#Gone like mist in the sun

[tgmsunmontue]

Last Line Tag Game

Thank @halestrom for the tag (over on main - this is the only fandom I'm actively writing for though so...) I am usually shocking about taking part in these. 😅 This is from "Get your motor runnin' "

                The look on Bradshaw’s face shifts so rapidly between shock and confusion through disgust to incredulity Jake struggles to keep up, wonders what he’s thinking.                 “You’re an idiot.”                 Jake shrugs and pulls a conceding face, because he really does feel like as ass right now and he can't disagree.

I am issuing an open invitation to anyone to share their last line...

[laracrofted]

let me drown

you meet qimir for a morning swim (qimir x fem!reader)... because i couldn't be normal about that scene.

warnings: 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni, an ode to manny jacinto's collarbones and also his shoulders and arms, slightly painful sex (but like... in a hot and consensual way), possessiveness, pwp basically (wc: 800+)

Droplets of water pool in the hollow of his collarbone, running down his broad shoulders in rivulets, shimmering in the morning sun like jewels, as Qimir cuts through the water. His muscled arms effortlessly slice into the still surface, sending ripples in every direction.

He looks ethereal, swimming in the cerulean pool. A long forgotten sea god, waiting to hook you by the ankle and drag you below the surface, drown you and breathe new life into you at the bottom of the sea.

It's beautiful and frightening in equal measures.

You wait on the shore, seawater lapping at your ankles and bare feet, arms around your knees, ignoring the puddling water that's soaking through your bottoms.

You wait for him to notice you there.

He doesn't keep you waiting – or maybe, Qimir sensed your presence from the moment you'd stepped onto the shore, from the moment your eyes had opened in the cave and looked for him, finding him gone.

A suspicion that's confirmed when Qimir lifts his gaze, unsurprised, sweeping escaping strands of damp hair from his face, and calls out softly, "Aren't you going to join me?"

His voice. You love his voice, as smooth as the surface of the water lapping at his strong shoulders, as the salt-licked rocks on the shore and the cliffs, as the weather-beaten pebbles that dig into your soles as you stand.

You undo the robe in a smooth motion and let it fall from your shoulders, baring yourself to him in the morning light, and Qimir doesn't look away.

He catches his lip between his teeth, dragging his gaze down your naked form, drinking you in with a kind of possessiveness that feels heretical; coveting you without so much as laying a finger on you, owning you with his dark eyes.

You wade in, and Qimir drifts toward you, moving silently and swiftly, predator-like.

An uneven rock catches on your foot under the surface, sending you forward. You tumble into him with a soft curse, and Qimir catches your arms with wet hands, steadying you, guiding your hands to his shoulders.

Flexing your fingers is almost an instinct, searching for a hold, like scaling a cliff, digging in to the muscles, and Qimir shudders, long lashes brushes against his cheeks, inclining his head to meet your gaze.

"Careful," Qimir cautions, soft and honeyed, a kind of music, and you don't know if Qimir means to be careful with the rocks or with your wandering hands.

You gamble on the former and let them wander further, moving over him, mapping him like an uncharted planet. One of your arms slips around his neck, giving him your weight, and Qimir's hand slips under your knee to catch you.

His hand is rough, guiding your leg around his hip, finding a balance.

He is pressed up against you now, cock hardening against your stomach. An involuntary gasp escapes from your mouth, and Qimir nips at the sound, sucking at your lip, beads of seawater dripping from his mouth into yours.

"Careful," Qimir repeats, only this time, it sounds like a question.

Should I be careful? Do you want me to be?

You shake your head slowly, a fine mist of salt water blowing in from the sea, coating your lashes, and Qimir's lips part in a half smile, pleased.

He's not careful. Careful is gentle caresses and the press of his mouth between your legs, warming you from the inside out, drinking from you like a nectar.

This isn't careful.

He doesn't get you ready, doesn't warm your cunt with his fingers, doesn't press you open in increments. He invites your legs around his hips, grasping at your ass with one hand for leverage, and pushes into you in one long and interrupted stroke that knocks the breath from your lungs, knocks your bones from your body.

You press your face into his shoulder, biting down with a whimper, probably leaving marks. That's okay. He likes marks, likes the feeling of your nails dragged down his back.

You're at war with yourself, split in the same way that Qimir is splitting you in half with his cock; a need to squirm away from the overpowering sensation; a need to invite him deeper, harder, faster.

He makes a soothing– borderline mocking – sound against your cheek and strokes your hair back from your wet cheeks; and holds you there, pinned open for him, fluttering and adjusting to the size of his cock.

"Oh? How does it feel?" Qimir asks, still stroking your cheeks.

"Good."

He smiles and lifts your chin with his knuckles and drinks a salt water kiss from your lips. "Good. You're ready for more."

It's not a question.

Seawater runs down your stinging cheeks, sensitive from the stubble on his carved jawline, mixing with the moisture that streams from the corners of your eyes as Qimir finally moves inside of you, dragging his cock out and pushing back in with a sweet and lethal slowness that borders on painful, so controlled; reaching inside and unraveling you from a place so deep that no one else could ever hope to uncover it; no one but him.

He likes it that way. Just him.

[ja3yun]

Prove it to You | L.HS

boyfriend!heeseung x girfriend!reader warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, cream pie, oral (m.rec), nipple play, mentions of insecurities, pet names (baby), they are sickly in love with one another, not proofread, anything else lmk! w.c: 6.5k synopsis: after a dinner with his friends, heeseung is feeling insecure about how well he's doing in the boyfriend department and wants to prove to you that he is the best boyfriend he can be. a/n: hi! it's my beautiful boys birthday!! i was going to make this a birthday themed fic but i figure cute, loving, bj receiving heeseung is just as good. as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated! happy heeseung day everyone <33

“Baby?”

A soft groan, warm and lazy, ripples through the stillness of the room that disguises itself as a hum. Your body, still heavy with sleep, feels the tender weight of a hand shaking your arm gently, followed by the familiar brush of lips against your shoulder. The gesture is soft, loving - but something about the way he calls for you feels different, slightly urgent even though there is no panic in his tone.

“Baby, can you wake up?”

There’s a tremor in Heeseung’s voice, something uneasy in the way his breath catches. He exhales heavily, almost shakily, and even with your eyes still closed, it pulls at your heart. Sleep evaporates from your mind like mist in the morning sun, replaced by a rising wave of concern.

Shuffling beneath the blankets, you force your heavy eyelids open, eyes blurry and hazed with sleep, yet focused on finding him. His face, cast in a soft amber glow from the streetlight outside, looks tired, but more than that - troubled. You blink through the grit in your eyes, the edges of your world soft with drowsiness, but your senses sharpen as you take him in.

“Heeseung, are you okay?” you murmur, voice hushed, still tinged with sleep but now laced with concern. The early morning quiet stretches between you, amplifying every small sound - the rustle of sheets, the quiet hum of the city outside, and the silence that lingers after your question.

Last night, Heeseung had gone out to meet friends for a casual dinner, something you knew he needed after weeks buried in work. But now, the light flush across his cheeks and the pink on the bridge of his nose tells you he’s had a few beers to drink. What it also tells you, though, is that he hasn’t slept it off, which means he just got home this second or can’t sleep with something on his mind. 

Considering he never wakes you up unless something is plaguing him, you’re concluding that it might be the latter.

His hand brushes through your hair, tender fingers sweeping strands back from your face, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of a smile. Even in his unease, he pauses to take in the sight of you like this, soft and unguarded in the dim glow, all the rough edges of the world smoothed out by the stillness of night. For just a second, his worry seems to melt as he looks at you, a constant habit that Heeseung has picked up over the past year of being yours.

“Hee?” you try again, voice a little more awake now, though still gentle. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes drop, his lips part, but hesitation knots the words in his throat. The silence grows heavy, until finally, he speaks, his voice quieter than before, tinged with vulnerability.

“Do you think I’m a good boyfriend?”

The question hangs in the air, and it throws you, making you pause. Confusion settles in your brow as you tilt your head slightly. “What?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, searching, unsure. “Do you think I’m a good boyfriend? Like…would you say I’m doing enough?”

You sit up slowly, the dregs of sleep finally falling away as you try to process his question. Your hand reaches out instinctively, resting on his chest where his heart beats, steady but tense beneath your touch. “Heeseung, of course I think you’re a good boyfriend. Why would you even ask that?”

The words feel almost inadequate because, to you, Heeseung is so much more than a good boyfriend - he’s everything you could have ever dreamed of. Sure, there are times when you argue, moments when life throws obstacles your way, and things feel heavy. But even in those moments, he never makes you feel anything less than loved. He’s thoughtful in ways that go beyond grand gestures - it's in the quiet moments, like when he remembers the smallest details about your day or when he texts you just to remind you that he’s thinking of you. It’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice, how he prioritises your happiness even when he’s tired, always putting you first with a selflessness that makes your heart ache.

Sitting here in the half-light, you can see the weight he’s carrying, the subtle hunch of his shoulders, the way his lips twitch like he’s trying to hold something back. And yet, even in his uncertainty, he’s still reaching out for you, seeking comfort not just for himself but to make sure you’re okay, too. That’s who Heeseung is - someone who loves deeply, who gives even when he feels empty.

Gently, you brush your fingers along the line of his jaw, feeling the familiar warmth of his skin beneath your touch. “Heeseung,” you say softly, your voice steady and full of warmth, “you’re the best boyfriend I could ever ask for. Truly. What’s going on, baby? What’s making you feel like this?”

There’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but your words seem to seep into the cracks, easing some of the tension from his face. The quiet that follows is tender, filled with unspoken love, and though you don’t have all the answers yet, you’ll hold him through the storm of his thoughts, as he has done for you so many times before.

Heeseung sighs softly, rubbing the back of his neck as though the words are heavy on his tongue. His gaze flickers away from you briefly, lost somewhere in the dim glow of the room as he gathers his thoughts.

“At dinner…” he begins, his voice quieter, a little shaky, “the girls were talking about their boyfriends. Saying how they don’t pay attention to them, or… ike, don’t really know them. They never ask questions about their day, always show up late to things, or forget important dates. You know, that kind of stuff.”

He pauses, his brows knitting together as his mind drifts back to the conversation, and you can almost see the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his head, tugging at his insecurities. He’s overthinking now, replaying every single moment from your relationship, each time he might’ve been late or distracted, every little instance where he thinks he might’ve fallen short. You know him too well - this is how Heeseung is. His heart is so full of care that the idea of disappointing you sends him spiralling into self-doubt.

Where he sees gaps, you only see love, commitment, and an attentiveness that most people only dream of. Heeseung has never been that boyfriend - the one who forgets anniversaries, or who doesn’t show up when you need him, or who brushes off your feelings. If anything, he’s the exact opposite.

You remember the countless times he’s sat with you after a long day, listening intently, no matter how tired he was, asking questions and making sure you felt heard. How he never lets a single date slip by without doing something special—whether it’s taking you out for a quiet dinner or leaving a note by the coffee pot before he heads off to work. He remembers the smallest details, the way your eyes light up when you talk about a favourite book or a song, and he’ll bring those things up weeks later, proving that he was paying attention all along.

A faint, incredulous chuckle escapes your lips - not mocking, but pure disbelief. “Baby, you have to understand,” you say, your voice gentle but filled with warmth, “those things? The things they were talking about? That’s what every boyfriend does at some point.”

Heeseung shrinks a little at that, his shoulders hunching slightly as though your words only confirm his worst fears. His face falls, the vulnerability in his expression deepening, and it’s clear his mind is starting to spiral again, pulling him into a pit of self-doubt. But before he can fall too deep, you reach for him, gently placing your hand on his cheek, your thumb brushing over his skin in a soothing gesture.

You don’t let him stew in his thoughts for long. “But you—you’re like that rare 0.01% that is nothing like that,” you continue, your tone firm yet loving. “Hee, you’re so attentive to me. You’re always listening to me, even when I’m banging on about the same thing over and over again. You always show up for me, even when you’re tired or stressed. I don’t think you’ve ever missed a date, let alone forgotten an important one.”

His brows knit together, the tension easing just a fraction as he listens, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. There’s still doubt lingering there, but the warmth in your voice seems to be cutting through it, slowly but surely.

“I mean, you’ve never turned up late to anything - not once,” you add with a soft smile, your hand sliding down to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “You’re thoughtful in ways that those girls were probably dreaming about when they were talking. You remember things I’ve forgotten I even told you. And even when things get rough, you never make me feel like I’m alone in it. You’re always there, Heeseung. Always.”

Heeseung exhales, the weight of your words finally starting to settle in, though the remnants of doubt still linger in his eyes. He shakes his head, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips, but you can tell he’s still struggling to shake the thoughts entirely.

“I just…I don’t want to take you for granted. I never want to be that guy who doesn’t pay attention or makes you feel like you’re not important.”

“You could never,” you whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, letting it linger just long enough to feel the warmth of him. “The fact that you want to be a good boyfriend already proves that you are.”

Heeseung lets out a soft laugh, his breath warm against your lips as you peck his lips once more to punctuate your reassurances. He bites his lip, giving you that boyish, slightly embarrassed smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“You think so?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost like he’s seeking reassurance even though he knows he’s already got it.

You raise an eyebrow playfully, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “I know so,” you tease, letting your fingers trace gentle circles on his chest. “I mean, come on - how many boyfriends out there get worried in the middle of the night about whether they’re doing enough for their girlfriends? You’re basically setting the bar impossibly high for everyone else.”

Heeseung chuckles again, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Oh, so now I’m the standard, huh?”

“You’re more than the standard, you’re the dream.”

Smiling widely, your boyfriend leans in to kiss you once again, this time more confident and at ease. It’s not like Heeseung to be vulnerable like this, the mix of alcohol and the early morning hours playing a massive part in his sudden change in behaviour. But he is so thankful that you aren’t judging him or deflecting his concerns in a passive moment even though you could have. It speaks volumes of your love and adoration for him, and that makes him feel more loved than anything else in the world.

His petal-soft lips melt with yours, your love blooming through each passing breath and brush of his nose with yours. His palms find a place on your waist as he guides you to crawl onto his lap, the sheets that were keeping you warm in your cocoon of sleep now long gone, the heat from Heeseung’s passion now flooding your blood streams. 

His hands slide up your waist, fingers gently exploring the curve of your sides before resting at the small of your back. The heat of his touch burns through the thin fabric of your sleepwear, making you feel as though your skin might ignite under his fingertips. He pulls you closer, guiding you onto his lap with ease, and you can feel his body radiating warmth beneath you, a quiet strength that grounds you even as your heart races.

The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, a dance of lips and breath, where neither of you is in a rush, savouring the moment for all it’s worth. His lips move with a softness that’s intoxicating, every caress sending shivers down your spine. He tastes like something familiar, something safe and beautiful—like home.

“I love you so much, baby,” he murmurs into the kiss, his voice rough with longing, each word brushing against your lips like a secret meant only for you. His breath, hot and uneven, fans over your face, and the way he speaks, the intensity in his tone, makes your chest swell with so much emotion you feel like you might burst. It’s a confession he’s made a thousand times, yet each time it feels like the first, igniting a fire inside you that only he can.

If there was ever a reason for your heart to exist, for your lungs to draw breath, it would be to love Heeseung. Your heart is to keep you alive, but if you can't love him like this, there's no reason to exist.

Nodding, you smile against his lips, a soft sound of contentment escaping you as you press closer to his chest, wanting to feel every inch of him, to be as close as physically possible. Your hands find their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you deepen the kiss, pouring all your love into it. “I love you too, Hee,” you whisper between kisses, your voice low, filled with an ache that matches his. “Always.”

His hands tighten around you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away, his kisses becoming more urgent, more desperate. His lips move against yours with a hunger that takes your breath away, and it’s like he’s trying to convey all the things he can’t put into words - the depth of his love, his need for you, how you mean everything to him.

Hands roaming your now alert body, Heeseung grips and caresses every inch of skin he can, his fingers dancing along your back as his nails drag down ever so gently, just enough for you to feel the bite. He needs you under his skin. He needs you part of him. He needs you full stop.

Every brush of his lips, every gentle tug of your lower lip, every graze of his teeth sends a thrill through you, making your skin hum with electricity. His hand moves up to cradle your face, thumb brushing over your cheek as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark with emotion, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“I know we just had a sappy moment and I don’t want this to take away from it, but I’m horny as fuck right now.”

A sharp laugh escapes you, breaking through the intensity of the moment, and you shake your head at Heeseung's bluntness, though the heat in the room is unmistakable. His words might’ve caught you off guard, but they don’t surprise you - it’s just so him to switch from vulnerability to desire with the same raw passion.

You grin at him, your hands still tangled in his hair, and lean in to press a playful kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really?” you tease, your voice light but laced with that same unspoken tension that’s been building between you. “I never would have guessed with your cock poking my thigh.”

You both look down and see Heeseung’s member semi-hard, concealed only by his boxers. It makes you bite your lip in lust as you reply moments that his thick cock has taken you to the stars, has made you arch your back as your heart tries to leap from your chest and shout how much you love his inches pounding into you.

Heeseung's cheeks flush a deep pink, only adding to the alcohol flush he still has blushing over his features,, but that signature mischievous grin appears on his face, his embarrassment melting into amusement. He lets out a soft chuckle, his eyes flicking between your teasing gaze and the obvious evidence of his desire pressing against you.

"Well," he says, his voice dropping an octave, his hand tightening slightly on your waist, "you can’t blame me, can you? I mean, look at you." His tone is playful, but there’s no mistaking the hunger behind his words as his eyes roam over your body, drinking in every inch of you. His lips find their way to your neck, teeth working in tandem to nip at your skin before he speaks again. “Y’know, I should prove that I’m a good boyfriend, not just say it.”

A part of you wants to tell him that he proves it every day, that he is even proving it right now, but you know what this will lead to and you’ll be damned if you don’t let him continue. So you play along, smirking as you feel his mouth move south, kissing over your collarbone.

“I think you should,” you giggle out in a moan as his teeth sink into you. The sound escapes your lips unbidden, a mixture of laughter and desire, and you feel his cock twitch at the sound, a primal response that only fuels the fire igniting between you both. Any noise you make is Heeseung’s favourite song.

With a swift motion, Heeseung peels your tank top off, revealing your breasts. He ogles at them, memorising every mark, line, and curve of them as if he doesn’t study them every day. If he was set the challenge to draw them from memory, he could pass with flying colours.

Attaching his mouth to your right nipple, he teasingly bites around the peak and flicks it with his tongue before wrapping his lips around it, sucking gently as if he’s savoring a fine wine. The sensation sends an electric jolt through you, arching your back and pushing your chest further into him, a silent plea for more. Heeseung's hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin, heightening the delicious tension that spirals between you.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and ragged, punctuating each word with soft kisses. The way he admires you - like you’re a masterpiece and he’s not even worthy to be standing in the museum you decorate - fills you with a sense of exhilaration. You can’t help but tilt your head back, surrendering to the waves of pleasure crashing over you as he lavishes attention on your body.

His mouth moves from your breast to your collarbone, trailing kisses that leave a path of fire in their wake. As he nips at your skin, you feel a rush of warmth pool low in your belly, the heady mix of desire and adoration overwhelming. Heeseung's fingers dig into your hips, anchoring you to him, and you can feel the way his body responds to yours - hard and insistent against your thigh. 

“Am I proving myself?” he asks playfully, pulling back to look into your eyes, his gaze dark with lust and mischief. His lips glisten slightly, and you can’t help but admire how he looks at this moment - wild and undone, completely lost in the taste of you.

“More than you know,” you breathe, a smile creeping onto your lips as you lean in closer, brushing your nose against his. The closeness feels intoxicating, every heartbeat syncing with his own. “But I think there’s a way you can really prove it to me.”

With a playful glint in your eye, you push him back gently, manoeuvring him to lie flat against the soft sheets. You straddle him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips, and you can feel his heat radiating beneath you. The shift in position gives you a sense of power, an exhilarating thrill that makes your pulse race.

Leaning down, you place a teasing kiss on his lips before trailing your mouth lower, down his chest, savouring every inch of skin you encounter. You take your time, letting your lips brush against his abs, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingertips as you draw nearer to where you want to be.

“This doesn’t feel like me proving I’m a good boyfriend if you’re doing all the work,” he laughs, his voice rich with playful sarcasm.

“Just relax,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes, a smirk playing on your lips. “I’ve got this.” With that, you pull down his boxers, revealing him fully, the sight of his arousal making your heart race even faster. The air is thick with tension and anticipation, and as you wrap your fingers around him, the thrill of what’s to come sends shivers down your spine.

“Seriously, Y/N, why don’t I-”

You interrupt him, your voice playful yet sultry, “I’m literally in love with your cock, so if you want to ‘prove’ you’re a good boyfriend, you’ll let me suck it.” You smile innocently up at your boyfriend, and the mischievous glint in your eyes only heightens the intensity of the moment. When you say you love his cock, that isn’t even enough to convey just how much you worship it.

For the past year, this single cock has taken you to heaven and back, lifting you past the clouds and into galaxies that haven’t even been explored yet. Heeseung has done more for your pleasure than any self-exploration or rose toy could ever hope to give you. If he wants to talk about women’s complaints about their boyfriends, unsatisfying sex is more common than not, and he has yet to disappoint you.

When you first started dating, the chemistry between you was so strong that you found yourselves lost in each other’s arms on the very first date. Even then, while you still had so much to learn about one another - your likes and dislikes, how you moved with one another - Heeseung somehow pressed every button inside you, fine-tuning spots you hadn’t even discovered yet. He is so attuned to your needs, both physically and mentally.

That is how you know he is a cut above the rest.

With a teasing grin, you peel his boxers down further, exposing him completely to your gaze. You take a moment to admire him, the way his length stands proud and eager, glistening slightly with anticipation. It’s a sight that always sends a rush of heat through you, and you can’t help but feel a thrill of excitement at the thought of what’s to come.

Leaning in closer, you let your breath ghost over the tip of his cock, watching as he shudders in response. The tension in his body is palpable, and it fuels your desire even more. You give him a slow, teasing lick, starting from the base and moving up to the tip, taking your time to savour the taste of him. A low groan escapes his lips, and the sound makes your heart race, sending a thrill of pleasure coursing through you.

“Y/N,” he gasps, his voice thick with desire, “you really don’t have to—”

But you cut him off again, looking at him with wide, playful eyes. “I want to,” you assure him, your voice barely a whisper as you lean in, capturing his tip in your mouth. The warmth of you envelops him, and you hollow your cheeks, sucking gently as you begin to take him deeper.

Heeseung’s hands find their way to your hair, fingers threading through it as he guides you softly, his breaths turning into heavy pants. You love the way he watches you, eyes dark and filled with a mix of admiration and lust. As you take him deeper, you let your tongue swirl around the tip, teasing and tantalizing him, every flick sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body.

Gathering your hair into a ponytail, threading his fingers through your strands, making sure he doesn’t miss a bit, he begins to tie your hair up. He does this; one, so he can see your pretty lips wrapping around him, and two, because he knows how annoyed you get when your hair is in your face. It’s partly the reason why he always carries a bobble on his wrist, for spontaneous times like this. 

The black bobble has come in handy more times than he can count; parties, work events, in the car, you name it. You love to suck his cock, there was no denying it in his mind, hence why he is always prepared.

With each slow movement, you can feel Heeseung’s tension building. You watch him closely, revelling in the way his mouth falls open slightly as if he’s struggling to find the words to express what he’s feeling. His chest rises and falls, each breath coming faster than the last as you continue to work your mouth around him. The way his body reacts to you only serves to heighten your own arousal, the heat pooling low in your belly.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he breathes, his voice shaky as he tries to keep control. You can sense his yearning, a mix of desire and admiration that makes you feel powerful. With every moment that passes, you grow more determined to show him just how much he means to you, how deeply you crave him.

You start to pick up the pace, your head moving faster as you slide him deeper into your mouth, allowing your lips to wrap around him snugly. You can feel the muscles in his thighs tense, his body urging you on as he struggles not to bust a load in your mouth right here and now. The raw desperation in his eyes only ignites your need for him, and you find yourself lost in the rhythm of it, moving in sync with the unspoken connection between you.

“Y/N, please, I’ll not last long,” he murmurs, his voice thick with longing as he bites his lip, a look of unrestrained pleasure crossing his features. You can tell he’s holding back, wanting to let go but trying to let you take your time. The contrast of his restraint against your eagerness sends a rush of heat through you, and you can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips as you squeeze his thighs.

Instead of slowing down, you push him fully down your throat, the bell of his cock sitting exactly where your voicebox is located, and you swallow. It’s something you know he loves more than anything and thanks to a lot of practice paired with patience from your boyfriend, you perfected it. 

Your glands suck him in, your throat gagging at the intrusion of his cock as it tries to gulp down, Heeseung thrashes beneath you, holding in his breath and he tenses, toes curling in desperation. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he gasps out through gritted teeth, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming him. His fingers grip your hair tighter, a mix of pleasure and desperation coursing through him as he feels you take him deeper than ever. The warm heat enveloping him is almost too much to bear, and he can't help but thrust his hips slightly, seeking that delicious friction that drives him wild.

You can feel every shudder and quake of his body, the way he fights against the urge to let go. With each swallow, you tighten your throat around him, your body instinctively reacting to his need. The vibrations from your throat send shockwaves through his entire length, and you can tell he’s teetering on the edge of bliss.

“Y/N,” he moans, his voice laced with an intoxicating mix of desperation and awe. “You’re so fucking perfect.” The way he breathes your name is music to your ears, fueling your desire even more. The rasp in his tone along with the tiny giggle that pushes out, showcases the glee he is feeling within himself. It’s a beautiful contrast to how this rude awakening started.

Determined to push him over the edge, you pull back just slightly, letting the tip of him rest on your tongue as you swirl it around his knob, dipping it past his slit a few times before diving back down, taking him fully once more. Each movement is deliberate, each glide of your lips sending him further into the abyss of pleasure. The sound of your lips slurping and the wetness of your mouth fills the room, creating an intoxicating rhythm that both of you are losing yourself in.

“Please, stop,” he begs, his eyes squeezing shut as he loses himself in the moment. “I can’t hold back much longer.” You revel in the power you have over him, the way your actions leave him breathless and yearning. It’s a heady feeling, one that makes you want to do this forever, to draw out his pleasure as long as you can.

But just as you think he might tumble over the edge, Heeseung suddenly pulls you off, his chest heaving with laboured breaths as he fights to regain control. His gaze is dark, filled with desire and a hint of desperation, and it sends a thrill through you as he locks eyes with you.

With a swift motion, he pulls your face up to his, capturing your lips in a feverish kiss. It’s a clash of passion, a mix of lingering sweetness and raw hunger as his mouth moves against yours, igniting a fire deep within you. He can taste the remnants of your earlier actions on his tongue, a tantalising reminder of what just transpired, and it makes him crave you even more.

As you kiss, his fingers find home between your legs, feeling how wet you are just from sucking his cock. The feeling makes him smirk, his ego growing along with his arousal. He pushes your shorts and underwear to the side and you gasp into his mouth as you feel the heat of his member sliding against your heat, the sensation sending electric sparks coursing through your body. The intimacy of the moment wraps around you both, intensifying the connection between you as you can feel his need pressing against you.

“God, I need you so fucking bad,” Heeseung breathes between kisses, his voice rough and laced with longing. You can feel the urgency in his words, the way he’s teetering on the brink of desire, and it only fuels your own craving for him. The way his body reacts to yours, the heat radiating off him, makes your heart race faster, and you instinctively press against him, seeking that sweet friction. “Let me fuck you, please, baby.” Heeseung is whiny and desperate, which means you know he’s close, seeking out that sweet release.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Fuck me, please, Hee.” Your words are barely audible but equally as yearning as they hang in the air between you, filled with unspoken promises and undeniable need. The invitation ignites something primal in him, and you can see the flicker of determination in his eyes as he moves to claim you, each moment stretching out as you both surrender to the overwhelming connection that binds you together.

With a sudden urgency, Heeseung captures your lips again, his mouth moving against yours with a fervour that sends shivers down your spine. He pulls you closer, his hands roaming over your skin, igniting every nerve ending as he explores your body. His lips leave yours, trailing kisses down your neck, his warm breath sending delightful chills across your skin. When his mouth finds your breasts again, he takes your right nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before nibbling around the peak, his tongue swirling and teasing as he sends waves of pleasure through you.

Slipping into your heat, Heeseung’s cock finally stretches you open, a gasp in harmony orchestrating around your bedroom. Your eyes roll back as he fills you to the hilt, the exquisite sensation sending electric pulses of pleasure coursing through every part of your body. Heeseung pauses for just a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his breath coming in heavy pants as he watches you. His expression is a mix of desire and reverence, as if he’s savouring this just as much as you are.

“God, you feel amazing,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need as he slowly pulls back, only to plunge deep again. Each thrust is a slow exploration at first, deliberate and measured, as he seeks to bring you both to that blissful peak. The sensation of his cock sliding against your inner walls sends waves of pleasure through you, igniting every nerve ending. Heeseung's eyes never leave your face, drinking in the sight of you lost in ecstasy, each gasp and moan drawing him deeper into the moment.

Heeseung's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he finds a steady rhythm, pushing deeper with each thrust, trying to prove to you just how great of a boyfriend he can be, how he will give you everything he has; mind, body, and spirit. 

Your body instinctively responds, arching into him, craving more as the world around you fades into nothingness. The sounds of skin slapping against skin echo in the quiet room, punctuated by the symphony of your shared gasps and moans. It’s a primal dance of desire, every thrust driving you further into ecstasy, the overwhelming connection between you deepening with each movement.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his voice low and husky, thick with pleasure as he quickens his pace. It doesn’t matter how many times he fucks you, your walls will always welcome him in the most delicious way. 

You can feel the tension building within you, each powerful thrust causing your heart to race and your breath to hitch. The urgency in his thrusts builds, each movement charged with desperation and longing as he seeks to drive you both to the brink. He leans down, capturing your lips in another heated kiss, his tongue dancing with yours, mingling your breaths and surrendering to the intoxicating heat that envelops you both.

As he kisses you, his hands roam down to your thighs, lifting your legs higher to allow him even deeper access. The shift in angle sends shockwaves of pleasure surging through you, your moans mingling with his as he hits that sweet spot inside you. You can feel the pressure building, the familiar tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter within you, urging you closer to release.

“Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, his voice low and breathy, filled with both desire and admiration. “You’re everything to me.” The words resonate deep within your chest, and they only serve to heighten the intensity of your yearning. “I want you to cum for me,” he murmurs, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in perfect time with his thrusts, his thumb pressing down on your sensitive bud.

The sensation of his fingers combined with the friction of his cock sends you spiralling toward the edge. With each stroke of his cock and each flick of his fingers, the pressure within you intensifies, your body craving that release as he pushes you closer and closer to the precipice. You can feel the heat pooling in your core, a delicious tension building that threatens to overflow.

“Hee, I’m so close,” you gasp, nails digging into his back as the sensations overwhelm you. Heeseung groans in response, his thrusts growing more frantic, his desire matching your own as he chases that high alongside you. “Just a little more,” he urges, his voice thick with need, every thrust a promise of the pleasure to come.

Your breaths come in sharp bursts as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, the world around you narrowing to just the two of you. With every movement, Heeseung brings you closer to the edge, the rhythm of his hips and the precision of his fingers drawing you nearer to bliss. Your body begins to tremble, the coil inside you winding tighter as Heeseung’s pace quickens, urgency fueling every thrust.

“Let go for me, baby,” he whispers, his voice heavy with need, and that simple command pushes you over the edge. With a cry that echoes through the room, your body explodes in pleasure, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as you shatter beneath him. The sensation washes over you, and as you lose yourself to it, you can feel Heeseung following closely behind, his own release spilling into you as he groans your name, ropes of his cum painting your walls, the heat adding to your pleasure and making your cunt try and swallow each drop. The two of you are lost in the moment, the world outside forgotten, and doubts in Heeseung’s mind now vanished, as you find your bliss together in that perfect union.

As the waves of pleasure finally begin to subside, you find yourself still tangled together, your breaths mingling in the warm air. Heeseung’s arms are wrapped securely around you, holding you close as his heartbeat gradually slows, though the lingering electricity between you remains palpable. You can feel the aftershocks of your climax coursing through you along with the final jumps of his cock, each pulse a gentle reminder of the ecstasy you just shared.

Heeseung gently pulls out, and a soft whimper escapes your lips at the loss, but he’s quick to pull you into his embrace, cradling you against his chest. His fingers brush through your hair, and you can’t help but smile, the afterglow of your connection illuminating your heart. “So, did I prove myself,” he breathes, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as he meets your gaze. There’s a playful glimmer in his eyes, one that reminds you of how much he relishes in these moments with you.

“You never had to prove anything, Hee. You prove yourself every single day.” Your voice is earnest and raw, meaning every word. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek as you stroke his flushed face. “I love you so much, baby. Please never doubt yourself like that again.” 

Heeseung’s eyes soften at your words, warmth flooding his features as he leans into your touch, relishing the way your fingers caress his skin. The sincerity in your voice wraps around him like a comforting blanket, easing away any lingering insecurities. “You really mean that?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with vulnerability. 

“Of course, I do,” you assure him, the depth of your affection pouring into each syllable. “You are everything I’ve ever wanted and more. I don’t just say it for the sake of it; you really are perfect for me, Hee.”

His heart swells at your declaration, a grin breaking through the remnants of his earlier doubt. “Well, I guess that means I should keep doing what I’m doing, yeah?” He chuckles lightly, the sound brightening the atmosphere between you.

“Definitely, “ you giggle, kissing his chest as you settle your head there, listening to his heartbeat, the one that beats only for you. “Just keep being mine.”

“Always.”

_____

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[vacillator]

Sorry that I could never love you back

I could never care enough in these last days

Her tears fell on her pages, found me well on her words

I don't know what to do or say

Wadin' through warm canals and pools clear blue

The Tuscarawas flowed into the Great Lakes

Ridin' back where the highway met dead tracks

The ground is now cement and glass, so far away

Heal her soul

Carry her, my angel, Ohio

Green, green youth, what about the sweetness we knew?

What about what's good, what's true from those days?

Can't count to all the lovers I've burned through

So, why do I still burn for you? I can't say

Sorry that I could never love you back

I could never care enough in these last days

Heal her soul

Carry her, my angel, Ohio

Children blessed, gather round the home she rests

So, pull and go over there Midwest, Moon and Sun

Flashes bringing on my open eyes to lightnin' storm

The touch of mist felt soft, felt warm on my face

Grey, vague dreams, a million miles ago you seem

A star that I just don't see anymore

Words long gone, lost on journeys we walked on

Lost are voices heard along the way

Sorry for never goin' by your door

Never feelin' love like that anymore

Heal her soul

Carry her, my angel, Ohio

[parasolemn]

[Image description: The first image is a digital painting of Visual Calculus' skill portrait in Disco Elysium. Text reads: "VISUAL CALCULUS - The cold sea breeze stings your face as you step on the boardwalk. The body is gone, but something still lingers in the air. And high above it, against the stars..." End text. The portrait then fades into a dark night sky. The second image continues from the first with the same night sky. Text reads: "VISUAL CALCULUS - A luminous wheel of pleasure and all things bright, its wooden frame creaking in the wind. Twelve red cabins form a circle that stretches from the engines below to the flocks of seagulls up in the sky. INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] - The mirage looks both sad and glorious in the mist, like an insect trapped in glass." End text. Green and blue lines from Visual Calculus' portrait twist around an orange, blue and purple projection of a ferris wheel. Behind it, the sun emerges in a bright burst of colour. Harry Du Bois looks up at it, amazed; Kim Kitsuragi looks at him in concern. Text reads: "YOU - 'You don't see it?' KIM KITSURAGI - 'See what?' The lieutenant looks around uncomfortably." End ID]

[moonchild9350]

I'll See You in Your Dreams

Summary: You unknowingly summon an incubus after signing your name in an ancient book. Your dreams will never be the same.

Pairing: Incubus Jeongin x fab reader

Genre: Angst, Smut-18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: nightmares, sleep paralysis, coercion, mention of souls, pussy job, multiple cum shots, nipple play, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, squirting, unprotected sex (don't), creampie, mention of blood, mention of death

Notes: This one was took a lot of research as I stuck to the true lore of an incubus with some creative liberties of course. I hope you like this next installment!

If you enjoyed please consider a like, comment, and reblog as it keeps me motivated ♡

Please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2024).

“I wake up with dreams falling from my eyes, and the night sky lingering in my heart, and when the sun forgets to come back for me, I make a home in the dark.” -Sabina Laura

It was a cloudy afternoon, the time of year when the sun hid, the warm rays gone swapped for darkness, the chill in the air enough to make you shiver, pull your sweater closer to your body and do a double take to look in the shadows for things that shouldn’t be.

You and your friend Aerith, decided to take a walk through town, holding cups of coffee from the local cafe in your hands to keep warm. You chattered about this and that, excited for the upcoming season, where your darkest dreams and desires can manifest.

The town was quiet, as most shops were closed, everyone gone home for the day. There was an eerie feel to the town, as darkness slowly closed in and mist began to fall from the sky. You walked and walked and as you got closer to the center of town, Aerith stopped, turning to eye the storefront of a shop.

It was abandoned, dust collecting on the windows, wooden boards plastered across the door to bar anyone from trespassing. The place was once a shop of oddities, selling anything from crystals, to candles, to books on witchcraft. The owners long gone, the shop not doing as well as they wanted in this sleepy town. You missed them being open, as you loved to browse through the shop, your fingers lightly brushing against the wares as you took in the different items.

“Look, there’s a piece of wood missing,” Aerith said, pointing to a gap in the boarded up door. “Let’s go in, see if anything was left behind.”

You considered your friend’s words, wanting to take a peek inside yourself. You’d love to get your hands on some of the items. No one was going to come back and get them.

“Sure, let’s go,” you said, nodding your head as you helped Aerith with the other boards so you could get in.

It didn’t take long, the wood old and on the verge of crumbling at the slightest touch. Dusting your hands off, you both stepped over the threshold into the darkness beyond. The air swirled with dust, the particles dancing around as you made your way further into the shop.

The air was thick and stale, the sound of footsteps of animals who have made their home in the abandoned building could be heard. You looked around, noticing how the displays were tipped over, items lying haphazardly on the counters.

You both looked around, going your separate ways, the only sound heard being your footsteps as your boots touched the rotting floor. You didn’t see anything that caught your eye, insignificant items being the only thing left behind. That is, until you came to the back corner of the shop.

You saw a square item that looked like a book sitting among the dusty shelves. You picked up the book and blew the dust off, so you could read the inscription. You searched, flipping the book over, but found no title. The book was beautiful, or at least it must have been during its prime.

There was an intricate design on the cover, the swirls kissing the edge of the book, giving way to little creatures in each corner. It seemed interesting, so you brought the book to where Aerith was so you could look at it together.

“Check this out,” you said, setting the book down in front of both of you.

“What is it?” Aerith asked, eyeing the book.

“No clue,” you said, “but let’s find out.”

You carefully opened the book to a random page, inscriptions and pictures littering the yellowing paper. You slowly flipped through the pages, reading what seemed to be latin. You stopped at a particular page, the designs catching your eye as well as a picture of a creature with wings.

“What does it say?” Aerith questioned, as she peered at the page, trying to read the words.

“Hmmmm.” You were trying to think back to your latin class that you took long ago, the words a jumbled mess in your brain. However, you were able to successfully translate the passage, a smile on your face in triumph.

It says,

Write your name on the line To enter into your wildest dreams Everything you’ve ever wanted As everything is as it seems

You paused after you finished reading the inscription, curiosity getting the best of you at the meaning of the words.

“So you only write your name on the line and then whatever you dream of should happen?” Aerith asked incredulously.

“Seems like it,” you replied.

“You should write your name down,” Aerith excitedly said. “Let’s see what happens.”

You considered her request. Should you write your name down? Nothing is going to happen anyway, as your dreams actually occurring seems too good to be true.

Thinking ‘fuck it,’ you searched for a pen in your bag. After finding one, you scribbled your name down, the sound of the pen scratching the page echoing throughout the empty shop. Once you were done, you stowed away your pen.

“There, we’ll see if anything happens.”

Aerith nodded her head, a smile on her face at the possibilities.

“Let’s go, it’s getting dark,” you said, noticing the shop was darker, the moonlight filtering in through the door, casting the only light in the shop.

You both made your way out, deciding to head back home, happy at the little adventure you had for the day. You parted ways at your street, saying goodbye, and promises of meeting up again tomorrow lingering in the air.

You walked up the steps to your home, stepping into the warm corridor, your cat Artemis, coming to greet you with a soft meow. You bent down to pet the cat behind the ears before kicking off your shoes and setting your keys down.

Locking your door, you then made your way upstairs to shower, before a cozy night in with your snacks and a good movie. Artemis came to cuddle with you, curling up and falling asleep next to you, his soft purrs warming your heart. It wasn’t long before you felt your eyes get heavy, the exhaustion from the day taking over.

Closing your eyes, you slipped into a deep sleep, letting your dreams take over your mind.

— —

You felt something heavy like an elephant sitting on your chest. The feeling was uncomfortable, causing you to gasp for air. Your eyes snapped open, as you tried to take a deep breath, just to find a creature perched on top of you.

You felt terror deep down as you stared at the thing, your eyes widening as you took in his form. He was well built, with chiseled abs, and a skinny frame. His eyes were as black as obsidian, the whites of his eyes nonexistent. You tried to look away as he stared down at you, not saying a word.

You made to move, but found you couldn’t as you were paralyzed on your back, helplessly staring at the being. He smirked at you, the edge of his lip curling up, revealing sharp teeth underneath.

“Shhh,” the creature said, placing his finger on your lips.

At his touch, you instantly felt warmth throughout your body, a tingling sensation building in your core. You didn’t know why, you couldn’t understand, but you knew you wanted this creature, thing, or whatever it was.

As he trailed his fingers down your face, your neck, your covered breasts, you felt the intensity of your arousal increase, the feeling of the weight on your chest getting worse as your body tried to accommodate the pleasure that you were feeling.

You watched as the man unzipped his pants, pulling out his leaking, hard cock, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Your eye’s widened, or you thought they did, at the sight of it. You felt drool slowly trickle from the side of your mouth as you eyed his cock, angry and red and a perfect length.

He lifted your sleep shirt up, ripped your panties off, and began dragging his cock through your sopping folds, gathering your slick. You could hear your wetness as he repeated the motion again and again, the tip nudging your clit with each stroke.

The pleasure was blinding, the pressure building up within you, nice a warm with in your belly. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t speak, all you could do was feel as the man fucked your folds. You watched as his eyes dilated even further, as he reached to drag his finger down your lip, pushing the digit inside, and pushing down on your tongue, causing you to let out a noise.

Jeongin couldn’t believe his luck, that such a pretty creature was beneath him, your puffy folds swallowing his cock with each thrust. He watched your face as you attempted to move, not being able to do so since you were paralyzed, allowing him to use your sweet body as he pleased.

He slowly gained more energy, feeling slightly revived after siphoning off your soul, bit by bit. That was the key, to not drain you completely, no, he wanted you to be his new toy. He’s to visit day after day, your soul revitalizing him back to full strength.

Jeongin dragged his eyes down from your face to your sweet pussy. You were dripping, your wetness coating his cock, your folds, your thighs. He watched as his engorged tip kissed your pretty clit again and again, imagining the sweet sounds you’d make if you could.

The thought alone sent shivers down his spine, his orgasm approaching fast. He thrusted his hips faster, the sound of your wet pussy echoing throughout the quiet room, helping glide his cock along.

With another thrust, he came, his cum coating your pelvis, the white liquid catching the hairs adorning your nether region, glistening in the moonlight that shown through your windows.

He watched you closely, focusing on your face as he attempted to read your mind. You were in a state of both agony and ecstasy, the feeling of your orgasm within too overwhelming, but unable to move or say anything.

Jeongin smiled, satiated and full. Sweet girls like you had the best souls, the power spreading throughout him, allowing him to return to his full capacity. He would be back, to visit you in your dreams, to taste your sweet soul once more.

He transformed into his natural form, his tail expanding, his wings sprouting from his back, black as the night. He took flight, gazing at your face once more before taking off, a flash at the speed of light, leaving through your open window.

You laid there on your bed, your senses slowly coming back to you. You felt exhausted, not sure why, your memory of what just occurred gone. You began to flex your arms, your legs, the electrifying, tingling feeling spreading throughout as blood returned to them.

You turned on your side, trying to fall back asleep after what you assumed was a nightmare. It didn’t take long for you to succumb to a dreamless sleep, your body exhausted unbeknownst to you because a part of your soul being gone.

The next morning you awoke to your alarm, the shrill sound piercing the room at an ungodly hour. You reached over to turn off the nuisance, as you felt a yawn coming on.

You felt tired, as if you didn’t even sleep last night. Lying in bed, you stared at the ceiling, wishing you could sleep for another hour or two, or the whole day. Blinking a few times, you decided to get up, as unfortunately you had work today.

You made your way through your daily routine, which normally you could finish in no time at all. However, today you felt sluggish, as if you didn’t have the energy you normally had.

You also felt off, a constant tingle in your lower belly, causing arousal to drop from your core into your panties. You didn’t understand as you were just doing regular activities like brushing your hair, eating breakfast.

Before leaving, you had to change your panties as they were soaked. Finally you were ready, even though you felt exhausted and the tingle was ever present.

Your day went by, filled with people bothering you, asking you about this and that. You were ready to go home, as you felt like you were dragging more than usual during your shift. You tried not to look at the clock, keeping yourself occupied with little tasks you’ve been putting off.

Finally the time came, your boss letting you go home. You grabbed your bag and left before she could find another task for you to do. As you walked home, your phone rang, the tune loud in the otherwise quiet crowd. You accepted the call after seeing it was Aerith.

‘Hey! Wanna watch movies and pig out on snacks tonight?’

Normally you’d be ecstatic to have movie night with your best friend, but you wanted to nap, hoping that you’d feel better afterwards.

‘I’m gonna have to pass. I exhausted and I’m gonna nap.’

‘Really? Ok, we’ll have movie night another night then.’

‘Yes please. Maybe this weekend?’

‘You got it babe.’

You hung up and unlocked your door, as you had arrived at your apartment while you were on the phone. Throwing your bag down, you made your way to the couch, collapsing onto the pillows. You closed your eyes, falling asleep instantly.

You felt something crushing you. The feeling felt familiar, as you had a dream similar the other night, your subconscious reminding you of the experience. Your eyes snapped open, as you tried to grasp for breath, but found you were not able to. You blinked once, twice, to see a man hovering above you.

He seemed familiar, from his black eyes, to his beautiful body that was on display. He smiled at you before touching your thighs, his fingers brushing your skin, watching as it pebbled, the hairs raising one by one. The tingling sensation that you have felt all day intensified, almost becoming unbearable.

You tried to move, wanting to wrap your arms around the man, hold him close, as he did what he wanted with your sweet body. However, all you could was stare at him, hoping that he would give you what you wanted.

Jeongin came back to you. He craved you, just as much as you were most likely craving him. Your soul was so pure, filling him with untainted energy. He hooked his fingers within your waistband, his nails scratching your skin, drawing blood. He didn’t take his eyes from yours as he dragged your leggings down your thighs, your legs, until your lower half was freed.

He parted your legs, pushing them up, giving him a view of your sweet pussy. Your slick was present, gushing out of your hole, coating your thighs and folds. Licking his lips, he lowered his head, needing to taste you.

You couldn’t see him anymore, as the man ducked down, bringing his face towards your pussy. You could feel your arousal dripping like a faucet, increased ten fold at the touch of the man. You wanted to scream, whine out as you felt his fingers part your folds, his tongue darting out to lick a long stripe from your entrance to your clit.

You felt dizzy, the heavy feeling in your chest intensifying to the point of suffocation. The man didn’t slow down, but instead sped up, sucking your pudgy clit between his lips, his tongue darting out against it every now and then.

He licked up your arousal, reveling in the taste of you, somewhere between sweet and tangy. With each lick, suck, nip, he siphoned off more of your soul, his energy increasing.

You could feel tears build up in your eyes, the droplets slowly falling from the corners of your eyes as you felt the tingling become overwhelming, the need to cum imminent. If you could move you would be writhing under the man’s hold, wrapping your legs around his head, holding him close to smother him within your thighs.

The man continued to eat you out, his tongue fucking your little hole, licking up every drop of your arousal, the sounds of his groans filling the room. You were close, the electrifying feeling spreading through your legs, your belly, before it snapped, the pleasure so overwhelming, your body trembled within the man’s hold.

Jeongin slurped up your slick as you squirted into his mouth, making sure not to waste one drop. He was well fed, his energy ten fold, his body savoring your soul but also your sweet cum. He licked his lips, gathering your slick that was present there.

Grinning, he pulled out his erect cock. He stroked the hard appendage, once, twice, three times before cumming, the sticky substance coating your belly, your pussy, painting the canvas of your skin.

Jeongin fixed his clothes before sprouting his wings, disappearing before you could fully wake up.

You watched as the man vanished, before you lot out a loud gasp, your body waking up from the nightmare. You weren’t sure what happened, not being able to once more remember your nightmare.

You felt gross, sweat coating your skin. You decided to take a shower, hoping to get rid of the feeling. Getting up, you noticed you still felt exhausted, more so than before you took your nap. You could barely stand, your legs weak, your eyes barely able to stay open.

You made it to the shower nonetheless, using the aid of walls and counters to hold you up. You were able to shower, the warm water feeling like heaven on your sticky skin. You let out a shaky breath, noticing that the tingling ache was still there, but worse.

You felt turned on, craving for someone to touch you, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you. With what little energy you had left, you brought your fingers to your pussy, the digits brushing through your folds to relieve the pressure, your orgasm causing you to shake and moan out, louder than you ever have before.

Despite this, the ache was still there, waiting to be tamed. You didn’t know what was going on, your brain muddled, your body weak.

As the days went on, you did not improve.

You were plagued with nightmares night after night, waking up in a sweat, paralyzed in fear. You still couldn’t remember what occurred during these moments, your mind empty when you wake up from them.

The ache between your legs became insatiable, nothing being able to relieve you. You called out of work each day, claiming you were sick and couldn’t get out of bed, which was not a complete lie. You ignored Aerith’s calls, her voicemails and texts showing more worry as the days went on.

Friday finally came around after a miserable week. The wind was howling, the branches of the trees outside your window tap, tap, tapping on the glass. You could hear the rain, the sound typically soothing causing you to be more on edge. You flinched as the thunder rang out, causing the frame of the house to shake.

You were lying in bed, curled up under your blankets, your breath shaky. You couldn’t remember the last time you were able to eat, not having the energy to get out of bed to do so. You probably smelt sour, not able to make it to the bathroom to take a shower. You had made a makeshift bathroom while you still had to energy to do so.

Your eyes were open, the orbs staring at the window, watching the lightening flash through your curtains. You took breath after breath, as your lungs tried to fill with air. You gripped your blankets, your fingers curling around the soft material, bringing you some comfort in your ailment.

You didn’t move when you heard Aerith enter your apartment, making her presence known by shouting your name. Your eyes traveled to her as she stood in front of you, shock plastered on her face.

“What the hell happened to you?” She exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth.

She has never seen you look so bad. Your eyes sunken in, dark rims surrounding the sockets. You looked ashen and pale, as you took a rattlely breath.

“Aerith…” You whispered, not able to project your voice.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and some food in you, ok? We can talk afterwards.”

You shook your head in agreement, or you thought you did, the action barely noticeable. You watched as your friend moved around your room, tidying up. You could hear the bath running, the scent of your favorite bubble bath filling the room, a welcomed scent to the stale air that you have been inhaling for days.

Aerith took care of you, carefully scrubbing you clean, helping you change into clean clothes. She changed your sheets, putting fresh ones on, while putting the old ones to wash. She helped you back into bed, fluffing the pillows behind you, promising to go make you a warm meal, one that was sure to help you feel better.

You smiled in thanks, hoping the action met your eyes. You were thankful for your friend, as she came to your aid. You sat in bed, bundled under fresh blankets, listening to Aerith bustle around the kitchen, the scent of something tasty drifting through your apartment.

You felt better, clean, more level headed, ready to fill your stomach with food. You still had the ache down below, the feeling never having fully gone away. You tried to ignore it and focus on Aerith, who came into your room with a tray filled with soup.

Setting it down in front of you, you noticed she had made chicken soup, the perfect meal to help you feel better. She watched as you slowly spooned the food into your mouth, bite after bite. You felt warm, the cold feeling slowly dissipating as you filled your belly.

You licked your lips after taking the last bite, setting the spoon down. Despite this, you noticed you still felt exhausted. Aerith took the tray away and then sat down next to you.

“What’s wrong y/n?” She asked, concern in her eyes.

“I’m not sure,” you said, “I started to feel bad beginning last week. Over the last few days I’ve had no energy.”

You paused for a moment, taking a break as speaking even took your breath away.

“I’m just so exhausted Aerith. And I’ve had this ache, it won’t go away.”

You did not mention the nightmares, thinking they were unrelated.

Aerith regarded you for a moment, listening to your words. This seemed more than just an illness, but she wasn’t sure what else it could have been.

You both forgot about your little outing, breaking into the abandoned shop, discovering the book in which you wrote your name. But that did not cross your minds.

“Well rest up ok?” Aerith said, tucking the blankets around you. “I’ll check back in tomorrow.”

You nodded, thanking your friend for her help. You watched as she left your room, listening to the door click signaling her exit. You settled into bed once more, comfortable in the clean linen. You felt your eyes droop, eventually closing once more.

You slept a dreamless sleep, until you felt the heaviness again, signaling you were having a nightmare. Your eyes snapped open, the man above you. You took a breath and noticed you could actually do so, which was different than your other nightmares. You could also move, as you wiggled your toes, your fingers, the digits actually moving at your command.

“Y/n, my darling,” the man’s voice rang out, deep and commanding but yet alluring and sweet like nectar.

“Who are you?” You asked, finally able to ask the question that’s been on your mind for weeks.

“Jeongin, my darling. Now lay back and let me care for your sweet body.”

You relaxed at his touch, the sinews of your muscles releasing one by one allowing you to lay calmly. You eagerly awaited as he rid you of your clothes, your body giving off a glow in the dark room.

You mewled as his fingers brushed over your nipples, down your body until he reached your thighs, continuing until the pad of his thumb placed pressure against your aching clit. You watched as he removed his clothes, in awe of his toned body, his nipples peaked, his chilled abs, his cock that sat against his abdomen, erect and leaking.

Jeongin grasped his cock and brushed it through your folds, coating it in your slick. You awaited with bated breath as he pushed the tip in, your tight walls opening up for his cock. You let out a low moan as he pushed it further, inch by inch within your walls until he reached the hilt.

You were on cloud nine, the ache finally abating as your needs were being taken care of, your walls being split open by his cock. You felt pleasure like you’ve never felt before, as he thrusted into you at a steady pace. Jeongin adjusted his stance, the change allowing the tip to kiss your cervix, causing you to clench around his length.

You reached out, bringing Jeongin close to you, willing him to go deeper within you, your pussy clenching again and again. You were close, this man bringing you closer to your orgasm, your bodies becoming one, as he took you to paradise. With a cry, you came, your arousal leaking out of your pussy, coating Jeongin’s pelvis.

He grinned at your release, knowing that the end was near. He’s glad you were his next victim, the best one yet. He could feel the end of your soul, as what was left was feather thin. He continued to pound into you, groaning as your walls sucked him in, as you creamed around him in your release.

He watched as the light dimmed in your eyes, the orbs becoming more vacant as time went on. You were still breathing, but barely, your chest slowly rising and falling. It was time, to perform the final act, Jeongin feeling his release rear to a head.

With a loud groan he came, coating your walls for the first and last time, the little bit of your soul left drained. He grinned, his fingers brushing your cheek, feeling the chill on your skin. You breathed and then stuttered, your heart beating erratically.

Yes, you were sweet, his most prized victim. He is glad you walked into that shop that one day, found the book and signed away your fate. Jeongin believes your end should be swift, as simple as falling asleep. Yes, he could grant you even that.

Leaning down, he hovered over you, listening to your breaths, as you clung onto life. He pressed his lips onto yours, sealing your fate with a kiss. He felt your body still, your eyes vacant. Your breaths faint, the air barely gracing his face.

He leaned back, admiring his work, memorizing your face, your body one last time before flying away, snuffing out any light that was left in the room.

As you laid in your bed, you stared at the ceiling, your body frozen unable to move. You could barely fill your lungs with air, your heart barely beating. The air became cold around you, like someone left a window open, the cold air chilling your skin.

You rejoiced as the ache was gone, sweet relief after so many days in agony. As a matter of fact, you felt no pain, you felt nothing at all. After a while of gazing at the ceiling, a bright light filled the room, the light warm as if it was the sun itself warming the room. You felt nothing, your body felt light, like it was floating, your mind blank.

As you laid in your bed, you felt at peace, a peace you’ve never felt before, as if everything will be ok. And as you took another shaky breath, your lungs barely expanding, you knew that yes, everything will finally be as it should.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @simpforleeknaur @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @seungfl0wer @velvetmoonlght

[skyrigel]

“The Great War Part-3”

Part 1 || Part 2 || Benjicot masterlist

Pairing: Benjicot “Davos” blackwood x Bracken!reader

~ When mist of past finally clears up and you are faced with an ineffable truth of life, you reach for your darling husband's hand, surviving the great war [ wc : 4.7k]

๑⁠˙⁠❥⁠ 18 + nsfw, p in v ( rough ), missionary position, breeding kink, blood kink, size kink, fingering, c- word used in sexual context, orgasm denial, first time, love confessions, jealousy, confused feelings, poetic subtexts, bad writing?! Proofread

I might write an epilogue someday but this is it, thankyou everyone for reading and following along, also this is for @ihateitheretaylor for our three years of surviving the great war by reaching for each other, love you to the moon and saturn.

Benji's whole face glittered under the weirwood tree, his hand inevitably touching his heart as he saw you.

Your maiden cloak adored in golden and silver embroidery, house's sigil glistening, a red stallion in golden fields, like the strands of your future husband's hair that were blazing against the sun.

His grin absolutely splited his whole face, lines stretching wide as he gazed at you walking towards him with your brother.

“ Who comes ? ” His smile true to his words,

“ Who comes before the gods ? ”

Aeron paused for a moment before he looked at you, his arms brushing your shoulder as he nodded, a tight smile but a smile indeed.

“ Y/n of House Bracken, comes here to wed. A woman trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of gods. Who comes to claim her ? ”

Benji raised his chin, instantly looking back at you like he couldn't get enough and for a fact—he really couldn't

“ Me, Benjicot Davos blackwood of House blackwood, lord of Raventree halls, I claim her.” He winked at you, “ Who gives her ? ”

Aeron took your hand, his smile genuine when he glanced back at you.

“ Aeron Bracken of House Bracken, Brother of lady y/n, son of Lord Amos Bracken.” He turned to you, blinking back the watery haze, you gulped down the lump in your throat.

“ Lady y/n, Do you take this man ? ”

Your face grew warm, and there were many realisations in life, some slow and crashing as waves, some quick and bold as lightning, when you looked back at the man who was going to be your husband, the man you remembered from a long time ago, a distant memory and sometimes as though it was taken from yet another lifetime— his youthful face, bright eyes, chortling laughter that echoed through your soul. So many years gone in punishing him for something he never did, cursing him as you sleep talked.

So when you saw him, it struck you soft as a breeze, hard as a blow; you would love him so much, perhaps you already love him or perhaps there was still time but it will eventually come your way, and you will love him so deeply, so, so much that the oceans would be jealous, you will love him so blazely that the sun would burn in agony, so luminous that the stars would be envious.

That's the way you would love him, and it wouldn't be faith that will tie your hearts and bind your souls today, it will be a choice, his and yours to not be parted, not even death could do so. You smiled, no longer fighting your blush and letting it crimson your cheeks.

“ I take this man.” You said for the all the gods to know, him, who stands here with his goofy smile, too big for his face, him, who calls you darling while you roll your eyes, he's is the one, you would have him.

Benji reached for your hand, joining your souls together through the tips of his fingers, Aeron backed away as you and Benji kneeled against the old gods, head leaned together.

“ I vow to protect you, to honour and love you, to respect and support you, my darling wife.” no yet, He had chosen you already, a very long time ago.

His thumb smeared across your knuckles, voice dripping with sincerest affection.

“ I vow to stand with you, in life and death and what follows after, to be with you in bad nights and good days.”

Your heart was beating too fast, grasping this moment to be forever your reality, it scared you how you had no control, you chose him because there was nothing else you could do—there was going to be no you without him.

A day ago you hated how much he tormented you, hated how much he ached your heart with his sweet honey like words.

And now you hate him how truly alive he could make you feel, like he has set your soul on fire, his laugh booming across the bloodshed while you're reaching for his hand.

“ I will always love you, my lady. In days when I would forget life, breath and myself— i would remember you like an oath.”

Benji pressed his forehead against yours, taking half your misery—half your pain.

“ From this day...” You said along with him, smile tugging at the corner of your lips,

“ till forever falls apart.” Benji smiled, side glancing Aeron and his glea only rippled more.

“ Can I kiss my bride ? ” He asked you, soft as a whisper and you blinked, hands sweaty in his, entwined for lifetimes to come.

“ You may.” You said, closing your eyes and even then you could feel his giddiness that rushed into you, the press of his lips against yours, it wasn't feral, it wasn't bloody, it was as sweet and as gentle, like the poets would say.

Perhaps it was Aeron's throat that cleared itself so loudly that blinked open your eyes, feeling your knees ache in the tendons.

“ You look so beautiful darling.” Benji winked, helping you get up—his tongue caught between his teeths— removing the husk from your gown.

And just like that, he was your man now.

~~~

The wedding was small but the feast that followed was wild, everyone was drunk and happy, it was truly a blackwood and Bracken wedding, one should have seen the smirk that passed between Bracken's when blackwood's pretty girls started serving wine, pouring up to brims with their sweet sly smiles and curvy beautiful bodies.

And ofcourse it wasn't missed how prideful blackwood's were being with their extraordinary arrangements, nose red and tongue loose with alcohol.

“ Bout' time laddie, bout' time—” One of the blackwood knight's chortled, patting his company with enough force to make his food come back on surface, “—should've seen his face...saw him in between bloody battle and oh lordie— should've seen the little Rat, squeezing between,” He made little vague gestures from his greasy hands, “ like a cunty little —”

“ Oh shut up, will you ! ” the said little rat of his tales snapped back at him, his Bracken mates laughing while he fumed with a red face.

“ Amusing, isn't it ? ” Benji leaned to your ear, making you shiver when his mouth grazed your ear shall, “ My heart, my shine, my darling beloved wife.”

“ Very amusing...” You said, turning to him and his beautiful face, pink on his tips, hair sticking to his forehead and a grin only fools in love had, but their on the corner of his mouth sticked a crumb, you shouldn't, really, but then you saw how Raventree hall's ladies saw him, their lusty gazes and seductive smiles, even now, they would bloom like a flower if his drunk sloppy gaze merely sprinkled by, like many realisations that followed today, this was also one of them, the one that wanted to tear away those prying eyes and keep him all to yourself, to burn those heart that desired for him, to ruin those dreams that they staged, he was yours, your husband, your lord, and you were his, his wife, his lady, and when the great war comes, it will be his hand that you will reach for, only his.

“ Here—” You blushed, “ let me.” You smeared away the crumb with the soles of your fingers, smiling a small, you don't remember watching the sun rise in the long time but if anything, it would be the way Benji smiled in that moment, forever mesmerizing.

As if on cue, your golden moment was ruined when Martha came over, she was daughter of lord in court, it was evident with the silk on her body, and her sweet calculated smile, something only courts knew.

“ It is so gracious to meet you, Lady y/n Bracken—”

“ It's lady Blackwood.” Your fork penetrated deeper into meat, “ Now.” you added with a smile, Martha nodded, her jaw hardening.

“ Ofcourse, Lady blackwood.” she tilted her head, fiddling with the chain on her neck, Benji was watching your sloppily, leaning on your shoulder and despite he was quite heavy, you weren't going to tell him that.

“ Congratulations, It is really credible what you did...to tie the two house together, a duty not anyone could do.” She bit her lower lip, shifting her sharp eyes to Benji who was putting more crumbs on his mouth, looking back at you with his chin raised.

You knew where she was getting at, duty and honour, to rub it on your face that this marriage is loveless, that it's just a duty that would end with two or three babes and forever isolation in chambers, but she didn't knew what you did, she didn't know the love that was swirling, had been, for the longest time, since one of these feasts with slurred laughters and nonsensical conservations where you saw each other.

“ Ben...” You pouted, ignoring her forced flashing of teeths, doing away the crumbs on his mouth while he fancied leaning in to kiss your tips, “ I am tired...can we—”

“ Darlin’ me too, shall we ? ”

It took a lot of nerves to not to burst in laughter the way Benji hurriedly got up, almost knocking his elbow in Aeron's face who sighed, but also smiled when he saw you watching your beloved husband.

You wondered where the wine was gone when he hooked your elbows together, all the while Martha hissed under her breath, haughty faced.

“ I wasn't expecting that...” You huffed, glancing at Benji, he was buzzing in excitement, practically floating mid air.

“ I...Martha was actually my first.” He shaked his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose, all colours drained out of your face, your knuckles clenched to bloodless flesh.

“ You know what I mean ? ” He asked, staggering behind you while you increased your pace, blinking back rapidly.

“ Ofcourse I do.” You snapped, not bothering to keep low in the dark of the tower, footsteps echoing through the night.

“ Okay, right...I wanted you to know—”

“ That you slept with another woman ? ” you turned around to him, his body knocked against you and in some other time, it wouldn't matter much, a forehead bump but he was drunk, you were angry, and times were changing, as both of your bodies tumbled down, he caught you by the waist, shifting you on top of him, a loud thud and soft ‘oof’ and a whimpered groan that was your own.

“ Are you okay, darling wife ? ” You pushed back the hair that crept out of your braid before you looked at him, propped on his elbows rested back, you shifted aside, letting your body fall next to him on the hard cold floor.

“ Yeah...you ? ”

Instead of answering you, Benji snorted first and then an absolute wave enveloped him, he was crackling with laughter, chest shaking as he glanced at you, turning away to clutch at his chest.

“ What's so funny ? ” You raised your brow, he shaked his head, taking the gods name in vain.

“ Oh Darling...” He flipped to your side, face to face as his eyes crinkled, watering at the sides, face flushed with rosiness and devil taking over his mouth. Soft and warm and pink.

“ You,” He whispered to you, taking your chin between your fingers and raising it towards him, “ are all the more breathtaking when you're jealous.” and here it was, the word, the feeling that roared like a monster on loose to destroy anyone who as so looked at Benji, a very feral twisting of heart.

“ No.” You lied, He shaked his head, leaning in, breath sweet and warm, you knew what that mouth was capable of, to kiss him was confetti bursting in your mind.

“ Liar.” He declared, gazing into your eyes and an ineffable pull broke lose, your lashes fluttered and the next moment he was kissing you and you were kissing him back.

The feral beast inside you said, devour him, make him yours, let him forget all the ones that came and gone, let it be you, only you.

You never knew how something could be more precious than air, a stiffled whine escaped your throat as he pulled away, catching a breath, grin dancing around his mouth, teasing you to catch — you weren't the one to turn down mockery, grabbing the side of his face and pulling him to you.

“ Oh my love...” He hummed inside your mouth, battling you for domination, tongue swiping across your lower lip.

He slided his hand in under your thigh, pulling you to his lap, he was dazed and drunk but in that moment, nothing could be sober more, when he picked you up from the floor without breaking a sweat and only sticking his tongue out when you watched him wide eyed.

“ I hate you.” You said, the feeling that clenched inside you was same as that unsettling tug in your navel when you spent your nights dreaming about him, when you touched his bloodied face, when you tasted his blood on your finger tips, it left it's mark, your thighs weak at the sensation that pulled inside your spine.

“ I can drop you.” He swayed your body in his arms, taking the stairs one at a time.

“ You won't.”

He smiled, “ No, I won't.”

Your face grew warm when two servants giggled softly, opening the door of his chambers or now—yours too.

It felt natural to be in his arms and to kiss him, like you had known him and this intimacy from ages ago and it baffled you how you had lived so far without starving to death without him.

“ Are you comfortable or is it just because we are married ? ” He asked, face illuminated by the moonish glow.

“ I..does it matter ? ”

“ Yes darling, it does...I want you to be happy, to be safe with me...I want you to know that we want this together.”

“ I want this.” You told him, not blinking as Benji's smile reached his eyes.

“ I love you.” He kissed your nose tip, pulling back expectantly but you only stared back, your heart heavy in your ribs.

You do, you know it, or well you will, it's going to happen and no matter what, it won't change, but deep inside, you didn't know how to form it in words, to say it and not feel sorry, to say it and erase back the years you gaslighted yourself into hating him.

“ I...” You breathed, and he understood, knew you like he was half your soul, his smile was small but he showed no sadness.

“ You don't have to say it back darling.”

And how could you not say it, the way you knew how much your heart would bleed from his love, flowing down your chambers to dripping through your veins, how much you love him, he was summer to your bleaking heart.

“ If I don't say it back, would you still love me ? ”

“ Darling.” He sat down gently in front of you, stroking your cheek as his gaze dropped to your lips, pulling it back to worship your eyes.

“ If you don't say it back then I will say it again, then we'll be even.” and the smile that tugged on both of your faces was worth every great war.

“ You are my first.” you told him shyly, hoping he understood or you were about to die out of shame.

But Benji just about died, his eyes flickered and raked you in, he had bowed, biting his lower lip while nodding.

“ Okay..okay..right.” He smiled, “ Fuck, I will be gentle baby.” His mouth twitched in a grin.

“ you must've had lot's of experiences.” you laughed, it came little bitter but Benji shaked his head, taking your hands and guiding them to his face, he looked cute, face cupped by your hands, your wedding band shinning.

“ I've slept with women but I never made love to them, it's my first time too.”

“oh.”

You lowered your gaze, Benji's touch was like fire, a wild feral flame erupting around you and you craved him, craved to get burnt by him, He softly raised your chin, and his eyes raised in a question.

“ I am not tired...if you're not.” You added quickly, feeling your nerves snap, were you too desperate, would it be bad if you were ?

Because this was your first time and so was his, making love, yes, to make love with your bloody feral husband, to touch him, to feel him, to have him, to keep him.

The way Benji's brow knitted together had you gasping for breath, you would take his refusal if it were that but you waited for so long, that the possibility of tommorow doesn't amuse you, to wait seemed torment.

“ Is that dress too heavy Darling wife ? ” and damn, you could die like that.

~~~

Those treacherous fingers weaved through the back of your dress, knots opening and with each moment he was closer.

You watched his reflection, he would occasionally glance, his blush breezing on his face as he wouldduck down to place a sloppy kiss wherever he liked, but when he looked up with that blazing look in his eyes, you knew it was done, you gave him a tilt of your head, face mere inches apart.

“ I want you....”

And so it goes, his heavy lidded eyes drank you in, his fingers moving your dress down until it fell down in a puddle of pastry around your ankles.

Benji grabbed your waist, he was going senseless in his brain, he couldn't think anything, his brain was short circuiting at all the things he would do to you.

Your back pressed against the soft silks as he climbed over you, his guard discarded somewhere, his chest bare and gleaming.

You breathed but Benji was breathless, mouth agape at your beauty, slowly his hands roamed around your shoulder, kissing every inch and praying to old gods and new because he didn't deserve you, you were all pretty things, bright and shine and him ?

Blood, chaos and thunder.

“ Oh my...oh darling—” His hands trembled, the need to mark you down like a blood stain and the urge to protect you like a dog.

To carve your pretty body and to bruise you blue and claim you all, it was confusing. And romantic. And very much turning him on.

“ Fuck ! ” He growled, your nipples were hard under his thumb and the pleading look you had in your eyes, he wanted to tease you, to make you beg on your knees and get it what you wanted but he was just a man, wild or lunatic, just a man who loved his wife so much, how could he refuse you anything even if it were the moon, he would steal a dragon and fly so high to give you what you wanted, to make true every wish, every dream you had, to fulfil you completely.

All breath was knocked out of you when Benji lowered his mouth, licking the skin of your breast and looking up for approval.

You whimpered at the sensation that practically had you shivering, your knees weakened as his tongue teased your hardened bud, wet and drooling mouth, placing hot kisses.

“ Please, please...Ben—” you tugged at his hair, he was sucking at plump flesh, his other hand rubbing your thigh, heating your whole body up.

“ What ? ” He said, strangled and needy despite trying to be the one to be incharge.

“ Ben... Please—” you heaved, pulling him to you but he pulled away, looking into you eyes and you saw how bloody bastard he could be sometimes when he wanted to be.

“ Darling...” You pouted, and he was just a man, gone before the words even made it out, his fingers teasing your entrance before he placed a kiss on your heart and took your tits in his mouth, humming like a starved man.

Heaven was an utopia concept that Septa talked about, but really, Septa never had made love because this is what it truly felt like, in his arms, in his bed.

Your moans filled the night as his teeth digged in your flesh, Benji was trying his best, the way he tried to stop kneading your breast too fast but ended up fisting it roughly between his palm, softening the pain with the sweet nothings he whispered.

“ How pretty...how soft..mmmm.” He nuzzled closer, you liked him that way, his hands rough, his words soft.

Your hands inevitably reached down between your legs and you just about felt the slickyness before he grabbed your wrist, pulling it back with a devilish grin.

“ Darling, no.” He kissed your finger tips and smiled, poking his tongue out to lick away the white thick juice that calloused your tip.

Whatever he did was enough to untie the knot in your stomach, your pit lurched like sea waves and wanted to crash the shore so badly that you would die begging him.

“Oh darling, how feral you are ? ” He teased, pinning your wrists above your head, his whole body pressing you down, placing a hard kiss on your mouth, squeezing your lips and sucking them dry.

All the while his knee socket digged between your thighs and like you were born to do it, you started moving along as the pressure built up, sparks flying.

“ c'mon, c'mon...do you want a kiss ? ” His jaw slackened as you grew your pace, hips buckling at the intensity and he was kind of very impressed, enough to smile down at your blue and purple bruising bod, releasing your torment.

His fingers only waited a moment before he was knuckles deep, your breath hitched and moans ribbed apart your throat.

“ Benji, oh lord..ah..mm” you hoped he heard the ‘ I love you's ’ you were chanting for him.

“ You're so wet for me...so wet baby.” His mouth dropped to kiss a mole on your tummy, all the while penetrate his finger deeper and then one became two, immediately having your back arch, hips buckling as two turned to three, digging inside you, huffing when he angled them in a way that had you closing your eyes and lose yourself to him.

“So tight for me darling.” You opened your eyes to find his lips on your ear shell, whispering it down to you and his fist inside you, just basking in your warm tight cunt.

“ Benji... darling...” Your face crumbled as tears rolled down, and a greater woman wouldn't beg but you would do anything to have him take you, anything.

You looked just in time as Benji climbed on top of you, his arm on top your head that propped him up so he didn't crush you down.

His fingers glided back from your folds before something thicker than his finger touched your clit.

“Oh.... dear lord.” your chest raised at the heavy intake of air, but He was massive and hard for you, his shaft angry at the unattention.

“Just the tip darling.” He pecked your swollen lips, a droplet of blood sat atop, curtsy by him that he gladly tasted, “sweet.”

You remembered thinking Benji wasn't a liar but in that fucking moment, he was the biggest liar to ever lie, his length pushing down and getting lost in your folds.

You glanced between you and him and shuddered at the thought of being split open by his cock, half his length shining and struggling to wrap inside you.

“ Fuck—” He cursed, “ Your tight pussy I-isn't letting em' in.”

Your thighs ached as he pried them apart for more access, his face red and breaking sweat. He managed to go ball-deep inside you, proud tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“ Benji...” You whimpered, face blotchy with tears that spilled while he kept telling you, it was just the tip and if anything, saying darling wife after every word.

The feeling of freefall, that comes after flying high and higher and not bothering friction and gravitation that pulls, it was just like that, when Ben looked into your eyes before his first thrust inside you, you were flying in the sky with him.

One thrust — and you were falling, your body wasn't your own and it was shearing, it was gleaful, it was infinite.

Your insides clenched as he pushed more, then more and each time his nerves popped harder on his neck, his eyes clenched closer to heaven but he would open them again, using his free hand that wasn't opening your legs to wipe away the tears that streamed down your face, relishing in your soft moaning that screamed his name.

Four thrust down and his restraints broke the chains, he was no longer in control, pounding inside you and all he could do was keep telling you how good you were.

He was bloody, the way he grabbed your arse cheeks to slam his entire length in, spiralling your whole world, bruising you blue.

“ Darling, so good...so good for me.” just when he pulled out only to thrust back in your swollen cunt again, balls deep in your sweet cunt and liar said just the tip.

“ Just like that...mmm..yeah.” just when you thought you were about to split open, with stars in your eyes.

“ Baby love...I love you...I love you.” and his feral took a peak when he leaned to pin your shoulders down, you were fighting for realease but he kept telling you not yet, not now.

“ Benny please...” You cried, but you can take that, you were being so good, such a nice doll to him.

“ I love you...oh my darling, love you so much...let me fill you with my babes..” He moaned out. “ Darling—” he croaked, thrusting harder inside you, the bed shook with his pounding, his face another blissful sight but even through the daze, he wouldn't stop gawking at you, watching you moan on his cock, all your sweet nothings just for him.

“ please... darling, let me see you carry our baby...”

And you had no say before your insides were filled with his juices, warmness spreading inside and out and everything melted in a slow daze and perhaps that's chaos.

The way you came on his cock, silvery misty substance mixing with his own and he dropped his face next to you, sniffing your sweet sweaty hair and placing a soft kiss.

“ That was...” He trailed, shifting his weight next to you and you felt breath rushing in your chest, “....so good baby.”

“ hmmm...” You closed your eyes letting the moment sink, when his arm came and wrapped around your waist then spooning your whole body.

“ My sweet love.” He said, out of nowhere and time passed, your naked bodies tangled in each other, drifting in a peaceful sleep.

~~~

It was one of those dreams, his face dripping with blood, yours or his, you didn't know but the urge to touch him was forevermore.

But then the reality struck you and with more convincing you opened your eyes to moonlight lighting his whole face.

His nose was nuzzled in the crook of your neck and his innocence brighter in the sky full of stars.

His sweet warm mouth drooling over your chest, a bead of his drool cooling your skin.

And the urge was sudden, like lightening when you smiled at your beloved husband.

“ Benji...” you whispered and he didn't move, sleeping and snoring softly.

“ Ben....” you tried again, ofcourse there was tommorow awaiting, but your heart said speak now.

“ huh.” He sleepily hummed, smearing his cheek on your warm body, smiling dopily like it was a very sweet dream.

You smiled, forever remembering the memory when you reached for his hand, entwinng your fingers together.

“ I love you.” You said, “ I love you so much darling.”

And just like that, you survived the great war.

Navigation

[itsswritten]

gone. | 2

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Slight angst, unrequited love, fluff, reconciliation, kind of miscommunication.

Summary: Sometimes it take's heartbreak to move on.

<< Previous Part

The voice beckoned to him like a siren's call, pulling Azriel through the familiar halls of the house in a daze. His shadows moved with urgency, some darting ahead while others tugged at their master, urging him to quicken his pace.

There was a small part of him that knew why they were behaving in such a way, but there was a sinking feeling that came with that revelation. 

Azriel felt as though he had forgotten how to breathe when he finally laid eyes on you.

Of course it was your melodic voice that had drawn him.

Caught in a bear hug by Cassian, you were lifted off the ground and spun around amidst the joyful chaos of your friends who had gathered in the foyer of the River House to greet you. You had returned at last. Your laughter rippled through the house, filling it with a warmth that had been dearly missed.

Six months had passed.

Six agonising months. 182 days.

Azriel had been counting every single one since the moment you departed after Solstice.

The day after your departure, Rhys had declared that you had been sent on an urgent undercover mission to the continent. It was a mission originally briefed for both you and Azriel, but in the span of mere hours since your last interaction with the Shadowsinger, the plan had shifted. To Azriel's dismay, Rhys had approved your solo assignment.

Azriel had argued vehemently with Rhys that day, his frustration boiling over until he was blue in the face. But Rhys remained steadfast, unwilling to change his decision or disclose your whereabouts. Azriel knew deep down that you had been sent alone because of him, that you had chosen a means to escape from the pain he had caused you, and the weight of that knowledge only added to his self-hatred.

After you left him in the library that night, Azriel had desperately searched for you, his heart heavy with regret. He wanted to speak with you, to mend the fractured pieces of your friendship. But despite his efforts, you remained elusive, slipping through his fingers like mist.

Even his shadows, loyal companions that they were, failed to locate you. Always returning empty-handed. It was as though you had vanished into the night, leaving Azriel to grapple with his own turmoil alone. He knew his shadows wouldn't divulge your whereabouts even if they found you; their allegiance to you had always been unwavering.

Their disobedience was a punishment he deserved. You didn’t owe him anything more than you had already shared. You had already revealed your heart to him.

And your heart wasn’t something he ever imagined being worthy of.

So he pleaded with his shadows then, if they wouldn’t tell him where you were that they must promise to keep you safe.

And with that several tendrils left him, not hesitating with their duty.

Though the end of your mission was anticipated, the exact date of your return remained uncertain. Due to the covert nature of your assignment, communication had been scarce. Yet, every now and then, a note bearing your unmistakable perfect handwriting would appear in the dining room.

Safe. It would reassure.

And for a brief moment your family would ease from their worries, Azriel though, remained on edge, his concerns never truly leaving.

Frozen in place, Azriel watched as tears of joy flowed freely from his family's eyes, overwhelmed by your homecoming. Despite the trials you had undoubtedly faced, you appeared radiant, a sun-kissed glow gracing your skin that perhaps spoke subtly of where you may have been stationed on your journey.

Azriel’s eyes slowly moved over your features, his gaze taking in every inch of you. Devouring this moment and saving it somewhere deep in his mind, because this version of you he didn’t deserve. He felt unworthy of the sight before him, fearing that you would never want to share this radiant version of yourself with him.

His throat tightened as your face turned to him, catching him lurking with his shadows in the corner. His companions that had accompanied you through your time away, quickly returned to their master, fluttering quickly to be amongst the others, seeking approval that they’d done their job. That they’d kept you safe.

But Azriel couldn’t even bask in their return as he stared at you. Azriel was terrified, terrified of what expression would bore your face when you saw him. He had caused you so much pain, surely you detested him? But instead your expression became bright and your smile spread wider at the sight of him.

Azriel dared not trust his heart to continue beating if your expression had reflected true hatred. It was a fear that had haunted his every dream since the day you departed, a relentless torment that gripped him. So when your expression softened into that smile that reached your eyes he felt himself slump in relief.

In the six months of your absence, something within him had changed. Your confession, with your absence, had lifted a veil that had clouded his vision for far too long.

With you no longer by his side, Azriel had felt the void you left behind keenly. He had always held you in the highest regard, placing you on a pedestal that he believed himself unworthy to approach. There were times he had even considered himself unworthy of your friendship, which was why he cherished you so dearly. But your confession to him, had shattered the barriers he had erected, revealing how the depth of his own self-worth had brought blindness to himself.

And in turn, caused you so much pain.

“Azriel.” You smiled softly, tilting your head as you took in your best friend. Despite the turmoil churning within him, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope stir in his chest at the sight of you.

You’re not sure you’d seen him look so broken in all your centuries of knowing him, and there was a twang of guilt that surged through your chest. With two quick strides you moved to him, knowing he was too respectful to cross that boundary himself. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a warm embrace.

For a moment, he simply allowed himself to bask in the comfort of your presence, the familiar scent of you filling his senses and calming the anxiety raging within him. It took a while for him to trust his movements, before he let his arms wrap around your back, fully sinking into your warmth and hold.

His heartbeat was loud, fast and fluttering. Concern filled the outer corners of your mind as you felt your friend's composure falter, how rare it was to see him this way.

Drawing back gently, you met the gaze of your friend. His eyes, a mesmerising hazel, held a sadness within them that made your heart ache. His long lashes fluttered with each blink, and his jaw was pulled tightly as if not trusting himself to speak.

You couldn’t help but indulge in his beauty for a moment, as sad as he may have looked. Azriel had always looked like he’d been carved by the gods, so painstakingly beautiful. It had been so easy to fall for this face, and you had to be careful to not do it again.

When you left, things had reached a breaking point. It felt less like a departure and more like an escape—a desperate bid to flee from the shattered remnants of your heart and friendship. True, the mission loomed ahead, a joint task that was supposed to be with Azriel, and was still a month away. But facing him, working side by side after his rejection, seemed an unimaginable task. So you made the choice to run, to seize control for yourself.

So you ran away that night. Stealing the reports from Rhys’s office was a risky move, but it felt like the only option. You had to do this alone. You had sent a mental message to Rhys of your choice, he didn’t once force you to return. Despite your actions being so unlike yourself, perhaps it was the raw vulnerability he had witnessed in the hallway that night that steered his hand in giving you this control. Instead, Rhys supported your decision, expecting you to stay in touch and made you promise you would let them know if you needed help.

But that time and space was exactly what you needed. Those six months became a transformation. At first, the weight of your heart was heavy. The bitterness of rejection, a constant companion, thoughts of Azriel and Elain often haunted your daydreaming and nights. 

Yet, with time, you found comfort in solitude. You had learned to embrace the stillness, confront the pain and eventually allow yourself the space to heal. Your day-to-day tasks of stealth, stalking and slaughtering was also a welcomed distraction, but in the midst of some close encounters it really did give you a new perspective.

That even though your romantic feelings towards Azriel may have been rejected, you still refused to let that fracture your friendship. You realised you would much rather suffer a little, to ensure your friends happiness even if that wasn’t with you.

Sacrificing your own desires for Azriel felt like a small price to pay.

For Azriel deserved nothing less than that. Out of all your family, your brooding friend truly deserved the most. And if Elain was the key to his happiness, then you would embrace her presence in his life, even as it stirred heartbreak within you.

And instead you would be grateful for the parts of him you did get to have– his laughter, his counsel, his friendship.

Because a life without Azriel, wasn’t a life you wanted to live.

Azriel found himself captivated by your gaze, drawn into the depths of your eyes after so long apart. There was a sadness etched into his features that caused your brows to furrow sympathetically. With a tender hand, you reached out, your hand finding its way to his cheek. The gentle pressure of your touch– something he had longed for so deeply in these months apart, made his eyes close briefly, a shaky exhale escaping his lips in response.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that” you whispered, pulling a soft smile onto your lips hoping your optimism in this would give him the reassurance he needed. It dawned on you then, the toll your abrupt departure and heartfelt confession might have taken on him. How you should have known he would spiral into self-blame. 

Azriel's throat tightened with emotion as he struggled to find the right words to express his own feelings. "Gods, I have missed you," he finally whispered, his voice laced with a softness as he met your gaze, his hands were on your waist now and he was completely lost in you. 

Lost in that beautiful glowing smile you had so kindly shared with him.

He needed to speak with you, needed to apologise, needed to try and repair the damage he had unknowingly caused. Explain to you how he was the foolish one, admit he had been blind not only to you but his own feelings. But before he could even phantom how he would express all that, Mor was quick to tug you away.

“How come he gets that kind of welcome? I want more of you!” Mor whined, her tone teasing as she looped her arm around yours.

It was clear Rhys had kept to your word on not sharing your true reason for a hasty escape. No, that was something between you and Azriel only.

And even though your family had noticed a shift with Azriel during your absence, they chalked it up to only missing you. 

❊

Your reunion with your family was filled with laughter and chatter as they eagerly filled you in on everything you had missed during your absence. 6 months to Fae, in the grand scheme of things was such a small amount of time, but your life, your family dynamic was so different now that you felt as though you had missed so much. They seemed to take turns vying for your attention, each craving a moment in your company. Mor was the first to claim her spot, promptly sprawling across your lap, her hair cascading around her as she regaled you with tales of the latest gossip from Rita’s.

Next came Nyx, rousing from his nap to claim his turn on your lap. As you held him, a mixture of joy and sadness swirled within you, struck by how rapidly he was growing and how much you felt you had missed. Then it was Cassian's turn, settling on the floor between your legs with his wings spread awkwardly to either side of your chair. Apparently, you were the only one who could braid his hair gently enough, as Nesta was too harsh he had told you before sending his mate a glare which she ignored with an eye roll.

Your fingers moved with practised ease as they threaded through his locks, weaving them into two neat plaits while the voices of your family filled the room. Amidst the chatter, one name struck a chord within you, causing you to momentarily freeze.

“So yeah, Elain moved in with Lucien about four months ago,” Feyre continued, unaware of the effect her words had on you. “They’re living in Day Court now, but I’ll make sure to send word to her about your return. She’ll be so happy to know you’re back.”

Your gaze involuntarily drifted towards the Shadowsinger, who had been silent since your arrival but now fixed his intense stare on you. Confusion swirled within you. While you were aware of Lucien and Elain's bond, and you couldn't deny the strength of any mating bond, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more between her and Azriel.

Wasn’t there?

If there wasn’t, what had you walked in on all those months ago?

"I swear they’ll be tying the knot soon, absolutely besotted with each other," Feyre exclaimed with a radiant smile.

"That's wonderful news, Fey. I'm genuinely happy for them. Perhaps we should plan a trip to visit them in Day soon," you suggested.

"Oh, count me in!" Mor chimed in enthusiastically. "And a chance to see Helion again wouldn't hurt," she added with a playful purr, eliciting an eye roll from you as you finished braiding Cassian's hair.

“Get the chance to have any fun on your trip?” Mor continued, shooting you a teasing look.

“Trip?” You scoffed. “It was a high-stakes mission, not some holiday.”

“No time for any kind of fun at all then?” She pouted. You knew exactly what she was implying.

You hesitated for a moment, you could feel his eyes on you. As if anticipating your answer. Azriel’s gaze hadn’t left you since you’d arrived, and if you didn’t know him so well you might have considered it unsettling. 

But you hadn't had any fun. As Mor liked to call it. Not that there hadn't been a few opportunities to seek the warmth of someones bed, but the calling to do so never came.

“No fun for me.” You ignored his gaze, tilting your head “Sadly.” you added. 

“Shame, I was really hoping for some juicy insights of your escapades.” Mor sang.

The conversation veered toward planning a long-overdue night out at Rita’s, and you let your friends debate whether it should be exclusively a girls' night, with Cassian humorously advocating for his inclusion.

Seizing a moment while your friends were engrossed in their discussion, you quietly rose from your seat and made your way toward the Shadowsinger, who observed you with an unreadable expression. Offering him a gentle smile, you gestured for him to follow you out of the room.

Your departure went unnoticed by the rest of your family, a testament to your usual stealthy movements. There was a reason you and Azriel were usually paired together on missions, always so silent and unseen. But, you felt a sense of urgency in having this conversation with Azriel, especially after six long months.

Out in the garden, the setting sun bathed the surroundings in a golden hue, casting warm light over the grass and flowers. You noticed here Elain's absence more, the garden not as vibrant without her green-fingered touch.

You settled onto a bench, closing your eyes momentarily to bask in the sun's rays kissing your face. Azriel could have just stayed in that moment indefinitely, captured by the soft expression on your face that basked under the sunlight. He moved quietly beside you, the proximity of you was something he had missed and it was taking every control he had not to hug you again.

And was it only a hug he wanted?

Either way he still felt unworthy of your touch.

“I think we should probably talk…” you chuckled sheepishly, suddenly feeling slightly awkward but you faced him, and he replied with a nod.

There were words brewing inside Azriel, thoughts and feelings he had only recently come to terms with in your absence. But before he could find the courage to speak, you surprised him with an unexpected apology.

“I’m really sorry Az.”

Azriel began to shake his head. He was confused, you had nothing to be sorry for.

“Az, please, let me say my piece,” you insisted, your hands finding his on his lap. Your touch sent a shiver down his spine as your thumb traced over the scars on his hands. “It was unfair of me. I’ve realised that now. The position I put you in.”

Azriel shook his head gently, but you pressed on, your gaze drifting to the sky as you cringed a little when reflecting on your confession you had dramatically spilled to Azriel all those months ago. “The expectations I had for you, expecting you to return my feelings when I had never even made my affection clear—it was unfair.”

“Y/n…” Azriel murmured softly, disbelief colouring his voice.

“It’s my fault for not being honest,” you continued, a self-deprecating laugh escaping your lips. “How can I expect someone to return my feelings if I don’t make them known? So silly of me, really.”

You squeezed his hands gently, and Azriel felt a tug at his heart as he listened to your words. “And I realised when I was away that it was okay if you didn’t feel the same. If you wanted someone else. Whether that be Elain…” You trailed off, acknowledging that perhaps that wasn't to be Azriel's fate anymore. “Or someone else entirely. As long as they made you happy.”

“Because truly, that’s all I want. And it’s genuinely what you deserve.”

Azriel was at a loss for words, his mind racing. This wasn’t how he had expected this conversation to go. No, he thought it would be a chance for him to be honest, but as he looked at you, so radiant and at peace he couldn’t bring himself to selfishly express his deepest desires.

Didn’t dare to disrupt the healing you had clearly worked so hard on.

“You’re so wonderful, Azriel,” you beamed, holding his hands tightly. “So wonderful that I’m just grateful for a part of you. This part of you—the part where we’re best friends.”

“So what do you say Az, best friends again?”

He saw it then, the slight fear in your eyes that he might reject this too. So he buried whatever feelings had creeped up these past months, assuring himself too that even just a small part of you was all he needed.

“Always.” A smile spread on his lips gently, and he watched as the shaky breath you’d been keeping in left your lips. You laughed softly before pouncing on the Shadowsinger, hugging him tightly.

This would be enough, he told himself.

This was all you needed, you told yourself.

Who would have guessed you'd both become a pair of liars.

Final Part >>

a/n: oh wait sorry, was this the second part you wanted...wait no, you wanted them to get together??....hmmm you might just have to wait and see ;) but I promise I'll try give you the resolution you want! - Lottie

Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass@alittlelostalittlefound-blog@milswrites@amberlynn98@marscardigan @illyrianbitch

[charliemwrites]

A reader x Simon commission piece I just recently finished for my sweet bean N.W. I had a lot of fun writing a little scenario I never would have thought up on my own!

(Reader is described with FAB anatomy, but no gendered pronouns are used. No sensitive content warnings, just spice.)

It’s a perfect day.

The sun is a bright golden marble in a perfect jewel sky, toasting the sand into a powdery bed. There are only wisps of flossy cloud to interrupt the light, a feathery salt-soaked breeze to soften the edge of heat. The water is nothing but lazy ripples, foamy waves crawling up the coastline before slithering back.

And your coworker is soaking wet.

When you first signed on as a lifeguard, you didn’t expect more than some extra pocket money. A little financial cushion while you finished working through your master’s program. A chance to get some sunshine instead of holing up in your room. Maybe the occasional bit of eye candy while you fished children out of the shallows and fussed at families for littering around the barbecue grills.

You didn’t expect Simon “Walking Wet Dream” Riley. (Okay, that’s not his actual nickname – apparently it’s “Ghost.” Because of course it is.) You didn’t expect his big, fuck-off muscles, or his perfect sun-bleached hair, or the dark ink of his tattoos, or…

Well.

You got more than just eye candy when Mister Price hired you. Simon is a whole damn feast. Especially when he’s fresh from a cool-down swim, red trunks weighed down by water and tides, revealing the tantalizing curves of his hips. Droplets skittering over the bulges and divots of his body, sparkling in the sun…

“Excuse me?”

You try not to jolt, head jerking to the guy that hopefully hasn’t been standing there too long. He looks about your age, maybe a bit older. Wavy, chin-length brown hair and eyes nearly as blue as the water. Pretty, in a young Instagram prince kind of way. Maybe your type in another time – the time Before Simon.

“Hi,” you say quickly, “did you need something?”

“Do you have any plasters?” he asks. “My little brother scraped his knee.”

You glance at the kid shuffling just behind him, his knees dirtied and one red with a bit of blood. Nothing serious, you determine, but could use some first aid.

“Oh, poor thing!” you say. “C’mon, we have some bandages in the shack.”

You wave to get Simon’s attention, make the quick hand-sign indicating you’ll be gone for a moment. He notices you, the two boys, then nods and makes his way back to his usual lookout spot.

The shack is a quiet, cool oasis away from the heat. You’ve dozed off next to the mist fan more times than you care to admit, only to be woken by Simon pressing a cold water bottle to your cheek. It used to annoy you, but now you appreciate the reminder to hydrate.

There’s a robust first aid kit in one of the cabinets, though you groan a bit when you see how high Simon’s stashed it this time. Damned tall man; you could swear he does it on purpose. You try to reach it on your toes, but when that doesn’t work, you jump a bit. Still no luck. You’re going to have to get the stepstool at this rate.

“Here, I’ve got it.”

You jump a bit as Insta-Prince comes up behind you, sliding in close before you can scoot out of the way. He stretches his arm over your head, tugging the kit down from the shelf. When you glance up – concerned about something falling on you – you find him smirking down at you.

“Thanks,” you say trying not to snatch it out of his hands.

“Seems like an… inconvenient place to put that,” he muses.

You sit the younger brother on a plastic chair near the door and kneel, kit open on the floor. “We usually keep it lower… I think Simon forgets I’m shorter than him.”

The kid winces a bit at the sting of wound wash but puts on a brave face when you smile at him.

“Seems pretty rude. Is he hard to work with?” Insta-Prince asks.

You hesitate, trying to think of how to respond. Simon was intimidating, at first. Dark eyes and stoic expression, he was difficult to read. Always within a stone’s throw, you used to feel like he was hovering. Like he didn’t think you could do your job right.

Over the months, though, that insecurity has bridged into a tentative friendship. Even if he’s not talkative himself, he lets you chat to your heart’s content. Keeps you hydrated, reminds you to eat snacks and apply sunscreen. Even handles the rowdier beachgoers when they break rules, his bigger stature and sharp glare enough to cow even the most entitled people.

“No, he’s—”

“What’s the hold up?”

You glance up at Simon’s broad form angled in the shack’s doorway. His eyes aren’t on you or the kid, though. They’re on Insta-Prince – standing a little close to you, now that you’re not focused on the younger brother.

“Just finishing up,” you answer, smoothing a waterproof bandage over the scrape. “You did great, buddy, high five!”

That earns you a little smile and the requested high-five as the kid hops out of the chair. When you stand, Simon’s eyes flick to you. Darker than deep water, something swimming within that you can discern from the surface. It makes you fidgety, like you’ve been caught out doing something you shouldn’t.

“Remember to log it,” he rumbles.

“On it!” You lean over the wooden counter to pluck the clipboard from the wall on the other side, relieved that someone put the pen back for once.

“So, you have to write down all the injuries people get?” Insta-Prince asks, trying for casual conversation. The air feels oddly stifling, and gets worse when he settles closer, peeking around to see the sheet.

“Just if we use medical supplies,” you answer, scribbling quickly.

“Lifeguards only in the shack, kid,” Simon interrupts. “Get moving.”

You try not to snort in amusement. While Simon might tolerate you, he’s got a general disdain for most beachgoers – ironic considering how adamant he is about safety. But he seems to find the average person a nuisance to be constantly monitored and herded away from trouble. Like a shepherd with a flock of particularly stupid sheep.

“My brother was hurt, man, give me a break,” Insta-Prince protests, annoyed.

“And now he’s not,” Simon replies. “You should catch up with him. Kids need to be watched, isn’t that right, sunshine?”

You hum absently in agreement, signing off on the injury log with your initials. There’s a beat of silence that itches at the back of your mind. When you look up, Simon’s arching an eyebrow at the guy, thick arms crossed across his barrel chest.

Sir, firearms are not allowed on the beach, you think, before wrenching your eyes from Simon’s biceps.

“Did you need anything else?” you ask Insta-Prince.

“Just what time you get off work,” he replies, giving you big, soft, hopeful eyes.

You blink, a bit shocked. Flirting happens rarely for you, except maybe platonically with Soap or Gaz. To be fair, you’re not exactly the female lifeguard idol that most people would fantasize about. Half the time you jog around in shorts and a rash-guard, more comfortable in unisex swimwear and keeping the worst of the sun off yourself. Helpful to avoid wardrobe malfunctions if a panicking swimmer grabs at you.

Besides, you’re not really looking to get hit on. Hard to keep an eye out for emergencies if someone’s chatting your ear off for a shag by the restrooms. (You didn’t think people really did that until Farah groaned about it at the bonfire when you first hired.) Still, now that it’s happening… you don’t hate it. This guy is objectively attractive, apparently cares about his younger sibling enough to get him first-aid, and is weathering Simon’s increasingly annoyed scowl.

You figure there’s no harm. Not like someone else is showing a similar interest.

“At sunset,” you answer. “So, uh…”

“6:30,” Simon offers.

You shoot him a grateful look as the kid begins scooting for the door, skirting around Simon’s wider, thicker frame. Christ, the difference is stark. You tug at the front of your rash-guard to relieve some of the sudden heat.

“Maybe I’ll see you then,” he says before disappearing around the corner.

You stare after him for a second. He didn’t even ask for your name. “Huh.”

“The hell was that, sunshine?” Simon grouses.

You turn to him and shrug. “No idea.”

“Really now?” he scoffs.

You shake your head, already agitated by the whole thing for no reason you can pinpoint. Lean over the counter again to hang up the clipboard. “Really.”

“This isn’t a place for your silly summer fantasies and little meet-cutes,” he growls. “This is a real job, with real lives on the line.”

You twist around, brows furrowed as your mouth drops open in offense. “I know that.”

“Do you? Then why the fuck were you in here flirting?”

“I was helping the kid,” you argue, “you saw him!”

“Real convenient, that. When the older one’s been eye-fucking you all damn day.”

Any snappy retorts drown in the shock of his crass language and the accusation. All day? That guy? And Simon noticed? Never mind all that – Simon would seriously think you’d use a kid’s injury as an excuse to… what? Get cozy with an attractive stranger while on duty?

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you huff, “but I need to get back out there.”

As you pass, a big, rough hand snaps out and catches your elbow. You come up short, half-turning towards him, face hot. Equal parts angry and ashamed for some reason. Summer romance your ass.

“Get it together,” he orders.

You click your tongue at him. “Same to you.”

You wrench your arm back and storm out onto the sand, snatching your floatie from the shack railing along the way. Don’t know what jellyfish stung his ass, but you hope he figures it out. Don’t think your self-esteem can take another round of… whatever that was.

The rest of the day passes tense and slow. Without Simon to talk to, and the beach relatively peaceful, you’re left to fixate on the incident in the shack. What was that about? You thought for sure you’d grown on Simon a bit. Sure, you’re one of the younger lifeguards, which is why Price assigned you to Simon’s post, but you’ve worked hard. You thought you’d proven yourself.

Checking your watch, you find that it’s nearly 6:30. The sun doesn’t seem that low yet, but the beach got empty while you were idly keeping watch. Might as well pack it in, you figure.

Not even thinking of Insta-Prince when you hop up the little wooden steps to the shack. Simon isn’t back from wherever he’s monitoring yet, and you’d like to be clear before that changes. Just in case he’s still in a bad mood.

You shed your blue swim-shorts and rash-guard on the counter, leaving you in the more standard one-piece. Roll your shoulders a bit uncomfortably, itching to squeeze into your binder after a day with tits-out. You’ve gotten accustomed to the sensation of leaving it off for the job, but you’d still prefer to wear it when safe.

You flop onto the counter, reaching over the side to fish your bag out from its cubby. Of course, that’s the exact moment that you hear Simon’s heavy step on that creaky board by the doorway.

“Bloody hell,” you think you hear him mutter.

“I’m just about to head out,” you assure him.

“Meeting up with that knob?”

Your temper flares. You abandon your bag and land on your feet, spinning around. Come up (very) short when Simon’s right there, not enough room to breathe without your chests brushing. But you don’t allow yourself to be deterred.

“So, what if I am?” you challenge.

His eyes darken, then narrow. “This isn’t a game you want to play, sunshine.”

“Maybe I do,” you insist, planting your hands on your hips.

He exhales slow and heavy, boxes you in against the counter with hands on either side of you. Your stupid, traitorous heart skips a beat, then trips into double time. Normally he wears a rash-guard too, but not today. No, today it’s swathes of tanned, scarred skin. And it’s so, so close to yours.

“You won’t win,” he warns.

Your tongue feels heavy and clumsy, maybe because your thoughts feel the same way. Now, you’re not always the most aware of “signals,” but there aren’t many other ways to interpret someone near-pinning you to a counter with smoldering eyes.

You scramble to review the earlier confrontation through a new lens. The way Simon glared at Insta-Prince, not you – until you seemed open to his interest. Oh. Ohhhh.

You wet your lips; the way his eyes lock onto the movement bolsters your courage.

“What if… I don’t want to win?” you ask.

His eyes dart up to yours, something a little sharper than longing when he whispers, “I’d make you a sore loser.”

An unexpected laugh bursts out of you; his teeth flash in a crooked smile as he scoops you up so easily. He sits you on edge of the counter and steps between your thighs, pelvis bumping against yours. You gasp, head dropping to stare wide-eyed at the frankly monstrous bulge in his trunks.

“W-wow,” you mumble faintly, thighs squeezing around his hips.

“C’mere, sunshine,” he growls, cupping your jaw.

You tilt your face up, sigh softly as his mouth slots over yours. He tastes like blue powerade and sea salt, tongue curling against yours when you grant him enthusiastic access.

Your hands make scattered, eager work of exploring him, unsure where you want to touch first, just that you have to. He’s as solid as you always expected, densely packed muscle under healthy, hydrated layers of fat. Sun-warm beneath your palms, shudders as your skim them dangerously close low on his twitching abdomen.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, tugging gently at the shoulder strap of your swimsuit.

“Yeah,” you mumble, wriggling closer.

He huffs in amusement, peeling the elastic material over your arms and down your chest while you scatter kisses over his jaw and neck. You gasp into his peck when his calloused thumbs brush your hard nipples. Just a small touch, yet electricity is racing up and down your spine.

“This alright?” he checks.

You hum the affirmative, pressing into his touch as he pinches and rolls the sensitive peaks, slow searching. Reclaims your mouth to swallow each and every little mewl and moan that spills off your tongue. You can’t help rocking against him, hot and hard through the thin layers of swimwear.

“Simon,” you whine against his mouth, “c’mon.”

“Impatient,” he teases, nipping your bottom lip.

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” you complain, tugging at his trunks.

“I know, sunshine,” he coos, “just wait a bit longer.”

He takes the tiniest step back, fingers hooking in your swimsuit again to roll it the rest of the way off. You lift your hips to help, nearly squirming as strings of slick web between the fabric and your pussy. But Simon seems hypnotized, snapping the strands with his fingers and following them back to your swollen cunt.

“Fuck, all this for me, baby?” he rasps.

You make an embarrassed noise – which quickly graduates into an alarmed squeal when he drops to his knees.

“Simon, wait, I’ve been working all day and—”

“Don’ give a fuck,” he growls, “I’ve been dying to taste you for weeks.”

He yanks your thighs over his big, strong shoulders and dives in. It’s messy and obscenely loud, filling up the tiny shack and all the empty space in your head. Would be embarrassing if you had any room for something so frivolous. Instead, you’re gone on the way he sucks your clit and laps thirstily at your entrance. Utterly obsessed with the deep, throaty groans that leave you throbbing.

It's been a while, true, but you know he’d have you on edge so fast regardless. And he does, rushing up on it like a building, rolling wave. The devastating kind that’ll drown you in unyielding currents.

“Wait, wait,” you squeak, tugging at his coarse hair.

To his credit, he stops instantly, though he sounds absolutely gutted about it. Pulls back licking his lips like a cat with cream, chin practically dripping.

“Alright?” he asks, voice shredded to ribbons.

“I just,” you pant, “I just w-wasn’t ready to – to… I wanna cum on your cock. Please, Si?”

“Fuckin’ hell.” He surges up, pressing you down flat to kiss you stupid(er) and senseless. The taste of you isn’t as offensive as you expected, not coming from his tongue. “You’ll get anything you want if you keep talking like that.”

“Just want you.”

He helps you off the counter, drags you by the wrist to the plastic chair by the doorway. You’re about to protest – no way can that chair support someone his size, never mind both of you. But then he’s spinning you around, crushing you to his chest, and yanking you down into his lap. Any such nonsense as good sense dissolves like a sandcastle.

You can feel the length of him pressing hot and a little wet against your spine. (So, so high up your spine, good god). When he freed himself from his swim-trunks, you’re not sure, nor do you care at this moment. Your priorities narrow down to one absolute necessity: getting him inside you now, now, now.

“Easy now, baby, don’t hurt yourself,” he purrs in your ear. “Let me help.”

He curls big hands around your hips, tight enough that you relish the bruises that may bloom there later. Supports your weight as if it’s nothing to him, propping you over his lap as you line up his cock, dragging the flushed head through your pooling wetness. He curses low and rough, sinking you down until the tip catches on your entrance.

“There we are,” he grits, hands flexing in your soft flesh. “Nice and slow now, sunshine.”

If you had your way, he’d already be balls deep in your aching pussy. But his grip is firm and unrelenting, lowering you inch by thick inch down his shaft. You back and squeeze around him, encouraging him deeper, faster, helpless little noises escaping from your gaping mouth.

“That’s it, halfway there,” he breathes. “Doing so well.”

You choke. Halfway?! You already feel stuffed, walls gripping every contour of his cock like you were made for him.

He twitches inside you, bulbous, leaking head grinding deliciously, and your resolve cracks right down the middle. You dig your nails into his thighs and slam your hips down, crying out as he buries deep inside. Can feel him nudging your cervix, stretching your silky walls, all the way down to where your opening is sealed tight around the base of him.

“Fuck,” he snarls.

“F-feels so good,” you whimper, head falling forward as you clench around him.

Oh, you are definitely going to be so perfectly sore after this. You can’t fucking wait.

“If you’re that impatient to be ruined,” he chuckles breathlessly, “best brace yourself, lovie.”

You barely manage to get your feet planted before he’s fucking up into you, hard and mean. Just what you want, what you need. Your head falls back to cry your pleasure to the shack roof as you bounce. Rocking your hips each time he bottoms out, grinding him against that spongy bundle of nerves inside you. It’s mind-numbing; you’re leaking around him, know it must be dripping onto the floor at this point.

He snakes a hand around to your front. Brushes where the two of you are connected, the strange and dangerous sensation making tears prick at your eyes. Then his fingers skip up to your needy, oversensitive clit. You almost want to stop him, already so overwhelmed with pleasure. But again, anything like coherent thought is ripped away on a tide of ecstasy when he begins rubbing quick, tight circles.

Your rhythm faulters at the new stimulation, but Simon just widens his stance. It changes the angle, drags the head so perfectly against your g-spot. With the hand still on your hip, he starts jerking you down to meet each thrust. It’s slightly slower, but so much sweeter, combined with the rhythm he’s strumming on your clit.

Your orgasm rises like a tsunami, higher and higher, a devastating force building up inside.

“Simon,” you keen, “Simon, I’m gonna – right there…”

“That’s it, sunshine. Get me nice and wet with your cum.”

That voice, saying such filth in your ear, sends you over the edge. You nearly convulse, eyes rolling back in your head as you scream. Back arching, writhing and gripping crescents into his thighs. And you can feel yourself gushing all over him, onto the floor.

“Yes, yes, fuck, just like that.”

You’re near limp as he keeps hammering into you, practically using you like a toy to get himself off. The thought alone makes you squeeze around him again, a powerful aftershock bringing another flood of wetness. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, crying into his ear, begging him to cum inside you, fill you up…

He crashes his mouth into yours as he cums, groaning into your lax mouth, jerking violently into your overstimulated pussy. You swear you can feel him spurting inside you, thick and white-hot. It feels… it feels…

You break the kiss to suck in a deep breath, lightheaded and still squeaky with pleasure. Simon trails soothing kisses over your shoulder, grip easing up to caress over the forming finger marks. You hum softly, voice husky. Flutter your eyes open and blink at the pink sky out the window.

“Is it… is it just now sunset?” you ask.

Simon chuckles against your ear. “Looks like I was about thirty minutes off. Whoops.”

[miasmaghoul]

I wish you would write a fic where Swiss and Aether are talking about their mutual crush on Rain and they get. Uh. Carried away with it. Together. You feel me?

"Pretty, isn't he?"

Swiss jumps at the low voice in his ear, bumping into the equipment case he's been skulking behind. Aether grins at him, that one gilded fang glimmering in the harsh light of their rehearsal space. He chuckles, bumps his fist against Aether's chest, and goes right back to ogling their newest addition through a gap in the cases.

"Hadn't noticed," he lies, and lets out a soft chuckle when he feels Aether slot himself behind him. Hands on his hips, stubbled chin on his shoulder, Swiss just has to reach up and give his hair a ruffle. "He's good."

"You sound surprised." Aether rubs their cheeks together. "Dew and Mist are the ones teaching him, I'd be more surprised if he wasn't good."

Swiss snorts, shrugs his concession, but he can't take his eyes off the ghoul on the other side of the room.

It's been a while since practice ended, but Rain had been adamant about staying behind. He's been working on a handful of different runs, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of Mountain's kit and plucking away at his strings with fingers that haunt Swiss' dreams.

"Saw him at the lake the other day," Swiss mumbles, absently tipping his neck when Aether noses at it. Rain shakes his head then, tosses inky curls out of his eyes, and Swiss recalls the way they clung to the back of his neck when Rain climbed up onto the dock. The way streams of water cascaded down his surprisingly muscular back, sparkling in the sun. "That was...something."

"I'm sure it was," Aether replies, low and amused. He gives Swiss' ear a playful nip. "Water ghouls are made to be wet, after all."

"Tell me about it," Swiss murmurs, sighing when Aether's arm slips around his waist. He doesn't lean back intentionally, but it's impossible not to. "Haven't been able to stop thinkin' about it."

"Did you say hello?" Aether's other hand strokes Swiss' flank, dragging his t-shirt up to expose the band of his sweatpants. "Or did you just watch like this?"

"Watched," Swiss replies, unfazed by the way Aether's careful touches drift under his shirt. No point in lying, and he's too distracted by Rain fingering his E string to try anyway. "Couldn't help it. There's just -"

"Something about him?" Aether finishes for him, a thumb hooking into Swiss' waistband. Swiss nods, licks his lips when Rain reaches for his bottle of water. The way his throat works as he swallows certainly shouldn't make Swiss' cock twitch, but alas.

He shifts his stace just a hair, but it's enough for him to feel Aether's own interest in the ghoul across the room. He lets out the smallest ghost of a snort.

"You too, huh?"

"I'm not blind," Aether chuckles into the juncture of his shoulder. That thumb gives his sweats a tug, fingertips brushing against the base of Swiss' semi. "Why else would I still be here?"

Swiss responds with a soft ha, and for a few long moments the pair of them simply stare. Swaying together to Rain's music, listening to his mumbled singing and watching him bob his head in time. Aether doesn't stop his casual groping through any of it, and it's no time at all before Swiss has gone nice and stiff against the seam of his pants.

"I need to see his cock," he blurts, rocking his hips, and the snort the other ghoul lets out makes his face warm.

"It's as pretty as the rest of him," Aether assures, and it takes a second for the words to hit. Swiss pulls away just enough to turn and raise an eyebrow, and Aether gives him a cheeky wink. "I was with Omega at his first physical," he explains, and Swiss has never been more jealous of Aether's infirmary work.

(Well, except maybe for that one time he got to hear the details of Dew's first prostate exam - but this is a close second.)

"You should tell me about it," Swiss tells him with a smirk, eyes dark. He wiggles his ass against Aether's bulge, forces out a low groan, and Aether pins him to his chest.

"I could," he shrugs, mouthing at the hinge of Swiss' jaw. "But I think you'd rather see for yourself."

Before Swiss can question it, Aether touches two fingers to his temple. Feeds him a flash of pale skin under harsh light, of a lithe body reclined on an exam table, of a thin cotton gown being untied by thick, gloved fingers to reveal -

"Shh," Aether whispers in his ear, those same fingers moving to cover Swiss' mouth before his rasping moan can give them away. "Don't get us caught. You'll ruin all the fun."

The other ghoul starts rubbing him through his sweats, slow and intentional, and when Aether's fat cock throbs against his ass Swiss would be lying if he said the thought alone didn't make him leak.

Shame is so overrated.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 12: Aphrodite, Goddess Of Love] [Series Finale]

A/N: Surprise!!! A new chapter from Maggie?? On a Thursday?? I was just too excited to wait! Please enjoy the final installment of 1968 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The sun is rising, and all the guests have dissipated like morning stars. You and Aegon are sitting across from each other at the table in the kitchenette of your suite, cool grey morning light slanting into the silence, confetti on the floor, broken glass, crumbs from the catered appetizers—gyros, hummus, pita, mini spanakopitas, baklava—stomped into the carpet, spots that are soggy with spilled champagne. The Plaza might have to replace it. Outside, rain falls in a mist. Your makeup is smudged; your hair is falling out of its clips and pins. Aemond is waiting, standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair slicked back, blue suit, prosthetic eye filling the void in his skull. You know what happens next, but you can’t bring yourself to rise, to speak, to set it into motion. You stare down at the lines in the palm of your uninjured hand and think of the ropes of a sailboat, the invisible strings of gravity that enchain the universe.

Aegon swipes at his eyes: bloodshot, vacant, continuously streaming tears. “I’m gonna go back to Yuma.” 

You look up at him, startled. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Aemond agrees from the wall.

Aegon begs you in a hoarse whisper, eyes dark and glistening like the Atlantic at night: “Come with me.”

Your hands shaking, your voice splintering. “I can’t, Aegon. I can’t.”

He drums his knuckles on the table, gets up from his chair, rushes to you before Aemond can stop him. He’s holding you, his lips to your forehead, the salt of his tears on your cheeks and your lips, like the ocean is bleeding out of him, like he’ll drown you. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath catching in his throat, his pores hemorrhaging smoke, horror, rum, ruin. 

Once you pushed Aegon away, hated him, stained him with your husband’s blood. Now your fingernails hook like claws into his army jacket and cling there, frantic and childlike. “Not yet, please, Aegon, don’t go, please don’t go.”

“I have to, I’m sorry.”

“Aegon, no–”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s gone. The doorway is empty like an unfinished sentence, like a myth no one remembers. The silence floods back into the rain-grey November air. The room is cold like a mausoleum. You touch your own face: tears Aegon left there, muscles and nerves dead beneath your skin, disbelief you sink through like the sea, waiting to hit the floor deep with the silt of rocks and wreckage and bones.

He’s gone? He’s really gone?

Aemond stalks over to the table, smirking, radiant, his hands in the pockets of his suit; he takes his time, he savors it. He’s never been higher. He was right all along. He can’t be killed, he is destined to be the president. It is God’s will. “Get ready,” Aemond says. “I have a victory speech to make.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He heads west on Route 70, billboards and drive-thrus, toll booths and reflective green mile markers, the kids fighting over who gets to pick the radio station from the back of the Dodge A-100 that Otto had hastily procured, handing over the keys as Aegon rolled his suitcase out of the Plaza Hotel. That first night they stop in Wheeling, Ohio, and the kids have startlingly little resistance to this upheaval. They can’t find much to complain about. A road trip with Dad and only Dad, no journalists badgering them for photos or quotes, no orders barked from Otto or Aemond, no exacting campaign itinerary, no scripted propriety, Mountain Dew spills on the carpet, Pizza Hut boxes on cheap springy motel mattresses.

“What do you think about all this?” Aegon asks Orion when the younger ones have dozed off: Cosmo and Thaddeus on one bed, Violeta in another, Spiro lounging across the threadbare sofa with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring resting open on his chest.

Orion shrugs, that adolescent aversion to vulnerability, like the whole world is out to shake you down for evidence of the defections you’re so convinced define you. “It’s cool, I guess. It’s like an adventure. And we’ll get to see you a lot more.”

“Yeah you will,” Aegon promises. He feels sick: no booze, no pills, the grease of pepperoni churning in his belly. “And I’m never gonna be the way I was before.”

The bathroom is tiny and spartan, white porcelain, black specks of mildew. When he’s done showering, Aegon wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. In Ancient Greece, a shaved head was the mark of a slave; it was meant to strip the man of his past, to make him brand new. He remembers Aemond saying this one afternoon as they were all out sailing at Asteria, Aegon sprawled on his back and drinking rum from the bottle as beams of sunlight refracted through the glass, Aemond leafing through one of his history books, Helaena throwing bits of pita to the seagulls, Daeron peering through his telescope for glimpses of dolphins, sharks, bobbing treasure from shipwrecks, imagined enemy vessels. Aegon thinks as he studies his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights—crinkles by his eyes, skin ravaged by years of careless sunburn—that he wouldn’t mind not having a past. He opens his shaving kit and takes out the straight razor he never uses, shears off his tangled, windswept locks of blonde hair, smiles when the kids laugh and call him Yul Brynner the next morning over breakfast at the diner beside the motel, blueberry pancakes and toast wet with egg yolks. He’s not brand new; it’s impossible to be. But he’s getting closer.

The Fort Yuma Indian Reservation has grown during the Kennedy and Johnson years. The tribe now enjoys a steady income from numerous projects, including the leasing of farmland, a convenience store, a casino and resort, and an RV park. The school has been rebuilt—bigger, more modern, air conditioning, hallelujah—since Aegon was first exiled here twenty years ago, but several of the employees have familiar faces, and the current principal was once an English teacher assigned to be his mentor, a different lifetime, an ancient myth.

“You look good,” Artie says as he descends the concrete front steps on an afternoon in mid-November, 75 degrees, bright cerulean sky, no clouds. He takes Aegon’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Kind of fat, but good. You still play guitar?”

“I do, yeah. I have one in the back of my van right now.”

Artie glances at the giggling, waving children behind the glass windows. “Jesus Pleasus, how many kids you got?”

Aegon chuckles. “Five, I think.”

“Five! Well, they’re welcome to attend here, if you want them to be where you are.”

“That’s a very generous offer. They’ve never gone to a real school before. They had private tutors in New Jersey.”

“What a great way to raise jackasses, if you ask me.” Artie gives him a stern look over, wrinkled brow, narrowed brown eyes. “You sober?”

“No pills, no drinking, occasional weed.”

“Goddamn, that’s a lot better than I expected.”

“Hey Artie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you happen to need a math teacher?”

Artie studies him thoughtfully. “I mean, we’re always looking for qualified math and science people. They leave the quickest, those aerospace and electronics companies over in California pay too much. Why? You know someone?”

“I used to,” Aegon says, then motions for his kids to get out of the van. Artie lets them eat ice cream in the cafeteria while Aegon signs his contract.

He’s in Yuma for three weeks before he meets a girl. Her name is Rachel, and she’s a dream that walked out of the Summer Of Love: hair down to her waist, boots to her knees, handknit vests, chipped nail polish and teasing smiles, a taste for sun and smoking. At night they sit under the stars behind Aegon’s bungalow out in the desert, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs with the kids, Aegon strumming his guitar, Rachel playing her harmonica, a few homely adopted mutts loping around instead of purebred Alopekis. She likes him, this boyish sunbeam of a man who always seems just a little lost, a little sad. She might even love him.

And yet there are ghosts, beasts, threads the fates have not yet severed. One night in January after the kids have gone to sleep, Aegon is flipping through television channels as Rachel returns to the couch with a bowl full of Jiffy Pop, plops down onto the cushions, curls up against him. Aegon stumbles upon CBS Evening News, a clip from the inauguration, and his words vanish mid-sentence, his eyes—an opaque, stormy, melancholic sort of blue—growing wide. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t move at all.

“What?” Rachel asks. On the screen is a clip of President Targaryen being sworn in, his wife at his side and cradling the Bible in her hands. She’s wearing Oscar de la Renta—a powder blue wool coat that matches her husband’s tie—and a stately new hairstyle that is very distinctly inspired by Jackie Kennedy. Her smile is serene and dignified, if perhaps a bit remote. She could be a marble statue in a garden or a museum. It must be a lot of pressure for her, Rachel thinks. To live up to being the partner of a man that remarkable. “Aegon? Baby, are you okay?”

After a long time Aegon says, very softly, like it’s only to himself: “He made her cut her hair.”

Rachel stares mystified at the television and then turns back to Aegon. “What happened with her?” Something must have. He looks staggered, he looks haunted, he looks like someone Medusa turned to stone. Rachel knows about who Aegon is, of course, everyone does; but he never wants to talk about it. When people mention his family, Aegon smiles politely and then changes the subject. When they ask about his sister-in-law, he says he needs a cigarette and walks out of the room. She sent him a beautiful, shimmering gold acoustic Gibson guitar for Christmas; the first lady’s name was on the return address. To Rachel’s knowledge, Aegon never thanked her.

Aegon shakes his head, and Rachel can’t tell if that means the story is too long or too short, unrealized potential, loose kaleidoscopic strands of stardust, infinitesimal moments that wouldn’t have meaning to anyone else. “Nothing.” Then he resumes switching channels: I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, the Newlywed Game.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents fly north for the inauguration, so proud, so effusive, interviewed by every major news network. Business is booming at the Spongeorama Sponge Factory back in Tarpon Springs. They are seated between Alicent and Ludwika’s mother Elzbieta, newly arrived from Poland. LBJ and Lady Bird are cordial but uncharacteristically understated, retreating back to their home state of Texas like kicked dogs. All the defeated adversaries of the campaign trail attend to show their support, to wordlessly plead for a long-awaited national reconciliation. George Wallace won’t meet your eyes. Richard Nixon whispers through your hair as he clasps your scarred hand: “Aemond could never have done this without you.”

Jackie Kennedy’s chosen cause as first lady was the restoration of the White House, Lady Bird’s was environmental protection. You want to visit schools and help teach math to little kids, but Aemond decides it would be more politically expedient for you to be seen tending to wounded veterans of Vietnam; so you spend many of your days in hospitals, inhaling charred flesh and Lysol and dying flowers and blood. The Japanese ambassador bows lower to you than he does to Aemond. The prime minister of France tries (unsuccessfully) to flirt with you. Athenagoras I of Constantinople, the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, brings you a komboskini he has blessed. Reprieves come in slivers like a disappearing moon: lunches with Fosco–carpaccio, caprese, bolognese, polenta–and drinks with Ludwika, always something with rum, something that tastes like Aegon. You dream of incubators and arterial spray, stitches and scars and crimson bandages, the flash of blades, the thunder of bullets; but the would-be assassins go to prison and no one else ever tries. You are Persephone in the Underworld. You are Io in the wilderness.

You are just beginning to panic about what you’ll do when your tiny pink birth control pills run out when Fosco shows up to one of your lunches with a paper bag full of familiar circular packets. “I have been informed that I am to be your dealer,” he says, grinning. “I will be back with more in six months. I told the doctor they were for my mistress. I don’t even have a mistress! Isn’t this exciting? I am like a secret agent. I am the Italian James Bond. The name’s Viviani, Fosco Viviani.”

“Aegon asked you to do this?”

“Well, he did not ask, exactly. I do not think I was allowed to say no.”

You hide the paper bag in the Louis Vuitton purse Ludwika bought you, so thankful you don’t have words for it, missing Aegon like Orpheus missed Eurydice, searching through the shade-haunted grey haze of the Underworld for her.

“It was odd,” Fosco says quietly, delicately. “He did not want to know anything about you. He asked if you needed anything else that I was aware of, I said no, and then he hung up when I started to tell him about Christmas dinner.”

You remember Aegon’s words, ghosts from where Long Beach Island meets the Atlantic Ocean: Mimi wasn’t as strong as you. Maybe what Aegon didn’t say is that he isn’t either. You imagine the fates snipping threads, the memoryless oblivion offered by the River Lethe, moons becoming greater and lesser. He has to try to forget you. You have to let him.

On Valentine’s Day weekend, Daeron comes home. He and John McCain are the last two men freed from the prisoner of war camp known as the Hanoi Hilton. When he steps off the plane, Daeron is carrying with him, of all things, a single white rat in a wire cage. The first question he asks, after being engulfed in embraces from Alicent, Criston, and Fosco, is: “Where’s Aegon?” And he knows from the stilted, piecemeal explanations he receives that something has happened. You take Daeron to breakfast the next morning, and you don’t tell him everything, but you tell him enough. He spends a month recuperating at Asteria, then follows Zephyr, the god of the west wind, across the country to Arizona.

Aegon didn’t send you anything for Christmas, and he didn’t respond to the guitar you gifted him with Ludwika’s assistance. But on July 13th, a green envelope arrives in your mail basket with no return address. You open it to find a greeting card with an exuberant cow on the front. Inside, the original message—You’re mooooooving on up in the world! Happy retirement!—has been crossed out with black ink. You laugh, your first real laugh in weeks, and then read what Aegon has written in his chaotic, scribbling penmanship:

I thought this was blank :)

Hope you’re doing okay. You look great on tv.

Then there is an expanse of open white space, like a weighty hesitation. There’s no signature, but there is one final note like a postscript.

Thank you for the guitar, but please don’t send anything else. It fucks me up, you know?

Yes, you do know. Aegon never calls you, but Cosmo does. Once or twice a week he dials your private line at the White House–Aegon must have asked Fosco for it–and tells you all about his new life in Yuma, his school, his friends, the dogs, the desert. Aegon’s met someone named Rachel; Cosmo mentions her intermittently yet with unmistakable fondness: “Rachel makes the best s’mores,” “Rachel told me about seeing Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock,” “Rachel took us to pick pumpkins for Halloween.” You’re glad Cosmo calls, and you’re glad he’s happy; but afterwards you always feel so indescribably, irredeemably sad.

You sneak your pills and avoid Aemond as much as you can, something that becomes easier as he spends long hours reviewing briefs in the Oval Office, preparing speeches, meeting foreign dignitaries, strategizing with his cabinet, and scheming against his conservative foes across the nation, a faction soon led by California governor Ronald Reagan. You stand perfectly still as designers alter Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy to fit you like woolen armor. You strike up a chaste, harmless flirtation with a Secret Service agent from Atlanta named Nathaniel, not because he reminds you of Aegon—Nate is 6’4, 250 pounds, and a former Navy SEAL—but because he listens, because he is kind. He gives you riveting summaries of films and books that are considered too scandalous for you to be seen enjoying. He makes fun of your matronly skirt suits. He takes you to get lemon-lime Mr. Mistys at Dairy Queen. He massages your scarred hand with rose oil.

In May of 1969, Aemond voices support for university students across the nation protesting in favor of increased Black faculty and Africana Studies courses. In July, the Apollo 11 mission lands the first men on the moon, effectively ending the Space Race with an American victory. In September, Lieutenant William Calley receives a sentence of life in prison for his role in the My Lai Massacre the previous year. In November, the Rolling Stones release a new album entitled Let It Bleed. Ludwika gives you the record for Christmas along with an array of perfumes and lipsticks, all extravagantly packaged in a pink Gucci gift box. Your favorite song is Gimme Shelter. You listen to it at dusk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, your chair facing west, taking slow drags off Lucky Strike cigarettes that Nate buys for you, embers glowing as the sun disappears.

“What’s out there?” Nate asks you one night with a slinky half-grin, and then when you don’t immediately answer: “You’re always looking that way. What are you looking for?”

You don’t know what to tell him. Nothing. Everything. Something that almost happened. And slowly, under a lavender twilight peppered with the remote glimmers of constellations—stars that cannot be changed, disasters predestined since before you were born—Nate’s smile dies, and he never asks again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three time zones away, Aegon’s hair grows out and he gets his ears re-pierced, tiny gold hoops that make him think of wedding rings. Rachel pretends she doesn’t want to get married. Aegon doesn’t offer. Once in a while after the kids have gone to bed, he climbs into the hammock in the backyard and smokes a joint, staring absently into the east as the new Rolling Stones album spins on the record player. Aegon’s favorite song is You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Rachel stands at the telescope they set up for the kids—Cosmo’s idea—and stargazes, making her way down a checklist of visible celestial objects.

One night Aegon asks as she’s squinting through the eyepiece: “Where’s Jupiter?”

Rachel glances over at him, then points up at the indigo sky. “It’s that one, the really bright spot near Perseus. Why?”

Aegon shrugs, exhaling smoke. “No reason,” he says; but he’s still looking at Jupiter, wounded, stoned wonder floating on the surface of his watery eyes.

Daeron settles down in Yuma and buys a ranch. He does some work at the VA Hospital a few hours away in Tucson, some white water rafting on the Colorado River, some hiking in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, a whole lot of roughhousing with his niece and nephews. John McCain, now a war hero and national celebrity, is always calling to see if Daeron has decided to run for office yet. A few times a year, they receive visitors from the East Coast: Alicent, Criston, Ludwika, Helaena, Fosco, and their three children. The president and first lady are not mentioned unless by accident. The kids adore their grandmother, and she loves them back, although Alicent never learns to appreciate Tessarion the rat and refuses to hold her. In 1970, Helaena and Fosco have one last baby, a daughter they name Marina after Mimi. Life goes on, but the ghosts remain.

On a chilly evening in January of 1972, Aegon is flipping through television channels when he lands on an NBC segment about First Lady Targaryen touring the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. “That’s so fucked up,” Aegon murmurs as she calmly soothes the suffering of mutilated men, and his voice is dark with scorching, clandestine fury. He gestures to the screen with the remote control. “She hates hospitals. He makes her do things that hurt her. He does it just to prove he can.”

Rachel says as she stands in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, a question she has finally worked up the courage to ask: “No one is ever going to be able to compare to her, right?”

Aegon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. And something washes over him like waves of the ocean, sun on sand, poison in the blood and the lungs, myths that carve themselves into your bones so deep you can see the red of the marrow underneath. He replies truthfully, his eyes still on the screen: “Right.”

Rachel packs her bags. Aegon gets up to help her. He feels it’s the least he can do.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Aemond return to Asteria for summer vacations, the seaside Targaryen compound is full of ghosts. You catch glimpses of Mimi stumbling up staircases, Cosmo trotting after you as you turn corners, Aegon smoking a joint under the statue of Zeus in Helaena’s garden. You open cabinets and bottles of his pills fall out. You see Sunfyre bobbing abandoned in the boathouse. The basement is just as Aegon left it. Sometimes you go down there and stand on the green shag carpet in the hushed, cool, damp emptiness, not knowing what you’re waiting for, staring at the wall until someone comes to look for you.

“What’s in these?” Nate asks one afternoon, snatching a notebook off the shelf. “Oh wow, look!” He shows you messy sketches in black ink, cartoon versions of the stories of Greek gods and goddesses, myths reimagined. “Who do you think drew them?”

“Maybe Daeron,” you reply, but it wasn’t him. You’d know Aegon’s handwriting anywhere. Nate leafs through a bunch of the notebooks, booming laughter—he especially enjoys that Poseidon has been characterized as a sexually insatiable dolphin—and reading his favorite parts out loud to you. One notebook is only half-full; the last few pages are covered with drawings of tiny cows, telephones with long spiral cords, the moon in all its phases. You tear these out to keep.

On each July 13th, there is a card with no return address waiting in your mail basket at the White House, always featuring a jovial cow, always making you smile. You entrust Nate with the task of hiding the notebook pages and greeting cards away somewhere safe, an arrangement he honors like an oath.

Every so often, when you feel lethal bitterness kindling, you are struck by the inspiration to find Aemond’s Ouija board. It must be here in the White House someplace, but you can’t figure out where. You search the bedrooms, rummage through closets, climb into the oak cabinets beneath bathroom sinks; you scrabble around like a rodent under the cover of darkness while Aemond is away on state visits and campaign rallies for fellow Democrats. Maybe he makes secret stops in Tacoma or Seattle. If he does, you don’t care. You’d rather Aemond be there than here.

In the spring of 1972, you find the Ouija board in a drawer of the Resolute desk, where Aemond conducts official business in the Oval Office. “Oh, that is insane,” you say to yourself as you slide it out. You mean to burn it in your bedroom fireplace, then think again. On the back of the board, the inscription has faded, as if traced by Aemond’s fingertips again and again.

If I destroy this, what will he do to Aegon and his children? What will he do to me?

You place the Ouija board back where you found it, slide the drawer shut, and crawl into bed, besieged by dreams of smoke and rum and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch.

Aemond’s national approval rating hovers between 55-70%—far about the historical average, although he never stops pining for an heir and proper first family to maximize his allure—until May of 1972, when the tide begins to turn. The treaty formally ending U.S. involvement in the war was signed back in early 1969, but the hasty troop withdrawal left capitalist South Vietnam vulnerable, and now it is being invaded by the communists backed by China and Russia. The Fall of Saigon is immortalized in the evening news, printed on the covers of newspapers; people who once collaborated with the Americans are shot dead in the streets. Refugees flee west to Laos and Cambodia and Thailand, east on makeshift rafts into the ocean. The few that Aemond manages to hurriedly admit into the U.S. inspire racism and xenophobia from suburbanites. Many of the hippies have grown up, had children, gotten jobs, settled down with credit cards and mortgages. Protestors march with signs out on Pennsylvania Avenue: America abandons her allies! Our global reputation is in peril! Will the communists invade here next? What did my son die for?

“They wanted me to end it,” Aemond marvels as he gazes out the White House windows. “They begged for me to end it, and now look at them. Ungrateful imbecile bastards.”

And you give him a rare piece of advice that he listens to: “You should call LBJ.”

On his ranch fifty miles outside of Austin, Texas, Lyndon Baines Johnson is dying of heart failure. Still, he smokes more or less constantly, and refuses to adhere to the diet Lady Bird fretfully lectures their chefs about. He has grown his grey hair long and sits for as many interviews as he can, desperate to salvage his legacy and remind people of the things he did right: civil rights legislation, the War On Poverty, rising from a poor farming family to the Oval Office. He knows exactly what it feels like to be hated for having no good options. He says gruffly through the phone: “The Vietnam War needed to end, Aemond. It had to happen. But someone has to pay for it, too. That’s your job now. Take the fall, and the country survives. Plenty of people still love you. And I’m proud of you, son. I know it ain’t easy, believe me. But I’m real proud.”

Still, Aemond fights. He can’t help it. It’s all he’s ever known.

He campaigns at a murderous pace, and you have to follow him across the nation. Perhaps intentionally, there are no campaign stops in Arizona. Aemond does very well, but Ronald Reagan does better; he’s quick and he’s cutting, but he’s also funny, and grandfatherly, and warm, and God knows the American people could use some of that after the past decade. He characterizes Aemond’s policy regarding Vietnam as “peace without honor.” He calls Aemond short-sighted about a dozen times, a jab his supporters guffaw at. He says the United States has surrendered its rightful place as the leader of the free world. His wife Nancy—his second wife—is vehemently opposed to recreational drugs and other supposed moral crimes including abortion and premarital sex. You hate her, and she hates you right back, though in a perfectly pleasant, ever-smiling, mid-century housewife sort of way. Reagan’s disciples call you a whore. Aemond gets the newspapers still loyal to him to publish scathing denials. You aren’t exactly sure why he does this; no comment at all would almost certainly be wiser politically, as Otto advises. But Aemond does it anyway, with deep trenches of violent determination knit into his scarred brow.

The 1972 presidential election is held on Tuesday, November 7th. It is not until the early hours of the morning on Wednesday the 8th that Aemond learns he has narrowly lost. It couldn’t possibly be construed as your fault; he wins Florida by a greater margin than he had in 1968. As the sun rises in a bright, cloudless sky, Aemond’s entourage clears out of the Lincoln Sitting Room, leaving the two of you alone with the droning television. Aemond is sipping an Old Fashioned on one end of the couch. You light yourself a Lucky Strike cigarette on the other. For once, Aemond doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” Aemond muses after a while. “Ronald Reagan is divorced.”

Your heart is racing; you aren’t sure what he’s offering. You’re petrified to say the wrong thing and change his mind. “Yeah, he is.”

Aemond nods, twirling his Old Fashioned so the ice cubes clink against the misty glass, not looking at you. “I think I’ll marry Alys and adopt the boy.”

And that’s how you learn that what Aegon said in the doorway of a hospital room four and half years ago was true, no impassioned declarations, no gratitude, only grudges that have grown quiet and cold and dormant. At last, Aemond is done with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Otto, glowering spitefully, getaway car procurement extraordinaire, hands you the keys to a green Chevy Nova. On the front steps of the White House, you say goodbye to a palpably heartbroken Nate. He gives you the notebook pages and greetings cards. You give him a kiss on the cheek, a parting stain of red lipstick. But instead of blood, the color makes you think of cherry-flavored Mr. Mistys, the Lucky Strike logo, roses, sunburn, firelight, the rust-hued earth of the desert. You duck into the Nova and start driving.

The East Coast unfolds into the Midwest and then turns jagged as you hit the Rocky Mountains. At a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico, you toss your remaining birth control pills—still squirreled away in a box of hollowed-out tampons—into a trash bin. At a McDonald’s in Asher, Arizona, just forty minutes outside of Yuma, you stop to get a large Coca-Cola and touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror: black eyeliner, gold shadow, both as heavy as you want them to be. You stroll back to your Nova under a radiant November sky that feels like summer, smiling to yourself. The hem of your roomy, floral skirt billows around your brown leather boots in the desert wind. Your earrings are small, glinting gold hoops. Your white tank top is simple and hand-crocheted, found at a yard sale in Amarillo, Texas; but your sunglasses are Bugatti, a gift from Ludwika.

You park outside the only school on the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and go inside to the front office. The secretary says distractedly: “Can I help you, ma’am?” Then she does a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, do I…do I know you from somewhere…?”

“You might,” you say, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. It’s only shoulder-length now, but growing, and wild from the wind. “I was hoping to find Mr. Targaryen, does he still work here?”

“He sure does, but he doesn’t like anyone calling him that.”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Just Aegon then. Which classroom is…?”

But before you can finish your question, and before she can answer, you hear echoing through the labyrinthian hallways the start of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, not just an acoustic guitar but bass and drums too.

“I see the bad moon a-risin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

The secretary laughs, keeping rhythm with taps of her pencil on her desk. “I guess you can find him on your own, can’t ya?”

Yes, you can. You follow the music through long empty corridors, wondering where all the students are. You drag your fingertips—black polish, chipped around the edges—along grooves in the cinder block walls that have been painted over with vibrant murals. The song is getting louder, and now you hear other noises too, an ocean of energetic voices and squealing chairs.

“I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear rivers over flowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise, alright!”

You step into the cafeteria, raucous with students swapping pudding cups and bags of chips. Many of them are watching the stage, clapping along, playing their own imaginary guitars. Aegon is there strumming the sparkling gold guitar you sent him for Christmas back in 1968. He hasn’t seen you yet; he’s grinning at the kids up on the stage with him—his fellow bandmates, his fledgling rockstars—and leaning back from the mic to give them pointers. But Cosmo has. He flies out of his seat and crashes into you, now nearly ten years old, long blonde hair, a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

“You’re back!” he bellows over the music as you hug him. Teachers chatting amongst themselves by the wall give you curious glances.

“Yeah, kiddo. I am.”

“For a visit?”

“Maybe for a little longer than that.”

“Yay!” he shouts, jumping up and down.

You look back to Aegon, and now his eyes catch on yours: instantaneous recognition, disbelief, amazement. He’s just like you remember him; he’s just like he is in your dreams. You raise an eyebrow and wave tentatively. His own words surface in your skull like swimming up through cool, sunlit water: What are we gonna do about it? And Aegon smiles, the god of light, music, healing, truth.

Now his tiny bandmates are yelling at him, irate. He’s still plucking at his guitar on autopilot, but he’s missed his cue to sing the last verse. He shakes off his astonishment and continues, beaming, watching you.

“Hope you got your things together

Hope you are quite prepared to die

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather

One eye is taken for an eye

Well don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Cosmo sprints back to his lunch to stop a friend from seizing his unguarded Ding Dongs.

“Don’t come around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Aegon gives his guitar a final few strums as the cafeteria erupts into cheers and applause. His bandmates bow to their audience as Aegon takes off his guitar, leaps down from the stage, runs to you as children twist in their seats to stare. He’s wearing khaki shorts, tan moccasins, a half-unbuttoned white shirt that actually fits him, dog tags with Daeron’s name on them. He’s so afraid to ask the question; he’s terrified you won’t say the right answer. “Io…what the hell are you doing here?”

You shrug, casual, teasing. “Didn’t like where I was. Thought I’d try someplace new.”

He touches your face to make sure you’re real, marveling at you, his voice going hushed. “We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t worry. Your life’s only half over.”

Aegon laughs, eyes shining. “I’m really, really looking forward to the rest of it.”

You can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses you; you can hear a quiet, kind melody that fills the universe, the sound of all the chains of gravity breaking and moons drifting free from their planets.

[definitelynotshouting]

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE FINALE OF SECRET LIFE!!!!!

so i sped-wrote this as soon as i learned who the winner was this morning, tried to post it twice, tumblr mobile deleted it BOTH TIMES... but i will not be silenced ive finally gone to desktop /silly

this will go up on my rough draft pseud soon, but until then please enjoy the results of me being EXTREMELY unwell about the secret life finale. WOOOOOO WE ARE POPPING THE BIGGEST OF BOTTLES TODAY FR!!!!!!!!!!!

Grian barricades himself at the top of the highest tower of Tango's citadel the moment he wakes up. It's a calculated move, admittedly. There are a precious few places one might still find him if he truly wants to hide, but the Deep Frost Citadel isn't one of them— and with the second Decked Out coming to a ceremonious close, foot traffic here is perilously low. Dawn is a swift-approaching knife on the horizon, and Grian soars above it all, face numb with chill wind, wings brazen and feathers strewn across an empty sky.

He doesn't want to be near when Scar wakes. And he doesn't want to be found just yet, either. Oh, Scar will track him down. Of that, he has no doubt— but for now, Grian takes solace in the snow crunching underfoot as he locks himself inside this barren tower.

It's dark here, which suits Grian just fine. He doesn't bother lighting a lantern; instead, he huddles right on the floor, letting the ice seep through him. From here, he can just make out the sky as it lightens, bringing with it the dawn of a new victor. Nausea boils in his throat. With that victory comes a price, and Scar— And Grian— Well. Grian hasn't treated him very well throughout the games, now, has he?

He curls in on himself even further, feathers brushing along the length of his chilled arms. Each hair stands at attention, in some vain effort to pull warmth from the surrounding freeze— when he scrubs a hand along his arm, his fingers shake, and the gooseflesh remains stark and raised against his skin.

There was a sand-drenched point when the concept of warmth was all he could register— scorching wind scraping the cut on his cheek, the scarlet splatter of blood across split knuckles. And like the steady drain of life from a corpse, that warmth has drawn away, poison from a putrid wound— it leaves him compacting this cold, this loneliness, to mold it into four high walls around his heart; a fitting tribute to every grain of trust he's rightfully lost. Grian huffs the barest traces of a bitter laugh as his breath mists in the air. A better man would meet Scar at his base, extend his support, no matter how icily it might be met.

But Grian is selfish, and a coward, and will always be a coward— and so instead he sits, marrow freezing, with only the thin garrotte of paltry sunlight wrapping itself around his tender throat to keep him company.

And there he stays, motionless, for long enough that the chill makes a home in him— the glistening, pale yolk of the sun warns him of the passing time, a watery heat that counts down the seconds to minutes to hours until Scar finds him. Grian curls his wings around himself, a pitiful embrace, and waits.

Two hours later, the whistle of rocket-propelled elytra warn him of incoming company. Grian doesn't bother fleeing; he knows Scar, and Scar knows him, and with this last, missing puzzle piece finally slotting into place between them, he's under no illusions that staying hidden for long is feasible. Grian's eyes skitter to a crack on the far wall as clumsy footsteps scatter the snow outside, scrabbling for balance before the muted click of a cane joins them. Footsteps; another, louder click— the door's latch gives way, and a brief, blinding wave of light crashes over Grian's face, obscuring everything but the outline of a painfully familiar silhouette.

Grian has to look away. The door shuts, and for a small moment, neither of them so much as breathe.

Then Scar's sighs— one great, resigned gust. "Grian...."

He says nothing else. He doesn't have to. Grian draws his legs up to his chest in response anyway, heart a frozen pump bleeding ice into his very veins. What can he say? An apology? They're past apologies, now— if Scar wanted to disavow him forever, take the crumpled remains of their friendship and throw it at his feet, he'd be right to do so.

But Scar doesn't shout; neither does he leave. Instead, his cane taps forward, boots sliding into Grian's line of vision— and, with a grunt of effort, Scar eases himself down, until he's sitting at a safe diagonal from Grian's hunched form.

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Eventually, Grian licks his lips. They're chapped from cold, thin and ready to split. "Hi, Scar," he says softly. It comes out weak, thready— a barely-there declaration. Whatever Scar wants here... he can take it. It's the very least Grian can do at this point.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Scar settle, shifting his weight before he lands on something approximating comfort. He takes his time with it, blind— or uncaring— to the erratic snarl of Grian's pulse. His voice is just as quiet when he responds. "So... that's it, then, huh."

Grian glances over properly before he can stop himself, stomach churning; Scar's gaze has slipped to the cutout acting as a window, middle-distant and lost. Locked on something only he can see. Then Scar shakes himself, an abrupt jerk of his head and shoulders, and that glassy look turns to pin Grian directly to the wall behind him instead. "Just like that?"

Grian's fingers tighten around his knees. "Just like that," he agrees, hollow.

Scar mulls that over for a moment. His sigh is a wisp of white in front of them, crystallizing in the glacial atmosphere. "Jeez," he says finally, scrubbing one hand through the tangled bird's nest of his hair. He must have flown across half the server as soon as he... remembered, Grian realizes with a visceral pang. "I didn't... that's a lot of memories to just, um, gain back on a dime, huh?"

Grian darts a sidelong glance at him. Shifts his wings until their primaries lower, sweeping the ground around his feet like a feathered cat's cradle. "I wouldn't know," he says, a quirk of black humor dancing around the edges of his mouth. He swallows. "Since. Well...."

He trails off. Imagines, briefly, that he is a black hole— a quasar. A neutron star. Something so tight and compact it can string him out, erase him; a ball of grief and misery dense enough that it contains its own event horizon.

Scar hums a little shakily into the blooming silence. "Yeah. I guess that would complicate things, wouldn't it." A pause. "Does it always feel—?"

Grian shrugs. "Don’t know that either, Scar."

"Oh." Scar's still looking at him, the searchlight of his gaze burning pockmarks into Grian's skin. "Cool, okay... so...." He hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip, before finally forging on: "So what now?"

Grian sucks in his own shuddery breath. "Whatever you want, Scar," he says, blank and dull. Every inch of him frozen stiff, awaiting the tipped scales of Scar’s judgement. "There's no going back, after this." The quicksilver flash of a grimace tugs his lips back to reveal sharp, white teeth. "Welcome to the club, I guess."

"It sure is a warm welcome," Scar says weakly. "Got— uh, got your complimentary balloons, and— and um, a whole gift basket of... of...."

He trails off too, the fragile ley lines of his humor peeling off, cracking at the seams. Impossibly, Grian curls around himself tighter.

An apology is nothing but wasted air now, but it dredges from his throat anyway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Scar. I—" He breaks off, jaw tight. "I'm... I'm not sure what else to say, honestly. I never thought...."

I never thought you'd win. It's a cruel phrase that haunts the air between them, hanging like a smoky pall across their shoulders.

Scar says nothing against it; he only watches.

An uneasy prickle crawls up Grian's spine. "You don't—" He stops himself before he can finish that thought. "Are you— Scar, why are you here?"

"'Cause Pearl's not talking to me yet," Scar says quietly, prompt. "And— and because I remembered. Us."

Grian's throat closes around the word. "Us," he echoes, a rough rasp that ricochets against the deepslate walls surrounding them. The word tears through his ears, distorting with each pass. "Look, alright— I-I don't know if you got the memo, exactly, but— I'm not—"

He breaks off again, lungs jarring, hitching in his chest. Hot prickles sear behind his eyes, but nothing drops— he’s too tired for crying. "I've hurt you a lot, Scar," Grian says at last, lips numb around the words. "I'm not sure if there's much of an 'us' left, at this point."

"I know," Scar says. His eyes reflect the snow-glitter outside.

"And— I wouldn't blame you, if you left right now." 

"I know," Scar says again, softer.

"I—” Grian stares at him, helpless. "Okay, then why are you here, Scar?" He gestures between them, an aimless motion that somehow encompasses the breadth of everything that's rotted at their foundations. "If you know all that, then what—?"

Scar regards him with enviable poise. His throat bobs as he speaks. "Maybe, I just— now that I remember— maybe I just want your company, Grian. Is that really so bad?"

Grian stares at him, at a loss. "I don't understand," he says finally, and it comes out plaintive even to his own ears. "I thought you'd be— angry. After everything I've done, after all that's happened.... What's your play here, Scar? If you want to yell at me, be my guest. I think by now I've more than earned it."

But Scar doesn't take the bait. Instead, he shuffles closer— just by an inch. A careful, cautious inch. "Y'know," he says, apropos of nothing, "and correct me if I'm wrong, here— but I seem to remember something about you wanting an alliance before all of... that crazy stuff happened. Is that right?"

Something in Grian's chest spasms. Whatever expression it spreads across his face must spur Scar on, because he scoots closer again, just enough to bring their calves together. The brief shock of warmth explodes through Grian's skin, worming its way underneath the subcutaneous tissue to flood his veins and gnaw at the lingering ice.

After a moment, Scar's lips tilt up— a subtle, fragile smile. "Is it too late to cash in on that?" he asks.

Grian's mind goes blank, white and buzzing, the thin hiss of a creeper drifting through it like smoke. Unfiltered shock threads through his voice. "You want t— what?"

Scar's smile tempers further around its edges, stretching into something softer, knowing. Rounded out. With solemn motions, he reaches into the pocket of his utterly ridiculous safety vest, and delicately pulls something out.

It's a sunflower.

In the frigid gloom of Tango's citadel, Grian gapes, the brilliant yellow petals incongruous with this grim, grit, darkened room. When he looks up, Scar's eyes are overbright, painfully earnest— brimming with a desperate urgency that tucks itself away in the depths of his pupils.

"Can we try again?" Scar says, soft as the new-fallen snow beyond this isolated cell of misery. "Start over? I— I kind of hurt you too, you know. And— for the record, being without you sucks. I don't—" He falters. "I know it's gonna be all weird, y’know, between us… but I don't want to do that anymore. I just... want you here, Grian. That's all. I just want you to stick around."

Grian sucks in a sharp, daggered breath. "You're joking," he breathes, but his heart leaps, tumbling from his throat and onto the floor for Scar to stomp at his leisure. "You're actually— this isn't funny."

"Hey, do you see me laughing?” Scar presses forward once more, a calculated attack, but still slow enough for Grian to track each move, to stop him if he cared enough to. Gently, Scar unwinds one of Grian's hands from his knees, cupping it between his own and brushing the lightest of kisses against his knuckles before turning over Grian’s palm and pressing the flower into it. Grian's fingers curl around it of their own accord, silky petals burning against his fingers.

"So." Scar smiles, tremulous, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. "Can we still be friends?"

And Grian has always been a raw creature, a tangled wreck of his own selfish greed— he’s craved the honeyed umber of Scar's love since he first cradled it, tentatively, in his palms all that time ago. In the depths of his heart, there will always be that sandstone cliff, the crack of his bones against hard-packed sand, and wings too clipped to fly freely. There will always be that calloused fist around his heart, and beyond his own scrabbling fear, there will always, always be that fervent need to bring Scar close even as he pushes him away.

And where before, Scar had been playing blind, a game with no true rules… now, his eyes trap Grian against the wall, clear as glass— diamond sharp and just as steady. From a winning game, there is no turning back. There’s nothing left to lose here, except this porcelain trust, this shred of hope Scar offers him once more in the form of a flower.

Even after everything, all the memories flooding back— Scar is still here, holding Grian’s heart, and offering up his own in return.

Grian slowly presses it to his chest with trembling, vulnerable motions. "You're sure you want this."

"I'm sure I want you," Scar says, unwavering.

Grian breathes in. Breathes out. Inhale and exhale, both a heavy drag in his lungs. Already, the sun is beginning to strengthen, casting thick rays through the window and splaying them across Grian’s lap. The advent of gilded noon weaves around them, perfuming the air with light and heat.

"Okay," Grian says at last, and it drops from his lips with the weight of a confession; a relinquishment; a solemn vow. "Okay."

This time, when Scar reaches for his hand again, Grian meets him halfway, and the tangle of their fingers nets the sunflower in a promise neatly between them.

[queenlucythevaliant]

have you ever heard it? can you remember?

i. The gulls were crying. The gulls were always crying, in her memory. Whatever far off places Susan travelled after her family was gone, she always came back to the sea.

ii. The beach at Cair Paravel was the first place in Narnia where she really felt at home. She'd wade into the water with her eyes shut and feel she could be in England, on holiday with her mother and father. She'd open her eyes, and there would be waves cascading endlessly towards her.

iii. Before long, she knew every tidepool, every shoal.

iv. There weren't any bathing suits in Narnia, but no one seemed the least scandalized when Susan took to swimming in her underthings. There wasn't anything else for it, and she had to swim. She just had to.

v. She wasn't the only one of her siblings to love the sea, of course. Edmund loved sand and sailing and reading on the beach, and Peter liked to gaze out at the ocean and think. Lucy spent even more time at the beach than Susan did; she would rise before dawn and sit on the rocks as the sun rose over the waves. Susan was never sure whether her little sister was there to greet the sunrise, or to wait for Aslan.

vi. But for Susan, it was sense-memory. Water was water, wherever she was, and it always reminded her of home. She'd go out past the breakers, pull her limbs into a familiar breast stroke, and she'd feel like she was everywhere she loved all at once.

vii. Aslan came, and she was soaking wet to greet him. He laughed, in his lion-ish way, and didn't mind at all when Susan embraced him.

viii. Somehow, Aslan never got drenched from his journeys across the sea, but he was damp as though with mist. The scent of salt and brine clung to him, an overtone to that fierce, wild smell that was his own. Susan breathed in deep, those two scents she loved most in the world.

ix. In England, back at school, she'd go to the swimming pool and imagine she was in Narnia.

x. It wasn't the same, of course. The swimming pool at her school had no crying gulls, no smell of salt, no cascading waves. There was no Aslan coming towards her from the T-line at the other end of the pool. But if she submerged herself completely, Susan could imagine.

xi. She swam with her eyes shut too often, and her coach was growing irritated. It was affecting her times in practice, which would bleed over into competition if she wasn't careful. Somehow, Susan couldn't be bothered to care.

xii. One weekend, she and Lucy snuck away to visit the boys, and they all went down to the lake to reminisce about Narnia. When Lucy and Edmund spoke of their summer sailing the eastern sea, Susan was positively stiff with jealousy. Yet when they all dove into the water in the end, her heart pounded out a rhythm of home, home.

xiii. Six years after her last trip to Narnia, Susan hadn't touched a bow in four years. She still went swimming every week.

xiv. After the railway accident, she went to live by the sea. She missed her family, and she couldn't stand to live in the places they had lived. She wanted to forget.

xv. Susan had missed the salt air. She had missed the waves. There was a feeling of home by the sea that she couldn't quite place; a soothing echo of long ago dreams and fairytales.

xvi. But there were the gulls crying, "Can you remember?" and it broke her heart all over again.

[themotherofhorses]

maybe you think that you can hide (i can smell your scent from miles)

summary: let it be known that accepting defeat is not in aemond targaryen's nature. and with a witch now in his hands, the distance between you and him is only shortening.

pairing: (somewhat) dark!aemond targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: explicit language. mentions of violence, previous smut, and child loss. male masturbation. massive obsessive tendencies on aemond's part.

notes: to quote my mom, megan thee stallion: "pressed, stressed, obsessed, i got 'em."

masterlist | series masterlist

part one | part three | part four | part five

The rain was light. From his chamber’s windows, Aemond One Eye could see the fat raindrops fogging up the glass frames and mudding the open courtyard below, where he usually trained under Ser Criston Cole. The evening weather was peaceful and calm, very soothing, but Aemond’s mind was anything but.

He had been counting the days, as it was all he could do right now.

Three months, perhaps even four, since his own lady wife vanished, leaving no trace of herself behind.

Aemond deeply regretted not having a septon marry the two of them in the eyes of the Seven that very night that he claimed her, or whisking her away to Dragonstone in secret to wed her in the customs of his ancestors. Oh, he knew that his family would object to the marriage, but he did not care. She was his, and they could not, would not, deny that. She and the babe. They both belonged to him.

And now they were gone.

It weighed him down most days- if not all, a sort of feeling so heavy in his chest that sometimes it made it hard to breathe. Were they both alright? Safe and healthy? Had she gone against his wishes and returned to her homeland? Aemond had no way of knowing the answers and that itself was most upsetting, because what if they were dead? Or injured, with the Stranger trailing after them, awaiting the chance to rob them from him?

He shakes his head at that. I will find them, he swears to himself, while a fist clenches into a tight ball, no more of these ill thoughts.

But with no more ill-mannered thoughts come those of vengeance and punishment.

How dare she, this lady wife of his, flee from him!

He promised her everything under the golden sun and more- a plentiful and comfortable life as a princess of the realm and the mother of his heirs, as well as his very own beating heart and soul and seed. What more could the foolish girl long for? Aemond stares out the window, towards the gentle hill slopes of the realm’s countryside. The land was silvery from the rain and blanketed with a thick mist. What could her homeland provide that he could not?

He sighs before turning back to his empty bed, the left side, from where she once laid, now cold and untouched, with her sweet scent slowly fading. He hates it.

Yet some of it was still left, to his many blessings, and he brings the sheets to his nose, taking in a deep whiff.

The smell makes his cock stir and harden in his pants, and he soon grows too weak in the knees and in his resolve. He tears off his trousers and lays on the bed, his cock in one hand, and her side of the sheets in the other, his mind spinning countless images of his young bride. Every thought sent more blood rushing in between his legs, memories of her pretty body and all the marks and bruises her skin wore, her cries and whimpers, and the way her tearful eyes bore into his.

After that night, he took her more and more, in varying positions. Some new, others old. Sometimes he mounted her from behind, shoving her face down into the pillows to muffle her loud moans and screams as her hips slapped against his, and while that was pleasant, he soon realized he did not care for such. Aemond liked seeing her beautiful face twisted in pleasure and the way her breasts bounced with every thrust, and how she easily flustered whenever he leant to whisper a string of praises in her ear.

He also liked when she sat on her knees with his cock in her mouth, her tongue working wonders as she stared up at him as if he was a god and she one of those whores that belonged to the Street of Silk. But he never dared mutter those kind of words aloud, fore his lady wife was so much prettier than them damned wenches, too sweet and innocent and pure, and wholly his.

And not long after that, she began to glow, the sort that came only with motherhood.

He loved it and felt nothing but immense pride.  

Was she still glowing, and swelling with his child? Aemond was certain she was, and he could only imagine the sight, one most beautiful to man. He remembered his mother’s pregnancy with his younger brother- how her feet constantly ached, and all the times she would ask Ser Cole to fan her, or switch gowns because she grew too uncomfortable and moody.

Was it the same for his wife? Were her little feet hurting as well?

The thought of such makes him bite down hard on his bottom lip, trying his best to swallow his own grunts and moan, and with a whine so unlike him, the head of his cock weeps and spills more of his seed, down his hand and onto his thighs.

What a waste, he thinks emptily, while eyeing the mess he had made, all this belongs to her, yet the foolish girl refused to see it.  

Heaving out yet another heavy sigh, he reaches for the rag that sits to his side. What more could be done? Nothing. Foolish, foolish little girl, he clicks his tongue, all this because of you. He then calls for the maid, requesting for her to draw him a bath.

Tonight, he will dream of his lady wife and their little babe and the life they should be sharing at this very moment. He will ponder over names and if the child will favor her looks or his, and how he will need to meet with the royal seamstress for a layette. And as he sinks himself into the scalding hot waters of the bathtub, he smiles in contentment.

One-eyed Aemond Targaryen will have his wife, and his child too, by any means necessary. 

It was after he sacked Harrenhal that Aemond finds the opportunity he had been waiting for.

The sixth month was nearing with still no sign of his little wife, though the princeling did not dare to consider admitting defeat. There was much pent-up frustration and fury within him, festering from all the damned months he faced of constant loneliness and dryness, and the riverlands faced the brute of it, most notably House Strong. In the ward of Harrenhal, at the hands and command of Prince Aemond, no Strong was spared- neither trueborn nor bastard, all but Alys Rivers.

He had previously heard that the rivers woman was an alleged woods witch, though she dabbled in other branches of the craft. Blood magic too, several little birds say as well.

It gives him an idea.

So he demands two of his knightsmen to bring to him the wet nurse, dark-haired and twice his age. When she stands in front of him, dressed in a soft emerald gown and with her bodice sullied wet from her breast milk, he does not expect for her to bat her black eyelashes and promise to warm his bed if he grants her protection.

“I can be of great use to you,” she adds, in tones thick with seduction.

But Aemond is quick to unsheathe his sword and hold it at her throat. “It should be known that I carry no love for your kind, witch, and that I dare not touch another woman who is not my wife,” he seethes, pressing the blade harder against her skin, “-either you pledge to help me find her, or I will sever your tongue. Perhaps I’ll send it to the whore of my eldest sister as a gift, seeing how she loved you Strongs so much.”

In the back stands Ser Criston Cole, biting his own tongue from saying anything. He may have been the second son of Viserys Targaryen, but Prince Aemond was the knight’s through and through.

The woman nods, and Aemond pulls back his sword. In his mind, he is giddy with excitement at the thought of finally having his dear wife back in his arms, where she belongs.

And the babe, he can hardly wait to see him too.

Alys wipes away the tiny welts of blood budding along her neckline, grimacing. She recognizes the blade as Valyrian-steel, with an edge that could have cut her head clean off. It is probably spell-forged too, she thinks. “My time and craft come with a price, Prince Aemond,” she says, steeling her voice to hide the fact that she is licking her wounds. “I expect to be paid in return.”

“Yes, I know,” Aemond hums, while sliding his sword back into its sheathe. “You will keep your life, and still have the chance for more babes to feed from your chest.”

He debates whether to bring her back to King’s Landing, in case his own children need a wet nurse, but the thought is off-putting, and he wishes not to offend his wife when she returns. Instead, he turns back to study the rivers woman. “My wife is missing,” he says, “and I wish to find her and bring her home.”

Alys frowns. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Six months ago, in our room. She disappeared the next morning, leaving nothing behind.” Aemond sighs. “She is with child,” he says ruefully, “and I worry every day." He rubs at his temple, shaking his head. "This is her first babe, and mine as well. I have made her into a new mother with the promise to remain by her side, but now she is gone, and I haven’t the slightest clue where she might be.” The pain returns again, followed by anger and frustration, as well as the deep regret for not doing things differently.

His words give Alys a chill. She always had a soft spot for children and the young maidens that found motherhood too soon in their lives. Maybe because that was her once, so many moons ago, losing child after child well before their lives began.

She mourned so many dead babes that the thought of another girl going through the same felt sinful.

Finding sudden courage, Alys takes Aemond’s hand in hers. “Let me help you, Prince Aemond,” she tells him, all with the gentlest smile. “A father should be with his children, and a wife with her husband.”

His violet eye finds her green ones, and she catches the smallest glimmer of hope flickering within. “Thank you.”

“Blood magic would perhaps be the best way to find your wife, my prince.”

Aemond tilts his head at Alys. “How so?” The Faith of the Seven went against magic, and harbors little love or respect towards those who practice it, and he grew up with similar sentiments. But at this point, he is too desperate to care. All he wants is her back.

May the Father and the Crone forgive him in his later years, though he has a feeling that the Mother might be rather sympathetic and understanding towards his situation.

“It is a strong and powerful craft,” Alys explains, “capable of things beyond our own understandings. This sort of magic- it has the power to deliver life and then steal it away. ”

He hums, nodding along. “And how would it work?”

Alys pauses, unsure of how to say her next words. “It would require the blood of your wife, my prince,” she says, carefully, “even just the tiniest droplet would work well. I could call upon my own gods to find her. If she pricked her finger on a needle or scraped her knee, as long as it drew fresh blood, there is no use in her hiding.” But her head then drops, and her shoulders slump too, “Yet seeing how she has been gone for so long, I do not know how it could be done, or what else to do in that matter.”

Aemond remains quiet from where he sits by the room’s hearth. He brushes his knuckles against his lips as he thinks, and thinks, and thinks some more. “Would dry blood work?”

Alys blinks. “Well, maybe?” Her mouths flatten in a line as she ponders over the idea, trying to remember if her old readings ever mentioned anything about dried blood and rituals. “I suppose so, my prince,” she replies with, fiddling with her long and thin fingers, “Blood is blood, regardless of time.”

At that, he leaves the room, only to return several minutes later carrying a single bedsheet, cream in color. Alys watches as he drapes it over the chair he had sat at, making sure to smooth out any wrinkles. When he is done, he calls for the witch to join his side, and when she stands next to him, he gestures to a bloodstain at the center, dried and a bit crusty but still obvious.

“My wife’s blood,” he says, smirking, “from the night I took her maidenhood and gave her our son.”

Alys glances at him, and her lips pull back into a smirk too. “Perfect.”

tag list: @minttea07 @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @smolnuggie911 @marahisthebest @bibli0thecary @whatsonthemirror @bellaisasleep @witchy-jadda @princeaemond1eye @mefools @xcharlottemikaelsonx @browngirl101

(if I did not tag you, it’s because it did not let me! im sorry, little love, the tumblr gods hate me today.)

[softlymaximoff]

I loved you at your darkest

The Sun, Moon and Stars AU

18+ ONLY MEN & MINORS DNI (blank blogs will be blocked you do not have my permission to republish my work onto any platform.

— A/N: sorry it took foreverrrrrr, no one’s dead woohoo

— Summary: without your sun, the moon could only do so much until she herself was pleading for the warmth of her lover to return.

— Characters: WandaNat x Reader

— Warnings: ANGST, serious injuries (Wanda), subtle anxiety attack, fluff (only in the beginning SORRY), close call with death (Wanda), mentions of brief Nat’s past.

— Word Count: 2.3k

The air was heavy with a dull ache that nobody dared to disturb. You were grieving, Nat was grieving, the whole compound was dreading the awaiting call from Fury himself. It had been two more weeks with Wanda gone, two weeks since Nat confessed her need for you and she hadn’t left your side. She’s follow you around like a ghost, even if she wasn’t there physically, she’d lay out some of her favourite stolen clothes from Wanda’s side of the closet for you to wear, she’d do your hair the night before and braid it like Wanda would. She’d leave sticky notes as you had been doing on random objects you commonly use and she’s even spray some of Wanda’s vanilla and honey body mist around your shared room. She was trying so hard to compensate for Wanda not being there it was painful.

Today was no different, she’d woken up from yet another nightmare about the witch in battle and pulled you in closer trying to ground herself with something but nothing was easing her worries. Your body melted into her arms instinctively and she took a deep ragged breath trying to regain her composure but when you finally opened your eyes you were quick to comfort her. “Sorry for waking you up” she sniffled and wiped her eyes harshly, stilling when you grabbed her hands and kissed her knuckles. “Don’t do that Natty, Wanda says it’s bad for your eyes” you gave her a sad smile as tears fell down her perfectly carved cheekbones. “Where is she Y/n, where is my sun” she openly sobbed into your chest and you could do nothing but comfort the upset Widow.

“She has to come back, she’s Wanda” you kissed the top of her head (much like Wanda would) and she nodded tearfully, completely pliable in your arms. You loved when she was this soft and vulnerable but you hated that it was because of the situation the three of you were in. No longer than ten more minutes had passed and she was sound asleep in your arms. Hopefully the two of you could have a little more of a sleep in considering it had just passed 5am. The next time you woke up was a much nicer and warmer reason as Natasha opened the blinds and the sun was hitting directly onto the bed. “Hi Natty” your voice hoarse from the slumber and she gracefully manoeuvred herself onto your body and kissed your cheek. “Hi malyshka” she whispered and let her body fall into yours.

“Can we make Wand’s blueberry pancakes please” she mumbled into your collarbone and you stuttered at the feeling, not used to her being this affectionate with you. “Mhm, can you pass me her hoodie” you breathed in the scent of her strawberry and rose shampoo as she matched your breathing, the two of you falling in a synchronised rhythm. The two of you finally slipped out of bed, dressing yourselves in your shared clothes, Natasha braiding your hair into two French braids and you doing her very subtle and minimal makeup while sitting in the bathroom sink. Domestic, home, loved. To be loved is to be understood and the two of you were at the point where there was nothing else in the way of breaking your trust. By the time you two made it to the kitchen, everyone had had their breakfast and were on their way to start their own days.

Natasha got the utensils, you got the ingredients and you moved gracefully around each other. The occasional banter with flour or batter had made the room light up room with love and warmth. Something the compound had been missing since Wanda’s mission. “Detka you’ve got flour in your hair I did so nicely” Nat whined playfully and gasped as you swiped batter on her lips. “Oh boo, now you’ve got pancake on your lips I glossed so nicely” you fake pouted and she rolled her eyes before surprising you with a kiss on the lips. “Now we’re matching” she held in a giggle at your shocked face.

The two of you finished up making breakfast and sat down next to each other, Natasha’s hand brushing against yours every now and then providing much needed comfort. The sound of the avengers jet made your head shoot towards the main entrance and before you could even process what it was, Natasha was already at the door swinging it open. Could it be? Was Wanda finally home? Your pancakes left on the bench and fork full of a piece was dropped, not caring about the potential mess it made. Your breathing came in quick and you were out the door with your girlfriend not far ahead of you.

In the distance you could see Tony carrying Wanda bridal style as he also limped out of the jet. She was here. Wanda was home. The minute you reached the pair you could see the damage on your Wanda. She was bruised, cut up and barely conscious but you didn’t care, she was home, alive. Natasha’s voice was the first you heard as she began harassing Tony for details but the man just heaved and groaned, mumbling something about medbay. “Nat, hey look at me Miss double agent. Take her to medbay get Bruce to check her out, she needs it bad” he panted as he transferred the witch into her arms. Steve came running out and greeted the genius with a warm but stern hug and helped him into the compound, assumingly taking him to Dr Cho.

You were speechless as you followed Nat, emotions swimming in your eyes and your heart beating abnormally fast. You didn’t care, you wanted Wanda. You stayed awfully quiet as Nat rushed her on the medbay bed, years of training for the widow prepared her to hook her up to vitals before Bruce got to the room. “Read her over Bruce please” she was desperate, her voice wavered and she choked back a sob. She needed Wanda and you knew it so you stayed by the door watching your girlfriend worry about her love. You could feel your heart tightening each time Nat choked on her sobs, your chest was hammering with an uneven rhythm and your head was swimming with thoughts but you held it all in. Silent tears fell onto your cheeks and you rubbed at them hastily, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, Wanda was in pain and you were selfishly upset when you were completely fine.

“She’s a fighter Nat, she’s barely conscious, I hate to be the one to say it but if the boys had waited any longer I’m not sure it would have been the same welcome home, you’d hoped for” Bruce admitted quietly as he put her on a higher drip and pretty much an oxygen mask as you’d briefly peered over the two standing over the medical bed. He stitched up her upper right forearm as a deep gash revealed itself when the makeshift bandage was removed and you held in a guttural sob at the sight. She was completely broken, every inch of her body was covered in bruises and scratches and you hated it. It made you physically sick, the fact that she was out there and almost died was a realisation you never wanted experience again. You heard muffled talking in the room and tried to understand what they were saying but the sound of your own heart beating in your ears and the small tremble in your body made you completely unable to focus as to what their conversation actually was.

A soft touch to your chin made you recoil back and tense up as your eyes darted to the intruder in front of you. “Hey, hey look at me, that’s it there you go. Hi baby. She’s okay kotenok, she’s okay” Natasha whispered in the silence of the room and your composure broke. You crashed yourself into your girlfriend’s arms and let out (what Natasha thought) the most heartbroken yet relieved sob she’d ever heard as the series of emotions washed over you like a freight train. “She- she’s okay. Wanda’s okay” you choked back on your tears and struggled to get some air in, Natasha rubbing a soothing hand along the small of your back. “Yeah malysh, yeah she is” she kissed your temple and just held your fragile form, humming one of Wanda’s familiar Sokovian lullabies. “I’ll leave you ladies to it, she’s okay, bandaged up properly and should be up in a few hours” Bruce smiled sadly at the scene he just witnessed and made his exit, closing the door in an act of privacy and calling out to F.R.I.D.A.Y to limit the access to the medbay rooms, only allowing the two of you and himself in case of emergency to enter.

Natasha brought you to the edge of Wanda’s bed and grabbed your reluctant hand, placing on top of Wanda’s chillingly cold one. “She’s home” she murmured behind you and silent tears ran down your cheeks. It was silent for a while, Natasha opting to sit on the end of the bed, patting the space between her la for you to sit. You leaned right back into your girlfriend’s front, lap rubbing circles on the back of Wanda’s hand to ground yourself. “Hi Wands” your voice was small and hesitant,afraid if you spoke any louder she’s break even more. “You were really brave” you spoke again, finding an odd comfort in the moment. “Our brave girl” Nat spoke behind you and you smiled genuinely, hearing the love in her voice. You knew she was never good with showing her heart to people but with you two, she had grown to learn how to love without needing to say much.

A few more hours passed in the room, Wanda’s breathing seemed to steady itself into a normal rhythm and her skin was warmer to the touch. It was nearing 4pm and your eyes were slowly slipping shut. With Natasha now playing with your hair and the patterned beeping of the lab machine, you were caught in a trance. The smallest movement from Wanda’s fingered had you shooting up straight in your girlfriend’s lap and you both froze, was she waking up? The room fell tense as you waited for another movement from the ginger and you wanted to scream in joy as her hand moved again. “Hi moya lyubov” Natasha whispered in hope of a chance of Wanda coming out of her barely conscious state.

Another movement caused you to turn around and look at Natasha (who had tears in her eyes), smiling up at her and nodding your head, turning back to Wanda who had her brows slightly furrowed now. “We’re right here Wanda, forever and always” you continued to talk to her, attempting to encourage her to wake up. A soft groan fell out of her lips and you breathed out a relieved cry. “Hi baby” you choked out, feeling Natasha shift behind you and come around to the side of the bed. She crouched down so she was eye level with her girlfriend and kissed her temple. Another groan rippled throughout the room and her eyes squinted open.

“Wanda” Natasha sniffled and rubbed at her eyes quickly, not wanting to turn the attention on her but onto her injured girlfriend instead. “Tasha” oh god her voice. It was hoarse and dry but you’d take it over any day if it meant you’d actually get to hear it and not the flatline of the monitor. Natasha openly cried now, instant relief washing over her features as she bumped her nose gently on the tip of Wanda’s. the sight was more than what you could have asked for. From a little girl trained to not show love or emotions, she was a completely different little girl in this moment. She was glowing, she was full of love that only the two of you ever got the liberty to see. She was absolutely beautiful and broken, she was whole. She had found her Sun. You had found your moon and they had found their Star.

Wanda had turned to you, sporting an exhausted smile and a subtle head nod, ushering you closer to her and Nat. “Hi baby” she rasped out and kissed the tip of your fingers. “Hi Wands” you tearfully sniffled and kissed her nose in return, Natasha watching the two of you with a gentle smile taking in the scene. What you didn’t fail to notice was the subconscious taps of Natasha’s fingers on Wanda’s forearm, three consecutive taps with a few seconds of pause between the pattern and you gave her a soft smile knowing how hard it was for her to express her emotions sometimes. She was showing herself to you two more and more each day, and that was one of the many little things that made your heart fill with pride.

She had learned how to show love to the people who appreciated her, just like the Moon. She was the light in your darkness and the comfort in the unknown. She just needed someone to show her her own worth like the Sun and Stars. The sun loved her so much that she gave some of her own brightness for the Moon, promising to count on her during dark times. Her moonlight shone so bright that all the stars in the universe wanted to mirror her and giver her the same appreciation she did to the sun. Shining bright and creating an array of little moons surrounding her with a mirrored reflection of love. Together the three became every artist’s and poet’s dream. A love story so pure and so delicate no one dared to interfere with.

[letorip]

casual [iii]

"i hate that i let this drag on so long, now i hate myself, hate that i let this drag on so long, you can go to hell"

===+++===

pairing: natalie scatorccio x reader

summary: you're not just going to let her go, this time. after long enough, you arrive at the very obvious conclusion that you're in love, and there's very little else to be done about that

warnings: mentions of sex, cuss words, a bit of angst but i promise a happy ending :)

word count: 7.2k

A/N: all good things must come to an end. trust, i'll write for nat again. also i stayed in that airport so fucking long it was like purgatory, and i'm so sorry it took longer than i thought, i've had an exhausting past two weeks and just needed to stop and breathe for a minute

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THAT ONE ANON I FEEL BAD I'M LATE

===+++===

===+++===

"Please tell me you didn't do it on my sheets," Lottie groaned, lip curled in disgust and eyes hidden by her sunglasses.

"Sorry," you said back from behind your own pair, without looking away from the crystal blue of her pool water. You both were splayed out on her sun-bleached deck chairs, with matching hangovers (and bathrobes) that made the bright, beaming sunlight a whole new level of awful.

Her house was in disarray around you both, with crushed beer cans and overturned chairs all across the pool deck. Some cigarette butts floated in the water and you were certain the sprinklers in her garden were misting a pile of vomit and washing it down the front of her lawn, but neither of you made a move to get up and deal with it yet.

At the far end of the Matthews' pool, there was a statue of a mermaid that doubled as a fountain, spitting water in a gentle stream. Someone had put a snapback that said 'I <3 BOOBIES' on her and a bit of lipstick around the area that water shot out, and though usually you would have laughed, you instead were a bit annoyed by how it was taking you out of what would've been a nice scene.

There was just something about waking up and seeing Nat had gone without any sort of indication, that sparked the sudden urge within you to reconnect with nature. So you were reconnecting— more like brooding— on Lottie's pool deck in a peaceful silence.

After what felt like thirty minutes but was probably more like five, she turned to you. "Do you wanna—”

“—Talk about it?” you finished, raising your eyebrows. You shook your head. “No.”

She pouted. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to make pancakes.”

“Oh… then yes.”

You both lazily trudged into her equally wrecked kitchen, with even more cans and spilled liquids thrown over her marble counters. There was a burnt bag of popcorn sitting in the sink and the garbage can underneath it was overflowing with paper towels, but Lottie's kitchen was big enough where you could ignore it entirely, jumping up to sit on the clean countertop near her massive range cooker.

When Lottie said 'make pancakes,' she really meant she would be the one cooking and you would be there for moral support, if anything. You were gifted in many things but cooking or anything of the sort had never been one of them. Instead you leaned your head against the massive stone hood, and watched her from the pair of sunglasses you still wore.

Nat had laughed at you, when you said you didn't know how to cook. Not an omelette, not mac and cheese, and barely a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Of course, you assumed the last one wouldn't be hard to figure out, but you hadn't ever made one before, and it made her laugh into your chest, where her head had been resting. It hurt a bit now, but you had the sunglasses to shield your eyes while you stared off into space.

"Chocolate chips?" Lottie asked, running a hand through her dark hair and combing out a few knots with her fingers. You nodded, and she turned back to the pan in front of her, grabbing a fancy looking bag from a stack of supplies nearby. "My dad brought fresh chocolate back with him from when he was in the Caribbean a few weeks ago," she said to you, sprinkling it into the pan and flipping it over.

"Is he going to be pissed you're using it for pancakes?" you mumbled, feeling your headache return.

"No more pissed than he'll be when he sees that Jeff and his friends cut off the leg on one of his horse-shaped hedges." You winced, hopping down from the counter and feeling your back still scraped raw from, well, Nat. Lottie shot you a look. "That heated, huh?"

You rolled your eyes, heading towards the kitchen island and grabbing some of the beer cans to toss in the rubbish. "She's made her decision clear. I'm honestly done with it. I don't care anymore."

Lottie didn't say anything, turning back to the pancakes and sliding them on a plate as you slid into the barstool at the other end of her island and rested your head on your elbows. "I mean, she called me selfish, Lottie, and then said she loved me multiple times, minutes later. Who the hell does that?"

"Mhm," she hummed, sticking her spatula and the pan in the sink and then moving to the walk in pantry to grab syrup and powdered sugar.

You watched her go, calling after her. "She disappears for days after she gets mad about me talking to people, and then I see her immediately with Bobby Farleigh of all people, and they're cuddling up! I'm done with it all."

"Okay," Lottie said, reappearing with her arms full and tossing them down on the kitchen island. She clambered up into the seat next to you and stole some of the plain ones for herself, before covering them in syrup.

"And," you continued, remembering something else as you began cutting up the pancakes and smothering them in powdered sugar, "she egged my fucking house! How could I even forget about that? I mean, what was I thinking? I don't want to talk about her."

"Oh yeah," Lottie snorted. "You really don't want to talk about her."

You shot her a glare, stuffing your mouth with an angry fork. "I'm serious, Lottie."

"You wish," she scoffed. "If you were serious— and I'm not trying to be mean— but if you were serious, you wouldn't be ranting all about her. I know you keep saying it's impossible and it can't happen with her, but you sure as hell seem like you want it to happen with her."

You frowned, taking a forkful and stuffing it into your mouth. Right as you did, a couple sheepishly walked down the hall and towards the front door, clothes obviously messed up. They sent you an awkward wave and Lottie gave a quick nod in their direction, turning back to her plate. "Then why'd she leave?" you asked, when the door was shut behind them.

She shrugged. "Why the hell would I know? If anyone here would be the Natalie-whisperer, it would be you."

"Yeah well, apparently not," you huffed, shoving more pancakes into your mouth.

"I mean, it's not like you guys were on glowing terms before you... y'know. Wasn't gonna magically all be fixed, after." You groaned, leaning your forehead down onto the cool marble countertops. It actually felt nice, against your raging headache, but you still felt like crap.

"Would've at least been nice for her to wait until I woke up to go. No 'goodbye,' no 'we should talk,' nothing. When we were just hooking up and stuff, I at least always waited to say goodbye."

"So it's not just hooking up, anymore?"

"I don’t know what it is, Lottie. You tell me, because apparently everyone knows but me." She shrugged, finishing her plate and pushing it away from herself.

"I have an answer, but you're not gonna like it."

"...No, I'm not in love with her."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm done with this!"

"You keep saying that."

"'Cause I am."

"Okay."

"I'm done," you frowned, attempting finality in your tone and coming far short.

"Right," she snorted, and then she stood to grab your now-finished plate too. "Can you help me?”

It took around three hours, to get the Matthews house back to its usual formality. You sprayed burnt and disturbed bushes with the hose, threw out bag upon bag of party rubbish, and vacuumed cigarette butts off the carpet of her living room, silently working while Lottie played some records on her grandfather's old gramophone.

Her dad usually put jazz records on it or snooty classical music, whenever you were over, but Lottie had Dancing Queen blasting throughout her house and was hopping around as she snatched stuff off the mantle and shoved it into bags, turning to you and yelling a lyric from time to time, along to the music.

This wasn't your idea of fun by a long shot, but you could appreciate Lottie trying to make it fun.

"So, how much convincing did you have to do, to get Laura Lee here at a party? I mean, with the alcohol," you asked with a snort, grabbing an almost empty bag of crisps and tossing yourself down in her father's leather armchair to finish them off.

Lottie flushed. "A really embarrassing amount," she admitted. "I kind of glazed over that part."

"I'll bet she was surprised?" you asked with an amused crunch.

"It wasn't even that— this guy from my third period started going at it with this girl right in front her. I had to literally stop her from going over there to talk to them about waiting until marriage."

You shrugged. "I mean, she seems to like you a whole lot."

"She does," Lottie nodded. "She's so sweet to me, and she has the best hand to hold, like, ever."

"Honestly, I'm surprised, but happy for you. You're in a big ol' throuple with Jesus Christ."

"Ha ha," Lottie rolled her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you. "At least whatever we have is holy. I don't even want to think about you and—"

But whatever dig she would've said was cut off by her doorbell ringing. You sighed, letting your feet down from where you had propped them up on the side table and wiping the crumbs on your bathrobe.

"I'll get it," you grumbled, leaving Lottie to clean. When you opened the door there was absolutely no way you could've prepared to see her so soon.

Nat stood awkwardly in the entryway, looking just as surprised to see you as you were to see her. She wore a pair of blue shorts she practiced and slept in, and staring right back at you was the shirt you thought had gone missing weeks ago, barely hidden behind the ratty zip up hoodie she had over it.

Her eyeliner was still smudged from the night before in places, and you stared at her blankly, waiting for her to say something— anything, really.

"I forgot my damn lighter," she said, casting her eyes to the floor after a moment.

"Oh," you replied, feeling a bit stupid suddenly, in your bathrobe and sunglasses, with your flip flops for shoes. You looked like you were mid-spa day, or like someone's drunk uncle on a cruise. Then, before you could stop yourself, you felt an annoyance twinge in your gut, and said "Is that all you've got to say?"

Her eyes shot up, looking challengingly at you, in what was a clear frustration. "What do you want me to say?" But the answer went unsaid, even as much as you didn't like it. That you came back for me.

"I don't know..."

"Great," Nat scoffed. She looked over your shoulder into Lottie's house, as if her lighter would appear behind you and jump right into her hand, and she would just be able to leave. "Can I just have my—"

"—Why did you egg my house?" you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to block the door a bit more. She raised her eyebrows at you, confused.

"What?"

"You egged my house, after our argument," you repeated, slower, feeling the tips of your ears burning.

"No the hell I didn't."

"Yes the hell you did," you argued back, leaning forward with your hands on your hips. "You're the only one with the gate code. I get it, you were mad, but—"

"—Fucking Christ, I didn't!"

"You wrote a giant 'fuck you' on my house. No one else would."

Nat glared. "I didn't invent it. Is it such an impossible thing for you to consider that maybe not everyone is Team (Y/n)? I don't mean to break your brain, but for once somebody might actually dislike you."

You rolled your eyes. "You're the only one with a history of breaking rules and doing shit."

"So, what, you think I would do that to you?"

"Maybe you would. Maybe you don't care about me at all. That's why you ran off, wasn't it?"

She narrowed her eyes at you. "I had to go, before my dad caught me out."

You shook your head. "Bullshit. You've stayed out, before."

"Oh, so now you're mad that I'm not cuddling up to you?"

"That's not cuddling, that's having me stick my fingers in you and then you run off. You were pissed at me a few days before, Nat, for literally the same thing."

"It's almost like it's confusing, (Y/n), when you get mixed signals. And no, I got pissed at you because you went shopping for girlfriends— which, I'm assuming because you're being an oblivious, self-righteous asshole, you're still doing."

"Yep, still looking," you glared at her. She glared right back, just as steely.

"Great."

"Great," you replied. It was annoying, how good she looked when she was frustrated. She was great at looking mad, and even better at looking good when she was mad. The furrowing of her eyebrows, wrinkling of her nose in anger; she had the face you wanted to kiss away. It was impossible not to wonder, if doing so would uncurl her fists and smooth out the lines on her forehead.

Then you stopped. Holy shit. Everything seemed awful, like a massive case of vertigo had just washed over you. You had had hangovers before, but this somehow seemed infinitely worse. See, a thought had finally self-realised itself within your little peanut brain.

I'm in love with Nat.

It made the ceiling feel like the floor, and Nat sent you a concerned glance and seemed about to question your change in expression, when Lottie came from behind you.

"Hey, Nat," she said with an awkward smile, brushing past you with a look and then handing her the lighter quickly. "Excited for nationals?”

"Yeah," Nat nodded, but her eyes were still glaring at you. She cleared her throat, finally looking off. "Thanks, Lot. Great party."

"Mhm," Lottie nodded, trying her best to seem at ease and not at all like she was walking in on a code-red situation. "Have a great weekend! Bye now! Get home safe! See you!" She rushed, tugging you from beyond the doorway and giving a wave, before shutting the door.

The moment the door was closed, she gave you an unappreciative stare, but your eyes were wide and your cheeks flushed.

"What?" asked Lottie, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.

"I...I think I'm in love with her."

===+++===

Your home was just as empty as it was when you had left the night before. Reginald wasn't even due to come in, since your mother and father weren't home and it was a Saturday. Even the groundskeeper and maid had the day off, and the groan you let out at finally returning home and falling onto the warm rug on your living room floor echoed against the walls of your empty house.

In your hand was the letter you found in your mailbox. A cool black and Princeton-orange colour. You already knew what it said, without even looking into it. Your father and mother went there. His father and mother, too. For years and years and years. And now, if you followed the rules set out in front of you, you too.

It was impossible not to wonder, when the fog of privilege would slowly cloud your brain. Would it be the law degree from a private school, or legacy admissions? The more frightening thing was that maybe Nat was right: it had already set in, and you unaware. You at least felt different than the rest of them. That made you different, right? You and Lottie?

The image of Nat seemed ever-prevalent. Glowering at you, like she had been in the doorway. In your shirt. With that frown. The frown that you wanted to kiss away, but would never be able to. A Scatorccio, of all people. Of all people, you had to be in love with the one person you couldn't have.

It felt simultaneously like life had resolved into something more clear and understandable, and something more depressing and doomed. You wanted to forget the realisation, and the acceptance as well. Maybe it was truly better when you were promising your friends that you felt nothing of the sort.

Your eyes flitted from where they stared at the ceiling over to the giant brown bookcase in the corner, stacked high with thick volumes of what your dad had once said were family records, but you had never grabbed one off yourself. The one that stuck out against the brown leather-bound books was a more sleek, grey memoir with your grandfather’s name printed onto the hard cover casing.

That one you had read— your father had made you read it, when you were fourteen, and your parents gave up on trying for another kid. It wasn’t as dreadfully boring as you thought it would be, but it was still a memoir about a stuffy stockbroker from the 80s, with all the parts involving cocaine conveniently edited out, but not your grandfather’s insane escapades with women.

Your father was in the process of writing his own edition, and had thereby implied that he expected you to write one for yourself. You didn't know what you could possibly write about, but then again there was the expectation you write about it anyway. You weren't a guy on Wall Street, you weren't an international businessperson. You didn't even know what you were going to school for, yet.

Next to the bookshelf in equal intimidation was a painting of your family that your father had commissioned years ago. It was back when you still had braces and acne, but thankfully the artist had removed both. You hadn't been allowed to smile for it, though that's what child-you thought you did for pictures. Instead, you and your parents' mouths were drawn into disapproving lines and hardened expressions, and the golden plaque at the bottom wore your surname in proud, powerful letters.

You sighed, sitting up onto the palms of your hands and then standing slowly, still a bit uncoordinated. You sent the painting a final glance before you wandered to the phone, grabbing the thing and checking your watch while you did it. You slumped down into the seat at the end of your dining room table, where your father usually sat, and pulled the antenna from the top, punching in the numbers absentmindedly as you stared out the window onto the garden and the pool.

The number was for your father's Monaco residence, and you waited with a jumping knee and wry expression while it rang. Eventually, though, your mother picked up. "Hello?"

"Hello, mother."

(Y/n), darling, is something wrong? You know to call Reginald first, in case of emer—"

"—No, nothing is wrong, mother. Look, I actually wanted to ask you a question."

"Well, go on then. We're about to go out to dinner."

"...Mother, do you have Julie Roosevelt's number?"

Silence on the end of the line. "Absolutely!" You didn't need to be there with her to hear the smile in her voice. "What for?"

You swallowed. "I think I'll try to take her out tonight."

"Well! Darling, that's just wonderful!" You nodded into the receiver, not like she could see it. "Make sure to wear your nice shirt, we don't want to upset the Roosevelts! I hope you know, I'm proud of you for this, really." You almost mentioned getting accepted into Princeton. Almost. But you decided not to mention it. It wasn't like you wanted to think about it anyways.

From the far wall, you could see the painting of the woman with the blue eyes staring at you.

===+++===

The local mini golf was always busy, but Saturdays were absolutely the busiest. There were couples upon couples who had the exact same idea, and were wandering around with their hands together and beaming at one another like they were living in a rom-com in the real life.

And yet you stood there with your hand in Julie Roosevelt's, and a massive frown on your face. It wasn't one that you'd let Julie see— every time she glanced in your direction, you'd quickly replace it with your best smile, showing her your teeth— but it was one that you knew you wore when she turned away.

"Sorry about the late notice," you said. You dropped her hand and went to grab a putter from the front, handing it to her and then grabbing one for yourself.

"It's okay, I was wondering if you were ever going to talk to me again," Julie laughed, a bit awkward. You winced. It's not like you could be honest, and say that you didn't intend to. The truth was, that while Julie was a bit shallow, she was also a bit too nice to deserve this one-sided thing.

Of course, there was the hope that you grew the love your mother spoke of. Maybe it would hit you, and alleviate you from Nat, who seemed to haunt your thoughts even more now, that you were aware she had captured your heart.

"I was just busy, this past week," you shrugged. "It's kind of a big deal for the Yellowjackets, and both of the teams are practicing and stuff...so."

"Wow. I guess you really like the Yellowjackets then, huh?"

"Uh...something like that, yeah. It's a big deal." She hummed, then took her things out onto the first green.

You let her go, standing behind her and watching with a grin and the scorecard in your pocket. Mini golf was something you took pride in being good at. But, then, of course, Julie let the ball drop, took a second, and gently hit the ball around the bend with a near perfect curve, and right into the hole.

"Yay!" she cheered, jumping up and down in celebration.

"Wha—"

Julie put her hands on her hips with a teasing grin. "Captain of the golf team, remember?" You hadn't.

"Right..."

You played a terrible game, for the most part. You stood at the end of the second-to-last hole with the scorecard in your hand and a whole bunch of big numbers on your side of the table. Julie was beaming from ear to ear, though you weren't exactly sure why.

It had been pretty much silent, with the two of you failing over and over again to find an interesting thing to talk about. It wasn't the calm, pleasant silence like it was with... well, it didn't matter now. You filled in a four, two shots over the par, and made your way over to where Julie was crouching down, to get a better view of the final hole.

"Actually wait, there's a special way you have to play this one," you called out to her, and she turned to you with a puzzled expression.

"What do you mean?"

"It's kind of local tradition here," you shrugged. You weren't even sure if that was true, you just knew that it was what Nat had called it, when she taught you. "You have to swing really, really hard, and to win, you've gotta get it over the fence," you pointed, "and right into the back of that neighbourhood."

She blinked at you for a moment, and then Julie frowned, looking down to the ground. "That's mean, though. What if you hit someone's house? Or a window?"

"Bonus points," you shrugged. "I don't know, you can't really see where they go, once they're over the fence. It's fun."

Julie raised her eyebrows. "Don't you think it's a little immature? Why would I do that if I'm going to win for real?"

You opened your mouth to reply, then firmly closed it. "I guess you're right," you mumbled. It hadn't felt stupid when you suggested it, but Julie's disdain at the suggestion made you feel improper.

She did win, by a massive landslide, and you let her keep the scorecard with little protest. She was still beaming though, brightly at you like she had just had the best date of her life. Your stomach felt like it was tied up in a bunch of knots, but you smiled back at her nonetheless.

If love was something to be worked towards, you really hoped it would start working soon.

===+++===

You had only been home for about twenty minutes, when your phone started ringing. Off the hook. Over and over again. You knew who it was just from the ring, but that didn't mean you wanted to pick up.

After the disaster that was dropping Julie off at her house, you wanted to continue to staring at the ceiling. But after the sixth call back, it seemed Jackie wasn't giving up.

You picked the phone up with a frown, rolling over and smushing your chin into the bed. "Hello—"

"—OH MY GOD, YOU AND JULIE?!"

You groaned. "Jackie I dropped her off like thirty minutes ago, how do you already know about this?"

"So it's true?! You're dating?"

You sat up. "What? No, we just went on one date."

"Really? Cause Julie told Margie who told Randy who told Jeff, who told me that you kissed her and you're going out!"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I didn't kiss her, she kissed me. And it wasn't even like an actual kiss, she like, pecked me, and then scrambled out of my car and up her driveway."

"Well, she's saying you're going steady."

"'Going steady?' The 40s called, they wanted their slang back."

"Ha ha," Jackie said back, and you could hear the eye roll. She went silent. "...I bet your mom is happy."

"Probably..."

"Are you happy? You're probably a shoe-in for prom court, especially since I'll be out of town. Your mom won't let you go to nationals, will she?"

"No. She'll want me and Julie to go to prom together."

"Well, I mean, at least you'll win, right? That's gotta be exciting?"

You looked over to your nightstand, where you had a polaroid of you and Nat that sat taped to the side. "Thrilled."

"(Y/n)? You okay, hubby?"

You took a sharp swallow. "Yeah, I'm fine. Julie's great."

"Right...," she paused again, "does Nat...does she know?"

"I don't think so... It's only been like, thirty minutes."

"She will soon, though. Monday."

"Yeah...I guess she will soon."

===+++===

Monday was terrible. It seemed Julie had taken the awkward attempt at kissing you as the sign that you were together. She was there at your car when you first arrived, grinning again while you and Lottie got your things for school out of the second row. Then, the moment you had locked your car, you were tugged along by a hand grabbing yours.

You didn't exactly have a good reason to be grossed out. Julie was beautiful, and if you had felt the same way for her, you would have been thrilled with the enthusiasm. Hell, if it were... well. So, you mostly let her drag you wherever she wanted.

There was about a week, to run for prom court. Your mother had promptly called you that morning to insist on prom, and insist on shopping for prom, when she returned home on Wednesday, from Monaco. It was all Julie would talk about, and you were starting to wonder how much of this was a political move for her too, rather than one of genuine interest in you.

You first saw Nat coming down one of the halls, and you hesitated a bit the moment you saw that she noticed you. Or, that she noticed you and Julie together. It was the walk of shame, frankly. You didn't belong to her, in any formal sense. But your heart did, and that was enough for it to hurt. Badly.

It seemed to hurt her too. She immediately frowned, tugging on Kevyn's sleeve and walking in the opposite direction. You wanted to run after her, but Julie had an iron grip on your hand and a smile so bright.

It was awkward enough at lunch, with Julie insisting to sit next to you and to bring her golf friends. A few of them were nice, and Jackie managed to chat them up well enough to make even more friends than before, but Lottie had a frown the entire time, and Shauna looked less than happy.

Nat wasn't staring at you at lunch anymore. It was a startling realisation, that you wanted her to be looking at you. If anything, you were looking more at her. You kept turning around, trying to seem like you were just scanning the cafeteria, but Nat was firmly looking down at her food, at the same table as always.

You felt like a runaway dog that had temporarily shrugged off its collar, trying to find home with a tail between its legs. Julie was nice, and smart, and talented. But she wasn't the one. Your one.

===+++===

"Hey, you ready?" you asked Lottie, finding her out in the hallway in front of the locker rooms. it was Friday, and you both had your soccer bags slung over your shoulder, and were about to head out to practice, but Lottie seemed transfixed on a poster on the wall. "Hey now, you've got nationals tomorrow, no distractions," you tried.

"Is she seriously trying to make it seem like you two are soulmates?" Lottie said with a grimace. It was one of the ones Julie had made in two days, and was now putting all over the school to really earn you both the win. There was a drawing of you and her on it, with a heart in the middle, and 'VOTE JULIE & (Y/N) FOR PROM COURT 1996.' It was an objectively good design, but Lottie didn't like Julie very much— or at least had started to hate her, the longer you and her were together.

"I think it's because she has a crush on you," Julie said once with a pout, after Lottie had been less than welcoming to her on a ride home.

"No she doesn't," you shook your head.

"She definitely does. You shouldn't hang out with her as much, or people will think you and her are a thing. I mean, I did at first."

The whole conversation had only made Lottie more and more annoyed with her, and that was saying a lot, with how Lottie was usually nice to most people.

"Come on," you said, gesturing with your head out towards the pitch. "Last practice before nationals."

Lottie still had a frown on her face, but she followed you out there with her arms crossed. It was still relatively early, only a few people were out. Coach Martinez's son Travis was up in the bleachers, watching, while you could see Trevor and Misty talking next to the water cooler and Jeremy and Mari passing a ball back and forth to each other.

"Hey (Y/n)," a voice called from behind you, and you could feel a similar annoyance to Lottie's washing over you. You turned to see Carter Avery, back from his suspension, with a cheeky smirk on his face. "Miss me?"

"Not even close," you scowled. He brushed past you and Lottie, pausing for a moment when he was directly in front of you staring down in an attempt at intimidation. He kept walking though, until he paused, right at the edge of the pitch.

"Oh, and (Y/n)?"

"What."

"I think I need to borrow some eggs. You got any for me?" Your eyes widened. "What about toilet paper, then?"

It was intended to create anger in you. You knew he wanted you to charge at him or something, or to scowl, but all you did was stand there, in a stunned silence. You had thought that Nat would do that. That Nat could do that to you. Of course it wasn't Nat. You felt stupid and you felt guilty, and you felt even worse that you couldn't do much about either of those things. You could try, though. And maybe that would be enough.

Lottie sent you a knowing look, but all you wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die. Maybe you could try to talk to her, after practice? It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.

The Yellowjackets' moods were infectious, and it was impossible to not have a great time, at that practice. Their emotions were high, along with their excitement, and you started to feel a little bit better, the more you ran and the more you felt the wind in your hair.

Of course, that's when everything decided to go wrong. A single slide tackle from Taissa, right into Allie's leg, and everyone was panicking and yelling. You could see the bone sticking out from it, and Misty was bolting in your direction, hovering over her and attempting to right it.

"Can I get two people to carry her?" She shouted at both teams, and you immediately raised your hand, stepping forwards while Allie began to cry. You didn't even see who was grabbing her other arm until you had made it into the locker room, and Allie was still crying with Misty following behind and a very clueless looking Coach Ben behind her.

You should've known, it was her. She was selfless like that, even though she'd rather die than admit it herself. And yet, there Nat was, on the other side of Allie, laying her down on one of the locker room benches and raising her leg up. Misty ushered you both out into the hall, and suddenly both you and Nat were regretting volunteering.

You had to wait until she came out, so you would be able to carry her to the front, where the ambulance could arrive to take her to hospital, but until then it just meant you and Nat were forced to stand there in awkward silence.

It stayed that way, until you tried to speak. "So...nationals, hu—"

"Don't even," Nat snapped, shutting you up. She was twitching a little bit, in discomfort, and you knew right now that if it were outside, or if she were to have her bag, she would be pulling out a cigarette.

"...I know it wasn't you who egged my house. It was Carter... I'm...sorry."

"Real genius, aren't you."

"Allegedly. Not in practice, apparently," you admitted, sliding to the tiled floor in wait. She eyed you cautiously, but did the same, sliding down.

"Man, if I had a nickel, for every time we've been in this hallway with a serious injury... I'd have, what, two nickels?" You hummed, leaning your head back against the wall.

"That's not a lot," Nat said, rolling her eyes.

"No," you nodded in agreement, "but it's weird that it happened twice."

She thought for a minute, then shrugged. "I guess." You both could hear the whistle being blown outside, to end the final scrimmage and indicate that it was time to circle up.

"Don't you want to go hear that? Y'know, for tomorrow?"

Nat shook her head. "I'd rather be here for Allie. Though she's kind of an asshole."

You snorted. "She's a total fucking bitch."

"...Just so you know, I really did have to leave, after Lottie's party... I, uh, kissed your forehead, before I left... I guess you couldn't feel it though. You were asleep."

You shook your head. "I didn't know that..."

"...Yeah... my dad was being an asshole... it was a whole thing." You knew it hurt more than she was saying, right now, and you so desperately wanted to scoot closer, like you would've before things had gotten so messed up. Back when you were on the cusp of happiness.

"I'm sorry, Nat."

She shrugged again, like it didn't hurt, but you knew all too well. "For what?"

You would've said for being scared. For being weak. For not realising sooner. Anything. But instead you were interrupted by the sound of shoes on the tile.

Of course, there Julie had to be. She took a single look at Nat who was covered in sweat and a bit red from practice, and grimaced, before coming up to you and standing right over you, expectantly.

"Is practice over?" she asked, checking her watch. "I finished my club meeting. We have to go dress shopping— I want you there to colour match— and I need you to drop Margie off at her house, cause I said you would yesterday."

You blinked. "I mean... It kind of is? I should probably stay a bit—" you looked to Nat to see what she would say, but she was already standing up and walking off, taking the not so secret hint that Julie was telling her to get lost.

Julie watched her go, scowling behind her back and then spinning to you the moment the door clicked shut behind her. "What did she want with you?" she asked.

"We were just talking, Allie needed help."

"Well she's no good. She's one of those kids, y'know." You narrowed your eyes, getting up to your feet and wiping your hands on your shorts.

"What are you talking about?"

Julie tilted her head to the side, like she was confused by your confusion. "You must not have a lot of them, around here, but we had them all OVER, in Massachusetts. The town bicycles. Everyone wants a ride, if you know what I mean."

It was your turn to cross your arms. "No the hell I do not, Julie."

"Oh come on," she said, throwing up her hands. "She's trailer trash, at best. The delusional kind who thinks we'd look at her, like, ever. I mean, what's her body count, like over a hundred?"

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," you snapped at her, glowering.

"Okay, I know she's on the Yellowjackets, and she's clearly trying to get in your pants, but cmon. I'm your girlfriend, we can laugh about this kind of—"

"No, the hell you aren't. You're not my girlfriend, Julie, and you barely ever fucking were. That girl you just insulted is the best fucking person I know. She's selfless, she's kind, she makes me laugh—"

"Well then go sleep with her then!" Julie yelled, stomping her foot.

"Y'know what, I already have! And I fucking love her. So there!" And you turned right around and stomped back out onto the pitch.

===+++===

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you rolled your eyes, trudging down the stairs and calling out into the foyer. It wasn’t like whoever it was would actually be able to hear you, through the thickness of your door, if anything it was more to air your grievance with having to get up so fucking late. Your mom was once more distraught, now that you had kept the "perfect" girl for a single week and then promptly dumped her. Another vacation was in order.

Rain was still pounding on the roof from above, and it filled the emptiness of your house with a faint white noise, that was immediately shattered by the person pressing the button again. You rolled your eyes, deciding to walk even slower to the door out of nothing but spite.

When you actually opened the door, though, you had to blink a couple times, seeing a figure retreating already, down your drive. However long you had took had made them rethink why they were here, and you would've been all too happy to let the door close. That was, until you narrowed your eyes into the rain, just barely making out the shape of a familiar leather jacket.

"Nat?" You called into the storm, loud enough that there was no way she couldn't have heard you. You crossed your arms, thinking about how she had been earlier that day. "I know it's you, Natalie. Why the fuck are you here? You have nationals tomorrow."

She stopped in her tracks, just standing in it. She gently turned, shoulders rising and falling and it was clear she was breathing heavily. Her mascara was running in massive streaks down her face and dripping in small, grey droplets, and her eyes were sensitive and red, as if she had been crying and rubbed them raw. You swallowed what felt like a lump in your throat.

"This— all of this, with you— I— I can't," she stumbled, looking like a sad, wet dog in the rain.

"What?" you furrowed your eyebrows at her, walking out further onto your large, covered doorstep.

"I can't see you with her, (Y/n), I— I just can't."

"With Julie?"

Natalie threw up her arms in frustration. "Yes, Julie. I know she's perfect, or whatever, but— I— you can't be with her—"

"—Nat," you tried, stepping forward again.

"—Because I love you," she continued. You stopped in your tracks. It felt as if the air had been sucked right out of your lungs, even in the freshness brought by the storm. "I know we argue," her voice shook, "and I know we fight, and I know I smoke, and I curse, and I get bad grades, and my dad's a shithead, and I'm kind of an asshole sometimes— but I fucking love you, (Y/n). You.... I—"

"—Shut up," you said, shaking your head and rushing forward, out into the pouring storm. You collided with her, cupping her face in your cheeks and kissing her like the world would end in ten minutes. It would have, if you hadn't done it, and you had no idea how you had survived so long without doing it.

You kissed her once, and then you kissed her again, and then, when she was crying harder, and you were crying too, and she was holding onto your arms like you would fall away, you kissed her forehead, and held her tight in a hug.

"I'm selfish, and I'm a mess, and I'm never good enough for my stupid fucking parents," you said, over the rain and just for Nat, "and I don't realise that I hurt people 'cause that's not what my family does, and for that, I'm really, really fucking sorry."

She nodded in her tears, looking up at you as you both got rained on together. "But, I agree," you said, voice shaking, "we're not casual. I'm really, really fucking sorry, but I also really, really fucking love you, Nat. And I'm sorry I was too scared and too stupid, and," you raised your voice, as if to the sky, "I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING GO TO PRINCETON—" this time it was Nat who shut you up.

It was another kiss, but it was far more gentle than the first. It was a gentle press, and it took your breath away. When you pulled apart, you let your forehead fall against Natalie's. Even though the droplets were cold, you felt so warm.

After what felt like forever, but still wasn't long enough, Nat murmured to you, "should we go inside?" She still smelled like cigarettes and her perfume, just as she had in her trailer, and you intended to let the scent linger.

You shook your head. "Just stay out here a little longer with me. Please? Just let time pass."

She nodded, then smirked as she looked past you at the car on your driveway. "Fuckin' rich people."

===+++===

AAAAAND THAT'S CASUAL BABYYYYY! Finished at like 2 am. anyways, i'm tired and a little bit sleepy