#WINTER CANNOT LAST FOREVER

[flickeringflame216]

excuse the bad photography but I thought you should see this

[deathsmallcaps]

My mom has suddenly decided I say sorry to much. And she’s right but god getting angry at me about it just triggers it :pppppppppppppppppppp

(She hates it when I stick my tongue out at her so :ppppppppppppp more)

SORRYSORRYSORRYSORRYSORRY

:pppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

It also makes me angry because it reminds of all the times I’ve had to apologize and I DIDNT MEAN IT. And by ‘didn’t mean it’ I’m talking about the times where I had to be the bigger person or someone else was having a power trip or some shit. >:ppppppppp

I just want a totally guiltless, consequence free day where I can be as mean as fancy strikes me. And this is okay. It’s an unrealistic dream and should stay that way. But it’s also okay to feel aggressive and hurt. Two things, surprisingly, can be true at the same time. :ppppppppppppppppppp

[mellowsaturns]

in losing grip, on sinking ships (you showed up just in time)

BUCKY BARNES X FEM!READER

summary: when the avengers pick up unusual activity, they realize that not all of hydra was destroyed. one unidentifiable face sends the team into a frenzy but bucky knows it. he could recognize those eyes anywhere.

warnings: heavy angst, one sided enemies-to-lovers-ish, hydra!assassin!reader, hurt/comfort, happy ending, brainwashing, trauma, guns & knives, fighting, implied kidnapping of reader when young, all the feels, misunderstandings, poor attempt at writing action

wc: 4.7k

a/n: sorry it’s been forever but i hope my fellow buckyluvrs are still here <3 i actually wrote this a long time ago but never got around to editing until recently so i guess you can say this is (from the vault) ? inspired by the idea: what-if there was another winter soldier and bucky finds himself in steve’s position this time trying to get you back to him. anyways, i hope you enjoy this one :)

Bucky’s life was a never ending montage of gunfire and bloodshed. It didn’t matter if he was under the clutches of someone else, he still lived through the wars—the lingering smell of smoke and tang of metallic forever ingrained in his senses.

And just when he thought it was finally over—a glimmer of peace at last—it comes and steals that dream away from him.

Like deja-vu, he’s looking at faces that were once responsible for his pain.

On the screen, three Hydra officers stare back at him. All faces identified by Tony’s system. Alive. Last seen in the outskirts of some small country in Europe. Irrelevant low ranking officials that had managed to survive the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D and have been hiding and secretly continuing Hydra’s mission underground ever since. Low officials or not, it was one too many.

Bucky freezes in his spot when Tony swipes the screen. The billionaire goes on a rant saying this particular face cannot be identified, which was according to Tony, bullshit because his face recognition system is the best in the world. The rest of the team is arguing and flipping through countless files and internet archives. But Bucky knows. He knows that face and those haunting eyes that he still sees in his dreams.

“Buck,” a voice calls out. “You know her, don’t you?”

He looks up at Steve from his spot, his best friend's face worried and all knowing.

One thing about Hydra was that they were always prepared. They had backups and multiple plans ready, or else how would two heads take its place when one was cut off? Unfortunately for the world, Hydra managed to make another deadly assassin, one whose work was so discreet and nimble that even intelligence didn't know they existed.

You were a ghost story that lived in the shadows of the Winter Soldier. You were another one of Hydra’s prize possessions—less known, but just as deadly.

With Steve’s comment, all eyes are now on Bucky. A pregnant pause fills the air and he gulps before he confesses, “I wasn’t the only one.”

The room becomes tense. The war that they thought was over suddenly looms over like an unpredicted oncoming storm. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You couldn’t have informed us about her earlier?” says Tony.

“I thought,” he says, shifting his eyes onto the ground, “I thought she fell with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Bucky couldn’t find you anywhere after he escaped their grasp. After he joined the Avengers, he tried once again secretly using Tony’s technology but it was to no avail—it always ended up being a dead end. And for that, he assumed Hydra had put you out of your misery the day they were caught.

But the face on the screen says otherwise. And suddenly, Bucky feels very guilty.

Steve clears his throat, “Well, they were picked up not too long ago heading north. If we leave now, we might be able to find them and stop them once and for all.”

Everyone looks at each other, debating on his proposal. “What the Captain said. Everybody, suit up. Quinjet leaves in ten,” says Tony.

On the jet, Bucky stares off into space but countless questions run through his mind.

Steve walks over and sits beside him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, voice quiet.

Bucky sighs, “I just… I thought she was gone.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

He looks up, wondering if he should tell Steve the truth. That he’s not brooding about the fact that he concealed you to them. After a moment, Bucky speaks up. “When we get there, let me handle her. Please.”

Steve didn’t know what kind of history Bucky had with you. But judging from the look his best-friend is giving, it’s more than what Steve could understand or even comprehend but he trusts Bucky and so, he gives him a nod. “She’s all yours.”

After scouting the area and tracing the location to a very hidden underground warehouse in the middle of nowhere, they split up. The warehouse was dark and dusty, surely abandoned, but Bucky knew better—it was their facade behind the most sinister of activities. Through the comms, Natasha announces that she has already taken care of all the troops in the West wing. Moments later, Sam reports that he has eliminated one of the Hydra officers. They wouldn’t last long. Hydra didn’t have much resources or time to rebuild—their current empire was weak, they were no match for the Avengers this time.

The only person Bucky’s truly worried about is you. The fact that he trained you, made you into what you were today already gave him the chills. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, but he was certain that you were still in that killer mindset that Hydra forced upon you.

Step by step, Bucky walks through the quiet hallway, the echoes of his footsteps the only noise. It’s cold here, he notices, which gives him flashbacks to those days in his dirty cell and the cryostasis chamber. Down a hallway to the next, round a corner and another, there wasn’t a single soul in the eerily Eastern wing.

But he spoke too soon, because seconds later, a garrote wire was around his neck. The swift invisible steps and the perfect pressure that was being used to quickly cut off his air supply was all too familiar. He knows this move, he taught this move. You’re here, and you’re dragging him backwards.

Before all oxygen gets cut off to his brain, he jabs his elbow backwards and hits you hard on the rib which releases the hold you have on him and sends you stumbling back. Bucky takes a moment to regain his breath but you’re on your feet again. He looks at you and for a moment he freezes, then you let out a sinister grin. “Nice to see you again, Soldat,” you taunt, before running towards him.

Bucky’s deflecting your punches one after another. Maybe he’s glad he was the one who taught you everything you know because your moves were predictable—if it were another person, there is no doubt they would’ve been on the ground with multiple concussions bleeding out already. You’re ruthless when you do a triple roundhouse kick on him. On the fourth one, he manages to catch your leg and twists it, sending you to the ground with a groan.

How familiar this scene was, Bucky thinks.

Some forty-years ago, Hydra brought a woman into the training room. There was no further instruction than to train you and that’s what he did. He could tell you were well trained already—compliant and pliable. You were good. And you were just like him, injected with a serum that made you a hundred times more efficient and stronger. In just under a year, Hydra would start sending you on missions. Sometimes with him, sometimes alone.

During training, the both of you would spar for hours, leaving each other bloody and bruised, but it didn’t matter to the overlookers, the both of you would heal in a few hours anyways.

Once you pick yourself back up, he pulls a gun out on you. “Stop this,” he commands.

You smirk, “You going to shoot me, Soldat? I want to see you try.”

He clenches his jaw. You continue to look at him, a dark look on your face that shows no sign of true recognition.

His thoughts are disrupted when you tackle him onto the ground. You kick his gun away and pin his arms down as you straddle him. “I’m going to kill you,” you declare, “I’m going to put a bullet through your head.”

When he looks up at you, your eyes are full of rage. Bucky doesn’t know whether that’s the brainwashed version of you talking or the actual you talking—maybe both.

“What are you going to do after you kill me?” he says, irritated. C’mon, please recognize me. “This is all that remains of Hydra. Half the troops are already dead. One of your new leaders is dead. In a few hours, Hydra will be no more. What will you do after that? What are you going to do after you kill me?”

“What does it matter? You’re my mission. I’m going to finish it.”

He groans at your stubbornness that was identical to his Soldier persona.

He says your name slowly. “Get off. You can walk away from this.”

You frown, but he continues, “I know how you feel. You’re feeling helpless.” He clears his throat, “There’s someone behind this version of you. I want to talk to her.”

“What are you talking about?” you utter in annoyance. “Stop stalling.”

He says that name again, with calamity and care. You want to rip out his tongue.

“Let me talk to her. Please.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” you shout, grabbing for the gun that’s strapped onto your waist. “Stop talkin–”

“I was in the cell next to yours. You liked the colour green. You were wearing white when we first met. You always wanted to visit Bucharest. You hated the leaky cold showers in the Siberian facility,” he rambles, trying to remember every single thing about you in a desperate attempt to get your attention so this version of you won’t shoot him in the face.

And for a moment, it works because your hand freezes on the grip of your gun. He takes that moment to flip you over, so you’re under him now, hands pinned above your head. He takes your gun and throws it behind him.

You snarl at him while trying to escape his grasp. “I know you’re under there,” he says. “Please, come through. Please talk to me.”

Your face scrunches in pain, not from him—he would never hurt you—but from the mental warfare that’s currently going on in your mind. You close your eyes as he speaks again. “Listen to my voice, you know me, don’t you? мой милая.”

My darling.

For a moment, your entire body tenses up and then you let out a painful breath. When your eyelids start to flutter open, he finally sees the eyes he came to know and rely on—eyes he came to love.

The both of you are looking at each other unblinking. A scene neither of you expected but always dreamt about.

You break the silence with a whisper of, “James?”

Bucky slowly nods at your disbelief. Finally, he thinks. But such respite doesn’t last long, because seconds later, you hook your foot under his and flip him over and escape his grasp.

There's darkness in your eyes and he can tell that the Soldate is back and the fighting resumes.

You’re chasing him down the twisting hallway and when you catch up, you grab his shoulder and throw a punch to his jaw. He stumbles back and then a voice comes through the comms.

“Just took down the second one.” Steve. “Bucky, how are you holding up? You’ve been quiet ever since we split up.”

He’s trying his best to block your hand, which now has a damn pocket knife. Your quick movements are starting to tire him out. Maybe he taught you too well, he thinks.

“Buck? Bucky. Confirm your status, right now.”

Groaning in frustration, he taps his earpiece. “I’m fine,” he grunts. A second later, “Shit!” he huffs out as you nearly slice his face.

“You don’t sound fine. Is she with you? I’m sending back up.”

“No!” he says, “Don’t send anyone. I can handle her.”

In truth, he’s struggling right now—your stamina has always been better than his—but he’s worried that you’re going to accidentally get hurt and even more agitated when people appear. His main priority was keeping you safe. Fuck the mission statement they talked about back on the Quinjet.

You’re angry—no, you’re extremely angry at him. It doesn’t take a genius to tell. It’s a mixture of pure rage from both the brainwashed and actual you.

He supposed he deserved it. You should be angry. Because for the longest time, it was you and him.

Other than turning you into a ruthless assassin just like him, an unexpected companionship also formed during those hazy in-between moments when the two of you weren’t frozen or on the metal chair getting fried by those machines—during the times when he was just Bucky and you were just you, two unfortunate innocent souls that shared the same suffering.

They weren’t pleasant moments. It was dehumanising. It was getting shoved into draughty cells with nothing but a blanket until it was time to train or time to embark on a mission. Luckily, your cells were next to each other and it made the endless nights a little more bearable. He was a little off-putting at first, but when he yelled at you to stop crying because they would torture you even more for it, you knew he meant well.

During your shared time together, glimpses of your true selves would seldom come up and you would tell each other about the little bits and pieces of a life once known. And the both of you would hold onto each other's memories and stories in case the other forgets.

And whenever they prep the two of you for the chamber due to there being no current missions for the time being, the two of you would look at each other—a look of longing with the secret squeezing of each other's hand before going under.

Despite the absolute awful situation the two of you were in at the time, the both of you were hopeful for the next shared moments together. Because even when all hope was gone, you had each other. And that was good enough for the two of you.

He misses you. So damn much.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

He didn’t even realise he said it outloud. “Well, I do,” he admits, his back hitting a wall.

“You talk too much, Soldat,” you say, creeping up on him. “I ought to cut your throat.”

“I’m sorry I left you with them.”

You halt in your steps and your jaw ticks. In a second, you pounce on him, your knife against his throat. He’s gripping your hand to stop you from continuing your job.

He says your name again. You’re pushing but he’s pushing back just as hard. “I’m sorry…” he repeats, “I’m so sorry.”

The desperation in his voice… You glance up at him slowly and he sees the pink forming in your eyes and your trembling lips. “What are you doing? What are you doing to me?” you whisper.

He sees the internal war behind your eyes once again. Bucky gulps for a moment before letting go of your hand, trusting that you won’t do any actual harm, and moves his hands so he’s cupping your face, firm enough so you’re forced to look at him. You look into his eyes for a second, then a minute, and for a moment, everything stops. Your breath hitches, because those eyes… those arctic blues… you know them. You fell in love with them many years ago.

A realisation washes over your face, one that Bucky doesn’t miss. You’re back.

The first tear falls. Then the second. “Bucky.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers.

You let out a small cry before you press the blade harder against his neck, your grip a vice from his betrayal. He could feel the sharp cold metal pierce through his skin ever so slightly, but he doesn’t try and stop you.

“Give me a reason to not kill you right now,” you grit through tears. “You left me. You left me behind to rot alone. You promised me. You fucking promised,” you say, voice laced with venom and so much hurt.

Bucky’s heart breaks at the sadness of your voice. Because he did promise. There wasn’t much to do in the cells other than throw around false hope. But whenever he told you he was going to escape one day and that he was going to take you with him—it didn’t feel like false promises at all because it wasn’t, and you knew it too.

Until he broke that promise and left you all alone.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to leave you there with them.”

“I waited for you,” you cry. “Day and night I waited for you to come back. Even when they relocated, I waited for you because I knew you’d find me.”

You remember that day clearly. Everyone was in a frenzy when the death of Alexander Pierce broke out and that they could not locate the Soldat. For a moment, you could taste your own freedom because government officials would come anytime now and finally arrest all these criminals. But right when they came, a few Hydra officers managed to escape and took you with them, and when you woke up, you didn’t know where the hell you were. But even then you didn’t lose hope because James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, the name you committed to memory, was going to come for you just like he promised.

Until days, months, and eventually, a year came with no sign of him.

You were angry at first, but it slowly turned into worry because what if something bad had happened to him? But what do you know? You were stuck in this building and only went out whenever they spoke those trigger words to you. And you were always under their watchful eyes, giving you no chance to even attempt an escape. Surely he would never break his promise to you so something must’ve happened to him, you told yourself multiple times.

But he was standing here right in front of you. Alive. We’re under attack, your handler said to you moments ago, Kill the Soldat before he kills you.

“You’re a liar. You never cared about me,” you hiss.

Sometimes, it got too much. But whenever reality was a bit too hard to endure, Bucky was there, always reaching his hand out to you through the metal cage, which you took and held tight. And it meant the world to you, that someone cared.

“All those moments, did it even mean anything to you?”

He uses this opportunity to pull your arms down slightly, knife finally away from his neck and his eyes start to sting from his own tears. “They meant everything to me. I care about you.”

You look up at him with a defeated expression and Bucky never wanted to punch himself in the face more. “Then why? Why didn’t you come back for me?”

“I did,” he chokes out. “When I escaped, the first thing I did was go back for you, but the facility had already been raided and there was no one there. I checked every inch of the building.”

Bucky had never felt so scared, because what if the government took you too? They would never understand—framing you as a villain even though that was far from the truth. But there was no news of your capture, so with a breath of relief, Bucky continued to look through other known Hydra facilities.

“I tried my best looking for you, but I also had to be careful because I was a wanted man at the time. When months passed by and there were no clues, I thought that maybe you had escaped. I was in Bucharest waiting for you. Remember how you said you always wanted to go there? I knew that if you escaped, you’d find me there. Even when you didn’t show, I never gave up. Steve… I think I told you about him once—he found me, he helped me and cleared my name. After that, I still searched for you but it all ended up being dead ends. And…” he pauses for a moment, “and so I thought you were dead. I should’ve tried harder. I’m sorry.”

He had mourned you and blamed himself endlessly for it.

He knows he should’ve asked for help, but instead, he took this task upon himself until it got too much—because that was the one thing he struggled with the most, asking for help.

When his side of the story finally comes to light, you break into a sob. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, “but please, drop the weapon and let me help you.”

You swallow hard at his confession. He never stopped looking for you. You didn’t even consider how hard it must’ve been for him after everything and yet you’re lashing out on him.

“How are you going to help me?” you say. “I’m a mess. All you have to do is say those words and I turn into a weapon.”

Twelve. Ember. Fragment. Nine. Academy. Order. Frigid. Yearning. Blue.

Those were your trigger words.

“I got you out of your trance, didn’t I?” he says with a gentle smile.

Hydra needed you to rebuild their empire and they relied on those nine words to do so. To them, those nine words were your greatest weakness but one of them, the last one, the one they liked to spit out in vexation, was also your greatest strength—your salvation.

Blue.

You think back, moments prior, when all he had to do was use his voice and all you had to do was look into the blues of his eyes. Hydra can repeat those words all they want, but Bucky would always be able to bring you back.

At that, your grip relaxes and the knife finally drops onto the floor, it’s noise ricocheting off the walls.

“There’s a place called Wakanda and I know someone there who can help you. Her name’s Ayo and she’s amazing. She helped me overcome my words.”

He brings his hands back up to cradle your face and you shutter at the familiar touch—at the calluses on his palms. “And I think you’ll like it there. It’s quiet and there’s so much… green.”

You let out a small laugh through your tears but doubt still fills your mind. “But… all the things I did,” you whimper, “I did such terrible unforgivable things. There’s… there’s so much blood on my hands.”

Sadness flares around his heart. It was all so familiar. He knows the feeling.

“It’s not going to be easy. God knows how long it took for me to believe that none of it was my fault. But let me be the first one to tell you,” he says, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “None of what you did was your fault. You were a victim.” He swallows a deep breath, “There are going to be days where it’ll be too much too bear and there are going to be nights where all those casualties will haunt you,” he admits. “But… but you’ll get there. Someday, you’ll learn to stop punishing yourself for something you didn’t do.”

And he vows that he’ll help you every step of the way.

You breathe out slowly, digesting all his words. “You can trust me,” he tells you, “I won’t let you down this time. I’ll be here.”

Blinking up at him, the small hesitant part of you so desperately wanted to say, “How can I trust you?” but his eyes were telling you everything you needed to know. Because it was filled with nothing but honour and truth.

He breaks away from you and reaches out his hand. An invitation. You stare at it for a while, then you slowly lift yours and brush your fingers amongst his before grabbing it tightly—a truce of sorts, a promise. He squeezes back in return, a loving smile on his face, just like all those nights many moonlights ago.

Your breath hitches when he pulls you into his embrace, your face burying perfectly into the valley of his chest. He wraps his arms around you in urgency, in fear, almost afraid you’ll slip out if he doesn’t.

“It’s over,” he mumbles into your hair.

Because two floors down an explosion erupts, finishing off the last remaining garrison of troops. Three hallways down, Natasha sets fire to a room that contained the other small red leather book that held those nine suffocating words written in Russian. Outside, the last Hydra officer attempting to flee falls to his knees from an arrow to the chest. And the only hope they had left to rebuild their regime was safely in Bucky’s arms.

He pulls away and uses his thumb to rub gently across your cheek, “It’s over. The war is finally over.”

Now that the worst is over, Bucky’s hopeful. There will be other conflicts to come, that was just how it worked, but this one, the one that held you and him underwater for years was finally over. War always took too much, but this time, it gave something back. Because among the ashes and ruins you came back to him, no more oceans in between.

“What do we do now?” you press nervously. You were taken at a young age and spent years in the Red Room before you were sold off to Hydra. Like Bucky, you’re in the wrong time period, there’s no one to go back to.

There’s so many things you could do, Bucky thinks. You can finally start living the life you deserved, the life that was taken from you too early. He’ll have to explain all this to his teammates but he knows they’ll understand. They treated him so well, there’s no doubt they’ll show the same kindness for you. Then, he’ll go with you to Wakanda, get rid of the words, maybe stay there for a while so you could heal—maybe show you the goats he took care of during his time there.

You’ll probably adjust to the 21st century better than him—you won’t need to start off with a flip phone, that’s for sure. He’ll make you listen to all the great records and watch all the movies you missed out on. There’s so many things he wanted to do with you. He knows you have no memories, no recollection. It didn’t matter, Bucky thinks, he would make new memories with you, ones worth cherishing and remembering. If you’ll have him, of course.

But first and most importantly, “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Then we can talk about it,” he says, rubbing the grime off your nose.

He grabs your hand and heads for the exit. But before he does, you pick up your knife from the floor and in one quick motion, you spin around and throw it. The knife embeds itself into the wall a few metres away, right next to a prying face. You stand in front of Bucky and stare at the intruder with a murderous gaze and Bucky’s heart races at the thought of you still wanting to protect him after everything.

The blond raises his arms up in surrender.

“Steve,” Bucky says from behind and you briefly recognize that name. You turn around to look at him and he meets your eyes, nodding. You relax your stance.

“Hi,” Steve says, voice slightly hoarse. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Bucky scoffs at him, as if he wasn’t eavesdropping the whole time.

Steve looks at the both of you, then a gentle smile adorns his face. “C’mon, the rest are waiting outside for you both.”

You step forward. This is it. Freedom. A new life. Bucky notices your hesitation as you suddenly stop in your tracks. Intertwining his fingers with yours, he squeezes with reassurance. You take a deep breath, then the two of you follow Steve to the exit, leaving behind the smoke and memories of your old life.

Outside, the sun comes up slowly but surely on the horizon, painting the awakening sky a gentle warm hue of oranges and pinks.

A new beginning awaits.

[gorjee-art]

"The Fisherman"

"I've made a routine of coming down to the bay to come visit my dear friend. Fish is plentiful here and the angler seems to charm the crayfish with the innards of our bounty, truly a master of the trade, to add, even a storyteller. Keeps me company with tall tales of how he once came from the sea itself until he himself fought with a fellow giller. "Put up a good fight, he did! Torn me face, me gullet in two! Damn harpy gave me an offer I couldn't refuse! The plunders of flesh that last forever, scavenger no more, he taught me to be a hunter! Taught me everything, ye see? I was swimming in everlasting bounty!" Hard to say if I believe him however, I wouldn't have believed I if I told the shepherd what I've become. He's generous to feed many mouths, and I cannot thank him enough when he spares a bit of fish for just a measly few coins for the tougher winter days. I almost feel as though...we somewhat understand each other, as farmer and fisher."

[sailoryooons]

Bust | KTH | (m)

☾ Pairing: Heistman!Taehyung x f. Reader

☾ Summary: Seeing a beautiful man in the middle of a bank robbery is unusual. Seeing him again afterward is even more unlikely… and yet not unlucky. 

☾ Word Count: 2,211

☾ Genre: Criminal, Smut, PWP

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: Bank robbery, light depiction of fear/anxiety, mentions of poor financial situations and money-related stress, recreational drinking, ‘good girl’ petname, explicit language, sexually explicit content including oral (f. receiving), biting, spanking, implied body worship kind of, a hint of overstim, bodily fluids and cum-eating. 

☾ Published: Monday, January 15, 2024

☾ A/N: This is an idea I randomly spoke about forever ago in a TikTok DM with @gimmethatagustd and this is strictly written to ruin their entire life tonight. I hope it works idk osifodigjoijg. 

☾ A/N 2: Tonight is number four for my 100 Drabble Challenge and I rolled number 24 for criminals! I hope you enjoy my depraved thoughts of Taehyung in that GOD DAMN SQUID GAME OUTFIT AT PTD. MY MASK KINK DOESN’T MAKE AN APPEARANCE BUT BE FUCKING SURE IT WILL ONE DAY. HE MADE ME INSANE. 

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Main Masterlist ☾ 100 Drabble Masterlist ☾ Ask ☾ Song Inspiration ☾

Sweat beads down your back, the trickle of it slower than the clock ticking above your head. Time seems to slow as you sit on a carpet that hasn’t been steam cleaned since the 80s and push yourself against the wall, eyes glued to the open vault. 

It had happened so fast and yet now, it’s like it can’t be over fast enough. Each second that ticks by feels like it takes a year. You cannot hear the chatter of the men inside the vault, but their harsh whispers raise goosebumps on your skin.

At least they haven’t noticed you. Not that you would do much, anyway. You have no intention of going over to push the alarm by the door, too afraid to alert the armed man who stands just outside the vault room on the other side, and far too underpaid to risk your life for a financial institution. 

For a moment, you wish it were you robbing the damned bank. Maybe you could pay off the student loans on your degree you’re not using and run the heating in your apartment during the winter instead of bundling up in several layers. 

Your momentary lapse of delusion passes as the men rush out of the vault, duffles in hand. They’re all dressed in red, black masks covering their faces with shapes on them. You’re vaguely aware that the costume belongs to some sort of show you saw online, but you can’t place them.

Perhaps you’ll watch it now.

“Hurry up,” one of the men barks toward the vault. There had been three inside, but only two came out. “Grab the last and let’s go. Two minutes left.”

They’re gone in an instant. Your eyes dart back to the vault where you can hear the last person inside. Glancing at the clock, you watch the seconds tick by. 

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. A minute. 

A man dressed in a red suit, hood pulled over his head comes out of the vault. As he slugs it shut with one arm, the bag on his shoulder droops, spilling the contents inside out onto the floor. Bands of cash fall out, thudding around his feet. He swears loudly and bends over, back slipping more to drop cash on the ground.

In his frustration, he crouches and tips the mask up a fraction, shielding his face from the camera above but not from you, huddled on the floor a few feet away.

Your heart skips. The thief is beautiful. Dark eyes focused on his task, a wide nose that fits perfectly on a symmetrical face with high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a pursed mouth. There’s a flush in his face from the heat, the tip of his nose an endearing shade of rose.

As if sensing your gaze, his head snaps up. You cower against the wall, realizing now that you’ve seen his face, you’ve doomed yourself. He stalls completely, gloved hand hovering over the cash, eyes boring into you. He arches a brow as if to ask you a question and you respond by shaking your head. 

The thief gives you a cocky grin, nodding before he finishes picking up the money and tossing it into the bag. He looks at you again, a smirk on full display before he winks and pulls the mask back down. “Good girl,” he purrs. “I like that.” 

Despite the situation, your stomach flips. He stands and rushes out, lingering by the door for a second longer to stare at you through the black mask. You can’t see his face, but you know you’ll never forget it, pretty as an angel, dangerous as a devil. 

When the group is gone, you wait in silence, only the pumping of your heart to keep you company. When the cops come and ply you with questions all you can do is shake your head repeatedly. 

I was too scared. I can’t remember. 

-

I was too scared. I can’t remember. 

It is the same thing you tell investigators for nearly two months. Just when you think they won’t keep asking what the man looked like, they finally drop it, handing over the robbery details to the FBI. They were at least a little less callous, caring a little less about how many questions you answered. 

If you had to guess, your unimpressive financial situation even after the robbery was significant enough that you weren’t involved with the robbery. 

It’s hard not to wish you had been. The straw in your mouth belongs to a drink that is far too expensive for you to not wince and it barely tastes like anything. At this rate, you know you won’t get a buzz. You’d love alcohol to take the edge off of the loud club music or loosen you up a bit, but you’re resigned to being sober for the rest of your friend's birthday. 

Around you is a gaggle of men and women, both people you know and new faces trying to pick up your friends. Anyone trying to hit on you has already decided you’re far too grumpy to waste time on, most of their backs facing you as people shout over the music about working in finance.

You wonder if they also rob banks in their spare time. It makes you grin, thinking fondly about the thief once again. You do that a lot.  

Sipping the drink, you glance at your phone. It’s been an hour since you arrived, but you’re wondering if enough time has reasonably passed to excuse yourself. Tomorrow is one of your few days off and you intend to spend it lounging on the couch watching TV instead of nursing a headache.

Someone slides into the space at the bar next to you. You don’t glance up at them, spinning your skinny cocktail straw absently as you stare at the melted ice of your Long Island iced tea. You hoped that once it melted it would turn into a second drink, but it hasn’t. Cold, bitter water it is, then. 

“Why the long face?” You frown at the vaguely familiar voice and glance up, freezing. 

Mr. Bank Robber looks down at you, cocking his head to the side with a wolfish grin. Your mouth pops open in surprise, leaning back a little as you drink him in. This close, he is far more beautiful than you remember, the edges and shadows of his face like a carefully painted fresco. Michelangelo could hardly be talented enough to capture this. 

“You,” you whisper, his grin spreading further. 

“Have we met?” he leans on the bar, dressed in all black. You eye the three-piece suit and the glinting diamonds in the cuff links. His clothes are far finer than anything anyone else is wearing and when you breathe in sharply, you smell a hint of woody cologne. His dark hair is slicked back and you catch the dainty hoop earrings in his lobes. You like the juxtaposition. 

“You know we have.” He tongues the inside of his cheek, turning his head to order with the bartender. His eyes stray to you, raising a brow. You supply him with your answer, “A long island.”

The bartender nods, momentarily stupefied by the heistman’s beauty before walking over to the POS, tapping the screen with the speed and aggression unique to bartenders. 

“Kind of a shitty club,” he mentions, looking around over the top of your head. Sweat clings to your lower back, your mouth growing dry as you watch colors splash on his face. “Your face is too pretty for a place like this.”

“Is that so?” 

“Mhmm.” The bartender puts the drinks on the counter and the man gives him cash, signaling to keep the change. The bartender raises a brow but says nothing, taking the money as he goes. “What’s your name?”

“You probably already know it.” He cocks his head to the side. “I’m sure you looked me up to see if I was a threat or watched me to see what I’d do.”

“You watch too many heist movies.”

“Maybe I watch just enough.”

He laughs at that and your lips twitch. It’s rich, making his face intimidating as he gives you a wide smile and shakes his head. “Alright, maybe you’re right.”

“Can I know your name?”

“For the right price.”

“My silence was a pretty petty, no?”

He bites his bottom lip, eyes dipping down and back up. You sip your drink, feeling a flush of warmth unfurl in your body, most notably between your legs. “I like you.”

“You have to like me. I know your secret.” 

Leaning forward, he ducks down so that he’s murmuring into your ear, hot breath ghosting your skin and making you tremble. “Want to hear more?” Your eyelids flutter as he waits, skin buzzing at his sudden proximity. You nod, feeling lightheaded. “My name is Taehyung. Want to get out of here?”

-

“Fuck,” Taehyung growls, hands skimming your bare sides. You can’t keep still under his gaze, hips squirming and fingers twisting in the sheets. His mouth is swollen and covered in your spit, his eyes blown as a large hand scrapes down to your thigh where he gives you a good slap. “I knew you were a good girl.”

A moan trips out of your mouth. Your thigh stings where he slapped you but he soothes it with the easy back-and-forth motion of his hand, his fingers digging into your flesh. Taehyung is a man starved, having littered your body with harsh kisses and bites, nearly breaking the skin.

You don’t care. You’re feverish for him, room spinning as you sprawl on his soft sheets in a hotel room that is far nicer than anything you’ve ever been in. You burn up like a star, core raging as Taehyung leans back down, pressing your naked thighs open for him as he sucks the skin of your chest between his teeth.

Everything aches. You want him so bad that you feel a cry come out of your mouth, lips wobbling as he laughs against your skin, sinking lower and lower, mouth loud as he sucks at your skin, tongue brushing over the sting of his teeth. 

“Does my good girl need her pussy eaten?” Taehyung rasps, looking up at you where he kneels between your legs. “Is that why you’re crying, hmm?”

Taehyung looks like something out of a thriller. His eyes are dark and hungry, his shadowed face becoming some sort of demon of lust. He’s what you would imagine a dark god. A bacchanal devil, a creature made for sin. 

All you can do is nod in response, feeling Taehyung’s vicious grip on your thighs as he presses you further, your muscles stretching. The strain feels good, as does the slow drip of your cunt down the curve of your ass mixed with his breath.

“So messy,” he murmurs, leaning forward and blowing cool air on your sticky folds. You squirm, the sensation sending you into overdrive as you twist your head to the side, eyes squeezed shut. He’s barely done a thing and you’re worked up more than you can ever recall. “Pretty.”

The slow, soft press of Taehyung’s tongue through your pussy makes you sag. It’s the relief that you so desperately needed, eyes rolling back as he circles your clit and drags his tongue back down. Taehyung is slow as he eats you out, tongue savoring every drop you can give him.

He taps your thigh, drawing your attention to him. He smirks as his tongue dips into your entrance, dragging back up to swirl around your throbbing bud a few times.

It’s impossible to tear your eyes away once you’re watching. Taehyung keeps his razor-sharp gaze on you, bringing his mouth fully to your cunt as he sucks eagerly. There is a rhythm to the curl of his tongue and the sharp suck of his lips, the wet smack of his ministrations driving you crazy.

“Mmm,” he hums, pressing his face in further. He’s messy with it, his jaw and nose covered in shiny slick. He laughs throatily when your back comes off the bed, thighs shaking. “Such a good pussy, just like I knew it would be.”

It feels too hot in the room. Your breaths are coming in too fast and there’s nothing you can do to catch it, Taehyung working you up to a frenzied, frenetic orgasm. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, pumping so hard that you think you might need to stop.

And then you break.

Your body seizes as you come, a scream ripping through your mouth as Taehyung slurps hungrily at your mess, spurred by your release. You can’t stop shaking as he dives in, unwilling to stop until you’re babbling, nearly lifeless as the orgasm teeters into overstimulation. 

Only then does Taehyung pull his mouth away, trailing wet, cum-spit kisses on your inner thigh, nipping your thigh here and there. 

“Think you can take more?” he asks, slurring his words against your thigh. “Think you can take my cock.” 

You nod eagerly, hand letting go of the sheets and reaching toward him. “Yes.”

“Mmm good. I’m about to bust.” He bites your knee. “And I don’t mean a bank, this time.” 

[81folklore]

heaven - PIASTRI - part 4

pairings: oscar piastri x private!fem!reader (fc: gracie abrams)

summary: oscars winter break as seen through social media

type: social media au (smau)

authors note: THEYRE BACK BABYYY!! ive missed these two so much so here 🤲 i spent a while trying to decide what i wanted to happen with these two (already have some plans) but i needed to post and my current wip is so frustrating 😕

authors note 2: its official theyre my favorites, i had sooooo much fun writing this, just two babies in love!!!! requests are always open and feel free to come chat!! (also i wrote this at 6am so sorry if there are any typos🫶)

heaven masterlist masterlist

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 9,289 others

always dressing up 🖤

📸 oscarpiastri

view comments

yourfriend3 actually insane

yourfriend7 you are so lovely

oscarpiastri how are you even real

yourusername babyyyy☹️

oscarpiastri 😍😍

yourusername 🤩🤩

user5 ur outfits are always unreal

landonorris is thought u were staying in tonight??

yourusername we are..i dressed up for fun😁

user7 THE WOMAN THAT YOU ARE

user18 SKWKZIWJJS

user93 my jaw DROPPED

yourfriend2 my favorite outfit of yours!!

user54 biggest question is if we’ll get winter break content😕

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, yourfriend1 and 13,279 others

my favorite time of year💫

view comments

oscarpiastri weenie waits for no one

yourusername heyy he likes sleeping in the warm☹️☹️

oscarpiastri still steals my seat😕

user54 oh my god

user3 DID OSCAR TAKE THOSE?!

yourusername yesss🫠

yourfriend6 see you soon!!

user68 the outfits NEVER disappoint

user2 im so ok

user26 THE FOURTH PHOTO??

user63 THE LAST PHOTO??

user5 you are so so pretty

yourusername thank uuuu🫶

oscarpiastri

liked by aussiegrit, yourusername and 436,742 others

life without racecars☀️

view comments

user54 OH MY GOD

user77 i may never recover

yourusername weenie and back photos oh i won *liked by creator*

landonorris ?!?!!?!

user2 LMAOOOO

user4 i feel ill i cant cope

user32 i need someone to love me the way they love each other

yourusername ☀️☀️

user9 the third photo..the THIRD PHOTO

user44 don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry

twitter

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 14,281 others

oscar oscar oscar

i hold so much love for you i often feel like its about to spill out of me, unable to be contained, and when im with you i let it. i let it fill the room and cover you until you really feel how much i love you

every day i wake up thinking about how lucky i am that i get to love you, that i get to live with you. its a blessing and im the luckiest girl in the world

ill never be able to fully explain just what you mean to me, just how much youve impacted and improved my life. everyday i find myself thinking of you and finding bits of you in places i least expect and then i get filled with this happiness that i only experience with you

you are the light of my life oscar piastri and i will love you in every universe, i promise

tagged oscarpiastri

comments on this post have been limited

oscarpiastri i love you more than words can describe, you have made me the happiest man alive

oscarpiastri i am in awe of you every single day and i cannot believe i get to spend them with you

yourusername 🩷🩷

op81priv

liked by yourusername, ln4priv and 37 others

the love i feel for you is infinite and is strong enough to keep me alive forever

you keep my heart filled with a love that ive never felt before and i will only ever feel for you

you’re my forever person, my bestfriend and i will love you until i cant love any more

comments on this post have been limited

yourusername oh oscar i love you so much

yourusername forever sounds perfect to me

twitter

yourusername added to their story

[ambermotta]

Protection Magic: Some Important Concepts

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Long post based on my experience and research. Meant to be informative. I don't claim to know the absolute truth.

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Protection magic is any type of work meant to protect A from B, and there are many ways that this can be done: prayers, charms, talismans, tokens, casting circles, setting up wards, visualization. The list can go on and on because it can be done in many different ways and combining many different methods.

But methods are not the topic of this post today. No, today I would like to talk about some key concepts to keep in mind before getting started on making protections and keeping them effective.

The Importance of Cleansing

Before doing any protection work I like to do a cleansing. Imagine you have an open water bottle, and because it was open, a lot of dirt has found its way into it over time. You decide to seal the bottle so no dirt comes in, but you don't pour out the old water, so you end up sealing it in. Yes, you'll keep more dirt from coming in, but the muck is still there.

It is easier to see this being applied to a physical location, but I personally also apply this to personal protective tokens. I feel they work better when you are taking care of your energies by doing regular cleanses and managing internal negativity.

Important Definitions

Protection ≠ Banishing ≠ Cleansing

I feel a lot of people are under the impression that these are all the same. I think they all work together towards a similar goal, but their jobs are different.

Protection: protecting something from something

Banishing: driving out entities

Cleansing: clearing out energy

You can do cleansing, banishing, and protection at the same time, but that doesn't mean they are the same. You can do a ritual including all of them, but you can also just do a cleansing or just do warding (which is a form of protection).

Note: cleansing is not restricted to “negative energy”. You can cleanse any kind of energy. Exemple: a friend of yours decides tarot is not for them and hands down their deck to you. If you wanna work with that deck it is highly advisable that you do a thorough cleansing of it and then infuse it/consecrate it with the energies you want. It's not that your friend has “bad” energy, it's just that you might not want to work with the same energies they have, or use a tool that has someone else's energy in it.

Not Necessarily a Lazy Job

One important thing with protection magic is that no matter how strong or how successful are at doing it is that it is not failproof. I have yet to see protection work that lasts forever, and there may be a few reasons for it.

Negativity also comes from within

Imagine you have a fish inside an open fish tank. Just like the bottle example earlier, you decide to put a lid on so you prevent leaves from falling into the tank and polluting the water. However, there's a fish, a living being in there, and it produces waste. It is impossible for the fish to live without producing waste. If you don’t regularly clean the water, ammonia and fecal matter will build up.

In this analogy, you are the fish. I am the fish. Humans literally cannot live without ever having a negative thought or feeling, it is part of our existence and we have to live with it. No one lives in constant bliss.

That doesn't mean we have to live in the muck though. That's why cleansing yourself is important.

No one is immune to the environment

Here I have another analogy for you. Imagine you're facing a harsh winter, but you are safe in the security and warmth of your house. Your house is protected from the cold so you don't even mind it. However, you have to go outside. You dress up, go out and you feel very, very cold. You could perhaps wear something warmer, but it will never feel the same as home. Yet it is better than going outside naked, no?

Same thing for energies. You can have protection, but depending on how strong the energy in the environment is you are sure to feel it to at least some degree. However it's best to have some protection than no protection at all.

And there is a difference between Feeling an energy and dwelling in it vs Feeling an energy and not letting it latch onto you.

Energy can wear off, and new energy can build up

Energy is ever changing, ever moving. If you do a strong protection spell once, it can last for a long while, but if you forget about it it will likely lose a lot of its strength over time. Some of what you put out there might wear off and be substituted by something else. The energy can also grow stale, which means it becomes less effective.

But if you do a strong spell every month you will not only make your protections stronger, but also constantly renew the energies and not let them stagnate.

So keep doing cleanses and every now and then give a boost to your protections so they are refreshed and recharged.

Note on "Negative Energy"

One of the main reasons someone might choose to do a protection ritual and a cleansing is to ward off negative energy. But is that really needed? What is "negative energy"?

Negative energy might feel like a sense of heaviness, dread, pain, sadness, feeling ill, angry, sad or anxious. Emotions produce and attract what we can call "negative energy", the same way it can make us feel those things.

And while I personally think nobody wants to feel them, we must understand they are not always bad at their core.

The uncomfortable feelings they can cause may also be a gateway for healing and transformation. Pain tells us there is something that needs to be worked on, that needs change.

If you are feeling negative, ask yourself why. Why does this bother me? What makes me feel this way? What can I learn from this pain?

If you happen to feel negative energy, it is good to cleanse and protect. But I advise you to always look for the source to see what can be done about it or what you can learn from it. Don't just try to use spellcasting to run away from your shit. Own your shit. Deal with it.

Otherwise, it will keep coming back no matter how much protection you have.

Conclusion

It is impossible to always be free from “negative energy” all the time, no matter how strong your protections are. But protections can absorb some of the blows that you would otherwise take and ease the ones you were going to take no matter what.

Protection magic alone will not solve all your problems. It is a great tool to help you keep your center and remain grounded, but it is not usually something you do once and forget. It is a continuous, ever evolving work, meant to be used in conjunction with other types of spellwork.

And most importantly, it can give you some comfort through the many trials of life.

Thank you for reading, and good luck on your path! ♡

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 13: Condemned From The Start] [Series Finale]

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

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), death, angsttttttt, more children than usual, Wolfman!

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.1k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the finale.🦀💚

In the Eyrie, one of Rhaena Targaryen’s three dragon eggs has hatched at last; the creature is small and pink, and she has named it Morning. When Rhaena’s tears fall onto the scales of her diminutive wings, they glitter like flecks of rose quartz. Deep within the snow-laden labyrinth of the Mountains of the Moon, Nettles is in hiding with Sheepstealer; already the nearby clans are bringing her offerings of meat and treasure, axes and clubs and daggers, hairpins carved from the ribs of enemies and necklaces made of bear teeth. Silverwing is settling into a lair on an island in the Red Lake at the northwestern corner of the Reach. Word of this has travelled back to King’s Landing, and Borros Baratheon implores Aegon II to seize Silverwing for himself; but the king does not want a new dragon. He wants Sunfyre back. That grim truth aside, Aegon is unable to trek across the continent to tame the beast anyway. Some days he cannot even cross a room. At the bottom of the Gods Eye, bodies are dissolving into bones, threads of long white hair breaking loose to flow in the currents like weightless strands of spider webs torn free by cold drafts. And only a few miles from the border of the Crownlands—preparing to cross the icy waters of the Blackwater Rush—the army of Northmen camps under a full moon in a clear, indigo sky heavy with stars like glinting coins.

“There are passageways under King’s Landing,” Clement Celtigar says. He stands by the bonfire with his sword in his hand, his face flame-bright and eager, forever licking up drops of the Kingmaker’s approval, a stray cat lapping milk splashed in an alley. Increasingly, Cregan Stark finds him tiresome. Clement is brash and dramatic, forever swearing vengeance, reveling in his newfound position as the head of his house. The Warden of the North has never had to beg for attention, admiration, acclaim. These things come to him like snow falls to the earth in winter: effortlessly, inevitably. Yet Cregan tries to be patient. Clement is soon to be his brother-in-law, and it is dishonorable to fail to extend courtesy to one’s kin. Furthermore, it seems, Clement has his uses.

“Are there really?”

Clement nods. He wears the banner of his house on a strip of fabric looped around his upper arm: crabs red like blood, a backdrop of white like snow. “That monster’s disciples used them to kidnap my sister from the Red Keep. But she fought hard. When we searched her rooms, all the furniture was upturned and the sheets ripped from her bed.”

“She is brave,” Cregan murmurs in agreement, though he is distracted now. The air tastes like smoke and ice, the wind rubs raw spots into the soldiers’ faces. They are arriving just in time. The depths of winter is no time to wage war. Cregan Stark imagines how you will greet him when he liberates you: a desperate embrace, hands that refuse to let go, whispered gratitude and breathless kisses on his earth-stained knuckles, bones of steel softened by the innate weakness of womanhood. You will love him, of course you will, fervently and entirely. Then when the realm and succession are secured, the Kingmaker will take you North and wed you in the tradition of his people, under the heart tree where the Old Gods can witness it. And then there will be the wedding night. In Cregan’s understanding, women receive little pleasure from the act itself. It is a burden they bear for the men they love, for the children they are divinely tasked with bringing into existence. Cregan Stark intends to alleviate your suffering in this regard as much as possible…yet he has already begun to choose the names of the sons he will make with you. He especially likes the sound of Brandon, sturdy and grounded and thought to mean leader or prince. “This is the last night your sister will ever spend in the clutches of the Usurper.”

“Praise the Seven.” Then Clement adds diplomatically: “And the Old Gods too, of course.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Cregan Stark says, gazing up into the night sky where constellations tell the stories men deem worthy of remembering. “And the start of a brand new one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“How did you learn to braid hair?” little Jaehaera asks you in her lilting, reedy voice like a bird’s. You are sitting behind her on the floor in Alicent’s bedchamber. Nearby, Autumn is flipping through a child’s book with Rhaenyra’s ever-solemn son, murmuring as she points to colorful illustrations of ravens, dolphins, bears, dragons, crabs. They are learning to read together.

“My sisters taught me,” you tell the princess. Firelight turns her silver hair to gold, her pale skin to flames. Logs crack and pop as they melt to glowing embers. Alicent glances over at you and sighs despairingly. The dowager queen, so thin she might disappear, is hunched in a chair by the fireplace. She has an unshakeable, rattling sort of cough that reminds you of how Sunfyre sounded on Dragonstone when he was near the end. Her long auburn tresses are falling out in handfuls. She will not survive the winter, this is a certainty.

“You have sisters?” Jaehaera says, surprised. “How many?”

You smile faintly as you weave her hair into one thick braid like the kind Aemond once wore when he went to battle. “Three. Piper, Petra, and Penelope.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back on Claw Isle, where I came from. With our mother.” Mourning Father, mourning Everett, writing letters to Clement to keep his spirits high as he and the Warden of the North march towards King’s Landing to slay the Greens’ king and bind me to a different man’s will.

“What’s Claw Isle like?” Jaehaera asks with a child’s clear, boundless curiosity.

“Rocky, misty, grey. But the ocean is beautiful.” You think of Aegon’s eyes, the same as his daughter’s, a murky storm-blue that is deeper than it looks.

“What brought you here?”

You consider this before you answer. You see it, you feel it: cinders like dark snow in the air, Aemond’s iron grip on your forearm. “When your father was burned at the Battle of Rook’s Rest, he needed someone to help heal him. Your uncle Aemond found me.”

“And he asked you to stay with us?”

He would have slit my throat if I said no. “Yes, he asked very politely, as any gentleman would. And of course I agreed. I wanted to make the king strong again. I wanted to take his pain away.”

Jaehaera stares down at her tiny hands, palms crossed with lines that are long and shadowy in the shifting firelight. She does not speak of Aegon. She does not know him, and he frightens her: the burns on his skin, the suffering in his glazed eyes. She has no memories to impress his true character upon her. If she does not make them herself, she will believe whatever she is told. “I miss Aemond. I miss Daeron.”

“I know, sweetheart.” They were formally laid to rest yesterday on two funeral pyres. Daeron’s bloodied, charred, seafoam green cape was burned to ashes on one. All that was left of Aemond—his favorite books, his quills and ink, small leather eyepatches from when he was a boy—were torched on the other. “I miss them too.”

Jaehaera’s braid is finished. You reach into a pocket of your emerald green velvet gown to retrieve what you have brought for her: a thin golden chain necklace with Aegon’s ring as a pendant. He can’t wear it anymore. His fingers are too swollen. “What is this?” Jaehaera says as you place the chain around her neck. She lifts the ring and peers at it, gold wings and jade eyes.

“It’s supposed to resemble Sunfyre,” you explain. “Your father loves you very much, Jaehaera. He wanted you to have this ring and keep it with you always.” Aegon didn’t say that; he rarely mentions Jaehaera at all. Sometimes you think he forgets she exists. But she is a part of him, she is his legacy, and you cannot look at any piece of her without seeing the man you love.

“He gave it to me? Like a gift?”

“Yes. A gift.” A gift, an inheritance, a relic, a reminder.

Jaehaera turns around and looks up at you hopefully, vast wave-blue eyes like winter oceans. “Do you think I’ll have another dragon someday?”

Her own infant beast, Morghul, was killed in the Dragonpit before Rhaenyra fled the city. “Maybe,” you tell her. “There are eggs that could hatch someday. And there are a few unclaimed adults left, Silverwing and the Cannibal. Perhaps you’ll tame one.”

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “What’s a cannibal?”

Someone who murders, devours, fuels their body to the detriment of their soul. “Someone who eats their own kind. Like a dragon who feeds on other dragons.”

“So just like in the war. Dragons killing dragons.”

“Exactly,” you say, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Now go show your new necklace to Grandmother.”

Jaehaera wobbles to her feet and dashes across the firelit bedchamber to where Alicent is slumped in her chair. “Look, look! It’s Sunfyre!” you hear Jaehaera chirping. Alicent examines the ring—skeletal hands trembling, large dark eyes slick with tears—and dutifully fawns over it, telling the little girl how beautiful she looks, how brave she has been. Then she bundles Jaehaera into her boney arms and holds her like she’ll never let go. Autumn catches your gaze from the other side of the room, and when you leave to return to Aegon she follows.

“What is your plan if the Greens lose the battle?” she says in the hallway under an arc of grey stones. Her tone is urgent, her hazel eyes sharp. Everyone knows the Northmen are within days of King’s Landing. Borros Baratheon—a large, loud, abrasive man, but with a bottomless appetite for combat—and his soldiers will march out of the city tomorrow to meet Cregan Stark’s army on the fields of the Crownlands, sparse and grey with winter. The Lord of Storm’s End has spent hours locked in the council chamber discussing strategy with Larys Strong, Corlys Velaryon, and the misfortunate yet courageous Tyland Lannister, maimed by his months of torture at the hands of the Blacks.

“We won’t.” We can’t.

Autumn slams her palm against the wall behind you; the sick thud of flesh against stone reminds you of the day Helaena died. “Wake up. We might. You’d better have your options figured out.”

And you recall Larys’ words on Dragonstone: I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable. “We’ll run,” you say weakly. “We’ll take Aegon and we’ll escape through the corridors under the Red Keep, just like he did before. Cregan Stark will kill Aegon if he finds him. I can’t let that happen. We’ll have to run.”

“Run where?” Autumn snaps pointedly, pushing you towards a conclusion you refuse to acknowledge.

“I don’t know.”

“Where? Where could we go that is beyond the grasp of your wolf if he seizes the capital?”

“Dorne, Essos. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“The king won’t survive a journey like that.”

You cover your face with your hands, feel the biting cold of snowflakes melting in your hair, see the stains of earth on your thighs as Cregan Stark forces them apart. How can I lie with a man who hailed the deaths of people I loved? How can I spend the rest of my life listening to him being called a hero for killing Aegon? How can I give him children? How could I love a baby that was half-made of him? “We ran before. We’ll have to do it again.”

Autumn scoffs. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman on your own in the world. What will you become without a great house, without protection? A prostitute? A peasant? Will you eat scraps covered with rot or mold? Will you live in a tree? Will you beg some family to take you in? And then when the father who is oh-so-gallant in daylight starts fumbling under your blankets once the candles are blown out, will you let him inside you? Or will you fight him off and risk a blade in your guts, your throat? You have no fucking idea what it’s like out there.”

“I don’t care what happens to me if Aegon’s gone.”

“You would abandon Jaehaera? You would abandon me?” Autumn demands. “You speak for us now. You are the only one who can. Our fates are twisted up with yours.”

That’s true. And I promised Helaena I would look out for her daughter. You can’t imagine a life without Aegon; there was a time when he was only a name—and an infamous one, a terrible one, soulless and monstrous—but now he has broken down the eaves of what you were once resigned to call your life and painted colors in the sky you’d never glimpsed before, never even dreamed of. You ask Autumn with genuine, painful bewilderment: “What is the point of learning that something exists only to have it taken away? Why would that happen? Where is the justice in it, where is the reason?”

Autumn smiles, sad and patient. “Ah, this is an affliction of the highborn. You still believe that there is a design, and that life has some amount of fairness in it. There is no divine judgment being passed, my lady. There is no god weighing the worth of your dragon or your wolf or yourself. Life is random, and it is ungovernable, and it is very often cruel. And that makes it all the more remarkable that you knew the king for the time you did. That you ever met him.”

It wasn’t enough. And I can never go back to who I was before. “I’m sorry. I should not complain to you. Your losses have been terrible.”

“It is no contest,” Autumn replies, weary now. “But I should go back to check on the children. They need me.”

“No. They love you.”

And now she beams, sparkling eyes and copper ringlets. She doesn’t need to say it, you can both feel it in the winter-cold air. She loves them in return. She loves them fiercely. As long as they live, she will have reasons to.

When you reach Aegon’s bedchamber, Grand Maester Orwyle is just leaving. He bows to you and grins, pleased that you have both survived the fall and retaking of King’s Landing. He is haggard from his months in the dungeons when Rhaenyra ruled the capital, but he endured. Who would have guessed at the start of this war that the old man had more years left than Aemond or Daeron or harmless little Maelor? You wait in the hallway for the maester to amble sluggishly by, but then when he is gone, you peer through the slit of the half-open door to see that Lord Larys Strong is speaking to Aegon, who is propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows and wearing only his cotton sleeping trousers. He is thin, frail, ghostly pale with the exception of the scars that are a mosaic of white and scarlet and bruise-like violet. Aegon and Larys have not noticed you. You linger just outside the doorway, watching, listening.

You can take care of Aegon as much as you wish now: feed him, clothe him, clean sweat from his brow, dose him with milk of the poppy, rub rose oil into his scars, stretch his legs, test the heat of his skin for fever. He’s too weak to stop you. He can’t walk, can’t stand, can’t stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, can’t even pour his own wine or milk of the poppy; the glass bottles are too heavy when full. Yesterday, Aegon had to be carried outside in a litter to see the remnants of his brothers burned on the pyres. And he had exchanged a brief, somber glance with Autumn that you neither anticipated nor understood. He acknowledges her so rarely. And yet her small hazel eyes had been alarmed, knowing.

Larys is saying with a grave expression and his restless hands propped in the handle of his cane: “Lord Borros Baratheon is asking for your assurance that as soon as the war is won, you will take his eldest daughter Cassandra as your wife.”

Aegon stares at him, incredulously, impatiently. Aegon has not called you his wife in the company of others since his homecoming. You do not ask why. You already know. It is not because his intentions have changed; it is because if he is not the victor, your life is in less danger as his captive than as his queen. “Surely even a man as brainless as Borros can surmise that there would not be much benefit for the lady now. I am a worm. Useless, pathetic, deformed, no longer virile.”

“He is willing to take the chance, I gather. And he is placing his eggs in more than one basket. He would like another daughter, Floris, to be married to me.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon mutters. Then he turns determined. “I cannot marry another. I won’t do it. I am claimed already, body and soul.”

“I fear how enthusiastically Borros’ men will fight for you if you do not agree to the match. He is risking his life for your cause. He will expect generous repayment.”

Aegon is quiet for a long time. He stares fixedly at his bedside table: a full cup, a large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. His dagger is still there from when you cut and braided his hair for him this morning; he cannot do it himself anymore. At last Aegon says, almost too low for you to discern from the doorway: “He’s not cruel, is he?”

“Who? Borros Baratheon?”

Aegon glares at Larys. “No.”

After a moment, Larys realizes what his king means. “Cregan Stark isn’t cruel. I’ve heard many whispers from many mouths, but I’ve never heard that.”

“Look at me. Don’t lie to me.”

“He isn’t cruel,” Larys says again. “Perhaps the truth is worse. He is measured, competent, merciful, wise. He is honorable. The Manderlys want to torture everyone and the Boltons itch to sharpen their flaying knives but Stark forbids it. He respects the laws of war. He tries to avoid the slaughter of noncombatants. He forbids his men from burning farms or raping women. He is devoted to the woman you call your wife. He takes no mistresses, visits no brothels. Cregan Stark is not a monster. He’s not soulless. He’s just on the wrong side.”

Aegon nods slowly, then his face breaks into a humorless smirk. “Tell Borros Baratheon that I’ll marry whichever daughter he wants me to when the war is over. I’ll marry all four if that is his preference, and bed them all on the wedding night too, one right after the other. Agree to anything he asks for. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

It doesn’t matter because none of it will ever happen, even if the Baratheon army does win the Iron Throne for the Greens. It doesn’t matter because Aegon does not believe he’ll still be here in a month, or two weeks, or perhaps even days.

But he can’t mean that. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, you tell yourself, before remembering that Aemond said it first.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Larys is subdued, sorrowful. He bows deeply to his king. Then he turns to depart.

“One more thing,” Aegon says, gesturing to something on the side of his bed you can’t see from where you’re standing. “I hate to impose upon you further, but I can’t manage it myself. Can you take that and empty it somewhere? I don’t care where. But you must keep it hidden from my wife. The red-haired girl Autumn knows, and so do the maesters now. They are all sworn to secrecy. Can I trust you to exercise the same circumspection?”

Larys is gaping down at an object that is a mystery to you. He begins to stammer out a reply, stops to collect himself, and starts again. “Yes. Yes you can.”

“Good.”

Larys picks up the object; you are puzzled to discover that it is a chamber pot, white and porcelain. And as he navigates around Aegon’s bed and towards the door where you wait, you see that the vessel is full of blood.

You gasp before you can stop yourself, a razor-sharp inhale of breath that both men hear. They spot you, lurking in the doorway like someone lost, someone far from home. Shock bolts across Aegon’s face, and then frustration, and then defeat, and then profound misery.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew…I knew you’d be upset and I…I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, Angel.”

“How long?” you ask again. “Just since this morning?”

“Four or five days now.”

“Four or five…?” Your mind whirls like storm winds. He’s dying. He’s really dying. His kidneys are failing and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cut him open and stitch him back together. There’s no wound to scrub clean with vinegar and then bandage with honey and linen. There’s no brew that can restore the rhythm of his blood and bones and nerves. He’s just dying. That’s all there is. That’s the beginning and the end of it.

“Please don’t cry,” Aegon says, reading your face. “Don’t do that, please don’t, I’ve hurt you enough already.”

His hands stretch out to close the space between you, and as Larys slips from the room you go to Aegon, climb into bed beside him, collapse into him as his arms catch you and rest your head against his bare, scarred chest, his feverish skin mottled with the history of wounds you helped close all those months ago. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go after Baela and Moondancer on Dragonstone. I should have stopped you. I should have dragged you inside the castle to wait until Aemond and Vhagar could help you. I shouldn’t have let Aemond go to Harrenhal. I shouldn’t have let Daeron fly south. I shouldn’t have let Autumn go back to King’s Landing, and I shouldn’t have let Everett stay there. I shouldn’t have let Helaena leap from the window. I should have stopped Maelor from being sent to the Reach. I should have stopped Rhaenys and the Red Queen from taking flight to burn you in your armor at Rook’s Rest. I should have stopped this! I should have done something! The only good thing I’ve ever had to offer the world was healing but I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop their suffering, I can’t do anything!”

“None of it was within your control, and none of it was your responsibility. I am the king. The fate of my kingdom and my followers rests with me. I wear their spilled blood, not you. I am so full of red I’m overflowing with it.” And he chuckles, sardonic, exhausted. He’s already battling unconsciousness again; you can hear his heartbeat slackening, the slow laborious expanding and contracting of his lungs.

“Aegon,” you say softly, as if afraid to speak it into existence. “What happens if the Baratheons don’t win tomorrow?”

“They will. They have to. There’s nothing I can do for you if they lose.” Then he winces and groans. It’s his back again, his failing kidneys, overrun with so much ruin—burns and breaks and pressure and heartache—that their cadence faltered and then ceased. You grab his cup of milk of the poppy and tilt it against his lips; and how many times have you done this since you met him, burned nearly to death and half-mad at Rook’s Rest? A hundred? Aegon drinks it down, his arms still tight around your waist. They do not loosen until he’s out like a snuffed candle.

You refill the cup on his bedside table with milk of the poppy in case he needs more when he wakes, pick up the dagger you use to cut his disheveled hair, take it to the dresser. And in the cascade of silver moonlight flooding in through the windows, you practice laying the gleaming blade against your wrists, pressing it to the throbbing arteries of your throat, angling the sharpened point of it between a gap in your ribs and towards your racing heart.

Autumn. Jaehaera. Aemond’s child that Alys carries. I still have promises to keep. I still have tasks that cannot be left unfinished.

Helaena’s words surface like a drowned man dredged from the waves: You must whisper into the right ears.

You set the dagger down on top of the dresser and roam to the castle library where Aemond once spent so many hours. You collect a stack of anatomy books and carry them back to Aegon’s bedchamber. There, before the roaring fireplace, you devour them for any scrap of hope, any last resort. You turn pages until one illustration stops you. It is an unclothed man, his major veins etched in blue and his arteries in red, his nerves a faded yellow, his bones white and unshattered, his body a roadmap of the bricks and mortar used by the architects of nature. You have seen this image before. It is the same page Aegon teased you for studying when you were travelling by carriage back to the capital from Rook’s Rest.

You rip out the page, crumple it violently, pitch it into the fire and watch it burn.

~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn, Lord Borros Baratheon leads his men out of the city. You hear them through the glass panes of the windows, closed against the winter chill and flecked with frost: boots marching, hooves of warhorses clomping against cobblestones. They carry with them swords and spears and bows and morning stars like the one Criston Cole was famed for using. Meanwhile, throughout the city, civilians are arming themselves with anything they can find to ward off an invasion of Northmen, creatures they believe to be bestial and mindless. Men carry kitchen knives and clubs fashioned out of bits of furniture or driftwood. Women hide their young children in cupboards and under creaking wooden floors.

“I should be going with them,” Aegon says. He’s just taken another dose of milk of the poppy and is struggling to keep his eyes open. His long, slow blinks close his vacant eyes for ever-increasing intervals. You’ve changed his clothes and cleaned the sweat from his skin as best you can, but he’s burning from the inside out.

“You’re not able to fight, Aegon. Nobody faults you for that. Everyone knows you were wounded in battle.”

“They must think I’m a coward.”

“No, you inspire them. They love you. I love you.”

Aegon doesn’t say it back. He never says it back. He only offers you the same drowsy, mournful phrase of High Valyrian he always does, not knowing that Aemond told you what it means: To your misfortune.

Autumn is with the children in Alicent’s rooms. The castle is tense and as quiet as a crypt—Alicent weeps soundlessly, Larys paces the halls with Corlys and Tyland Lannister, everyone peeks out of windows constantly to see if bannermen of the victor have appeared on the horizon—but she keeps them distracted with stories and games. You cycle between Alicent’s bedchamber and Aegon’s. He is in and out of consciousness; sometimes you perch beside him on the bed, sometimes you lie curled up against him counting the beats of his heart, sometimes you help Autumn read to Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger. It is just after noon when the city bells begin to toll and screams rise from the streets outside the Red Keep. You and Autumn hurry to a window. In the distance, beyond the city gates, there is a swarming mass of infantry, cavalry, archers. Their banners, when you strain your eyes to decipher them, are not the brazen, vivid yellow of House Baratheon. They are night black and an icy, steely grey. They are the colors of House Stark.

“No,” Autumn says, denial in a protracted, helpless exhale. Alicent shrieks, frightening the children. You grab Autumn’s hand and lead her out into the hallway to warn the others if they don’t know already.

Lord Corlys Velaryon comes bounding up a staircase. “There are soldiers down in the secret passageways!” he booms. “Northmen! Armed! I’ve helped our guards bar the doors, but that won’t hold them back forever.”

Autumn looks to you. “Get the children ready to travel,” you tell her. “Find Larys and inform him.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, and is gone. You sprint in the opposite direction towards Aegon’s bedchamber. You blow the door open like a strong wind, and Aegon startles awake. You rip through his dresser for things he will need: warm clothes, boots, his dagger, bottles of milk of the poppy.

“Get up, Aegon. We have to go. We’ll run, we’ll flee, there are Northmen in the tunnels but we’ll find another way out, we have to try, we have to, if they catch you they’ll—”

“Come sit with me,” he says from the bed, calmly, like you have all the time in the world. He is reaching out for you with one hand.

“What? No, we have to hurry—”

“Angel,” Aegon says. “I need you to come sit with me now.”

Why isn’t he afraid? Why isn’t he frantic? You cross the room with slow, numb footsteps. When you reach the bed, Aegon takes both of your hands in his own. And suddenly you know exactly what he is going to say. You remember what he told his brother in High Valyrian the last time Aemond left Dragonstone. Your voice is trembling and hoarse. Your throat burns like embers. “Aemond was supposed to be here to help us win. But he’s gone. Daeron, Criston, Helaena, Otto, Everett, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Autumn’s baby, so many people are gone.”

Aegon whispers, smiling softly as tears spill down his cheeks, one scarred and the other pure: “I’m not going to get better this time.”

“No,” you moan. “No, Aegon, no. You can’t say that, you can’t tell me that—”

“I’m not going to get better.” Now his palms cradle your face, forcing you to listen. “I’m not. And it’s okay. I’m not angry, I’m not scared. You’ve done everything you could and you’ve bought me more time and I’m so grateful. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore. I’ve been in pain for so long. I’ve been in pain my whole goddamn life.” He kisses you, like tasting something rare and fleeting. His thumbprint skates along the curve of your jaw, memorizing the angles of your bones, the rhythm of your pulse. “Please, Angel. I don’t want to try to run and die on the side of the road somewhere. I don’t want to die with Cregan Stark’s blade at my throat.”

You shake your head, unable to believe, unable to understand.

Aegon glances to the empty cup on his bedside table, to the large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. Then his eyes return to you. “You know how to do it.”

No. Never. But beneath those cold, dark, stormy waters: It would be painless. “I can’t,” you say, overwhelmed with horror.

“Listen, listen to me—”

“No—”

“Angel.”

“I can’t do that to you. Not to you. I can’t, I can’t.”

“When I’m gone, go to Cregan Stark,” Aegon says. “He is an honorable man, he will ensure your survival. He is the only person who can now. He wants to put his mark on the world. He wants to play Kingmaker. Let him. He can decree that my daughter will marry Rhaenyra’s son and ascend to the Iron Throne. He can end the war. Cregan will keep you safe. Tell him that I kidnapped you, that I forced myself on you. Tell him that I wanted an heir with Valyrian blood. Tell him that I was a drunk, a degenerate. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”

“You would become a monster?”

“To protect you? I would become anything.”

He’s holding you, he’s pulling you into him until you can feel the fever bleeding from his flesh into yours, until you can number the knots of his spine and the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, counting them with your fingers through the sweat-drenched fabric of his cotton shirt. You draw back to look at him, to really look at him, sunken bloodshot eyes and rasping breaths, scar tissue of the body and the soul. You remember the day you met him, how he’d begged to die and been refused, how you brought him back. You postponed a debt, but you never paid it. It’s not possible to ever pay enough. You stack up gold coins in a vault until they touch the ceiling and still the Stranger comes knocking, jangling his purse sewn with scorched skin and chanting: more, more, more.

Aegon glances to the cup again. “How much?” he asks you, hushed like a prayer.

You don’t answer. Instead, you stand and go to the dresser. You open a small wooden door beneath the mirror. Your reflection is a woman you don’t know, someone who walks through fog and memory, someone made of ghosts. You take four clean cups from the cabinet and set them on Aegon’s bedside table. As he watches—eyes glassy with agony, lungs rattling—you fill them all with smooth, pearlescent, lethal liquid, as well as the empty cup that was already there. “Five,” you say, and it sounds nothing like you. “I think three at once would be enough. Five to make sure.”

He sobs with relief, and only now do you realize how badly he needed this. “Thank you. Oh gods, thank you.”

Your own words come back like an echo: I preserve life, I don’t take it. But that was a different lifetime, a different you. Aegon’s fingers are lacing through yours. He is drawing you back onto the bed, he is brushing your hair back from your face, he is kissing the path of tears down your cheeks so he doesn’t waste a drop of you. He’ll never get another taste, another chance; not in this life, not on this earth.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the end with you,” he says. “I really tried.”

“I know, Aegon.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

He looks down at his left hand, then remembers where his ring has gone. He chuckles, darkly, bitterly, dismayed by all the failings he is built of. “I don’t even have anything to give you.” Then he remembers. “My dagger. Can you get my dagger?”

You are petrified. “Why?”

He grins, dull teeth beneath dazed eyes. “I’m not going to hack off a finger or my exemplary cock or something. I promise. Just get it.”

You fetch the dagger and bring it to the bed, and only then do you realize what he means for you to have. He points to it, then threads it through his pale, swollen fingers: his thin lock of hair that you’ve been weaving for him since the day you met. He wants you to take his braid.

“You’ll have to cut it yourself,” he says. “I don’t think I can.”

You hook the blade beneath the top of his braid, and with a few cautious slices of the dagger it is free. You tuck the braid into a pocket of your gown, thick black velvet to guard against the winter cold. Then you lay the dagger on the bedside table and pick up one of the cups filled to the brim with milk of the poppy. Your tears are scalding and torrential; it is almost impossible to see through them. You smooth back Aegon’s white-blond hair as you pour the blissful, deadly brew through his lips and down his throat, hating yourself, knowing it is the kindest thing you can do for him.

Suddenly, when the cup is half-drained, Aegon pushes it away. “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to watch,” he says. “I can do the rest. Go, now. Right now. If the Boltons or some other house finds you before Cregan does, they might not recognize you. They might not care. You’re only safe with Cregan Stark. He has to find you first.” Aegon takes the cup with one shaking hand and presses a palm to your shoulder with the other. You haven’t moved. You can’t move. “Go. Leave me. Now. Please go. I love you, but you have to go now.”

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“You have to.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“Angel,” he says tenderly, smiling. “I’ll see you again. Just not too soon.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and you kiss him, traces of milk of the poppy on his lips that deaden the thunderstruck horror faintly, powerlessly, like small clouds drifting over the sun.

“If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

The dreams, you think. “Okay,” you say again, barely audible.

“Now go. Right now. Go.”

You wipe tears from your face with your sleeve as you turn away from him. You can’t look back; if you do, you’ll never be able to walk out of this room. You take the dagger from the bedside table. Your bare feet pad across the cold floor. As you step through the doorway, on the periphery of your vision you can see Aegon swallowing down each cupful of poison as quickly as he can. It won’t take long to stop his heart. Minutes, perhaps. Seconds. You walk into the hallway. Autumn has just arrived with Jaehaera’s tiny hand clasped in her own. A few paces behind her, Alicent and Larys stand with Rhaenyra’s son. Two orphans without choices, two pawns in a much grander game.

Autumn is panicked. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Then she takes another look at your face. Her eyes go wide with terror. “What? What happened?”

“Follow me.” Your voice is low, flat, dark like deep water. Your eyes flick briefly to Lord Larys Strong. “Keep the boy here. He’s not safe with the smallfolk yet. But the Northmen won’t harm him.”

Larys knows. It’s over. He is devastated; and yet you think a part of him might be relieved as well. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m not the queen anymore. I never really was.” You give him Aegon’s dagger. “I don’t think you’ll need this, Lord Larys, but now you have it in the event of any danger. Or in case I can’t convince Cregan Stark to spare you and you decide you’ve had enough of this world. You should get a say in how your life ends. You’ve earned it.”

Then you break away from them and glide through the Red Keep, Autumn and Jaehaera trotting swiftly behind you to keep up. You pass the rookery where Aemond wrote his letters. You sweep through the gardens where Helaena loved to collect her insects. You gaze down to the beach where Daeron landed on Tessarion under a dazzling sun before winter came like a plague to King’s Landing. From inside the castle, you can hear Alicent wailing as she discovers her last child’s lifeless body. What was all of this for? Why did this have to happen? Why didn’t anybody stop it?

Out on the streets of the city, the smallfolk have flocked with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes from the Northmen. But their eyes are darting everywhere and their faces are uncertain as they clutch their clubs made out of the legs of chairs and their rusty kitchen knives. They haven’t decided if it’s futile. They don’t want to be butchered for nothing.

“That’s Autumn!” they shout and sigh, especially the women. “The mother of the king’s bastard son, the one murdered by the half-year queen!” They reach out to skim their hands over Autumn’s gown, her long coppery hair, as if she is a saint or a spirit who can impart good luck upon them, who can change their fates. They fall to their knees to bow to Jaehaera, their king’s only living child, and she blinks at them with benign confusion.

But the smallfolk have a different reception for you. You hear their venomous chattering: “Is that the Celtigar woman?” “Her family put this city through hell.” “They served Rhaenyra.” “She’s a traitor, she’s a thief.” A few of them venture close enough to tug at your gown, to strike at you. A woman’s knuckles rap against your cheekbone, raising a bruise there like lavender in a dusk sky. You think dully: I wonder if they’ll gouge out my eyes with those knives like they did to Everett.

“Get back!” Autumn hisses, shoving the smallfolk away. And when she speaks, they listen. “She is going to the Wolf of Winterfell. She is my protector. She is your protector now too. She is the best chance you have left.” And the crowds open up and the three of you pass through King’s Landing unimpeded, though cloaked in thousands of fascinated gazes.

The King’s Gate has been abandoned; the guards must have feared the Boltons’ flaying knives or Lord Stark’s dark justice. Autumn instructs several hulking men of the smallfolk to open the gate if they wish to be spared from the wolf’s wrath. They are reluctant at first, but do as she asks. When the massive doors creak open, the people of the capital huddle behind the wall and peer out skittishly as you, Autumn, and Jaehaera advance to meet the Northmen, who are bloodied from battle and now within a hundred yards of the city. Above, the sky is thick and iron-grey and frigid. Snowflakes—the first of this winter to touch King’s Landing—begin to fall and land in your hair, and you are reminded of how embers rained from the smoldering pine trees at Rook’s Rest.

“Can you catch one on your tongue?” Autumn asks Jaehaera, and the little girl giggles as they both try.

The Warden of the North rides an immense, shaggy warhorse at the head of what remains of his army. He recognizes you immediately, dismounts, approaches with determined, unbreakable strides. Clement is close behind him.

“You’re alive!” your brother shouts joyously. “And apparently not pregnant with a Targaryen bastard! Praise the gods!”

Cregan Stark does not act as if he’s heard this. The Warden of the North is not as you remember him; he is larger, heavier and broader from the muscles won in battle, coarsened by weather and war. His hair is long and dark and pulled back from his face. He wears a sword at his belt that is taller than you are when it’s unsheathed. He is entombed in leather and furs. He does not hesitate before he lays his hands you. You are betrothed to him, you are his property, would a man ask before he grabs his horses or his dogs?

The Warden of the North does not seize your forearm roughly like Aemond once did. Instead, his massive palms and fingers clasp your face as he marvels at you. You can feel the stains of dirt and ashes he leaves there. You want to scream when he touches you, but you can’t. You want to burn with rage and heartache until you crumble like ruins. Your life is already over. Your life has just begun.

“You have suffered greatly,” Cregan Stark says, a marriage of shock and reverence.

“You have no idea.” Perpetual Resurrection, you think. It doesn’t mean you come back better. It just means you’re still here.

“You are safe now,” Cregan swears. “The Usurper will never harm you again.” And it ends the same way it began: with a man mistaking your allegiance and beckoning you into a destiny that he wholeheartedly believes is greater than any you could have envisioned for yourself.

“He’s dead.”

This stuns Cregan. “When? How?”

“Today. Of old wounds sustained in battle.”

He looks at Jaehaera, noticing her for the first time. “Is that his daughter?”

“Yes,” you say. “She must always be treated with kindness. She must be protected.”

“You have an affinity for her,” Cregan notes, intrigued.

You hear Aegon’s voice, so clearly it cuts like a blade: Tell him whatever he wants to hear. “We have been through great trials together. We survived the same monster.”

The Warden of the North nods. This is a story he craves to be told. “Very well. If it is your wish that she not be discreetly disposed of as a Silent Sister, I will betroth her to Rhaenyra’s surviving son. They will unite the noble houses of Westeros and end this war.”

“The worst of the Greens are dead already. Those who remain should be shown mercy. Alicent is old and ill and broken from loss. She poses no threat. She should be permitted to remain in the company of her granddaughter. Corlys was loyal to Rhaenyra until she falsely imprisoned him for treason, and he belongs on Driftmark with Rhaena. Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, and Grand Maester Orwyle, if no pardon can be arranged for them, should go to the Wall instead of the scaffold. And Autumn, my companion there with Jaehaera…she was a true friend to me. I owe her my life several times over. She must be permitted to stay with Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger as a caretaker, and reside in comfort in the Red Keep for the remainder of her days.”

“Who do you think you are, sister?!” Clement exclaims. “You’re speaking to the Kingmaker, not some handmaiden! You do not command him!”

“I am not commanding,” you counter levelly. “I am pleading for mercy on behalf of imperfect souls who showed me kindness during my captivity. If granted, I will consider these my wedding gifts.”

“She is remarkable, is she not?” Cregan Stark says, grinning to Clement and several other men who have ventured closer. They wear the sigils of Northern houses: Bolton, Cerwyn, Manderly, Hornwood, Dustin. They chuckle in agreement, stroking their wild beards with huge filthy hands. “Dauntless but merciful. Clever but obedient.” And then the Warden of the North claims your lips with his, chaste but overpowering, the first of a thousand kisses you never desired, a thousand acts of affection for a woman who isn’t really you, feigned resignation and bitten-back rage, eternal war with the interminable knowledge that there is something more, more, more…you just aren’t permitted to have it. It was taken from you, it was ripped from your hands like stolen treasure.

All your life you will have to murmur in wounded agreement when people recount the terrible sins of the Usurper. All your life you will have to praise Cregan Stark for killing millions to rescue you. And the days will pass, weeks, months, years, summers and winters, the births of your children and their own marriages; and when Cregan’s boy Rickon, born of his first wife, produces only daughters, your son Brandon and his descendants will become the heirs to Winterfell. In the desolate North—so far from the ocean, so far from everything Aegon ever knew—your greatest solace will be letters from Autumn as she learns to read and write, books that your husband orders for you from the Citadel, setting bones and treating burns, a tiny lock of braided silver hair that you keep in a hidden drawer of your jewelry box, dreams that you never want to wake up from.

But one day, decades after you leave King’s Landing, you will receive a raven from Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, and she will ask you: You knew the Greens in your youth, Wardeness Stark. You knew Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, Alicent, Otto, Maelor, Aegon the Usurper. What can you tell me of them? What was my father like? Who was he really?

And you’ll pick up your quill and begin writing.

[flickeringflame216]

there are little green shoots of daffodils poking up through the snow btw!!!! if you even care!!!!

[aois-amaterasu-painting]

Ruki (on X):

From January to July, so many things have happened.

Amidst the whirlwind of days, I questioned what is right and what is normal? While swaying between emotions and reason, I was constantly making various choices, and desperately running through each day.

In such times, I was supported solely by everyone's concerned voices and the words "I love you."

Thank you always.

And although it's been a while, I wrote on Instagram. I hope this reaches everyone who loves me. ✉️

It's been about two months since my last post.

Seeing the closet still filled with winter clothes, I realized that this year, for me, there was no spring. Time stopped in winter, and then summer came.

I noticed that I had been putting off such a basic thing as living, and I finally did a long-overdue wardrobe change the other day.

Life is built on daily choices, an accumulation of decisions.

Only you can decide if those choices and your life are right or wrong.

The responsibility for your life is yours and yours alone.

I feel that trying to conform to the standards of "normal" for others will only make you feel more miserable when you are going through a tough time.

It's the same for everything; it's okay not to be "normal" as measured by someone else's standards.

No matter the relationship, I believe it's impossible to fully understand all of someone's inner struggles and pain. Fans' pain and our pain, human wounds vary from person to person.

Therefore, the way and speed at which wounds heal also vary for each person. The way you accept things too. It's okay if it's not the same.

Because the heart is a place that cannot be seen from the outside, others can't understand those wounds, and in fact, even we ourselves cannot measure how deep our wounds are.

Everyone, might be forcing a smile on the outside, and when they come home, no one sees the emptiness they are feeling, and they probably don't want to show it to anyone.

The way I've spent my days, I was told, wasn't very human-like, but I think that's okay.

Now, rather than sadness, I feel loneliness.

Because I am human, I know that I will meet them again someday.

So, thinking that way, I am accepting it now.

Although I feel lonely without Koron and Reita, for now, goodbye. This reminded me of when I wrote the lyrics for QUIET.

And when the day comes that we can meet again, I want to live in a way that I'll be told, "You lived a good life."

In reality, there are four of us now, but not as a mere illusion; another face is vividly present in my mind.

So, the feeling of being five members is not a lie. That will surely be forever.

After thinking about it all, I've come to the conclusion that I need to start living each day in a way that will leave a lot of proof that I lived.

I want to create music and things with more love than ever before.

Although my core approach to making music hasn't changed, what I feel I want to draw and leave behind now has changed significantly.

I want to cherish every moment, even the most ordinary ones, like taking pictures of everyday life, going to different places and feeling the scenery, the smells, all the things that I can only feel at that moment.

And if you're feeling overwhelmed right now, I think it’s okay to put everything on hold and take a break without overthinking it. It’s okay to stop pushing yourself for a while.

If I hadn’t taken a step back, I wouldn't have reached this mindset.

Then, bit by bit, listen to music you love, visit places that bring you joy, and heal your heart.

I'm gradually doing that myself too.

I hope everyone can find their own way of healing.

And if this band, the GazettE, can become something that saves or heals even just one person, I will overcome anything.

To me, everyone who waits for us is my reason for living.

The only place where you can let out everything you can't express in daily life, I believe, is at live concerts.

So, I hope we can share that extraordinary space where we can shout and make noise together as much as possible.

I've said it before, but there will be more opportunities to meet from now on. Or rather, I will make them.

I want to increase the time I can enjoy with everyone who loves me, so please wait for it.

Next is Toyosu PIT announcement, so please check it out.

Thank you for reading such a long post. I'll write again

2024.07.18

[dreamingofep]

Behind the Curtain: A Sinned Awakening Story🩸

An AU Elvis fic

(Vampire!Elvis/ Vampire Austin! Elvis x reader)

Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: Getting promoted to be Elvis full time housekeeper, you realize the man holds secrets beyond belief and your undeniable attraction makes you tear the unknown. [Fem!Reader]

TW: Cussing, mentions of blood, SMUT,

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Hello again! I have found some inspiration regarding Vampire!Elvis 🫣 I've had this idea for a while and thought to make it a stand alone one shot but why not make it part of the Sinned Awakening universe? I think it works well considering what goes on in this part😉 Elvis is on his worst behavior in this one... you've been warned hehe.

If you'd like to start from the beginning, start here or Ao3! hope you enjoy and message and comment what you think.

Las Vegas, February, 1974

You could hardly believe that it was a year, almost to the date, when you first met Elvis here in Las Vegas. It felt like another lifetime since you first saw each other and fought that undeniable attraction. Through struggle and heartache, you both could not deny the connection you had. Now you were a vampire too, madly in love with Elvis Presley. More in love than you thought was ever possible. He constantly reminds you of that fact too. How he cannot believe you are his and drowns you in his love. 

He was about to open his winter residency at The Hilton tonight. He was as usual, very nervous and couldn’t contain it. You tried to stay backstage to calm him down. He said you made him feel more relaxed when you were right next to him. But the other issue on hand tonight was that he hadn’t been feeding. He took rehearsing so seriously for these shows and put all his time and energy into practicing these last few weeks to make this the best show anyone has seen. You tried to gently remind him to take the time to feed but he always dismissed it. He would assure you he was fine and would feed later but of course, he wouldn’t. You can sense how hungry he was just standing next to him. He was trying to focus on getting mentally ready for the show but the overwhelming scent of blood from every human in the audience was driving him insane. 

It was almost time for the curtain to go up and you had to get to your seat. Jerry was waiting to escort you to the ballroom and take his seat with you. Elvis didn’t trust anyone anymore and was forever paranoid that someone would try to take you again. Even with you being a vampire and stronger than ever, he didn’t want to take a chance. So any show you went to, Jerry always accompanied you. He was always such great company and never complained he had to escort you anywhere. 

You tell Jerry you’ll be right there and quickly pull Elvis to the side. 

“Baby, are you okay?” You ask low, squeezing his hand. He looks at you nervously, his eyes darker than you’ve seen in a long time. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just nervous that’s all,” he says flatly. 

“I know. But you still haven’t fed have you?” You say bluntly. 

He looks down and shakes his head no. You reach for his face to look back at you. 

“It’s okay. You’re going to have an amazing show tonight. Just focus on me. If you can’t control your thirst up there, focus on me. That’s what I’ve always done and it always helps,” you try to assure him. He nods his head and smiles at you sweetly. 

“Then after the show you better feed,” you scold him. 

“I will. Thank you, baby,” he says leaning down for a kiss. 

You go walk with Jerry and take your seats in the center booth, your usual spot. The house was packed and was buzzing with excitement. There was a lot of anticipation for this engagement. The public was noticing a very different Elvis. He wasn’t the usual recluse who would avoid people at all costs. He wasn’t locked up in the penthouse for hours on end anymore. Elvis liked to be out and primarily show you off around town. It was a nice change. You were glad you could bring the more adventurous side out of him. 

The band starts to play the opening riff and the crowd bursts in applause. Everyone is on their feet including yourself, waiting eagerly to see him come from the wings of the stage. You hear his heart racing away and he takes a deep breath before stepping onto the stage. The audience somehow gets even louder when they see him emerge with his white fringe jumpsuit and green macrame belt. It even has your jaw on the floor. Something about seeing him on stage with the dozens of lights on him somehow makes him look more attractive. Hell, you had seen him naked but something about him on stage in a jumpsuit had you incredibly weak.

He picks up his guitar and puts the strap on around his shoulders. He grabs the microphone and pulls it toward him, spreading his legs slightly as he stands there. His voice booms through the speakers and sends chills through you. He was so electric without even trying. His leg won’t stop shaking and it only draws your attention more to those impossibly long legs. 

It was an hour of nonstop hits and some new songs he’d never performed live. He was just sensational. It never failed to amaze you to see him on stage and do what he does best. The crowd was rowdy and loved everything he did. How he would tease the audience, walking slowly to the edge of the stage to the screaming fans and quickly walking in another direction, leaving them begging for him. Or how he would move his hips in the most subtle of ways and leave everyone drooling for more, including yourself. You didn’t care how many times you saw him, there was no denying how that man would make you feel when he moved. You could feel the blood rush to your core if you thought about that for too long. You try to pull yourself together and not make it noticeable to Jerry that you are feeling a certain way about Elvis’ performance. 

Can’t Help Falling in Love starts playing and Jerry motions for you to follow him backstage. The gold curtain dropped and the crowd was going wild for Elvis. He kneels on the floor with one leg stretched out, along with his arms and his head bowed. It was quite the thing to see. The most simple act of showing his appreciation to his fans. He gets up off the floor and everyone from the band congratulates him on a great show. You wait patiently to greet him. He deserved to be acknowledged by everyone. After some time, through the sea of people, you see him there. His hair was wet and his jumpsuit clung to his body. Your eyes meet through the crowd and your heart hammers uncontrollably. His eyes lure you in and make you feel like a puddle. Oh God, you know what the look means…

He walks through some of the crew and goes straight for you. He picks you up and holds you tight. 

“Come here mama,” he whispers seductively in your ear. 

Goddamn it, he just can’t help himself, can he? He wants you to lose all control right here right now. 

“You were incredible honey! I couldn’t believe what you did up there,” you say as you hug him tightly. He sighs contently when he feels you pressed against him. 

You feel his hands tangle in your hair and pull you in by the nape of your neck. He kisses you fervently, igniting a blazing heat inside of you. You cling to his wet body, needing to be as close as possible to him. He starts to walk backward, his lips never leaving yours. He pushes back through the black curtain that separates the band from the storage area of the backstage. 

You quickly look around and see lots of sound equipment and storage containers for the band’s instruments. You glance back at Elvis and see that devious, dark, hungry look in his eyes. It makes you quiver. With a motion of his finger, he lures you in and beckons you to get closer to him standing in the corner. You willingly walk over to him feeling like putty already. His hair was an absolute mess and his chest glistened with sweat. He looked like he had just been fucked but you hadn’t laid a hand on him. Yet. 

He was impatient and pulled you in quickly, pressing you to his body again. You softly groan with the way he’s touching you, urgently and unrelenting. He starts to kiss your lips again, groaning when he does this. His whole presence has you drowning. He was so on edge and adrenaline still pumped through him after completing such a stellar show. 

You feel the hard concrete wall press against your back and Elvis’ hands squeeze any part of you he could touch first. He puts his hands on your hips and covers your face with kisses. Those lips will always leave you feeling breathless. 

He leans into your ear, “I’m starvin’,” he groans. Your heart hammers away by just that notion. 

You pull your hair to the side and expose your neck to him. “Go ahead baby, it’s okay,” you encourage him. You hear him take a deep breath in and suddenly feel him lick the side of your neck. You groan at the sensation and pull at his jumpsuit’s collar.

“I’m starved for all of you,” he groans as his hands go lower and brings your leg up to wrap around his hip. You feel his cock begin to get hard, pushing into your body and making you weak by the thought of having him.

He starts to ravage your neck with kisses, nipping and sucking at the spot where he wants to bite. You can’t help but get turned on by all of this, the way he was desperate for you was more than you could ever ask for. You feel his hands scrunch up your dress around your hips and his fingers find your aching bud. You gasp at the sensation and hold onto him tighter. 

“Elvis, oh God,” you moan. He doesn’t lift his head from your neck yet, he is still fully wrapped up in your scent while his hands find new ways to make you a weak mess. You then feel his fangs enter your neck and you have to sniffle the moan he made you produce. He makes satisfied grunts as he starts to drink your blood, holding onto you tighter and teasing you more with those fingers. He was enjoying every second of this. He lifts his head up and you watch as he licks the dripping blood that falls down his bottom lip. His eyes looked much brighter and he had more life in his face. But he still looked dangerous. He was looking at you like he wasn’t quite done. He wasn’t completely satisfied. 

You hold your breath as he looks at you like this. You’re unsure what to do or say right now. He takes a step back from you and eyes you up and down. You watch as his fingers start to unlace the jumpsuit. Your heart nearly stops when you realize what he’s about to do.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You whisper in a gruff fashion.

He doesn’t answer you, he just keeps looking at you like he did when you were human. You didn’t know it then, but he was on the verge of draining you when he looked at you like that. Lord, those heated looks should have killed you right then and there and they just might tonight. The laces were untied and he started to unzip the rest of the suit.

“What does it look like I’m doing baby?” He says low with a smirk on his face.

“Elvis right here? No, we can’t. Someone can walk by and catch us,” you panic, still hearing the hum of the crowd and chatter of the band members beyond the curtain.

He starts to shrug his arms out of the suit and looks down at how his cock is fully hard now, begging to be let out. God, you were a dead woman. You take one look at him and you’re ready to sink to your knees for him. He pulls down his jumpsuit a bit and you watch as his hand reaches in it to pull his cock out. 

“Elvis, please,” you whimper. You’re not sure what you’re asking him at this point but you can’t handle any of this.

“You’re gonna be a good, quiet little girl for me okay? That’s how we’re not gettin’ caught,” he says seductively. You can’t tear your eyes off of him, his whole presence right now is dominating and you love it too much to stop it. He takes your hand and has you wrap it around his length. Without even thinking much of it, you start to jerk his cock, watching the pleasure wash over his face. It was addicting to see him so turned on. It didn’t matter how many times you were with him intimately, you couldn’t contain the pure shock that went through you as you touched him and felt the size of him. The heat that came off of him was overwhelming and he was throbbing in your hand. 

“Fucking hell baby,” you gasp. 

“You’re gonna let Daddy fuck you right here,” he growls in your ear. You freeze, you had never done something like this and you knew you were not prepared for any of it.

“Take your panties off for me,” he commands. His voice made your core throb and you looked down at his length. Precum started to come out of him and you couldn’t think any rational thoughts. You pull his foreskin back and spread the sticky fluid all over his tip with your thumb. He grunts and pulls away from you quickly. 

He grabs your face in his hand to get you to look at his intimidating eyes and sharp fangs peeking out from his upper lip.

“I won’t ask again. Or do I have to rip them off with my teeth?” He growls. You whimper in agony, not ready for this man. 

Your silence speaks volumes and he lets out a frustrated grunt. He lifts up your dress and he starts to sink to his knees. He nips at your thighs with his fangs and draws blood. He licks at the wounds greedily and inches closer and closer to your core, leaving little marks of his fangs all over your legs. You open your legs a bit wider, hoping his tongue might pay a visit to your aching bud. But he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted, he was only going to do what pleased him.

You watch helplessly as he bites at the elastic of your panties and tears them off of you in one motion. He lets them fall at your feet and you tremble uncontrollably. He looks back at you with a hungry stare, not liking that you didn’t listen to him. 

“Always so difficult hmm? A good girl listens to me when I tell her to do something,” he hisses. You nod your head at him but it’s too late, you didn’t listen and you’re sure he’ll make you pay for it. He lifts you up and has you wrap your legs around his hips as you’re pinned to the wall. The grip he has on your thighs is tight and you can feel how bad he’s dying to fuck you. You feel the tip of him hover at your entrance and your eyes are blown wide, silently begging him for forgiveness. 

“Baby please, I-I-I’ll listen. I’ll be good.” You try to beg but he doesn’t listen.  

He swiftly enters you and you yelp at the forcefulness of his hips. You gasp for breath as he stuffs you with his cock. He quickly covers your mouth with his hand and continues to move inside of you. 

“Good girl,” he grunts, “Take Daddy’s cock like only you can,” he says with a devious smirk. Your eyes roll back in your head at his tone. 

He fills you hard and fast, giving you no time to adjust around his substantial girth. He revels how your sopping wet cunt hugs his length tightly with every thrust. You cling onto his shoulders and hold onto him for dear life. The only thing you can hear is the sound of you two breathing, trying to keep it together, and the sound of his cock plunging into your wet pussy. It was all torture. You wanted to move too but the grip he had on you was too tight for you to do anything. He takes his hand off of your mouth to watch your face drown in pleasure. He looks damn good like this. His hair was such a mess and was so concentrated on you. 

You’re stuffed to the hilt and his hips move in short, powerful thrusts, hitting that spot inside you that can make you come on his command. You can’t stay quiet. He was killing you and he knew it. His hips were unrelenting and driving into you like he had never had you before. You tilt his head to the side and sink your teeth into his neck, muffling the scream he’s made you produce. He groans softly at your actions, finding it all amusing that he’s made you such a mess. 

“Doing so good baby girl. You like how deep my cock is?” He groans in your ear. You dig your nails into his back, unable to handle what just uttered from his lips. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he chuckles. 

Each movement of his hips made you hold back loud moans you couldn’t help but make. You were biting down hard enough on his neck to draw blood and let the delicious taste of him coat your tongue. You slowly drink his blood and feel your orgasm looming. 

You take your fangs out of him and press your head to the wall, writhing in agony. You watch Elvis’ face smugly look at you and enjoy every second of this. You were so close to finishing, you felt your body become weaker and weaker with every thrust of his hips. Your ears suddenly pick up the sound of footsteps walking in your direction backstage. Your whole body freezes, petrified of someone walking by. 

“EP, you back here?” A man’s voice calls out. 

You look at Elvis terrified, you want to run away as fast as you can. He doesn’t let you budge though. He shakes his head at you and continues to hold you tight. 

“I could have sworn I saw him go back here,” another man said. You recognize it’s Jerry. Damn it, no. You claw at Elvis’ arms, begging him to stop. He moves slowly but it is still so agonizing and a small whimper escapes your lips. His eyes flash a warning at you and proceeds to put two fingers to your lips. 

“Shhh…Open those pretty lips baby,” he whispered. You helplessly do as he asks and he pushes his fingers into your mouth. 

“Suck baby and be quiet,” he says, his voice low and gruff. You eagerly do so and swirl your tongue around his long fingers. His face looks intoxicated from what he is seeing you do. You slowly suck on them, liking to see his reaction to this act. His eyes don’t leave you for even a second.

“Fuck, just like that honey,” he praises. His hips drive into you harder and your eyes roll back, feeling yourself about to come undone. He was unrelenting and on a pursuit to make you come regardless if people were walking around backstage.

He pushes his fingers further into your mouth and stuffs you to the brink with his cock. You come hard and your walls squeeze around the base of his cock. You see fireworks behind your closed eyelids and your whole body shudders. He can’t hide how good you feel around him and his jaw drops when he feels you come. He can’t hold on much longer either and burrows his face in your neck, hiding his own muffled groans. 

“Goddamn baby,” he growls. He thrusts his hips into you once, then twice and you feel his length twitch inside you. He pours his warm, thick load inside of you and groans into the crook of your neck. You gasp for air and your walls squeeze around him again, loving to hear how good he feels. He moves in and out of you slowly, making you both writhe because of how sensitive you are. 

He lifts his head up to see your spent expression on your face. He takes his fingers out of your mouth and goes to kiss you. It was passionate and sloppy and you loved it. You moan into his mouth and pull at his wet hair. You look into his beautiful eyes and see how he can’t get enough of you. He gently takes his cock out of you and sets you back on the ground. Your legs feel weak and cling to his body as you try to regain your normal breathing. 

He kisses the top of your head and makes a soft chuckle.

“You alright lil’ darlin’?” He asks coyly.

You look up at him with a mischievous glimmer in your eye. “Yes Daddy,” you say defiantly. Your hand wraps around his length and you slowly rub his head. You knew he’d be too sensitive to handle this and smirk to yourself. His hips buck into your hand and his face is shrouded in agony.

“Woman I swear to God-,” he growls. You stop briefly and hum softly.

“What baby? I'm being good, I swear,” you tease.

You pull down your dress and start to walk away from him with a smug smile on your face. You knew you got under his skin and you were amused by it all. You don’t make it very far backstage before you feel Elvis pick you up and throw you over his shoulder.

“Elvis!” You yelp. He chuckles low and makes quick strides to exit the backstage and into the elevator. He swiftly sets you down and presses the button for the penthouse. He smirks at you and takes your face in his hands as the elevator lurches up.

“It’s going to be a long night mama,” he murmurs, placing a kiss on your lips.

*

*

*

Tagging:

@neptuneismysister @velvetelvis @ccab @presleyenterprise @theresalwaysep

@prompted-wordsmith @sillybookmarks @dkayfixates @ellie-24 @rktismylife-blog

@myradiaz @tacozebra051

@thatbanditqueen

@flwrs4aust @emma181873

@austinswhitewolf @eliseinmemphis

@everythingelvispresley @chasingwildflowers @idontwanttoputanything. @ohjustpeachy_

@elvisalltheway101 @austinsmutler @kingdomforapony.

@generoustreemystic @claire-elvisgirl

@ashtag6887 @burnthheparaphilia @richardslady121

@jaqueline19997

@returntopresley. @iloveelvis @rimartin11@that-hotdog.

@louisejoy86 @misspresley @cattcb @annapresley8

@arrolyn1114 @raginginkedslut @epthedream69

@mh777ep1938

@50sexyshadesfashionista

@oldhOllywOod @hooked-on-elvis @livelovedilfs @sloppiest-of-jos

[hai7ani]

橘 (TACHIBANA/JÚ) haitani rindou

nsfw (smut) mdni

masterlist | playlist

part i / what would you do for love?

You think the summer of 2008 is bittersweet.

You did a lot of things back then -- finishing your gap year after graduating last summer and working a part-time job at a Family Mart in central town. Applied for countless of universities in Tokyo while questioning if it was really what you wanted to do. Experienced your parents' divorce and watched as your father cut ties and left you and your mother alone to pick yourselves up piece by piece. Lost your virginity to a boy you liked a lot and got your fragile heart broken by him after.

Not everything from that summer was bad -- you just don't like thinking about it a lot. There were good times and new experiences; yet the memories of you and Rindou will forever over-shine them and it always gets so awful that you'd prefer not to think about it so often because it only does nothing but makes your heart ache whenever you're reminded of that day and the day after.

A random afternoon in July and the two of you are spending the day kissing each other stupid in his childhood home. Rindou tastes like peppermint and tobacco and you cannot get enough of his lips -- so you keep on kissing him until your lips are tired and sore and he decides to pause for a moment to look into your ocean eyes.

You both come from a small town located in Kanagawa Prefecture. The people living there are warm like summer and were never cold like the winter; families care for each other as their own and that's also how you've come to know these two boys.

You grew up with the two sons of Mr and Mrs Haitani -- just born a year after their youngest and you follow them everywhere they go; from watching them play basketball at the park to climbing rooftops together of random shop lots in town.

One particular activity you enjoy doing with them is having competitions on picking mandarins at the nearby orchard, and you will always hold those moments dear to your heart despite everything else -- because you were never good at picking mandarins but there will always be Rindou beside you sneakily throwing in a couple extras in your basket when the time's running out and Ran is loudly boasting about his basket full of the citrus. And you'll look into Rindou's and notice there isn't anything inside, because what was once in there were now in yours and he ends up having to clean Ran's room for a week as his punishment for not getting any. And the two of you will meet eyes when the older boy isn't looking -- he'll fist bump you, "I got'chu," with a bright, handsome grin and you'll always blush in return.

The boys left for Tokyo as soon as they turned 14 and 15 and they seldom come back home for visits. You don't see them a lot, just during the summer when they spend a few weeks over with dyed hairs and different piercings and when it happens you always get so happy because you get to leave their house after with a few gentle kisses snuck to you in the kitchen while your families are busy chatting on the dinner table.

This summer, you're 19 and Rindou will be turning 20 soon. Ran had just turned 21 in May and it makes you feel a bit sad when you think about it -- the three of you used to hang out every day while fooling around at the park and talking about the future and now all of a sudden they're in their 20s and you don't talk a lot.

The brothers are spending the holiday back home and when the news broke you immediately ran over to their house, your flip flops loud against the tar road and the boys hear you before they see you. You hug Rindou first, Ran next and the older boy says he got you something and you grin brightly at his words. Rindou tugged you behind when he made sure Ran is walking ahead and is not going to look back and he kissed your rosy cheek as a greeting. You giggled into his back and he simply pulled you along by hooking pinkies and he'd only let you go when his parents were in sight.

Then on, you stop by whenever your hands are free and you always bring something with you whenever you visit -- their mother has always loved a good gift and it never fails to have your heart warm and flutter when she pulls you close and kisses your cheek for your sweetness. You brought watermelons today -- Grandpa got a good deal from a family friend and said to take some along and give it to the Haitanis when you go.

Two empty cans of Asahi and neatly cut triangles of the fruit sits in a porcelain plate on Rindou's desk, all left untouched and soggy because neither of you thinks that watermelon is sweeter than each other's lips.

And they're chasing each other -- yours and his. Red, swollen, and a bit purple too from the teasing bites and harsh sucks you give to each other, but you don't seem to care and he pulls you close to his face again to sigh dreamily into your mouth when you sit on him just right.

If his mother were to come up here and ask for the plate back, you're sure she'd scream and yell and hit the both of you when she finally finds out what the hell is actually going on with her youngest and the girl living down the street who have been hiding in his bedroom with the door locked all day. You figure it'd be considered filthy -- you're sitting on top of Rindou who so obviously has a very difficult boner that's needs to be taken care of and you're grinding your hips on it slowly.

He moans when you press down harder and his hands fly down to your waist and he grips your meat tight. He holds and keeps you there and he rests his head on your shoulder.

You think it's a bit complicated between you and him. It's not like you're dating. You're nothing like a boyfriend and girlfriend relationship -- you've never had that talk before. You've never confessed your feelings either. And yet he treats you so differently than he does to the other girl living down the street -- Himeko, who have always treated him nicer than usual. She's nice to Ran, she's nice to you, but she is so much nicer to Rindou and it makes you see red sometimes whenever you spot them both standing in an alleyway and she passes him a bento box she prepared that morning or some handmade keychains she learnt at a workshop in school.

But Rindou will reject them every single time and you'll always get giddy when he walks over to you and ruffles your hair. "Let's go." And he pushes you forward with a hand pinching your nape.

Rindou sends you a gift every spring without miss and he writes you letters sometimes because you've told him before that you don't use the Internet often. There will always be a few snacks and keychains attached in the parcel; sometimes it's box and sometimes it's a big brown envelope. It depends on what he sends but big or small, you don't mind. You don't care. Because they're from him -- the letters are handwritten, gifts are handpicked and his hard-earned money were spent. It is all that matters.

You hide and kiss each other behind doors or when you think people aren't looking. You were 15 when you gave him your first kiss in your bedroom after you both had a little bit too much of his father's stolen beer to drink but he tells you he doesn't regret it the next day. You shook your head with a smile and said that it was never a mistake. You're not too sure if the kiss was his first too, but you remember that he was blushy when he inched closer to your lips and stamped a firm kiss on it. Rindou was 16 when he kissed you for the first time and you always hold it dear to your heart.

Since then, Rindou kisses you whenever he can and you always return it while pressing a thumb into his bicep as affection -- he's told you once he doesn't like it when people touch him there because he is training but he never pushes you away when you do it. Instead, he smirks and wraps a hand behind your neck.

Rindou never does those things to Himeko; he only does them to you.

And it makes you feel so special even though you've never established anything -- you're not exclusive. But he always holds your hand when he walks you home after waiting for you to finish summer school and he carries your bag on one shoulder while your swing your hands back and forth.

You're straddling his lap and Rindou lips part to say something but you're feeling a bit cheeky. You feel like teasing him because he's got a stupid smirk on his face. So you jerk your hip forward just a little and he moans. All the smugness on his handsome face disappears and a mouth-opened moan breaks through his lips so loud you had to clamp a hand over it to make sure his pretty noise doesn't travel any further -- you definitely don't want anybody to be catching the two of you like this right now.

He rests his head on the headboard and half-lidded eyes peer at you. He sticks his tongue out to lick your palm and you wipe it on his shirt with a scowl and he laughs. You're busy getting his saliva off your hand and he takes the chance to admire you -- his pretty girl who he thinks is so sexy right now with a strap of her tank top falling off her shoulder and the hem of it run up beneath her breasts, bun loose and stray hairs framing her pretty face.

And despite the rough and brave demeanour he presents to all the people who aren't you, Rindou is nothing but putty in your arms when he slides sneaky hands under your tank top and squeezes your mounds. You're shy when he fondles them like stress balls and you gasp when he pushes them up a little and squeeze even harder.

Rindou feels as though he's falling in love with you all over again.

But he doesn't tell you that.

Instead, he dips both thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and he pushes it down. He's blushing when the red of your lace is exposed and you're bold when you reach for the condom on his nightstand and put it to his mouth. He takes it as a cue to bite down on the packaging and rips it open. It's torn and you see the condom inside, but you don't take it out -- not yet.

A hand moves down to his exposed dick and your touch is electric when your pointer grazes along the vein running up to his angry tip and it turns dangerous when you wrap your hand around and give it a few pumps and strokes. He moans at the stimulation and pre-cum leaks from the slit and rolls down his shaft.

You think his dick looks so pretty.

You finally let go when you're satisfied at teasing him to take the rubber out with shaky hands and he watches with cloudy eyes as you roll it down his thick length. You drooled a little when you first saw it -- it's big and long and thick and you weren't sure if it was gonna fit. But he kisses your concern away and tells you to trust him -- and you trust him the most -- so you do. And you believe him when he tells you it wouldn't hurt so bad if you relax and let him do all the work.

And it didn't. It really didn't hurt at all when he pushes it in -- just a bit breath-knocking when he bottoms out and you whine into his ear that it feels good when he moves his hips like that. Rindou continues fucking you that way until you feel something funny bubble up in your abdomen -- you've touched yourself before and you're sure every other girl of your age has, but you've never felt anything like this while doing that and it makes you panic a little when it gets stronger and you doubt you can take it anymore.

"R-Rin, feels weird." Your mouth is ajar with soft gasps escaping and you tilt your head back on the soft pillow. He slows down a little to observe your body and control his strength to make sure you're not in pain, that he's not hurting you, but when he sees the pretty look on your face he smiles a little and continues. You roll your eyes back and grip his shoulder tight, nails digging into his skin and he hisses at the sting.

"Got'chu, pretty."

And you let everything go at it. Your thighs feels sticky and wet and you're so tired but you don't care because it felt so good -- he felt so good.

Rindou takes you in his bed again and again that afternoon; bending your bodies in different positions and kissing your lips so sweetly until there's not a single coherent thought going through your brain despite it being your first time because you think it was so magical. He made you feel so good and you know you want to do it with him again. So you don't stop until you're all spent and he loses it -- and by that he means moaning uncontrollably until his mother gets up to knock on the door and ask what is happening inside.

(She doesn't find out.)

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

You sit with him side by side on a bench at the park later that evening after getting cleaned and sneaking out through his window. You're holding a plastic bowl of kakigori in your hands and he's sipping on another can of Asahi despite you telling him to knock it off -- alcohol is bad and he'll become addicted (you say that as if you don't drink as well) but he simply wraps an arm around your frame and forces your head to rest on his shoulder. "I'll be fine." He smirks and you smack his thigh as a warning.

A bunch of young children are running around the playground, chasing each other and giggling happily while you kick your feet in the air and feed yourself another spoon of the sweetened shaved ice. Rindou crushes the now empty can and aims it to the nearby bin -- it circles around the mouth and slowly, it lands to the bottom with a clang and he claps with a cheer.

You knee his butt with a laugh and he bends to pick a wild flower from the bush. "Did Waseda reply?" He asks in a soft voice while dusting dirt off the petals and shuffle closer to you. You lick the spoon clean and blink dumbly when a hand reaches up to tuck your hair away and slot the flower on your ear. He adjusts it with a smile and he thinks you look real pretty like this. "No. Not yet." You reply, a bit stunned from his actions and you grin when he ruffles your hair. "Todai replied, though. But I wanna make sure I have all my options laid out first." And he listens as you continue to ramble about the other letters of acceptance you've received so far.

"I hope I don't make the wrong choice. Can't imagine losing myself studying something I don't like or at a place I don't find peace in."

"You won't."

He lifts your chin with two fingers.

"Look up."

Instead of the bright orange sun and pretty sunset in the sky, all you see is a camera pointed at your face and the next thing you hear is a loud click.

"Hey!" You smack his elbow with an angry red blush and he cackles while shoving the camera back into his pocket. "What? You're pretty. Wanna look at you forever."

"'M not." You fix your hair out of embarrassment from his praise while making sure the flower is in place -- he gave it to you and you don't wanna lose it. It's a pretty one too. "You are. You're the prettiest girl in the world." Rindou says it loudly and you pout when a lady walks past while looking at the two of you with judgemental eyes. But he ignores her and he makes you ignore her too when he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead, hands snaking around your neck and your eyelids flutter at his gentleness. You wrap yourself around him when you stand up, the plastic in your hands tossed at the ground to engulf him in a bear hug. He blushes when he feels your boobs press against his chest but you press your lips on his neck, feeling his quick pulse against them and he thinks he feels a bit more normal now.

"I never wanna lose you." He murmurs it to your ear and your heart tightens a little at it. But you hear some kind of hidden message in his words and you rub his back.

". . . My money is tight, so Tokyo isn't confirmed. Waseda and the others are just options. I also applied to the community college just in case. And you leave tomorrow. If things don't go as planned and I don't go to Tokyo, I'll have to wait another year to see you." Your lips wobble a little when you say it. Waiting for Rindou to come back home every summer was never easy and you can only count on the letters and merch he sends for you to feel closer to his heart.

". . . I'm staying here another week. Ran is going back alone tomorrow." You loosen your grip on him and look up into his eyes to search for any lies and uncertainty in them -- but all you see is sincerity and warmth and love. There's a certain look on his face that you can't decipher, though. You don't know what it means and what he really wants to say but you choose to brush it off when you're reminded that he called you a pretty girl and cup his cheeks with a grin.

"Really?" "Yeah." "Stay the night then. Ma won't know if we're quiet." "'Kay."

Ran stands behind the two of you under a tree and watches with betrayed eyes as you kiss and hug each other under the 6pm sun. He stares down at the taiyaki in his hand and angrily dumps it away in a bin. Ran knew you liked taiyaki. But Ran never knew that you liked Rindou more. And he walks away with that newfound knowledge as a long and sharp knife to his chest.

"Idiot Rin." Ran scoffs and shoves his hands into his pockets. "So much for saying you don't like her. Where does that fuckin' leave me?" He tuts and doesn't look at where he's going because he bumps into Himeko on the way back. He looks at her and notice that she's crying, face red with tears running down her cheeks and she brings an angry fist up to hit Ran on the shoulder. "Didn't you like her? Why is she with Rindou?" She yells and pokes a finger into his chest and Ran doesn't push her away. He doesn't call her names when she starts getting violent by kicking his leg. Instead, he lets Himeko release all her anger on him and he can only bite his lip and look up at the orange sky. ". . . Beats me, 'Hime."

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

You wake up at 2 in the afternoon the next day, head throbbing from a migraine and you pat on the area beside. It suddenly comes to you that Rindou isn't beside you in your bed. Though it makes sense, because it is halfway through the day and Rindou has always been a morning person.

But when you look around your room you realise that his stuff is all gone -- the Nirvana t-shirt that was hanging on the wall last night is not there. His metal glasses isn't on your nightstand. You don't smell his cologne in the air. There are no traces of him in your bedroom and you grow confused.

So you trot down the stairs with sore legs and cover your neck with your hands to ask your mother if she's seen him or Ran around. But she simply shakes her head and says that Ran took the first train back to Tokyo alone early in the morning. "Ran dropped by to say farewell. And he also left you something, it's on the table." She nods to the coffee table and you see a box on it. It's a bit big but you nod and look back at her.

"I didn't see Rindou, though. I asked Ran about him earlier and he said that Rindou will be gone for quite some time after this visit. I don't know what he meant by that but the boy looked sad when he said it. Maybe Rindou's already went back to Tokyo, I don't know. Or maybe he won't be coming back here anymore. Beats me. But I wish him the best, though. He's always been a bright kid with a bright future."

You run back to your room before your mother can finish her words and you call Rindou's number. You press the phone to your ear with shaky hands and it goes straight to voicemail. You dial his number again and again and pull at your hair when he doesn't pick up. So you spit it to his voicemail to go fuck himself for leaving you. You tell him that you never want to believe him anymore for lying to you. You cry that you are a fool for loving him. You love him. You loved him. "Don't ever let me see you again, Rindou." And you throw your phone at the wall angrily.

26 July 2008. Rindou was gone.

You went from seeing him every day to waiting for him to come home every summer and to not seeing him ever again.

And you laugh to yourself whenever your intoxicated mind travels back to the moment of you and Rindou in the park 7 years ago now that you're 26 and a working adult living alone in Tokyo. You don't bump into any of the brothers in the city. You lose contact with both and also Himeko.

Summer of 2008 is bittersweet.

And you weren't the only one who felt that way.

٩ ˊᗜˋ reblogs are appreciated & thank you for reading <3

[s-soup111]

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I would walk in my garden forever.

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

Paring: Jinshi x (f) reader

Genre: angst

Tags: Break ups, death.

A/n: I swear I don’t hate Maomao, she’s just a victim of hate in these ffs 😔

He could spend years waiting for you, he really would, he’s probably still waiting for you now, even if he is delusional enough to think you’d love him back. It’s his fault he knows, “Please, please don’t leave me here alone!” Those were your last words he heard as he left you in his flower garden in the harsh coldness of winter. That was some time ago. You were attached to him; yet, not lovers, something he holds dearly to his heart but not something that is really his.

He knows himself, even in the warm and welcoming sun’s of summer, he still can’t seem to let you go. He’d had countless proposals, however none of them loved him as you did. “I miss you, do you miss me?” He laughs at himself, why would you miss him? After all, he did leave you with nothing but hate in his heart, or that’s what he tells himself. “Everything is temporary, this is merely one of those things.”

He becomes interested in the girl named Maomao, you watch from a distance, he smiles at her as he’s smiles at you once a season ago, perhaps you miss that, perhaps you did. Maybe you did feel jealous when he’d unconsciously touch her back as they’d walked down his flower garden together, the flower garden which you shared your first kisses.

It was indeed quite strange to see him act with her in such a familiar way, as if he’d been with her all his life instead of you. He’d hardly look at you when you walk past, maybe this was fate. You wasn’t sure yourself. “You deserve better than me.” Those were his words on that day. Unfortunately, you didn’t care, you didn’t care that he was only pretending; you didn’t care that you could do was blame yourself. You cared so much that you cried so much until your face dried.

“Did you even love me?”

He saves her, he saves her life instead of yours. Though, he watches you as you fall with no sort of emotion in his eyes, you stare at them back; full of betrayal and hate you saved up just for him. You live, you live knowing that he never did truly love you. He lives, he lives too knowing that you will never love him again as you had once before.

He faults once and once again, no longer can he read your face easily as he used to, he cannot find if you are happy or sad, angry or joyous; you walk normally but with nothing left inside of you, soon you will surpass the marriageable age and will be sold off to a man of high status, he feels uneasy at that thought. But he cannot bring himself to talk to you.

When you see him hold her hand, you break a sob. You cover it with your hand- he looks so happy, how dare he. Remain as composed as a lady should, that’s what you should remember. Never let a mere servant bring you to your knees. He hears you though. He knows it’s you and stiffens, Maomao asks him if he’s alright and offers him her arm but suddenly notices what’s wrong. She sees you from the corner of her vision, and quickly lets go of Jinshi and ushers off without a word.

He remains shaken as you walk up to him silently and with grace. He can feel you behind him. “Oh, my Lord, I didn’t know I would find you here on this fine day, what are you doing with that..girl?” You ask. He prays you don’t see him visibly shaking. “Are you alright, my Lord?”

He doesn’t know what to feel, is he alright? Surely he should be, after praying for your return..but something is stopping him from replying- a stone stuck in his throat, preventing him from speaking. “I love you, I love you so much and I hate it.”

He doesn’t know why he still holds onto you, no longer does he watch you from afar, but he does question himself sometimes, if he should’ve said it. He remembers your astonished expression, but still he couldn’t read what you were saying from your face. He looks at the stars with a pitiful gaze, how pathetic of him to feel this way. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle my heart myself,” he whispers to himself as the clouds form and rain fall, staining his robes.

He notices you some paces away, staring into nothing- towards the heavens. You look breathtaking. You were beautiful, not like those ladies in story books. You were beautiful for the way you thought, you were beautiful for the way your eyes once sparkled when you talked about something you loved. You were beautiful for the way you could make him smile even if you were dying just a little bit each time. No you wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as your looks, you were beautiful for something deep down in your heart.

You stood there in the rain, its coldness piercing your skin through your thin layers of silk. Jinshi runs towards you, you hardly notice him however. He breaks you so well, so easily as your love was and forever will. Easy to love yet just as easy to break. You can’t love him, you don’t know how to. Love is fleeting, just like birds. One second they’re there, another and they’re gone.

He notices the blood that spreads like wildfire from your chest as you pull out the knife.

“Your love was torture, and I loved it all too much.”

[0v3rcast]

Gnaw (part 1)

Contains: Body Horror, Blood, Violence

You had fallen to Teyvat some time ago, pulled down from the sky by a brilliant platinum star, the elements gently beckoning for you, all of them trying to prove their land the most suitable for your descent.

"Welcome back, Sea-shaper," Hydro murmurs, their voice the babbling of streams and the roar of the angry sea all at once. "Fontaine has such sights to show you. As you created, we have created to honor your actions. For your beauty, we have made our people beautiful. You will want for nothing-"

"COME TO US, HOLY TINDER," Pyro roars, its voice the starving crackle of flame and the churning of molten rock as volcanoes erupt. "NATLAN AWAITS YOU WITH AN OFFERING OF ENDLESS PASSION. YOU SHALL NEVER GO UNPROTECTED, UNLOVED, OR HUNGRY."

"Welcome, almighty Whirlwind of Creation," Electro purrs, speaking with the rattle-boom of echoing thunder. "Shall you grace my people with your presence?"

"Welcome home, Blessed Foundation," Geo hums, their voice the whispers of sand and the ancient growl of tectonic plates shifting. "Liyue has grown prosperous since you've last seen it. Perhaps you should come to us instead, where the riches of Teyvat could be put directly to use in pleasing you?"

"Don't listen to them, First Breath! We've waited for you the longest, like, a whole forever! We were first!" Anemo pleads, in the tones of breeze softly rustling leaves and howling tornadoes. "Even if you just stop by, that's totally fine!"

"You've finally come home, Heart of Winter? Good. We have missed you so." Cryo coos, the flurrying of snow and ancient creaking of glaciers their voice. "Snezhnaya may be a harsh land, but faith is enough to warm the bodies of my people."

"Flower of Irminsul, Root of All, please! You cannot come down! Another wears your face, please turn back if only for a few more days!" Dendro howls, desperate, voice a cacophony of falling trees and leaves rustling. "You ar-"

Dendro's voice fades as you pass the point of no return and begin to burn through the sky towards Mondstadt, Anemo ripping at the air to direct your course even as the other elements rage at them for their impudence.

As you fall, the memory of this conversation fades from your mind.

Welcome home, Maker, whispers the Abyss into the back of your mind.

Since that day, your time in Teyvat had become quite difficult. Whatever hopes you'd had for this world were soundly dashed.

Mondstadt 'welcomed' you with scorn and hostility for sharing the same face as their Heiliger Schöpfer, the Divine above Divines.

You were unsure as to why they hated you so, simply for your face- especially since that face is one that's otherwise looked kindly upon in this world.

You do your best to take in the sights, all the same. Though you are confused by the frosty reception, this place is so much more interesting than the game shows.

There are many more homes and people, you see (and pet) some stray animals, pick a particularly low philanemo mushroom after a couple seconds of jumping and stretching in an attempt to reach it, and generally just enjoy the (rather tense) locale.

Your confusion became fear when the Knights of Favonius begin to chase you. You'd done no crime, why would they hunt you like this, especially with such wrathful looks on their faces?!

The closest you get to meeting any of the allogenes on friendly terms comes when you breeze past Sucrose, yelping out a greeting to her. She just watches you go, incredibly confused, before a Knight accidentally bowls her over in his maddened rush after you.

Just as you exit the gate, the Knights just behind you, yelling curses and what you presume are threats-

P a i n.

Eula Lawrence just pushed a greatsword through your lungs and out your back. You have no clue how she got here so fast, where from, or how you didn't notice her.

You gag and choke as your blood quickly rushes into the space (and out of your body, simultaneously).

With a vicious yank, she tears it from you in a diagonal motion, nearly carving you in half.

A darkly satisfied look in her eyes is all you receive when you uselessly try to gasp for air and plead for help.

Your vision begins to fade, but before you can die of blood loss her boot comes down.

(Your nascent godhood activates the moment you die, and it plots a new trajectory: your misery will shape you until such a time comes that you will never feel this suffering again.)

You wake screaming in the woods, hands coming to clutch at your chest.

A massive golden scar lies just between your xiphoid process and sternum, perfectly horizontal in a way that only comes with practice.

Your clothes are covered in the brownish rusty red of old dried blood, and quite badly torn from where you were sliced nearly in two.

Breathing feels... easier, somehow. Like your lungs didn't just heal from immense trauma.

Your stomach aches badly and your mouth feels like it's full of sand. How long have you been laying here beneath the sun?

Your attempts to rise from this resting place are fruitless. You're so exhausted you can barely move your fingers.

Darkness slowly weighs your eyelids down and you fall asleep, even though you know you should not.

---

Elsewhere in the world, a being wearing your face stares up at a statue to themselves, noting with some alarm the golden scar across its chest.

The only recent news they had about an imposter was the Lawrence outcast running one through.

Now they'll have to find some way to replicate your scar and keep up the ruse.

"The original has truly descended, then... fine." They hiss, words venomous, glaring at the face of the statue. "If I can't have this place as my playground, then they won't get to have you."

---

The next time you wake, it is night, and the hunger in your belly is gnawing at you with such fervor that you feel lightheaded.

When you stand, your head twinges with pain as if to protest even this miniscule expenditure of energy.

Your body stumbles at first, briefly overcome by vertigo, but quickly adjusts.

Your mind changes its tune completely upon seeing a plump, ripe Sunsettia growing on its branch.

You desperately scramble over to pull the Sunsettia from the tree- only for it to drop into your waiting hands as soon as you reach up.

The 'how' of this doesn't quite matter to you in the moment. You bite into the ripe fruit and moan in bliss at the tart taste of the flesh and the sweetness of the juices. Within twenty seconds, you've reduced this fruit to a nubby pit, almost like a peach has.

That's kinda neat, actually. You distantly wonder what you have to crossbreed with a peach to make Sunsettias.

You pat the tree as if to thank it, not noticing that it suddenly stands a bit straighter or how its leaves are just a tiny bit greener, and go to find a nice place to put down this future Sunsettia tree.

You eventually get bored of looking for a good place and just poke a hole into the ground with a fallen branch, then stuff the remains of your first Sunsettia into the hole.

You wander off into the woods in hopes of finding a road, unaware of the golden-leaved sapling slowly growing behind you.

With a new source of energy in your system, you feel the urge to get moving- might as well make the most of this while you have it.

Your stamina is better than before, it feels like. Distances that previously felt difficult feel easier on your legs- and definitely on your lungs.

Perhaps this has something to do with your demise?

...what's that weird whistling soun-

You fall, dead, an Anemo-enriched arrow punching through the back of your head.

For a brief moment, you dream of a place deep beneath the surface of Teyvat, and a ruined statue oozing corruption into infinite darkness.

You wake with a small headache, very hungry, and more than a little pissed. Won't people just leave you the fuck alone?

Somehow, you feel sturdier. Less breakable. As nice as that is, you don't particularly feel up to testing it.

You stand.

Perhaps you should avoid civilization from now on.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

First Night Home pt. 1

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Aiden wishes he could know the way home by heart. Feel a sense of comfort, that indescribable pull, as familiarity marks the closing distance to the place where he belongs. It’s a foolish, naked yearning. One that hangs in the spotlight of his focus a moment too long, leaving him feeling just as exposed. 

He spreads his fingers on his legs to stop from curling them into fists. Curling his toes in his shoes is a cheap substitute for grounding himself but at least it keeps that look off Leo’s face. 

The one that confirms Aiden is a burden he didn’t sign up for, companion or not. 

“Almost there,” Leo says, pulling away from a stop sign and turning left. 

His stomach drops and he turns toward the window to hide his face. 

Just like the first night, he has no idea what to expect when they arrive. He should be able to grant Leo a fraction of the trust he has felt but is always unable to find when he needs it most. It’s overwhelmed too easily, road salt cloudy headlights on an unlit route, feeble light swallowed by darkness before it can illuminate anything more than the rush of pavement before it disappears. His catastrophizing is stunted by exhaustion but the longer they drive down the winding roads, the more his stomach knots and twists, anticipation-turning-to-dread the only mile marker he has. He worries about losing to his nausea, as much as a passenger in his body as he is in the car, heading toward the inevitable. 

When Leo turns off the road, Aiden panics even more, scanning the row of four identical condos, porch lights still casting a dim glow in the pre-dawn light. He doesn’t recognize anything, except Leo’s work van at the end of the shared driveway. Shame rises along with the bile in his stomach. It’s disrespectful to Leo and the invitation to share any part of his home––to entertain it as a place he could pretend to belong—if he can’t even recognize it from the outside.

For fuck’s sake, it’s the barest of minimums required to lay claim to any place.

He bites back his apology. Stutters won’t be the only thing that comes out if he opens his mouth just now. He wouldn’t be able to articulate the transgression anyway. Little progress he made earlier trying to explain he wasn’t trying to run from Leo at the hospital, that he was just trying to give him a shot at getting his life back. The one before he took on a damaged—

“Home sweet home.” Leo kills the engine and lets his head fall back against the headrest with a sigh.

Aiden lowers his gaze, guilt swirling in his stomach. Again, the apology is on the tip of his tongue but his eyes start to burn hot with tears. He will not cry again. He cannot. He bites the inside of his cheek and the taste of blood is a quick distraction. 

Worse than dissolving into a crying mess would be getting sick in Leo’s sister’s car. 

Leo’s on the move anyway. With another sigh, he gets out, leaving Aiden alone to clap his good hand over his mouth and force deep breaths in and out through his nose. He even closes his eyes to beg himself to be capable this time. Better for this second-second chance. Easier after everything. 

Little good it does. 

By the time Leo reaches his door, Aiden is resigned to ducking around him to throw up. The bar lowered to please just don’t get sick on Leo’s shoes. 

The cold air hits him in a blast when Leo reaches the door and helps him out. He blinks against the sharp sting of it, both hands gripping Leo’s forearm. Another lungful of brisk winter morning and the nausea settles. 

His next inhale is full of sky. Deep blue night softening with the light of day from one horizon to the other. A whisper of purple hinting at the brilliance of more colors soon to come. He could stay here forever, taking in the spectrum of dark to light, the stars fading out in the west and the sun soon to rise in the east. He watched the sunrise a few times from the bedroom window upstairs but he can’t remember the last time he stood under a sky like this. 

Or the last time he was outside in daylight at all. 

“Hon, you alright?”

Leo’s expression has probably passed concern because Aiden let a few tears escape. They’ve already slid down his cheeks, warm at the outset, their wakes chilled in the fresh morning air. 

He wipes his face with his sleeve, still looking up. “Thank you,” he hears himself whisper and somehow it comes out crystal clear. He wishes he could say more, thank Leo for this morning sky he had nothing and everything to do with. But he doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it. 

Leo doesn’t say anything back, just wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

As soon as they step inside, he wants to run back to the feeling he found under the sky. But Leo’s exhausted and he already waited with Aiden until the sun started peeking over the horizon. Watching the sun rise wouldn’t stave off the inevitable. It’ll be over in minutes anyway. 

Aiden winds up hovering at the edge of the kitchen, unsure if he should stay out of the way or help. The bags sit on the island, handles still standing at attention from being lifted there. 

Leo relieves him of any guesswork by setting a glass of water on the island. “Think you can drink this?” 

He nods, grateful for an easy opportunity to be obedient, and slides onto a stool, watching for any reaction from Leo out of habit, but he’s looking down. Aiden’s stomach knots when he realizes he’s reading the slip of paper from the doctors again. 

If Leo tells him to take any of the medicine, he should. He will. He’ll do anything Leo asks him to. Happily. If what Leo said about finding him is true, he owes him his life twice over, maybe three times if he considers—

“Aiden?”

He jumps and Leo quickly leans over to clamp a hand around his teetering glass.

“M’sorry.” He tucks his hands between his legs, apology not quite audible even to his ears. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

“S’okay,” he whispers. 

Leo’s sigh makes him flinch before he can catch himself. 

Leo holds up his hands, one still holding the rescued glass. “Easy, sweetheart. We’re all good. It’s all good.” 

Aiden nods. He’s overreacting, reading into Leo’s every fucking exhale. He’s just overreacting but still, tears are building behind his eyes. He nods again, squeezing his hands into fists but the pain that radiates up his arms makes the tears fall. “M’sorry, m’sorry.” He shakes his hands out at his sides, swipes furiously at the traitorous tears, and refuses—refuses—to meet Leo’s gaze to see how completely exasperated and disappointed he is. “M’sorry, m’sorry—”  

“Aiden. Aiden.” Leo’s beside him now, warm hand on his shoulder making him realize just how much he’s curled forward. “Just breathe. That’s right. You’re okay, you’re good.” 

He nods, sniffling. He needs to pull himself together. “M’sorry, m’sorry.” 

“Hon, look at me.” 

He meets Leo’s eyes, letting himself shelter in the ease of obedience. 

“You’re good, it’s all good. We’ll figure things out together, step by step, in the morning—or, well, later today.” Leo’s soft chuckle, tired as it is, tempts Adien further into the lulls of earned safety and he doesn’t have the energy to resist. Leo rubs his shoulder. “Everything will look a little better after some sleep, yeah?” Leo goes to the sink to top up his glass. “Let’s head up.” 

His stomach drops and maybe even his lungs too because he can’t feel himself breathe anymore. He’s too busy trying to read Leo’s face. What about the mess upstairs? Should he get the bleach? Or is this the moment Leo finally punishes him? 

He follows Leo to the stairs, shoving his shaking hands into the pocket of the hoodie. He knots his fingers together as much as he can without it hurting too much. He’s not sure what they’ll find upstairs. He can only remember blurs and there’s no telling what happened after his memory stops. 

“Better get scrubbing, ‘359.” 

He shakes his head but the flashes of the facility tiles, covered in blood, are so bright in his mind. His hand gripping the banister feels far away, feet climbing the stairs even further. A few more steps and he’ll be able to see the bathroom. 

The blood, the tiles. 

“Aiden?” 

He flinches, attention snapping back to Leo a few steps ahead. “M’good,” he says, too quickly because Leo narrows his eyes. He walks back down and stops one step lower so they’re the same height. 

“There’s no–– there’s nothing to worry about. I asked Jesse to come over while we were out.” 

He nods slowly.  

“Everything’s clean, it’s all good.” 

Aiden hopes he hides his shameful relief better than his lack of understanding. “Mmm’thanks…” It’s not enough. He’ll never be enough. 

Leo holds out his arm. “All good, hon.” 

At the top of the stairs, he goes the extra mile and flicks on every light in the bathroom. The brightness hurts Aiden’s eyes but the bathroom is indeed spotless. 

Like nothing ever happened.

Leo walks him to the second bedroom, sets the glass of water on the desk and clicks on the little lamp. “I’ll get you some clean pajamas.” 

The pressure in the room changes when Leo leaves. 

Aiden’s breath comes easier, inhale and exhale deeper. The air no longer feeling finite to leave space for all the anticipation that accompanies Leo. 

But his relief is quickly spoiled by the discomfort of idleness. 

Using the desk chair for balance, he strips to his underwear, neatly folding the dirty clothes to be put in the hamper in the bathroom. He doesn’t want to see the bandages on his hand or arms, nor the gauze taped to his elbow and collarbone. Any visible trace of blood and Leo will want to check them, clean the stitches, change the bandages, ask him how he’s feeling, if he wants to take something for it and he can’t answer, he can’t look, he can’t handle having Leo examine him like that, so careful like he’s breakable when he’s done all this to himself and— 

He covers his face with his hands. Tries to pull in a deeper breath but the smell of betadine under the bandages makes his stomach churn so he lets his hands fall. 

There’s a smudge on his upper arm. Rubbing at it with his thumb does nothing. He turns to see it in the faint light coming through the window–– 

It’s blood. Dried blood, all over. A ragged stripe of it snaking across his upper arms and chest. He can see it spreading, hear the drip, drip, drip of the faucet he was shaking too much to turn off completely. 

He pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head but when he opens his eyes again it’s even worse. It’s everywhere, splotches up and down his arms, all over his torso. 

Splattered all over the bright, white tiles. 

He can’t get it off. He has to get rid of it. He has to wash away the blood. 

“Scrub those tiles good and clean, ‘359.” 

No, this can’t be happening right now. 

His breath trembles and he can’t fill his lungs anymore but it doesn’t matter because the sounds of his panic have already caught Leo’s attention. 

“Aiden?” 

He spins to face Leo, bumping into the door which hits the wall and makes him jump all over again. His apology comes out as more of a strangled whine. 

“Easy.” Leo makes his movements slow and deliberate as he sets the clothes down. “It’s alright.” 

Aiden nods along. Of course it’s alright. He knows it’s alright but he still can’t seem to catch more than tiny gasps of air at a time. It’s just Leo. He’s here with Leo. He’s––

“Hey, hey, look at me.” 

Leo doesn’t try to move any closer, just holds his gaze. “That’s good, just breathe. We’ve got all the time we need. There’s no rush. Just take it easy. Take some slow, deep breaths.” 

He hates how immediately possible it is when he can hear it as a command. 

“Good, that’s good. You’re good.” 

Hates even more that he sinks his teeth right into all the warmth and relief he can get from the shallow praise, a shiver running up his spine in its wake. But it helps and he can already stand a bit straighter, think, and see a bit clearer. 

Leo waits a few more deep breaths. “All good?” 

“Mhm, m’sorry—” He clears his throat. “I––I––” He steels himself and lets his arms fall, eyes locked on Leo’s expression. 

“Ah. I didn’t think of that.” 

Leo’s frown makes his heart start to race. He crosses an arm over his chest, as if there might be a chance Leo can actually see the hair-trigger reactivity he’s got tonight. 

“I’ll get a washcloth with some soap, I can––” 

“Please––” he chokes out, calves hitting the bed frame. He blinks away Harrison, standing over him, cold and indifferent while he begs and cries. 

“Okay, never mind.” Aiden is still holding his breath so Leo softens his voice. “Hey, hey, easy. Not that one, okay? Forget I suggested it.” 

He drags in a strained breath. “M’sorry.” Forces himself to take a step back toward Leo.

“It’s alright, don’t be sorry. I need to know these things, it’s good you’re telling me.” 

He swallows and looks down. Unsure if he’s more ashamed that Leo has to spell it out for him or that it’s necessary at all. 

“Well, I guess a shower is the next option. What do you think?” 

Aiden nods, trying to look at least a little more composed to face the bathroom. 

“Okay,” Leo says but he doesn’t move. 

Aiden looks down again to let him think. He wants to shake out his arms, and his legs too while he’s at it. Just because he can and that’s why it helps. But he doesn’t want Leo to think he’s impatient. He’d probably tip right over anyway. 

“Sorry, okay, yeah. Just a quick shower, I’ll help you.” He turns and Aiden follows. 

It won’t be as simple as that but it’s a lie of solace they’ll cling to like a life raft. 

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[sugar-plum-writer]

The Serene Peony Of Winter

Paring: Sukuna!King of Curses x Fem!Geisha Reader

Tags: Slight! mention of violence; Fem!reader; Sukuna!imagines; will be 18+ as more chapters come; slow!burn, [I want to have a good build up!], an ancient Japan romance through time with darling reader~

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CHAPTER- 4

Time froze as the icy chilling wind carried the tension raising it― swirling it around you and Sukuna devilishly wanting to see more. The reflecting still water beneath the bridge― quietly came forth― to freeze this moment, forever in its frozen waters― a frame forever lost in time

"Wh...what?" your voice trembled― eyes widened― the shock stunning you

"Are you deaf?" grabbing your wrist― pulling you close, the Wagasa slipped from your grasp― dropping to the cold ground.

His eyes bore into yours― voice calm and deep

"I said—" he leaned in, lips barely apart― sharing a breath, "If I am greedy for you— will I be able to go as far as I want?" his gaze unwavering, "Y/n?"

Like a spark, a fire had been ignited in your heart― it burned away all the ice in your veins, unlocking your soul. Blood rushed to your face as you pushed him away flustered.

But he held your wrist tighter, making you face him, forcing you to look into his blood-red-eyes

"Look at me, and tell me Y/n", he demanded, "I need an answer"

"I don't play games darling", with a smirk he chuckled

"I―", lowering your lashes as you looked away flustered

"I cannot give you an answer right now, I apologize― for I― still…have things left to do", saying these words you turned around and ran, you ran as fast as your feet allow you to― your heart slamming against your chest

He stood there as he watched your silhouette vanish with a dangerous grin― as an ominous smile tugged his lips

You ran and ran as fast as you could, bumping past all kinds of people as you entered your room and slammed the door shut― leaning against the wall and letting out a huff as your body tried to relax

The room has always felt suffocating, the last comforting place― you have been in this room since the time Oka-san announced― that it was yours when you became a Geisha.

Having met countless men, and gotten many confessions, and words of love― you were used to rejecting them without thinking twice― but none ever made you feel the way you felt today

"Oh my god…I almost said yes", you sat still not recovered from yesterday's incident, curling up to your knees and burying your face

"I cannot… after all…", your eyes emotionless staring at the tatami mat― the air heavy with your gloom― as shadows reflected from your heart to your soul

"I need to finish what I have started"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Some days had passed, and your usual routine played. Changed into your night clothes― you sat trembling― as beads of sweat glistened down your skin― and fear reverberated in the air

"I have given you time long enough, either you tell me— or I make that mouth of yours talk", a dominating voice boomed, dripping with malice

"S-Sukuna…why…why are you after me?", you gulp trying not to scream as everyone is asleep

"Do you want to know?"

"Yes…I do", raising your head you looked him in the eyes― fearful of what was to come

With a snap of his fingers― all the candles extinguished as an ominous feeling tugged at your heart― in an impulse you crawled close to him

It was the right choice as the moment you did, curses beyond what your eyes could see, appeared throughout the room. Crawling from the floors to the walls, hiding in every nook and cranny— with heart wrenching screams echoing throughout the room.

"This is why", he chuckled pulling you close by the waist

"To have so many curses latch onto you, of so many types", he raised your chin, gazing into your eyes

"Makes even me, The King of Curses wonder what is your story y/n?"

Terrified of what you saw, you clasped his hands tightly afraid

"All…all of these? They…are connected to me?", your throat felt dry― stomach churned with anxiety and you felt nauseous

"Curses are born from negative feelings and emotions, To have so many, how much do you bury in your heart Y/n? It is a grave of your cursed feelings, you cursed yourself", he chuckled, and with a raise of his hand― they were all diced, slaughtered into pieces― contrary to dying surprisingly they regenerated.

"Shall I help you, get rid of the curse in your heart Y/n? Forever breaking the chains tying you"

Footnote: Check out masterlist for all chapters!