#THE BOY IS DIVINE 💜

[wordborne]

the boy is mine 💜

[chronically-ghosted]

vivarium

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: ezra x f!reader word count: 8K summary: you request a vacation for your birthday. With the rain and a few drinks, you get a lot more than you asked for.  warnings: alcohol drinking, minor age gap (less than 10 years), oral (f!receiving), fingering, smut, possessive!Ezra, dom!Ezra, one booty smack, dirty talk for real, smut, pining, a bit of angst, referenced/implied orphanhood, made a religious sex pun and i'm so proud of myself a/n: so @morallyinept requested this and it turns out when I write for a boy for the first time, it can’t be less than 7K – whoops. i've gotten ezra requests from some moots before, so i hope this lives up to your expectations! **massive thanks to @toomanytookas for editing and providing the initial validation so i don't post in a mouth-frothy haze. I've never had a beta like you before and I genuinely feel like I've turned over a new chapter in my fic writing. thank you!

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Your feet in the clear blue water, the humidity like a wet tongue on your skin, you scratch a nail under the tab of a mustard yellow can, crack it open, and drink. The bite of alcohol dulled by the carbonation, you take several pulls, drawing out the mid-afternoon buzz from two other cans and whetting your mouth in the heat of the jungle day. You lean back on your elbows into the sponge-soft grass, and let out a massive sigh. 

A few feet ahead of you, on a repurposed inflatable reentry tube, your long-time privateer partner chuckles, the sound deep in the back of his throat as he floats by. Thick fingers and exposed heels dragging along in the crystal water, he greets the yellow sun like an old friend – arms wide, chest out, a lazy smile on his face. A damp rag – supposedly clean – sits over what you know to be dark-earth eyes, every other inch of him relishing in the inevitable sun tan. 

“I see your aaahhh, pet, and I raise you a mhmm.” The rubber squeaks as he adjusts, tips his scarred chin up to the cloudless sky and rests his head back. “Kevva said there’d be days like this, but I think the old hag mighta left out a thing or two.” 

You grin, the wet heat of Banu 8’s lowlands drawing sweat droplets onto your hairline at the back of your neck, settling thick behind your ears where it co-mingles with the drunk haze loping around in your brain. You watch Ezra with his bare arms, hairy legs, and prominent nose turned towards the divinity he’s so fond of invoking and the thought crosses your mind – again:

Shit, he’s so fucking hot. 

Oh, bad thought.

You drop your gaze, pressing the cold aluminum lip of the can to your mouth, drinking quicker than you probably should, anything to distract you from your partner as he obliviously floats by. 

For our sake, you silently beg the hungry little creature that whines and snaps at the image of a shirtless Ezra, please fuck off. 

While Ezra whistles a vaguely familiar tune, terribly off-key, you scoop up the cool lagoon water and dribble it over your hot knees, then your thighs, dampening the rims of your make-shift shorts just enough to cool them without leaving them vulnerable to a permanent state of moisture due to the high humidity. You flick the last drops of the water onto your chest, your white cotton bra choked to your skin. A final effect, you press the cool can to the thrumming pulse on your neck, closing your eyes with a relieved grunt, taking the time to enjoy the sensation of the cold metal against the rapid beat in your throat. 

From the water, you hear an unsettled grunt and you open your eyes to find that same shirtless Ezra staring at you, the rag now curled in one hand against the rubber float. He swallows, looks at something past your ear, and again tries to adjust in the sticky rubber float without flipping himself over, his hands falling into his lap. 

“Neptune, dear, would you do us the favor of tossing over one of those cans? I’m parched. I think my lovely skin is drying out.”

Neptune. His favorite nickname for you. You never got any real explanation from him as to why you got that name, other than after you’d officially joined his crew, you told him you came from a blue planet in a far off system. But that was often the way of things: Ezra did something and you didn’t question why. From that simple truth, you learned about how to repair and rebuild the entire electrical system from a drop pod. You learned, in excruciating detail, the parts and mechanics of a thrower, so much so that you could almost identify the model number at a glance. You learned about which corporate dig sites to avoid, which made for easy marks, and which would draw the eye and ire of entities hardly worth the trouble. 

Being out on your own since you aged up out of the orphanage had not gone the way you hoped and life had not been so kind as to teach you any other way to survive. Ezra had found you in the back of a red spice market, cornered and slurping down the last few of your credits from a muck bowl that you had vastly overpaid for.

For whatever reason, he offered you a job on the spot, despite you having nothing to offer him. and no experience in anything except cleaning prophylaxiams and staying out of the way.

And yet, he has been far kinder than life, or anyone else, had ever been to you. 

As a result, loyalty was only a fraction of what you felt for him. What had begun as overwhelming adoration had grown hot to the touch, slippery between your fingers at night, and perhaps – what you feared most of all – obvious. 

Yet when Ezra looked at you with a smile on his face, it was only comradery he wished to share with you, certainly not his bed. He shared it with practically every other bi-pedal humanoid you came across, but not you. And this you had to accept. And you did. 

But being a little drunk made it that much harder to remember where to keep your hands to avoid being burned.

“Sure, Ez.” You tuck your legs out from the cool water and dig around in the canvas bag at the base of the white nut tree. Most of the ice had melted into the bright green grass around the lagoon, but a few of the cans were still cold. You’d probably tease Ezra later for skimping on the insulation bucket the provisions store the port offered, but he had been so eager to get to the camp ground after spending an “exceedingly exorbitant amount of time stacked up against human drivel on public transportation”. One lopsided grin, and you’d give him the world. 

“Ez–,”

He lifts the rag, glancing at you over his shoulder, hands cupped as the can flies through the air. The cold metal presses against the overheated skin on his chest and he hisses. Eyeing the can ruefully, he cracks it open and drinks deep. You busy yourself with sliding to the edge of the pool again to keep from watching his throat move. 

Ezra finally pulls back, smacking his lips, with a pleased groan. He wets the rag again and dramatically flops it over his eyes. Hidden from his view, you watch the roll of water down his temples, his neck, his chest. 

“Name anything better than this, Neptune, I beg you. Free from obligation or assignment on commission. Where my only moral imperative is to drink as many of these as I can and remind you how beautiful you are. Which . . .” he tilts the bottom of the can towards you, head still tilted back on the raft and dripping rag covering his vision, “fantastic, by the way.” 

Having stifled your blush while under his watchful gaze about three or four other times today, without him looking, you flush so hard and fast you go lightheaded. Beautiful, he said. You drink more carbonated alcohol to choke back your rising heart, your eyes skim over the curve of his nose, a drop of sweat as it peaks on his forehead. You can’t linger over him too long; he has a six-sense about you – unable to know what you’re thinking but that you’re overthinking all the same. 

“Was this worth the trip on public transportation, Ez?” Your ankles stir the water again. 

“I could do this all day,” he sighs contently, bringing a warm smile to your face. “And definitely all night.”

Maybe you’ll both be so sun-drunk later tonight, you’ll fall asleep together on the pallet on the floor. Of course, by nightfall, someone will have to come to their senses and you’ll be tucked back into your separate sleeping bags, but maybe, as a present you couldn’t possibly ask for, you can just nap together.

With the bottom plush of your lip stuck between your teeth, you rim the metallic edge of your can with your nail, ankles spinning slow circles in the water. 

“Thank you, Ezra,” you say quietly, “for the best birthday I’ve ever had.” 

It began as a sort of joke one night on the volcanic hotspring moon of Wulkan after a twelve hour shift hunting through the black ash in search of fire pearls. The job was rather rushed, and Ezra had his reservations going into it, but fire pearls were a near certainty and you both needed a boost after a jump exchange had gone a little cockeyed. Sweat dripping from his temples, the provided water packs in the harvest suits doing just enough to keep him from passing out from heat exhaustion, he extended the skein of hydro-electric towards you across the narrow lane between your cots and asked you if you could be anywhere right now, any system, where would you be.

“Somewhere so cold I freeze my tits clean off,” you said with a sigh and wiped your own sweat-drenched forehead. You could smell yourself after two days of sweating profusely, but your stench in comparison to the rest of the crew, including Ezra, barely registered any more. You took a sip as Ezra laughed.

“A grievous crime against humanity and all its luscious gifts, but I get your meaning. Anywhere else?”

“Water.” This was said with more conviction, so much so it turned Ezra’s head towards you. “The few memories I have of my home planet and my parents, we were always near or in water. An ocean, maybe. I’m not sure. But I remember being really, really happy and I think being near water . . . it would make me happy again.”

You handed the skein back to Ezra, something unreadable in his gaze. He took it back from you, his fingers dark from the ash that clings to everything. On the other side of the tent, the rest of your crew and other teams mill about, yelling, with cutlery clattering as the camp gets ready to slow for the night, a graveyard shift picking up in just a few hours. 

Ezra’s eyes are as dark as the ash you’ve been shifting through the past two days.

“Then you shall have it, Neptune.” He said, quietly. “I’d give you the fucking galaxy if I could.” 

Those words often came to you in the crevice between sleep and wakefulness, when your mind was idle and the reins that tightly bound your affection for him loosened without a conscious grip. When you thought you weren’t being watched. 

The flat of his foot hooking behind your ankle breaks you from your reverie. Cast into shadow by the wide, rubbery palm leaves above your head, he looks at you curiously. 

“That look of deep consternation is giving me a headache. Spill.” 

With a faint smile, you gently bump his knee with your own. “Nothing, Ez. I’m just glad we get to take a break from it all. I can’t remember the last time I . . . the last time we’ve just had nothing to do.” 

He cocks his head as his gaze crawls up your ankle, your shin, to your knee. You think it might linger on your thigh before it bounces to your face. You tighten your grip on the hot, expansive feeling behind your ribs and stare back at him.

“Then that’s a black mark against me, as the leader of this clan.” His mouth curls, eyebrow arching as he talks, knowing that statement has been a point of playful contention between you two for years. “A good overseer knows when to crack the bullwhip and when to let it rest.”

“Well, a better overseer knows when to demand that her team rests, because sometimes they have no idea what’s good for them.” 

His foot rotates behind your ankle, his toes brushing against your calf, bringing your attention to your own body part in the water. Your legs are hairy, nearly as much as Ezra’s, and you haven’t shaved your pits in possibly a decade. Ezra once brought home a professional nightwalker, one from the Upper City, to the derelict flat you’d been sharing for two weeks as you offloaded your haul to the under markets. You never forgot how smooth her skin had been, shaved clean and smelling of moon lilies. That scent permeated the small space for weeks afterward. Even now, just the sight of moon lilies makes you nauseous. 

His aversion to you runs much deeper than physical aesthetics, even if you can’t help but wonder sometimes if becoming as smooth and hairless as the nightwalker might change his mind.

“Observational to a fault as always, Neptune.” The ball of his foot rests briefly between your legs before he pushes off from the spongy lip of the lagoon’s edge. He floats back into the sun, his head shaking slightly, a smile drained of amusement on his lips. He inhales as the sun crests over his forehead and he glances up at the blue sky. “I have no idea what’s good for me.”

Something about his tone, the way he turns away from you, scratches a very raw place inside of you – a place that fears and obsesses over abandonment. You wouldn’t survive it if he abandoned you, if he left you to fend for yourself one day. Logically, you know he would never do that – he has sworn up and down to your face that that notion is fundamentally ludicrous to him – but the anguish of him silently rejecting you from his bed again and again and again makes that fragile place inside you bleed red. 

You stand up, swipe another can from the bag, and move towards the waterfall. 

“I’m taking a hike.”

You feel his eyes on the backs of your thighs as you march towards the gentle incline.

“Be safe, Neptune,” he calls softly.

For a fleeting second, you wish he had made you stay.

The first fat raindrop splashes against your cheek and wakes you from a humid, irritated nap. You’re scowling by the time you open your eyes to several more wet droplets as they splatter against your neck, your forehead and you sit up, even more frustrated than when you fell asleep. The last sticky tendrils of dreams snap and pop as you pull yourself onto your feet, back hunched and arm held high against the steamy sprinkle. A crack of lightning, then a growl of thunder, and the sky splits open, drenching you in seconds. With a snarl of your own, you snatch up the empty can from the grass next to you and make for your camp down the hill. As you crest the top, you see a figure standing outside the tent, back tense and hand raised as if searching through the twilight gray downpour. 

Normally, the thought of warming up beside Ezra in your yellow tent fills you with something inexplicable, the grime and load of the day melting from your shoulders, but your buzz from earlier has thickened, made worse by the heat, the emotions in your heart all gummed up and smashed together. The sight of him cranks up your irritation high in your ears. With a huff, you concentrate on a smooth slide down the hill without breaking your ankles and not the fire rising in your gut. 

But the rain and the distance apart has only stoked his own outrage.

“Where the hell were you?” He snaps as you yank back the velcroed tent flap. He is dripping from head to toe in jungle rain as he follows closely behind you into your small space. You ring the water from your hair into a corner and scowl up at him. 

“I fell asleep. The rain woke me up. I came back as soon as I could.” 

His eyes narrow, water rolling off his bare shoulders as if he still stood out in the downpour. The droplets pat pat pat against the tarp floor as he snatches up a fiber towel and dries himself off, scowling all the while. 

“I searched for you, calling your name up and down this fuckin’ jungle and I didn’t hear a peep. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d been hurt?”

“Then I would have fucking dealt with it, Ezra.” You stomp to your feet, neck hot from his patronizing gaze. Hands on his hips, you feel like you’re being scolded. “I can take care of myself.” 

One dark eyebrow arches mockingly, the scar on his cheek twisting in his scowl.

“And you expect me to lay about, twiddling my thumbs, while I wait for you to return or until you deem it appropriate for me to fret over your corpse?” 

That patch of blonde hair is a shade darker, drenched and pressed flat against his forehead. His bare chest is littered with scars and divots where chunks of flesh had been torn away. His skin is a reflection of the hard life he lives. You doubt you’d look any different if you’d seen yourself in a mirror. 

“We are partners, Ez,” you grind out between locked teeth. “Equals, alright? I am not your little sister for you to fuss over and you are not my keeper.” 

At that, the indignant swell of his chest deflates and the anger in his eyes flickers before fading out. 

“You are beyond capture,” he mutters, eyebrows down but gaze distant. “I’d never dream of keeping you, Neptune.” 

Again, it’s his phrasing that hurts most of all. You glance away, the backs of your eyes growing hot and tight, drying out despite the sticky moisture warming the inside of the tent. But then his hand around your elbow startles away the tears forming in the corners of your eyes. 

“You are the most important thing to me in the entirety of this world and the next,” he says softly, earth eyes searching your face. “I came on too strong, I know that, but the idea that you’d ever be gone from my side for any amount of permanence . . . well, it’s been a lifetime since I’ve felt fear like that.” 

His frown goes belly-up, a hopeless smile on his face. “I wasn’t aware I even still could.” His calloused thumb brushes your skin, skin that nearly catches fire from the rough drag of scar tissue, before he lets his hand drop. Your own curls into a fist at your side, a tremor rattling the bones of your wrist in an effort to keep from reaching up and touching that moon-shaped scar you dream about at night.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ez. You taught me enough to survive in a world like this. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

That smile goes wan, sickly. “That’s the problem, dear heart, I trust you with my life.” 

He swallows, as if suddenly bashful to make direct eye contact with you. He clears his throat before rummaging around in his canvas bag for dry clothes. He yanks a black, sleeveless shirt on over his head before setting up the materials for a flameless pocket fire. 

“Since my dreams of showing you something called a barbeque have been quite literally rained out, we’ll finish off the rest of the dredge pack tonight. But come first light, I’ll fix you breakfast so succulent, the smell alone’ll make your mouth water. How does that sound, Neptune?”

He barely slows to breathe as he seamlessly switches topics from breakfast to another meal made at camp without looking up or stalling in his prep for dinner, hands almost disconnected from the humming of his mouth – one so methodical, the other like a channel rat on fire. 

“– and the thing was no one was really sure enough what a squatter egg looked like when it goes bad. But being out in a cramped hold-out for two weeks where it was so dark, your own ass and someone else’s had no demarcation, well, there wasn’t a single peep of dissimilitude . . .”

Words strung together so quick and so melodic, it was always incredibly easy to fall into a sort of easy trance around Ezra. Sounds and syllables just sounded right coming out of his mouth and after a while, that trance became a state of repose, Ezra’s own sense of calm filtered to whoever was also in the room. But not to you, not right now.

After spending immeasurable time with less than half a space between you in cramped tents and in claustrophobic dig sites, you could read the tension on the lines of his body as well as the lines on the palm of your hand. 

“Neptune? You with me?”

Ezra glances up at you, always aware of you and your movements like the twinge on a spider’s web, a signature smile that has always seemed to shine a bit brighter for you plastered over his face. The anger was the only thing holding you up and with it gone, you can feel your bruised heart twinge as it folds over itself. 

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m gonna switch out of these wet clothes before we eat, okay?”

He hums, nodding, eyes fixating on the steadily boiling water in front of him as you turn away to the other side of the tent, by your pallet and traveler’s pack. As further evidence that he feels nothing but companionship for you, you feel his eyes remain nowhere near you as you strip off your shorts and bra for a sun-warm suit. Then again, you’d like to think it’s kind of scandalous to be changing in front of him, but you’d both seen each other naked more times than you could count – there is no modesty in foxholes. The space between your hips and your thighs feel sticky from sweat and the slick rain, the curve of your spine warm and flushed. The zipper is loud in the silence. 

You’re braiding your damp hair away from your face when he sighs and the noise makes you look back at him.

“Answer me honestly, if you’ve ever cared for me a tick. Do you regret it?”

His eyes are sorrowful, worried, brow fixed down. Ezra is not, and never has been, a man prone to melancholy. His wrists rest loosely over his knees, gaze deep in the bubbling bone broth. The rain outside taps insistently at the tarp. 

“Regret what?” 

“Coming with me and taking on this life. It’s not an easy one,” he says quietly. “I should have offered you another choice, that day in the market. But one look at you and I . . . I was willing to trust you with my life, Neptune – far, far too soon. Even at my best, you make me irrational.”

You watch him, his broad shoulders moving, as he scoops up the hot, dark liquid into two bowls, and joins you by the entrance to the tent. You pin back the flap as he settles, the scent of humid rain immediately flooding your mouth, the pattering sound now twice as loud. Wordlessly, he hands you a spoon before digging into his own bowl. 

The heat of the soup burns away all the silly, impossible things sitting on your tongue. You sit in silence, his presence never rushing you to answer before you are ready. As you eat, you stare out at the dark lagoon, where you had both been only hours ago, the clear water murky beneath the downpour. 

“No, Ezra, I don’t regret it.” He stills, as if surprised you’re answering him now, mid-meal. He lowers the bowl to his lap, eyes trained on you. “You saved my life, more times than I can count.” 

Your words loosen the rigid lock of his shoulders. He grins. “As you’ve said, you would have been just fine without me.”

Your vision goes blurry. You pin him with such a stare, you watch the blood rush from his face.

“But it would have been only half a life.”

“Don’t kid about that, Neptune, it’s not –,”

“I’m serious.” You put your bowl down and rub your eyes with your sleeves. Of all the ways he hasd seen you bare and naked, he’s never seen you this vulnerable. “I don’t wanna do any of this without you. I want you, Ezra.”

“You have me, dear heart, you have me.”

“Not like that and you know it.” You watch as understanding rolls across his face. His lips part, eyes wider. He swallows and you stare at the ceiling, cheeks suddenly wet and hot. He said he’d never leave you, but what if this is the thing that finally does it? Could he work with you, knowing just how deeply you love him, and not feel an ounce of disgust? “You told me once sex is just a way to pass the time, but never, not once, have you ever even tried to pass the time with me.” 

He swallows, deeper this time, jaw locked, his eyes fluttering with the force of it. He brings his knees to his chest.

“Because it wouldn’t just be passing time with you.” 

In that moment, you’re grateful for the rain, for the sound of something to fill the silence. 

You stare at him, cross-legged in front of the open corner of this yellow tent, abandoned bowls growing colder, but he sits with his leg up, knee to his chest, as if to ward you off. Ward off whatever is growing in your gaze, under the flat bone over your heart in your chest. But whatever is stifling the air in your lungs, is warming his eyes past the point of comfort, barrelling towards expletives and the crass, the lewd and depraved. You cannot go back to having him look at you any other way. 

That look loosens every line in his face when you crawl into his lap, your knees around his hips. The backs of your thighs go damp, even through the suit, pressing down onto his still-damp shorts, and you think his breathing has quickened.

His massive palm hovers near your cheek, unwilling or unable to pull you forward or push you back, his oak eyes searching your face for signs of discomfort as if he had somehow dragged you across the tarp floor. 

“Neptune,” he mumbles as he focuses on the curve of your bottom lip, “this is unwise. You don’t know what you’re asking for.” 

You can feel the hard curve of his shoulders as you follow the lines of his arms and settle them on his collarbone. Nothing has happened that can’t be undone – not yet. Your perfect, vicious Ezra hasn’t pressed you flat on your back like you thought he would at the hint of sex. You could return with your dignity tomorrow morning, this moment never spoken of again, and he’d let you have that. The shake of his elbow with his palm against the tarp is the only indication that something might be unsettling to him. 

But it is your birthday after all. Maybe he’d let you have this one thing. He doesn’t know you’ll die without it.

“If you don’t want this . . . if you don’t want m-me, then say something. Push me away and I’ll never bring it up again.” You cup the sides of his neck as your hips shift forward, closer to him. The air in your lungs tightens, breath coming in shallow pants. Only then does he drop your gaze and fixate on your encroaching heat. “At least then I’ll know.” 

There. Out loud. It’s been said, heard above the deluge of rain against the tent and the jungle outside. 

His palm finally settles on your cheek. It brings a sense of wholeness to you like you’ve never known. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a breathy exhale pours out of your mouth. His thumb catches the plush curve of your bottom lip and he draws it towards your chin, his own mouth open, enraptured. 

“Sweet thing, how have you not always known?” 

His mouth is humid against yours, as if he swallowed the jungle while looking for you, his thumb releasing your lip to capture with his own. The tip of his pointer finger massages the hinge of your jaw, just below your ear, and he manipulates your head until your mouth parts like he wants.

His tongue skims your upper lip, a tentative exploration into the unknown rewarded with a low groan that is warmed by the heat coiling low in your hips. You taste his tongue, a hot glide inside your mouth, and you feel his arms slip around your lower back, his inhale of breath sharp across your face as he brings you closer. He bites your lips roughly, the spark of pain and pleasure crackling across your face as if you’d brushed a live wire. 

His fingers wrap around your wrist, prying you from the back of his neck, just for a moment, his eyes heat-soaked. You suck your teeth, mouth open and seeking, and the hand around your jaw drops to your collarbone, the breadth of his palm nearly suffocating your throat.

The briefest pressure – the slightest touch – at the pulse at the bottom of your neck and your hips rock forward into him as he flattens his other palm to your ass, clutching you to him and pinning you to the pallet.

His teeth scrape against the curve of your ear, pinching the cartilage between his incisors, while his hands frantically search up and down your waist. His weight smothers you, his stomach breathing into yours, the flat plane of his chest rubbing your nipples raw against your suit, an unfocused lurch to his hips every time you tug on his hair. With every breath, every time you try to savor his touch, the taste of his mouth is like a wave, dragging you forward, wrapping a dizzy chain around your throat and squeezing.

Ezra’s greatest weapon has always been his mouth, that silver string spinning faster the longer he captivates you, spell-bound. Now he uses to decimate you in entirely new ways. 

The suck of his lips against the moist flesh below your ear distantly distracts from the afterburn of his unkempt beard against your jaw, your cheek. His lips alternate patterns of reward with a plush kiss and punishment with a stern nip when you try and stifle a moan. The edge of his shirt is damp from resting against his shorts when you slip your fingers underneath to palm the small of his back. He stills when you run your fingers around to the front of his trunks. 

His hand curls around a clump of hair at the base of your skull, his eyes darker than volcanic ash. The steady heat of his groin against your thigh is a sensation you’ll chase for the rest of your life.

“You know what happens when you touch a man there, Neptune?” He’s breathing hard, you both are, and the way he snags your hair in his fist has your head twisted at an odd angle, but you’d be damned to a Kevva-forgotten corner of the cosmos before you drop his gaze. You nod and that moon-shaped scar on his cheek twitches. “I know I didn’t teach you that.”

“L-learned it – somewhere else – Ezra.” Your mouth isn’t working properly, your lips swollen from his kisses, the slight pain in your scalp making it difficult to focus, while your cunt tightens hungrily. “Had to.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you wouldn’t give it to me.” 

He leans back, his forearm tense and corded where he has you by the hair, a seemingly disinterested scowl on his face. But by the throbbing length pressed up against you, so far from where you need him the most, he is anything but. 

“So you’re saying this is my fault?” Without breaking eye contact, his chest raised inches above yours, his fingers snag on the blue zipper by your collar and your breathing nearly stops. He hums to himself, eyes following the path of the zipper as the material separates, click by click by click. When it reaches your belly button, he stops. 

“Ezra –,” it’s a whine and you can’t even chastise yourself for it. And neither, it seems, can he. 

Head tilted as if curious about the label of a box beneath colorful wrapping, he dips his wide hand beneath the edge of your suit. The heat that radiates from his palm against the curve of your stomach has you writhing underneath him, your knees drawing up to his hips, trying to catch any relief. 

But he takes his self-satisfied time. Callouses of a hard-won life snag and drag over the soft paper-thin skin that covers your ribs as he maps you in one hand. When he cups your right breast in his palm, the noise you make is a sob of gratitude. 

“You let another man besides me do this to you?” 

The snarling pit of your own thoughts slows as some awareness realizes he’s speaking to you. 

You swallow, clutching his bicep, begging for forgiveness before even opening your mouth to answer. 

“It didn’t mean anything, Ez, it wasn’t you – it meant nothing to me–,”

“But you let someone else touch what’s mine, hm?” That lazy, slightly irritated look on his face, he rotates his hand, squeezing the cup of your tit again, before sharply pinching your nipple. 

“Ezra–,” you choke out and his thigh shifts between your legs, just close enough to feel the heat but nowhere near close enough to grind against. His thumb rotates the raised flesh slow enough to capture and catalog every sigh it draws from you, his eyes catching between his hand and your relaxed face. 

He wears the same expression he does when sitting in the backs of blackmarket tea shops and smoky alebins. When the prospect of striking gold becomes all he can think about.

“Strip.” He suddenly commands. He lifts off you just enough for you to wrench your arm through the armhole, all the while keeping a rough palm on one breast, and then the other. You watch him massage your flesh and your ribs tremble with an unsteady breath. Only when a slightly cool breeze meanders over your bare shoulders and chest do you realize that the tent flap is still open, your head inches from the edge. A perfect and unimpeded view to anyone who wants to watch him hungrily grope your tits. Embarrassment peaks sharply, despite his hand pressing you into the tarp, you wrench your neck back and look over your shoulder through the window of the open tent as if you need to confirm that you are giving the jungle a floor show.

“Ez– shit, the flap–,” 

He finds that the skin beneath your breast had grown sticky and slick from sweat, the humidity still oppressive even with a breeze. He bends his head and licks that same sweaty path and your attention snaps back to him, nails curling against his scalp, his warm breath a high-intensity balm to your roughly-played-with nipples. 

“Not a soul in sight, Neptune,” he murmurs lazily into your ribcage, his nose running up and down the valley between your tits. “And if there were, let them learn a thing or two.” 

His teeth nip the swell of your stomach as he crawls down your half-naked body. Without his heat and hands, the tenderness from his attention on your breasts ratchets up to an ache, a minor preoccupation before he hooks his fingers around the rest of the jumpsuit and tugs. 

You are naked beneath him, swollen chest rising and falling, your knuckles scraping against the pallet as you search for something to grip with all your might. You smell of lagoon water and hot jungle air, of muggy photosynthesis and algae. The smoky scent of the black ash of that distant planet never really left Ezra and the dampness of the rain seems to stir it up. He towers over you, dark and breathing heavy. Smoke and brimstone.

He gropes your ankles, then your calves, hands gliding over the thick hair there – now grown soft in length – as he slowly spreads your legs, with a light you’d never seen before in his eyes. 

“Neptune, I revolve around you.” 

A wave of anxiety lurches up your throat when he brings his mouth to your cunt, the cloying, imagined scent of moon lilies threatening to tear you out of the moment – he won’t want you wild like this – but it’s forcefully yanked back down with a single stripe of his tongue. His previously casual, authoritative persona cracks when he buries his face into your unkempt curls and lets out a deep, overly pleased moan.

Your back bends and he’s gathering up your limbs in his arms to pin them down, nearly resting his forehead on your pubic bone. A few more licks, some deeper than others into where you drip for him, and your thighs start to shake. His fingers around your thighs squeeze roughly against your flesh and pull you further apart. 

Between the flush of slick seeping from you at an embarrassing rate and the wiry hair kept natural out of a certainty no one would see it, he must be drowning or choking, his tongue flicking and sliding, nose prodding your clit just enough to spread the sparks of arousal up through your spine. Feeling as though you’re losing your grip on reality, you sink your hands into his hair, thumb rubbing back that blonde patch, and tug. The moan he shoots into your cunt as he rocks forward into your touch has you whining helplessly. The tarp squeaks where he rubs his hips into it. 

His arms curled around your thighs, your hips shake with restraint against every lap of his tongue until he flicks your clit and your hips grind up against his obliging mouth, a sunspot of pleasure flaring brightly. But all too soon, Ezra lifts up onto his elbows, his hands smoothing across your stomach and he pops his mouth up from your wet folds. With an irate gasp, the swell of bliss fading, your gaze snaps down to plead with him, but he shakes his head.

Wordlessly, he takes one hand from your thigh and wipes his mouth clean with a swipe of his fingers. Then, with his eyes wide, the skin around his mouth loose, he crooks two fingers at the top of your mound before sliding them down where his mouth was seconds ago and presses them inside of you. That simmering in your low belly roars back to life and you toss your head against the unforgiving pallet, eyes slamming shut. He growls at the obscene sucking noise your cunt makes as he plucks at you, in and out. 

“Oleaginous,” he hums, so quietly, it might have been for him. He tongues your clit lightly, pushing his fingers as deep as they can go, watching you thrash. “Mine. Understand?” You remember that tone of voice from when he had you dissecting throwers on a workbench in front of him. You nod, eyes fluttering open, balancing on the precarious edge of release. 

You want to obey his every word. 

His thumb twists up, opening your clit to him and within a whispered breath of “good girl” he sucks your bundle of nerves and launches you into orbit. 

Your entire body goes stiff from the force of it, only to crash back down into his waiting hands, your voice wavering on a high-pitched, girlish wail that shrieks above the sound of rain. Waves of bliss lap at every nerve ending and your vision goes fuzzy for a minute, the only sound you can register is the pounding of your blood in your ears.

And then you register the steady, wet plunge of his fingers still dragging in and out of your pussy.

“Was that mine?” 

Your clit tingles from overstimulation, but you’d rather die than have him stop – you want to answer, if only you could pick up the pieces of your voice. You can only nod, whining. He presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh, the skin there smeared with your release.

“You did a bad thing, letting someone else touch what’s mine.” He scolds, rubs that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head, holds his finger to it until it burns. You cry, his punishment evident. “Now you have to apologize, Neptune.” 

You nod again, mouth wrenched open as he drags you back and forth across pleasure and pain. 

“Y-y-yes, Ezra,” the words are bone dry, cracked between your teeth. “I’m sorry.” 

Pure wickedness strikes those earth eyes and scorches them a singed black. 

“Unfortunately, atonement is a fickle thing,” Ezra tuts, dragging his lips across your thigh in a mockery of a kiss, “and I’m not quite ready to offer absolution. Despite your offerings,” he wipes his mouth with a stroke of his palm, “this godhead remains rigid.” 

You whimper. He grins with a mouthful of teeth.

Ezra pulls back onto his knees and shuts your thighs, his hand palming your ass as he indicates that you should turn. Your entire lower half still feels like jelly – no one has ever made you come that hard with just their mouth before – but you obey. You stagger onto your hands and knees in front of him. 

His wide palm appears beneath your chin.

“Spit.”

You do.

That spit-wet hand cups your still wet cunt, middle finger rubbing briefly against your clit, before it disappears. You feel him move closer, hear his slick hand pump himself a few times with a grunt. Hot lips drag up your spine, interspersed with the nip of teeth, and when he lays across your back, his hands overtaking yours and threading your fingers together, his bare chest presses up against the skin of your back and you shudder. 

He noses your temple, his throbbing cock coated between your folds. He bites at your jaw and follows your line of sight through the open tent flap. 

“Breathtaking, isn’t it? All that moisture, dripping and running over smooth rock and fern. All that heat coagulating in spaces it shouldn’t fit. All that . . . open field, for anyone to just wander into. Take a look around and smell the air. Could they smell you like I can, Neptune? The way you leak for this cock?”

As he hums filth in your ear, his hand settles again at the base of your throat, thick fingers squeezing just enough to threaten, before sliding down to your swinging breasts, rough palms catching your swollen nipples, then arching down your stomach and between your legs. 

He plays slowly with your clit; barely enough stimulation and he knows it.

“Ask for forgiveness.” He croons in your ear. The breeze returns for a moment, and between the heat of him mounting you like a feral animal and the hesitant touch of outside air against your sweaty chest, you shudder with a groan. 

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I’m so–,” his middle finger increases its pressure slightly and the words shatter in your mouth, “sor-ry.” 

“And for what?”

He continues to rub between your folds and the minute hitch in his breath is more intoxicating than anything he’s done so far. This is affecting him just as much as it does you. He kisses your jaw then tugs on the skin with his teeth. 

“For letting a-anyone but you t-touch me.”

Ezra presses his damp forehead into your shoulder, panting, your correct answers soaking the neurons in his brain. Your reward is the faster stroke of his finger. 

“And why was that a reprehensible thing to do?” His hips rut into yours, the scrape and rub of his cock between your slick lips and thighs almost enough to set you off. 

“Because it’s yours – I’m yours – f-fuck, Ezra, I’m yours, I only wanna be yours,” you sob. 

He’s suddenly gone from above you and the loud crack of his hand against your ass cheek deafens you for a minute, the sting skittering up your back and down your thigh. 

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your elbows shudder, the weight of his tone, his hand nearly forcing you onto your chest with your ass still in the air. You wanna be so good for him. 

He’s breathing hard and his skin is warm and damp where you feel his thigh press against the back of yours. There’s a measure of restraint he’s showing and it makes your heart pound in anticipation. You swing your hips back at him, as if you could catch yourself on his cock. 

“I wanna show you I’m yours,” you cry, nails curling into the pallet. “Please, Ezra, please!”

His broad hand settling on your spine draws a hiccup out of you, a sob. 

“Breathe . . . Good girls get what they need.” 

On an exhale, his blunt tip spreads you apart and he shuffles closer as he thickens inside you. His loud, unabashed moan overwhelms yours, when you think you might just be devoured by him. His hand, the one at your hip, squeezes you, silent reassurance. You can feel the knuckles on his other hand against your slick lips as he feeds himself into you.

“Neptune, talk to me. How,” your cunt tightens around his girth at the sound of his voice coaching you along and he grunts, as if suddenly dizzy, “h-how do you feel?”

“Amazing, Ez. Please keep going don’t stop I can take it–,” 

He obliges; something’s reconnected the wires in his brain enough to tell him to move. He huffs before sinking deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. He bottoms out and waits again, letting you both catch your breath. 

“Spent a hundred moons thinking about this.” The puff of breath against your shoulder is the only warning you have before he presses his mouth to your skin. His hand free of your clutch, his thumb softly rubs the muscle of your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, wherever he finds bare flesh. “Would wake up in the night, with you a few feet from me, looking like divinity made sin, made real, but I wasn’t worthy to touch you. You got me all tongue-tied, Neptune, all mucked up in the head. A silly boy,” he purrs.

You glance over your shoulder, unsure which Ezra is going to meet your eyes, but wanting all of them. The man you feel most safe with in this world and the next greets you and you reach back and squeeze his hand. He chuckles softly, and with it, comes a gentle roll of his hips. You gasp, airily, your gaze slipping from his face to his chest, to the steady breathing in his stomach, and then to the growth of hair that fades as it reaches up his low belly. How many times did you sit across the room from him with your fists in tight balls, watching as he regaled exploits of riches and wonder, all the while thinking about how thick his cock is outlined in his suit – you’re so blinded by breathy dreams of what the musky scent of his cock must taste like that you miss that he’s pulled out farther, halfway now, and you are completely knocked senseless when he thrusts back in, a beat faster. 

“Later, Neptune. I’ll let you suck my cock later, but right now I’ve gotta ride this pussy to oblivion.” 

Your thighs quake at his promise, cunt squeezing him, and he huffs, picking up speed.

“I felt that. You really like sucking cock that much?” 

All you can answer him with is a whine. Your knees are starting to ache from the barest cushion the tarp provides, the palms of your hands sore, but you can’t find it in you to remotely care. With every stroke, he fills you up to a breaking point before riding you back out. Moaning gratefully, you finally drop onto your elbows, your cheek scraping against the pallet with every forceful thrust behind you. He tilts your hips up higher, on one knee to fuck down into you; he’s searching with his cock for that spot that made your brain numb. 

Like a flood, you feel bliss roll down your spine, his hands on your lower back pulling you up another peak, and you gasp, at the edge of a very, very long drop, the sounds in the tent as sticky and wet as the rain outside.

But Ezra’s sounds are loudest of them all. Grunting. Hissing. Moaning like he’s fucking the best pussy of his life. You open one eye, glancing over your shoulder and the sight drops open your mouth. Hips pumping forward, skin dewy with sweat, he breathes like a freshly broken-in stallion, relieved that something finally bested him. Chest full and tight with muscle, flushed pink with roaring blood. Stomach torqued with tension. His rhythm is caught between his hands pulling you onto him and his cock thrusting into you. A frantic beat that bounces wet and hot, mouth agape and eyes rolling shut, his head drops back between his shoulders. You push back slightly and he stutters, the hand on your hip tightening. 

“Not gonna last, Neptune–” he grits, his jaw locked tight. The image of him actively staving off an orgasm for you to finish first has been imprinted on your brain for the rest of your life. 

“J-just a little harder, Ez.” 

He obeys, submitting as you had for him, sweat curling around his neck and down his chest. 

As release barrels down on you, those mahogany eyes catch and hold yours in a second that lasts through infinity. They promise you things that you didn’t know you asked for, those eyes, made vows only your soul could hear. You see, in that instant before you are swallowed whole, that he’d die at your feet, if you asked him to. He’d give up every worldly treasure he won through grit and his teeth if you needed it or wanted it. If it made you happy.

His Neptune – in the crushing grip of your gravity. Willingly caught in the trail of your comet as you fill up his night sky.    

“Yeah, that’s it, right there – Ez-ra!” 

His face blown out in near ecclesial bliss is the last thing you see before your vision goes white. Your heart pounds in your ears so loudly, it's the only thing that exists for an instant. And then you shatter with a perfectly soft cry, bliss breaking across you like a heavy wave, and you succumb to exhaustion. 

Behind you, he groans, fucking you faster through it, snarling something entirely incomprehensible. 

You think you might say his name, you don’t know what your mouth is doing, but whatever you say, it breaks him and you are dragged through another low shock, the flood of cum deep into your achy cunt enough to contract your walls again, his harsh groan stuffing your ears just as full. 

The rain is barely louder than your desperate attempts to breathe. 

The tarp crackles as you slump forward onto your stomach, Ezra dropping to his side with half his body over yours. Panting raggedly, his hand curls up to the base of your neck, a reassurance of his presence and commitment when words have failed him. 

You lay like that for a long time.

And then, when feeling starts to return to your limbs, you turn your head, your nose rubbing against his. When you breathe hotly across his face, he grins a satisfied grin that splits into a chuckle. You laugh with him too, curling up into his chest, his forearm is sticky across your spine, and he kisses your forehead.

Staring up at the tarp, together you listen to the rain. 

In the long drawn out, buzzy silence, his nails scratch the base of your skull. And then, like he remembered something vital, he picks his head up and looks at you.

“Do you want this to change things for us?” 

“Yes.” You cup the muscles of his thick neck. “Yes, Ezra. I want this to change everything between us. Please.” 

He smiles, unguarded and open. 

“Wild horses never stood a chance . . . especially against these tits.” He nips at the swell of your breast and you laugh. “I had no plans of letting you go in any case . . . but we are bound from this day forward. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod. A stroke of heat passes over his eyes and  Ezra leans forward to kiss you, his hand on your cheek pulling you in close, as close as you can be, two sticky bodies, cum-dried and tingling.

“And if we’re going to spend every year of our lives together, I have a question for you.” he pushes away a stray strand of hair stuck to your face, nose tip to nose tip, “did you have a good birthday, Neptune? Are you satisfied?”

With a giggle that has his eyebrow arching playfully, you kiss his cheek.

“I already told you. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.” 

+

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!”

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until he broke his sparring partner's arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

[lexiene]

═ 𝕆𝕦𝕣 ℂ𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 ° . •° .

W/r: fluff, pregnancy, mentions of body changes insecurities, Megumi's paternal instinct, clingy Gumi, baby talk, mentions of de*th word, but overall more smooch of fluff FLUFFINESS

S/m: in which your husband aka your lovely Megumi had this clingy type to your rounded belly that he couldn't stop rubbing and showered with kisses as well the baby they love to hear their daddy's voice and they were kicking lovingly.

A/n: my first full fic after a year not publishing and became hiatus so here it is hope ya like it! (σ ´-ω-`)σ

edited: instead of waiting the right time to post.. I written this as tribute to Megumi's bday since I had been waiting for this for long months to do so here's the first ever fic of mine I didnt put my dividers yet bc s there's a sudden doubt of me again so need to review it again so yea...hope yall like it (•́ω•̀) also @greycaelum this for you in advance bday with fluffiness of baby fever 😖💜

W/c: ( 1.1k )

Finally, a long day you have been waiting for your day to rest due to your extreme shifting of pregnancy hormones. They're really extremely kicking in and that makes you shift moods at times.

Day and night kept you busy eating, watching, playing with your husband's Divine Dogs, and even morning to evening sickness.

Your OB-GYN told you that you were expecting a baby boy during your second ultrasound she also told you that she had also experienced lots and lots of morning sickness during her firstborn and thought she was gonna die but she reassured you that it is completely normal and your health stability maximizes the baby's growth in your tummy which was your relief.

The mood swing changing can be challenging too, since this is both you and Megumi's first child, a first miracle, and blessed by the Gods, can lead you to a roller coaster mood swings. Which is the sign of healthy and normal for the baby.

You'll tell Megumi the gender of the baby tomorrow since you don't wanna miss this father and 'son' moments on how precious it is.

Your husband's head is currently pressed in your growing belly for an hour now not releasing you from his embrace, since he told you in the morning he's on off duty today and gladly for that to not get too much overload of work which was his adoptive dork adoptive father bragging about the situation at the Jujutsu Tech nonstop.

You maybe knew that he have already prepared for this day to come, at last it came true. You also thought about for a quite some time now that he is finding your pregnant belly a comfort and reliever to his mind which made your heart swell and happy even though with pinch of insecurities from month changing leading you in teary state. Are you still beautiful? And getting uglier?

"You're crying again Y/n, what are you thinking?" you slightly flinch from his voice and snapped out from your thoughts again when Megumi breaks the silence you giving him.

Megumi always noted that everytime you spaced out with your thoughts that clouding your mind, he always knew where to cut off the silence and help you at ease by hugging then slowly rocking you and kisses your temple as you release all your tears out while holding him even your belly is occupying half of the embrace.

"It's nothing, Gumi," you sniffed "My hormones are kicking again and got me into tears, don't worry I'm okay." You smile and caressing his unruly hair signifying your love to his hair all the times a reminder of his style and comforting sight.

"You look adorable while talking to our baby~," you teased him in order to ease a bit his worries to you and the baby.

"No I'm not, I'm just...fine you got me," you laughed heartedly and vibrates your belly giving a slight shake to Megumi's face and he smiled seeing you happy again. He is happy too.

"Who knew the strongest shikigami user can be this affectionate?" you teased him again earning a groan from him as his face glow with red. You really love teasing yet of course with love out of it.

"You're dork you know that?" he now is the one teasing you back he do starting to learn something from you he also might got it from his friends but overall he learned it from you.

"Hey! At least I'm cute though!" you pouted and try to make him let go as if your telling him 'you making me angy at you' but he didn't.

Megumi shook his head when his wife starting to display her signature pouting again. He is always prepared again.

"Do you want some chocolate crepe with strawberry and sprinkles on top?" you gasped and your eyes shines in glee and small drool began to form, Megumi got the hint.

Your hungry now. Time to get ready.

You nodded fast like a puppy who wags in excitement and ready to be fed "Add some extra syrup too, Gumi!" you added but your husband shook his head in no.

"Did I told you not to add too much extras? The baby might adopt your sweet tooth and I don't want to have 'second' to handle the sweetness obsession." he's referring Gojo Satoru. Oh boy.

"You mean our baby, Gumi~ and why are you getting annoyed when our baby is not even born yet," you rub your belly telling your unborn baby to them or rather baby boy, him 'don't listen to your papa you'll be healthy once you're born' .

"And are your referring Gojo-san again?" shoot she got him.

"Oh Gumi, don't be!" she motions him sit down with her again and wrapped her arms around his neck since he stood up and he was already preparing your crepe "You know our baby will be more healthier if you feed me food with love and give me massage when your not occupied with work, you don't have to worry everything just always remember I'm doing great and this little angel," you point your tummy "Is happily kicking since morning, telling me that their Daddy is amazing and working hard to give me and mommy lots of love!" imitating baby voices making your husband hide his face into your neck in affection and get flustered.

"You might wanna put your hands now because they're kicking already as we speak," you grab his hand and place where the baby's kicking, and there. He felt it again.

The sensation of his child, the nudge gives him the brightening spark and different feeling of love when his hand place on it.

"See? They love their papa so much!" you giggled and kiss your husband's hair since he was He was still hiding his face into your neck and his hand on top your tummy and yours is placed on top of his.

He then leaned down and talk to his baby. "Hey there little angel," he whispered saying his favorite baby names to your baby "I guess your dad here being..overprotective again and I'm sorry, he was just following the doctor's instructions to keep your mom healthy and stable," rubbing your belly with his thumb "From now on I'll follow your request but still there are still limits and need to be follow, is that okay?"

Baby nudge into his hand in agreement saying 'it's a deal daddy!' and Megumi chuckled rubbing it again where the kick came.

"Great, I'm going to make your mom's request now, love you" he whispers and kisses your tummy. You swear your heart is going to explode from his paternal heart growing even more.

You're more happier than ever to be with him.

© Do not repost, refrain modifying any Lexiene works to any other soical media/platforms.

[munsonthings86]

Heyy are you still taking requests??

If so can I please have a Steve Harrington x Sinclair!reader blubber or one shot please. The idea is that this takes place like around season three (or just awhile after Steve and Nancy’s breakup) and Steve and Reader have been getting closer because of all of the events that were going on in the show. And reader realizes that she has been falling for him but the problem is that she’s close friends with Nancy but feels weird for liking her ex. But like Nancy pretty much hints to her that it’s fine and whatever.

Love you work thank you 🫶🏾💜

hi love! thank you for the request & sorry abt the wait! but i hope you enjoy! <3

wc: 3.7k

What is one supposed to do when they just so happen to fall for their ex-girlfriend's best friend? It was a daunting question that rattled around Steve's mind with harsh clangs, making him toss and turn in bed when he tried to sleep. The poor thing even resorted to counting sheep when the only thing he could see behind his closed eyes was your pretty face that made him so pitifully nervous.

Liking you was troubling. It was divine and dreadful all at once.

The divine. Steve could easily recall the first time he met you like it was his favorite scene of his favorite movie.

Billy's 1979 Camaro made a loud screech when he drove up to the Byers' home unwelcomed. He brought mayhem as he searched for Max, unhesitat to torment your little brother Lucas in the process. You were fearless when giving Billy a piece of your mind, calling him all kinds of inglorious names and jabbing your finger at him when he sneered at you with that Hargrove smirk you despised.

Though you were undoubtedly no damsel in distress, clearly knowing how to stand your ground, Steve had unfaltering determination as he went to defend you and your sibling. He threw the first punch at him, knowing that Billy wasn't the kind of person that responded well to empty threats.

Unfortunately, that was his last lucid memory from that night.

Steve would (reluctantly) admit that he didn't end that brawl unscathed, but his heart certainly grew a couple sizes for you when you tended to his wounds soon after. Gentle with his cuts and bruises, you'd shyly smile and mumble little apologies when he'd hiss and flinch.

Steve had already known of you and seen you around school, sure, but this was his first time truly in your presence.

There was something so calming and warm about it.

But one thing that Steve wanted etched on his mind forever, was the Snowball of '84.

The blue glittery dress you wore adorned your figure perfectly, hair framing the beautiful picture of your face. You were there as a volunteer, chaperoning the middle schoolers but Lucas but in particular, as you grew fiercely protective over him after uncovering the deep secrets of Hawkins.

Steve was practically drooling as he gazed at you from his car, no longer able to focus on whatever it was Dustin had been rambling about. Handing out cups of punch to kids in line, your smile was bright and glittering while you shared a conversation. With Nancy.

The dreadful. It was your relationship with her that spared you of Steve's magnetic charm. Other than his newfound shyness, of course.

Nancy and you were two peas in a pod, rarely ever being seen without the other, especially when Lucas and Mike became friends. The two of you were always on study dates, had each other on speed dial, and even had friendship bracelets with the other's initials donned on your wrists. She was more than a best friend to you. More like a sister, you thought.

But Steve couldn't help himself from lingering a bit after he would drive Lucas home from whatever nerdy activity he needed a ride back from. The tenderhearted boy was beautifully uncreative in his efforts to get your attention, as he used any and every tactic imaginable.

He'd ask you about the book you were nose-deep in, though he knew damn well the title would soon be forgotten once the conversation was over. He'd tell you about his favorite shows and movies when he caught you in the living room struggling to find something to watch. He even offered to teach how to drive when you casually mentioned something about getting your license.

Soon enough, shy waves and awkward small talk turned into late nights listening to Fleetwood Mac and intense game nights of Monopoly and Scrabble.

Steve didn't win at Scrabble too often. He kept trying to play words that simply just didn't exist.

It was June of 1985 and school had been out for the past couple weeks. Scoops Ahoy, a new ice cream joint that Erica was adamant to drag you to at least three times a week, became your new favorite place when you saw Steve behind the counter.

"Nice outfit, Harrington," you giggled, and though he knew you weren't really making fun of him, Steve blushed away, eyes shifty. You often left a little tip in the jar when you'd leave, thanking Steve for his hospitality and influx of free ice cream samples.

Today was different, though. Steve was unable to ignore the disappointment that overwhelmed him when your little sister had shown up without you. He nodded his head at her as she neared the counter, "Where's your sister?"

Erica cocked an eyebrow, hand dropping down onto her hip. "I'm sorry, do I look like her keeper? I'm just here for my usual, sailor man." Steve fixed his gaze on the blue and white clock on the wall that's arms pointed to read 12:17. Usually you were here to collect your fair share of free dessert too, but it was nearly rush hour and your favorite flavor was running low.

"Well no, but she's your keeper and I'm just a little curious, is all," he corrected, spooning a hearty serving of peanut butter chocolate swirl onto a cone. She tapped her foot impatiently, waving her hand to suggest that she wanted a second helping. If you want information, it comes with a price. His eyes were squinted at her before he rolled them, giving in to her wishes.

"Here, that's all you're getting. Now spill."

Her smile was wide when she took the cone from Steve's hand, finally satisfied. "You really need to work on your customer service skills," she pointed, a look of disapproval weighing on her face when she turned to look at Steve.

"She's at home. I think. I don't know, I haven't been there in a few hours. She could be in another country for all I know," she paused to take an obnoxious lick, "Pleasure doing business with ya', sailor man!"

Steve watched as she skipped back to her busy swarm of friends whose cackles and squeals could be heard from worlds away. He looked down at the array of ice cream in front of him, frowning at the puny supply of your favorite. Grabbing a to-go cup from under the counter, Steve garnered as much as he could of the dessert, some of it spilling over when he covered it with a plastic lid.

Robin peered over his shoulder as he scribbled something on it with a permanent marker, though she wasn't able to decipher Steve's dodgy handwriting.

"I'm going on break, cover the front for me," Steve announced, making his way out of the parlor. His stride was hasty and confident.

In the distance, he could hear the smirk in Robin's voice, "Tell her I said hi!"

﹏𓊝﹏

2550 Maple Street. Steve rolled slowly past the creaky mailbox that read 'The Sinclair's', careful not to drive over the yellow tulips by the driveway that your mother spent all spring gardening. They were coming along really nicely.

Every once in a while, Steve would ask to help her with all the weeding and trimming and other maintenance that she often called a headache. Never in a million years did Steve think he'd be so avid for a girl and her family's approval that he'd become a part time florist, but here he was.

Surveying himself in the rearview mirror, Steve plucked off the silly sailor hat that crowned his head with a huff before aimlessly tossing it, getting it as far from his self-proclaimed best feature as possible. His fingers busily shoveled through his thick tresses, searching for the perfect marriage of tousled and tamed.

To say Steve was a bit on edge was a terrible understatement. The feeling of his stomach pulling into a tight knot at the mere thought of you was something so foreign to him. He hadn't felt this way in such a long time, especially not since he'd been with Nancy. It was refreshing but damn stressful.

But you were well worth the stress and queasy stomachs.

Steve hurriedly dusted himself off, wishing he had enough time to drive to his house to change into a less ridiculous outfit. He just wanted to look his best for you.

Approaching your dark green painted abode, mumbled words of encouragement poured out of Steve's lips. He spoke with his hands and made little faces, and he had no doubt that he looked like a crazy person to your neighbors that walked by.

His fist somewhat stalled when he raised it to the wooden door, his little pep talk had only done so much to boost his confidence. But it was too late to turn back now, he thought. He left three knocks to the door anyway, figuring that he already made it this far.

With his gaze set on his shifty feet that stood on the tawny welcome mat, his heart felt sharp against his ribs when the door abruptly swung open. "Steve?"

He looked up with wide eyes only to find your younger brother, eyebrows pulled together. He had the landline clutched close to his chest, seemingly on the phone with someone.

"Sinclair! Just the person I was looking for," he watched as Lucas' fingers twisted at the lock of the gold door knob idly. The cozy smell of breakfast wafted towards Steve. "Sort of," Steve added, shrugging.

"What's goin' on?" Lucas blinked at him in anticipation.

"Nothing much. Just lookin' for your sister," he said, tapping his finger on the bowl in his hand. He squinted at the sky, peeved, cursing the searing heat of the sun. That ice cream was melting like an ice cube in a desert. And his sweaty palms surely weren't helping its case.

Lucas scanned the yard, finding that Erica's bike was missing. From what he could remember, he heard her yapping something about hanging out at the mall, however many hours ago.

"She's probably at Starcourt terrorizing the world like usual, you might wanna look there," he pointed with his thumb. Steve could hear an irked voice spouting from the phone, wondering where Lucas had gone. Max, he assumed.

He chuckled, leaning against the door frame, "Yeah, you’re not wrong." Though Erica didn't particularly struggle to ruffle up people's feathers, Steve was actually growing to find the charm in her temperament. He even caught himself fighting to cage his laugh at her snarky comments more often than not. Hanging around her so much will do that to you.

"But your older sister, I mean. She here?"

Lucas gestured upstairs to your room, stepping aside to make way for Steve. Mumbling a thanks, he abandoned his sneakers by the door, per your mother's usual request, and trekked up the staircase— butterflies reckless in his stomach.

You tried your hardest to maintain your composure as you listened to the slow thuds of approaching footsteps. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to know it was Steve. Not only could you pick out his voice in a crowd of countless people, but from your window, you spied his parked maroon BMW in the driveway. It was hopeless to try biting back the smile that crept up when you heard he was there to see you.

The bedroom door wasn't closed but Steve knocked anyway, calling out for you in a soft tone. Heat rushed to your chest and ears at the sound of your name falling from his pink, plush lips that you so badly wanted to kiss.

It was romantic thoughts like those of Steve that spread guilt through you like venom, knowing that he was Nancy's ex after all. It had been your shoulder that she cried on when her relationship with him ended, and you easily felt like the worst friend imaginable when you found yourself falling for him.

You managed to keep your bond with him strictly platonic, but boy was it difficult.

"Steve?" He smiled when you peered around the door, features posing a coy smile of your own. His hand shyly waved at you while the other stayed tucked behind his back, "Hey, you." He shuffled into your room, appreciating the way your shaggy rug felt delicate and feathery on his aching feet that he'd been standing on for too many hours.

Your bed squeaked when he sat in the space next to your abundance of stuffed animals that Steve liked to call the "wardens" of your bed. It was so adorable to him how gingerly you took care of them– even murmuring a little apology when you bumped into one by accident.

He let out a soft laugh when he glanced at you, mindful to not stare at you, though that's all he really wanted to do, "You still in your pjs?"

Nothing but tight shorts hidden beneath a baggy band shirt draped your body. While Steve thought you looked utterly perfect, you suddenly felt awfully naked.

Shaking off the fuzzy warmth that rushed over you, you scoffed, crossing playfully defensive arms over your chest. “You should be the last person talking about outfits," your eyes scanned his tall, slender frame.

Steve's jaw fell open, theatrically appalled at your quip.

“Oh, don't act like you don't love me in this outfit, princess,” he smirked. The nickname made your nerves all fiery and tingly. "I see the way you stare at my legs when I'm in these shorts. My eyes are up here, FYI."

With your head falling back, an echoing giggle escaped you. It's a laugh so pretty and sugary, it could sweeten even the most sour lemon.

Steve couldn't ward off the reddening of his cheeks.

"In your dreams, Harrington," you replied, plopping yourself in the chair by your vanity. You distracted yourself from Steve's teasing with tidying the clutter that obscured the desk. The nerves you felt would only further ignite if you kept looking into his warm eyes.

"Well, despite the minor insult to my uniform, which I'm not gonna take personally," he beamed, finally revealing what he had hidden behind his back, "I got somethin' for ya." His teeth trapped his bottom lip in its constraints, eyes wide with anticipation as you inspected your little present.

The cup was wet with condensation and leaking melted ice cream but underneath it all read, "something sweet for a sweet girl :)".

And just like the ice cream, you melted.

"Steveee," you gushed, licking off the dessert that dripped onto your fingers that were growing frigid. "You came over just to bring me ice cream?" The smile you wore was glittering and well worth the effort.

Steve was all mumbly and shy when he responded, "Well, I know it's your favorite and that was the last of it, so," he shrugged before he could give himself the chance to ramble.

You wrestled the urge to swoon. How could one person be so adorable? And why did that one person have to be your friend's ex?

"Well, that's very kind, Stevie. Thanks," you beamed.

"'S no problem," he shrugged with a shy smile, taking a glimpse of his watch.

He had a mere twelve minutes to get back to work on time. "Shit, I gotta get back before Robin kills me, but I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Later, Steve."

Rising from your bed, he made his way to your door. His footsteps were slow and hesitant, as he seemed to have something on his mind. You were following behind him when he spun around suddenly, your bodies nearly colliding. "Actually, there's somethin' I wanted to ask you," his eyes were squeezed shut while he pointed as he spoke.

His face was flushed and his feet tapped at the wooden floor rapidly. You don't recall ever seeing Steve so nervous. "Yeah?"

"There's some house party tonight that I was, uh, thinking about going to. I was, you know, hoping that maybe, you'd wanna go with me? Like a date?"

Your mouth was open but sentences, words, really any sound at all, failed to come out. The boy you'd been crushing on for weeks that felt more like years, had finally asked you out. And you had no choice but to say no.

Your silence was deafening. "Or maybe we could go to that carnival? I could win you another warden for your bed," he laughed.

"I'd really like that, Steve, honestly, but–"

"Nancy," he finished, eyes diverting to his feet. His fluffy brunette hair blocked your view of his face. It wasn't fun seeing Steve who you're so used to joking with look so down.

"I could, maybe, talk to her?" Your tone was quiet, but hopeful.

"Are you sure? I don't wanna come in between you guys."

"Don't worry about that, her and I will be fine," your smile was confident but deep down you weren't as optimistic as you let on. Nancy and you made a promise to each other to never let anything like secrets or dumb boys ruin your relationship. But, here you were. "Now, go, your break is almost up."

"Okay," he grinned, "I'll see you tonight?"

Nodding, you waved him goodbye, watching him retreat downstairs. Your back leaned against your door when you closed it, before you looked over at your soupy ice cream, defeated.

How could you choose between your best friend and the boy you were crushing on? It shouldn't even be a question, really. The guilt was already gnawing at you mercilessly.

﹏𓊝﹏

The cards you held were sticky on your clammy palms. The echoes of your talk with Steve just a few hours prior were intrusive and blaring. Taking a sip of whatever was in your red solo cup, you tried to drown out the roaring voices of the people at the party, along with the thumping music that numbed your ears.

Your leg was impatient and desperate as it shook up and down, doing its best to repel the anxiety that bit at you. It certainly didn't help that Nancy was sitting right next to you, oblivious to the stolen glances and sneaky smiles you and Steve were exchanging all night.

Rubbing your stomach that felt queasy and pulled into a knot, you hadn't noticed that it was your turn to play. You weren't entirely sure you even remembered the name of the game you found yourself in.

"Hey, are you alright?" Nancy's hand fell onto your thigh, running a comforting thumb across your skin. Her blue doe eyes searched your face, though she's known you long enough to already know that you were far from 'alright'.

"Yeah, why?" Your lips were pulled into a tight smile, trying and inevitably failing to give your best impression of a genuine grin. And of course, Nancy sees the way you aren't seeing her. When you mindlessly played a random card, your eyes were fidgety and unfocused– a clear sign that you were frenzied.

"Cause you look like you're about to throw up," her eyebrows were pulled together in concern as she continued to probe, "Seriously, what's wrong?"

A dreary sigh escaped you as you cursed yourself for not being as discreet as you hoped to be. You should've know that someone you considered your sister would be able to see right through you like glass.

"It's just," you hesitated. It was now or never. "Just-"

"Steve?" Her voice lowered when she said his name, noticing the way your face shifted and became an odd mixture of relieved and confused. Your head snapped in her direction, finally meeting her gaze for the first time that night, it felt like.

The thrashing of your heart almost made your chest ache, as you appeared to be caught in some kind of lie. You didn't tell a lie, really, but you certainly didn't feel like a noble friend.

Studying her face, you scoured to find any hint that she was about to start tearing into you, calling you every wretched name in the book. Honestly, you wouldn't blame her if she did. But there was a subtle smirk on her face. A stark difference in the expression you imagined she'd be wearing upon finding out about your little puppy crush on Steve.

"How'd you know?"

"I mean, it's no secret you guys have been hanging out lately," she laughed a bit, taking your hand in hers, "and I see the way you look at him. It's the same way I used to look at him."

Words completely escaped you. Your eyes and mouth were agape, in awe of Nancy's poise. It was one of the things about her that you deeply admired. "Nancy..."

She squeezed your hand, shaking her head, "No, it's okay. I was the one who broke up with him," she glanced over to where he stood in the kitchen, downing his drink before disappearing into the backyard. "Besides, I'm with Johnathan now and I'm happy."

You exchanged smiles as your nerves became the calmest they'd been in hours. "If Steve makes you happy, I'm not gonna get in your way. He's a great guy and I think you guys would be really good for each other."

Throwing yourself into her for a hug, you practically crushed her as words of gratitude spilled out of you. It was unbelievable how lucky you were to have someone like her. "You're the best, Nance." She shrugged as if it was nothing, a bright look on her face.

"Now go get him, I'll watch your drink."

Ignoring the protests from the others who were still in the game as you walked away, you dodged dancing and mingling party guests.

The backyard was a lot less crowded, thankfully, allowing you to easily spot Steve sitting in a hammock, tapping his fingers on a freshly opened beer bottle.

He wore light blue jeans and a yellow crew neck sweater, looking as good as ever. You couldn't believe that he was going to be completely and openly yours.

"Hey, Harrington," you basically skipped over to him, slipping into the space next to him. Your legs touched and you don't feel any guilt or urge to move away from him. It was so refreshing. "So, how 'bout that date?"

The smile Steve wore was well worth the stress and queasy stomachs.

💌 1 new message from jojo: finally on summer break!! my inbox is open as always! feel free to pop in for a chat <3

[skibasyndrome]

Okay and another one cause i just thought of it.

"Wille threw his head back and let out a loud laugh, but all Simon could focus on was his neck."

tysm again for your love for my vampire boys 💜💜💜 I did a different spin on them today! This felt like the perfect sentence for some vampire best friends to lovers!

cw: thoughts about blood, vampirism

Wille throws his head back and lets out a loud laugh, but all Simon can focus on is his neck. That long, muscular neck of his, the movement leaving his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing invitingly. Simon can already feel the warmth of it on his tongue, can imagine the nervous flitting of his pulse beneath his lips and he can't, no, he can't allow these thoughts. Simon tries his best to laugh along, he really does, because he can't let the thoughts go to his head, he can't. Being alone with his best friend has become more and more of a challenge during these past few weeks, has begun to feel like Simon is balancing along the edge of a precipice and like every innocent touch, every brush of their fingers, every time their eyes meet and linger for a little longer than necessary could be the last push. If his best friend notices, he doesn't show it and it's getting worse and fucking worse. Simon knows he can't give in, no matter how much he desperately fucking wants to. He knows he can't possibly chance a kiss, because he'd want more, so much fucking more than Wille could ever give. He can't, he won't do that to him, won't do that to himself, it's much safer to stay where they are. To ignore every time Wille's eyes land on his mouth, staring like they're willing Simon to make a move, to press his lips against Wille's, to push his body against his. Every single brush of their arms feels charged, every single one of Wille's sighs that Simon desperately wants to feel against his skin is taunting him, dangling the chance of everything in front of his face, then abruptly pulling away when he remembers that they can't. Simon realizes too late that he's gone completely quiet, pressed into the back of the couch so hard that he might break through the fabric if he tries to hold back any harder. His leg, trapped under a tangles mess of Wille's limbs and the blanket Wille threw over them earlier, feels on fire and Simon is sucking in a sharp breath when he feels Wille's palm graze his knee, hidden from sight by the fabric. Wille is looking at him, wide-eyed, but calm, deliberating, seizing him up, wondering. And Simon feels caught, because this has never happened before, he's always been so goddamn careful to not let Wille notice, been so careful to keep his hunger in check and he shouldn't even be hungry right now. He did what he always does these days, drank more than he technically needs before coming over here, to make sure he can stay strong with Wille next him. Wille who is warm and inviting and soft and smells so good Simon wants to bury his face in the dip between his collarbones. Wille who looks and feels like he'd taste divine. Simon prepared so he wouldn't get like this, it doesn't make any- He hears himself gasp when Wille's large hand squeezes his knee, reminding him, so fucking unhelpfully, that Wille is right there. "It's okay," Wille breathes, like he's scared anyone else could hear them. His palm presses comforting circles into Simon's skin, but Simon feels like he's going to burst if he keeps doing that. "It's okay, Simon," Wille tells him again, voice louder now, and to Simon's shock he's reaching forward, grabbing Simon's wrist and pulling, until Simon's hand lands on the top of Wille's thigh. He feels his warmth, even through the blanket, can sense the blood coursing there, right below his palm, everywhere, and it would be so easy to give in and to have Wille and to fucking savor him, but Simon can't do that to him, he won't do that to him, he promised himself he would never hurt his friend.

He feels frozen in time with Wille's watching eyes still on him, Wille's hand on his leg, his on Wille's, but when Wille tugs on his arm again, pulling him closer again, he feels himself being reeled in. Feels like his determination is being stretched thin with every centimeter he crosses over into Wille's space, feels like his resolve is about to lose all integrity and crumble as he inches forward, slotting his knees on either side of Wille. Settling in Wille's lap, hearing Wille let out a barely audible grunt at the weight, he knows that this is the farthest he can go before he snaps. "Simon...," Wille says again and when Simon's eyes involuntarily drop to his mouth, Wille licks over his lips quickly, almost nervously. It sets Simon on fire, this back on forth, Wille's determination and the nerves he is trying to hide beneath them. Simon barely dares to breath, so close to Wille that he can taste his breath and Simon knows, fuck, he knows himself well enough to know that, once he gets a single taste, once he knows what Wille's lips taste like on his, he won't be able to stave off the need for another, a different taste. Wille's palm on the back of his neck is sweaty, steady, holding him, but not pushing. Horrifically, it's all Simon's own doing as he leans closer, feeling more of Wille's breath, sucking in more of his scent. They're so close, Simon is beyond saving. He's crossed a million red lines, and he's about to cross the next. Something deep in his chest pushes him forward, makes him drop his head and nuzzle the side of Wille's neck with his nose, dangerously close to where his innermost instinct is pulling him. "We can't," he tries, one last plea, hoping Wille will see, but he doesn't. He doesn't see, he just shakes his head, but leaves Simon there, even tilts his head further, making Simon's self-control weep. "We can, Simon, we can," Wille babbles, carting his hands over Simon's back and breathing heavily where their chests are pressed together. Simon shakes his head, desperation momentarily winning through. "No, Wille," he urges feeling his own breath hot in the small space, "I can't, I'm not-" His hand has gripped onto Wille's shoulder without realizing and he can't quite get himself to soften the grip, lest this is the last bit of tension that's holding him together. "You can," Wille says, no, whines then and Simon wants to cry and scream and push him off and shake him, all at once. But Wille's hand is grabbing the back of his head, keeping him there, in this place he couldn't even leave if he tried to, and Wille is shifting, moving his head, bringing his skin ever closer to Simon's mouth than it already is- "I know, Simon, I know, and I want you to," Wille gasps, so close to Simon that he feels the movement of his throat as he hears it. "You can, I'm asking you to."

these 5 sentences keep getting more and more... not-5-sentenc-y huh? okay I SWEAR one of these days I'm actually gonna write a real bite for once, but all these prompts are just perfect for the tension, waaaaah. Anyways, if you want more wilmon vampire neediness you can check here and here.

Send me "Wilmon" + a sentence and I'll write you 5 (+) more

[lilithliliam]

Letters from your favourite boys💜

Warnings: possibility of getting too much happiness and cuteness,losing teeth from sweetness or getting a heart attack (This is a joke 🌚) Read at your own risk.

I decided that we could all use some warmth and happiness on these cold days. guess who cried in the part with Kakashi 🥲 Please don’t pay attention to the mistakes, if they are...

Uzui Tengen:

My Dearest [Y/N],

In the grand tapestry of life, your presence stands out like a dazzling thread of silk. Every step you take is a dance, and every word you speak is a melody that resonates in the chambers of my heart. My flamboyant exterior conceals a truth that only you can unveil—I am utterly and irrevocably captivated by you.

Your strength, your grace, and the radiance that emanates from your very being have ensnared my heart. The battles we've faced together have only deepened my admiration, and in the quiet moments between clashes, I've come to realize that my feelings extend beyond camaraderie.

I find myself yearning for the warmth of your smile, the sound of your laughter, and the shared silences that speak volumes. You are the jewel that adorns the crown of my existence, and I cannot keep these emotions concealed any longer.

With all the vibrancy and passion that defines me, I confess: I am in love with you.

Yours in flamboyant devotion,

Uzui Tengen

Kyojuro Rengoku:

My Beloved [Y/N],

As the flame that illuminates the darkest corners of my soul, you have become the guiding light of my existence. In your presence, I find warmth, purpose, and an intensity that transcends the battles we wage. Each day, my admiration for you grows, fueled by the embers of respect and the tender flames of affection.

Your beauty, both outward and inward, is a testament to the divine artistry that shaped you. The moments we share, be they in the midst of chaos or the calm after the storm, are etched into the fabric of my heart. It is in these moments that I have come to acknowledge a truth that cannot be denied.

My love for you is as unyielding as the fires I command. It burns with a fervor that surpasses the limitations of words. With this confession, I lay bare my heart, hoping that its flames may kindle a reciprocal warmth within yours.

Ever aflame with love,

Kyojuro Rengoku

Shota Aizawa:

To the One Who Occupies My Thoughts,

In the realm of logic and reason, emotions often find themselves discarded like outdated textbooks. Yet, against my better judgment, I find myself grappling with a truth that defies the constraints of rationale. It is a truth that demands acknowledgment, a silent whisper in the halls of my guarded heart.

Your resilience, your determination, and the quiet strength you exude have carved a niche within my stoic exterior. In your presence, the cacophony of the world softens to a gentle hum, and I am left with the undeniable realization—I have fallen in love with you.

I admire the way you face challenges head-on, your unwavering spirit, and the moments of vulnerability you entrust to the world. It is this mosaic of characteristics that has woven itself into the fabric of my affection.

So, with a vulnerability I seldom reveal, I confess: I am in love with you.

Guardedly Yours,

Shota Aizawa

Kakashi Hatake:

My Dearest [Y/N],

In the world of shadows and secrets, where emotions are often veiled by the mask of indifference, I find myself standing on the precipice of revelation. Your resilience, your kindness, and the quiet strength you carry have dismantled the barriers around my guarded heart.

In the moments of shared silence and the subtle nuances of your gestures, I've come to acknowledge a truth that eludes the pages of my stoic narrative—I am in love with you. Your presence is a balm to the wounds I never knew existed, and your laughter echoes in the chambers of my guarded soul.

As a man of few words, I express this truth with a simplicity that belies its depth: I love you. In the quiet realm of our shared understanding, I hope you discern the unspoken sentiments that bind my heart to yours.

Quietly Yours,

Kakashi Hatake

Itachi Uchiha:

My Beloved [Y/N],

In the labyrinth of shadows and redemption, your presence has been a beacon of light that cuts through the darkness. I find myself standing at the crossroads of duty and desire, and in the silence

that lingers between our shared glances, a profound truth takes shape—I am deeply, irrevocably in love with you.

The burdens of my past, the sins that stain my hands, and the responsibilities I bear have often overshadowed the tender emotions that have taken root in my heart. Your kindness, your understanding, and the warmth of your gaze have thawed the icy resolve within me, revealing a vulnerability I seldom allow others to witness.

In the quiet moments we've shared, I've come to appreciate the gentle cadence of your laughter and the strength that emanates from your very essence. Your presence is a salve to the wounds I carry, and your love is the promise of a future unburdened by the shadows of our shared past.

As I pen these words, I do so with the sincerity of a man yearning for redemption and the courage to forge a path towards a brighter tomorrow. With all the complexities that define our existence, know that my love for you transcends the boundaries of duty—a truth I can no longer keep veiled in the shadows.

Eternally Yours,

Itachi Uchiha

Satoru Gojo:

My Enchanting [Y/N],

In the realm of jujutsu battles and sorcery, you are the vibrant anomaly that captivates my attention. From the moment our paths intertwined, a spark ignited within me, fanning the flames of a truth that demands acknowledgment—I am undeniably, unequivocally in love with you.

Your resilience on the battlefield mirrors the strength I find equally captivating in the moments between battles. The sparkle in your eyes, the playful banter we share, and the unique cadence of your laughter weave a tapestry of emotions that have ensnared my heart.

In the grand scheme of curses and battles, our connection stands as an anomaly—a testament to the unpredictable nature of the world we navigate. Yet, it is precisely this unpredictability that renders our shared moments all the more precious.

As I confess these sentiments, I do so with the candid acknowledgment that the jujutsu world is fraught with dangers and uncertainties. But amid the chaos, your presence is a constant, and my love for you is the unyielding anchor that grounds me.

Yours in the Unpredictable Dance of Sorcery,(the strongest)

Satoru Gojo

[youthnighttarot]

Baddie Check (Good qualities about you)🫦💋💄💅🏾

Tarot Reading

Pile 1

Pile 2 Pile 3

🔮 Welcome to my tumblr!! I’m 🔮youthnighttarot🤗

Things to know

💜This is for entertainment purposes only and, not to be taken seriously

💜Take what resonates leave the rest

💜All feedback is welcomed as longs as it’s respectful

✨Take a breath before you choose your pile

Pile 1

Tarot cards pulled: 10oS, 8oP (rv), 10oW

Oracle cards: Edward VIII (story may resonate with you watch a documentary) Lover card

First things first when I was shuffling I was supposed to say clear the energy ended up saying clear the check. So maybe you be clearing this check pile 1 because you a baddie that’s about their money!! Ok I’m not sure if you know this yet but you are a sex fiend….not like in the addiction sense just the energy that you give off. It’s like that girl/boy could rock my world. You’re also really goofy like you be playin LMFAOAOAOA frfr.

You may have been betrayed in the past or backstabbed by someone who you worked with. They weren’t putting in any work and, you had to constantly take the brunt/bulk of the work. This could have overwhelmed you and even strained your creativity but you came out on top. With the 10oS this woman has knives all in her back but she’s focused on her phone. You may not be as nonchalant but, you don’t give basic bottom barrel hoes energy and time they don’t deserve.

You’ve been through dark times and felt overwhelmed by creative project or just in general. You may have lacked motivation within your career or in regards to money/stability. People see this and view you as resilient and strong. You are that girl/guy because you never let this betrayal or malicious gossip make you skip a beat. You can carry a lot but that doesn’t mean that you should have to, though this is part of your hood qualities. It can easily become a bad habit if you let it get out of hand. You may have an online social media business and you are thriving but need time to rest. This is also what makes you a baddie you will work your ass off and rest just as hard. (Yesssss pile 1 can you help me out with that)

Extra

💅🏾A king is nothing without the woman he loves

💅🏾Make your own kingdom and choose your own family….I feel you go by this mantra 🕉️

💅🏾Your very luxurious

💅🏾You’re a good lover because you don’t rely on lies or rose colored glasses, trying to be the next Edward and Bella like it’s a movie. You take it seriously and are logical/reall about what a relationship entails

Pile 2

Tarot cards pulled: 7oC (rv), Judgement, the hanged man (rv)

Oracle cards: Gala Dalí, one eye open one eye closed

One of your good qualities great I should even say, is that everything good that comes in your life comes in 2s, 3s, or 4s. You have a lot of abundance surrounding yourself. Something regarding the eye of Horus is significant here. Ok some of the good qualities about you pile 2 is that you have a kind nature but you also know how to cut through bullshit. You are not one of those people floating through life and allowing things to happen to you versus for you.

You are quite a decisive person especially in matters relating to heart and emotions. You may be disconnected from certain religious ideals and people can view you as a hedonist. (Chile🙄) simply because you don’t always comply but little do they know spirit is divinely protecting you. You’re not emotionally unbalanced you feel how you feel no matter how hard someone tries to sway you.

You may not be spiritually bound to any particular religion and this scares people.

You could be a witch/high priestess for some of you. You’re just you and you don’t try to be anyone else but you. (Purr 🐈) So people could celebrate you or even look up to you many ones. (Archangel Micheal, Raphael, and Azriel are looking after you have a lot of power on your spirit team) (Yemaya and Oya for some of my Yoruba gyals) (Nana Asee for my Akan gyals shout out) (Aphrodite and Cupid?) (Freya and Odin) You have uncertainties sometimes but you’re emotions never cloud your judgment. You understand what it means to be in tune as you should!! You may have been spiritually inclined always but repressed for others peace of minds.

Extra

💅🏾 It is by being in the shadow that one emits the most light…you truly believe this and this way of thinking has greatly benefited you

💅🏾You used to constantly be looking over your shoulder or you just didn’t trust easily

💅🏾You no longer jump the gun, or assume you know someone’s nature until you see it in its truest form

Pile 3

Tarot cards pulled: 9oW, The Magician (rv), The hermit (rv)

Oracle cards: Marilyn Monroe, Magic is being used (rv)

So you know when to take time out for yourself first of all pile 3. You can sense when someone is trying to manipulate or play the con-game with you. You also know how to get people to do exactly what you want but, you don’t maliciously take advantage of people rather suggest. You take time to yourself in order to pondering your actions or how other people actions led up to your actions. So you may avoid it happening again at all cost. You are a dreamer. Again I’m getting your not afraid to reflect on your wrong doings…you take accountability.

You’re a person who knows when to shut social media off. You have no aspirations to chance fame/notoriety it just happens for you. You’re not caught up in trying to be a baddie you just simply want to be you. That is as all nothing less. Some of you could have some sort of connection to gypsies or Eastern European culture?

You believe in divinity and equality, you dress nicely as well. You know how to stand up for yourself by saying no…you are not afraid of sitting with yourself or your thoughts. You’ve traveled (physically or mentally) long and far in order to get to this point in your life. You have the emotions, the career skills, and the mindset to wether any storm. You are not deceptive but can sense deceptions easily.

Extra

💅🏾Never pick stability over a good time…at first I was like 🤔but what I got is that you don’t just choose something because it will bring you finances or wealth you choose to do something or be with someone because it makes you happy

💅🏾You don’t use spells and magic on people to get them to like you they just do

💅🏾Whatever story that people have in mind for you, you say to hell with and continue to be yourself

Call me beep me if you wanna reach me🔮📱

💟 @youthnighttarot ~ tumblr

Email~ youthnighttarot1111@gmail.com

💟 youthnighttarot1111 ~ PATREON EXCLUSIVES

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Dark Moon | Chapter Six

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 3,2k

Warnings | +18, yandere themes, blood, unusual and dangerous use of a knife, revenge, violence, explicit and dirty language, this is not for minors.

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! In this chapter there will be a slight change for MC, I hope you will enjoy the chapter, let me know what you think! 💜

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie, @seokjins-luigi, @pjmsneverland, @jimincrystal, @ajkwww, @ungodlyjoon, @hecateslittlewitchling, @namjoonsbuspass, @darkuni63, @xicanacorpse

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - Previous - Next

"How is she?"

The dark-haired boy lifted his eyes to Seokjin, who was staring at him with his hands in his pockets, still dressed smartly and wearing perfectly polished-toed shoes.

"They stitched her up and now they're giving her an IV, she's lost too much blood," was Jimin's laconic reply, who was leaning against the wall of the waiting room pondering what to do.

They were in a private clinic, there was no danger of awkward questions; it belonged to a cousin of Seokjin's. That was where they went when they urgently needed a doctor.

"And what are you going to do with Ester?"

"I was just about to talk about her," he broke off from the wall, "She's one of your girls, but she disrespected me, Jin."

"You don't want to kill her," Seokjin said, although it was clear from his tone that he wasn't all that interested, but Jimin shook his head and the man relaxed his shoulders; every woman present at the Dark Moon was a big, juicy source of income.

"I want to teach her what respect is for me and my orders, I won't allow just any whore to challenge a decision of mine," he said harshly.

"You're right, besides it might stir up the others to do the same in case there are further jealousies" he pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance, irritated, "All right, instruct her" he gave his consent and made to turn on his heels and leave, but Jimin blocked him.

"I'll take her."

"How?" he had heard perfectly well, but he wanted to push him to be more detailed.

"You made me a proposition and this is my last answer, I'll take her."

Because the Dark Moon was a den of snakes and she would only be safe in his arms.

"I'll prepare the bow, then," smiled Jin, Jimin snorted, smiling faintly.

Then she saw him leave and his smile faded, he had a score to settle with Ester and it didn't take him long to return to the Dark Moon, Namjoon greeted him with a look of understanding.

"Hanon locked her in her room, all she did was scream and throw objects everywhere."

Just the thought of such a scene irritated the man.

"I'll give her a good reason to scream if she cares that much," he hissed, Namjoon nodded, knowing his friend, he would not go lightly.

When he entered the room that had seen better days, Jimin found a mad woman inside, messy locks fell across her red, furious face, and broken and bruised objects were scattered everywhere, victims of Ester's rage.

The woman stopped only at the sight of the man stuck on the threshold watching her; Jimin's expression was indecipherable, but his eyes were harder than ice, a detail that made the young woman's lips tighten.

Jimin took two steps inside the bedroom, closing the door behind him, turned the key already in the lock slowly, and a boulder dropped on her stomach.

"Jimin..." the nasal voice because of the hysterical crying and the punch she had received sounded whiny, which did not faze him.

"Ester" dropped the key into one of his pockets and gave it his undivided attention, "Tell me, Ester.... That stupid scene, what do you think it would have led to?"

The girl swallowed, suddenly frozen.

"I asked you nicely to take care of her, to explain things to her," continued Jimin calmly, "And instead you send her to the hospital," he chuckled without amusement.

Ester did not know what to say, she felt only cruel satisfaction in knowing that Y/N's condition was so critical as to require qualified medical attention.

The bitch had to be punished, she thought.

"How do you explain this?"

"I'm yours," asserted the woman simply, "You shouldn't have let her take my place, who is she? You don't even know her, she doesn't know what you like in bed, and even if she did she wouldn't be able to satisfy you, you've been looking for me all along," she growled through tears, Jimin raised an amused eyebrow.

Perhaps Y/N did not know what he liked in bed, but for what little he had had her, she had managed to give him an unforgettable blowjob; Ester's jealousy amused and irritated him at the same time.

Ester could claim to be his, but he certainly did not belong to her.

"I don't know how true that can be," the man crossed his legs, "You say you're mine, but I've seen you satisfy many other men before and after me...besides, who says I've only ever sought you out?" he asked with a smile, remembering vividly that he had had sex with countless other women. The fact that at the Dark Moon he had chosen Ester as his favorite had been totally random; everyone had chosen a girl and he had done the same, choosing one of the prettiest and best. He didn't think that this would make her head swell.

"You've come back to me now," remarked the woman, giving no sign of having listened to a single word Jimin said, blatantly pretending.

The boy remained impassive a few moments before opening his legs slightly.

"Come here," he patted his own powerful thigh wrapped in tight dark pants, Ester remained interdicted and guarded, making the boy snort, "Don't make me repeat myself," he hissed.

The woman took a few steps in his direction, when she saw that Jimin had no strange intentions she became braver, even going so far as to sit on the man who waited patiently for her.

"Lively little girl," he smiled sweetly, arranging a few strands behind her ear, Ester's heart beat inexorably, enchanted by the heavenly vision that was Jimin, "Repeat to me what you told me at first."

As if bewitched by the boy's charm, Ester repeated his words once more, "I am yours..." Jimin nodded, leaving a kiss on the woman's neck.

"Again, Ester," the woman threw her head back under the tender strokes of Jimin's tongue along her skin, inside she exulted in lust.

"I'm yours...!" she moaned when her intimacy came in contact with Jimin's cock, she felt the tip press against her core through the tight fabric, Ester shuddered at the idea of being able to enjoy that rapturous hardness once more and vibrated excitedly when Jimin pushed her against the bed, straddling her body.

"Say it again and again..." he whispered hoarsely, touching the intimacy of the young woman, who arched her back at the contact, thrusting her hips against his hand, which crossed the barrier of her dress to tickle her clit directly.

Long moans dispersed through the room, Ester not holding back from letting everyone know what was going on in there, as if to prove that Jimin never intended to punish her, that she would always remain his favorite.

That is, until Jimin's fingers were replaced by something icy, smooth, and hard that penetrated her slit.

She had not even noticed that the boy had retrieved the object, nor did she know where he got it from or what it was.

Maybe it was-

"Stop moving like a bitch in heat," Jimin ordered her, Ester frowned, she was about to cum, why would she stop-, "Stop if you don't want me to slice you, Ester" was his final warning.

"Jimin, what-"

"Go ahead, say again that you're mine-until you yourself realize the bullshit you keep babbling," he hissed, scrutinizing her cruelly with a derisive smile, his hand made the object penetrate deeper, which caused Ester to squint.

Jimin's words confused her-what game was he playing? And most importantly...

"What do you have in your hand, Jimin?"

"Are you referring to the thing you're sucking up so easily? Hmm... in my opinion you can get there," he said vaguely getting no answer, he huffed, "Come on... you always asked me to give it to you, which is impossible given the rules here at the Dark Moon," he chuckled, holding the base tightly.

At those words Ester blanched.

The switchblade that Jimin always carried with him.

"Jimin... this is a joke, isn't it?" she asked tensely, the boy replied by pressing the knife handle harder against her walls, just a simple gesture and the blade would snap like a spring.

"A whore without a pussy would be worthless," reasoned Jimin, there Ester had confirmation that the man was serious, she began to tremble and break into a cold sweat.

If before pleasure was the only thing she felt, now terror had encompassed every fiber of her body.

"Jimin, please..." she cried tremblingly, but the boy shushed her.

"Your arrogance has always disgusted me, Ester.... but your disobedience is the worst thing about you, I've always let it go because it was pleasurable to fuck you, but now I can't see what attracted me to you anymore," he spat, "Do you want it fast or slow?" he asked mellifluously, smiling fearfully.

Ester quickly denied with her head, she was a lake of tears and unrestrained sobs, "Don't! I-I won't give you any more trouble, I swear, I swear!" she screamed breathlessly, unable to move her body because of the terror she was feeling.

The man after a few moments moved away, withdrawing his weapon accordingly, Ester relaxed slightly before she felt a hissing sound cleave the air and something liquid dripping from one of her cheeks.

Wide-eyed she brought a trembling hand to her face and with a horrible foreboding saw blood, she was breathless when she realized what had happened.

Jimin watched uninterestedly as the woman's despair, her face scarred, ran to the mirror to ascertain her condition, he saw her collapse on her own knees amid sobs and cries, the only thing he felt was annoyance at that scene which he said was ridiculous. She had touched Y/N's face, he had done the same to hers. Permanently.

"You'll be able to satisfy clients with perversions like that, too, aren't you happy?"

He walked out of the room as he entered it, meeting Namjoon's gaze.

"I hope you haven’t damaged it too much."

Jimin shrugged, "Clients care about what's between her legs, she was unsightly even before," Namjoon rolled his eyes.

"I'll go get someone to treat her, she's screaming more than before," he hissed holding the bridge of his nose tightly between two fingers.

Jimin patted him twice before heading out of the brothel, ready to finish the job he had started.

The man cast a glance at the woman sitting in the back seat, she was still dazed from the medication that prevented her from feeling pain, she stood staring out of the tinted windows.

A large medical patch covered her entire cheek, just as a bandage wrapped her head tightly and securely.

At her side Taehyung made sure she did not attempt any strange moves; the boy was dressed in casual clothes unlike the young woman who was wearing only pajamas and slippers.

It was nighttime, Jimin had made sure to pick her up in a safe time frame for everyone so as not to raise even the slightest doubt.

"Where do you think I'm taking you?" broke the silence Jimin, Y/N barely lifted her head.

"To the Dark Moon, that's where I belong, isn't it?" she replied apathetically, a slow smile lapped the young male's face.

"You got it wrong this time, honey," he said, leaving her interjected.

"What do you mean?"

"I found a better use for you," he chuckled, almost breathing in the fear of the poor girl, who upset cast a glance at Taehyung.

She hadn't known him long, but in the clinic when she was surrounded by doctors, he had given her the impression that he was a calm and lucid man, or so she thought, although she remembered perfectly well that if Jimin wasn't there, then Taehyung himself would be there to give her that "checkup."

"Calm down, kitten, if he wanted to hurt you, he would have already done so, right?" he affirmed, instantly procuring a glare of lightning from Y/N.

"He did hurt me," she huffed inviperately, squeezing herself into her seat.

Jimin looked at her from the mirror, studying the woman's emaciated contours, her lips tightened into a line were a sign of her strange inner turmoil.

He did not want to get to the point of hurting her again, yet the way he had been raised left no room for pity, if she tried any bullshit he would pay for every single consequence.

After a few kilometers the car stopped in front of a seemingly very luxurious apartment establishment, a garage opened up for them and Jimin wasted no time in getting in, Taehyung on the other hand did not lose sight of every corner of the street, although from the angelic faces they remained gentlemen of the underworld. Seokjin as already specified had his hands full just about everywhere, dealing not only in his brothel - a source of more than excellent income - but also in dealing and often murder for hire.

There were not exactly a few of their enemies.

Y/N squared off with a bad feeling the other cars present-where had they taken her?

"Get her out," ordered Jimin, Taehyung opened his door first and going around he allowed the woman to get out as well, holding her firmly by the arm, not only to prevent her from escaping - she had nowhere to go given the enclosed space they were in - but also because he was unsure of her strength, the young woman in fact was unsteady on her own legs.

Out of the corner of his eye Jimin noticed that Taehyung was about to take her in his arms, which inexplicably irritated him. He knew that his friend had no interest in the girl, but that did not stop him from harshly jerking the other away from her to take her personally in his arms stunning not only Taehyung, but Y/N herself, who tried to shrink as much as possible under his dark gaze. The man's grip was firm, but she felt herself falling into the arms of her tormentor.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked with a knot in her throat; Jimin did not answer immediately.

First he climbed stairs that led them to a larger door, from that opened a long, dimly lit hallway and then more stairs to climb until they reached a landing with an elevator.

When they entered and the doors closed he finally spoke.

"You are in your new home."

A thousand questions poured into Y/N's head, confused and agitated. Had she been sold? So, is this how it was going to end?

She had basically ended up like her sister, she thought sorrowfully, regretting several times the absurd idea of looking for a similar job to support herself.

"More to the point, you are in your new home, yours and Jimin's," Taehyung chuckled, as the elevator doors opened to show a series of numbered, digitally locking doors.

"What?"

Taehyung typed a code on the keypad on the door with the number 7, which opened with a soft, almost imperceptible click.

The first thing the woman saw was a spacious, modern living room with an L-shaped sofa of soft dark leather that drew all the attention to itself.

"What does that mean?"

Jimin made a sign to his friend, who understood instantly. He wanted to be alone with Y/N.

"I'm off, see you soon kitten," he greeted her before disappearing, carefully closing the door behind him, the resulting sound no longer sounding so soft to Y/N's ears.

She felt she was being teased.

"What does that mean?" she repeated more somberly, Jimin took a seat on the sofa, crossing his legs in a pose that screamed elegance and power.

"I bought you, that's what it means."

It was a lie, Seokjin had made a gift of her to Jimin, but the latter with that statement tried to give himself an intimidating aura, buying a person after all was not something everyday, one had to be a powerful and influential person to do so, the man wanted her to feel fear in his presence.

She was stunned, "Why would you do that? You hate me, you find me useless! Is this another way to torture me?" she hissed with tears in her eyes, "You made me lose everything, what more do you want from me?"

She was broken.

She had run away from a monster to save her sister, but she had lost her and had been humiliated in more ways than one by Jimin and his former lover, if she could have ended it to avoid more suffering she would have taken the chance.

"I don't hate you, silly," sighed Jimin as he took off his jacket, "You irritate me with your stubborn attitude, but I don't hate you...it's other people I reserve my poison for, it's precious, it's the fuel that gets me going, my beautiful girl" he got up from his seat to go pour himself a few shots of vanilla rum, the crystal mini bar displayed his small but expensive collection of drinks, they were mostly classic brands, Jimin must have been an experienced drinker.

He sipped slowly from his glass, the plump, glossy lips matched perfectly with the transparent rim, soaking up the amber liquid, the piercing tapped lightly against the crystalline surface. Y/N imagined the sinful taste they had, wondered why she had not met him in his angel form, why she was given the devil, after the hell she had already been accustomed to.

"And then..." he continued, "I wouldn't let you stay at the Dark Moon a minute longer, I've already told you that but maybe it's better to refresh your memory," he murmured as he approached, the girl took small steps back, nothing compared to the male's two strides, "I won't let any other man get his hands on you, I want you and consequently you belong to me," he said casting a languid glance at the woman's lips.

"And what will you do in case you get tired of me?" she provoked him.

Jimin's eyes darkened, "What should I do with a stupid little girl like you?" he asked, not answering her question.

Neither of them would have liked the answer.

He took a lock of her soft hair in his fingers, bringing it to his nose he inhaled its light fragrance, the hospital had turned the girl off. He decided to leave her alone for the time being, she needed to recover, and from her thin, depressed appearance he guessed it would take quite some time.

"Here is a room with a bathroom for you, you will also find clean clothes, you may go," he turned away from her, who resumed breathing normally. Jimin was lethal and she feared it was not for one simple reason.

It may have sounded absurd, but no matter how much her instincts screamed at her to escape from the clutches of that monster, a much darker part of her could not stop pointing out its bewitching and sinful aspect.

Hers was a desire that had to be kept silent and hidden inside the closet because it was shameful and sick.

[wqxianwriting]

Maybe f!reader is a tomboy (hate that phrase… dresses traditionally masc and bummy almost always?) and has to dress up for an event with Nick (or maybe both of the boys doesn’t matter). And it’s not like she doesn’t know how to dress fem and do make up and hair, she actually can do it very well, she just doesn’t bother lol. But what would the reaction to see her looking like a fem queen for the first time be?

Just wrote things on my mind 😔💜 he’s adorable he loves you very much. | Headcanons w a scenario!

Nick Nelson:

Excuse him as he picks his jaw up off the floor, gets up off his knees after they collapsed and as he goes ahead to order a new heart because honestly. He just died.

Alright first off, he doesn’t mind what you wear of course, as long as you’re comfortable and nobody is forcing you to be who you’re not/force you to wear things you’re not okay being in

I think he’d be a liiitle conflicted seeing you awaken into your divine form, let me explain:

Number One: He’s seen you in traditional masc looks that he thinks, “??? Is someone forcing you to do this?” and it triggers that LITERAL feral mode so you’d have to calm him down.

Number Two: You next have to deal with him hovering over you while you’re doing your makeup because not only is he fascinated he just can’t help take his eyes off of you – as if he does on any other occasion but don’t say anything.

Number Three: He will plead to hold you like right as soon as you’re about to leave to the event 💀 “Hold on… you mean no cuddles before you leave?” ,, “Nick. I have five minutes to run to this event.” ,, “Let me drive you?” 🥺 PLEADE?

Adding on the fact he’s absolutely adoring you while you expertly put on the makeup he asks you questions like, “Do you typically like wearing more traditional feminine things?”, “Does it make you uncomfortable?”, etc etc

He kind of thinks of you as a new person but not in the sense he treats you differently from before, he just wants to brush up on some boundaries, ya know?

TEACH HIM HOW TO DO YOUR HAIR AND MAKEUP LIKE HE WOULD MELT 🥹

For some reason he has a suit in your closet? So while you’re combing through your hair, you see his silhouette peek out behind your door through your vanity. “Nick, honey, what are you doing?”

He laughs suspiciously before widening the door, placing his hands on his hips and tilting his chin up. In all his glory stands Mr. Nelson, in a classic black and white suit. He wiggles his eyebrows at you and, “Allow me to be your king for the evening, My Queen.” He then awkwardly bows.

It takes every part of you not to laugh nor yeet your comb at him. “What…” Is all you manage to squeak out.

He then walks over to you, guiding the hand that was tangled in your locks into his own. He wraps his other hand around your waist, very much giggly. “I love this look.” He plants a soft kiss on your forehead and it makes you flustered right off the bat.

“Really?” He nods in affirmation, twirling you around your bedroom and admiring the way your dress flans out before resting back down against your legs.

He rocks you back and forth, sometimes giving you a spin. “Do you not like wearing dresses and makeup? Is this your first time looking this way and you’re just a first time expert at everything?” He jokes but you hear the curiosity in his words.

“Not very often, if at all, really. Special events if they require it.” You toss your comb on the bed before wrapping your arm around his neck. “And maybe I am, but not in this case. Sometimes I wanna wear makeup or just mess around with it so I’ve practiced here and there.”

He pauses.

“Wait have you been wearing makeup some of the times I’ve seen you and I’ve never noticed?!”

Your grin. “Maybe.” He scoffs and sighs in self-disappointment. “Why?” You pull him closer and give him a peck on the lips.

“Because? Isn’t that something I should notice?” You raise an eyebrow and he continues, “I don’t want you to feel as if your efforts are wasted by me not noticing.”

“Nick, if I ever feel like dressing up it’s not necessary for you to notice every bit of detail. I’m content lazing around like a bum without all the fancies.” He laughs at your words, “Though, seeing your reaction to this look definitely makes me think I should try a few other things someday~”

“That sounds sooo suspicious…” Nick narrows his eyes at you but you can see the faint blush on his cheeks. “Can I try helping you with your makeup or hair someday?”

This surprises you and you crack a grin. “Would you like to be my test dummy as well?”

“What?!”

“Well as my boyfriend, I think that’s an unspoken rule, no? Let your girlfriend give you a makeover, mhm.” You nod like it’s law.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing?”

“Well yeah, I said it’s unspoken for a reason.”

He looks so done with you.

In the end though, days you do feel like wearing things a little more feminine he goes shopping with you for different clothes, accessories, even those damn hair rollers.

99.9% gonna be confused as hell but he’s got the spirit and loves coming up to you with different things expressing how good you’d look thought he sneaks a cheesy comment, “You’d look stunning in anything.” With a shrug.

Takes every FIBER AND MUSCLE in your limbs to not jump this man with an uproar of kisses in the middle of the freaking store.

Either way he loves anything you wear even if you showed up one day to his house in a trash bag. He loves anything you do with your hair and look, hoping you feel satisfied in the results yourself.

(Also please bring him to that event you’re going to, he wants to show you off pspspsps like YEAH that’s my lover mhm, yeah I know she looks like a goddess. Did you know she did this herself? A professional? She might as well be. – drag him off before he can continue LMAOO)

Side note: Nick tries to act like he’s some posh fancy little man so, he’s insufferable with his… whatever you wanna call this; “Ah yes dear, this dress looks absolutely divine on you, though you look exquisite everyday.” or acts like the two of you are royalty. Just a silly little guy. That is indeed your boyfriend.

(It’s a great distraction he loves to do if you’re not typically comfortable dressing up more feminine when the time comes)

ALSO COMPLETELY RANDOM but if you’re not comfortable wearing traditional feminine clothing I… LMAOO he would absolutely be the type of significant other that wears them along with you. You buy a new skirt (just for it to be locked away with the others fr) and he’s in the room when you open the package, right

He’s like, “Why don’t you try it on?”

You explain why before pointing to the drawer at the bottom of your dresser before tugging it open and wow! So many damn skirts lmao, majority were given to you by some of the girls you know that say they didn’t wanna throw them away but weren’t wearing them anymore so it’s your responsibility now 😁🥰

He asks if he can grab one, you shrug in confusion and he takes one. Five minutes later, explain to me why you’re both standing infront of your body mirror, both bare legged but twisting around in the skirts. You both don’t look bad 😌 Like Nick would say, you look absolutely divine.

In conclusion, he loves when you dress up and is absolutely starstruck by the different attires you wear but he’s faaaar from giving up on your usual style. He cheers you on when you go out of your comfort zone – or even if it is in your comfort zone and you just don’t want to wear such things frequently, he’s still cheering you on!

He admires the way you’re very precise with your makeup, he admires how you style your hair and he carries the days you decorate your strands with different accessories (like flowers or clips etc) deep within his heart and don’t even get him started on your outfits. Even when you’re not dolled up he always thought your sense of style was really nice and even asks you often to help buy some more clothes for him or help pick out things to wear, aha.

I’m sure we all expected it but no matter what you look like he thinks you’re absolutely talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, beautiful, gorgeous, charming, admirable, stunni-

cOUGH. anyways

[alltimefail]

Happy Day 6 of Cast Appreciation Week to Lukas Gage, Joshua Colley, and Gabriel Drake!

I am once again fashionably late lol, but we're still pushing forward! None of these guys are on Tumblr (to our knowledge haha), but I’m singing their praises everywhere today!

Our perfect Cat King, Monty, and Simon… we love you boys so much! 💜💀🔎

Transcript of my letters below the cut!

LETTER 1:

Happy Cast Appreciation Week! October 25, 2024

Dearest Lukas,

You poofed on screen in your little throne and I yelled at my TV, “YESSS BITCH!” very loudly. That sentiment toward The Cat King pretty much persisted every time you appeared, just so you know!

You are an enthralling, incredible actor. Your gestures, your delivery, your expressions, the way you played off of George’s Edwin so, so well... it was simply genius. I would believe you were half-cat if you told us that in earnest because The Cat King’s mannerisms were spot on. You masterfully walked the fine line of a character that’s as incredibly charming and alluring as he is wicked and dangerous, which is no easy feat. Some of the most divine characters in fantasy are the “Chaotic Neutrals,” the tricksters, the ones who do what they want, when they want, and will go to any lengths as a means to achieve their ends because the audience never knows which version of them they’ll get next. I felt like every time we saw you on screen, we learned something new about your character, no matter how brief the time was.

I never wanted Edwin with The Cat King, yet I found their chemistry to be electric. I could not imagine anyone else playing the role, and I don’t know if I’ll ever view a “Shifter” entity with the same kind of delight I view The Cat King, and I know that’s largely due to your unbelievable performance.

You are our Cat King, always and forever, and we will all be here to support you (and fight for you) in all your current and future endeavors.

All my love, Veronica “V” @ atfsims1

——————————————————

LETTER 2:

Happy Cast Appreciation Week! October 25, 2024

Dearest Joshua,

When an actor can take a character I would normally not love and somehow charm the heck out of me, that’s when I’m really impressed... and you did that with Monty!

You radiate such a fun, warm, inviting energy; that part of you found its way into Monty and, somehow, into my heart. I joke that I’m a Charles-adjacent spirit, so much like Charles I was averse to Monty at first, but I was shocked to find myself starting to see him as a little possible extension of the group and hoping he would stick around and shake Esther’s influence! I blame you, really, (a compliment, lol) because you’re so darn talented and you made Monty glow on screen. He was complex and naiv, innocent and whimsical, and you captured his essence and “Born Yesterday” sparkling outlook on the world with expertise.

I didn’t even want him and Edwin together and I pouted, full-on pouted, and said, “Awww, poor Monty... we’ve all been there babe” when Edwin told him he didn’t reciprocate his feelings! I can’t say enough about how impressed I was with you, truly. Monty is a quintessential part of the narrative in my opinion, and I could not imagine anyone else playing him.

You are our Monty, always and forever, and we will all be here to support you (and fight for you) in all your current and future endeavors.

All my love, Veronica “V” @ atfsims1

——————————————————

LETTER 3:

Happy Cast Appreciation Week! October 25, 2024

Dearest Gabriel,

First off, you played your role so well that Simon, despite his flaws, became one of the characters that fascinated me the most. Seriously!

I wanted to see more of him, to see more of his and Edwin’s past dynamic, and to understand how he got to the point he did in life. When I’m watching the show back, I can’t help but wonder if Edwin might have told Charles about Simon, or about their brief passing in Hell, and what Charles would have thought about their conversation. While Simon’s actions angered me and were objectively abhorrent, I still felt immense sympathy for him, and during his scene with Edwin in Hell, I wept for them both. I was moved by your portrayal of his complexities, and although our time with you was brief, it made a lasting impact.

The scene you and George had together in Hell is perhaps one of the most provocative conversations between two canon queer characters on screen. When I think of the impact Dead Boy Detectives has had on the LGBTQ+ community, your scene is one of the first ones I think about, and Simon’s self-hatred is a tragedy all too common amongst our own. Seeing it play out was heartbreaking, but necessary. You did a phenomenal job.

You are our Simon, always and forever, and we will all be here to support you (and fight for you) in all your current and future endeavors.

All my love, Veronica “V” @ atfsims1

[syaolaurant]

hello friend!! are there any minor characters violette is friends with? 😙😙💜

Yo friend 😙😙!!!

Violette has good relationships with most Hufflepuffs. Poppy is her girl bestie. They're both socially awkward and chaotic and greatly care for magical creatures. I also think they share the same dorm room. If anything Violette can't talk to the boys she will share to Poppy but gradually she realizes Poppy is not so good at giving relationship advice, especially when it comes to romance cuz Poppy is just as clueless as her ha..ha.. So Violette has to find another advisor ...

... and that another advisor is Adelaide Oakes 🤣 She's also her roommate and they both enjoy Divination class. Adelaide became Violette's good friend after Violette rescued her uncle from Ranrok's loyalists.

Sacharissa Tugwood is another Hufflepuff Violette has a good relationship with, despite their different personalities. Sacharissa spends too much time on her appearance while that is the last thing Violette cares about (gurl is so busy petting cats fighting goblins and dealing with all Sebastian's bullshits..). But Sacharissa also cares for her housemate's wellbeing so every time Violette comes back with messy hair or scratched face she always lends Violette some of her beauty products.

Imelda is the "tough-looking friend who seems mean but actually nice". After Violette beat her on the broom racing courses (which Violette still doesnt know how she could do that) she began to treat the Violette respectfully. Imelda is, alongside with Ominis, awares of Violette's crush on Sebastian as clear as day. She also doesn't see Violette as her potential quidditch rival since Violette is too introvert to become a quidditch player (and she's right). (Violette secretly ships Imelda and Poppy just so you know 😉...)

[quills-oc-blog]

grottoport tumblr be like ( @fake-post-archive )

🔥robotsarecool

why do they call it a D: drive?

🔥robotsarecool

because you see how much space is left and you go "D:"!

😈theexecutivee

that's so funny darling! when was the last time you slept?

🔥 robotsarecool

im CREATING my love <3

🥀torturedsoul

i hate this fucking family

🥀 torturedsoul

guys how do i ask out a girl without killing her. asking for a friend

🐶 thesugarrrrr

🤨📸

🥀 torturedsoul

shut the fUCKUP

🪽 greenhairandpronouns

whoever the anon is that keeps calling me the chosen one. what does that mean

🪽 greenhairandpronouns

divine intervention

🐟 kami-means-god

@humanityspatrondeity ZOSAL LETS GO GET CREPES AGAIN HUMANS ASR AWESOME

⚡ humanityspatrondeity

kami where the fuck are you

🐟 kami-means-god

ocean :)

🕊️ wheelofrebirth

CAN YOU TWO COME BACK TO HEAVEN RETTE IS TRYING TO BITE PEOPLE AGAIN

⚡ humanityspatrondeity

L

🐟 kami-means-god

L

💜 boykisser

gee i sure hope my family doesn't find my tumblr account dedicated to kissing boys ;)

🩷 thepinkone

🤨

❤️ theredone

🤨

💙 theblueone

🤨

💛 theblueone

🤨

💜 boykisser

what the FUCK

🐯 dommedykke

guy who only lifts weights: trainsgender...? yeah, i train... heh...

🪽 greenhairandpronouns

cas stop vauging your brother

🐯 dommedykke

GET OFF MY POST OLIVIA

🏋️‍♂️ gymbrosofficial

something just happened

❄️ girlbosswilliamafton

:)

😈 theexecutivee

hey what the fuck

[senditcolton]

You had to know this was coming. Cause. Duh.

Tyson and Maddie. Anything your heart desires here that you feel like sharing. Preferably not sad.

xx 🫶🏻💜

Hope It Never Ends

a/n: I love you 💜 anon for always reminding me how much I love these two. This is a little flashback moment to Tys and Maddie's past, back when they were teenagers in Kelowna. Back when things were simple but perhaps the beginning of something more...

Word Count: 2k Warnings: none that I can think of!

Sacred: (adjective) regarded with reverence. Synonyms include cherished, divine, revered.

There weren’t a lot of things that Madeleine Murphy considered powerful and important enough to consider sacred – except one tradition.

Summer evenings when Tyson and she would climb out of her bedroom window onto the roof, sitting on an old blanket, playing twenty-questions, and staring at the sunset.

Even though Madeleine always prided herself on her wordplay (she wanted to be a librarian after all), perhaps tradition wasn’t the correct term. There was never a specific time or date that this ritual happened. It was just something that they had been doing since they were 13, shortly after they met and realized that they were bound to be more than just schoolmates.

Madeleine showed him her discovery of how to remove the window screen, allowing her roof access the summer after they first met. Looking back, she did it because she wanted Tyson to think she was cool – what better way to get an adolescent boy’s attention than by doing something that you probably shouldn’t be doing? It worked and soon that was their go-to spot whenever they hung out.

The twenty-questions, however, was Tyson’s idea. It was a way to get to know each other but as a game instead of an interrogation. At first, all the questions were surface level: what’s your favorite color, what’s the best holiday, what’s the coolest thing you own? But eventually, both the location and the questions became deeper and more meaningful as time went on.

The roof of Madeleine’s childhood home became an oasis, somewhere they could sit and be alone and share without the pressure of parents or friends or teachers or coaches listening and potentially influencing their answers. It was a place of trust and truth.

Those moments with him became sacred to Maddie.

And this one, right now, she might soon consider to be the most sacred of them all. Because Tyson was leaving.

It wasn’t for another year, something she kept reminding herself when that fact popped into her head and took all sense of calm from her. He had committed to playing hockey in North Dakota starting in the 2016-17 season. This was still the summer of 2015. Tyson would stay here in the small town they shared together for another twelve months. Madeleine would still be able to sit with him on the roof for maybe another summer.

But there was an ache in her heart that told her this might be last.

“Oh, I got one,” Tyson’s voice dances on the summer breeze, pulling Maddie from her thoughts and back to the present moment, something she should’ve been focusing on anyway. “What’s the weirdest dream you’ve ever had?”

It’s almost immediate, the image that pops in her mind and she can’t stop the laugh and shake of her head as she considers telling him the answer.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she sighs, her blue eyes bright as she looks over to him.

“I already think you’re crazy so what’s a little more weirdness?” Tyson gently teases, his easy joy relaxing her like it always did.

“Okay, fine,” she sighs, in part defeat and part disbelief that she was going to tell him this. “When I was six, I had a nightmare that I was being chased through the city streets by a giant wheel of cheese.”

“A wheel of cheese? Like a monster that looked like a wheel of cheese?”

“Nope, just a regular wheel of cheese that you’d see in a grocery store. And the way I escaped this wheel of cheese was by standing right where a triangle slice of it was cut out of it, so when it rolled over me, I was completely unharmed.”

If Tyson was keeping a serious poker face before, it crumbled at Madeleine’s explanation, his sputtering laughter making her cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“Wow, Maddie, that’s really terrifying.”

“I was six, okay!” she rebuts, her outrage ringing false as her own laughter paints the words. “And I think being chased is a very reasonable nightmare to have.”

“Yeah, but once you throw cheese into that situation, you’ve lost me completely.”

“You asked for weirdest dream not most realistic. What about you, Jost?”

“I don’t remember any of my dreams,” Tyson quips, that stupidly cocky smirk appearing on his face making Maddie scoff.

“What a cop out. Here I am, bearing my soul to you and you hit me with an I don’t know,” Madeleine says, her voice ladened with exaggeration.

“I can at least tell you that last summer, my mom tried to wake me up to go to the store with her or something and I said in my sleep – and I quote – but I don’t want to put up the Christmas lights,” Tyson replies, his own voice going into the grumbling whine as he relays his sleep-talking.

There is no stopping the laughter that falls from Maddie, the image perfectly clear to her as she had heard him mumble in his sleep multiple times during their previous sleepovers. Tyson just laughs with her before continuing.

“Like, it’s the middle of summer, Christmas is far away, I think you’re safe, bud.”

“You said no to your mom though? Impressive.”

“I didn’t say no, I just said I didn’t want to do it. There’s a difference, Maddie.”

Madeleine just hums a yeah sure sound, staring back out at the sun slowly sinking down, turning the skies a beautiful cotton candy pink.

These were the moments that Maddie would cherish forever; she thinks. No matter what happened, she would remember the evenings spent on her roof, her and her best friend’s laughter dancing and mingling in the air. But the knowledge of the possible ending hits her again, like a tidal wave crashing on her.

She would remember this forever but part of her didn’t want it to become just a memory. She wanted to be doing this with Tyson when they were in their twenties, in their thirties, up till the point that they couldn’t climb out of her bedroom window. The idea of a time without Tyson by her side was terrifying.

“What scares you most about the future?” she asks, her own racing thoughts forcing the question out of her mouth before she could stop to think it over.

Her blue eyes flit over to Tyson, the weight of her question fully registering, the smile disappearing from his mouth as his own gaze moves to look at the sunset. She can practically see the wheels turning in his head, can see him chewing over the possible answers that he could give her. Madeleine just keeps her attention on him, watching as Tyson’s shoulders raise in a sigh, his legs bending as he pulls his knees to his chest. Her heart tries not to ache at the sight of him looking so much like a little kid.

“I’m scared that I’m not going to be good enough,” he whispers.

Maddie can feel the honesty in his words and the genuine fear behind them. She doesn’t speak, just lets the silence linger, letting Tyson make the next decision; whether to deflect the question back to her or to elaborate. He chooses the latter.

“I feel like I’ve given so much of my life to this dream of playing hockey and I want it so badly but what if I never get there.”

“To the NHL?”

“Yeah, or what if I do but at some point, people decide they don’t want me anymore. I get traded or sent down to the minors or something else. I think that scares me more then never getting there. That there would be a moment, after all this hard work, where I’d have to accept that it’s not going to work out and I’ll have to give it all up.”

There isn’t really anything to say except false promises, promises that Madeleine knows she can’t keep. She couldn’t see the future, couldn’t tell Tyson that he would make it and that he wouldn’t have to give up playing hockey until he decided it was time. So, she just lets his words linger and keeps her eyes fixed on him, staring at his profile, memorizing the way his hair falls, the way he looks with his chin resting on his knees. It is a moment longer before Tyson sighs again, giving a small shake of his head, his body relaxing and stretching back out into its casual position before he looks back at her.

“Your turn.”

“I’m scared of things changing,” she answers immediately, the truth just tumbling from her lips like a waterfall. It’s her turn to sigh as she chews over her answer, her head slightly shaking at the ridiculousness of her fear before continuing.

“Like, I know change is a part of life and there is no use trying to resist is because things will change whether you want them to or not. But I like it here. Not just here in Kelowna, but here. This moment; hanging out with you, no curfew, no real responsibilities, no pressure. No worries about bills or relationships or jobs or school or any of that. I just want to keep a hold of these summer evenings forever. If I could repeat this moment every day for the rest of my life, I’d be content.”

Madeleine’s eyes turn to stare at the clouds now painted with the pastel hues of tangerine oranges and peach pink, the view just adding to the magic of this moment and just emphasizing how much of this was temporary.

“I just never want this to end,” she confesses, her words lingering in the evening stillness.

Tyson doesn’t speak immediately, just lets the silence fall, the only noise being the beginning chirps of the crickets. However, Maddie can feel his eyes trained on her face, seemingly memorizing the shape of her as she previously did to him.

“Well then, let’s promise each other something,” he finally speaks. The conviction in his voice causes Maddie’s gaze to turn to him, their eyes locking, and she is taken back by the seriousness reflecting in his pupils. “Let’s promise that no matter what happens, even if everything around us changes, we’ll still be there for each other. Okay?”

“Okay,” Madeleine whispers, her voice soft but the certainty behind her agreement strong.

The quiet peace washes over them again, their promise floating on the wind as they both lean back, looking out at the sunset, content to be together but lost in their own world, their own fears, their own minds. But it only lasts for a moment, the physical and mental space between them shattered as Madeleine feels the brush of a pinky against hers. She glances down to see Tyson’s finger reaching out to hers, caressing the side of her hand, a quiet coax. Her eyes dart back to his face but his gaze remains staring towards the sun. As if he was worried on how she’d react.

Madeleine assuages those concerns by linking her pinky with his, the childhood symbol of a promise never to break. A smile pulls at her lips when she sees Tyson sigh, his brown eyes looking towards her, a matching grin tugging at the corner of his lips. She doesn’t hesitate to lift their intertwined hands, her lips pressing against her own knuckles as a way to show she meant it, an action which Tyson mirrors. Their eyes lock and it takes every bit of Maddie’s willpower to stop her heart from leaping from her chest. Because the way Tyson is staring at her – with the gentle assurance and adoration – makes everything feel different.

This wasn’t the first pinky promise that they’ve made in the four years of knowing each other. But in this moment, they weren’t just a couple of kids making deals for the hell of it.

This meant more. It wasn’t something frivolous or flimsy – it was a vow, an oath, to the universe, to each other.

And it was theirs to keep. Forever.

[alexanderlightweight]

Wednesday writing -

I love your stuff sooooo much 😍 makes my week. Hopefully you're having a good one.

I would be happy with anything but I really want to see some wooing/surprised at how far the other is wing to go along with them! Like Magnus taking care of amnesia Alec, or magnus getting drawn in by Alec in the adoration vs. Heck even others being surprised by this too.

Honestly I'm just going to be happy with anywhere your muse goes but just give me some emotions! You're so good at it.

Hey! Thank you for the compliment and the well wishes! This week is doing much better than last thank you! I hope you’re having a good week!

I hope you enjoy this, it’s in all my fears forgotten

I hope these are enough emotions, let me know if you want more

💜 lumine

—

Magnus looks over the files that have been sent to him with a frown before he finally decides on his course of action.

Out of the half a dozen files that came through, only one is Magnus positive that Alexander would feel comfortable with.

It’s with an easy conscience that he signs over his consorts Institute to Mirai Lakecastle, Alexander’s second and someone competent and sure-headed enough to keep it together.

The clave will have no reason to argue and Mirai abides by the same code as Alec, it’s why Magnus picks her.

That and Alexander’s trust.

His faith and confidence in his second has grown since their first meeting and Magnus trusts Alexander’s instincts and his opinion.

It’s a lot of power to sign over, especially so quickly.

Magnus could do so much with the authority Alexander gave him but he doesn’t care. Magnus has a new and widely coveted political power and clout. It’s unthinkable that he would sign it over with so little hesitation or use. Yet Magnus wants nothing more than to concentrate on tending to his love who has changed so much and yet so little.

Alexander is truly no different than he was, only that he is how he was before the wounds of his past chiseled him into the man Magnus loves.

And yet he is also the man Magnus loves, the very foundation of him and Magnus finds that he adores him desperately.

Magnus cannot lose Alexander, as long as he is by his side then Magnus is happy to love him as he is, however he is.

Which means that there is no time to waste playing clave politics when Magnus can be introducing Alexander to a thousand things his boy had forgotten he once wanted. It’s a cursed blessing, to learn so many secrets that Alexander himself only remembered by forgetting so much.

Magnus opens a small portal, just enough to send his own response back to Alyssa. Then as soon as it’s confirmed to have been received, he snaps it closed and goes to find his boy.

Alexander is outside lying on his stomach, stretched out over thick green moss and dipping his fingers into the cold shallows of the nearby brook.

There are bright flashes of color as the fish dart around his touch and the rocks and Magnus laughs, heart lifting despite the weight of this morning.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, kneeling next to Alexander and pressing a palm to his shoulder.

“It’s cool and the suns bright,” Alexander sends him a faint smile before looking back at the water. “I don’t remember doing things like this before.”

Magnus doubts that he has and worse, they’ve hardly had time to even think of something as simple as a picnic where this could happen.

“Should we go boating?” He asks without a second thought and Alexander gives him a pleased smile and a nod. “Wonderful darling, I’ll set up a pavilion boat,” Magnus waves a hand as he speaks, “they run on magic, lovely. Absolutely divine and much better for the environment.”

In his delight, Magnus gets absorbed in his thoughts for a moment. It’s just a moment, but it’s long enough to miss the adoring and content smile that Alexander sends him.

Or that his eyes, while still confused, are deeply pooled with indulgent devotion.

[azrielgreen]

I am genuinely about to combust at the idea of reading your takes on mungrove, and as a “put billy in makeup” lover you have immediately intrigued me with that scene. ESPECIALLY knowing from your previous works (thinking specifically of black out days and you’re divine but definitely other pieces as well) how good you are at making tension feel both heavy and incredibly real? That slow burn and angst are going to make me cry in the best way possible.

I can’t wait for the day that happens, but until then? No pressure obviously, I just love your writing.

Out of further curiosity, what’s your favorite story you’ve ever written? I’ve read Touches, YD, Black out days, and small town boys so now I’m trying to decide what to read next!

Black Out Days was my favourite thing i ever wrote until Scorpio Skies, but i also really love 'Sea of Waking Dreams', 'In The Water, With You' and 'We Should Just Kiss' ✨️💜✨️

I can't wait to write the Mungrove fic, I think about it a lot, just this one so very charged scene 🥰💜✨️