#The world was fair; the mountains green | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vegan-peppermint · 5 months ago

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Frost and Flour

Pairing: Krampus!konigx reader

Cw: size kink, power play, slight cnc, breeding;

Inspired by this post.

Summery: in your village, men would dress as monsters on Christmas stealing women and children and run around the town. Your krampus had other ideas.

Did not proof read, I saw this post yesterday and tried to speed run this fic for it to be ready before Christmas. Might be bad and rushed. Will edit after new years.

Word count: 4k

The snow fell thick and soft, blanketing the jagged peaks of the mountains like a heavy quilt. The air was sharp and bracing, scented faintly with pine and the smoky warmth of wood-burning stoves. This was the village of your childhood Christmases, a place where the world seemed smaller, quieter, and steeped in old traditions. Nestled deep in the heart of the mountains, it felt like a hidden pocket of time where the modern world dared not intrude.

Traditions are the heart of the holidays, the thread that weaves magic into the season and shapes the way people celebrate. In every corner of the world, they bring warmth and wonder: streets lit up with strands of melted honey, the soft glow of advent candles peaking through the frosty windows and the -oh too comforting- aroma of cookies baking in old family kitchens.

But this village had its own unique tradition, one that set it apart from the glittering cities and quaint holiday fairs elsewhere. Here, Christmas wasn't just about warmth and cheer, it carried a shadow, a reverence for the old ways—

both enchanting and a little haunting.

When winter arrived and snow blanketed the wooden rooftops, the young people who had left for the city always hurried back to their childhood homes. So did you. This year, you came earlier than most, arriving in November to help at your family’s bakery. The holiday season brought plenty of special orders, far too much for your grandmother’s old hands to handle alone.

As your hands kneaded the cookie dough behind the counter, your mind was heavy with thoughts and debates. The life you’d built back in the States wasn’t bad—a steady job, a cozy apartment near the city center—but as the warmth of this small, close-knit community enveloped you, a cold stone pressed heavily in your chest. Before sinking any deeper, the bell on the door jingled.

"Hello! Welcome to Frost and Flour, how can I help you today?" you greeted with a cheerful smile.

The man—who, no doubt, had to bow his head to fit through the doorframe—returned the smile, his lips barely visible beneath a fluffy green wool scarf.

"Hallo," his voice came out muffled, the words soft behind the thick fabric. Snowflakes clung to his blonde hair, drifting down like sugar crystals. He shook his head with a swift motion, trying to flick them off, and the gesture reminded you of a puppy entering your shop on a snowy day.

You recognized him, yet you couldn't really match the face to the name. He was the son of the lovely, old woman living on your street, Frau Lieder. Unlike her son, who resembled the mountains that surrounded your village rather than a man, Frau Lieder was as delicate as a breeze, tiny as an ant. Even though she was always quiet and humble, she'd always sit upright and proud when talking about her son, the colonel.

"It's not too late to place an order, no?" He spoke, taking his scarf off revealing his red, frozen cheeks.

"No, not at all. Come in, come in!" You encouraged quickly running to the tap to wash your hands off. "It's really freezing outside! Would you like anything warm to drink? Coffee, or tea?"

He shook his head in refusal, but the way his frozen eyelashes trembled seemed to tell a different story. "How about a coffee? I made too much for myself already," you patted your hands dry on the apron.

The man opened his mouth to protest, but you didn’t give him a chance. Gently guiding him to an empty table, you set down the coffee before him and sat down beside him, placing your own cup next to his to ease the tension. He didn’t seem eager to speak, so you attempted to fill the silence, though your words came out a little more forced than usual.

"You came a long way, didn't you? You look like a snowman," you remarked, trying to break the ice.

He only hummed in response, a soft sound, and you hesitated for a moment before pressing on. "Want sugar in your coffee?"

"It's fine like this, thank you," he said, his voice calm but distant.

An awkward silence settled between you both, thick and uncomfortable. He looked tired so you decided to give up. Not everyone wants to chit-chat, you understood that.

"So, what do you want to order?" You got right to the point.

"Oh, Ja... I need two Stollen," he replied.

"Yeah, we can definitely do that," you said, quickly moving into a list of other things you could offer. You kept talking, listing the flavors and sweet treats, drifting in how they were made and why you made them the best. He seemed taken aback by your sudden burst, but after a while, you saw him relax. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs comfortably, and took another sip of his coffee, the steam rising around him like a cloud. His icy blue eyes didn’t leave you as you talked, causing your words to spill faster. They were fixed on you with a piercing intensity, scanning your every expression.

"So I think you should really add the chocolate cookies- we also make them vegan if that's the case-"

"That sounds good," he finally said, agreeing to the order. You jotted it down quickly.

"Great choice, I'll throw in some samples of the others as well!" You grinned, excited for people to try your new recipes.

The cups were filled with coffee still. You lingered as much as you could, writing as to avert his eyes. What's up with people with blue eyes and staring like that? You could still feel his gaze on you as you re-read the same 5 items for the thousandth time.

You shifted in your seat, unsure of what to do with yourself. He seemed to notice, and you caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful tease.

You swallowed, trying to regain your composure. "No, just... not used to quiet customers," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He hummed, just as you were accustomed. You stood up quickly, feeling the need to escape the weight of the silence, and found something to occupy yourself behind the counter, fiddling with a few stray utensils. The soft clink of ceramic was the only sound until, after a moment, he spoke. "You going to the Christmas fest tonight?" His voice was low, almost secretive.

"Yeah, so excited," you replied with a laugh, grateful for the change in topic. "It’s the reason I came all this way!"

"Me too," he said solemnly, and something familiar downed on you. That’s when it hit you. "You're the one dressing as Krampus, aren't you?" you exclaimed, a bit too eagerly.

The surprise on his face was brief, quickly replaced by an expression that matched your own newfound curiosity. "I—I remember you," you added, turning to face him, a rush of memories flooding back. "Last year, I brought my younger sister too—you stole her and lifted her up in the air—swinging her around. She loved it so much."

"Ah, seems like I did a shit job—kids are supposed to be afraid of me," he chuckled.

You thought about the scary outfit he'll wear tonight, the furs that will coat his big back doubling him in size. How he'll run around, stalking and shouting- you couldn't help but hope he will be chasing you as well.

"Being punished by Krampus sounds pretty good, to be honest—"

You caught yourself too late, the words already hanging awkwardly between you. Maybe if you played dead, he’d just walk away, pretend nothing happened. You refused to acknowledge what you’d said, refusing to even glance at him. Faking a heart attack or any kind of medical emergency sounded plausible—anything to escape the tension creeping up your spine. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable.

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

A Christmas miracle happened right in that moment as an elderly customer entered the shop.

"Welcome to Frost and Flour! How can I help you?" You beamed without skipping a beat, grateful you didn't have to start choking or throw yourself on the floor.

As you listened to the customer and answered his questions, you felt a heavy set of eyes pressing down on your frame. You didn't look at him again, tried really hard not to. He finished his coffee, got up, and left without saying a word. At the last possible moment, the second between the door hitting the frame, his eyes met yours for one last time. And as the door shut with a loud thud, leaving a sudden silence in its wake, you realized you hadn't asked for his name. You looked down at the empty line left at the bottom of his order and wrote:

Krampus.

The sun set down, the sky turned from blue to orange and back to blue again. You had met with some friends at the small Christmas market, wandering around the little wooden shops that lined the square. Laughter and chatter filled the chilly air as you and your friends picked up festive Christmas toys, nibbled on gingerbread, and sipped warm drinks. The air was alive with the sound of the Christmas choir, their voices drifting through the market and adding a touch of magic to the evening.

As time passed and the night grew darker, the atmosphere shifted. The carolers’ songs faded and adults began to gather around the tables, glasses in hand. It wasn’t long before Krampuses started appearing, stalking through the crowd. The sound of children screaming and running to their parents echoed through the square, while some men pretended to be brave, stepping forward to protect their girlfriends. You couldn’t help but laugh as some of your friends found themselves the prey of a particularly mischievous Krampus, who chased them with exaggerated growls, making the whole scene feel like a playful dance between fear and festivity.

"What's wrong?" Your friend asked through laughter. "Come on, why they long face?"

You suddenly became aware of your thoughtful expression and quickly excused yourself. You had been thinking about your Krampus- both embarrassed and hopeful to see him again. "You better cheer up soon, or the krampus will get you!" Another friend teased.

The air was suddenly filled with the deep, resonant thud of drums, each beat like a heartbeat pounding through the square. A group of men pushed their way through the crowd, their rhythmic movements sharp and precise, their boots striking the cobblestones with deliberate thuds. Their dance was primal and hypnotic, an echo of something ancient and untamed. Behind them, two towering Krampuses loomed, their enormous cowbells clanging with a deafening ring that sent shivers through the crowd. Draped in heavy, fur-lined cloaks that swayed with each step, their grotesque masks twisted into demonic faces that seemed to leer at anyone who dared to meet their gaze. The crowd recoiled instinctively, a ripple of nervous laughter and gasps breaking the tension as the Krampuses stalked forward, commanding both fear and awe.

The main drummer, the same one who had parted the crowd in two, struck his drum with a horrendous bang that swallowed all other noise. In unison, the crowd fell silent, their collective breath caught in their chests. Yet, despite the stillness, a distant rhythm lingered in the air—a pulsing thrum that echoed: the rapid, heavy pounding of every heart present.

Thud!

The crowed took a step back in anticipation as the Krampuses looked around hungrily.

Thud! Thud!

The beats served as a count down, a warning and threat before the krampuses will be set free. You were too mesmerized by the show that you haven't realized you were being watched.

Thud! Thud! THUD!

That's when you noticed the taller monster staying still, focusing on you. Shivers creeped unbidden down your spine, cold and sharp, leaving goosebumps as they passed. Your stomach plummeted, a hollow, twisting ache of dread settling deep within you, even before your gaze met his. You didn’t need to see his eyes to recognize it was him—undeniably, inescapably him.

The rhythmic pounding of the drums grew faster, more frantic, but the meaning escaped you, lost in the haze of your thoughts. Blurred figures rushed past, their panicked shouts blending into something you barely registered. Shoulders slammed into you, hands shoved, voices screamed, everything—the chaos, the fear, the blinding motion—blurred and faded, except for that mask. That awful, looming mask. Its hollow gaze pinned you in place, your focus narrowing until it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Then, like the sharp crack of a pin dropping onto glass, the veil lifted. The muffled roars of the crowd became deafening, the banging and fireworks thundered in your ears, and the swell of scared people pressed against you, pulling you back into reality.

Run.

The word tore through your mind, an instinct louder than the drums, louder than the crazy fantasies you had. Run. You have to run.

The adrenaline hit you in full force, blood pumping hot through your veins as your feet pounded against the uneven ground. The small, twisted streets were making it harder for you, but you didn’t dare look back—you didn’t need to. You knew he was there. You could feel it, like a cold breath on the back of your neck.

You knew in the moment you broke eye contact, the second your body shifted to flee, he was already moving. His feet swept through the mud, closing the distance with the precision of a predator. He wasn’t chasing—you realized, with a spike of fear—he was hunting.

Exhaustion hit you hard, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your legs felt like lead, slowing to a near halt. Your body begged for rest, and you made the mistake of glancing over your shoulder. The street was empty—silent. No sign of him, nothing but the faint echo of your own heavy breathing. As you huffed in relief, grateful for the brief moment of peace, a hand clamped down on your waist, and another shot up to cover your mouth, muffling the scream you let out instinctively.

It all happened so fast, the way he grabbed you and spun you on his shoulder as if you weighted nothing. He ran away with you through the crowds, some people cheered and others ran away in fear of being the next victim. He ran past the crowds, past the houses and the gardens. The snow was getting higher and the lights were getting dimmer as the two of you strayed further from the towns fest.

No matter how much you screamed or how many questions you'd ask, he'd remain silent, eyes straight ahead not minding you at all.

"Please, stop! Put me down!" you begged for what felt like the hundredth time.

This time, he paused. With a grunt, he hurled you onto the snow-covered ground, your body colliding with the icy surface.

"You make so much noise," he growled, his voice low and rough. "I wonder how much louder you can get."

You stumbled onto your feet but the slippery ground betrayed you as you slipped again. Above you, the massive figure loomed, his imposing horns casting jagged shadows across the snow.

Your eyes were getting watery and your lip began to tremble. You were scared- your heart thumping and body trembling, that was fear. But the excitement that grew in your stomach and the urge to rub your legs against each other were something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered as a last plea, curling up as to make yourself as small as possible.

"Don't play dumb with me, little one. You deserve to be punished, you'll take what I'll give you and say thank you," he said.

Your eyes moved frantically from his mask to his muddy boots, then up his legs to the hard erection visible through his black pants before meeting the black holes where eyes were supposed to be.

"Please," you cried out doe eyed not sure what you were begging for.

The beast fell to his knees with a heavy sound making you flinch. You tried to push yourself further, but his strong hand grabbed at your ankle harshly. He dragged you by the foot, your skirt rising up as your ass slided on the cold snow. He let go of your leg, hand moving to your inner knee, slowly dragging his nails up your thigh.

"So sensitive," he coes when your skin reacts so eagerly to his touch. You instinctively grabbed at his hand which hovered above your panties. He paused his movement, seemingly amused at your attempt. "Go on," he leaned closer, covering your body with his own, the mask mere inches from your face. "Fight back," he breathed out a threat. "Try and fight me off, little lamb."

His hand slapped your clothed pussy, the weak attempt at a stopping him completly ignored. You let out a loud moan at the sudden feeling of pain.

His calloused hand started rubbing up and down the thin fabric. The daunting realization of how wet being hunted down like pray made you hit you as the panties became drenched.

"Aren't you ashamed?" He teased, fiddling with the zipper of his pants, tugging them just enough to free his large cock. "Being violated gets you this wet, Schatz?"

You whimper and squirm trying to get away from his touch, thriwing your hands at him- scratching and grabbing at his horns and neck.

Pathetic. That’s the only word for it. You know you’re not trying to escape or fight back. No, you’re just edging him on, hoping he'll snap and take out all his built up anger on you.

He easily grabs your wrists in one rapid motion. No matter how much you'd try, pulling with your whole body and then some, his grip would effortlessly stay the same.

"I'm going to fuck you," he announced pinning your hands above your head with one hand. "You will cry and scream and plead- and you will swallow every inch I give you."

He pulled your panties to the side placing his angry tip at the entrance. In the dead of night, under the midnight sky the lewd, wet sound of his dick spreading your juices was so loud.

No waiting, he pushed himself inside your throbbing cunt splitting you open.

"F-Fuck," you plead. "T-Too big, 's too big!" Your gummy walls stretch around his girth, causing your to choke in pain. The resistance slowly fades away as your cunt leaks more with every shallow thrust as he fills you up in ways you've never thought were possible.

"You can take it," he hissed, allowing you to adjust to his size. His cock was throbbing inside of you, pulsating eagerly. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me? I'm so hard for you, Schatz. Don't you wanna make me feel good?"

"Agh~," you cry out as you feel more of his size slipping inside your wet cunt. He let's go of his tight grip bringing one of your hands down to your stomach. His hand on top of yours as he's bullying his cock inside you. You feel him moving, the buldge in your stomach rising and lowering in sync with his thrusts. He growled loudly as you spammed around his dick so soon, moaning loudly and rolling your eyes in the back of your head, finally allowing him complete access as you cum on his fat cock.

"You're the tightest cunt I've fucked in a long time," he said bringing his hands on your hips angling you slightly better. His balls were hanging on your ass and his tip was pushing twords your womb.

If you could think straight, you'd be embarrassed of cumming just from being filled, of the moans and gasps you made with every inch he gave you. But the warmth of the village is distant and the ground behind your back is freezing, you need him- his warmth- to keep the cold from swallowing you whole.

Through teary eyes, you look at him. The faint light spilling from the village clings to his mask and coat, tracing his silhouette in an otherworldly glow, as if he were carved from shadow and firelight. He is no longer just a man draped in beast's clothes;

And yet, his gaze lingers on you, heavy and unreadable, somewhere between a silent threat or solemn apology.

It started slowly, dragging his member out then pushing it back in with slightly more forced than before. Your whole body was pressed deeper into the ground, head bobbling to his increasing rhythm.

One if his hands reached up to your chest, cupping one of your breast through the cotton material of your dress, the other digging into the side of your hip. He found your hardend nipple with ease, rubbing it between his fingers. He'd pinch and drag them only to see them bounce more viciously.

"Shush," he'd scold through heavy breaths. "If you keep moaning like that people will hear you. They'll see you spread wide getting your pussy stuffed, is that what you want?"

When his words were only getting you more riled up, he'd let go of your hips moving it to your loud mouth. He fell onto of you, his heavy body crushing your smaller frame, one hand desperately pulling at your tits while the other pressing hard on your mouth. He pounded into you like a man starved, abusing your needy hole.

You looked so pretty right now, your Krampus thought behind his mask. Your face was flushed, your eyelashes sticking together from tears. Strands of hair, damp from the snow melting behind you, clung to your face, yet your eyes were hazed with pleasure. He got you like this, so pathetic and cock drunk. You tried to say something but your words were muffled.

"Shut up, just a little- a little longer longer-," he sounded desperate, a change in his steady demeanor. "You'll take all I give you, every last drop of cum- Fuck- I'll pump you full of cum, you horny bitch," he groand against your neck, thrusting into you deeper than before.

He fucked you through his orgasm, cock twitching and slaming hot cum inside your cunt, a white ring foaming where your body met.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his dick barelling into you making sure you won't spill a drop of this gift he had given you.

Your legs were shaking around him, hands dirty and tired from clawing at the ground. His chest rumbled against your own.

After he pulled out, he shoved his fingers in its place- pushing his cum deep into you. You'd lick them clean afterwards, after he pulled you back on your feet. Your eyes tried to find his behind the devil mask, as his fingers explored your mouth.

You didn't.

The night didn’t feel as cold as before, the stars no longer just wishes in the sky, but silent witnesses to everything that had unfolded. You didn’t dare move, or speak—not before he would at least. You tensed, waiting for words that never came, as he grabbed you with an eerie calm, lifting you once more, just as he had in the beginning

#konig mw2 #konig x you #konig call of duty #konig cod #konig x reader #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #ghost cod #ghost #Krampus #krampus!konig #krampus x reader #winter special #smut #christmas #christmas fic #yandere konig

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sturncrazy · 1 year ago

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CABINFEVER:

Matt Sturniolo x y/n (fem)

(anyone else green)

warnings: SMUT!! nsfw 18+ (loss of virginity, unprotected + no pull out…assume ur on birth control)

authors note: love a little sweet smut matt moment 🫶 also imagine the world wasn’t falling apart and there was still snow 🤪 HOPE U GUYS LIKE THIS ONE!!

summary: you and a group of your friends rent an airbnb cabin up in the mountains for a winter get away, but it’s short on beds. You settle for a bench and Matt takes the couch next to you, but things heat up when you get cold…

word count: 2,915 W

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“HOLY FUCK! it’s FREEZING out” yelled Nick slamming the door behind him. He was the last one inside the cabin and join the rest of you in stomping the snow off your shoes and hanging up various layers of winter-wear. You and a group of 7 of your friends decided to rent an airbnb up in the mountains in New Hampshire for a week to have a cozy vacation. You planned to sled, go on winter walks, make cookies and cozy drinks, play games, and just enjoy being together away from the rest of the world. The only problem was not all of you going had a budget like the triplets, Larray, and Madi. even though they offered to cover for the rest of you, it didn’t seem fair. so you settled on a slightly more quaint cabin instead of a big mansion. the catch was that there were only three bedrooms. You were always easy going and determined that everyone else be happy, so you had made peace with the fact that you’d probably end up on a couch long ago.

“so who’s gonna be living room buddies with me, huh?” you questioned.

“guess that would be me” said Matt, with a sheepish smile.

No surprise, really. Matt was an angel to everyone, so of course he’d be the first to say he’d take the undesirable sleeping spot. you grinned back at him, maybe a little too much. You’d been close to the triplets since you were kids, but Matt had always been your favorite. You related to his quieter side and always had a soft spot for him. A soft spot that went deeper than you wanted to admit in the last few years. Matt was always good looking, but lately something felt different…even though you’d never tell him that.

“i can live with that” you attempted to joke. The living room was beautiful, but large and drafty. there were a few armchairs, but only one oversized couch. next to it was a big window that had a little nook fitted with pillows.

“you take the couch, yn” Matt said, gesturing with his head.

“wha—no way. then where will you sleep?”

“I dunno i’ll figure it out don’t worry bout it. I’ll grab a beanbag or make a pile on the floor” he said blowing you off

“Nuh-uh. no way. you take the couch, i’ll sleep on that window thing”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah a hundred percent”

“Mmmm okay, but if you wanna switch at any point just tell me okay seriously” the genuine concern in his wide blue eyes made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. truth be told, you really didn’t mind this set up because you’d be sleeping just a few feet away from him.

“Deal” you smiled back at him.

The group of you had a perfect evening. it was like something out of a hallmark movie, but by 2am everyone was going to sleep. Matt showered upstairs, which gave you time to get ready for bed and throw on your lame excuse for sleepwear—an oversized tshirt that hung to just above your knees. you’d never wished you’d overpacked and brought shorts more. you tried to cover up your exposed skin with blankets as you heard creaking from the steps. Matt trotted down in flannel pants and a black tank, hair still damp and clinging to his face from the shower. seeing him like that made your throat grow dry.

“Y’tired?” Matt asked, arranging his pillows on the couch so that his head would be by yours, your bodies creating a right angle on their separate resting spots.

“eh, not really. you?”

“nah, not so much. bit of a night owl lately, i guess.” he said, sitting down and beginning to rummage through his bag. you laughed.

“name a time in your life you’ve ever been a morning person?” you teased

“hey shhh i could be if i tried.” he shook his bag vigorously

“shit. think i forgot my phone charger”

“oh i have one, you can use it” you said hopping up to grab your stuff. you strode across the room towards your suitcase without thinking, but suddenly felt heat on the back of your neck like you were being watched. you glanced back at Matt and just barely caught him staring at your bare legs before he quickly looked away. you’d completely forgotten about your choice of outfit and felt embarrassment flush your cheeks.

“here y’go” you said shoving the wires in his direction, avoiding his eyes.

“uh thanks” he said, with equal avoidance. you reached to turn off the last light in the room in hopes that would drown out the awkwardness. Before you knew it the two of you were laughing and chatting away in the strained moonlight leaking in from the window. This went on for about 20 minutes before the chill coming from outside started to get to you. your teeth chattered slightly. mid sentence, Matt halted.

“what’s wrong?”

“oh nothing, just a little breezy here, it’s fine”

“what? you can’t sleep there then! you’ll get sick!” his protective nature was borderline heart melting.

“Matt c’mon. I’m not that weak, i’ll be fine. I’m not making you sleep here”

“Then share the couch with me at least”

his offer caught you off guard and you paused for a second, processing before answering.

“you sure?” you asked, unsteadily. another small moment of silence. was he regretting what he’d offered?

“yeah, of course” You detected a small crack in his voice.

“I don’t wanna crowd you—“ he cut you off

“y/n it’s fine seriously, just c’mhere. it’s just me, don’t be weird.” he answered, sounding almost more like he was trying to convince himself than you. you crept over to the couch. Matt was on his side, already holding his blanket up with his arm to give you a spot to slide into. at first you laid down face to face with him.

“hey” he said quietly, inches from you. you smiled up at him. it made your heart race to see him from this angle, this close. you were sure he could hear your heartbeat if you stayed like this a second longer, so you rolled over so your back was to him. matt made a funny noise, almost like he was clearing his throat. your knees hung off the couch slightly, so you backed up to not fall off. Matt let out a strained cough.

“Matt are you okay? you sound like—“ you started to turn your head to face him, and inadvertently twisted your hips against his body. you felt his hand latch onto your waist, halting it. he winced and let out a small hiss

“y/n please” tumbled out of his lips, his whole body going stiff.

“Matt what’s wrong? I—“ suddenly you became away of a hardness pressing against your lower back and ass. your breathing hitched. Matt was hard. and you could feel it. Matt was hard and was pressing against you, hell it had been caused by you.

“oh my god” you whispered.

“fuck y/n i’m so sorry—holy shit. this is awful. i feel disgusting. i never wanna make you uncomfortable i—“ he began to babble sounding on the verge of tears

“Matt no—“ he rolled onto his back looking up at the ceiling. you turned onto your side to face him.

“No, y/n. this is so bad-oh god. i was worried this would happen, i mean being anywhere near you i’d worry about that, but i thought i could control myself and fuck i’m so sorry“

“wait what do you mean you worried?”

“come on, y/n. you’re the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen. of course i’d worry, but you’re also one of my best friends so—“

“you think i’m beautiful?” matt paused and looked at you in the eye.

“are you joking, y/n?” you shook your head.

he took a deep breath before continuing.

“I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world” you exhaled rockily, scanning his eyes.

“and i can’t believe this is how i’m telling you that or i did anything to make you feel—“

“Matty, stop” you said, putting a hand lightly to his chest. it heaved at your touch.

“you didn’t do anything wrong, at all. i just never knew you saw me the way the way i see you”

“y’mean you—?” you bit your lip and smiled at him, nodding. he let out an exhale of relief and excitement and smiled back at you. he inched closer to your face, hesitantly.

“can i kiss you?” you nuzzled your nose slightly against his.

“yes, Matt” he leaned the rest of the way in and gently pressed his warm pillowy lips against yours. the feeling was better than you could’ve ever imagined. he pulled away, not wanting to seem too eager or pushy, and waited for you. you glanced from his eyes to his mouth before pushing back against him. this kiss was different from the last. there was fire and passion to it. your lips began to meld together, creating a rhythm as his hands reached for your waist. you wrapped an arm around his neck and ran your hand through his hair, which resulted in a huffing of air from his mouth into yours. his tongue slid against your bottom lip, asking for permission, which you immediately granted. you pressed your lower half against his. he grunted and squeezed your hip. smiling against your lips he rasped out

“careful there, problem from earlier is not exactly gone yet” your stomach flipped

“good” you breathed out, pressing your bodies flush again. he looked at you wide eyed, his pupils dilating, before diving in for the heaviest kiss yet. you lifted your leg up slightly, wrapping it around him. the move caused your shirt to slide up to the top of your hip. matt ran his hand up your thigh and gripped your ass causing you to let out a small whine. he bit at your lip slightly and used this new hold on your lower half to move himself between your legs further and on top of you. he pulled away from you to take off his shirt and you felt heat electrify your body at the sight of him uncovered in the weak blueish light. he smiled at you shyly before kissing you again. one strong hand began to trail over the sensitive skin of your stomach, up your shirt, sending ripples of buzzing through your body as the tips of his hand approached your braless chest. Matt ran his fingers delicately over your nipples, hardening at his slightly cold touch. you shuddered.

“can i take this off?” he said, tugging at the hem. you nodded vigorously and helped him pull it over your head, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. you fought the urge to cover yourself as his eyes engulfed the sight of you.

“god you’re so perfect” he almost moaned out. you giggled and tightened your legs around his lower half, encouraging him back down to you gently. the feeling of his warm bare chest against yours made you let out a sigh. he leaned his head into the crook of your neck, breathing hot warm air against your sensitive skin before gently sucking and pulling through his teeth. you whimpered into him, wrapping your hands back into his hair. he retaliated by starting to grind his hips against your heat, the feeling of his hard on painfully present. your two most desperate spots only separated by your underwear and his pj bottoms.

“Matt—“ you moaned out

“hmmmm?” he hummed into your neck. you needed him in ways you couldn’t explain. you squirmed beneath him. he pulled away to look at you and raise an eyebrow.

“what is it, beautiful?” he cooed, making you flustered. you pushed your hips back up at him, unable to come up with words.

“ohh i see” he chuckled out. you felt a flash of embarrassment and tried to cover your hands with your face. he grabbed your wrists lightly and lowered them.

“Want me to make you feel good, ma?” he said softly into your ear as he dragged his hand down your stomach and to the waistband of your underwear. you whimpered, desire crying out for contract between your legs. he lowered his fingers over the thin cloth that covered your pussy and dragged them up and down, giving you a teasing amount of friction.

“more, Matty, please” you cried out. he gingerly pushed the fabric aside and ran his fingers along your dripping folds

“god you’re so wet” he whispered out in awe, looking down at you , hungrily. he seemed almost in a trace, but the torment was too much for you. you grabbed his wrist and guided his hand, positioning his finger tips at your entrance. his breathing shallowed as he looked up at you while inserting his digits deep into your core. you became a mess as Matt continued to pump his fingers in and out of you, curling them upwards expertly.

“fuck i could watch you like this forever” he panted

“mmmm feels—ss—so good, matt”

“god you don’t know what you’re doing to me, ma” your walls clenched at the thought of his hard length. you reached down between your bodies and palmed at his crotch. he let out a groan. his impressively large hard on throbbed under your touch, straining against his pants.

“oh my god, y/n” he mumbled, closing his eyes. you’d never seen anyone look so sexy before.

“Matt, I want you” you gasped, without thought. his eyes flickered open, his pupils were blown.

“Are—are you sure?” he said, struggling to breathe.

“I’m sure” Matt reached to untie his drawstring. you watched him, closely, as he loosed his pants and lowered them. your mouth watered at the sight of his large rock hard dick slapping against his stomach, the tip already dripping precum. he leaned back over you and began to line himself up with your entrance. nerves shot through your body.

“wait matt”

“what? whats wrong? should i stop?” he said, looking up at you with worry

“No, no definitely not, i—i just—i haven’t done this before?”

“Oh” he said smiling with relief

“Are you sure you want to? we can wait i’m fine to wait. i don’t wanna do anything you’re not ready for”

“NO!” you said a little too eagerly “I really want to” you finished shyly

“Okay” he chuckled. He realigned himself and gave you a gentle kiss

“This is probably gonna hurt a bit, okay? we can stop any time you want to” you nodded and he began to push his tip slowly into your entrance. you cried out at the feeling of him stretching your insides so much. he paused for a moment.

“do you want to stop?” he said sweetly

“No. keep going” you said wincing. he pushed himself to the base of his cock and moaned at feeling you completely around him. he slowly began to slide himself in and out of your pussy. the pain started to turn into pleasure.

“go faster, matty, please” he listened and began to pick up his pace, creating a delicious rhythm and hitting your sweet spot deep inside of you with each thrust. you let out a string of curses and cries at the sensation.

“fuck you feel so good around my dick, baby”

“oh god don’t stop”

“you like that, sweet girl”

“yes—fuck yes—i like it so much”

“you’re so fucking perfect, princess. god i love being inside of you”

“Matt—oh my god—fuck—I—“ you felt a tightening in the pit of your stomach as your buildup started to reach its peak.

“you gonna cum, sweetheart?” Matt lowered one of his hands to press on your lower stomach, where he was deep inside of you. your vision began to blur.

“Let go, baby. Cum for for me” your hearing buzzed and you saw flashes of white as you came undone. Your walls clenched around Matt’s cock causing his thrusts to become sloppy.

“fuck, gorgeous i’m close—where do you want me to—“ he panted out

“just keep going, matty” you cooed still coming down from your high

“wh—you-you sure?” he questioned fighting off his release

“yes, don’t stop. keep going for me”

“oh my ffu—god-yes—anything for you” he stuttered

“fuck baby i’m gonna cum”

“yeah? cum inside me, matty, please”

“OH GOD FUCK Y/N”

“i wanna feel you cum”

“OH—IM CUMMING—OH FUCK—“ Matt cried out thrusting into you, wildly. He halted deep inside you as he released hot spurts of his cum into your core. he collapsed, panting heavily. after a moment, he pulled out and quickly leaned back down to give you a kiss before reaching to grab you your shirt. you smiled at each other, sheepishly, as you got redressed. he pulled you tightly against him and ran his hand down the back of your head, soothingly.

“How was that?”

“Perfect” you mumbled into his chest, breathing him in.

“Yeah?” he chuckled into your hair. you nodded.

“I’d say so too.” he said.

“I’ve always dreamed of getting to hold you like this” he whispered

“really?”

“mhm”

“me too” he paused for a moment

“what would you think of maybe being something where we could always be like this?”

you pulled away to look at him and he grinned at you. you pulled him in for the biggest kiss you muster.

—————————————————————————

why am i gonna cry? WHY CANT THE MEN I MAKE UP IN MY HEAD BE REAL.

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borninwinter81 · 1 year ago

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William Blake - an introduction for Good Omens fans

I have sent @neil-gaiman an ask regarding his feelings toward the poet/artist William Blake a couple of times, but no doubt due to the size of the poor man's inbox I haven't received a response. So I did a Google search to see if he's spoken about Blake before, and it did indeed come up with a fair few hits. I think you might enjoy seeing this Twitter post if you haven't already, the painting is from William Blake's illustrations to Paradise Lost.

It's not surprising that an author like Neil Gaiman might have an interest in Blake. A visionary from a young age, his imagination was such that he was surrounded by angels made visible in his mind's eye, and he interpreted these visions through poetry, painting and engraving, and self-printed and published many of his own works. This gave him complete freedom to say exactly what he wanted.

Though he had a passionate faith in God, he also had a deep distrust of the church as an institution, and disliked the use of religion as a means of control. This poem from "Songs of Experience" perhaps summarises his feelings best:

"I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;

So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be:

And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars, my joys & desires."

In his poetry there is often an incongruity with the generally accepted religious ideas of what is good and evil, Angel and Demon. In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (there's a title that should make any GO fan sit up and pay attention) he tells us that "in the book of Job, Milton's Messiah is called Satan", signifying that he feels it is Lucifer/the devil who is the true Messiah of Paradise Lost.

He gives us The Voice of the Devil and Proverbs of Hell, and has Angels being transformed into Demons through enlightenment. He tells us that Jesus broke all of the 10 commandments, yet was still virtuous because he acted according to his own morality rather than rules.

The god-figure of his later works, Urizen, generally comes across as malevolent, seeking to bind and control, whilst Los, the Satan/Messiah figure represents freedom, imagination and creativity.

"Restraining desire" and acting contrary to your own nature seem to be the only real evils for Blake.

He expressed his faith through a love of the world and the beauty in it, summed up in this quote:

"When the Sun rises do you not see a round Disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea? O no no I see an innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty".

He saw "God" in everything, in all the wonders we have around us, and considered writers/poets and religious prophets as essentially the same, since they both have a connection to the divine, and express it through stories.

It's quite ironic that probably his most famous poem, Jerusalem (the one that starts "and did those feet in ancient times walk upon England's mountains green"), was made into a very popular church hymn, yet it is supposed to be satirical in nature. The poem recounts the myth that Jesus may have visited England in his boyhood, and Blake is expressing his disbelief at that notion and the unworthiness of England.

Did I have a point to all this? Mostly to show my hand as a massive Blake nerd, but also to hopefully demonstrate that there's a lot of common ground between his ideas and those expressed in a show/book like Good Omens, and hopefully to inspire some of you who may not be familiar with Blake to seek him out. In particular I'd recommend The Marriage of Heaven and Hell to any and all.

EDIT: I should have thought to include this, here's Michael Sheen reading a Blake poem. I have the CD this is from, he reads several by Blake, as well as other poets I love ❤️ 😍

youtube

#william blake #good omens #good omens book #good omens 2 #good omens s3 #neil gaiman #crowley #aziraphale #english literature #literature #poetry #go2 #good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #book omens #michael sheen #Youtube

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almondmilktargaryen · 3 months ago

Text

Duty & Sacrifice (Part Four)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Original Female Character

Category: Flangst

Content warnings: None

Word count: 4.2k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

MONTHS LATER

The first signs of spring bloom from the city with the sun’s warmth—coaxing filth from the stone paths and mingling with the crispness of fresh life. Bright green stems wriggle free from the leftover snow as the Spring Princess does the same in her father’s arms. Aemond pets the fluffy black strands on her head. Her arms navigate out of the swaddle. She reaches up, and the innocence stings more than it soothes. Aemond does not meet her touch, leaving the babe to grasp empty air.

His hands ached beneath her, the bruises dully reminding him of Floris’ record 14-hour labor—fourteen hours of agony for both of them. At the ninth hour, the force of her squeeze shifted the bones in his hand as she abandoned all attempts at demure restraint. He screamed with her then with a shared raw voice, a rare harmony in their otherwise dissonant marriage.

The babe coughs on the capital’s sour air, and Aemond adjusts his hold, cradling her closer as his eye sweeps the cityscape. Exhaustion tugs at him. Yet these basic instincts of fatherhood keep him alert, preventing threats that will never come. It is why he hears boots on the floor and a faint scrape of metal against red stone bricks. “She’s beautiful.” Criston’s tone is low.

“Hmm.” He takes a long breath. “Yes.”

Eventually, Criston passes him. The sun sheens across one of his shoulder plates before he sits by him. His posture is stiff thanks to the armor, but he tries leaning in. “When was the last time you slept, my prince?”

Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you think this is how my father felt, Cole? When he held Aegon for the first time?”

Criston stills.

His eye drifts down. She is scrawny and pink. Her little fingers stretch and reach for nothing all the same. “Did he feel like he was holding a stranger?”

“That is not fair, Aemond.”

“But it is a genuine question. His love for us went to mourning another. I thought I’d never understand it.”

“You love all your children, sons and daughters alike.”

He did not need to think twice about his sons. He always wanted daughters, but the birth of Baelon and Daeron engulfed him with fatherly pride. Both were a peak that crashed into him without warning; a wave taking him down from behind. Before, his children—all his Targaryen children—reminded him of his purpose, his power, and how those elements together would give them the world. The daughter in his arms, however, he sees it coming. The wave is consumed before it has a chance to wet his boots. It is there when she looks at him, her mother’s eyes deep and blue, but it falls flat when he thinks about it a moment longer.

Aemond wouldn’t be surprised if his father laughed at him now. He was likely with his own Baelon: the infamous Heir for a Day and forever five hours old.

“How could she have chosen that name?”

“It is a political spectacle, Aemond. Nothing more.” He puts a gloved hand on his shoulder and keeps him steady as his fingers dig into the leather. “Names are omens. The people need omens to carry on. With Baelon as heir to the Iron Throne…”

Aemond sniffles.

“It was not the deliberate choice you think it is.”

“No father should compare one child to another.”

The babe reaches out as she fusses.

“How am I supposed to avoid comparing, Cole?”

“You cannot stop yourself. You do your best afterward. But that is tomorrow. Today, you need sleep. Come.”

Aemond hesitates, then stands, cradling the babe with practiced care.

Inside, their bedroom was dim, lit only by slivers of sunlight cutting through the sheer green curtains. Floris lies propped against a mountain of pillows. The labor was three days ago, yet she is just as pale and swollen as she was halfway through pushing the babe out. Floris is also noticeably annoyed. Handmaidens flutter around her like skittish birds. Two massage her feet, and each hard press churns out a grunt from the pillows as others fan her face.

When spotting Aemond, they freeze, all hands mid-motion.

He takes another step closer and some shiver like he is holding a blade instead of a newborn. The reputation of being a fright to the Keep’s staff comes with more privileges than burdens; one of them being minimal communication. So by the time Aemond says, “My wife needs her rest,” the group curtsies in unison and file out the chamber doors.

Floris sighs, her eyes still closed. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate that.”

“May I sit?” He signals to the chair next to her.

She nods weakly.

He walks around the bed. Several bloody rags still hang off the back as Criston stays at the foot. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“The only help I’ll take now is from a maester with a jug of milk of the poppy.” Her laugh is brittle. It bleeds into huffs as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. “Which might be sooner than I wish.”

“You don’t have to sit up,” Aemond tells her. “She’s tired as well.”

Floris doesn’t listen. She shimmies herself upward at her own pace.

“I can help you.”

“You are not a maester.” She winces and braces herself upright. As a reward, she extends her arms, saying their daughter’s name like it is a numbing balm, following it with, “Come here.”

Aemond follows her command, unwrapping the swaddle first to place her on Floris’ chest. She murmured the babe’s name, tender. “Who’s eyes does she have?”

“Yours.”

She frowns, brushing her fingers over her head. “A shame. She won’t look like the boys at all.”

“Eye color can change over time.”

“Really?”

“Possibly.”

Criston clears his throat. “Princess, your husband needs sleep. With your leave, I was going to let him rest in the Tower of the Hand.”

Floris studies her husband. The pinkish whites of her eyes somehow make the blue more prominent. “You haven’t slept at all?”

He shakes his head.

“He’s right then. You need rest.”

“Yes.”

“She’s quiet, but I’ll try to feed her anyway.” She pulls at the edge of her robe while Criston politely makes way for the door.

Aemond shifts his weight and stands. “Do you want me to—”

“We’ve touched enough for some time.” Her voice is calm when she says it. Her eyes remain fixed on their daughter. She opens her robe, and the babe latches without fuss. Silence follows as Aemond departs.

Aemond no longer avoids sleep the way he once had. Each night had been a battle of will: laying his head down only to succumb to silence, closing his eye, and reliving the night he lost Alyssa. The memories turned rest into torment. He awoke so often from stirring in his sleep that a full night’s rest seemed like an impossible dream. Then, the stirrings happened to Floris.

The City Watch had uncovered little after finding Royce’s body. Witness testimonies were scarce. The lords at Chataya’s hid from the Gold Cloaks as if they carried a plague. The only accounts they had were from Chataya and Alayaya, who claimed Royce had staggered out of the building drunk and harassing a young girl. “She clearly escaped,” they both said.

Aemond paid rent early after that.

Floris rarely spoke of Royce. Her tears, once frequent, hardened into a stoic mask as days morphed into weeks. Though Aemond slept better that first night after justice was served, Floris grieved during the dark hours. She trembled in her sleep, whimpering. Each time Aemond reached for her, she jolted awake, eventually seeking Daeron instead.

Their youngest son became her solace during her pregnancy. Barely five, Daeron seemed to sense her unspoken need, much like Aemond did with his own mother. He clung to her in the gardens, holding a finger as they walked or nestled in her lap whenever he could. With Aemond, the boy grew distant. He spoke less, but he never mentioned his dreams when he did. Nor did he cry for his father when awakened by nightmares.

If Aemond dreamt, he forgot by the time he rose from bed. But some dreams lingered in fragments: blood-soaked screams, his father’s dagger, the reminder of what forever means. The worst were cruel illusions where both his daughters lived and he still felt loved. Over time, his heart became unresponsive to all but the craving for sleep alone.

Their boots echo faintly as Aemond and Criston climb the stairs to the Tower of the Hand. Aemond moves deliberately, his eye fixed on the steps, his posture upright and projecting the composure of a well-rested man. Criston, always watching, is ready to catch him at the slightest stumble.

The door swings open, revealing a room steeped in shadow. A faint scent of parchment and dust lingered in the air, perfect for rest.

Once inside, Aemond sinks into the couch between Criston’s (Otto’s) bookshelves, piled high with scrolls and tomes. Stretching out his legs, he runs a hand through his hair, pulling the tie loose. The front strands fall to frame his face as he looks up, finding Criston standing nearby, a hand extended.

Aemond hands him the tie without a word, but Criston doesn’t retreat.

Aemond sighs. “I can sleep fine with it on, Cole.”

“But you’ll sleep better without it.”

Aemond hesitates, glancing at the door.

“No one will come in. You have my word.”

Finally, Aemond unties and hands his eyepatch over. Criston closes his hand around it and places them both on his cluttered desk, the only truly occupied space in the room. Scrolls and documents covered every corner, spilling to the floor in haphazard stacks. Sriston sits, unmoved by the disarray. He glances at Aemond, his brows raising with his command. “Sleep,” he tells him, a tone that brooked no argument.

And Aemond didn’t try arguing. His eye is already closed.

It was a dreamless sleep, but exhaustion still clung to him. The candles light the room as the moon reveals itself outside of the Tower’s thin windows. Aemond blinks the blur away slowly, degrading the candlelight from fuzzy circles to singular, pointed flames. He spots a raven on Criston’s desk as well. It caws at his side. That and the occasional rustle of parchment are the only sounds in the room. He’s focused, sifting through papers and unaware that Aemond is awake. He makes himself known, pushing aside the fatigue and standing. “I’m going to check on Floris.”

I checked on her. She’s resting.” Criston did not look up, quill in hand.

Aemond grabs his eyepatch first, then his hair tie. “Then I need to attend to at least some duties today.” He heads for the door.

“Aemond, stop.”

Aemond’s fingers brush the iron handle. It wasn’t his name, but the tone. Nothing firm, but paternal; something only he has the power to do now. Aemond straightened, and then turned, meeting Criston where he set his stack of papers aside.

“You asked earlier if your father felt the way you felt when you held your daughter.”

Aemond’s jaw shifts.

“I don’t think you are your father.”

“My father longed for a dead babe over the children who came after him. I don’t deny I feel the same.” Every word makes his throat tighter.

“Your father killed his wife for that babe. He made a choice, one that cost him more than he could ever gain.”

“And I nearly did the same.”

“Nearly,” Criston repeated with a nod. “But you didn’t. And that is the difference.”

The silence hangs heavy. Aemond does not see the difference, or Criston’s point. He does not explain, busy picking through his papers again and counting them under his breath until he pulls out the small scroll lost in between, still curled in from its travel.

Aemond glances at the raven. It caws at him when Criston hands over the paper.

He stretches out the scroll, flattening the ends with his thumbs. His eye trails across the messy handwriting; crooked letters and uncertain strokes. He clears his throat. “Sh-she can write now?”

Criston gave a small nod. “I hired a teacher through Chataya. Her penmanship is far from perfect, but improves with every scroll.”

“Every scroll? You’ve been communicating with her all this time?”

“Now and then. For her practice. And proof of life.”

Aemond returned his attention to the scroll. His head buzzes. He reads every word again and again. Not because of the handwriting itself, but because they are her words. He could see where the quill was pressed too hard into the paper, making the ink leak from certain letters and unintentionally connecting them to others, but he could still read them. The way she spells his name, Aemund, is an honor he did not know he desired. But he reads the final two sentences again, his name and all: As my dater gets older, I think it wuld be good for her to see her fater. Pleese tell Aemund as soon as you can.

Aemond gingerly handles the scroll, preserving the work. Then folds it gently before slipping it into his tunic. The buzzing has spread to the rest of his body. The joy, nerves, and fear all wreaking havoc inside him at once. Yet he stands still when Criston rises from his seat and hands over a cloak.

“You are not your father, Aemond. Because you have a chance at forgiveness. And I know you will take it.”

Winter’s bite clings to the capital after the sun disappears. The wind is sharp as it dives under Aemond’s cloak, but he barely feels it. He keeps his hood up, but the blood coursing through him makes him move swiftly. His breath curls in on itself before grazing his face, moist and warm before dissipating just as quickly. His heart pounds against the raven scroll in his breast pocket—the rolled paper scratching against itself with every beat. The sound zips up to his ears as he slides through small crowds and alleyways while finding his footing before slipping onto the frost-kissed streets.

The foyer is modest and warm; larger than most with extra couches for (particular) guests, and on top of heavy Dornish rugs. Days-old incense lingered in the air, thick and smokey with the hearth in the next room divided by a beaded curtain. Flickering candlelight softens the room and eases the ache in Aemond’s eye as the servants’ liquid shadows coordinate from one terracotta wall to the next. They do not meet his gaze, but they bow when he passes. Even here, he was still the One-Eyed Prince: the war hero whose name (and face) was the source of gasps and wary looks.

He walks through the curtains as the servants silently suggest. The tension coiled in him like a tight spring from the moment he read the misspelled name, making his heartbeat drumroll for this occasion he’d dreaded and longed for at the same time. He eagerly awaited spring’s jump upon seeing her splendor. Because he missed her. How could he not?

Aemond straightened his back when the strings finally slid off his shoulders, clicking together behind him. He took down his hood for a better scope of the place: hearth, more couches, pillows, rugs, a balcony supported by white columns, and a view of the fields outside of the city limits.

But she is not here.

The spring twists in on itself somehow even tighter in his core, like it was hunkering down and preparing for an ambush. But the soft squeak of iron hinges to his right releases it from hold and launches itself into Aemond’s throat; leaving him speechless upon hearing his name.

She strolls into the hallway with a slight correction in her posture, hands collected at her front when stepping more in view. She had replaced the dirty cotton nightgown with a thinly cut pink silk dress. It flows around her body rather than clinging to it. It is held up by a gold collar around her neck. Her copper curls pour down her back. Rebellious strands had long escaped to the front, framing her face, despite the way she tied it. Each one is shiny and defined, like her dress.

And Aemond knows he is staring. (He is still a man in some ways.) He eventually mumbles her name with a swallow, testing to see if the world did not still just now. She did not help with his guesses, as neither of them moved. It was like the room itself also held its breath, limiting the air around them. Aemond searches for words, remembering Westerosi and High Valyrian, but nothing that could form a sentence. But the sound of her bracelets dangling when she lifts her arm flushes them away too.

“Alisha’s in her room.”

Aemond’s mouth is still dry. He swallows again before following her. Aemond swears they are meandering. He cannot see much, but her body sways under the silk. She leans on the door with effortless grace, despite still being in pain from that damn cot.

Orange light spills into the dark room, illuminating the intricate wood carvings along the rim of the cradle. Aemond follows the slender path, hesitant to step on any of her toys. (She better have toys.) Inside the cradle, Alisha stirs in her sleep, her body nestled under a cloth clumsily embroidered with flowers. She is smaller than he imagined. But her features are delicate, and her breaths are soft and even. He doesn’t want to wake her, but the need for touch—the proof of life—is imperative. Gently, he places a hand on her plump belly. Yet even in the joy, his eye searches for the traces himself—white strands amidst her fiery ginger curls.

“She’s growing into your nose.” Her voice comes from behind him, just as gentle. She lingers in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the torchlight.

“Indeed, she is,” Aemond murmurs. His lip quivers into a faint smile. There’s no bump on the bridge like her mother’s. “Is she grabbing yet?”

“Books, mainly.”

Aemond looks over his shoulder. “She’s reading already?”

“We learn together.”

Smiling, genuinely smiling, is something he hasn’t remembered doing in so long. Its natural form comes with his children, and it makes things almost feel normal. “Will she know me?” He asks aloud.

“Perhaps.”

“That’s something only you can answer.” Aemond’s gaze shifts back to her. She doesn’t respond but speaks volumes as she turns and walks out of the room.

Alone with Alisha, he watches her sleep. Her tiny chest still rises and falls in a peaceful rhythm. He aches to stay, to pull up a chair and spend the night memorizing every detail of her face, every wispy inhale. But he cannot. With one last touch, he presses his hand to her side, imprinting the feel of her to his memory. Then, reluctantly, he steps away, closing the door softly behind him.

In the light, he finds her on the balcony, her silhouette outlined against the city’s darkness. The faint glow catches the ripples of her dress and the peachy undertones of her skin. She looks out at the fields of King’s Landing, the ones Aemond wanted to take them to once (forever ago.)

He steps closer, lingering behind the columns. “Your letter,” he begins, “said you wanted me here for Alisha.”

She doesn’t turn. Her fingers only tighten on the wood banister as the wind tousles her hair. She flicks it back.

“You care to share the real reason?”

Her laugh is bitter, though barely more than a breath. “Your Prince Aemond. The Targaryen war hero who commanded hundreds of men and a dragon to fight for you.”

“Yes.”

“You killed thousands in the war. Some of them your own family. I know it haunted you once.”

“It still does.”

Her head spins and her eyes narrow. “Does it?”

“Darling—”

“Just explain it to me.” Her body pivots with her interruption, facing him fully. She leans back, but her fingers still dig into the banister. The wood creaks under her grip. “When did you stop caring about Alyssa?”

“I never stopped.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me her name, Aemond.”

“I’m not saying it.”

“She’s the Spring Princess. The world will remember her. You might as well get used to the taste of it.”

“My wife named her.”

“And you couldn’t bring yourself to disagree.”

“It wasn’t that simple. The maesters saw an omen. Something for the people to cling to, a symbol of hope alongside my son.”

“Don’t explain omens to me as if I wouldn’t understand.” Her voice cracks as it rises. “The truth is simple enough. You took our daughter’s name for yourself.”

“I would’ve never.”

“Then you let your wife take the last piece of her I had left without a fight.”

“What was I supposed to do then? Refuse and risk raising questions? Risk someone discovering you and Alisha? She would have looked into why I objected. She would have dug until she found you.”

“You fought bastards to be slaughtered, and you got what you wanted.”

“That’s not fair.”

“And this is where you gave up. Settling for a replacement.”

Aemond’s hands clench to his side. “You think I don’t carry the weight of my actions every day?”

“Claiming guilt and carrying it are not the same.”

“You haven’t seen me carry it!” The heat in his face picks up with his voice. “You’ve spoken to my Hand, but not once have you asked about me. You didn’t see how I mourned her, how I cried every night. The pyre Cole built for her. How I reached for her in my dreams.”

Her lips pressed together, disappearing behind her teeth.

He breathes, he swallows. “I won’t ask you what I can do to make it right. The answer is nothing. She’s gone. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t want to refuse Floris when she named her. I thought of all three of you. The last thing I was going to do was draw suspicion. I tried to protect all of you before, and I failed. I refuse to lose you again.”

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she stares at the sky. The torchlight catches the tears clinging to her lashes like morning dew, and for a moment, Aemond wonders if she’s looking for her up there.

“You know I loved her.”

“I do.” Her voice is softer as she admits it, but no less pained. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

Aemond doesn’t move, his breath caught somewhere between hope and despair.

“The way you speak of her… the dark shadows under your eye. They weren’t there before. And Ser Criston told me about the pyre. Now she’s up there without me.” She shudders as her body folds.

Then Aemond catches her just in time. He doesn’t have the strength to hold both up, so he eases them down to the limestone, submitting to the weight together. Aemond holds her as she sobs into his chest. “She’ll never be within reach.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice croaking. “I know.”

“And I didn’t want to see you then. I blamed you for it all.”

“You were right to.”

“But when I heard her name at the Sept… I thought you were letting us go.”

“How could I do that?”

She doesn’t reply, gripping his tunic and weeping into the leather.

“No.” Aemond pulls her back, holding her red, wet face in his hands. “How could I possibly let you go? The woman who healed me, loved me, all of me? Gave me beautiful children on top of it all. I tried paying you back and I only destroyed us. You’d still have her if it weren’t for me.”

“I wouldn’t have either of them at all. I’d still be alone.”

“Oh, darling.”

She tries catching her breath, opening her mouth to speak more, but wraps a hand around his bare wrist, carefully. Aemond’s pulse quickens under it, her willing touch. He looks at her lips briefly, but plants a kiss on her cheek instead, fearing that he will not hold himself back if he seals them so close.

“I’m sorry,” she splutters out.

“I’m sorry,” he says back. He brushes back the stray curls as he lets out a breathless “And I love you.”

“I love you.” It’s choked out of her. Like she had been holding it down. She’s still overwhelmed, the calluses inside now tethered above her opened wounds. But she blesses Aemond by cupping his face with her other hand. He had been crying along with her. He just didn’t realize how much until her fingers stroked his chin, smearing the cooling single streak. “Don’t leave me here,” she tells him. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Never.”

“Stay with me tonight.”

“I will.”

Her thumb rubs under the dark circle. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“Aemond.”

“Not yet.” He slips a hand to the back of her neck and pulls her in. He holds everything back and focuses on kissing alone, like their first days together only a year ago (yet somehow decades at the same time.) Except now, he worries he’s too much when she falls back into the balusters. But she brings him with her, sealing both their fates for the night; enveloped in hope and each other, finally.

Taglist: @paprikaquinn @immyowndefender @teal-anchor @dixie-elocin

A/N: Holy shit, we're finally done. It took soo long to get to this point. People died so we could get here. (People being Alyssa, Royce Baratheon, my cat, my dog, and my dad.) (Yeah, I'm serious 🤣🤣) Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me to write a part two and enjoyed this little series while enduring the choices I made. I appreciate all of you and promise to write happier stories in the future 🤎

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lvmimis · 1 year ago

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the god of the riverbanks takes his sacrifices drowned - young girls, once sweet, bright-eyed and naïve in the morning sun, in exchange for bountiful harvests, rain and the promise of floods kept at bay. there are rumors that they turn up unaccompanied and unharmed in villages afar, hair just slightly damp and smelling as fresh as the sea, with their memories lost yet their smiles forever just as cheerful as the jade green dragon himself who glides just below the visible depth of the wide seas.

in contrast, the god of the skies, of sun and snow, is thought to take his sacrifices burned at the stake and yet no one has seen their bodies past their first cries and coughs. young women with strange burns they do not remember abound in a country far west; perhaps their voices reach the heavens and he shows mercy towards them, allowing them to ride on his back that glitters with a mosaic of white and red scales, and see the world from above, their scars bold but their minds purged of their pasts by flame and soothed by gentle ice.

however, nothing will give you solace, because you are to be sacrificed to the god of the mountains and the earth, who is war and strife itself. the blindfold that keeps you helpless is thick, the ropes on your wrists tight and cutting into your skin. the god offers your village protection from calamity and invasion; he promises your country strength and thus your gift is necessary.

you doubt you'd be a worthy meal but there was no one else to offer up, and you hope he swallows you up quickly; the pain could be immense, but not worse than the pain in your weary heart. your chest aches as you think of your family, aches further when you realize you will never have the chance to find purpose or find love.

the mountains are still and quiet as you wait, bound helplessly to the stone shrine. there is no escape.

time passes both slow and fast as you breathe in deep and exhale half as long until your chest hurts with the stacking of breath expanding your weary lungs.

you hear a sigh.

"sick of this shit."

your eyes widen at the gruffness of the man's voice, but you can see nothing. he tuts, and you can hear a presence move around you, the stinging warmth of a flame too close to the sensitive skin of the underside of your arms. the same sensation is quickly felt in your bound legs before you before they are free.

the blindfold falls and you're staring into a set of red, inhuman eyes. vertical slits. dragon eyes.

but your visitor is a man, somewhat, even if he is practically three times your size. your breath holds as you take more of him in, sharp eyes and even sharper cheekbones, golden hair, a gaze that is less curiosity and more exasperation. there is a soft glow to his skin despite the dusky overtone of the sky and his lips are soft appearing and pinkish red, almost feminine, in contrast to the soft bristle of fair, coarse hair on his chin. smoke still comes from the corner of his mouth as he speaks, and you see flashes of fanged teeth intermittently.

"i'm taking you to the other side of the mountain, got it?" he asks.

it's a statement that is given like an order and you're too dumbfounded to speak, forgetting how to make use of your no longer bound arms and legs.

"i won't eat you. got it?" he repeats, louder. your head swims.

he doesn't wait for your answer regardless, and his wings spread - deep crimson, orange and yellow, brilliant like the crackles of a large bonfire. you're dragged into his arms without protest and cradled like a small child despite his annoyed expression, you take to the skies, your fate uncertain.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes

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sunlightmurdock · 7 months ago

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Can you do a cozy blurb with rhett abbott

-ˏˋ. actions / scenarios ˊˎ-

⋆ going to a carnival / fair

the fair | Rhett Abbott

warnings: none!

Rhett is actually the one to first suggest a trip to the county fair. It’s half to do with the slight guilt he feels about not being able to take you out more — money’s tight sometimes, and he’s often just so exhausted from work. But, the other half of his desire to take you out comes from the nostalgia of those places.

He’s holding back a grin like a little kid, his fingers laced through yours as he leads the way across the green-grass field. Ahead of you are stretches of neon string lights and whirling fairground rides, sounds of cheering and laughing.

Maybe it’s the noise that he likes best. It’s always so quiet out at the ranch, silence for miles and miles. It makes you learn to listen, learn to jump and get tense at the slightest sound.

There’s no chance of that way out here. The sounds all blend together, a happy kind of hum that makes him feel just a little more peaceful.

All of that combined with you, who seems to live to get under his skin in the best way, and still somehow manages to make him feel more settled than anyone in the world ever has.

Crisp leaves under your feet, the chill of the Wyoming winter creeping in through the end of autumn catching at your knuckles. One of Rhett’s old Carhartt jackets sits around your shoulders, a proud proclamation to the entirety of Wabang of exactly who you’re here with.

He’s leading the way confidently, brunette curls tucked under one of his trucker caps, boots crunching across the grass and brush. Wabang County Fair hosts an array of vendors every year, a lot of them local.

Homemade hard ciders from the Marsh family farm. Chilli from the pastor and his wife. Fresh, buttered popcorn sold by the elementary school teacher who had expelled Rhett as a kid.

She greets him with wide, cautious eyes and a stern hello. He grins as you giggle into his side.

He tells you their stories with an arm around your shoulder and his lips brushing at your earlobe. The chill in the air has you cuddling closer, but you’re far from looking for an excuse to do that.

You’ve got one eye on the spinning ferris wheel, too, watching the little pods glowing like stars in the darkening sky. Each one filled with smiling families or budding couples, whispering friends.

You bet that Rhett knows their stories too, and you know that he likes being the one not on the receiving end of the gossip for once.

After a scenic tour of each of the booths on the ground, Rhett catches sight of that spark in your eye as you look up at the moving ride. Squeezing you closer to him, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as he turns and heads for it, with you in tow.

He’s got every intention of behaving on that ferris wheel, too. Sitting on the bench opposite you and taking in the view. You can see for miles up there, right across the stretching mountain ranges to the north. Grass and greenery for miles, the last of it before the season gets real grey and cold.

The ground below looks even more technicolour from way up here, glowing below you, abuzz with excited patrons.

Rhett’s got every intention of being a perfect gentleman on this date. Hell, he’s even planning on walking you to your door later and bidding you goodbye with a kiss on the cheek.

It’s just that right as your carriage reaches the very peak of the wheel, the whole thing comes to an abrupt stop. He can see the cold nipping at your skin, the slight shiver that wracks your body — the air’s just a little bit colder up here.

“It’s warmer over here, you know.” He tells you with a tip of his chin, his knees spreading just an inch further apart as his back settles against the bench behind him.

#rhett Abbott x reader #Rhett Abbott #Rhett Abbott fic #outer range #Rhett Abbott x you #rhett abbott x y/n #spookweek

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willtheweaver · 21 days ago

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Earth Day themed prompts

- It’s been 500 years since the Global Seed Vault was last visited. You, the AI installed to watch over the vault, have all but given up hope that someone will replant the Earth when you suddenly hear a knock on the vault door.

- “Perhaps this will teach you to be a better person” the divine tribunal declares. “Five lifetimes you are to spend as a tree. Then one for each and every animal that walks this world. That will be your sentence.”

- When the fairy court declares war on humanity, you find yourself spared from their wrath. Maybe it’s because you’ve always looked after orphaned animals and planted trees all around.

- Life through the eyes of a rock, a river, or mountain.

- Your voice has the power to manipulate plant growth. Everything from flowering out of season, to growing into any form you desire.

- After saving a fallen tree, the dryad living inside said they will one day repay your kindness. Years later, a developer is eying your favorite forest. You decide now is the perfect time to call up your favor.

- “If you do this, the future will no longer exist.”

“Yes it will. But it will be one worth living. One day when all is green and fair once more, I will find you.”

#writing prompts #writing inspiration #dialouge prompts #writing ideas #earth day #writer #writers #writers and poets #writing community #writer on tumblr #writeblr

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foreststarflaime · 7 months ago

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Ok you did swords (fabulous), how about AGSZC as dragons? (Rawr)

Oh you are speaking my language!!! 🐉 You caught me while reading my beloved Loki comics so this turned out rather poetic and metaphysical lol

Angeal: There is a dragon whose scales are as indomitable as proud mountains, known to all the kingdoms throughout the land. Known, but not feared—for his hoard is not one of gold, but of love. He is strict, but fair—if your heart is true, he is quick to love you, and you go forth from his presence with his blessing and protection. It is said by the bards of old that all shields came from his shed scales, gifted so that they might protect their wielders from harm.

Genesis: There is a dragon from whose breath burns the fire of the hearth, a fire around which all storytellers sit to weave their words of glory and doom, to bring hope and awe to any who need it. His tongue is of silver and his scales of burnished ruby, glinting gold in the firelight. His fire can bring ruin to a countryside, but that ruin will also bring rebirth, with new green shoots emerging from the ashes—it will grow stronger, this time. He may kidnap a princess or two from time to time, but that’s mostly so Angeal will come tell him off (give him and his stories the attention they deserve).

Sephiroth: There is a dragon who fell to earth one fateful day. Ever since he could remember, he had soared through the stars, borne aloft on the ethereal winds of the cosmos to wonder at its vast majesty. But this day, he peered too hard in his solitude at a planet bustling with life, and in doing so he strayed too close and was drawn by its gravity to crash upon its soil. His wings, made of the stuff of stardust, could not bear him aloft again, built for the soft breath of space as they were. So now he spends his days gazing at the beauty of the night sky, and finds some solace in the stories of wonder Genesis spins for his mind’s eye, and the stalwart companionship of Angeal.

Zack: There is a dragon who is often seen running amongst the wolves, only a bit larger than them, whose hoard-instinct is fulfilled by treasuring all of life’s experiences. He loves the freedom of running on the open plain, teasing his wolf-friends on occasion by picking them up suddenly for a quick glide down from a larger hill. He is often mistaken for a hatchling, but when he or anyone he loves is threatened, you will be assured by the strength of his teeth in your throat that he is just as fierce as any larger dragon.

Cloud: There is a dragon who was hatched with coal-black scales, smaller than most and quiet. Most were inclined to think him easy prey, and he only seethed at their mistake, but did not correct it. He took each blow the world threw at him, looking to the stars and dreaming of something greater. Eventually, the pressure built up enough that his scales turned diamond-blue and sharper than anything the world had seen. He suffered no bully any longer, to him or to any other.

Um. I’m attached. I guess I have a dragon au now

#highly recommend loki agent of asgard reading it was a formative experience lol #star rambles #ff7 #dragons #asks #dragons au #my writing #angeal hewley #genesis rhapsodos #sephiroth #zack fair #cloud strife #final fanatasy vii #final fantasy 7 #crisis core #fantasy

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sonic-takeover · 1 month ago

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Shadow you are making him bring a coat so you can steal it? Smart. (I’m gonna use that.)

I was planning to wear a coat as well, but.. your idea is not a bad one. I only worry for his sake. I.. will wear something light. *Shadow pulls on a windbreaker.. not very warm, but enough to fight the chill a bit. He grabs the picnic basket and goes to wait outside for Sonic. Without the moonlight, the world outside is very dark. Shadow hugs himself as a breeze blows past him* Dammit... Maybe we'll see better in the open...

You ready? *Sonic stops next to him, wearing one of his letterman jackets*

... Will that be warm enough?

Sure. *He grins* come on. Race you to the top of the mountain. *He zooms off*

Wh- Hey!! *Shadow grabs the basket and speeds after him* You didn't even say go, you jerk!!

*they race along their usual trails, around the loop de loop and across the bridges of Green Hill. Finally, they reach the top of the mountain. Sonic stops a millisecond before Shadow. He jumps up and down* Woo hooo!! Aaand the winner is, of course, the fastest hedgehog in the universe- Sonic "The Blue Blur" Hedgehog! Rahh!!

*Shadow shakes his head, chuckling as he sets down the basket and grabs Sonic's jacket, pulling him close* Glad you're being humble. Congratulations on your win, darling. Not like there's no light to see by and I had an unwieldy basket in my arms or anything.

*Sonic grins, hugging Shadow's waist* What, you saying you want a rematch?

It wasn't exactly fair stakes. *He kisses him* But let's save the rematch for the way back.

Deal. *Sonic hugs him close, rocking back and forth. His heart is pounding, but not from the race. It's time. The new moon is above them and he can feel it under his skin. The itch. He sighs against Shadow's shoulder*

.... Are you alright?

Huh? Yeah, yeah. Just uhh... *He glances at his jacket. If he wears this during his transformation, he'll destroy it* ... I'm kinda warm. You want my jacket? I know you get cold.

*He can't see it in the dark, but Shadow blushes* ... Uh.. yeah.. sure.. *Sonic helps Shadow into it, then steps back away from him*

... You uh.. know how I've been off lately?

*Shadow's ears prick* Yes..?

..... There's um.. a reason... *Here we go...*

#ask blog #sonic ask blog #ask #sonic #sth #sonic the hedgehog #ask sonic #anon ask #shadow the hedgehog #shadow #sonic answers #shadow answers #sonadow #bigass house #werehog #sonic the werehog #new moon

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hannahssimblr · 4 months ago

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Hours gone and hours to go, staring out the window at vague green mountains, rainforest, a bleeding scene behind wet glass as the rains go on, drenching the southern arm of Thailand. The train rumbles and the beds in our sleeper cabin squeak. I’ve slept already, for an hour, maybe two with a t-shirt over my face to block the light, while Jonas, pale and silent across from me stares blankly out the window picking at his fingernails, blood vessels burst in his eyes from being sick. Forty minutes in the train bathroom while a queue formed outside, and he’s too hungover to be embarrassed.

The train to Surat Thani was his idea, and seemed like a great one back in Berlin, looking at pictures of the scenery, the idyllic image of an orange train snaking through jungle. Nine hours seemed reasonable until this morning, when I awoke to him packing his bags, the smell of alcohol seeping from his pores. Trembling and ill.

“How was last night?” I said. “Must’ve gone well if you slept over.”

“I hate myself,” he replied, and that’s all. Within thirty minutes, we had checked out and boarded the train.

He hasn’t spoken in about six hours, but in fairness, four he spent sleeping, snoring peacefully in his bunk while I’ve read my book, snacked, perused my phone.

I look again at the message from Astrid I woke up to.

Here you go.

She’s said, followed by pictures of her in that green dress, front and back in her apartment mirror. She looks stunning like that, her hair a little messy, makeup smudged from an evening in the city, wine drunk too, probably. I can tell by that glazed look on her face.

The second picture, then, captioned:

Or do you prefer me without?

And she’s naked, laying back, the high points of her sensual body rising out of fizzy pink water. Some kind of bath bomb situation, evidently. This is what I wanted, and it’s extraordinarily erotic, but looking at it in the cold light of day in a train cabin that smells of two unwashed men and the dinner plates the buffet service hasn’t collected yet, the effect is not quite as intended.

Tbh only thing missing is me in there with my–

I pause and check the world clock app. 9:15AM in Berlin. I go back and delete what I wrote. Bit weird now, considering it’s her morning, and she’s definitely not in the bath still.

I look at the picture some more anyway, zooming in on different parts, like her collarbone, poking out like that with the angle she holds her neck, the same with her hip, a white peak jutting out of the water. My rapt interest in anatomy, driven by the pressure I feel to enjoy her a suitable amount.

Men like my grandfather would have gone their whole lives without seeing a woman like this. Maybe once, if they were lucky, and they’d keep a picture of her in their breast pocket or paint her on the side of a bomber jet and go to war. And in the 15th century, you’d carve exquisite statues of bodies like this. Paint masterpieces, and you’d turn her into some ethereal goddess with angels flying all around her, spend years working on a portrait in an attempt to communicate your feelings with a brush and oils, marble and chisels. Driven half mad by her. Compelled to preserve her beauty for eternity.

Here I am, looking at Astrid on my phone. A body worthy of museums, her frame, not gilded, but a clear silicone phone cover that has been yellowing progressively with use. I’m aware I don’t deserve to be looking at this. The best I can do is turn my screen away from the window so Jonas cannot see her too.

Sorry, was asleep lol. Looking hot af tho! 🥵

At the end of my message I add the red faced, profusely sweating emoji with its tongue out to really drive the point home, and send it, half hoping it won’t deliver. It does.

Back out to the conversations page to the chat with Evie. Something to stare at and feel bad about. Thinking about you. Why did I write that? Divine intervention that it didn’t send. A reason to believe God is watching over me.

It’s becoming increasingly obvious I’m demented. What else could explain it? To be the kind of man who has a girlfriend that others would die for, letting me do whatever to her, a folder on my phone now of pictures that the weirdos in her Instagram comments would pay real money to look at. Each night, saying she loves me down the phone, and I text a girl I knew for two months last summer? What way would my brain show up in an MRI scan? Very abnormal, the doctor would mutter, and I’d be like, yeah, I had an inkling.

Maybe I’m just curious, seeking closure. I’d like to know how she’s doing. What colleges she applied for. What she thought of the leaving cert, if she found it hard. She would have finished this week, maybe last. What was it like for her? Desks lined up in some PE hall, no doubt. Old convent windows, summer sunshine catching dust. Her hands smoothing the docket, nails painted. Colourful nails always, and hair done up in some elaborate double plait French thing. She hated how flat she thought her hair was. Then going out to the pub afterwards, a bottle of Corona with a wedge of lime in the neck, going down easy. Eighteen now. Wow. I never wished her a happy birthday. Would have felt weird doing it.

I go through my pictures. There aren’t many, only the ones Jen took on her camera and sent to me. I know where to find them, at the beginning of the roll underneath all those nightclub shots and pictures of Astrid in Italy. Dalia and Elias at the lake. Me and Jonas in the park last September. It’s been a long time since I was here, staring at that one photo I once obsessed over. It’s the only good one I have of her. At the festival, taken in the crowd, and I'm looking at her, she doesn't see me doing it, and her face luminous, dusted with glitter. She was amazing. If only I–

New message from Astrid.

Thank you for your enthusiasm. Anything for my fans.

I exhale a laugh. That’s funny. Amusement is followed by the dreadful sense I’ve been caught doing something illegal. Wondering why I’m reliving all this old stuff. What am I trying to feel? I tap the corner of the picture, delete it, and Evie vanishes. I relax my shoulders, relieved, absolved of sin.

“Something good on your phone?” Jonas says.

“Nah, I was trying to text Astrid, but I have a poor signal.”

“Ah. Yes. We are in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah?” I peer out at oceans of dense vegetation, mist layered between the trees. “Long journey, isn’t it?”

He looks at his phone. “Three hours to go, then another four on the bus.”

“Music to my ears.”

He attempts a laugh.

“Do you want to talk or something?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. We can also not talk, if that’s what you prefer.”

“Talking would be nice if my head was clear, and I didn’t feel so unwell. Sorry. I know I’m not bringing a lot of fun on this journey for you. I thought it would be better, but…” he trails off miserably, and I nod. “It’s fine. Been there. We can also just sit.”

“Is it okay for me to say I don’t want to do this kind of thing anymore? I mean, going out and drinking so much and having so many drugs.”

I chuckle. “That’s the classic thing, isn’t it? We always say that, and then a few days later we’re out doing it all again. The circle of life. You mean that now, but I know you.”

“I think I mean it. I’ve had enough. I am tired of being sick and worrying so much about the things I may have said or done. My life has been this way for so many years.”

“Mine too.”

“It ruins everything.”

“Like with that girl last night?”

He chews his lip. “Nothing happened. I was too drunk. She left me to sleep on the couch and I ran away in the morning before she woke up.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t want things to be like that anymore. I don’t want to feel so stupid. She was a nice person, and I humiliated myself.”

My phone sits hot in my palm, a token of my guilt and stupidity. “Maybe you’re right, then. Maybe we should stop.”

“You think you will?”

I almost tell him about last night, and the text, and Evie and the reasons I felt driven to, as I so often do when high and lonely, when that innate melancholy I carry creeps in, but I stop myself. I don’t talk about the past with people from my present. There is no point. It’s over, and I have already walked away from it.

“Yeah, I think I’ll probably have to. I recognise it isn’t doing me any favours.”

A half-smile, then. “What will Elias and Dalia think?”

“Of us going all straight-edge? I dunno. We’ll find out in Berlin.” I stretch my arms and neck, stiff from sitting so long. “I think I’ll walk the corridors for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay.”

And as I do that, stroll up and down the hallways, peeking into other cabin, using the bathroom, admiring nature from a window at the rear of the train, I consider the good intentions and promises I have made in my life. The girlfriends I promised I’d always care about, the grades I said I’d uphold, the fitness I said I’d reach, the bedroom I said I’d eventually clean, friends I swore I’d stay in touch with… Saying I’ll stop doing drugs is kind of like that, just something said for the sake of saying it, to create a pretence that I’m a person who makes wise or healthy choices without ever intending to follow through. I can’t stand the pressure. I’ll act this way in Thailand for Jonas’ benefit, and feel better for it, knowing in a month I’ll be in the Berghain toilets again, accepting mystery pills from people in latex vests.

Back in the cabin, he reclines, leafing through his travel guide. “All good?” he says, and I nod. “I think I’ll try to sleep for a bit.”

“Okay then. If you sleep too long, I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

I lay down, my face in the pillow and listen to sounds of pattering rain, squeaky bunks and the pages of the book, and I sleep, deep, sound, all the way to the end of the line.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2011 #he's still suffering #but on purpose now i guess #we love an intentional man #nudity cw

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