown you wore to the Maroon 5 music video red carpet premiere. You yank it off the hanger and stuff it in your suitcase. Jace rolls his luggage into the living room just as the Uber is pulling up outside. You urge the driver to hurry as you glide northwest on the 405 towards Westchester, home to Los Angeles International Airport. It’s early enough that traffic is thin, and the lines are short at the TSA security checkpoint. Jace is momentarily stopped for further inspection; he accidentally left a vape pen in his pocket.

Will we make it there before the wedding starts?

At the gate, passengers are already lining up to board the plane. You check the time on your phone and do some quick math. It’s currently 5:30 a.m. here in California. If your flight leaves on time, you’ll be in the air at 6:00. Turks and Caicos is three hours ahead in Eastern Standard Time, so that would be 9:00 a.m. The flight is almost nine hours long, including a brief layover in Atlanta, which means—if everything goes perfectly—you’ll touch down at Providenciales International Airport shortly before 6:00 p.m. The wedding ceremony begins at 6:30, sunset on the beach, very romantic.

“It’s going to be close,” you tell Jace as he slurps on a venti-sized Lavender Crème Frappuccino from an airport Starbucks.

It’s going to be very close.

#aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon targaryen x you

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eldritch-spouse · 1 month ago

Note

how much information on demons is readily available to normal humans?

for example, in the scenario that santi gets a human roommate, i imagine (if she’s smart) she’d do some extensive research on concubi (maybe she’s cautious or maybe she just doesn’t want to accidentally offend him due to ignorance). how much would she be able to find out without just outright going to a concubus and asking them all her questions?

There's a lot of information out there.

The problem is sourcing correctly. Hell itself plays a part in feeding misinformation to the surface. After all, it would make their lives more difficult if the humans and monsters they came across already knew not just how to deal with them, but also what to expect. There's been a silent war over information between the surface and Hell for a long while now, dating as far back as some of the most well known grimoires- Which feature erroneous information in certain sections.

Let's say you're curious and willing to learn, but you don't have the best intuition, and you're not very fact-checking savvy. You would likely get many basic things right, such as the fact that an incubus doesn't eat regular food, that their eyes are somewhat hypnotic and they sport pheromones. But you might still believe Santi will perch on your chest at night (ouch), you might not know about concubus marks, and you may not be aware that his rank will protect him from something like salt circles and your common holy water.

Santi is willing to correct many of your assumptions, however, he wouldn't be a fiend if he didn't let you believe some more convenient things.

#Santi oc #general tce #3moghost

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deadend-if · 1 year ago

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DEMO TBA | INFO | 17+

Most people would describe your life as normal. You live in a small apartment in the middle of a bustling city. It's a city bursting with life and opportunities, things you’ve grown accustomed to. It's been a few years since moving here with your former college roommate, turned best friend. Life pulled the both of you to the city to pursue your careers, living comfortably since. So, when someone comes knocking at your door with wide, panicked eyes, you feel the urge to just move on with your day. That is, of course, not possible when they drop the fact that your roommate is dead, followed by an invitation to get them back.

This IF is written in twine and will be posted on itch.io. It is currently a work in progress. Advice is appreciated due to this being my first attempt at something like this <3

This story will delve into grief, death, and dying, all while exploring everything the underworld has to offer. Face ghosts of everyone's pasts, get into trouble with Underworld Law and become closer along the way.

Play as a fully customizable character, choose your character's name, pronouns/gender, sexuality, appearance, college degree, and more!

Travel through the underworld, explore the vast layers the city of the dead has to offer and meet the people who reside there.

Determine how you traverse loss and all the things that come with it. Either ignore or come to terms with what might happen at the end of it all.

Build a relationship with 1 of 4 character options (or 1 of 2(?) poly options!), two gender selectable, and two set genders (non-binary spectrum). (Play as aro, gay, straight, bi, trans, etc. Platonic relationships will be just as important in this game!)

This game is for 17 and up. There will be NO sexual themes, but there will be heavy topics, explicit language, and graphic descriptions of death. More Content Warnings will be listed in the demo.

The Best Friend | Abel/Abella Robinson [he/him or she/her] - RO

Your best friend since freshman year of college, once random strangers sharing a dorm, now living together of your own free will. A is an elementary school teacher with a calm, gentle heart. They are a bit of a doormat but are kind despite the world being cruel. For years they have been a loyal friend and helped you whenever you needed it, now it's time to help them escape the clutches of death.

The Guilty Reaper | Mortimer/Mort/Mortie [any pronouns] - RO

Mortimer has your best interests in mind, at least that's why they tell you when they pop up at your doorstep with tickets to the underworld. Being out of touch with humanity is supposed to be an asset for reapers, but Mortimer has always wanted to know everything there is to know about humanity. Can you even believe someone like them? Mort seems a little too honest, and a little too curious, but they're the only tour guide for the underworld that you know of.

Your Best Friend's Best Friend | Santiago/Santina "Santi" Vega [he/him or she/her] - RO

You know A has other friends, but what you don't know is why they hate you so much. Santi has never liked you, not four years ago, not today. They are sarcastic and confident. They will always take the opportunity to outshine you, it's hard to understand why someone like A would even tolerate being around them. Whether you like it or not, they're still A's other best friend, and are just as determined to get them back safe and sound... Even if it means having to do it with you.

The Guard | Kyo [he/they] - RO

A (begrudging) friend of Mort and one of many guards of the underworld. They're a mystery to you and even to their closest friend. Kyo doesn't speak much. They are blunt, easily annoyed, and strictly there to keep an eye on everyone. He prefers to follow the rules and stay under the radar, especially since he seems to have something to lose. They seem to only tag along to keep Mort out of trouble, but there has to be something more to their goals. Why else would they risk so much for people they don't know?

Poly Options <3

A & S K & M (A secret third option, perchance?)

DEMO TBA | INFO

#twine game #twine if #interactive novel #if game #interactive fiction #dead end #choose your own adventure #pinned intro #intro post #dead end if

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dreamers-queen · 1 year ago

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Tu pensa se l'anno prossimo ce li ritrovassimo a Sanremo in duetto (not sure se si dica duetto pure se tecnicamente sarebbero in tre? Vabbè famo che i Santi li conto come entità unica tanto sono gemelli siamesi con il punto d'unione invisibile), dovrebbero consolidare le fondamenta dell'Ariston coi piloni in vibranio perché non ceda sotto il peso delle tonnellate di minchia

my roman empire

#Poi sai che casino presentarli chiami Alessandro e si girano in due #E se veramente dovesse condurre Cattelan si girano in tre #A quel punto si gira pure Mario per simpatia #Non sto manifestando ma sto manifestando #Sanremo #Sanremo 2025 #Sanremo75 #Santi Francesi #Mahmood

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dreamers-queen · 1 year ago

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♥

#Caduti dal cielo come due capolavori 🎶#Talentuosi‚ intelligenti e raga pure belli come il sole va detto #Santi Francesi #Alessandro De Santis #Mario Lorenzo Francese

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kaminocasey · 5 months ago

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Make Me Wanna Part 3: Honey, I'm Home

Summary: You wake up next to Benny, completely in love and then he shows you a surprise he's had waiting a long time for you.

Pairings: Benny Miller (Triple Frontier) x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI; Fluff, Smut, oral (both receiving), rough oral (f receiving), rough sex, kitchen sex, unprotective p in v (wrap it up friends)

WC: 4.4k

A/N: Another chapter no one asked for for a fic no one asked for lmao. I just love this man so much rn. I'm sorry, guys. (I mean, only a little haha)

Playlist | Taglist Form | Series Masterlist

(Pic and gif from Pinterest)

The morning light streams through the window and sheer curtains, casting a sweet, warm, golden light over you and Benny. You wake up before he does and you notice how peaceful he looks in his sleep. Just like he always has.

Did last night really happen?

You can’t help but smile while watching him sleep for a bit longer before deciding to get up and go get breakfast for the two of you.

As you quietly get up, you start to pull your underwear back on and then your sundress from last night. You grab one of Benny’s black Army sweatshirts and throw it on over the dress, knowing that it’s still relatively cool in March.

You walk into the bathroom and fix your hair real quick before writing him a note and leaving it on the bedside table, grabbing his truck keys and your purse, and heading out.

When you turn the ignition, you find that the radio is in the middle of playing a Shania Twain song from the 90s, which you know for a fact that you and Benny have sung at the top of your lungs to on a backroad.

Corner Diner, which is just down the street about 5 blocks, isn’t too busy on a Sunday morning, probably due to everyone being in church. It sits on the corner of Merritt Street and Sugar Avenue. It has a pink awning that blocks the sun from blazing down on people if they decide to sit outside on the patio and eat in front of the restaurant.

You and Benny used to sit out there and do homework when you were in elementary and middle school. His mom, Lorraine, was a waitress there for a really long time while putting herself through nursing school.

You find Santi and Frankie sitting in the corner booth by the window which has a lovely view of the beach at the end of the road. They seem to spot you as soon as you spot them. Before you can even have time to blush at the realization that they’ve definitely noticed you’re in your dress from yesterday, they’re motioning for you to join them.

With a light blush, you sit next to Santi and he puts an arm around you, a shit eating grin wide on his face.

“Well, looks like Benny definitely got you home safe last night, huh?” He greets you and you roll your eyes.

“Good morning to you guys, too.” You try to keep a cool smile.

“That dress sure looks familiar.” Frankie sips his coffee.

“Does it?” You shrug. “I’m wearing a hoodie so I’m not sure-”

“Benny’s hoodie.” Santi interrupts you.

“Speaking of, where is he? I see Benny’s truck but no Benny?” Frankie asks, after glancing outside at the truck parked on the street.

“This isn’t your version of a walk of shame, is it?” Santi jokes.

“God, you guys are nosy.” You groan right as a waitress comes up to ask you for your order. “Could I do a to-go order, please?”

“Of course, what can I get ya?” She pops her gum and pulls her pen out of her bun.

You order Benny a stack of 5 pancakes, a steak omelet, and yourself a couple of waffles and bacon. The waitress writes it all down and then you ask for a cup of coffee while you wait.

“Worked up quite the appetite, huh?” Santi continues to tease.

“Jesus, Santi. Please stop…” You pull the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands and hide your face, making the two of them crack up, of course.

These two are relentless, and you’d expect nothing less. When Benny found out that Santi and Frankie were together, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. You had asked him why he was being so closed minded and he had looked at you confused. You thought that he was being uncharacteristically homophobic, but in reality he was confused as to how these two got together and how he didn’t see it. It was actually endearing.

“Benny is still asleep at home.” You murmur.

“And you came to get him breakfast. That’s so cute.” Frankie gives you a playful grin.

The waitress comes and brings you a coffee and then walks away again.

“You guys are truly like the nosy gay uncles.” You lean back, sipping from the mug.

“Disculpe, I’m bisexual.” Santi pinches your cheek playfully, making you laugh.

You chat for a few more minutes until the waitress comes and sits the bag of food down on the table.

“How much do I owe you?” You ask with a smile.

“The owner said it’s on the house.” She explains and starts to walk away.

You look up toward the kitchen window and find the owner of the diner, Bruno, who knows you and Benny well because of Lorraine working here, peeping his head out the door.

“Thank you Bruno! You didn’t have to do that.” You grin.

“Nonsense. It’s good to see you back in town, sweetheart!” He waves.

“It’s good to be back.” You look between Frankie and Santi and then get up. “I’ll come by with Benny soon!”

“You better!” Bruno points at you before returning to the kitchen.

“I’ll see you guys around.” You tell Frankie and Santi and then head back out to the truck.

The drive back to the house is quick, letting yourself back in and locking the door behind you. You sit the food down on the kitchen counter to put it onto plates. You glance around the house and notice just how different it looks in the daylight than it did last night.

The fact that there’s still traces of you in his house… The pillows you bought for his couch. A few vases. Books. A bunch of photos.

One specifically catches your eye as you walk to the bedroom to wake Benny up.

The photo on the wall is of you and Benny dancing at Frankie and Santi’s wedding four years ago, and looking happier than you ever had. He’s murmuring in your ear and you’re laughing hard. You can’t remember what the joke was but you remember the feeling of happiness.

You find Benny sitting up in bed, shirtless, reading Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton. The sun is streaming through the curtains in such a way that he truly looks like a work of art and you can’t stop yourself from staring and admiring him.

“Honey, I”m home.” You murmur, leaning in the doorway with a wide grin.

He looks up at you, putting the book against his stomach, and hums. “I really like the sound of you calling this place your home.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head, leaning it against the doorframe.

“Oh yeah.” He puts the book on the bedside table and pulls the comforter off of himself and then pats his legs.

“Uh uh.” You shake your head and then nod toward the dining room. “I went out and got breakfast for us.”

“So, that’s where you went this morning.” He chuckles and then gets up out of bed, sauntering over to you, still naked.

The warmth in your cheeks returns and you can’t tear your eyes away from his length for about three whole seconds before returning back up to his eyes.

“See something you like, darlin’?” He teases, pulling you into his arms.

You run your hands up his firm, warm chest and nod. “Very much.”

He chuckles softly, his hands roaming down to your ass and squeezing. “And I like seeing you in my hoodie. Looks way better on you.”

You roll your eyes and nod toward the kitchen table. “If you say so. Put on some clothes and come eat.”

“Your self control is admirable.” He groans before kissing you sweetly.

The way he kisses you almost makes you prove him wrong about your self control. However, you pull away with a wide smile and walk into the kitchen to sit at the table by the window. Benny joins you a few moments later, sitting across from you after pouring the two of you cups of coffee and kissing you on the head. The domestic act makes your chest tighten.

“Ooh. You went to Corner. Did you run into Bruno? He asks me about you every time I go in.” He says, picking up his fork.

You nod. “I did. He was very excited to see me. Didn’t even let me pay. Also ran into Frankie and Santi. That was…”

“Excruciating?” He laughs as he eats.

You nod. “They’re all gonna be so fucking insufferable about us being together.”

“Worth it, though.” He winks.

Warmth returns to your cheeks again and you laugh softly and start to eat.

“I wanna take you on a date tonight.” He tells you. “A real date.”

You pause, grinning. “Really?”

He nods. “Yeah. I know exactly what we’re doing, too.”

“Oh?” You press for more of an explanation.

“It’s a surprise.” He smirks, clearly proud of himself.

“Okay well… I need to go home to shower and change anyway.” You take a sip of your coffee.

“You think I’m letting you leave here without showering with me?” He quirks an eyebrow up.

You laugh softly. “Benny… I don’t have clothes or shampoo or body wash or a toothbrush-”

“So bring those things here.” He shrugs, looking down at his coffee mug, running his finger along the rim.

“What?” You laugh, shocked that he’s suggesting this.

“Move in with me.” He smirks.

You shake your head. “We just started dating-”

“We did not.” He shakes his own head. “And you know it.”

You know what he’s saying. But you just look at him. You can’t move in together after spending one night together… Can you?

“Benny…”

He murmurs your name in and the way he says it and looks at you makes the butterflies come back. You want to hear him say your name for the rest of your life exactly like that.

“We’ve spent our entire lives together… just… being apart. I just… I want this with you…” He gestures at the two of you at the table. “Every single day… I wanna come home and find you on the couch, reading or grading papers or hell… doing anything… Just… think about it, will ya?”

You nod with a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“There��s something I wanna show you before I drop you off at home if that’s alright.” He tells you, finishing up his food.

“Alright.” You finish your coffee.

Your brain plays over his words about moving in with him. He does have a point. You spent every day of your lives, growing up, together. And then when he was home… you were joined at the hip. Until you went off to Rio… Could you just… dive right into a relationship with Benny? The sight of him reading in bed this morning pops into your head and you know you’ve got your answer.

A little bit later, you find yourself in the passenger seat of Benny’s truck, singing along to the radio as he drives, holding your hand. You find yourself admiring the way that the Spanish moss covers the trees and creates the most pretty tunnels.

“I’ve missed this so much.” You tell Benny, smiling over at him.

“Me too, babygirl.” He leans in a bit, bringing your hand up to his lips.

About 10 minutes later, you find yourself parked in front of a big house, overlooking the beach. The house is clearly being worked on, freshly built. It’s got a massive wrap around porch that makes your jaw drop.

“Where are we?” You ask.

Benny doesn’t answer you though. He just gets out of the truck with a wide mischievous grin. You get out of the truck and follow him up the pathway to the porch.

“Benjamin Miller… what are we doing?” You ask, nervous that the owners of the house were going to come out and yell at the two of you for trespassing.

He walks into the house through the front door and when you look around, finding no one around, you follow him.

“Benny…” You call out quietly.

He pops his head from another room and practically drags you into it, making you let out a nervous giggle. He guides you over to the massive sunroom that looks out at the beach and your breath catches in your throat. He makes you look out the window as he wraps his arms around your stomach, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“This… is our house.” He murmurs.

“What do you mean ‘our’ house?” You ask, softly, knowing that just has to be too good to be true.

“I started building this about six months ago.” He tells you. “With you in mind. I was thinking it would be ready by the time you came home. But you came home early…”

He built this house for you… for the two of you…

“This house is… quite big… Are you doing that well with boxing?” You ask, pulling away to check out the rest of the house.

He chuckles. “I mean… I’m really good… But this is money from something else…”

You turn to look at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He rubs the back of the neck, rolling his eyes and letting a puff of air out. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about where the money came from.

“Was it illegal?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“Define illegal…” He crosses his arms.

“Benjamin Miller.” You cross your own arms, staring at him firmly.

“Listen… it’s extremely complicated… can you just… trust me? Please?” He pulls you into his arms and you let out a soft sigh.

“Are we going to be investigated at any point?” You ask him.

“No, sweetheart. Everything is okay.” He leans his forehead against yours with that charming Benny smile.

The very one he knows you love.

“Fine. Show me the rest of our house.” You grin.

“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckles and pulls away to take your hand to show you the rest of the house.

The first floor of the house has beamed ceilings, which he knows you love. And you already saw that the sunroom is to die for. He tells you that he’ll make sure you have the comfiest couch in the entire world to read on. You see the beginnings of bookshelves being built with a rolling ladder placed to the side to be assembled at some point. You can picture it all so clearly.

He shows you the backyard area and points out where your future kids will play while you two sit on the porch swing, watching them. He shows you where he’s gonna till up a garden so you can grow your own vegetables.

He leads you back through the house to the kitchen which has beamed ceilings like the living room, wooden floors and the most gorgeous oven you’ve ever seen. The kitchen island has a wooden top that matches the countertops and you can’t help but drop your jaw.

“I wanna take you on these counters every morning…” He murmurs in your ear as you run your hand over it.

Goosebumps run down your neck as he brushes his lips along it. You let out a soft whimper and he possessively cages his own hand over yours as he presses up against your backside.

“Baby…” You whimper softly.

He hums. “Love hearing you call me that.”

Benny spins you around and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you sweetly despite his current dominant demeanor. “Wanna give you the whole world.”

You wrap your legs around him, kissing him deeply. “You are my whole world.”

“God, I love you.” He nips at your bottom lip with a grin.

“I love you.” You whisper against his lips before crushing yours to his.

His hands slide up your dress, gathering at the waistband of your panties before starting to pull them down. You lift your hips for him, eagerly and the moment he pulls your panties off, you tug the hoodie off, dropping it to the kitchen floor.

“Really do love this dress.” He smirks as he unties it once again just to discard it to the floor. “Like it better on the floor, though.”

You roll your eyes as you start to pull his flannel off and then his t-shirt, dropping them to the floor with your dress. You kick your shoes off and he runs his hands up your legs.

“Jesus… I’ll never get tired of this…” He admires your body as you start to unbuckle his belt.

“I hope not.” You murmur before kissing him again.

He helps you out by pulling his jeans down, kicking off his boots ungracefully in the process, making you laugh softly.

“I can see us doing this every single morning.” He murmurs as he kisses your collarbone, making his way down to catch one of your nipples between his teeth. “Can’t you?”

You nod, a whimper escaping your lips. “Yes.”

He hums as one of his hands trails down to your warmth, making you desperately lean into his touch. He smirks around your nipple before flicking his tongue over it. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping tightly.

“Benny…” You whine, softly, full of need.

“Yes, babygirl?” He pulls away to smirk down at you. “You know how to ask for what you want, don’t you?”

“Want you to eat my pussy again… Please.” You whisper.

“Gladly.” He nods before dropping to his knees and pulling you closer to the edge by wrapping his arms around your thighs so that his hands settle on your waist.

His tongue wastes no time in finding your clit. He moans softly, clearly loving the way you taste. Benny looks up at you and you watch in awe, jaw slack, practically drooling at how fucking good he makes you feel.

“So good at that, baby…” You card your fingers in his hair and praise him softly. “Eat me so fucking good… your tongue was made to be buried in my cunt, wasn’t it?”

His eyes roll back slightly and he groans, gripping you tighter as he continues his attack on your warmth. You smirk at the realization that maybe you have just as much power over him as he does on you.

“You like that? The way I tell you how good you are?” You whisper.

He nods slightly, a soft needy moan escaping, vibrating against your pussy in a way that feels too fucking good.

“Yeah? You like hearing that you treat my pussy better than any man ever could?” You ask, making him growl. “You like hearing that it belongs to you and only you?”

“Darlin’... you better be careful.” He warns you, looking up at you.

You laugh softly. “Or what?”

Next thing you know, Benny’s standing back up and you’re whimpering at the loss of contact. He pulls you off the counter and bends you over it onto your front, kicking your feet apart and then pushing into you immediately, making you gasp. He slides in easily from you being so wet.

“Fuck…” You moan loudly into the kitchen.

It echoes loudly and you’re immediately grateful for no neighbors.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” He growls in your ear, roughly. “Teach you to not tease me…”

He thrusts into you roughly and you moan out again. Benny’s hand runs into your hair and grips tightly. His other hand runs up from your hip to your breast, groping you tightly.

“God… say it again… tell me how this pussy only belongs to me.” He grunts as he pulls out and pushes back in roughly, repeatedly.

The sounds of his hips meeting your ass fills the room and you can just barely find coherent words.

“I-it’s yours…” You whimper.

“Nah. You know what I wanna hear, darlin’. Do better.” He teases.

“My pussy belongs to you, Benny…” You whine, clenching around him.

“Yeah it fuckin’ does.” He releases your hair and your breast to push you down against the counter, holding you by your hips again. “Always so good for me…”

His thrusts don’t let up as you continue to whimper underneath him. He slams into you repeatedly, unforgivingly, whispering in your ear how much he loves you and how he can’t wait to give you the life you deserve.

“Please let me come again…” You whisper, clenching tightly around him. “So close…”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins, pulling out of you so that he can spin you back around and lift you up and sit you back on the counter.

He spits on your pussy and starts to rub it over your clit, making an absolute mess. Just last night, you thought you had never been so wet… and now, this morning… he’s proving you wrong again…

“God…” You moan, throwing your head back.

“Fucking beautiful…” He whispers before pushing two fingers into you and curling immediately, making you gasp loudly as your hand grips his bicep.

Your gasp trails off into a long moan as your eyes roll back. He rubs your clit with a bit more pressure with his fingers on his other hand. You clench around the fingers rubbing perfectly against the spongy part inside of you, feeling like you’re gonna combust.

“That’s so… fucking… good…” You whine, your voice low and begging.

“Go on then, babygirl. Come on my fingers like a good little princess.” He grins, encouragingly. “Had my hand soaked last night… go on soak my hand again… fucking love it.”

With his permission, you fly over your edge in a way you never have before. You reach down for his cock and start pumping, desperate to touch him. He groans, roughly and leans into your touch.

“Didn’t… fuck… Didn’t give you permission… to touch me yet…” He teases.

“Needed to…” You whimper, gasping for breath as you come down from your high.

“Needed to, huh?” His chest rises quickly and falls as he watches you stroke his cock.

You nod, watching yourself do it as his fingers stay buried inside you.

“Does it turn you on… touching me like this?” He whispers.

You nod again, your eyes meeting his this time. Both yours and Benny’s eyes are completely lust blown. His blue is almost completely gone. You glance down at his cock in your hand again and stroke deeply from the base to the tip, making him run his hand down his face with a long groan.

“What did you think about when you were in the Army or away and you’d touch yourself at night?” You ask, softly.

“Used to… oh god…” He lets out a breathy laugh. “Thought about you… only you.”

“What about me?” You smirk, taking your hand away to spit into your palm before returning it to his length.

His hips buck against your hand as he gasps. “What didn’t I think about?”

You let out your own laugh. “Tell me…”

“Used to… think about you sucking my cock… Looking up at me with those pretty eyes of yours… Made me cum every time…” He admits.

You push his hand that remains buried in you, away and then climb down, with shaky legs, from the counter and drop to your knees for him.

“Oh shit…” He watches eagerly.

You eagerly guide his tip to your lips, opening up for him and tasting the salty precum that catches perfectly on your tongue. He lets out a needy groan as his hand flies to your hair.

“Oh fuck baby…” His voice sounds wrecked as he watches you start to lick the thick vein on the underside of his cock.

You hum softly, sweetly as you start to take him further into your mouth, his thick cock making you stretch your mouth in a way you never have before. He tastes just as you always thought he would. Perfect.

The tip of his length reaches the back of your throat just as your nose meets the blond curls at the base and he grips your hair a little tighter.

“Permission to move?” He asks.

You nod slightly, your wide doe eyes looking up at him with need. He understands you, of course, and starts to thrust slightly, pulling out just to push back in. Easily at first, and then starting to pick up his pace.

“God… fuck… so fucking good…” He babbles, watching as his length disappears down your throat repeatedly. “Gonna make me cum a little too quick…”

You moan around it and he pushes your head against the cabinet door, holding you there.

“You okay?” He whispers.

You nod.

“Tap on my thigh if it gets to be too much?”

You nod again.

“Good girl.” He praises you, softly, before starting to fuck your mouth a little rougher, gripping your hair and the edge of the counter. “Christ… that’s fucking incredible… your mouth… made just for me…”

You continue to moan around him as spit and drool escape out around his cock, falling down to your breasts. You can feel yourself clenching and unclenching around nothing, but still dripping anyway.

He looks down and smirks. “Look at us making our first mess in our kitchen…”

You moan around him, looking up at him with needy eyes and as if he can’t help himself, he pulls out and immediately starts pumping himself over you, so that his cum lands over your breasts, mixing with the drool mess.

He moans softly as he sees you covered in himself. “Dear god, you’re beautiful.”

Benny cups your face and you lean into his touch, looking up at him.

“We should get you cleaned up…” He murmurs, helping you to your feet. “Water isn’t on yet… so we can’t shower here but…” He turns, looking for something before his eyes land on a roll of paper towels. “I know it’s not exactly romantic… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” You laugh softly, your voice wrecked. “I can grab a bag from my place and then shower at home.”

He catches onto the last part where you call his other house “home” and immediately crushes his lips to yours again.

“So… that was a yes to my earlier question, then?” He whispers, resting his forehead against yours with a boyish grin.

“Yes, goofball. I’ll move in with you.” You smirk, rubbing your nose against his, unable to help but be excited for your future with this man.

Your best friend.

#benny miller #benny miller x reader #benny miller x you #benny miller/reader #benny miller/you #Make Me Wanna fic #triple frontier #triple frontier fic

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raccontidialiantis · 7 months ago

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Ultimi brandelli di dignità cadono

S'era sempre fatta un gran vanto della propria integrità morale, criticando apertamente alcuni comportamenti di certe sue amiche, vittime degli strali impazziti di Cupido. Lacrime e tempo sprecati, diceva spavalda. Lei avrebbe sempre avuto, ne era sicurissima, ben saldo in mano il timone delle sue emozioni. “Io farmi prendere dal mal d'amore e soffrire per un uomo? Tsè: allora proprio non mi conosci! Ah, ah…” Poi, inevitabilmente nel tempo, si presentano sul percorso di ciascuno degli accadimenti, delle circostanze che danno un senso al vecchio detto: “non dir mai di quest'acqua io non berrò” e anche lei quindi non poté sfuggire. A volte, chi ti fa svoltare di 180 gradi è un uomo. Che ti toglie il respiro all'improvviso. E anche a lei come a tutti capitò per caso: ci furono un lieve tamponamento e una litigata furiosa, terminati con un Cid compilato nervosamente.

Poi un paio di telefonate il giorno dopo, per accordarsi bevendo assieme un caffè, davanti al quale ella divenne dipendente dalle labbra e dalle fossette sulle guance di quel giovane uomo. I suoi modi spartani eppure cortesi, il loro fissarsi dritti negli occhi, spia di un desiderio reciproco e malcelato, il suo essere un po’ imbranato, accompagnato da un lieve rossor di guance quando le chiese di rivederla, arrivarono dritti dritti al suo cuore, come un coltello caldo che tagli un panetto di burro. Emozioni inattese e mai provate prima. Per entrambi. Si trovò a pensarlo in ogni momento, a chiedere consigli a 'quelle smidollate senza carattere' che ora la guardavano sorprese, alzando appena un sopracciglio ma non lesinandole strategie e note, nuove, antichissime tattiche di comportamento in una schermaglia d'amore.

Tamponavano le sue ferite e lei non si arrabbiava se ridevano di lei, purché la consigliassero per bene. Stasera ha capito che dopo più di due settimane di timidezze, di no sempre più flebili ed esitazioni, di reciproci messaggi contenenti parole centellinate, frasi in equilibrio sul filo della passione rovente ma non confessata, è completamente cotta e ha deciso che gli si concederà. Fanculo dubbi e scrupoli: tutte cazzate di chi non ama. Lo vuole, non c'è santi. Non ce la fa più. Lo desidera, lo brama e quindi l'ha invitato a cena a casa sua. È tutto pronto per l'antico rito. Quando arriverà lo farà accomodare direttamente in camera ed è così che lo accoglierà: bellissima, profumata, curatissima e poi completamente aperta e disponibile per lui, solo per lui. Resa d'amore incondizionata e totale. Sarà sua.

Vuole così. Gli si offrirà immediatamente senza più pudore e lo pregherà di amarla. La sua schiena nuda parlerà il linguaggio dell'amore di una donna che desidera. Gli confesserà di essere gelosa marcia, che non vuole che lui guardi le altre, che gli farà ciò che vuole, purché lui la possieda e sia solo suo. Stasera e poi quando egli vorrà. Dignità azzerata. Amare ti scombussola vita, i valori e il cuore. T'arriva nel cervello all'improvviso un complesso di emozioni marziane per cui non sei attrezzato. E nessuno di noi lo è mai veramente, grazie a Dio. L'anima, quella poi se la mette in tasca l'oggetto del tuo amore. E se la beve lentamente: ogni giorno assapora il tuo amore e se ne lusinga. Spera solo che ne sia degno. Comunque vada, ne sarà valsa la pena. Credimi.

RDA

#raccontidialiantis #rda

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alwayslurkinginthebackground · 9 months ago

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Lucky - A Pedrotober Drabble

Day 8 of Pedrotober: Corona Pedrotober hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. View the full prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober drabble catalog HERE.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Rating: THIS IS FOR EVERYONE WHO BELIEVES IN LOVE. The briefest of mentions of unwanted advances in a bar setting.

Word Count: 2268

a/n: This is for @alyssamariag and she knows it. I legitimately blacked out writing this one and somehow it's now here.

"You'll find someone eventually, sweetie," your mom reminds you for what feels like the millionth time. "You just have to put yourself out there."

It's exhausting, really, these weekly phone calls where you're reminded time and time again that your brother is getting married. Five years younger and he was beating you to the alter the same way every one of your friends has. But he was lucky. He met his future wife in college when they sat next to one another in class. An organic meet cute that spawned into a flourishing relationship.

Meanwhile, your college boyfriend cheated on you the first chance he got.

"I have to go, Mom," you cut her off as Frankie walks through the front door. He gives you a knowing look when he realizes you're on the phone, moving through your house like he lives there. And these days, he basically does.

As the only single members of your friend group, you spend your time together while the others spend theirs with their partners. It was, at times, perhaps a little concerning how co-dependent the two of you were becoming, but seeing Frankie each evening was much better than the alternative of being alone.

And it wasn't like the two of you hadn't tried to find partners. You'd just never been in the right place at the right time. Frankie was fresh out of a long-term relationship when you met him, and starting a flight school had kept him far too busy for far too long. For you, moving across the country hadn't helped much. You'd had to start fresh. New city, new job, new home, new friends, all built from the ground up. Where the move had done little for your love life, it had brought you a sense of accomplishment, a wealth of new experiences, and, most importantly, your boys.

Which, you suppose, was a bit of good fortune. The way you just happened to walk into the same bar on the same night that they were already seated around a table celebrating Benny's latest win. The way your coworker ditched you early on, leaving you alone at the bar nursing a once-cold bottle of Corona. The way all four of them had jumped to your defense when a man tried to slip his arm around your waist.

But even they had found people to share their lives with while you and Frankie sat on the sidelines, doing your due diligence by downloading dating apps. You even dragged him along to a speed dating event that Santi had signed you up for, but the world wasn't what it once was. You couldn't just attend a cooking class and expect to meet your soulmate while roasting a turkey. And if you did manage to secure your significant other one side dish at a time, it was still because of luck.

"Your Mom again?" Frankie asks when you step into your kitchen, already feeling the urge to rant boiling in your veins.

You nod. "She's on me again. Reminding me that my biological clock is ticking and that I have to get serious about this before she's too old to play with her grandchildren."

Frankie scoffs, "You don't want kids though."

"That's what I keep telling her, but I don't know that it'll ever stick in your brain," you bite out as you help him unbag the Chinese food he's brought you for dinner. "But," you continue, conceding a bit, "she is also kind of right."

He pauses, staring at you with wide eyes until the heat permeating through the thin cardboard of the box of rice he's holding threatens to burn his fingers. He sets it on the counter with a wince and turns to you. "Don't tell me you're letting her get in your head."

You shrug, avoiding his gaze as you grab plates. "I don't know." You exhale heavily as you set the dishes down next to him, turning to lean back against the counter. "I just wish I could skip this whole dating thing and get to the happy ending part. It's just unfair, you know? How we're supposed to put ourselves out there on these apps when all anyone is looking for there is a good fuck. And if you don't rely on the apps, you're not trying hard enough. And if none of that worked, it's entirely up to fate to put you in the right place at the right time."

There's a beat of silence before he responds, his voice dripping with understanding. "I know what you mean." Of course, he does. Of anyone, he's the only one that does.

"It's like playing the lottery and losing every time," you sigh again, scooping rice onto one of the dishes. "Maybe I should just have Benny set me up on that blind date he keeps talking about or something."

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

You hand him his own plate of food. "It's better than not trying, isn't it?"

Frankie says nothing.

If you were serious about the blind date, I have someone I could set you up with. Better than Benny's guy.

His text feels like it comes out of nowhere. You're on your way home from work when you see it pop up on your car's notification system, and you swear you feel your stomach drop a little at the suggestion. You'd mostly been kidding when you said it, overwhelmed by the lecture you'd just been given by your mother, and there's something about Frankie making the offer that doesn't sit right with you. Sitll, you're curious.

Who is it? You text back once you've put the car in park, grabbing your phone as you head inside.

He replies instantly, doesn't that defeat the point of a blind date??

You roll your eyes and call him instead and he picks up on the second ring. "It does not defeat the purpose," you explain, "I just want to know what I'm getting into before I say yes."

Your best friend chuckles on the other end of the line. "It's just someone I work with. Nice guy, recently out of a relationship, tall," Frankie explains, well aware of your type.

"Is he a scruffy-looking nerfherder, too?" you ask, quoting The Empire Strikes Back. You'd once told him that that was your type. Harrison Ford saving Carrie Fisher from an icy planet.

"Maybe."

You ponder your options for a moment. You'd never actually texted Benny about the idea, but having it come out of left field on Frankie's part feels a little like a sign. Maybe this is the stroke of luck you need. A random introduction that would lead to a fairytale romance.

"I'll do it," you tell him, "on one condition. I get to set you up with someone, too."

Frankie's quiet, and you wish you could see his face right now because you can picture the panic you know is written on it. But you aren't about to find your true love and leave him in the dust. "Who is it?" he asks, imitating your earlier questioning.

"A friend from work," you reply sarcastically, even if it isn't a lie. "You'll like her. She's smart, a little quiet, and brunette."

"I really think you'll like her," you explain to Frankie as the two of you walk through the grocery store, a weekly trip you take together. "She works in finance, she actually knows something about how to fix a car, and she loves to travel." He nods along, pushing the cart as you grab things from both of your lists. "But what about my prince charming?" you inquire, setting a box of Cap'n Crunch in the basket. For all you've told him about his date, he's told you very little.

"He...." Frankie pauses for a second, "...he's..."

You tilt your head. "You're really selling him here, Morales."

He shrugs, "What am I supposed to say? He's the most attractive man I've ever met? You'll definitely be satisfied by him? I'm sure he has a big..."

A mother passing by with her daughter in the cart coughs before he can finish the sentence and you struggle to hold in a laugh as he apologizes. The two of you move further down the aisle, "Okay, maybe not that, but what's he like as a person? What does he do for fun?"

Frankie sucks in a breath. "He likes a lot of the same things I do, I guess. He's...nurturing?"

Your eyebrows raise as you lead him down another aisle. "Nurturing?"

"Yeah," he grunts softly. "Nurturing. Like, he's loyal. Cares about the people in his life. The kind of person that will take care of you when you're sick or watch that dumb Tom Hanks movie you love so much."

"You've Got Mail," you supply, causing him to roll his eyes before continuing, but it's obvious that he chooses his next words carefully.

"He's the kind of person who will be there for you even when it's two in the morning and you're up because it's storming. I guess he can be a little stubborn, but it's usually just because he cares too much." He pauses, and you open your mouth to respond, but then he keeps going and you can do nothing but listen, transfixed. "Loves movies and has his pilot's license like me. Quiet sometimes, but he can be a little mischievous, too. It's all in good fun, though. It just means he loves you."

You've stopped next to the pasta and are staring at him, eyes wide. "Is that all?"

He nods. "That good enough for you?"

"Yeah, that's good."

Your date comes faster than you anticipated. Frankie has you set up at a local bar to meet with his coworker, although per your agreement, you didn't even know his name. He'd be sitting, Frankie explained, at a table near the back and would be drinking a Corona. When you insisted that you needed more information, he asked if you'd prefer a rose in a book, but you'd simply hit his arm and grudgingly agreed to his plan.

His date, meanwhile, was set for the following evening. Your coworker hadn't stopped talking about it all week, excited about the prospect of meeting someone new. For someone who was usually quiet, she was obnoxiously loud when it came to Frankie, and you couldn't help but wince every time she brought him up. It wasn't that you were jealous, because you weren't. You and Frankie were never meant to be more than friends, and that was lucky enough.

So why didn't it feel that way?

As you check your makeup in the rearview mirror, you debate driving back home. It would be easy to leave. Easy to call Frankie on the way and tell him you didn't feel a spark and ask if he'd pick up a pizza and come over for a movie night. Cancel the whole thing and go back to your simple single life.

Your phone lights up on the passenger seat with a text from Frankie, as if he's heard your thoughts somehow. Have fun tonight.

Well, now you have to go inside. And maybe this wouldn't work out. Maybe Frankie was wrong and this guy wasn't for you, but you have to go for him. Because your best friend put in the time and effort to set you up with someone he genuinely thought you would like. And you trust his judgement wholeheartedly.

With one last breath, you step from your car, finding your confidence in your heels as you make your way toward the same bar you'd met the boys at all those years ago. It's crowded inside, more so than usual, and you have to apologize a few times as you weave your way through the mass of people. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest and your stomach feels like throwing up might be a preferable activity right now, but you press on until you can see someone sitting at a table near the back.

You try to make out his features through the dim light, but he's turned away from you. You know it's him though because the light above his table illuminates the Corona he's holding with one hand. When the song changes on the radio, Harry Nilsson's Somewhere Over the Rainbow playing through the speakers, you realize you've been standing there for too long.

That, actually, you don't want to go through with this.

What you want is to go home. You want to call Frankie. You want to curl up in his arms. You want...

"Frankie," you breathe out because he's there in front of you as he turns. Like you've summoned him.

He leaves the Corona on the table as he stands and takes a step toward you. He says nothing as he invades your space. You feel like crying, and maybe you are because he tells you not to, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumb.

"I wanted it to be you," you say softly, quoting Meg Ryan because, you realize, this is what it feels like to be lucky. "How did you..."

Frankie smiles. "You didn't think I'd actually let you end up with someone else, did you?"

"No," you tell him tearfully, "you're too stubborn for that." It's easy to melt into his embrace as he draws you closer. "And mischievous," you add, repeating what he told you at the grocery store, "but I guess that just means he loves me."

He nods, his lips a breath from yours. "He does."

#pedrotober #pedrotober 2024 #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier #lurking and writing

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