#and the muse is alive more than ever

[waveofstars]

SLOANE LIN: bio + stats.

click here for stats click here for pinterest click here for playlist read below for bio.

traits: aloof, blunt, witty, mean, sharp, intelligent, fickle, loyal, vindictive, pessimistic, lazy, resentful, athletic, emotionally damaged, flirty, detached, nihilistic

aesthetic: lowcut tops, lipstick stains, dog eared pages, homecut bangs, cigarette ash, coffee art, bubble baths, old beanies, wine enthusiast, worn out ice skates, tattoos & docs, late nights, dusty shelf of trophies, quick one-liners, big mistake, wasted potential, 'u up?' texts, the anti-hero

BIO:

The rise and fall of Sloane Lin. The idea of Sloane Lin was born long before she came into this world. The Lin’s were destined for greatness, and she was no exception.

Hailing from Hong Kong, Sloane’s father migrated to The United States in his late twenties and fell in love with a native New Yorker while practicing real estate. Together, they built a reputable real estate agency and took the country by storm. Success hit them fast and hard, though it was well deserved. After a marriage and a hefty prenup, Sloane was born into their fast paced world. The girl was inspired by their tenacity at such a young age and it was then she constructed a life plan for herself.

Becoming an older sister at the age of six years old wasn’t a part of that master plan, but Sloane happily penciled in baby Veronica Lin into her life. Their parents worked hard for the money and the family of four lived comfortably as their business grew internationally. With such busy parents, Sloane picked up a hobby at a very young age to keep herself busy that soon turned into her life’s purpose - figure skating. Her mother had enrolled her into lessons when she was old enough to stand and it stuck. She was a natural. Sloane knew this was what she was meant to do with her life, so she began to balance home school and skating competitions.

Just like a Lin, success came fast and hard. She was traveling across the country for competitions, and soon enough, internationally. The trophies and medals were never ending, but she constantly wanted more. Her sights were set on the Olympics. Throughout her competitions in her late teen years, she managed to conjure up a rival of sorts - Michelle. She was the only real competition she ever had, and for the longest time, Sloane was convinced she hated her. Though that seemed to change one night at a party after a competition. The two started to talk, they argued, but the arguing led to kissing. It surprised Sloane, but nothing felt more right. Sloane and Michelle began to see one another in secret.

It was perfect in the beginning. Sloane was so smitten for the girl and didn’t care who knew it, but Michelle was more reserved with her love, too afraid of backlash. It didn’t help that Michelle was in the public eye more after people adored her and her skating partner, Zeke. People in the figure skating community often thought Michelle and Zeke would make a perfect couple, and that thought always boiled Sloane’s blood. Especially so when Michelle agreed to have a relationship with the man. She assured Sloane there was nothing really between them and it was all for the public gaze. It didn’t hurt any less to continue hiding her love in the dark for Michelle.

All three of them managed to make their way to the olympics, and though it was everything Sloane wanted, she was so consumed by Michelle. She couldn’t stand it any longer. She forced Michelle to make a decision - continue this fake charade with Zeke or show the world that they were in love. It was a plan she thought would surely go in her favor, but to her disappointment, Michelle chose Zeke. It devastated Sloane and she began to question everything. Filled with hurt, resentment, and bitterness, she performed her number at the Olympics and felt robbed of this dream that once meant everything to her. Now, it was nothing. Her mind was wrapped up in Michelle during her entire number, and her gaze often would look for her and Zeke in the crowd. One misstep and Sloane Lin fell harder than ever before. Her ankle broke in two places and she was whisked off the ice to the emergency room.

Just like that, two dreams were crushed in one day. No Michelle, no Olympics. Two surgeries later, she was sure competitive skating was out of her future. Sloane Lin began to unravel as she realized her life’s plan was no more. When she wasn’t making her entire life surrounded by skating, she surrounded herself with Michelle. So, what now?

Sloane lurked at her family’s condo in New York City and her family believed she just needed time to get back on her feet again. However, weeks suddenly turned into years, and Sloane never found herself nor had the desire to. Her parents had relocated to a second property in Hawaii as their youngest daughter took over the family business. Whether it was out of sympathy or love, her parents allowed Sloane to continue living in that condo in New York practically rent free.

Now in her late twenties, she’s still lost as ever and cynical as they come. Sloane gave up ages ago on trying to be something more. She looks at her baby sister who is married with a child on the way and a strong career under her belt, and although Sloane is happy for her, she knows good and well that she had become the black sheep of the family. Maybe she liked being the black sheep. She could never really decide on that.

Sloane spent her time at jobs that never would really go anywhere. She spent some time bartending and quickly realized she hated half of the people that talked to her while working, so she then moved to being a barista. Her coworkers were always teenagers or college students who were just at the beginning of their lives. Sloane didn’t mind it, even if everyone around her questioned her. It wasn’t the kind of job change her parents hoped for, but they stopped really expecting anything from Sloane years ago. They paid for half of the bills she can never cover and blindly supported their daughter. She continues to live aimlessly drifting through this life of broken dreams, but for now, it was more than enough for her… So, maybe she wasn’t destined for greatness, after all. Perhaps she always meant to fall.

[mamorigami]

thinking about utahimes forehead...

[loganhowlettshousewife]

we’ve all watched the scene of logan putting out the cigar on himself and it got me thinking about him with a reader whose mutation allows them to burn people. (he’s such a freak i need him).

-

he’s a squirming, whimpering mess underneath you. such a gorgeous sight, and one that only you get to witness - the big, bad wolverine turned into a moaning mess through the use of your power, completely at your mercy, his hands tied so he couldn’t fight you off even if he’d wanted to (not that he ever would).

you were anxious to try this. your power wasn’t one that could be used for good. it only ever caused pain, suffering, family and friends leaving you once it had manifested, spitting out words that felt like venom. you burn people when you touch them, like fire licking over their skin, making them cry and scream and beg for mercy. 

you have gloves of every colour of the rainbow, an array of different fabrics and patterns and textures, pairing them with your outfit every day. you hate touching people, hate hurting them.

but logan has a thing for pain. he’d admitted it to you, under the cover of a dark and cloudy sky, when you’d asked him how he could possibly stand to be with you when you’d never be able to touch him, never be able to kiss him without hurting him.

he’d begged you, actually begged you to touch him, to burn him, to hurt him.

for the first time ever you can touch someone without a layer of fabric in between. you can drag your fingers along his thighs and watch the red burn marks it leaves behind, watch the colour fade and the texture smooth over as his body heals itself. it’s like he was made for you, a perfect match, both with cracked and broken edges, but somehow you fit.

“fuckin’ touch me,” he spits, “c’mon.”

“i am touching you,” you reply, pressing your hand down onto his hairy chest. his skin is warm, slightly damp from a thin layer of sweat, alive and real. he cries out, but it’s not the sound you’re used to hearing when you touch people. it’s a whine, higher than you thought his voice could go, pain and pleasure mixing into something he hadn’t been able to describe to you in words.

“y��know what i mean,” he pants. you just smile, serene. you’re not teasing him on purpose, though you must admit it’s certainly entertaining to watch him fall apart, rather you’re taking the opportunity you thought you’d never get, exploring your lover's body with your touch, breathless at the feeling of skin against skin.

you finally grab his cock, feeling the thick, warm weight of it in your hand. you can feel the telltale buzzing under your skin, the sign that your powers are burning him, but he doesn’t try to pull away from you. rather, his hips jerk up, chasing more of the feeling. a bead of precum pearls at the tip, and you rub it down his shaft.

“you actually like this,” you muse, “you’re such a freak.”

the degrading comment only makes him groan, rutting his hips up to fuck into your fist. and he’s just so pretty, so lovely when he’s desperate, so as much as you want to play with him, spend hours making him beg, you don’t. because you need to see what he looks like when he’s falling apart.

you jerk him off slow, never letting the pressure relent. it’s a fight with your instincts, your mind telling you to let go before you hurt him, before he decides that he doesn’t actually like this, before he leaves like everyone else. but he heals as fast as you burn him, again and again.

you watch his face instead of your hand, focusing on the way his lips part with each sound he makes, the pleasure contorting his expression. he gets louder, warnings filling the space between you, and then his hips stutter, faltering, and you watch his eyes roll back as he cums, shooting thick ropes of white all over his own chest.

your eyes widen slightly at how quickly you’d made him cum, but he’s already hardening again in your hand, chasing the pleasure of his orgasm even as it fades.

“do it again,” he orders, though really he’s in no position to be making demands. still, you oblige, because it feels good to be able to hurt him and know he’ll always come back. you could definitely get used to this, and isn’t that a terrifying thought.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Four to Tango (poly!Mates Bat Boys)

Pairing(s): Rhysand x Reader, Cassian x Reader, Azriel x Reader

Warnings: foursome, smut, just a reason to create smut where three gorgeous fucking men rearrange your organs, cunnilingus, fingering, p in v, never ending orgasms lol, overstimulation, all three of them are utter teases, polyamorous mates, no jealousy, rhys loves to watch his brothers fuck you stupid, my emotional support bat boys, i desperately need them rn, foursomes are hard to write ngl 🫠

Words: 5836

Summary: Three of them at the same time? You may not make it out alive.

Life before your three mates had never consisted with as much sex as it does now. In fact you were a virgin when you met the Illyrian trio. Not for lack of trying to get into a relationship. There were other concerns for you to attend to that distracted you from finding a partner.

Then Azriel literally fell into your lap. Followed by Cassian descending from the sky while laughing at the other who was blushing furiously and trying to scramble off of you with a string of apologies. Rhysand, with a flap of his wings touches down to the ground with an entertained grin. Until his violet eyes noticed you. Really noticed you. Almost reading into your soul.

Had it really been only four months since then?

Thinking about it had you blushing into your pillow. Four months of mind shattering orgasms and lavished with never ending affection. You must have really been good in your past life to receive these three as a reward.

Rhys shifts beside you. Voice husky from sleep but practically purring when he wraps his arms around you. "Seems like its been longer than four months, huh?"

His palms flatten against your midsection. Warmth immediately spreading across the plane of your skin. You wiggle closer to him and in reply, Rhys buries his face in the juncture of your neck. His lips pepper small kisses along the soft skin of your jugular.

He took turns with Cassian and Azriel as to who spent the night with you. It was only fair. You told them that you cared for them all equally and it didn't matter to you. You'd accept whatever they could agree upon without there being any jealousy.

Rotating was tricky in the beginning. Giving them each the same amount of attention to prevent feelings of being left out. And maybe you were starting to get greedy with their love because you couldn't help but feel incomplete without the other two when you were in one's bed.

Your inner musing catches Rhysand's attention; seemingly waking him up. The arm laying on top of you is removed when he sits up. Did you unintentionally offend him with your thoughts?

"Would you be interested in all three of us here?" He questions.

You turn to address the high lord of the Night Court. Beautifully and sinfully sexy the way he leans on his elbow to gaze at you. Tousled black hair shifting across his brow. What an alluring sigh the made. Tattoos and scars marking the smooth surface of his tan skin.

"All three of you in this bed?" It had been done before when you wanted to cuddle with all three of your mates. Rhys' bed nearly broke, not large enough to support two extra heavy frames.

"More than that." Rhysand's thumb brushes a stray hair out of your face. The depth of his tone had a warmth shooting down to your core. Thighs press together, you melt under his attention. "All three of us feasting upon you. At the same time." A growling undertone hits your ears. Your breathing becomes shallow as he holds your gaze.

You gulp, mind already racing when you whimper out "A-All of you?"

Rhys reads each and every one of your dirty thoughts, his lips curling sinisterly. "Can I take that as a 'yes', love?"

A furious blush overheats your cheeks and the tips of your ears. "I-I. . . How would that even work out?"

He leans in and nips at your already burning shell of your ear "You leave that to us."

Ever loving to tease you, he leaves with that promise hanging in the air. Claiming he had work to do but that he'd see you for lunch. For a while you lay in bed, thinking of the dark glint in your mate's eyes.

Surely, all three of them would be way too much for you to handle. Each of them were terrifyingly well-endowed. Especially Azriel. It took several tries to get more than the head of his cock inside of you. In the end he had to ease it in slowly over several dates until you could fully sheath him.

It became your hyperfixation throughout the day. As you went about the House of Wind to when you were out in the town market.

When you bump into Mor back at the townhouse, she manages to make you squeal on what Rhys had brought up earlier that morning.

Mor lets out a low, impressed whistle. "You have got to be the luckiest female in all of Prythian. What are you sweating about?"

"I can barely handle one of them at a time, Mor. I fear they'll kill me. Death by cock. I don't want that on my tombstone."

"Death by cock doesn't sound too bad." she hums but it turns into a snort when she catches your distressed expression. "Quit fretting. They'll take good care of you."

Chewing on your bottom lilp you knew you probably came off as silly to her.

Mor's hand caresses your upper arm. In a short amount of time, Mor had become the big sister you never knew you needed. She became your confidant and would keep all of your secrets; take them to the grave if required. "They're dumb males but they love you. Never in a million years would they ever dream of doing anything to hurt you."

That was clear to you since day one. The Cauldron destined all three of them to be your mates for a reason.

And it could be fun.

Who were you kidding, you knew it would be fun. Having sex with them individually always reduced your bones to pure pudding. They were overly generous lovers. Always making sure you climaxed first. Treating you not like a queen but a divine entity to be worshipped. Their faces, your thrones.

Talking with Mor did you good. You felt absurd at your previous concern. This would be the experience of a lifetime. Getting to love all three of your mates at once had you giddy.

After Mor leaves, you're constantly checking the clock. Almost lunch time. That meant your boys would be home at any minute. Your heart felt like a energetic bird in a cage, banging against its bars in desperation to get out.

You debate going upstairs and changing your underwear to something sexier when you stand to head toward the stairs, that's when the front door opens. Poking your head out from around the corner, you confirm it to be your boys. You were still getting used to the feeling of the mental connection that connected you to your three mates. Cassian and Az are in the middle of a conversation behind Rhysand when the trio walks in. Rhys grins at you before grabbing the attention of the Illyrians who stop their chatter.

Never one to be subtle, Cassian struts past them and pulls you out into the entry hallway. He swoops down to capture your lips with his, picking you off your feet unintentionally. His kisses always took all the air out of you, making your head delightfully light and floating. Cassian's eyes hold specks of glittering gold when he returns you to the ground.

"Welcome home." you breathily greet him. You swear Cassian puffs his chest out like a proud parrot every time he can get your vision to go starry with his kisses.

"You should've moved in a long time ago. I like coming home to you." Cassian's voice is smooth, deep as if purring.

Rhysand chuckles at your swooning thoughts toward the general. "Easy Cass. Get her any more riled up and we may not make it to the bedroom in time."

The cool caress of Azriel's shadows slithering up your legs accelerates the 'lub dub' of your chest.

"Aw, am I exciting you princess?" The general gets an immediate reaction when he picks up the scent of your arousal dripping from between your legs. Dark delight curls Cassian's lips.

Rhysand and Azriel appear to smell you as well. Hunger straightens their backs and their pupils blowing out. Azriel's serpentine shadows squeeze the fat of your upper thigh, another prods curiously at your clothed pussy, asking for permission inside. "Now sweetling, you wouldn't want anyone to come upon us and ruin our fun. Be a good girl and head up those stairs."

"You heard him." Rhysand reinforces Azriel's command when you hesitate, your face beet red. His chin tilts up, gesturing to the staircase on your right.

They looked like three wolves before they pounce on the poor unsuspecting lamb. You go up the stairs on wobbly legs. Every inch of you tingled with anticipation feeling the heat of the boys at your back. They're basically panting behind you, forced to watch the sway of your hips and ass as you go up one step and then another. Its a race to the bedroom door. You're the one to twist the knob, but its the flat of three palms against the door's smooth frame that shove it wide open. Cassian scoops you up, the ground slipping out from under you.

Cassian twirls you around before settling you down on the mattress like the treasure you were. If he possessed a tail, you bet all the riches in Prythian that it would be wagging fast. His lips are placing kisses all along your exposed legs, having flipped your dress skirts up. You uncontrollably giggle when he reaches the upper insides of your thighs, so close to your core.

You catch Rhysand's dark chuckle, the door closing shut follows after.

"Impatient as ever, Cass." Azriel comments and moves to one side of Rhys' bed while Rhysand stalks toward the other.

Hovering over you with his hair tickling your face, Cassian smirks and gifts you one last kiss before allowing you to sit up. With your three mates in front of you, you couldn't help feeling a little shy. Individually, you'd become sexually confident with them. But to have three pairs of lustful eyes all focused in on you. . .

You fidget and squirm, feeling the space between your legs flutter. "S-So. . . how is this going to work?"

"Nervous?" Rhysand reaches his hand out to gently stroke a lock of your hair.

"A little. I mean, to have the Night Court's high lord, general and spymaster all together is a bit intimidating. But I trust all of you." You grip Rhys' hand and move it towards your lips to kiss his knuckles; swearing that you hear him sharply inhale as you do so. You spoke the truth when you said you trusted them. They had you feeling confident and bold with the lavish amounts of love that they bestowed you with each day. How they made you feel like you could take on the very world itself as long as they were by your side.

Letting go of Rhysand's hand, you start to undress; overtly cognizant of their heated stares. Fully naked, you decide that Azriel's been so patient in waiting for attention. He grins when you crawl onto his lap and cup his jaw to pull him into a fervant kiss. His wings twitch and the shadows that perpetually clung to him push you closer against his form. In the background, you hear Rhysand and Cassian shuffle around. You wonder if they'd talked about this often.

"Oh, we have." Rhysand grins. "Many times. Sweetling, you have no idea the of the plans we've devised."

Azriel bites your lip in the moment making you gasp. Those powerful hands of his grip your ass tightly, forcefully moving you in a grinding motion against his hardening cock. Not caring that a smear of your arousal shined on the fabric of his pants.

"All the ways we can absolutely devour you."

Behind you, sharp teeth graze your shoulder making you squirm even more on Azriel's lap.

"The delicious thing that you are, it was necessary to. . . coordinate our moves." They move from your shoulder to your neck.

Your moans are unrestricted, they simply go directly into Az's mouth. He greedily feasts on them, tendrils of shadows softly gliding down your calf and to your ankles.

Now, Az.

You're not spared even a second before you're flipped around. Azriel takes hold of your wrists, splaying you out in front of Rhysand and Cassian. Their tattoos free from the confines of their shirts. And of course their well endowed shafts were already hard.

Rhysand is on his stomache, creeping closer to your pussy lips to brush his mouth against it before nuzzling with the tip of his nose at that little bundle of nerves that had the muscles in your thighs twitching. Teasing at first until his tongue lazily toys with it.

Azriel has you completely restrained. Nowhere for you to run or hide.

Fingers rub along your labia that was coated in your slick. Rhysand uses his fingers to gently pull your lower lips apart.

Your hazy gaze falls on Cassian who is gently stroking himself. He sends you a wolfish grin when he catches you. "Feel good, princess?"

All you can give out in response is a kiltered mewl. Rhysand was making his circles larger and larger around your clit. The tip of his finger starts to tickle at your entrance.

"A-Aahh-" Head lolling back, it falls against Azriel's shoulder. He's kissing the length of your neck, definitely leaving love bites.

Inch by inch, Rhysand inserts his index finger in you and ever so gently begins to curl his finger from inside of you. It's featherlight but enough to send an electric jolt through you and up your throat. Between your legs, Rhysand is constantly changing his speed and pressure. You squirm when Rhysand easily slips another finger inside of you and picks up his tongue speed on your clit.

You're trying your best to gyrate your hips to a near grind against Rhysand's face but Azriel's pesky shadows simply wouldn't allow it.

"Please!" You moan with another pathetic thrust of your hips.

Rhysand's lips smirk against your pussy.

"What do you say, general? Should the high lord let our well mannered lady come?" croons Azriel as he nips at the soft spots on your neck.

The tip of Cassian's cock is blushing with the most perfect bead of precum like a pearl. His lips curl in a smile when he catches your pretty eyes staring at him. He makes a show and swoops his thumb over the tip of his cock, dilated pupils observing how your mouth unconsciously opens with want to take in Cassian's member. And he would love to shove his cock down your throat, but that would have to be another time.

Instead, Cassian chooses to cock his head in scrutiny. "Too soon, don't you think?"

You desperately shake your head in disagreement but behind you Azriel laughs. "You're a cruel bastard aren't you?"

Shrugging indifferently before turning a wicked smirk your way, Rhysand returns to teasingly feasting on you as you squirm to shove your pussy closer to his mouth. He reduced his tongue strocks to pathetic kitten licks that had you wanting more.

Replacing Azriel's hands was the cool grip of his shadows as his hands now grip your tits. Scarred finger pads toy with your nipple until both are erect. Between your legs Rhys continues running the flat of his tongue up and down, dealing little rolls of the tip of his tongue against your clit occasionally. Just enough to keep you on the edge.

You're a whimpering, moaning mess. Half lidded eyes are barely able to make out the now fuzzy image of Cassian as he strolls to your other side. He puts one knee on the bed and leaning on his hands for support, he bites at your free tit that isn't being tortured by Azriel's loving pinches. His mouth latches on instantly.

Focus all over the place, you're lost in your own heady bliss and while you were denied your orgasm, your whole body was trembling from your mates' individual actions.

When Rhysand sits up, you nearly scream in frustration and pull at your shadowy restraints. "No!!"

They laugh at you and the bucking of your hips against empty air. You find yourself being manhandled once again, your tummy pressed against the mattress with your ass high in the air. Instead of Azriel's cock springing in front of your face its' Cass'.

Not needing any instructions, you take him into your mouth. You feel Cassian twitch against your tongue.

"See what a good girl she is, Cass? Come on. She deserves to come." the High Lord runs his hand along your flank, giving the globes of your ass a small squeeze. "Accidentally" slipping his thumb past your pussy lips.

Just to show Cassian what a good girl you were, you swallow more of his girth down your throat and hum. The vibrations that jolt up his cock has Cassian jerking his hips with a groan and threading his fingers into your hair. Rolling his head back, Cassian feels the walls of your throat tighten.

Through the warming of his face, Cassian trains his eyes back on your face.

"I think to sweeten the general up, perhaps our good girl should make the general come." You barely hear Azriel's smooth voice over the pounding of blood vessels in your ears. The entirety of the bottom of your face is covered in your own saliva and Cassian's precum. Your breathing was labored as you even struggled to inhale through your nose. Determination burning you up from the inside as you enjoy Cassian's cacophony of moans. Fueling the inferno in your core that has you wantonly feverish.

Obscenities made up of wet gagging noises coming from you and Cassian's own erratic growls fill Rhysand's master bedroom.

If anyone were to walk by outside-

"Don't think of that." Lightly scolds Rhysand. "There is no world except for the one in this room." His tongue licks from your clit to your perineum making you shiver and moan with your mouth full of Cassian.

There's a tug from Cassian's hand in your hair, pulling you back to the present matter at hand. He grinds his hips against your face. You're more than happy to forget about any sense of decorum or shame.

Your thoughts please Rhysand as he practically purrs against your pussy before he starts a full on make-out session with your lower lips. Your pitiable moans that send pleasurable quivers through Cassian's cock was enough to have his grip tighten in warning before shoving you off. Immediately follows the ribbon of cum shooting from his tip

"F-Fff-Fucking good girl" Cass' tone sounds like a curse but his red cheeks and heaving chest told you plenty. In a appreciative gesture, you run your fingers through the tantalizing streak of his happy trail, skating over the ridge of his cum gutters and up the mountain of abs.

It's all you can do as Rhysand spears that exquisite tongue of into your pussy while also stimulating your clit.

Alright, the general has spoken, sweetling. I'll give you a big reward.

Rhysand makes sure to keep his hands attentive to your messy, wet pussy when he pulls his face away. From the mess you left on his hands, Rhys uses it to coat his cock and and gently taps the tip against your entrance.

All the while Cassian brushes a few strands of hair out of your face before cupping it in his massive, callused hands. He always held you like you were a fragile egg. Intently watching every twitch of your face as Rhysand slowly pushes the blunt end of his cock into you. Inch by inch, he sheathes his member; like a sword with its scabbard. Your mouth parts, forming a soft 'o' shape as you feel your gummy walls accommodate his girth. For even Rhysand its a snug fit but being patient rewards him. Strong hands keep your hips in place.

Need to make sure I stretch you out a little before you take Az.

You're surprised you have a bit of your whits with you as you numbly think Where is Az?

"I'm right here, princess." Azriel sits on the bed once again, this time matching everyone else's nudity.

Again you're taken aback by how truly lucky you are when you gaze at Azriel and Cassian with half-lidded eyes. Cassian was already at half-mast in a matter of seconds thanks to the way your tits bounced when Rhysand fluidly slid his cock in and out. The powerful lines that composed their physique. Each muscle a testament to the trials and tribulations they have survived through. Your mates.

"Yes." He picks up his pace while swiping his thumb over your clit. "We're all your's sweetling." Heat radiating off of Rhysand makes your back start to sweat. Especially when he leans his forehead to press against your shoulder as he nearly folds over you, his thrusts becoming more animalistic as he neared the pinnacle of his own pleasure.

It's ridiculous how hard Rhysand can make you come. Overwhelming that your own small body could hardly contain it in your physical vessel. You can't help the tears that warm the backs of your eyes as you feel a thousand stars burst from inside of you. Stardust blurs your vision as your pussy walls clamp down on Rhysand mercilessly in your orgasm.

You're grateful that Rhysand solely is keeping you up. Your own body fails you as muscles spasm and every bare inch of you grows overly sensitive to Rhys' tightening grip.

Searing heat fills your core. The only sign that Rhysand has reached his climax as well besides the vicious bites he leaves all over your shoulders.

Your boys laugh when you face plant into the mattress, a heaving mess already and Cassian nor Azriel have had their fun yet. You will your arms to lift you up.

Red faced Rhysand takes pity on you and wraps one arm around your midsection to help you at least sit up enough to focus on the other two males whose chest are heaving just as much as yours'. Azriel's pupils have swelled till they took over his natural eye color. They'd look terrifying if it weren't for their raging cocks.

Well. . . the sight of those impressive members were slightly terrifying but also thrilling. Surprised when you felt your sticky pussy clench with need. Spoiled your cunt had become. Utterly spoiled by your three indulgent mates.

Cauldron grant you strength.

"Az and Cass will take care of you while I get you some water." Rhysand breathily tells you as he attempts to catch his own breath. You pout slightly when he moves to leave. He kisses your lips to placate the pout. "I'll be back. You'll be good. Won't you?"

"Always." You beam up at him. It has Rhysand melting, debating on staying and sending for one of the wraiths to fetch you water, but he knew you loathe the idea of anyone hearing your moans besides your mates.

With another promise of being prompt, Rhysand takes a second to at least put some pants on before leaving the room.

That's when Cassian unexpectedly pounces on you, pushing you back down against the mattress as you squeal your surprise. His lips are all over you, nips and kisses alike.

"Remember, we have to wait for Rhys." Azriel pipes up much to Cassian's chagrin as he shoots the spymaster a tampered down glare. While he's not too bothered with waiting, that doesn't mean he wasn't going to play around with you a little bit.

"Yeah yeah I know." Cass grins, his face leans down to hover over your tits before he takes on in his mouth. His teeth gently tug at your nipple making you warble. He hollows out his cheeks to give it a good suckle. "You'd probably do with a good tit sucking, Az." Comments Cassian once he removes his lips with a loud 'pop' noise.

"Then quit hogging them." Grins Azriel and pushes his brother's face away from your chest. Actually he nearly shoves Cassian off of you in his haste to latch his lips around your pert and abused bud. Imprints of Cassian's front teeth could be made out on the delicate skin of your breasts. Cassian doesn't put up a fight and watches Azriel swiftly clamber atop of you.

His giant wings block out the rest of the room, encasing you so that you could only focus on the spymaster.

He slithers down onto his tummy, his face making a slow ascent to your tits. Biting at the undersides, soft and tender and already baring red marks from Cassian's previous nibbling. Azriel's palm goes to cup at your heated pussy, still slick from your orgasm and leaking even more now with their touches.

You grind against his bare hand, absolutely drooling at the deep growl that rolls through him when you do so. Feel your lower lips spread against his palm, Azriel lets out another debauched groan that was now being muffled thanks to your nipple in his mouth.

Wrapping your arms around Azriel's head, you pull him closer to your chest and weave your fingers into his dark hair. In response his suckling becomes louder, the sensation shooting a thrill to your pussy. You coo praises with your head thrown back and your legs wrapping around Azriel's waist.

"Uh-uh sweetheart." Azriel lifts his face when he feels you trying to wiggle onto his cock. "Cassian has to stretch you out next."

"I've taken you before though. I can do it without any prep." Complaining, you're basically whimpering when Azriel peels himself completely off of you. You want to bite your tongue off for even saying anything.

"Looks like she's about to have a tantrum." Teases Rhysand when he opens the bedroom door to slink back in, but it was true. Azriel had worked you back up and now you were in need of another cock inside of you.

At least he's able to stop your pouting when you hands you water. You didn't realize how parched you were until the first splash of cold water hits your tongue. Guzzling it down, you're not paying attention to your bat boys having a silent conversation. One that you were not allowed in on.

Rhysand winks. Distracting you from Cassian sneaking up and lifting you high up onto his shoulders, smashing his face right into your pussy. Your fingers claw at his shoulders for stability as you feel yourself teeter to and fro.

"Cass!" Squealing, you can't enjoy his tongue fucking into you since you're doing your best to not fall.

Doesn't help when you can feel the vibrations of Cassian's low chuckle.

Its hard to forget just how powerful your mates are. Reminded consistently by their massive muscles. Cassian's hands never quivered in holding you up above his face.

You shiver and go slack jawed.

There you go.

Shadows help you to steady yourself on Cassian's hands, giving him your absolute trust.

When he's satisfied with how wet you are, Cassian slowly moves you down onto his lap. Each inch of him you took in, you let out sweet little cries. Lewd squelches emit from your singing pussy, Azriel and Rhysand watch with rapt attention at the general's cock splitting you open.

Your high lord nudges at his spymaster.

Azriel obeys and right in the middle of a cry provoked by a particularly hard thrust on Cassian's end, Azriel shoves his cock into your wide open mouth. The back of your throat is punched by the tip of Azriel's cock, enticing your gag reflex to choke you. Corners of your mouth ache when your lips have to widen even more in order to take Azriel's fat dick. Your eyes burn with dewey tears and a silver string of saliva dribbles down your chin.

Cassian continues to fuck you harder and your muffled cries has Azriel's spine tingling and his cock twitching in your mouth as his hips continue to thrust in and out.

Even with Cassian supporting all of your weight, you find your thighs trembling and hips quaking every smack of Cassian's pelvis meeting your ass.

Surprisingly, Azriel's own rhythm matched that of Cassian's. They really did plan this out. Impressive.

"We had to plan things out. You could get hurt otherwise." Rhysand replies. He couldn't explain the immense arousal it gave him to watch his brothers spitroast you. To watch the veins in your throat bulge and your red face streaked as pleasure induced tears slip down your cheeks. Quite the sight to behold and the most beautiful image in the world to Rhys.

The same time your head was bobbing, so was your ass as Cassian lets out possessive growls that outwardly had him appearing vicious. Cass' grip on your thighs told him otherwise, it was one of assured strength that he would not let you fall.

He knew you always thought yourself to be the lucky one in the relationship. Lucky to brag of your three strong mates that could rule all of Prythian's courts if they developed the taste for it.

In all honesty, they were the ones who felt like the luckiest bastards.

A mate wasn't something they ever thought would be bestowed to them. Blood trailed behind them. Brutal childhood years that physically and mentally scarred them for life.

You were their reward for all those horrible years.

And he couldn't imagine sharing you with anyone else but his lifelong friends that were basically brothers to him.

You're slapped across the face as another climax seizes control of your limbs. Spasming against Cassian's face that was now utterly demolished by your slick that gave his lips a shiny glaze.

You don't give Azriel an opportunity to pull his member out of your mouth before he too is creaming against your tongue. Thick, long ropes that coats your esophagus.

Abruptly, Azriel rips his cock out of your mouth as Cassian flips you onto your back and with one hand, holds your knee ditch in place and truly pounds into your pussy that had your tits bouncing uncontrollably from the velocity. He's smacking your wet, overly sensitive clit using the flat of his fingers. You shriek, feeling your back swallowed up by the mattress below you. Cassian could crush all of your bones and you wouldn't give a flying fuck in that minute.

With one last, devastating thrust, Cassian spills his warmth into you.

Giving yourselves extra time to come down from yet another post-coital high, Cassian slips out from you and gently places your legs back down. He pats your flank like you're a brood mare. "Atta girl."

Unable to conjure the energy to laugh, instead you wheeze out a scoff and half-heartedly swat at his arm.

He casts Rhysand and Azriel a teasing grin. "She's ready."

Azriel, your usually sweet and gentle Azriel suddenly has a predatory glint in his eyes. "Spread her."

Working together, Rhysand and Cassian grab hold of one leg each; parting them so Azriel can lewdly examine his prey.

"Look at this." Azriel hums and swipes his finger along the slit of your pussy, collecting a bit of Cassian's cum on his index finger. "Already stuffed. I wonder if my cock can even fit in there with both Rhys' and Cass' cum."

Despite your heated blush that made you dizzy, your lips quirk up. "The only way to find out is to try."

With all of the mixed liquids coating your cunt, it was pretty easy for Azriel to slide half of his cock into you. The rest he eased in with a few rocks of his hips. A growl that comes from the pit of his stomach is ripped out of Azriel, his wings flaring out when he takes you. His brothers continue to possess a secure hold on your thighs as their eyes focus in on the contorting features of your face.

The pressure of his cock is enough to pin you down. Overwhelming even but you'd taken his shaft before and you were determined to do it again.

In order to do so, you will your body into complete, ragdoll obedience that relaxes your entire body; even the death grip the walls of your cunt had on Azriel. It garnered him more wiggle room to start bullying his cock further into you.

Rhys actually breathes out a soft laugh "Wow. . . is that what being 'cock drunk' looks like?"

Cassian groans and using his free hand begins to fist his dick. "Cock drunk on Az's cock, princess?"

Unable to laugh, instead Az's lips twitched into a grin; one of his hands roam to stroke your cheek. You're thoughtlessly nodding along to whatever Cassian was saying. All you understood were the two words "Az's" and "cock".

For a second, you really do fear that Azriel will split you in half when his length pushes past the sensitive roof of your pussy and rams its head against your cervix.

Each love tap had your toes curling inward and your eyes rolling back.

Another?

Greedy girl. Do you even know how many times you've come?

You squeal, hips meeting Azriel's in perfect synchronicity. They can taunt you all they wanted. As much as they made you cock drunk, the three of them were completely pussy whipped.

In retaliation Rhysand gives your nipple a harsh tug. "You'll pay for that later, sweetling."

Exhausted was an understatement.

All four of you lay in a disgusting heap of limbs and collective sweat. Half of Cassian's body hung off the edge of the bed. He didn't mind. At least he was able to cool off even his foot was basically touching the ground and put a few inches between himself and Azriel. You lay between the spymaster and the high lord. Waters were retrieved after the fun was officially over.

Now you lay with your mates sated and unspeakably happy.

Your inner musings have Rhysand smiling. He turns your face toward him using but his fingers on your chin. "We live to make you happy." Rhysand languidly kisses you, enjoying the flavor upon your lips. A combination of everyone's juices. They would help you get to the bath. Eventually.

"I'm taking it the princess was satisfied?" Cheekily grinned Cassian.

You laugh though it costs your body to wince in slight discomfort. "Yes. If you didn't notice, I quite enjoyed myself."

Azriel nuzzles his nose along the length of your neck. Mentally you make a note that you'd have to visit the dressmaker so that they could alter your gowns to make them cover your neck and chest. Without context, many would assume the red marks all over your body was a sign of disease. Showing up to a professional meeting with hickeys all over your body wouldn't bode well either.

"Lets try double penetration next time!" Chimes Cassian.

Mother be good, these boys were certainly going to be the death of you.

@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @a-courtof-azriel

[jyoongim]

Imagine though, you see Alastor and assume that he's the one in full control during sex but the reality is that behind closed doors his ass is absolutely pathetic for his woman, falling to her feet, kissing them and being a pretty little pet

Happy Valentines Day everyone <3, hope you get off to some nice fics today and take care of yourself babes

Themes: fem!reader, face-sitting/riding, fluff, antlers, soft!Alastor, pet names, slight begging, Alastor lowkey pussy whipped.

If anyone knew Alastor, they knew just how terrifying he could be.

The Radio Demon always wore a smile on his face.

He was intimidating, dangerous, cunning, and unpredictable.

So why in the seven rings, were You not afraid?

When Alastor came back for his seven-year absence, he had a pretty sweet thing by his side.

Unlike the arrogant demon, you spoke softly if not ever at all. You were kind and treated everyone equally.

You must be something real special to have been able to deal with the Radio Demon.

If someone took a look at you and Alastor, they would immediately think that it is Alastor who calls all the shots.

In some way that’s true.

In the public eye, though Alastor kept you by his side, it was often interpreted that you were more like arm candy, nothing more than a pretty face he kept.

But never trust appearances.

For the feared Radio Demon who maintained an air of confidence, behind closed doors always showed how much he appreciated you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You giggled at the sound of a record scratch as you got ready to settle in bed for the night.

Alastor was reading a book, sipping on some tea as you dropped your robe to get into bed.

His ear twitched at the sound of the fallen clothing and when he glanced your way, he short-circuited.

You were beautiful. 

Hair tied in a wrap to make sure your curls stayed in place. Your thin, silk nightie clung to your full figure as you applied your lotions and ointments. You sighed happily as you finished up your night routine.

Alastor didn’t register that he had even got up until he was kneeling in front of you, smile soft as he caressed your legs, hands starting to at your foot

You tilted your head at the demon “Alastor?”

A chaste kiss was pressed inside your ankle as he rubbed your feet.

You relaxed as he worked the kinks out your legs and feet.

Maybe it was because he was a serial killer alive, but damn was he good with his hands.

You grabbed at his loosened tie, letting him crawl up your body. You peppered his face with kisses, shyly nipping at his lips. You figured that this was gonna turn into a lusty rendezvous ,so when you went to unzip his pants and he denied you, you were confused.

Alastor chuckled, kissing your shoulder “Let me take care of you mon cher you always do so much being my good girl”

He slipped back to settle between your thighs. His hands caressed and kneaded at the soft flesh, even giving you a slight nip to get a gasp out of you.

He flicked your nightie up, smirking at your bare cunt. A low growl rumbled in his chest as your scent wafted to his nose. He pressed a kiss your clit, causing you to jump

”Not yet”

Alastor hands roamed and kneaded you as he mumbled his praises.

Alastor was under your spell the moment he met you. You had a way of making him a bit softer than he was use to.

He kept you by his side without a deal and loved every moment of it.

He would do anything you asked. 

Anything you want, it was yours by his command.

He would tear Hell apart if anything happened to you.

You were his muse.

His goddess.

His to care and provide for.

Only you were capable of getting the Radio Demon to be domesticated.

Only dedicated to you.

What a clever minx you were…

Alastor sucked a perky nipple into his mouth. Moaning as your body seems to light up.  Your chest pushing the mound of flesh into his mouth as he tugged and teased the peak.

Deeming your nipple was abused enough, he switched to the other, pinching the other.

A whine tore through you as he teased soft circles on your clit. “A-Alastor”

He shushed you as you grinded against his hand

”Ask and Ill give you anything darlin”

”T-Ton…”you panted as he tugged at your ear with his teeth. He hummed ”hmmm?”

You took a deep breathe, head lolling as he dipped a finger inside you. “I-I want to cum o-on your t-tongue”

Though Alastor usually took the reigns in every other aspect of your relationship, in the bedroom it was you coaxing the maniac to be soft.

Alastor took orders from no one.

But he did like the praise and acknowledgment you gave and that was enough to fuel his ego.

”Then take it”

Your cheeks were heated as you looked at the red demon beneath you. He was smiling as he looked back up at you.

He kissed your inner thighs, waiting on you.

waiting for you to let your desires to overtake the usual sweet personality you had.

”Tongue out” you said softly, finding purchase on his antlers, that were now big as branches.

You felt his warm, wet tongue loll out his mouth, grazing your cunt.

You steadied your grip and without a second thought, sat on his  mouth.

Your claws dug into his antlers as you moved against his tongue.

Alastor was quite happy underneath you, tongue lapping as you used him for your pleasure.

Soft moans and groans bounced off the walls as you coated Alastor’s face in your slick.

”Oooooh fuuccckk ah!”

Usually you begged. 

Begged for Alastor to give you that sweet release.

But you were going to take it.

And make him beg.

”A-Alasstoorr ha!” His ears perked at your enticing moan around his name.

”You’ll look so pretty covered in my cum aha! Would you like that? Hmmm?” 

You were riding his tongue as if his cock. Feet planted and thighs caging him in. 

“I’m gonna cum Oh! Ah!” Using his antlers, you angled his head so his nose bumped your clit with each roll of your hips.

”c-cummin’ i-i aaahh! Fuck! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! Take it take it. Be a good boy, Swallow my cum hmmmm yeeesss oh!”

The soppy slurps and curling of his tongue sent you over the edge.

Huffing you raised your hips, not wanting to kill the demon from being smothered.

”i-I’m sorry Al I didn’t mean-”

Your hand brushed against a heavy tent in his pants

But Alastor’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your sensitive cunt back down.

“I don't mind dearest. You should relish using me for your pleasure…I’m your good boy after all”

Alastor might be a scary powerful overlord…but he was a big softie when it came to his woman. 

Absolutely worshiped the ground you walked on.

Only you could turn the monster into a purring kitten.

And he’d have it no other way.

@alishii @alastor-simp @alastorsaries @alastwhore666 @alastorsdear @okay-babe @sssandychemd @ioniiaa @catherine69420 @danveration @bookishcatcafe @altruisticalastor @markster666 @citrussmootee @brechdan-ham @wisteria-seal @dasimp777 @goth-mami-writer @gojosaturos-wife @alastorsfawn @coleisyn @horrorartsworld @dennsfz @fatnug @prosciuttosblog @spalimly @crazyforbarnes @eviebuggg @polytheatrix @queenariesofnarnia @lunaramune @kassa-stardust @alstorloml @scaramoochiie @strawberrypimp666 @simphornies @yourdoorisunlocked @zombiesnips-blog @stawberrypimpsimp @absurd-ash @peachedtv @kiralaufeyson84

[calliesmemes]

ABSOLUTELY UNHINGED COMEDIC RELIEF

ASSORTED QUOTES FROM TUMBLR TEXTPOSTS, X (formerly known as twitter) POSTS, TIKTOK, MEMES, AND OTHER SOURCES AROUND THE INTERNET

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

“   Currently considering becoming a bother and a nuisance, maybe even a menace or a rascal. ”

“   Hungry? Eat the government. ”

“   Yes, I wanna fuck after every argument. ”

“   Silence, you uneducated peanut! ”

“  They should invent a being alive that isn’t so difficult. ”

“   Women have to think I’m hot or none of this matters. ”

“   Due to personal reasons I will be named an enemy of the state. ”

“   Being overdressed is a myth made up by people who didn’t want you to have fun and be sexy. ”

“   What even are daddy issues? Just traumatize your father back. ”

“   I LOVE complaining! You can’t take that away from me! ”

“   I went to the silly goose convention and they all knew you. ”

“   I’m simultaneously ‘I’m tired of this grandpa’ and ‘that’s too damn bad!’ ”

“   The word ew coming out of a pretty girl’s mouth holds so much power … I think that it can tear apart nations. ”

“   Someone made fun of my shoes and the whole time I just thought of ways to push them out the window. ”

“   If you’re short, simply get taller. ”

“   I better think twice? Buddy I don’t even think once. ”

“   My off putting looks, awkward demeanor, and strange behavior have captivated you. ”

“   There’s something deeply, fundamentally wrong with you. Can we kiss? ”

“   You are a fool. When you walk, clown music plays. ”

“   I mean yeah he’s evil and all but what if I were his favorite? ”

“   I really do hate thinking. ”

“   In my defense, I simply do not vibe with the law. ”

“   I’ve done nothing wrong. Except all the atrocities. Besides that, I’m innocent. ”

“   Sorry I couldn’t hear you over my internal monologue. ”

“   Of course you have white hair and trauma. ”

“   So apparently the bad vibes I’ve been feeling are actually ‘severe psychological distress’. ”

“   Stop calling me a bad person just because I’m orchestrating your downfall! ”

“   The more lip gloss I collect the longer I live. ”

“   Sorry that I am obsessed with you in the unhealthiest way possible. As if it's my fault ”

“   The multiple failed assassination attempts against me have helped build both character and self esteem. ”

“   I could be your loser boyfriend. Do you ever think about that? ”

“   Accidentally went and got myself killed yesterday, but god wont let me die so I’m back ”

“   What do you mean napping isn't a good coping mechanism? What do you mean my problems are still here? ”

“   Academic validation is required for my sanity. ”

“   RIP to everyone killed by the gods for hubris but I’m different and better. Maybe even better than the gods. ”

“   Researching the stages of grief to see if I can get them finished in ten minutes tops. ”

“   My parents were like I’m gonna make a child that is so beyond help. ”

“   It’s not easy to admit when you’re wrong, and that’s why I won’t do it. ”

“   Why can’t this family ever have a funky good time? ”

“   How do I show people that I’m more than my unethical career choice? ”

“   I fucked my way into this mess, and I’ll fuck my way out. ”

“   You look so biteable today. ”

“   Why am I suffering? I have so many correct opinions and takes. ”

“   I AM HAUNTED BY A PAST THAT I CANNOT GO BACK TO! anyways ”

“   Challenging authority, angering gods. The family business. ”

“   Third base is me telling you about my father. ”

“   Hey girl. Plagued by terrifying visions? ”

“   Got caught giving a fuck. Embarrassing. ”

“   I didn’t ‘miss’ the red flags; I saw them and thought that they looked sexy. ”

“   Do my dark circles and deteriorating health make me look hot? ”

“   I get my news from the only reliable source, cryptic symbolism in my dreams. ”

“   Another day of being a bisexual disaster. ”

“   I’m going to let myself be a little unhinged today, as a treat. ”

“   Some of you act like murder is such a big deal. ”

“   You wanna hunt me for sport so bad that it makes you look stupid. ”

“   You’re not a girlboss unless you’ve killed someone. ”

“   It’s so weird how no one ever has correct opinions about things except for me. ”

“   Hello, my love — I mean, my rival ”

“   No one is calling me baby and it’s outrageous I can’t believe it. ”

“   No talking stage. Mutual obsession and you see god in my eyes or nothing. ”

“   I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOOKUP CULTURE DIE IN MY ARMS ”

“   Yes baby your emotional walls are high and impenetrable can we kiss now? ”

“   Affection is disgusting. Drown me in it. ”

“   I am gatekeeping my respect from you. ”

“   Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions. ”

“   I am equal parts fuck around and find out and please don’t yell at me I’ll cry. ”

“   Short legs, big butt. I’m a corgi. ”

“   Fuck being the bigger person; I’m going to start biting people. ”

“   Well that wasn’t very slay of you! ”

“   May I please get a crumb of affection? ”

“   I crave power! Please don’t yell, though; I’m sensitive. ”

“   You call it a near death experience; I call it a vibe check from God. ”

“   Here are some scissors. Now cut it out. ”

“   Might commit a little tomfoolery, maybe even some shenanigans. ”

“   All these flavors, and you choose to be salty. ”

“   How can I live, laugh, love in these conditions? ”

“   What if I said ‘to be honest’ but then lied? ”

“   I'm financially at a stage where I understand why people do fraud. ”

“   Yes I may be evil and morally corrupt, but I’m also incredibly beautiful and I think that makes up for it honestly. ”

“   Debates are stupid. Why would I want to sit down and argue with someone blatantly dumber than me? ”

“   I forget but I do NOT forgive.. I'm just walking around hating bitches can't remember why ”

“   Ding dong your opinion is wrong! ”

“   I’m coming for your kneecaps. ”

“   You dropped your nose you fucking clown. ”

“   Are you a fire alarm? ‘Cause you are really fucking loud and annoying. ”

“   Call me an escalator, because I let people down. ”

“   I love me a good lesbian scandal! ”

“   If you can’t run away from your problems, you’re not running fast enough. ”

“   Everything I want to do is illegal. ”

“   Don’t make me hit your ankle with my Barbie scooter! ”

“   I tell gay jokes because I am a gay joke. ”

“   Fuck! I dropped my mental stability! ”

[gay-dorito-dust]

wahhhh reading that hurts me 😭 could you please write a part 2 where they all find out that it was bill who possessed reader?

Tag list: @babypeapoddd @i-am-tiredd @sly-thou-pookie @x-seyaa @sweetlumpkinseedlin @kawaii1369 @roo024 @lightmaren

Part 1 right here

‘What?’ Ford asked.

Bill cackled. ‘For someone as smart as you sixer, you sure are stupid as not to notice the obvious signs of whenever I’m possessing someone. I mean out of everyone you should know better.’

Ford clenches his jaw. All this time he had thought you had betrayed him when in actually you had been loyal to him and his family, up until he and his brother ostracised you even more then you already were for the past thirty years. He made you feel like shit, and he could tell that Stanley felt the same amount of guilt as he clenched his fists in silent anger; Ford then levels Bill with a glare. ‘You possessed y/n! My assistant!’ He roared at his once muse.

Bill only chuckles. ‘Correction!WAS your assistant Stanford! And pushed you through the portal whilst wearing the face is someone you cared for,’ Bill then gasps as he looked at the guilt ridden faces of the Pines Family and feeling the joy bubble up in his triangular body, the look of defeat and realisation was all too sweet, ‘Oh wait! Someone you once cared for before throwing them out like they were nothing to you, not once letting them the space to explain what had happened and how I tricked them into making a deal with me.’ He finished by pretending to wipe a tear from his one eye after cackling some more at the hilarity of the situation.

Humans loved to cause more problems within problems they didn’t fully handle properly as they stockpiled on top of each other, giving him the leeway to get what he wants without issue or confrontation from the pathetic family.

Possessing you during a brotherly squabble was perfect! Ford had cut all ties with him and decided to call upon his idiotic brother- as though that would’ve ever worked in any timeline- to help hide his work but when things didn’t go Ford’s way, they fought. You were trying to stop the fight and bill took advantage of that by claiming he could help you stop the fight, fat chance, he was going to make it worse and leave you to be his scapegoat! It was a brilliant plan to make up for multiple set backs thanks to Ford’s sudden realisation of his hermit tendencies, everything was out in place for the ultimate betrayal by the hands of Ford’s assistant; you!

Bill found that Tragedy was at its finest when the betrayal comes from someone you love and it did.

‘They didn’t-‘ Ford began.

‘Say anything?’ Bill interrupts, causing Ford and Stan to glare at him as the demon cackle as he got in close to their shared triangle shaped prison, staring them down with his one eye, unblinking. ‘You and your piece of shit brother over here didn’t even let them speak! Never less believe them when they were telling the truth!’ He roared, ‘and now you don’t know whether they’re even alive so that you can apologise to them!’

Mabel slams against the bars of hers and dippers prison. ‘they’re alive!’ She shouts and Bill now looks at her, amused.

‘How can you be so sure shooting star? For all you know they could be dead, cursing your grunkles names as they die with an unsatisfying end.’ Bill mocked her as she falters in her resolve, he was right, how could she be certain that you were alive when Gravity Falls was literally on fire and demons from another dimension were running amok? She couldn’t and that’s what upset her the most.

‘Because we know our great aunt/uncle better than you bill and we know they’re alive!’ Dipper pips up this time as he laid a reassuring hand on his sister’s shoulder, smiling at her as she smiled back at him in thanks for having her back. Bill looks at the twins, hating their optimism and hope that you were okay and decided to destroy this by reaching into thin air and producing a realistic illusion of your unmoving body before them.

‘Are you so sure now pine tree? They don’t look very much alive to me!’ Bill exclaims as Mabel, Dipper, Stan and Ford could only look up the body that Bill claimed was yours in disbelief and shock. This couldn’t be how it ended, could it? They still had to apologise to you after all for everything and make it up to you however you wished!

‘No, no this is some foul trick of yours bill!’ Ford screamed as he threw himself against the bars, forcing himself not to cry at the sight of your body while seething with rage and a need to avenge your supposed death. ‘You sick son of a bitch!’ Stanley joined in as he felt even more useless than ever, he felt the most guilt out of everyone as his eyes seemed to refused to move from your supposed body. You couldn’t be dead, he refused to believe such bullshit lies, you were still alive and fighting with the rest of them! He knew it, deep down in his heart he knew it to be true!

‘No.’ Mabel cried as she tried to reach out to you as Dipper held her while silently crying himself, vowing to take down bill now more than ever as he tugged his hat down to cover his eyes. You were the most encouraging person he’s ever met and now you were gone, you asked him and Mabel to trust you when contemplating to stay with Stan, and they did believe and they never regretted doing so because you were right! You were always right and yet in the end you died thinking they hated you more than anything; which wasn’t true! Far from it and now…now they can’t make it up to you, they had lost their chance.

Bill had won over the pines family once again.

[lazysoulwriter]

Beyond the Frame - Paul Mescal.

The soft rustling of leaves filled the air as Paul and (y/n) stepped onto the well-trodden path winding through the Irish countryside. It was a rare day off for them both, nestled in the heart of Wicklow, where nature had claimed every inch with open arms. The trees arched overhead like protectors, their leaves shimmering with morning dew. The air smelled of fresh pine and damp earth, a serene symphony that enveloped them as they wandered deeper into the wilderness.

Paul had insisted on this trip—“A break from the world,” he’d said, with his usual lopsided grin—and (y/n) had agreed, eager to spend the day surrounded by nothing but green hills and the soft cooing of birds. The city had been too much lately, too loud. But here, everything was peaceful.

“Hold still,” Paul called, his voice breaking the stillness but blending so well with the scenery. (y/n) turned to see him, camera in hand, poised to capture her. His hair was tousled from the wind, and a boyish excitement lit up his features.

She laughed, feeling a little self-conscious. “Again?”

He nodded, stepping closer as he focused the lens. “I need to capture the light just right. You know,” he said, almost teasing, “you’re the greatest work of art I’ve ever seen. How could I not take photos of you in every corner of this place?”

(y/n) rolled her eyes playfully, but her heart fluttered at his words. Paul’s charm was something she’d never quite gotten used to, no matter how long they’d been together. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Mescal,” she teased back, but she stayed still, letting him click away.

They continued their walk, Paul snapping photos at every opportunity—by the riverbank, where the water glistened under the midday sun; in a clearing where wildflowers bloomed in soft, pastel hues; by an old oak tree that must’ve stood for centuries, its roots deep and twisted into the earth. With every shot, Paul’s smile grew, and every time he lowered the camera, he looked at her with a mix of awe and love that made her feel more beautiful than any of the picturesque surroundings.

As the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, they found themselves sitting on a small hill that overlooked the valley. The world below seemed endless, a sea of green with patches of blue sky peeking through the clouds. Paul wrapped an arm around (y/n), pulling her close as they sat in silence for a moment, just listening to the wind.

“You know,” Paul said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take a picture that does you justice.”

(y/n) turned to him, brow raised. “Is that so?”

He nodded. “You’re just... you’re not like anything else, not like anything that can be captured in a frame. You’re more real than any photo, more alive. It’s like…” He paused, struggling to find the words. “It’s like the universe took all the beauty it could find and put it into one person. And here you are.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You have a way with words, Paul. But I think you’re biased.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “But I’m okay with that.”

They stayed like that for a long time, watching the sun set in soft, golden waves over the Irish landscape. The world seemed to slow down, and for that moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—no schedules, no work, just them, wrapped in nature and in each other’s presence.

As the last light of day faded and the sky turned to shades of lavender and indigo, Paul picked up the camera one last time. Without saying a word, he captured (y/n) against the backdrop of twilight, her silhouette framed by the colors of dusk.

“Last one,” he promised, grinning. “But you have to admit, you’re the best muse I could ask for.”

(y/n) laughed softly, reaching over to take the camera from him. “Alright, now it’s your turn. Let me take a picture of the man who thinks I’m a masterpiece.”

Paul obliged, leaning back in the grass, a content smile on his face. As (y/n) focused the lens, she couldn’t help but think that this—this day, this love—was the real work of art.

And it was theirs to keep.

[rapturously]

kickstart my heart.

REQUEST SUBMITTED BY @darklylucid

“Paul’s always been flirty, and you’ve never really taken it seriously. After a minor incident on the boardwalk, Paul decides that he’ll make you take him seriously, one way or another.”

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. | paul (the lost boys) x fem!reader.

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓. | one-shot — requested.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. | 6.8K.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. | SMUT (mdni), friends to lovers, jealous!paul, paul is really flirty/touchy, oral sex (f!receiving), spit as lube, choking (m!receiving), hair-pulling, paul is definitely a mess, dirty talk, pet names (baby, girl, sweet girl), cowgirl, vaginal sex, scratching, biting, bloodplay (he’s a vampire), breastplay (paul loves your tits), fingering, clothes ripping, groping, nasty sex, manhandling, paul isn’t gentle

𝐀𝐔𝐓����𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. | i’m back and literally going insane for the lost boys ,,, thank you to @darklylucid for requesting this !!! first time writing Paul and it was so, so much fun! dwayne is up next, so prepare yourselves for that! also working on a poly!lost boys x reader series ,,, so yeah!

A cloudless dusk fell over Santa Carla, sky littered with millions of stars that hung above, providing a rather attractive backdrop to a less-than-savory town. The boardwalk was more alive than ever — it transformed with nightfall, becoming a den of depravity and mystique, coupled with the liveliness of families and the carnival atmosphere.

You were situated atop a blanket, feet partially buried within the cool sand as you sat on the beach. A concert took place many feet away as you watched people clamor from the staircase to the growing crowd. The rancor of music reverberated throughout the air, accompanied by the cheering and applause from onlookers.

Saltwater lapped at the gray shoreline, moon hanging overhead to light the way. You always came to the boardwalk at night — you made plenty of friends, but you happened to have a peculiar bond with a pack of vampires. It wasn’t intentional — you never meant to befriend them like you had, but you didn’t regret a thing.

The familiar roar of motorbikes resonated in the near-distance, splitting past swarms of carnival-goers as they descended the steps. It never took very long for them to find you, bearing down upon you like a pack of hyenas.

Marko’s laughter filled the air as he and Dwayne pulled up along the terrace above you, parking their bikes next to the length of black grating. David and Paul followed suit, hauling Star and Laddie in-tow. You were more focused on the gleam of the moonlight hitting the water and the seashell you’d been turning over within your palm.

A thump resonated from your left side, and you nearly shrieked, jumping from your own flesh as Paul landed atop the blanket. He scooped a finger against your chin, plump lips pulled back to reveal his pearlescent smirk. A faint aroma of stale cologne and hints of marijuana clung to him, but that was commonplace.

“Hey baby,” Paul crooned, kicking one leg up against his chest as the rest of the boys lingered around the balcony, save for Marko. He descended from above like a cat leaping toward perch, landing in the sand with grace. His presence was intentional, solely to agitate Paul. “Where’ve you been?”

Paul’s constant flirtation was something that you were used to — painfully so. You always wrote it off as something casual, a facet deeply ingrained into his wild and spontaneous personality. Paul often flirted with anyone that had a pulse and smelled appeasing, and that included you. It was fun to watch, but sometimes you wished that he meant it.

With a huff, you attempted to swat his hand away, but he was swift, arm resting atop his propped knee as he idly bounced his head to the music. “I’ve been here,” You mused, offering a kind greeting to Marko. “Where else am I supposed to be?” You inquired, tracing the pad of your thumb over the seashell’s ridges.

Paul’s nose wrinkled slightly. “I can think of a few places,” He mused, plucking at the top of your blouse. “You gonna come down tonight?” He asked, referring to you joining them in the cave. You normally went there with the group if they were satiated and fed. You were still human, after all — being in a nest full of vampires probably wasn’t the safest or smartest idea.

“Maybe,” You shrugged, feeling Paul perch his chin atop your shoulder. The physical aspect of his flirting always made your heart race, thrumming just underneath your collarbone. Your gaze flickered toward him, brows furrowing together. “What?”

“Please?” Paul insisted, lips twitching into a Cheshire smirk, teeth and all. “Wanna hang out with you.” Of all the pack, you were closest to Paul, but sometimes, you didn’t want to be. His constant touching and lascivious nature often left you wistful and confused, aching for something that he couldn’t give you.

“Don’t listen to him,” Marko interjected, busy ogling a wandering group of beachgoers — a gaggle of younger women hanging off of the arms of burly men. It smelled like potential dinner for him. “He found a guitar.” That was all you needed to know.

A giggle escaped you as Paul threw a handful of sand toward Marko, which happened to land against his patchwork jacket and golden curls. His visage contorted into a sour expression, glaring daggers at Paul before he stood up, shaking all of it out in the process.

“You found a guitar?” You asked, watching as Paul pushed your legs flat against the blanket, allowing him to rest his head within your lap. Admittedly, your heartbeat betrayed you — you wanted to be annoyed by the gesture, but instead, you let it go.

To Paul, you smelled outrageously wonderful — better than anything he’d had before. It was an amalgamation of softer, floral perfumes coupled with whatever wash you used. He detected peach and vanilla, sweeter aromas that clung to you like a pleasant haze.

His hair was akin to that of a lion’s mane, viciously unruly as it flew around him like a halo. “Yeah,” Paul replied, somewhat distracted by your scent. “Y’know, I didn’t find it. I stole it from these amateurs up by the empty lot.” Yoo assumed that these ‘amateurs’ were no longer alive, either.

“Aren’t you considered an amateur too, Paul?” You mused, reclining back upon your hands, letting yourself sink into the soft, white sand. As you glanced down toward your lap, Paul was staring at you for what felt like an eternity, and you couldn’t discern if it was out of offense or something else.

“You’re gorgeous,” Paul mumbled, tracing one of his ring-adorned digits over the expanse of your clothed stomach. “Lookin’ good enough to eat.” He mused, and while you would’ve initially brushed off that comment, he said it with a peculiar warmth.

Goosebumps erupted along the column of your spine, causing you to shift slightly. His finger didn’t stop moving, flicking around the ruffled cotton. He wished that it was your flesh — warm and soft, waiting to invite him in. You never took any of his flirtation to heart — in truth, it might’ve been his fault, but he wanted to make you see.

You belonged to him.

With a soft exhale, you attempted to mask your shudder of delight, absentmindedly nibbling along your lower lip. “Very original,” You uttered, twisting away from his touch as if it would incinerate you. It was all meaningless — mindless sweet nothings spoken from a very precocious individual. “You’re a genius.” You teased, voice becoming slightly sardonic.

“You are,” He insisted, comfortable within your plush lap. Your scent did little to ease his feelings, overwhelming him like a thick haze. “Baby, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in ages. Where’ve you been all my life?” Paul sighed, and he didn’t attempt to touch you again out of respect.

“Right,” You uttered, masking your growing agitation. Paul could have anyone he wanted — and he always did. Girls at the boardwalk swooned over him, they were always easy prey, and he indulged himself plenty of times. You were nothing more than a friend, you weren’t desirable, nor would he ever want you. “You’ve told me that before.”

Paul visibly deflated, withering away like a shriveling flower — you really weren’t convinced.

Unfortunately for Paul, you were blissfully oblivious to any of his advances, but then again, he could understand why you were skeptical. Flirtation was a natural instinct for him. While he kept his head in your lap, he shamelessly opted to rove through your thoughts. It was cheating, sure, but he was itching to know.

“Paul,” Dwayne’s voice cut through his state of contemplation, rousing the sandy-haired blonde from his stupor. Paul’s head lifted off of your lap, hastily sitting upright as he glanced up at the terrace. “We’re going for a ride.” He briefly nodded towards you as a form of greeting, swinging Laddie up onto his bike.

“You’re coming, right?” Paul asked, voice invigorated with a sense of giddiness and excitement. He got a little wild around you sometimes, but it wasn’t anything that you weren’t accustomed to by now. “Do I have to beg you or something?” He groaned, trapping you between his arms.

“You’re pathetic!” Marko snickered, jumping down to snatch you up. Even though he was the smallest of the pack, his strength was often unrivaled, save for Dwayne. You let out a startled gasp as Marko hoisted you up over his shoulder, heckling Paul in the process.

Paul bristled with anger — typically, he could excuse Marko’s antics, but not this time. A white-hot rage blistered through him, crawling across his flesh as he attempted to shake that gold away from his eyes. A snarl escaped him, and he made sure to grab your stuff as a courtesy, leaping up over the bannister.

By the time Paul had landed on the rickety wood of the boardwalk, Marko had placed you on solid ground, unable to bite back the impish smirk on his features. He was deliberately getting under Paul’s skin, and he knew it — knew all about his feelings for you, too. Perhaps that’s what made it all the more enjoyable.

Like a bat out of hell, Paul swarmed the curly-headed blonde with a vengeance, countenance contorted into a look of sheer irritation and borderline rage. “You’re dead, Marko!” He growled, lip curled in disdain.

“Sorry, Paul. You made it too easy,” Marko mused, narrowly missing a rather unsavory blow from Paul, who yanked at his jacket instead. “Jesus! Easy, I was only messing around!” He snapped, with the two bickering and locked in what was supposedly a heated argument.

“Paul,” You gently tugged on his coat, attempting to steer him away from potential violence. “It’s okay, he was just playing around.” A soft sigh escaped you as you played mediator for two vampires, brows knitting together as Paul stepped back with a huff of irritation.

“Enough.” David barked, glaring daggers as he glanced between Paul and Marko. The last thing that he wanted was for them to expose themselves on the boardwalk — it was bound to happen if they didn’t stop the horseplay. With a visible frown, he revved his motorbike, signaling for the others to fall in line.

Jealousy was an ugly thing — unpleasant, often festering inside of oneself until it rotted away at their very core. It didn’t suit Paul whatsoever. He suffered from a bout of such a potent disease, despising the way Marko had touched you, held you over his shoulder. He was usually open about sharing with his brothers, but not you — you were completely off-limits.

Wordlessly, Paul sulked towards his motorbike, sitting down with a begrudging huff. You felt inclined to follow, standing beside him with an empathetic expression. “Are you going to let me on? We’re still hanging out, remember?” You asked, voice softening an octave.

Paul felt a little better — but not completely. His ego was momentarily maimed by Marko’s antics, but it was a wound that would dissipate with time. Fortunately, you were a worthy cure as he moved forward, letting you on the back of his bike. “Saved your stuff, too.” He mused, feeling you squeeze your arms around his midsection.

“You’re my hero,” You chuckled, trying to make him feel less agitated. “Thanks.” With Paul recovering from the scuffle, David motioned for the rest of the conclave to follow, whipping his bike around onto the stretch of the boardwalk that led out onto the shoreline.

You remembered the first time Paul took you for a ride — and you very nearly had a heart attack. He drove as if it’d be his last day on earth, but you’d gotten so used to it that you stopped being a backseat driver and let him do whatever he wanted.

He was talkative and boisterous by-nature, which is why you became so concerned when he didn’t talk to you very much on the ride to the cave. Paul was normally extremely egregious and outgoing, something that you loved about him, but his bout of silence was making you nervous. You wondered if Marko had wounded his pride that badly.

As you pulled up to the cave, the boys hopped off of their motorbikes, and even Paul didn’t really wait up for you this time — something was wrong. Marko noticed, lingering at the fringes of the cavern as he glanced at you, promptly disappearing down the rocky incline. You were left to make your way inside alone, no Paul at your side or helping you down.

Once inside, you felt awkward, more than usual. Being the lone human in a nest full of vampires would always bring a little tension, but without Paul around, you felt hollow and unnerved. David regarded you with his typical stare — cynical and somewhat indifferent, and Dwayne was always solemn, much warmer than the other.

“Where did Paul go?” You asked, and it was Laddie who pointed you in the right direction, pointing toward one of the rocky tunnels that led off into their ‘rooms’, of sorts. You often referred to them as the metaphorical coffins, but Star found it to be in poor taste.

With a shaky exhale, you nodded. “Thanks.” You’d been in Paul’s ‘room’ plenty of times before, but he rarely disappeared and left you to fend for yourself. With the coordination of a baby deer who’d just learned how to take their first steps, you clamored up the uneven terrain, holding onto the rope to guide yourself up.

When you found Paul, he was lazily strumming on a guitar — the one he’d ‘found’. He had one leg kicked up, propped against the rock, the other tucked towards his chest as he played a few chords. The lack of acknowledgement sent off several red flags as you swept aside the makeshift ‘door’ — an old, velvet curtain repurposed from the hotel wreckage.

“Thanks for waiting on me,” You uttered, tone dripping with sarcasm, which captured his attention. He smelled you long before you’d entered, prompting him to turn his head, lion’s mane of hair disheveled and tousled from being pressed against a pillow. “You know, if I knew you were going to sulk around this whole time, I would’ve gone to the comic store instead.”

Paul scoffed, countenance twisting into a look of agitation, which was so unlike him. It shocked you to see him behave with such indifference, something that went against the grain of his character. “Maybe Marko can go with you.” He uttered, playing another melancholy chord on the guitar.

That’s what this was about?

“You’re not serious,” You quipped, folding your arms across your chest. “Is this about what happened at the beach? Paul, I’m not a mind-reader — I didn’t know Marko was going to do that.” He was beginning to really piss you off, which hadn’t happened yet.

For all of the meaningless flirting he’d done, the constant teasing and toying, you were vigilant. You’d tried to keep your chin up through it all. You couldn’t fathom why he was so upset about Marko’s harmless stunt — it was all playful. It was something Paul would’ve done, truth be told. Paul kept quiet, reading your mind as he surveyed your rageful inner monologue.

Instead, you were met with a wall of silence, and that made you frustrated. If Paul was going to behave like a child, you’d treat him like one. With a huff of annoyance, you waved your hand in dismissal. Your night was mostly ruined, but you figured you’d go home and try to get some sleep.

You gave him another chance to talk — it was quiet. “Fine. I’m going home, Paul.” You sighed, turning around as you prepared to make the climb back down. With a shrug of your shoulders, you barely passed through the curtain before something rustled behind you.

Just as you grabbed the rope, Paul was in front of you with inhuman speed, and he immediately snatched at your hips, dragging you away. You were protesting, interrogating him about what exactly was going on, but he persisted, locking you in his arms as he pushed you up against the wall.

“I don’t want Marko touching you,” He murmured, brows knitting together. “I want you all to myself.” You couldn’t tell if this was playful Paul trying to flirt with you again — his tone sounded so different. “You’re mine, baby.” Paul clicked his tongue, brazenly groping at your waist.

“Wh— What?” Disbelief seeped into your voice as you shook your head back and forth. “Are you fucking with me again?” Before you could get in another word, his mouth was devouring yours, vigorous and completely needy. Jesus, he tasted good — without pause, your hands flew to grab his hair in fistfuls.

A desperate whimper erupted from your mouth, buried and lost within his ravenous kiss. You needed to know what had gotten into him — why now? You began to yank on his hair in an attempt to get him to cease, and when he did, you appeared more agitated than happy. Paul normally didn’t get this reaction when he kissed someone.

“You have to tell me what’s going on,” You huffed, gaze practically pleading with him as he held you close, inhaling another gust of your saccharine scent. “First you’re flirting, then you’re mad, and now this. What’s gotten into you?” With a pointed stare, Paul relented, but he didn’t move away from you.

“You don’t take my flirting seriously,” He countered, brows furrowing together. “You don’t want to? Fine, but I’m gonna make you see how bad I want you.” Paul murmured, voice husky and alluring enough to make your knees wobble. He licked his lower lip, one hand beginning to drift underneath your blouse.

This didn’t feel real — whenever you desperately tried to search for even an ounce of playfulness, there wasn’t any. Paul was completely serious about this, and it made you weak, warmth beginning to pool between your thighs as you nodded several times over. “Okay,” You breathed, itching for more. “Then don’t stop.”

“M’gonna fuck you,” Paul smirked, eyes unnaturally bright as they glistened in the dimly-lit alcove. “You mind if I eat you out, too?” He asked, matter-of-factly. His unruly tangle of dusty-blonde tresses were stiff with age-old product, making it somewhat coarse whenever you went to grab and pull on it.

Did you mind? Laughter bubbled within your chest as your lips parted, expression incredulous as you nodded several times over. “Whatever you want,” He was gorgeous — in that crazed and unhinged sort of way. Paul stared at you as if you were both a delicious slab of meat and the most beautiful thing he’d seen. “I want you.” You exhaled.

That was all it took for Paul to claw at your clothing as if it were nothing, fingers excitedly ruffling your blouse as he yanked it up, causing you to squeak. He wasn’t gentle, but you didn’t care whatsoever. Those veined, dexterous hands ripped your blouse off of you, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.

He was pushing you towards his bed, which was only really used for salacious activities, and nothing more. It was a colossal mess, the scent stale and reminded you of damp rock as he got you on your back, crawling on top of you with a devilish grin.

“Fuck, baby,” Paul sighed, slicing your brassiere off with a simple stroke of his fingers, flinging the tattered remains elsewhere. “You’ve got such a gorgeous body.” He murmured, lips sloppily trailing over your neck and collarbone as he rucked your skirt up towards your hips. Your mewls and whimpers were like music to his ears.

“Paul,” You groaned, hips rocking forward as you ground yourself against him, meeting his groin. His jean-clad erection pressed into your thigh, completely and utterly shameless. He kissed wherever he pleased, stopping to admire your breasts as they rose and fell with your excitable gasps.

Trapping a nipple within his mouth, he greedily sucked and nibbled at your swollen mound, intermingling such ministrations with eager strokes of his tongue. “Pretty tits, too.” He guffawed, playfully biting at your breast as you clutched onto his hair. “S’all mine.” Paul huffed, kneading into your pliant chest with his other hand.

A pang of arousal coursed throughout your body, striking right between your thighs. Warmth coalesced between your legs, manifesting as a stickiness that oozed from your cunt. Paul nearly growled at the smell, which was calling to him like a siren’s song. He was tempted to rip away and go right to the source, but he loved your chest just as much.

Suckling on your breast, Paul promptly provided such attention to the other, greedily biting at the soft, pliant flesh. The way you bucked and squirmed underneath him was all the more enticing, cerulean hues fluttering toward your blissed-out countenance. You tugged on his hair, causing him to let out a satisfied hiss.

“Could stay here forever,” Paul mused, pressing messy kisses atop your perky tits, and he seemed to get a little ahead of himself in the moment. Kisses soon devolved into love-bites and sucking as he found a patch of skin between your breasts. He left a string of hickeys there, beyond content with his handiwork. “Perfect.”

“Jesus,” You groaned, a mess of moans and desperate, pathetic whimpers as you wrangled with his lion-like mane of hair. “You’re bad.” With a soft hiccup, you felt his hands knead into your hips, prepared to go elsewhere if you let him.

“I can be worse, baby.” Paul prompted, eyes swarming with that familiar golden glow, ringed with a red halo around the edge of his irises. He growled, capturing your mouth with his as he kissed you, ravenous and swift as he began to make out with you. He was between your legs, arms locked on either side of you.

With a wanton moan, your hands clamored from his tresses toward his coat, wanting him to shed a few layers, too. It was only fair. Paul complied, whipping his dark coat off with an excitable haste, peeling away the mesh shirt he wore underneath. Your palms splayed out across his broad shoulders, warm flesh melding with his icy temperature.

He was well-muscled, poised — he reminded you of a coiled jungle cat, prepared to pounce. You reveled in the smattering of hair peppered across his chiseled chest, leading toward the sandy-hued happy trail that slipped underneath his tattered white jeans. His teeth brazenly bit at your lower lip, blood oozing onto his tongue.

Between the clash of lips, tongue, and teeth, Paul shuddered, lapping up any pearl of crimson that he could, hands tearing your skirt asunder. The unfortunate remains of fabric were yanked away as he let it fall to the floor, groping and kneading into you, wherever his hands took him.

You’d never been kissed like this — as if he threatened to steal every wisp of air from your lungs, hungering for you in every imaginable way. Your heart hammered against your collarbone, thrumming erratically as you hitched a leg around his hips, drawing him closer as he kept you locked in a barrage of kisses.

“Fuck,” Paul groaned, licking at your lower lip. “You smell so good, baby. I wanna taste,” He insisted, ring-adorned digits curling into the waistband of your panties. He wrestled them down until they were hitched around your knees, but he simply tore at them like the rest of your clothes. “Spread your legs for me.”

It was your turn to go sheepish on him, deliberately parting your legs at a sluggish pace. You weren’t sure as to why you’d become shy, but Paul didn’t seem to care, swiping at a tendril of drool that pooled at the corner of his mouth. Without missing a beat, his hand slipped between your legs, two digits swiping up along your wet cunt.

He gathered your slick, placing his fingers into his mouth with a satisfactory groan. The sight of him sucking your arousal away nearly made you melt. “Almost as good as your blood, sweet girl.” Paul chuckled, absentmindedly licking his lower lip as he settled onto the mattress, pressed flat atop the surface as he gathered your legs into each of his hands.

Paul slathered several kisses against your inner thighs, but he kept it short and sweet — he was here for one thing. You expected him to give you some sort of warning beforehand. “Paul, are you — O-Oh. Jesus Christ!” You squeaked, a strangled gasp escaping you as your back arched off of the mattress.

There was no pause or waiting — Paul’s impulsivity got the best of him. He was on you like a starving animal, desperate for anything he could get. His tongue pushed past your slick folds, silkily lapping over the length of your slit, savoring your taste. It was hot — you felt as if everything were set ablaze as a pleasant heat crawled across you, from head to toe.

His tongue raked hot embers across your aching cunt, body electrified by his touch. Paul’s fingers greedily dug into your pliant thighs, tossing either of your legs over his freckled shoulders as he lapped at your sweet core. His actions were swift and fueled by lust, driven by instinct as he jerked you forward.

Your stomach churned with anticipation, bleeding heat from between your legs as your thighs squeezed at his head. You felt that immense mane of hair tickle your soft flesh, goosebumps erupting along your body. Paul grunted, face buried deep within your cunt as he ate you out, messy and sloppy as could be.

“M’not Jesus,” Paul slurred, grinning like a shark as he nipped at your leg. “You taste so good, baby.” He huffed, the words spoken through the husked voice of a ravenous vampire as he returned to lapping at your poor, needy slit. Each drop of nectar that you provided to him served to momentarily dull the ache within his throat.

You kept writhing and squirming, shamelessly bucking your hips forward. He pinned you down with one hand, head spinning as your scent wafted around him like an inescapable haze. “Paul!” You mewled, practically quivering like a leaf as your cunt pathetically clenched around nothing at all.

Paul was a good sport, able to flow with the constant jolting of your hips into his mouth. Though, it only served to fuel the fire as he continued to hastily drag his tongue along your cunt, slavering for your taste. You moaned, tapering off into a myriad of sweet whimpers as your hands relocated, reaching for his hair.

The cool metal of his rings left imprints behind atop your thighs, various patterns pressed into your flesh. You were aching, body feeling feverishly hot as you bucked into his face again, feeling him clamp down on you as he held you still. His mouth was divine — it was sloppy and full of an unrestrained need.

As your digits twined into his hair, you began to pull and tug, using his unruly tresses as an anchor. Paul didn’t care in the slightest — he found it unbelievably hot as you jerked and tugged, back arched into his ministrations. He only stopped to spit a wad of saliva onto your swollen slit, body shaking with sly laughter when you gasped.

“Makin’ sure you’re ready for me.” Paul teased, but it was under false pretenses — he just wanted to spit on your cunt. He didn’t hesitate, diving back in for more, assaulting your clit with a barrage of kitten-licks and gentle suckling, enough for you to sputter.

With every movement you made, Paul would simply coax you back onto his tongue with inhuman strength, lips pursing around your clit as he began to suck and toy with the sensitive bud. Your hand grappled with his coarse tresses, the other digging into his shoulder. Your nails sank into his flesh, and Paul didn’t care whatsoever.

Arousal pooled between your legs, leaving behind a sticky mess that he was all too eager to clean up. It was only when he began to use that tiny edge of teeth that you were soaring, choking on a whimper as it bubbled within the back of your throat.

Your body was screaming for release, orgasm beginning to mount and build as white-hot tension flew through you, consuming you like a tidal wave. Paul could sense it, burying himself in your pretty cunt as if it would be the last meal he’d ever have.

He switched between the eager, broad lapping of his tongue with sucking on your clit, making you claw at his shoulder blade. One hand repositioned itself, splayed out across your pelvis as his thumb slipped to the hood of your cunt, playing with your clit as the rest of his mouth lapped elsewhere.

“Paul, Paul,” Paul. It was the only word that rolled from your tongue, doing very little to mask the sound of your pleasure. With a wanton moan, you felt that hot coil of tension within your stomach begin to unfurl as you steadily reached your climax. You were suffocating him between your legs — conveniently, he didn’t need to breathe. “Fuck, Paul! M’close!”

“Cum for me,” His encouragement was all that you needed, that little push forward as he backed off, peppering kisses against your clit as you came. It was blinding, and you swore you saw stars. “That’s it,” Paul crooned, moving to clean you up. “Atta girl, baby.” He did very little to mask his eagerness in lapping up the remnants of your orgasm.

He wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, kissing his way up your body until his mouth connected with yours. You could taste yourself and the somewhat bitter twang of copper within his saliva as you let your tongue slip into his mouth. Paul groaned, grabbing at your haunches as he moved to lay beside you.

“Are you tired?” You mused, your own chest heaving with exhilarated sighs as Paul effortlessly wrangled you closer, eyes glittering with desire. You were wrong to ask that question as he raised his eyebrows.

“What kinda question is that, baby? You’re getting on top,” Paul smirked, gesturing toward his lap. His erection was practically itching for release, straining against the front of his white jeans. “You’re going for a ride.” He purred, snatching at your hips as he hoisted you on top of his lap, letting you get comfortable.

Paul lounged against the mountain of pillows beneath him, hands splayed out atop your waist. You savored the sensation of his rings biting into your flesh, and you immediately scrambled to unzip his pants, wrestling with his belt as you freed his cock. His hardened length fell against your stomach, tip oozing with a bead of precum.

You shivered, gazing down at your vampiric paramour, who stared at you with those vibrant, cerulean hues — as clear as a summer’s day. Paul tilted forward, lips reaching for yours as he planted a rather lazy, messy kiss against your mouth. “M’ready.” You murmured, feeling him lift you up as if you weighed nothing at all.

With bated breath, you felt your insides turn to mush, reigniting the spark of lust as Paul let you sink onto his cock. A fire burned bright within your belly, demanding to be extinguished as Paul’s head fell back slightly, letting out a series of groans and softer grunts. “Fuck,” He growled, feeling your palms rest against his abdomen. “You’re so fucking tight, babe.”

Liquid heat festered within the pit of your stomach as you gasped, cunt clenching around his cock as you adjusted yourself. “Paul!” You moaned, attempting to stifle the many noises you made with the back of your palm, but he quickly swatted your hand away. He was bigger than you thought he’d be — a pleasant surprise.

“Wanna hear you scream my name.” Paul huffed, rubbing circles into your hips as he began to move you. Superhuman strength and stamina certainly had roles to play in this as he guided you up and down in short, rhythmic movements. You liked that he manhandled you a little bit, one hand on your waist as the other grabbed at your chest.

A simpering moan left you as he guided you up his cock, stopping halfway before easing you back down again. Lewd noises reverberated throughout the alcove, accompanied by your sweet whimpers and his grunts and groans. You were barely given time to get used to his pattern before he was bucking up into you with the indomitable strength of a god.

There was no opportunity for you to catch your breath, watching as Paul snatched your wrists, redirecting them towards his pretty neck. That surprised you, but you didn’t protest, feeling the taut muscle tense underneath your palms, jugular bobbing as you began to squeeze.

He moaned.

Unable to bite back the smile that stretched across your features, you held onto his neck, digits flexing and tensing as you continued to apply pressure. Paul’s head fell backwards just a little bit, steadying you with one hand as he fucked into you at an erratic pace. Flesh clashed against flesh, causing you to whimper as you rolled up and down along his cock.

“You like that?” You whispered through a string of blissful whines, gaze bright with desire as he nodded several times over. “Your cock feels so good, Paul.” You huffed, teeth snagging across your lower lip as you began to let your thumbs trace along his perfect jawline. His weeks-old stubble scratched at your silken flesh.

“Little harder, girl,” Paul encouraged, wanting you to really wrangle his throat. He didn’t need to breathe anyway — that made it all the more enjoyable. He savored your hesitation — his sweet little human, afraid of harming the big, bad vampire. He smirked, lifting his eyebrows. “C’mon baby, squeeze.”

Fuck — he was going to be the death of you. Your cunt clenched and throbbed around his cock, with Paul continuing to jackhammer into you like a wild animal. Grunts and excitable groans left him in droves, rippling through his chest as you squeezed at his throat. The muscles were thick and tense underneath your small palms, slick with perspiration.

Your flesh felt dewy, especially within the oppressive heat of the cave. Paul was unstoppable, a force of nature as his hips continued to buck up, cock slamming into your poor, tight cunt. He wasn’t gentle, and he showed no signs of stopping. Delivering a sharp smack to your ass, he fillee you to the brim with his length, causing you to really grip his throat.

With a needy whimper, your eyes fluttered shut, lips parted in a state of ecstasy. “Paul,” You moaned, feeling his hand greedily knead into your chest, twisting your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The stimulation was intensified tenfold, making your brain go fuzzy as he fucked you into a stupor. “Holy shit!”

The alcove smelled of sex — sloppy rutting that was steadily devolving into a complete mess. Paul’s precum was slathered across your inner thighs, coupled with the slick remnants of your first orgasm and current state of arousal. He stopped his erratic thrusting, sitting up a little more with one hand on your hips.

Without warning, his mouth went straight to your chest again, lips attaching themselves around one of your swollen nipples. He was sucking, grabbing a handful of your ass as he led you up and down along his cock. The warmth of your flesh intermingled with his cool, icy skin, only serving to make you sweat.

“Touch me,” You whimpered, palms still clinging to either side of his throat, nails digging in toward the nape of his neck. The sex was incredible — you’d never been fucked like this before, but he had you chasing after every sensation. “Paul, please.” Heat crawled across your flesh, leaving you drunk with desire.

Paul playfully scraped his teeth across your breast, teasing your nipple. “M’touching you already, baby.” He mumbled, propping himself up with his other hand. A simpering groan escaped you as you rocked forward, taking one hand off of his throat to play with your clit.

An impish snarl left his mouth as he snatched at your wrist, and in one erratic movement, had you pinned down on your back. His cock throbbed inside of you, desperate for a release just as much as you were. Paul cackled, lips twitching into a sneer as he began to fuck you, enough for the foundation of the mattress to rattle underneath.

“That was bad,” Paul purred, fucking you down into the plush surface, nearly pulling his cock out of your slick cunt before slamming right back in, repeating the movement over and over again. Fortunately, he was feeling generous, slipping one hand between your bodies as he found the cleft between your thighs. “Fuck, you’re soaked.” He groaned.

You clutched onto him for dear life, body responding vehemently to Paul’s erratic thrusts and uneven, primal tempo. With a loud, wanton cry, your mouth clamored to find his lips, meeting in a rather noisy clash of teeth and tongue. He circled your clit with his thumb, rutting into you with a fervor.

“Paul!” You whined, locking a leg around his hips as your nails sank into his shoulders, leaving behind angry-red impressions, embedded within his flesh. Paul encouraged your scratching, tongue lapping at the inside of your mouth. A white-hot ecstasy consumed you whole, causing you to shudder and spasm.

“Can’t hear you, baby.” Paul teased, biting at your lower lip as he peppered kisses wherever he could — greedy, wet kisses that ended up being vibrantly-colored hickeys. Your flesh was his canvas as he marked you up wherever he pleased, hyperfocused on your chest again. “You close?” He huffed, fingers tearing into the sheets.

It was exhilarating — you swore you saw stars, perhaps more as he fucked you within an inch of your life. You didn’t want him to be careful. You didn’t want him to treat you like glass — you wanted to belong to him. “M’close,” Another string of sweet, noisy moans escaped you as Paul brazenly bit at your left breast, leaving behind a crescent-shaped mark. “Close.”

Rivulets of crimson trickled across your skin, prompting Paul to lick it all away, irises shifting from cerulean to a burnished gold. It made the sex more intense as he pounded away at your poor cunt, which had certainly been pushed to the limit. He was becoming a little squirrelly, panting and growling into your ear.

Paul kissed you to distract himself from the temptation of feeding, lost within the saccharine bliss of your mouth as he felt you cum around his cock. “Yeah, baby. Go ‘head and cum for me, just like that.” He mumbled against your mouth, tongue lazily sweeping across your lower lip as he tensed and thrust forward.

He came right afterwards, reveling in the sight of you trembling and quivering, juices coating his length as he pulled out halfway through. It was messy and rather disgusting, but you didn’t care. Ropes of hot, white seed painted your stomach and breasts, which was some sort of fantasy for him.

You sighed, barely able to string a sentence together as you fell back against the mattress, coated in perspiration and his cum. “Jesus.” You uttered, pressing a palm over your face as Paul rolled over to lay next to you. Your legs twitched and spasmed as you came down from your climax, feeling something soft fall across your abdomen.

It was a rather unappealing-looking towel that seemed much too ancient, and you wondered how many times this had been used to clean up his mess. With a huff of laughter, you cleaned yourself up, feeling his arms tangle around you, urging you to come back to him.

“Makes you wish you’d taken me seriously sooner, huh?” Paul mumbled, nibbling along the shell of your ear. You couldn’t help but feel smitten afterwards, twisting over until you faced your vampiric paramour, who had the expression of the Cheshire Cat.

“You’re ridiculous,” You mused, holding his face between your palms. “You’re gorgeous, too.” A peculiar softness crept into your voice, prompting Paul to shower you in a cascade of needy kisses. He liked to be close, which you didn’t necessarily mind, despite the newfound scent of post-sex that permeated the alcove.

“I’m all yours, baby.” Paul smirked, shamelessly staring at your breasts without an ounce of subtlety. You couldn’t read his thoughts, but you suspected that he had something particular in-mind. “You’re in for a long night.” He purred, and before you could open your mouth to speak, he was crawling on top of you.

You would have to thank Marko later.

[yuwuta]

YOU AND I TOGETHER, WON’T YOU HOLD ON TO ME — YUUTA OKKOTSU

cw mentions of children, pregnancy. so much of yuuta being happy and sappy :(( sorry i haven’t shutup about my little depressed lovesick boy making it out and living a full life. probably won’t anytime soon actually. satoru is alive and well in all my renditions of happily ever after and that won’t change either i fear  

Yuuta talks about the future often. A future with you, and him, and your friends, and a family where you’re all together forever and he gets to love you until the end of time. 

Sometimes, you think he doesn’t realize what he’s doing—dreaming about forever with you; but you can never find it in your heart to break his illusion. The boy who used to dread his next waking moment is dreaming and dreaming and dreaming, and making all of yours come true. 

It’s quiet in this part of the Gojo compound. The gentle sounds of a stream running through the garden, and chirping of birds are the only noises that disrupt your daydreams. 

Or, perhaps, fuel them. 

“I hope our kids aren’t afraid of birds,” Yuuta muses, wide eyes looking past your face up to the tall trees, full of happily singing bluebirds, “There’s so many of them here.” 

You’re gentle when you stroke his hair, taking advantage of his head in your lap to pull the longer pieces out of his eyes. 

Your smile is giddy, unfiltered. “Kids? Plural?” 

Yuuta hums with smile. His eyes remain on the sky, chasing a pair of birds that flitter between long branches. 

“Yeah. At least two, so they don’t get lonely,” he says, “They’ll have us, and their cousins, and sensei, and our friends, but they’re going to need each other at home.”

Yuuta lets his eyes fall to you at the end of his sentence, a sparkling smile on his scarred lips. 

“I see,” you smile, “At least two so they can be friends.” 

“Best friends,” he revises your statement, “So they can train together, too, if they want to be sorcerers. Or not. It’s fine, either way.” He blinks, eyes warm, “I hear that four is the happy medium for a family, but I think three is going to be easier inheritance wise, if sensei is serious about making me clan head someday.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah, but if a fourth comes along, I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” 

“I’m sure sensei will have made more than enough money for them by then.” 

Yuuta giggles, earnestly in your arms at that. “Of course he will.” 

You pause for a moment, committing his laugh to memory. His features flush slightly under your gaze, and you lean down to kiss his scarred forehead. You let your hands resume petting his hair, following in his gaze to look up at the birds. 

“Tell me more about them.” 

Yuuta doesn’t waste a moment, closing his eyes; letting you paint the picture in the sky for yourself as he talks. 

“The gap between the oldest and youngest is six or seven years. I think five might be enough, though. So, that means our middle one is about three when our littlest comes along.” 

“Unless a fourth happens.” 

Yuuta hums in agreement. “Unless a fourth happens. But we’ll have time.” 

You’ll have time, you nod. You have time now, you and him; all the time in the world. 

“A three year old and newborn sounds like a lot of work.” 

“Maybe. But we’ll also have a seven year old. He’s going to want to help with the baby, so we’ll have an extra hand,” Yuuta says, “And that’s not even counting sensei and the rest.” 

“He?”

“I think he’ll be a boy, the oldest. He might look like me, but he’ll act like you, so he’s going to be Kugisaki’s favorite.”

You find yourself choking out a genuine cackle at that. When you look down, Yuuta’s got a smile wider than yours. 

“He sounds wonderful. Like his father,” you confess, “But the idea of pregnancy thrice in a seven year span sounds exhausting.” 

“We can use surrogates. Or adopt. Or whatever,” Yuuta tells you, “Gojo-sensei will help us figure it out if we need help.” 

You have no doubt about that. And now, when you look back up to the sky, you can see vignettes of Gojo-sensei with your your seven year old on his shoulders, your middle child on his hip, and the baby gnawing at his legs. 

And then Yuuji is skipping into the scene, cooing at the youngest, picking him up and consoling him effortlessly. He carries the baby over to a crib with another crying newborn that looks eerily like Megumi, whose green eyes go wide at the stranger, then smile gummy as both babies reach for each other. 

Maki is there too, tapping your eldest on the shoulder with her staff and pretending not to have done it. Nobara holds up a shirt to the middle child, brassy in questioning Gojo why she told her that the baby would fit in this size that’s obviously too big, meanwhile the toddler ignores them both, fascinated with the marks on Toge’s cheeks as he plays peek-a-boo. 

It’s not hard to imagine. The scenes in your head aren’t wild fantasies or unattainable dreams—not anymore. 

“You want a big family.” 

Yuuta nods, reaching for your hand and pulling it away from his hair, and to his lips. “We have the resources for it now. Not just financially—we have time, and lots of friends, and lots of love.” 

Yuuta presses a kiss to the back of your hand, and you smile. He’s right, there’s more than enough love to go around. 

[untitledmemes]

Untitled Embraces Prompts

An assortment of both dialogue and action prompts featuring a variety of hugs, embraces, cuddles and more alike. If sending action prompts, don't forget to tell receiver who is Muse A and who is Muse B. Adjust as necessary to fit pronoun and/or descriptor. In case of Multimuse, don't forget to specify which one/s. Reblog, please do not repost or add.

“ Don't let go just yet, please. ”

“ Just hold me. ”

“ I could really use a hug right now. ”

“ Ow, ow! Careful with that hug! ”

“ Does someone need a hug? ”

“ I don't like being hugged. ”

“ Can I hug you? ”

“ Please, I... I just want a hug from you. ”

“ One last hug for the road? ”

“ You have no idea how huggable you look right now. ”

“ Don't ever hug me again. ”

“ I'm going to hug you now. Okay? Okay. ”

“ Kindness starts with a simple hug and a good word, you know. ”

“ Someone's cuddly today. ”

“ I just want to stay in your embrace forever. ”

“ It's so good to feel you in my arms again. ”

“ There's nothing a good hug can't resolve! ”

“ Too tight, too tight! You're squeezing me! ”

“ Hold me like this a little more. Maybe forever. ”

“ I can only fall asleep when you cuddle me. ”

“ Why would I ever want a hug from you? ”

[ HOME ] Muse A had a bad day and comes back home to Muse B, either asking for a comforting hug or getting one without asking.

[ APOLOGY ] Muse A has done Muse B wrong, and asks for forgiveness while giving them a hug.

[ NIGHT ] Muse A and Muse B part with a hug after having an amazing night together.

[ DEPART ] Muse A and Muse B part from each other with a loving/friendly embrace since one of them has to go for a while.

[ GOODBYE ] Muse A and Muse B embrace for the final, last time.

[ STAY ] Muse A, in a desperate act, hugs Muse B so they won't be able to leave.

[ BED ] Muse A and Muse B cuddle after having some intimate time together in bed.

[ ONE WAY ] Muse A gives Muse B a hug that isn't returned.

[ LOVE ] Muse A loves Muse B so much they won't know how to express it other than giving them a tight hug in that moment.

[ ALIVE ] Muse A pulls Muse B in for a tight hug, glad to see they're alive.

[ TENSION ] Muse A and Muse B hug, but it lasts a little longer than a platonic hug should last for.

[ WARM UP ] Muse A and Muse B embrace for a while as a form of foreplay.

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

next

[ladybirdswritings]

Pretty Thing - Cooper Howard (Ghoul) x Reader

Summary: You’re a shiny, pretty prize worth more caps than can be counted on ten hands altogether. There’s something special about you, and the Ghoul is determined to figure out just what it is.

Notes: I’ve been wanting to write for this cowboy for days now and I’ve finally come around to it. Cowboys are my specialty lately <3. Lmk if u love this and I’ll write more (feel free to leave me lots of comments and interactions, I love those!!)

A03 | masterlist | next chap

pretty thing…

“Well lookie here, seems you vaulties ain’t as perfect as you promise to be, huh?”

A furrow of chocolate brows, offense and confusion from sweet Lucy MacLean. This vault promised development in weaponry that the new world had never seen before. It was a thing of storybooks, the kind of thing her dad told her right before her head hit the pillow.

Now, here she was; and it wasn’t a caged weapon she was staring at… no, but rather a caged person.

“This violates all of our policies…” she muttered softly, worry stitched in her soft features as she looked on at the mangled cowboy beside her.

“Tsk tsk, sweetheart. You oughta be more careful with trustin’ these shit-eating freaks. Ain’t you learned your lesson first time round?”

Lucy sighed, falling to her knees and grazing a warm hand against the metal. She looked on at you with pity. Weak, hazy you.

How did you end up in this predicament? You didn’t know. You didn’t remember.

It was as if the entirety of everything you’d ever known was only stitched within your brain in jagged, disorderly flashes. This had to be one too. A flash.

A vault dweller and a ghoul, side by side.

It was most certainly a flash.

“What do we do, coop?” The brunette wondered, doe eyes gazing up at the mangled creature. He only smirked.

“We split. You find your precious tin-man you can’t stop yappin’ bout… and I’ll snatch up this dyin’ cargo. Comprende?”

Lucy had come to trust him, and maybe it was a stupid thing to do. Reality was, though, he’d kept her alive this far. Maybe she owed it to him to follow orders. With a huff, she parted— and then?

It was just you and the ghoul.

Heavy footsteps circled your metal cage, like shark to labored minnow. You were far too exhausted to pick up those pretty eyes of yours from the ground they gazed at.

Chains wrapped round your wrists and ankles, cold metal burned against your spine and cheek. There were two ghouls in your peripheral vision, and each one was the same amount of horrifying.

The footsteps halted, and suddenly the mangled, noseless blur was clear as day before you. Kneeled to your level, observant— cold.

“Well well— look at you, huh? Pretty thing. Now I understand takin’ precautions but damn, sweetie. That’s a lotta chains, hm? What’s so scary bout’ you?” He whispered the last part, thread laced finger lifting to slowly push a loose locket of hair from your dampened face through the cage.

You blinked, forcing your gaze upward so to try and meet his eyes. It was exhausting.

He observed you like you were a foreign object, a diamond in the radiated rough.

“I’d wager to say that you’re just the weapon we was lookin’ for, ain’t you?”

God, he didn’t know just how right he was.

If there was one certain thing you could remember clear as day, laced through the flashes, it was your powers. Each and every one of them, laying dormant now.

You were far too poked and prodded, too drained to even think of lifting a finger.

“Been doin’ this for centuries, pretty thing. Centuries and I ain’t ever seen this kinda experimentation on a little fawn. Hm. Guess you was just unlucky.” His breath was warm as it hit your face. Musing and eyeing your exhausted, slumped figure. Observant, taking his time. Your keepers would be coming soon— he didn’t seem worried.

“Tell you what. You look like you gon’ make me lots of money. So you’re comin’ with me. Don’t you worry, I prefer ropes stead’ of chains, sweetie. You’ll be nice n’ comfortable.”

The more he spoke, the farther away he sounded. You were aware he was a ghoul, that much was certain. Yet even so, no part of his voice, no part of his fading threats were even a little bit startling. No.

His voice was a soft yet strong southern drawl and god— it was far more comforting than the chains and cement floor you’d always known. Perhaps that’s why you let the exhaustion overtake you. Perhaps that’s why you closed your eyes.

Did it matter why? No. All that mattered was that you did.

The rest was a blur. The last thing you remember? Frayed ropes being wrapped round you tight as you were freed from your chains. Mangled, coat covered arms lifting you from the cement and golden teeth pressed against your aching ear to whisper:

“C’mon now, pretty thing…”

Then?

Slumber…

¿to be continued?

[bookished]

( a collection of enemies to allies dialogue prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post 🤍 if you like, please consider supporting me through tips, it's highly appreciated.

"I still don't like you, but we need to work together. Just… try not to get in my way."

"If you think this means we're friends now, you're delusional."

"I’m only helping you because I need you alive—don’t make me regret it."

"We may hate each other, but we hate them more. So, truce?"

"This doesn't mean I trust you. It just means we have the same enemy."

"You're the last person I want to rely on, but right now, you're all I've got."

"I never thought I’d be fighting alongside you. Feels weird, doesn’t it?"

"We make a surprisingly good team… let’s not talk about it."

"I still want to punch you in the face, but we have bigger problems right now."

"You think this changes anything between us? Think again. But thanks… I guess."

"Look, I don’t want to owe you anything. So let's call this even."

"Just because we’re working together doesn't mean I’ve forgotten what you did."

"I swear, once this is over, it’s back to hating each other. Deal?"

"I never thought I’d say this, but… I could use your help."

"It’s not like I had a choice—you were the only one who could pull this off."

"Don't get any ideas. This is temporary, and after we're done, it's back to being enemies."

"I don’t like you, you don’t like me. Let’s just get through this without killing each other."

"I’m only here because I need something from you. Don’t mistake this for kindness."

"Funny how the universe keeps throwing us together, huh? Almost like a sick joke."

"You’re the last person I want to see right now, but it seems I don’t have much of a choice."

"I’m starting to hate how well we work together. It’s unsettling."

"If anyone asks, this never happened. I wasn’t here, and we didn’t help each other."

"I didn’t think we’d ever be on the same side, but here we are… how does that feel?"

"I still think you're insufferable, but I suppose I could tolerate you… for now."

"This changes nothing between us. We're just two people with the same goal—for now."

"As much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t have survived without you back there."

"You think saving my life means I owe you? We’re still enemies, make no mistake."

"I don't want to be here any more than you do, so let’s make this quick."

"It doesn’t sit right with me, trusting you. But what choice do I have?"

"If we manage to pull this off together, you might just earn a sliver of my respect."

[fairyrcts]

────୨ৎ──── cherry!reader & tattoo artist!matt headcanons !

ᝰ.ᐟ tattoo artist!matt who met you for the first time by doing one of your tattoos

“uhm, no, rachel isn’t here today. you’ll probably be with me this afternoon.” he gave you a welcoming smile while he put on his black latex gloves.

ᝰ.ᐟ tattoo artist!matt who was intrigued by you within moments of meeting you

“what were you thinking?” he asked, preparing his workspace while you laid back on the bench.

“a pin-up doll, near my shoulder.” you spoke softly as matt looked down at you in some sort of adoration.

ᝰ.ᐟ tattoo artist!matt who loves making you his muse for his art

“stay right there f’me… perfect, baby. just perfect.” he breathed out, looking up from his sketch pad a few times as he drew the two bows that sat at the end of your braided hair.

ᝰ.ᐟ tattoo artist!matt who sits with you on his balcony smoking and having deep conversations

“it’s so nice out, tonight.” he took a drag of his cigarette after his sentence, looking out to the bustling city below them.

ᝰ.ᐟ tattoo artist!matt who loves teasing cherry

“matt!” you whined after he took a large sip of your diet coke when you specifically told him a small sip.

“sorry, sugar. couldn’t help it.” he spoke with a sly smirk on his face.

ᝰ.ᐟ tattoo artist!matt who lets you color in his tattoos

“are you coloring the cerberus red? seriously?” he chuckled under his breath as you looked up at him, nodding.

ᝰ.ᐟ tattoo artist!matt who definitely would have some type of claiming kink

“matt, what?” you look at him like he had just said the dumbest thing ever.

“what? you don’t think my name would look good in big ole’ letters across your neck?” he asked genuinely, letting his fingers run across your neck as if he was visualizing the tattoo itself.

۶ৎ cherry!reader who found herself staring from the second she met matt

“stay still, would you, hun?” he asked, slightly quieter than he intended.

you simply nodded, your eyes still sat on his face. the way he bit his bottom lip in concentration.

۶ৎ cherry!reader who loves doodling on him

“whatcha drawin’, sweet girl?” he asked, his left hand stroking your hair while you moved the ballpoint pen on his right.

“i dunno, ‘m jus’ doodling.” she giggled to herself.

۶ৎ cherry!reader who leaves her kiss mark on him

“look at that. all mine, hm?” you smiled down at the brunette that sat on your bed, his cheek and neck covered in your lipstick.

“yes ma’am.” he nodded, snaking his arms around your waist, pulling you down on him in the process.

۶ৎ cherry!reader who likes watching matt draw

his pencil moved rapidly on the paper while you stared. the way his veins became more prominent in his hands, how his brows furrowed while perfecting his art.

“what? why’re ya lookin’ at me like that?” he huffed out a laugh. “just admirin’ you is all.” you smiled.

۶ৎ cherry!reader who leaves little hand-written letters for matt before he leaves for work

‘bye, handsome ! i love you , xoxo’ the end of the small note said. he smiled to himself, tucking the note in his pocket as a keep-sake.

۶ৎ cherry!reader who wears matt’s favorite pair of red, laced panties

“wearin’ those for me, doll?” he leaned down to whisper in your ear after noticing his favorite pair of your panties peaking through your jeans when you bent over.

۶ৎ cherry!reader who adores telling matt she loves him an excessive amount

“i love you.” you smiled, legs crossed sitting in front of him. “i love you too, beautiful.” he leaned in, pecking your nose lightly.

“like a lot.” you added. he rolled his eyes lightly. “i know you do. that’s the 13th time in the past five minutes.”

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ author’s note !

AHHH aren’t they the friggin cutest?? also like mentally i’m thinking like matt’s sorta older (late 20’s or early 30’s) and cherry’s younger so she kinda makes him feel like alive?? YOU FEEL?? but idk cuz i also wanna make a dilf!matt au so i gotta think this out

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ taglist !

@pvssychicken @emely9274 @emilyfaith2003 @nicholaschavezslut69 @sophand4n4

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART III

"Bastards are supposed to be born of lies and temptation, not love," Jacaerys said, "at least according to the Faith. If we are indeed the bastards of Ser Harwin and my mother, then we are proof that lies and temptation are all that existed between them.” You thought of all the septas and their prayers and Alicent Hightower screaming at you to behave. Bastards are not so different from the daughters of whores, you mused. They see us all as products of sin.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

SERIES SUMMARY & MASTERLIST.

IX. THE EMPRESS

“You raised the girl to be too clever, Alicent. I fear she cannot be controlled.”

Otto Hightower did not often show weakness, but his voice was heavy with exhaustion—or perhaps frustration—as he spoke to Alicent. He was poring over the papers you'd put together for your petition earlier in the day: a detailed summary of all of the records of your father's spending in Essos during his diplomatic visits, presented as evidence that none of your inheritance in the Iron Bank was actually Crown wealth. Apparently you'd gone and stolen the ledgers in the middle of the night—with the help of that Strong bastard, the one who was besotted with you—and done the maths yourself. All current and past Masters of Coin still alive—Lord Beesbury, Prince Daemon and Tyland Lannister—examined your work and could only attest to its accuracy.

It was unprecedented, but not too surprising to Alicent. Of all your lessons as a noble lady—in the Seven, in dancing, in needlework, and so on—you really only ever paid attention to arithmetic and household stewardship. So I may someday be a competent wife and oversee my husband’s affairs, you once explained to Alicent, after my Queen chooses a match for me, of course. When Alicent then advised you that most men enjoyed graceful women who could sing and dance, you had replied to her that you did not want to marry a man—you wanted to marry a lord.

Just as you and your father want me for me, do you not? you had asked. I do not wish to disappoint either of you in that regard. It would be no good for any of us if I married a man who tossed me aside because he met a woman more graceful than I could ever be. But if I kept his household running flawlessly and his accounts full of gold? Well, he might eventually take another lover, but he would never want to take another wife.

You had been so young when you’d said that—younger than she’d been when she wed King Viserys, but no less aware. Alicent understood your play then, and she never chided you for neglecting your needlework ever again.

“The girl has a talent for figures,” Alicent admitted. “She has a keen eye for household management.”

“Figures?” Otto laughed in a way that sounded derisive. “It’s not the maths that impressed me. You can hire any steward to do maths. No, it was her foresight in stealing those ledgers. And the way she talked in the throne room—gods, can she talk!” He laughed, though it was entirely mirthless. “Though I suppose Rhaenyra may have prepared her. The blacks have never been interested in her before, but now it seems that they want her as an ally.”

It did look that way during the petition, with Daemon backing you every time the Hand seemed to corner you. As usual, the man could hardly string together a coherent argument, but he did not need to. What really mattered to all the smallfolk and nobles watching your petition was that every time Otto alluded to your disgrace of a mother and your mongrel pedigree, Daemon never let them forget that you were also a trueborn Targaryen.

You would steal from your kin by marriage? he asked. You would deny her birthright? You would spit in her father’s legacy, after all he has done for the Realm? You would disrespect my niece?

Niece. Alicent found it laughable. Daemon had never spared you a glance as you grew up in the Red Keep, nor did Rhaenyra.

“Of course they want her as an ally,” Alicent said, her words sharp with frustration. “Rhaenyra ignored the girl when she had nothing, but now that she’s come into enough wealth to hire an entire army of sellswords and more, the princess is suddenly her greatest benefactor.”

Alicent was wroth to think of it. She had wanted no part in raising you, had resented you for it when her husband charged her with the duty. She could hardly manage her own children, let alone some foreign waif who was loath to speak the Common Tongue and threw tantrums whenever she was forced to pray at the Sept. Worse yet, your mother had been a bed slave from Lys—a country of harlots, criminals, and sin—and Alicent knew, just knew by looking at you, that you were likely to end up equally sullied. It was in your blood.

But you had no mother.

You were at court, a young and lost girl, and you were entirely motherless. She still remembered how you wept after your mother kissed you goodbye, the way that you would sneak off to Blackwater Bay just to wait for your father to return. Alicent’s heart ached for you then, for she too knew how horrible court could be for a young and motherless girl.

Rhaenyra was your kin by blood. She should have looked out for you. She had been more than capable, but she was too busy with her sham marriage and bastard children and that paramour of hers. What could Alicent do but care for you instead? You had no mother.

The Seven would have never forgiven Alicent if she simply left you to the wolves of the court. She could not leave you to her father’s court. You would not have survived. You would have been married off at ten-and-two to some lord thirty years your senior, tortured in your marriage bed until you were swollen with child while still a child yourself. Alicent could not let it happen.

Even if Alicent would never love you—and she knew she never would—she knew she must still care for you.

And today she watched as you spat in the face of her protection. How you paralyzed her when you turned to Daemon and chided him: I am familiar with the prudence and wisdom of Her Grace, as well as her kindness, you'd said. I know she would never intentionally try to take someone’s rightful inheritance. It is merely an ambiguity of the law that has led us here. She only thinks of the Realm.

Said in front of King Viserys, with his daughter-heir in the room? Alicent had no choice but to support your position, lest she look like a scheming traitor.

And the worst thing about it was that, despite her father’s ponderings, Alicent knew that Rhaenyra had not coached you to say that. For she had raised you, and she knew your talent for speech and for people—and she knew those words came from you alone, and you had learned how to say them from watching Alicent.

Rhaenyra could have never taught you how to appeal to people like that. Rhaenyra had no need, for she could always do whatever she pleased. She could flout the rules and disrespect the entire court, and King Viserys would only protect her. But you—just like Alicent—could not. For you had no mother, and you had no father, and you were the daughter of a foreign whore. All you had was Alicent, and for your sake she tried to make you disavow your sinful mother, for your sake she tried to make you find the light of the Seven, for your sake she tried to beat out of you your wilful nature. For your sake she tried to save your soul from both the Seven Hells and from the judgemental eyes of the Red Keep, the lords and ladies who saw nothing but a sinful whore when they looked at you. But you always resisted, as if you wanted to be a pariah, as if you wanted to suffer despite her best efforts—but Alicent could not hate you.

How could she hate a powerless girl without a mother?

“I do not think it was Rhaenyra who taught her how to speak in court,” Alicent voiced, thinking of all the hours you spent watching petitions, watching her. “Rhaenyra does not know how to handle herself with such grace nor subtlety.”

“Ah. So it was your influence.” Her father laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “If only you had raised Aegon to have even half the talent—then perhaps the King would have changed his mind about his succession.”

Alicent’s fingers tightened, and then she found herself picking at her nails.

“It is no fault of mine that Aegon was born with his disposition,” she said. “I tried my best.”

“You did,” Otto agreed. “You did not fail in all regards. Aemond, at the very least, has talent. Were he your firstborn son and that girl born a Targaryen princess—my, imagine the power they could have on the Iron Throne together. Our family would be untouchable. A pity.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened. She could not hate you, but she also could not stand to think of you sullying any of her sons. Your influence on them had already done irreparable damage. Your habit of tempting men had already driven Aegon into terrorising innocent women with his lust, and whatever silk-sweet words you whispered into Aemond’s ears had turned her lovely boy into someone cold and distant.

No—Alicent could not imagine you wedded to either of them.

“A pity, but there is no use in mourning it,” she dismissed. “Aemond will be matched to a respectable lady of the realm, and we will use the girl to buy the loyalty of a useful lord—as was always your plan.”

“Yes. My plan.” Otto looked at your papers thoughtfully. “I think we will need to make haste with her marriage. The blacks intend to ally with her, and I believe she is too ambitious to decline their offer. We cannot let her inheritance fall into Rhaenyra’s hands—we shall need to find her a match and send her someplace else immediately.”

Alicent swallowed. She had hoped to push for your match to a Northern house. She knew you would be happiest in the North—with people who worshipped the Old Gods, and a husband who was far enough removed from the politics of court to care much about your heritage. Starks were known for their honour, and the Warden in the North had carried himself with great dignity during his time at court. She knew that Cregan Stark would not have mistreated you. Lord Manderly’s son seemed promising as well, and the young Lord Bolton would have been keen for a dragon. But the political benefits of those matches were modest at best, uncertain at worst—Alicent knew her father would not have chosen any of those betrothals for you.

You had no mother. Only she could defend you.

“And where,” she asked carefully, “would we find a match on such short notice?”

She hoped for Lord Stokeworth or the Tully boy. The former was kind and the latter was dutiful, and she had already convinced her father of both proposals. But when the Hand smiled, his eyes glinting sharp, she knew it was neither of them.

“It is, in some ways, fortunate that she is so clever,” he replied. “The Tyrells have been here for the past few days on their own business, and they watched her petition. They were quite impressed with her and have made an offer to take her as a ward—and to eventually marry her to one of their sons.”

Her eyes widened. The Tyrells were one of the great houses, and ordinarily would only be interested in a betrothal with a Targaryen prince or princess. “Was it the talent they wanted,” she asked, “or the gold?”

“The gold for the marriage—and her dragon, of course. But the talent is why they want her as a ward.”

Alicent considered the offer. They likely wanted to groom you for something, and as long as it was not dancing or needlework, it would keep you happily busy. You may eventually find yourself content with such an arrangement. But she could not help but feel that something was amiss. The Tyrells kept strongly to the Faith, and they cared greatly for status. They would not be so eager to take someone like you into their family.

“And which son would they want to squander upon her?” Alicent asked.

“The bastard they just legitimised. To wed a Targaryen lady with a dragon would be quite the achievement for such a man—hardly a squander.”

“You wish to marry her to Arthur Flowers?” she asked, appalled.

“Of course. We are buying the son of a great house with her. The son of our liege lord!”

“Arthur Flowers is a bastard and a raper!”

“Arthur Tyrell is now a legitimate son of the family controlling the Reach!” Otto sighed. “Do not detest me for this, Alicent. We will need to secure all the help we can get when the succession of the Iron Throne is contested.” Otto gave her a severe look. “And remember,” he added, “this has always been your plan too. You have always wanted to use the girl for the sake of your own children—or would you rather that Rhaenyra use her instead?”

Alicent could not say anything. She could not stop this match, she realised. No one would speak in your defence, for you had no mother—you only had her. And Alicent, at the end of the day, was not your mother.

She was a Hightower.

X. TEMPERANCE

The edge of the Kingswood today was peaceful. The sky was a clear blue; the birdsong was a soft warble in your ears. Vhagar—who was old and liked to rest when she was not at war—was calm beneath you, her saddle rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. Aemond, never one to chatter, was equally quiet. Even though Vhagar had been at rest for a while, your arms were still wrapped tight around his waist, and your cheek was pressed against his back.

You had not held or been held since your parents departed from King’s Landing. Given your reputation, it was impossible for you to touch anyone without setting off whispers, and none of the septas who cared for you had any desire to touch you—your blood was too dirty for it. But sharing a dragon with another person offered a kind of analogue to an embrace; allowed you to feel close to someone without raising brows. You would never admit such a thing aloud, but you liked to ride with people partly because of that.

Aemond was, of course, the only person in King’s Landing who would ever ride with you on any dragon. Ordinarily you would limit contact with him—he did not strike you as a person who particularly liked being touched, and you did not want to scare him off—but you needed to feel close to someone today. You had just spent three days without sleep to prepare for your petition, and during the manic rush of having won it, was approached by Alicent Hightower with dampening news of your betrothal. She'd finished her announcement by requesting that you plan your father’s funeral; it was plainly an attempt to ruin any happiness by reminding you to grieve.

Too proud to show weakness, you’d agreed and committed to yet another three days without sleep.

But you were plainly exhausted. You did not want to think about the funeral. You did not want to think about your betrothal. You did not want to think of anything at all. You simply wanted to relax, wanted to feel safe and warm next to someone, so now you were sitting with Aemond in the most desolate place you could find, the both of you on Vhagar’s saddle.

“I'm afraid I'll fall off if I let go,” you explained to Aemond, when he asked why you were still holding him.

“But we are not in the air.”

“Vhagar likes to buck and fight—she could kick me off at any moment.”

“Vhagar is very calm right now. And she likes you. She feels at ease around you.”

“I suppose that's true.” You closed your eyes, enjoying the warmth of him. “I'm fond of riding her too.”

Despite his questions, Aemond did not protest to your touch. He merely hummed, after which a long silence passed. Larks kept calling out, their songs a beautiful trill in your ears. The day was windy; the trees whispered loudly in the sky. To anyone a distance away, the noise of the forest would surely mask your voices—as long as you kept them low.

“I'm betrothed to someone now,” you said quietly. It was not quite upset, but your voice sounded oddly fragile.

“Hm.” Aemond did not sound bothered; instead, he seemed pensive. “To whom?”

“The Tyrells. The bastard they just legitimised.” You opened your eyes, staring at the rustling trees. The scenery of the Reach would be similar, you found yourself thinking, for it was close by—too close for your liking.

“The Tyrells,” Aemond repeated thoughtfully. “The Hightowers are their bannermen. Otto Hightower wishes to trade you for the guaranteed support of his liege, and at the same time he will ensure that your inheritance will not fall into Rhaenyra's hands. It seems my grandsire has done exactly what you predicted.”

“As I said,” you replied bitterly, “his daughter raised me. I know how your family thinks.”

“As do I.” You felt him shift; he may have been looking back at you. “Do you know anything about Ser Arthur?”

“Nothing other than that he’s fought in the Dornish Marches. He displayed great feats during battle—I heard many tales in the Throne Room during their petition. Ser Criston looked strangely at him the whole time, though.” Your brow furrowed. “I wonder why.”

“They may have served together, or else he may have some kind of reputation within the Marches,” Aemond mused. “I will ask Ser Criston later.”

“Do tell me what he says. I would like to know the character of my future husband.” Your arms tightened around Aemond. The day was not particularly cold, but you found yourself clinging to him. “I need all the knowledge I can of the Tyrells before I leave. Surely Highgarden cannot be worse than the Red Keep, but I want no surprises.”

“You have already resigned yourself to being taken away.” You felt Aemond touch your hand; you nearly jumped before realising he was only adjusting his chains. “I told you that I would handle the matter of your betrothal.”

“What can you do?” you asked miserably. “The Queen has already agreed, and who knows what kind of marriage your grandsire will force me into if I offend the Tyrells by outright rejecting them. I would not put it past the Hand to tie me up and send me away in the middle of the night, at this point.” You pressed your forehead into Aemond’s back, sighing. “Will you take me to Braavos so I may escape the mummery of the Red Keep? If we leave on Vhagar now, we may be there by the morrow.”

Vhagar beneath you rumbled, as if in complaint. “Ah,” you said, “your old lady seems unwilling to carry us. I suppose I'm done for.”

Aemond laid a hand on your wrist, perhaps searching for another chain. You did not push it away. “You need not offend the Tyrells,” he said. “When the time comes, simply play along as needed. You will not be held accountable for whatever may come.”

“Will you be held accountable? The guilt would eat me alive, if you were.”

He hummed. “If I were, it would not affect my standing greatly. You know I would not make such a misstep.”

“I suppose.” You allowed yourself to feel, for just one moment, reassured. Aemond was one of those few players in court who felt both reliable and safe, or at least not openly malicious. Perhaps to others, but not you. It was not unlikely that he could solve this all.

The breeze changed. You realised that your excuses to cling onto him had dwindled. “I suppose we should dismount now,” you said mournfully. “Come—let’s enjoy the woods, as we said we would.”

“I don't feel much like looking at trees today,” Aemond said. “Would you like to fly along the bay instead? The whole length of the shore.”

You lifted your head to give him an incredulous look. “That will take at least an hour in flight.”

“Then I suppose you will need to hold me for an hour. I do hope that won’t be a bother.”

It took you a beat to realise what he'd just offered, but once you did, you squeezed him tightly.

“As long as there is no complaint from Vhagar,” you said. “I know the lady likes her rest.”

Vhagar clicked beneath you, more agreeable now to your request. “She will do what I want,” Aemond reassured you. “Dragons are influenced by the desires of their riders.”

“So you want to nap and lounge all day like an elderly woman?”

You could hear the amusement in his voice when he replied, “Not terribly, though it is an option for us today if you wish.”

How lovely that would be, you thought. If you could lie with Aemond in the grass, shielded from the sun by Vhagar, and spend the afternoon slumbering. To ignore the funeral you needed to plan, the grief you had been procrastinating, the bridegroom you needed to meet.

Unfortunately, Aemond was not such a lout that he would waste the day like that, and you had your own responsibilities. You could not run for long from the death of your parents, from the ramifications of this inheritance mess. It was better to face it all promptly, matching the cold efficiency that the Hightowers operated with. That was how you had survived all these years, after all: matching the Hightowers.

But at the very least, you could allow yourself one more hour of delay.

“Napping would be nice,” you admitted, “but I'd rather spend the time in flight.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Vhagar’s wings began to beat, ancient but mighty. The trees swayed and rattled from the gust of her flight. The chains around your waist shook with the force of the great beast, but they held steadfast—binding you to Aemond, their hold inescapable.

X. DEATH, UPRIGHT

“Dracarys.”

A brilliant fire roared to life, consuming a boat drifting peacefully by the shore. Emerald flames erupted from the wood, devouring shimmering Qartheen jewels and priceless Myrish silks—all the belongings of your father.

Your father’s dragon had died in his youth. In her absence, it was Wildfyre who was chosen to set the pyre aflame in this sham of a funeral. The fire was the colour of alchemical wildfire, though given your dragon’s middling age of ninety-and-three, they of course burned much hotter. Despite being grown and having lived through both war and death, though, Wildfyre still behaved like a child: screeching and roaring and squawking miserably as the pyre burned, as if crying in your stead.

Your own face was bone-dry. You only stared dully at the pile of burning valuables, which were meant to be a substitute for your father’s body.

Technically, all of the objects in the pyre belonged to the Crown, but in a fit of spite you had publicly petitioned to the Hand to have them burned in the funeral. In a throne room where various nobles and smallfolk spectated—most of whom were already sympathetic to you, after you had to argue for your own inheritance just two days before—Otto Hightower had no choice but to grant your request, lest he look like a monster. You were glad to see all the treasures burning to ash in front of him, all that wealth forever out of his reach.

The Hand and the Queen had not appreciated this insult; neither of them offered their condolences during the ceremony, and likely only came out of obligation. Your closest kin offered no real words of consolation either. Aegon was so grossly uncomfortable during the affair that he could not make eye contact with you; Helaena only gave you a mournful and disconcerting stare, as if she were grieving you instead of your father.

Aemond, though very dear to you, was equally clumsy with handling you in your grief. He stood by your side and asked if you were well, to which you only gave him a long, dead-eyed stare. You had just spent three days without sleep to prepare for your petition during which his grandsire wrung you out; then you spent another two days without sleep to prepare for a funeral at which you thought no one would grieve.

Of course you were not well.

None of Alicent Hightower’s children had ever experienced loss; that much was clear. It was different with your other cousins, however; Luke, Jace, Baela, and Rhaena neatly offered their sincere condolences. I'm so sorry, they all said, before taking your hands and squeezing. I am always here if you need company. Say the word and I will come by.

You absolutely would not take them up on the offer, but you did appreciate it.

Surprisingly, though, you were not entirely alone in your mourning. King Viserys had asked to delay the funeral until he was well enough to attend, and he now stood in the front, watching solemnly. Beside him was Prince Daemon, who for once seemed subdued and reflective. You were not sure what to make of Rhaenyra’s face, which seemed appropriately mournful, but potentially inauthentic. She had actually known your father as a child, though they were not close, and she never involved herself with you when you were a child except for when Jace wanted to play with you.

You supposed it was Prince Daemon and King Viserys who had the greatest right to grief, perhaps even more than you. You had known your father for ten years; they had known him for nearly thirty. Daemon sought you out shortly after the service, speaking in Pentoshi Valyrian.

“Your father was the only person who brought us news of our aunt in Volantis,” he said. “He always saw that she fared well—did he ever tell you that?”

“No,” you replied honestly, and with great surprise. “He never mentioned her.”

“It was how he knew your mother,” Daemon said. “The Lysene pillowhouse that Saera once worked in—your mother was a courtesan there. She introduced them to one another.”

You were stunned by the news. Saera Targaryen had been exiled and King Jaehaerys had forbidden the rest of the family from ever speaking with her again. To think that your father had not only sought her out anyway, but had found your mother through her, was shocking.

“I did not think my father would break his uncle’s decree,” you said.

“Defiance was in your father’s spirit. I do believe you inherited it.”

“Thank you,” you said. You were deeply confused—this was probably the fifth time in your life you'd ever spoken to the Rogue Prince, for he scared you when you were a child, and he himself did not care much for toddlers. You did not think he could be so kind. “Perhaps defiance is in our blood. My father always spoke highly of your exploits, and he respected Princess Saera as well.”

The corner of Daemon’s mouth lifted in something that could not really be called a smile, but was probably meant to be a sign of approval. “Those born of fire and blood have a tendency to be untameable. Your father and I were not just kin—we were kindred. If you wish for the company of like-minded people”—Daemon glanced at the Hightowers and their children—“rather than those who disapprove of us… do seek me out.”

King Viserys, with his missing eye hidden by a patch, offered fewer words, but more heartfelt: “I have always tried to care for you in my cousin’s stead,” he said. “Nothing about that will change in his death.”

You bowed. “Thank you, my King.”

He laid a hand, shaking and emaciated but warm, on your shoulder.

“I regret that I am no longer well enough to spend time with you in your hour of grief, but I know that my children and grandchildren will keep your loneliness at bay.”

He did not mention Queen Alicent, nor did you. “I will be grateful for their company in my mourning,” was all you said.

Truthfully, though, anyone’s company would likely make you scream. You did not feel like coddling anyone as they struggled over what they should say to you after you lost a man that none of them had known. All you wanted to do was sneak back to either your rock by the sea or the dung pit to cry in absolute solitude, but now that Aegon and Aemond knew both of your misery spots, that was not an option.

Your expression was grim as you left the funeral site, and you prayed that no one would disturb you in your self-pity—but to your displeasure, Jace had been thoughtful enough to wait for you.

“I was worried about you,” he said, so gently that you wanted to throw up.

“You need not be,” you replied stiffly. “I did all my grieving for my father while I was working through those ledgers.”

Jacaerys had helped you sort through the books when you were crying too hard to read clearly, so you knew he was being genuine when he replied, “I know. But…”

“But?”

“It's just,” he started, and you could hear the hesitation in his voice, “is there to be a service for your mother?”

You stared dumbly. He sounded earnest when he explained, “I would like to attend, if there is one planned.”

“No,” you replied, and your voice sounded oddly strangled, and your throat hurt terribly. “No, there is not one planned. No one asked me to make arrangements for one, so I did not.”

“Would you rather that there wasn't one?”

“I had not thought about it—I did not think there was anyone who would like to come,” you admitted, which made you feel both horrible and sorry for yourself, and suddenly you were turning around to wipe away at your eyes. Oh, how you longed to be in the dung pit right now.

“Why would you even want to come?” you asked, sniffling. “You did not know her.”

“I would want to come for you,” Jacaerys said simply, and the sob that came out of you was so ugly that you felt embarrassed. Not once did you cry like this while reading through all the Iron Bank ledgers, but for some reason, the thought of your mother hurt your heart so much that you did not know how else to release the pain but with the most guttural sobs possible.

You felt a hand on your shoulder. You noticed then that you had crouched down to cry into your knees, and Jace had lowered himself to sit with you.

“When Ser Harwin died,” he said quietly, “Luke and I were not allowed to attend his funeral.”

“Oh,” you said, lip wobbling. You did not know where he was going with this.

“We still wanted to say goodbye, though, so instead we went to the Kingswood and buried the training swords he gave us when we were little. We did it alone.”

“O-oh.” More tears welled up as you realised what he was about to ask.

“I know you have not been allowed a proper funeral for your mother—but is there anything you would want to do, to say goodbye?”

You could not manage a yes, so you instead let out a whimpering sob.

“Meet me at the hour of the wolf tonight, at the bottom floor of the Kitchen Keep,” you said once you were coherent again, and Jacaerys nodded.

XI. DEATH, REVERSED

After Prince Velarion cast your mother out of the Red Keep, the septas, in their unending grace, offered you a kind of cruel consolation: Your mother was always going to be cast out anyway, they told you. She was merely a whore, seducing your father with temptation rather than marrying him out of love. He was always going to free himself from her spell and find the Seven again. This was inevitable.

They also told you, You were not a child born of love. You were born of sin and temptation. Your mother was bound to leave you as well, for her feelings for you were disingenuous; how can a whore love an accident of her sins? But now—her influence is gone, and you can find the love of the Seven instead.

And when Alicent Hightower said, Stop crying, sweetling, the septas are speaking the truth—this is all for the better, you realised that you would always hate her and her Faith.

Maybe you could have found the Seven if it were not for her words, but she ruined her gods for you with that one sentence. You burned your copy of the Seven-Pointed Star; you kicked and screamed as the septas dragged you to the High Septon’s service; you called Alicent a monster when she struck you for your misbehaviour. So horrific was her treatment of you that even Aegon—who had often been on the receiving end of her strikes himself—felt sorry for you.

Not that he actually helped you, of course. Only Aemond spent any time with you though it all, sitting next to you in the dragon pit as you cried.

You did not believe any of it, of course. You were not a child born of sin, for your mother and father loved each other. Your father did so much for your mother—told her he loved her in her mother tongue, grew persimmon trees in the courtyard to keep her homesickness at bay, lit nightfires for her so she could pray to R’hllor. Your father loved her so much that he took her to Lys and decided to stay, even if it meant leaving you.

There was no way he didn't love her. There was no way they didn't love you.

There was no way, and this was what you told yourself every time you heard those whispers: She merely seduced him. She merely used him. He did not truly love her. How could a prince truly love a whore?

And her daughter—that girl is a child of sin. How could they have loved her?

You had become so skilled at ignoring it all, and nearly delighted in being irreverent of it. But despite all of your efforts to laugh at the gossipmongers and the septas, several years of whispers now echoed in your ear as you made your way to the Kitchen Keep. They nicked at your heart, and you wished your mother and father were here to dispel them. But your father was a pile of bones somewhere on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost to the sea.

Your heart was so heavy with these thoughts that you did not say anything to Jace and Luke when they met you at the Keep. You merely dumped two piles of firewood and kindling in their arms and beckoned them to follow you. You led them up a long flight of stairs, carrying a bundle of beautiful silks, until you had all reached the top of some decrepit tower.

The winds were calm tonight, a cool breeze rather than a violent gust. It made it easier to light up the old fire pit—you struggled only a little before you remembered how.

“My mother and father used to come here at night,” you finally explained, your voice tired. “It is a practice at Red Temples in Essos to burn nightfires like this. They are meant to allow R’hllor to protect us from the dark. But there are no such temples in King’s Landing, so my father would do this instead to comfort my mother.”

Jacaerys and Lucerys both listened quietly as they sat next to you, faces lit up by the crackling heat. Luke was not very close with you—you had always felt too awkward befriending him, after the incident with Aemond’s eye—but he had wanted to come to help you honour your mother, so sorry he was for your grief.

He seemed genuinely interested when he asked, “Does it bring you comfort too?”

“It reminds me of my mother,” you said, and the two brothers nodded in understanding.

“And those silks you're carrying?” Jace asked.

“Things of my mother’s that we found in my father’s room.” You looked at them balefully as you took a piece out of the bundle, revealing a golden scarf with Lysene embroidery. “I think—I think I should burn them. I don't have anything else of hers.”

The two of them nodded. You fed the silk to the nightfire, watched as it ate through the gold thread. Your heart clenched as it burned to ash; you had so many times imagined that your mother was wearing this scarf as she walked by the harbours of Lys, holding your father’s hand.

“I always thought,” you said quietly, “that my father took my mother to Lys and loved her too much to come back.”

The both of them stayed silent. Waited.

“But”—your brow twinged—“I do not know what to think anymore. People always said my mother was a whore, you know? That my father married her out of pure lust and would eventually leave her. I always thought they were wrong, because he stayed in Lys and gave up his position here, all because he loved her too much to leave her. But now I don't know what to think.”

You did not know if he truly loved her. If the sword and the silks and even you were really evidence of his love, and not simply evidence that he was doting on his pretty concubine. If the ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor was truly proof of their devotion, or if it was the impulsive decision of an infatuated man. For your father was supposed to be in Lys, loving your mother too much to return, spending the rest of his days with her in the Essosi sun—but instead he was a pile of bones, and she was lost forever.

You felt a familiar wetness on your face, a burn in your eyes that had nothing to do with smoke.

“But if he had stayed,” Luke asked quietly, hesitantly, “doesn't that mean he would have abandoned you?”

“That would have been fine,” you replied truthfully. “And I thought—I thought they'd visit someday, and I would get to see them again then. At the very least they'd love me enough for that.”

At the very least, you would for one last time be held by people who loved you.

You bit your trembling lip. Now that you'd said it all out loud, you were uncertain if you made sense. “Is it strange that I'm questioning it all now? That for nearly twenty years I believed steadfastly in their love, but now that they are gone, I do not know what to think?”

Neither of them said anything. Luke was looking down; Jace was staring into the flames.

“I wish I could ask them,” you whispered, and this seemed to strike Jace.

“I do not think it strange to question it.” Jacaerys did not look at you, but you knew he was not lying. “I have thought about it many times—about the relationship between my mother and Ser Harwin. I always thought they loved each other and that they loved us, when I was little—but now I'm not so sure. And I cannot ask him, no matter how much I wish for it.”

You gave him a long look, and you were strangely hopeful—as if the knowledge that Ser Harwin loved the three of them would somehow mean that your father loved you and your mother too.

“I do not think,” Jacaerys finally confessed, “that my mother loved Ser Harwin.”

Your heart was wrenched with pain.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Why?”

“She did not cry after he died.” Jace sounded odd, his voice terse but brittle. “She did not cry and she told us that we shouldn't cry either. Like he meant nothing to us. I think now that he was a distraction for her, or a plaything. If the court whispers are true, then it is not the first time she would have done such a thing.”

“That can't be true,” you protested, perhaps too desperately. Rhaenyra had to have loved him. She risked her station just to bear his children—just like how your father lost his to have you.

But Jace seemed disconsolate. “Why not?” He gave you a wry look. “Bastards are supposed to be born of lies and temptation, not love—at least according to the Faith. If we are indeed the bastards of Ser Harwin and my mother, then we are proof that lies and temptation are all that existed between them.”

You thought of all the septas and their prayers and Alicent Hightower screaming at you to behave. Bastards are not so different from the daughters of whores, you mused. They see us all as products of sin.

“Fuck the Faith,” you hissed, and Jace seemed startled, as if not expecting the edge to your voice, but you did not falter. “I do not believe a person as kind as you could have been born of anything other than love.”

Jace’s eyes widened a little, but then his face settled into a kind of smile. Small, but gentle nevertheless.

“Then I do not think that you could have been born of anything else either.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. You turned back to the fire, eyes still hot, but a little less watery. Your fingers gripped the red-and-gold silk remaining in your hands—your mother’s wedding veil—and you meant to feed it to the nightfire, but you did not. You did not want to let it go.

You did not want to let her go.

“I’ve always thought that,” you confessed, “my mother loved me enough to someday come back to King’s Landing. She promised me, you know. She said she would.”

Jace gave you a soft look. “I'm sure she meant it.”

You wiped your eyes again. “Why do you think so?”

“Just a feeling.” He went quiet for a little, hesitating. But eventually he shared, “Ser Harwin said he would come back someday. He died, of course, but”—Jace looked down—“I believe he was telling the truth. He loved us, I think.”

You nodded, and the squeeze around your heart finally eased. It was entirely illogical, but you somehow knew this was true: Ser Harwin loved his children; that meant that your parents must have loved you too. It only made sense. Your father had wanted to come back for you after one hundred days. Your mother wanted to return after your grandsire died. She loved you so much that she would cross the seas for you again.

She must have crossed the seas again.

Your fingers gripped the veil even harder. Your eyes felt heavy, five days without proper sleep wearing them down. You fought to keep them open.

“You're tired,” Jace said. “You should go back to your room and rest.”

“No,” you said, but your eyelids were fluttering shut anyway, and you felt yourself start to sway. “No—the fire is supposed to burn all night. Until the dawn breaks and the light of R’hllor returns to us.”

“Will that bring you comfort, if it burns until daybreak?” he asked. You began to lie down—curling up on the stone floor.

You answered with your eyes closed: “It will remind me of my mother.”

You entered a strange dream after that, or perhaps a memory. You were sitting around the nightfire with your parents, a child once more. You were shivering and crying, for the wind was cold, and the night was dark and full of terrors. But your father had you lie down, your head in his lap, and he covered you with his cloak as your mother ran her fingers through your hair, and they held you. They loved you. You knew they loved you, and they loved each other too. Your father went to Lys and loved your mother so much that he never came back. Your mother loved you so much that she crossed the Narrow Sea once more just to see you.

And you would, for one last time, be held by someone who loved you.

(When you woke up in your bed the next morning, you were covered by a cloak that smelled of nightfire and dreams.)

END PART III

notes: FUN FACT when i was a teenager i was extremely obsessed over sansan and the cloak = marriage metaphor had a formative influence on me and that has definitely come thru in this fic lol. anyway - thank you for reading!!! i would greatly appreciate it if you reblogged & drop a line if you enjoyed this chapter! <3