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stylesonfilms · 16 days ago

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ink & innocence - 31

word count: 7.1k

i broke my heart about twenty nine thousand times writing this. have fun!

Aspen couldn't get out of bed for a few days. She was glad that the weekend was there to aid her, alongside Isobel. There was no need for any words, just movies and ice cream and pasta.

By the time next Friday had rolled around, Aspen decided she wasn't going to lull around any more. The tired she carried on her shoulders and the pain still settled in her heart were mere reminders of Harry.

She wished endlessly that night that things could have been different. But being new to this, to a relationship at that, Aspen felt suffocated. She laughed to herself for hours in between tears at the insane realization of it all.

The girl was only nineteen. Nineteen years old, in college, in a small town living with her best friend, dating a brooding asshole who's just a big softie littered in tattoos. And that brooding asshole just so happened to be wrapped up in drug dealing? What were the chances.

Her anger didn't lie within Harry, no matter how much she wanted it to. She wanted to be mad that he lied, that it was so easy for him to lie, but she always circled back to his words.

Even if he did tell her, what was Aspen to do? She would have worried endless until she was sick to her stomach about it. She thought about everything Harry might have felt, the fear of losing her.

Aspen was no stranger to knowing what she meant to Harry, even if it was a small part. She knew how he grew up and what girls he had been with, or slept with, and she knew how his heart had been treated. Even in his every day actions, she could see how appreciative he was.

When Isobel got with Zayn, according to the story she told Aspen, Isobel was worried sick about how things would change after three months. Three months flew by, and then she worried about six. After six, it was nine, and Zayn had told her to get a damn grip 'cause he wasn't going anywhere. Now, here they were, practically married.

Aspen didn't have to fear the upcoming months with Harry. Everything felt so... good. He never frayed away from the love he gave her since day one. If anything, it only grew as he opened up to her more.

Harry always kept his promises. He did keep her safe. He did show her love. Whenever she had an exam, he always made sure to leave her flowers. Whether it was at her apartment, or tucked into the handle of her car door, he was always lingering. When Aspen couldn't focus on her studies, Harry offered her a quiet place in the shop. He barked orders for everyone to shut the hell up, and even turned on a quieter playlist that strayed from his normal rap and rock mix.

He always held her hand, and he always looked both ways for her before they crossed the street. Harry always made sure that her headlights were on before she started driving, when she insisted she could do it, and he always made sure to flick them off when she started skipping away into the store.

So, she could understand where he came from. How could she not? If she were to be in his shoes, she wasn't sure how she'd even begin to explain something like that. The way Harry had looked seemed like there was more than just an exchange of drugs followed by a beating. His eyes were so empty, filled with so much fear.

And she knew, she trusted, that Harry would understand her, too.

Each day she drove past the shop on her way to school. His car would be there when she left to when she came back from her shifts at the library. It sat in the same spot, practically collecting dust and leaves clung to the windshield wipers as time went on. It made her heart hurt more, it felt like he was cowering away.

They hadn't spoke since. That night when she left, just around midnight, Harry had texted her. He said that he understood her need for space, but he loved her. He read her message when she replied, saying that she loved him too and thanking him. Some part of her wished he would have pushed for more.

Aspen sighed as she rolled onto her side, her fingers mindlessly playing with the frayed edge of her blanket. Her body felt heavy, the kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just physical but emotional, too. It had been a week since she walked away from Harry, yet his absence clung to her like a shadow. She still reached for her phone sometimes, half-expecting a message, but there was nothing. The last text thread between them remained frozen in time, a painful reminder of the fallout she wished she could forget.

The soft knock on her bedroom door pulled her from her thoughts, and she barely had the energy to lift her head.

"Hey, Asp," Isobel’s voice was gentle, a knowing lilt in her tone. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression laced with sympathy.

Aspen forced a small smile, though it barely reached her eyes. "Hi, Iz." She patted the bed beside her, inviting her friend in.

Isobel pushed off the doorframe, her steps light as she crossed the room and settled onto the bed beside Aspen’s curled-up frame. Her hand rested on Aspen’s shoulder, a comforting presence in the quiet room.

"You know I love you and all," Isobel started, a teasing edge creeping into her voice, "but the bed is starting to eat you."

Aspen scrunched her nose, reaching for the remote on her nightstand. She flicked through the channels lazily, her attention barely on the moving images across the screen.

"It’s Friday, Iz," she murmured. "I went to classes and work all week. I’m exhausted."

She left out the part where exhaustion wasn’t just from her schedule—it was from thinking too much. From feeling too much.

Her fingers clutched the pillow tighter, pressing it against her chest as if it could fill the empty space inside her. "And I just… I dunno. I miss him."

Saying it out loud made it feel even more real, more painful. She hated how easily his absence affected her, how much it hurt to not hear his voice or feel the warmth of his presence. He was everywhere in her mind—his touch, his laughter, the way he’d look at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. And yet, in reality, he was nowhere to be found.

Isobel let out a soft sigh before she flopped down beside Aspen, their heads smushed together as she let out a dramatic, "Oh, poor baby."

Aspen laughed despite herself, her breath hitching as Isobel’s blonde strands tickled her nose. The sound of her own laughter felt foreign, like she hadn’t heard it in too long.

"What are you doing?" Aspen asked, her voice still laced with amusement.

"Shh, shh… I’m sending you telepathic good vibes," Isobel said, pressing a finger to Aspen’s lips before closing her eyes and dramatically humming a buzzing sound.

Aspen burst into another fit of laughter, her body shaking with the effort. The ache in her chest didn’t disappear, but for a brief moment, it felt a little lighter.

Isobel grinned at the reaction, finally pulling away. "Sooo," she started, her tone shifting.

Aspen’s brow arched. She could already tell where this was going. "Oh, shut up," she groaned.

Isobel smirked. "I was just going to say that Zayn invited me over. Just for some drinks and pizza. Said I could bring you if I wanted to."

Aspen shook her head almost instantly. "I’ll be okay here."

Isobel squinted at her. "You hate being home alone."

Aspen huffed and shrugged, knowing she wasn’t going to win this argument.

"Aspen Waverly."

"Iz!" Aspen whined, sitting up just enough to glare at her friend.

"You are coming with me," Isobel declared. "And you are not cooping up in here all alone until your bed eats you alive."

Aspen crossed her arms, lips pressing into a thin line. She wanted to argue, but the truth was, Isobel was right. Being alone with her thoughts all night wasn’t going to do her any favors.

"Zayn said you could raid his bookshelf," Isobel quipped, her tone knowing.

Aspen tried—really tried—to keep her face neutral, but she could already feel the way her lips twitched at the thought. Zayn had an incredible collection, full of first editions and rare copies of books she’d been dying to get her hands on.

Isobel grinned, seeing the shift in her expression. "Knew that’d get you. Come on, we’re gonna leave in fifteen."

Aspen sighed, throwing her pillow aside. She might still be hurting, but maybe, just maybe, getting out of this room for a while would help her forget— if only for a few hours.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The warm glow of Zayn’s apartment was a welcome contrast to the crisp night air. The place smelled like freshly baked pizza, the scent mixing with the faint musk of cologne and old books. The three of them were sprawled around the living room, their laughter filling the space as they nibbled on slices of pepperoni and garlic knots.

Aspen had made herself comfortable on the oversized armchair, her legs tucked beneath her as she flipped through a first edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray that she had pulled from Zayn’s bookshelf. The worn leather cover and gold-foiled lettering had her heart racing when she first spotted it, and she wasted no time sinking into the pages.

Isobel, on the other hand, had draped herself across Zayn’s couch, tossing a throw pillow into the air and catching it absentmindedly as she spoke. "Okay, but hear me out—if you were in a horror movie, who do you think would be the first to die?"

Zayn, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a beer in hand, scoffed. "That’s easy. It’s you."

"Excuse me?" Isobel gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "How dare you?"

"Are you kidding?" Zayn laughed. "You’d be the one to say, ‘Guys, let’s split up!’ and then immediately get caught."

Aspen chuckled, glancing up from her book. "Yeah, Iz, I love you, but I feel like you’d trip over your own feet trying to run away."

"Wow. Betrayed by my own people," Isobel huffed, shaking her head. "I, for one, think Aspen would be the first to go. Bookworms never survive."

Aspen raised a brow. "Uh, excuse me? Have you ever seen The Mummy? The book nerd saves the day."

Zayn grinned. "She’s got a point."

"Okay, fine," Isobel conceded, waving a hand. "Then Zayn dies first."

"Not a chance," he smirked. "I’d be the one secretly working with the villain the whole time and then switching sides at the last second to help the final girl."

Aspen snorted. "You’ve thought about this before."

Zayn took a slow sip of his beer, his smirk never fading. "Maybe."

The conversation carried on like that—effortless, full of teasing and warmth. For the first time in days, Aspen felt like herself again. The ache in her chest dulled, if only slightly, as she found herself smiling, truly smiling.

She turned the page in her book, her fingers gliding over the delicate paper as Zayn and Isobel launched into another ridiculous debate. She wasn’t fully listening, but the hum of their voices was comforting, grounding.

Then came the knocks.

Three loud, insistent thuds.

The laughter died instantly. The air in the apartment shifted, tension settling over them like a suffocating blanket.

Then, a voice.

"Zayn?"

Aspen’s stomach plummeted.

Harry.

His voice was slurred, thick with the unmistakable weight of alcohol.

"Are you home?," he called again, his voice muffled through the door.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Zayn’s eyes widened slightly before he shot up from his seat. "Go upstairs," he whispered urgently, gesturing toward the hallway.

Aspen hesitated. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her hands gripping the book so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"Now," Zayn whispered more harshly, already moving toward the door.

Isobel didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed Aspen’s hand and pulled her up, dragging her toward the stairs as quietly as possible.

From the hallway, Aspen could still hear Harry’s voice. It was rough, desperate.

"Zayn, mate, open the door."

She swallowed hard, her feet barely making a sound against the floor as she and Isobel disappeared upstairs.

Back in the living room, Zayn exhaled sharply before undoing the lock and pulling the door open.

And there stood Harry.

Disheveled. Eyes glazed over. Jacket hanging off one shoulder. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes clung to him like a second skin.

His gaze was unfocused at first, but when he saw Zayn, his lips parted slightly.

"Can I come in?"

Zayn raked over his frame before stepping to the side and let them in. Before Harry could turn to look at the living room where the three of them sat, he took his friend's arm and guided him to the kitchen.

"Let's get you some water," Zayn mentioned, setting Harry down against the counter before grabbing a glass from the cupboard. He pressed the cup against the lever, the water from his fridge hissing to life and streaming into the cup.

Harry groaned softly, placing his head in his hand. "I don't know what I was thinking," he scoffed.

"What did you drink, Harry?" Zayn sighed, handing the glass to Harry before leaning against the counter across from him.

"Too much," he slurred as he raised the glass to his lips, gulping down the water with ease. It wasn't an exact answer to what Zayn asked, but he knew his friend well enough to know that didn't mean any good.

Harry set the glass down with a small stumble, wrapping his fingers around the ledge of the counter. "I don't know what to do," he laughed bitterly, looking up from the cup to Zayn. "I don't know what to fucking do."

Zayn pursed his lips, taking in a small breath as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's hard. I won't say I understand, but I'll try to, if you want to keep going. I'm here for you."

"No," Harry groaned, shaking his head. "I don't want to talk."

"Harry," Zayn raised a brow, "you didn't walk here drunk off your ass for nothing. My place is further than yours, assuming you came from Joes."

Harry grumbled, narrowing his eyes at Zayn before huffing. His heart swelled then broke instantly as he did, reminding him yet again of Aspen. How she'd glare playfully at him and huff from her soft, perfect lips.

"That night was bad," Harry said after a beat. He pursed his lips, his words slurred as he spoke. His hands came into motion now, moving along with whatever he said.

"I know space is necessary sometimes. I know she deserved it, after what I did to her, but Jesus, man. Could you imagine if Isobel said she needed space? If she was the one to need it? It's selfish, I know that, and I think of her feelings too, I just... I can't even get over mine."

Zayn nodded as he listened, his eyes softening. "I couldn't begin to imagine how much it hurt, Harry."

The man scoffed, shaking his head. Harry didn't know 'hurt'. He didn't know heartbreak, not like this. His worst one was when his cat had passed when he was twelve. Then he hardened up and he became... whatever this was.

Harry let out a long breath, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His body swayed slightly, the alcohol making everything feel heavier, slower, like he was sinking into the floor. His vision blurred in and out of focus, but Zayn’s face remained clear— steady, understanding. It only made him feel worse.

"I don’t even know who I am without her," Harry admitted, voice barely above a whisper. His throat was tight, like something was lodged deep inside, refusing to come up.

"It’s like… like I finally had something good. Someone good. And I fucked it all up."

Zayn exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew Harry well enough to understand that when he let his walls down like this, it wasn’t just drunken rambling— it was raw, stripped down, all the pain he usually buried under sharp words and forced indifference spilling out in broken pieces.

"You didn’t fuck everything up," Zayn said, keeping his voice calm. "You made a mistake. And yeah, it was a big one. But it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to fix it."

Harry let out a bitter laugh, tipping his head back. His eyes burned, the alcohol pulling every emotion to the surface with no filter, no control.

"And what if she never forgives me? What if—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, gripping the counter tighter. "What if she never wants to see me again?"

Zayn watched his friend carefully, the weight of Harry’s emotions settling in his chest. "Then you respect that," he said simply. "You own what you did, and you give her what she needs. But you don’t get to just… give up on yourself because of it, man."

Harry's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as he shook his head. "She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like she didn’t even know me."

His voice dropped to something small, something broken. "Like she hated me."

Zayn sighed, stepping closer. "Aspen doesn’t hate you, mate. She’s hurt. She’s allowed to be."

Harry sucked in a breath through his teeth, his body slumping further against the counter. He felt exhausted— emotionally, physically, in every possible way. The weight of his own actions, his own emotions, was crushing. He ran a hand through his curls, tugging slightly at the roots as if that would bring some kind of clarity.

His voice was barely audible when he muttered, "You should’ve just left me there."

Zayn stiffened. "What?"

"You should’ve just left me there to die," Harry repeated, defeated, tired, worn down to nothing but an aching mess of regret. His shoulders caved in, his head dropping forward. "Would’ve been easier."

The words settled heavy in the room, pressing against the walls, suffocating the space between them.

Zayn’s heart clenched.

"Don’t say that shit," he said firmly, his voice edged with something close to desperation. He gripped Harry’s arm, forcing him to meet his gaze. "I mean it. Don’t ever fucking say that."

Harry exhaled shakily, his lip twitching like he was trying to hold something back.

Zayn’s grip tightened. "I get that you’re hurting. I do. But you don’t get to say that, alright? You don’t get to fucking mean that." His voice softened just slightly, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t waver. "You matter, Harry. To me. To Niall. To Louis. And yeah, to Aspen too, even if she’s hurt right now. You don’t just get to check out because things feel too heavy."

Harry blinked a few times, his eyes glassy, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Zayn exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw before shaking his head. "You’re staying here tonight. No arguments."

Harry didn’t fight him. He just nodded slowly, the weight of everything pulling him down, exhaustion finally settling into his bones.

Zayn glanced toward the hallway, knowing damn well the girls were hiding in his bedroom. There was no way he could let Harry crash on the couch and risk Aspen coming out in the middle of the night to find him there.

"Come on," Zayn muttered, looping an arm under Harry’s to steady him. "Spare room’s open. You can crash there."

Harry groaned but let himself be guided up the stairs, his legs unsteady beneath him. Each step felt heavier than the last, the alcohol still lingering in his system but starting to wear off just enough to let the full force of his thoughts creep in.

Zayn pushed open the spare bedroom door and gestured inside. "Bed’s yours. Get some sleep."

Harry mumbled something incoherent as he stumbled inside, barely managing to toe off his boots before collapsing onto the mattress. The ceiling spun for a second, his body sinking into the bed, but his mind… his mind wouldn’t shut up.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to pass out, but the alcohol had left just enough clarity for the thoughts to keep buzzing—too loud, too intrusive.

Aspen. Her voice, her touch, the way she looked at him before everything crumbled. The way she looked at him that night.

He turned onto his side, burying his face into the pillow, but nothing helped. His heart still ached, his stomach still twisted with guilt and regret. He wanted to sleep. Needed to. But no matter how much he tossed and turned, the ghost of her lingered, keeping him awake.

Harry almost missed it.

He almost missed the sound of the bathroom door opening and clicking back shut. He would have if it wasn't for the small, surprised squeak.

From Aspen. His Aspen.

Harry shot up out of the bed, the floor spinning as he stood to his feet in surprise.

"Aspen?" He called out, his voice slurred and heavy with his drunk accent.

His feet padded to the bathroom door, his hand on the knob as the other knocked. Normally, Harry would've just left the room but alcohol left no space for common sense.

"Aspen, baby, 's tha' you?" Harry asked through the door as he knocked once more. He swore he could hear her puffs of breaths, so he knocked again.

"Please open the door. Please."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Aspen gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles white as she tried to steady herself. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps, her chest rising and falling too quickly as her head spun.

Harry.

Her mind raced, heart pounding in her ears as if it were trying to drown out the drunken slur of his voice just outside the door. She could hear him knocking— gentle, unsteady, desperate— but she couldn’t move.

This wasn’t how she was supposed to see him again. Not like this. She only came to pee, and seeing Harry in that bed made her heart flip.

She had spent the last week convincing herself that space was good, that distance was necessary, that avoiding him was the only way to keep herself from breaking all over again. But now he was here— just on the other side of the door, pleading in that voice that made her chest ache.

"Aspen, baby, 's tha' you?"

His words were heavy, weighed down by alcohol, but there was something so raw about them that made her throat tighten.

Her hands trembled as she gripped the sink even harder, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She looked frantic— wide, glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted like she had been running.

She had been doing so well.

She had held herself together, fought the tears when they threatened to fall, buried herself in work and school just to avoid thinking about him. But now, he was here, and all that hard work was unraveling at the seams.

Another knock.

"Aspen, please open the door. Please."

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head even though he couldn’t see her. His voice was softer at first, but with every unanswered plea, it grew more frantic—more desperate.

"Aspen, please, open the door," he murmured, his voice thick with alcohol and heartbreak. Then, his hand jiggled the doorknob, the metal rattling sharply in the small space.

Aspen flinched.

Her breath hitched as she stumbled backward, her body pressing against the cold tile of the bathroom wall. The air felt too thick, like she couldn’t get enough of it, and the walls suddenly felt like they were closing in on her.

"Aspen, come on." The doorknob shook again— harder this time. "Talk to me, baby, please."

Her head was buzzing, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch onto one before another crashed into her. Her fingers dug into the porcelain sink, her knuckles turning white as the room spun around her.

"I just— I need to see you. I need you to talk to me," he begged, his voice cracking.

He yanked at the doorknob again.

Aspen gasped, pressing her hands to her ears as the overstimulation crushed her from every side— the knocking, the rattling, his voice— pleading, desperate, relentless.

It was too much. Everything was too much.

The room felt smaller. Her vision blurred. The sound of her own breathing was deafening in her ears, but she could still hear him.

Jiggling the handle. Begging.

"Aspen, please."

Her heart pounded so hard she thought she might be sick. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

The pressure built inside of her, suffocating, overwhelming, consuming— until it all snapped at once.

"Stop it!" she choked out, her voice raw and panicked. "You’re scaring me!"

And then everything stopped.

The rattling. The knocking. The pleading.

Pure silence.

Heavy, deafening silence.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry's hands dropped to his side, fingers twitching. His ears rang as the air was practically wiped from his lungs in an instant.

He was scaring her.

The man stumbled back across the room, drawing in heavy and uneven breaths. That sure sobered him up. Possibly felt worse than getting pistol whipped by one of the cruelest men he came across.

As Harry's back touched the wall, his palms placed flat along the surface by his sides. His heart twisted in pain as her words repeated in his head. First the lying, now this? Now he was scaring her?

How could he be so stupid? To go and bang on the door and beg her to open it while jamming the knob, while being drunk? The feeling of shame settled deep in his chest, tangled with guilt.

The door clicked open and slowly swung open, Aspen's frame coming into view. She took a shuddering breath and stepped out. He kept his eyes on the carpeted floors, swallowing thickly.

Just as he opened his mouth, her voice came through. Harry was sure his knees buckled and almost gave out from under him. It had been so long, too long, since he's heard her. He missed her with every fiber in his being, every single part of her coursed through his veins.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean you were scaring me. I.. I guess I was just scared in general, with seeing you. I didn't know how to react."

Harry finally looked up, and when his bloodshot eyes met hers, something in him cracked. The shame, the guilt, the desperate love he had for her—it all spilled over in his expression.

His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out at first. Just a shaky breath, a weight heavier than his own body pressing down on his chest.

"You don’t 'ave to apologize," he croaked, his voice hoarse and strained. "I’m the one who," he exhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists at his sides, "I’m the one who should be sorry. For all 'f it."

Aspen stood still, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to hold herself together. The sight of her like that— so small, so uncertain— sent another brutal pang through his chest. He had done that to her. He had hurt her, made her afraid, shattered the trust she once gave him so freely.

"I'm sorry for what I did at the door," he continued, swallowing the lump in his throat. "For pushing. For begging. I wasn’t thinking. I was just...," His voice wavered, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment before reopening them.

"I just needed to see you. Needed to hear your voice. And I’m sorry, Aspen, I swear, I—."

She shook her head, as if to tell him she already knew. That she understood.

But Harry wasn’t done.

"And I’m sorry for tha' night," he whispered, his voice cracking over the words. "For the way I treated you. For the way I let y'walk away, knowing damn well I was breaking the best thing I ever had in m'life."

Her breath hitched, but he kept going. He had to.

"You don’t know everything, though," he admitted, his hands trembling at his sides. "About me. About Zayn. About why it all happened."

Aspen’s brow furrowed, but she stayed silent, waiting.

Harry dragged his fingers through his messy curls, gripping them at the roots as if trying to ground himself. "We didn’t just start working with Leone when he took us that night," he muttered bitterly. "We were already involved, long before you ever met me."

She inhaled sharply, eyes widening slightly, but she didn’t move.

"It wasn’t s'pposed to be like this," he went on, shaking his head. "We used t'take under-the-table jobs for extra cash— tattoos, no questions asked. But then... then the wrong people started coming in. Dealers. Gang members. They paid us well, and we were stupid. Greedy." He let out a hollow laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then it stopped being 'bout the money. It became about survival. Because once you work f'them, once you take their money, you don’t get t'just... walk away."

Aspen’s throat felt tight, her breath shallow as she absorbed his words.

She had known— at least, she had suspected— that whatever Harry and Zayn were tangled up in was dangerous. But hearing it from Harry’s own mouth, watching the way the weight of it crushed him, made it feel so much worse.

Harry let out a bitter, shaky laugh and shook his head, staring at the floor like he couldn’t bear to see the way she was looking at him. "It got worse, Aspen. We started saying no, started refusing jobs that felt like traps. But when you say no to men like Leone, they don’t just let you go. They make examples out of you."

Her stomach twisted. "Is that why they—."

Harry nodded before she could even finish. His fingers flexed at his sides, jaw clenching. "That’s why they took us. Why they beat the shit out of us. Asp, he had... he had your shirt." He exhaled sharply, glancing up at her.

His eyes were glossy, red-rimmed, exhausted. "And that night… that night at my place… I should’ve told you the truth. I should’ve told you everything. But it was about protecting you, but I knew in that moment he taunted it in my face that I failed."

Aspen opened her mouth to say something— to tell him she understood, that she knew he had been trying to protect her— but he cut her off before she could.

"But I didn’t," he muttered. "I lied. I pushed y'away. I was a stupid fool, Aspen." His voice broke at the end, and he sucked in a shaky breath before dragging a hand down his face. "I was scared, and I was selfish, and I thought, fuck— I thought if I jus' let you go, if I made you leave, you’d be safe."

Aspen’s chest ached, a deep and relentless pain that spread through her ribs and settled into her bones.

Harry let out another broken, humorless laugh. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his messy curls. The alcohol had worn off plenty, leaving behind the pain. It would always follow. "But all I did was break your heart. And I’ll never stop blaming m'self for that." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I’ll never stop hating myself for it."

Aspen swallowed against the lump in her throat, her fingers gripping the sleeves of her sweater. Her heart was pounding, her mind spinning, but the only thing she could focus on was the wrecked, shattered look in Harry’s eyes.

His voice was raw when he spoke again, barely more than a whisper. "I just don’t want to lose you." He let out another bitter, empty laugh, muttering to himself. "But I did anyways."

The words shattered something inside her. She stepped forward before she even realized what she was doing, shaking her head. "I'm... I'm still yours, H.," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Harry’s eyes snapped to hers, filled with disbelief.

"It was just space," she continued, swallowing thickly. "I needed space, but I could never leave you, Harry."

Harry blinked at her, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then, slowly, he let out a breath, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from them.

"You mean it?" he rasped.

She nodded. "I mean it."

A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words, but the pain in Harry’s expression softened just slightly.

"You’re still mine?" he whispered, hesitant, vulnerable in a way that made Aspen’s chest ache.

She took a shaky breath but nodded. "Always." How could she not be?

Harry exhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he was trying to keep himself together. When he opened them again, they were still glossy, still filled with lingering pain, but there was something else there, too. A flicker of hope.

"Come here, please?" he muttered, voice hoarse.

Aspen hesitated for only a second before stepping closer, letting him take her hands into his carefully. He brushed his thumbs over her knuckles as he let out a shaky breath. It had been too long since he got to feel her warmth.

"I’m so sorry, baby," he whispered as he brought her knuckles to his lips, grazing them along her skin in small kisses. "'M so fucking sorry."

Aspen closed her eyes, letting herself sink into him. "I know," she murmured. "I know." Her fingers gently placed under his chin, tilting his head up.

"I'm so sorry," He whispered, his eyes closing momentarily as his brows furrowed. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shakily breathed out, leaning into her touch. The man rested his hands on her waist gently, needing to feel her in his grasp.

"Hey," Aspen whispered, her fingers forming around his chin and sliding up to cup his jaw along with her other hand. They caressed over the area lightly, her thumbs brushing over his chin.

"You don't have to keep saying sorry, H," the girl sighed softly, her chest tightening at the sight of him.

His usual quiff had fallen, strands of hair sweeping over his forehead. The furrow between his brow carried so much sadness that Aspen could feel it too as she brushed her thumb between them before settling back down to his chin. His eyes were so sad, glossed over and full of guilt and regret and love for her. The tip of his nose pink, complimented by a soft pout on his lips. The skin around his piercing still looked raw and fresh, and she made a mental note to tend to that when they got a moment.

"Oh," She breathed out in a small, sympathetic sigh, shaking her head at the sight of him ruined. In some weird way, it made her heart flutter. He would only care this much if he was true to his words and feelings about her, and she knew that.

Her hands cupped his jaw, her tiny fingers lightly smushing his face as he looked everywhere but her eyes. He muttered another apology, hinted with pang of hurt, and she shook her head once more.

"I love you, Asp," Harry muttered, taking her wrists into his hands, sliding up to pull her tiny hands into his. He clasped them, pressing kisses over the bunch, nosing at the warm skin between kisses.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening ever so slightly, like he was trying to memorize the way her hands fit in his, how delicate and trusting they felt against his rough palms. He wasn’t meant to hold something so soft. His hands weren’t built for tenderness, not after everything they’d done, after everything they’d touched. They weren’t made to hold something so good.

He wasn’t meant to hold something so soft. His hands weren’t built for tenderness, not after everything they’d done, after everything they’d touched. They weren’t made to hold something so good.

But I’ll hold onto you anyway, he thought bitterly, even when you slip away. Even when I drive you away.

He pressed his lips to her knuckles again, lingering there, breathing her in. His nose brushed against the warmth of her skin between kisses, his grip desperate, reverent— like she was something sacred, something holy.

"You’ll forever be mine," he whispered, voice raw and weighted with something she couldn’t quite place. "But I won’t forever be yours."

Aspen’s heart clenched. "Harry—."

He could already see it, already feel the inevitable unraveling that hadn’t even begun yet. There would come a day where Aspen would look at him with something less than love, less than trust, and it would destroy him. She would walk away for good, because he would make her— because one day, he’d break her heart one too many times, and she’d realize she was too good, too strong, too important to stay.

He shook his head, cutting her off, his lips brushing over her skin again. "You'll leave, Asp," he murmured, voice thick and defeated. "Not now. Not today. But one day, you’ll realize I was never meant t'be yours the way you were always meant t'be mine. I'll drive you away and I'll... let you. I'd have to."

She felt herself shaking her head before she could even think. "That’s not true," she whispered.

Harry let out a soft, broken chuckle, his breath fanning against her skin. "It is. You’ll leave for the better. You’ll find something— someone— who doesn’t fuck up every chance he gets. Someone who doesn’t drag you into darkness when y'were meant t'shine." He exhaled shakily, squeezing her hands, as if grounding himself. "And I’ll let you. I’ll let you go, but I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my life."

Through every street he walked, every song he heard, every quiet moment where the silence would ring too loudly in his ears, he would carry her. She would be the ghost that lived inside him, lingering in every heartbeat, in every regret, in every piece of himself he wished he could fix.

Aspen’s chest ached, a sharp, twisting pain that settled deep in her ribs. "Harry, stop."

He only squeezed her hands tighter, tilting his head to rest against them. His curls were wild, damp with sweat, his breathing uneven. "I don't deserve you. I never have and I never will."

Tears welled in Aspen’s eyes, burning the edges of her vision. She shook her head again, her voice firmer this time. "Harry, stop."

His breath hitched, but he obeyed, falling silent as he clutched her hands to his chest.

"I'm jus'… 'm gonna break your heart again. 'M gonna be the reason why you leave and I just...," he exhaled sharply, voice crumbling at the edges. "I just can’t—."

His heart twisted painfully, stomach churning at the weight of his own words.

Aspen swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking away the blur of tears. She softened her hold on his hands, slowly untangling them from his grip so she could cup his face instead.

"You’ll forever be mine too, H," she murmured, her thumbs brushing gently over the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

Harry swallowed thickly, his eyes fluttering shut under her touch, like he was absorbing the warmth, letting it fill the cold spaces inside him.

Aspen exhaled softly, gathering her words. "It’s not just me, then you. It’s us. Together. We belong to each other, Harry. And if we’re forever, then we do everything in our power to love each other the right way."

Harry’s brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly as if to protest, but she shushed him with a soft brush of her thumb against his lips.

"I’m not leaving," she whispered. "Not now. Not ever."

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, his hands twitching at her sides.

"We fight for each other," Aspen continued, her voice soft but unwavering. "We love each other the way we’re supposed to. We don’t let the bad things win, Harry."

Harry inhaled sharply, his hands finally moving, finally gripping her wrists again like they were the only things keeping him tethered to the earth.

"You promise?" he rasped, his voice barely more than a breath.

Aspen nodded, tilting her forehead to rest against his. "I promise. Do you?"

Harry’s breath stuttered as he nodded. "I promise, baby. All the good in the world, I wan' t'give t'you."

His fingers flexed around her wrists before his hands slid up her arms, over her shoulders, until they cradled her face.

"Okay," he whispered after a beat, like he was surrendering. Like he was finally letting himself believe.

Aspen exhaled shakily, letting herself melt into him, into the warmth of his touch, into the quiet understanding that no matter what came next, they would face it together.

"Forever?," she murmured, fluttering her eyes open to look down at his gentle features.

"And a day," he nodded, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.

Aspen’s heart ached in the best way as she leaned into him, letting his warmth seep into every part of her that had been cold without him. She tilted her head slightly, gazing down at him beneath the dim lighting of the room, memorizing the softness in his tired eyes, the way his lips parted like he was holding onto something he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Harry’s thumb traced over her bottom lip with the lightest touch, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he wasn’t careful. He exhaled a quiet, shaky breath, his fingers grazing the side of her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before resting against her cheek.

Aspen leaned into his palm instinctively, eyes fluttering shut at the tenderness of it all. It had been so long since he touched her like this, like she was something fragile and precious, like he was desperate to hold onto her but terrified of breaking her all the same.

"Forever and a day," he repeated, voice barely above a whisper, like a promise he didn’t dare break.

Aspen lifted her hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, grounding him just as much as he was grounding her. When she opened her eyes again, he was already staring, already waiting, already so unbearably there with her.

She didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was both of them, moving towards each other like the pull between them had never really faded.

Their lips met in the softest, slowest, most delicate kiss, the kind that wasn’t about hunger or desperation, but about something deeper. Something unspoken.

Harry’s lips moved against hers with aching gentleness, like he was pouring every apology, every regret, every unspoken word into the way he kissed her. Aspen sighed softly into it, tilting her head to mold against him perfectly, their bodies slotting together in the way they always had like they were made for it.

Harry cupped her face, his other hand resting at her waist, holding her close but not trapping her, like he was making sure she wanted this just as much as he did. And God, she did.

She tilted her head down, stepping forward and pressing into him, and he sighed into her mouth, pulling her closer, kissing her deeper but still so unbearably soft. It was slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand but offered, the kind that whispered, I’m here, I’m sorry, I love you, I’ll love you forever.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts beating in sync.

Aspen let out a tiny, shaky laugh, her fingers tracing over the back of his hand. "We’re okay now."

Harry exhaled, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, baby," he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. "We’re okay."

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bingazer · 4 months ago

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𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓋𝒾𝓉𝑒𝒹…

Ilya’s autumn masquerade ball!

˗ˏˋ DETAILS

I finally have the pleasure of hosting my first ever ball here in Ilya. Guests are encouraged to wear themed outfits/costumes, go all out! We have also set aside several guest rooms for everyone attending.

˗ˏˋ RULES LIST TBA. (can be made upon request.)

NON NEGOTIABLE: NO RODENTS OF ANY KIND!!!

˗ˏˋ CO-HOSTS

@malakai-azer @kitt-azer

˗ˏˋ INVITED

@clydetourmaline @his-littlefox @gnolaheart @sweetreveriee @lililovesmor @isaidimbatman @angelbellx @rizzgoddessans @beabeebeee @addamselinadress @sombrefee @ijustwantmycoffeback @sitting-in-a-library @princeofthehollow @kkettler @herbeaufort @morloveslili @grayhawt @lylazriel @hiscitygirl @letmeliveinelfhame @roonwarner @balladofareader @paes-prettygirl @thedirtylittlescoundrel @herrcowboy @roonsaaronwarner @hispaintedsunset @hisprettyboyiguess @aspens-prettygirl @highking-cardan @balek1ng @pr1ncessn1casia @lost-in-elfhame-help @viviiduarte @kingkenji @the-realnazeera @girl-from-thenorth

#the masquerade 🍁🎭

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rustedhearts · 2 months ago

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sleigh ride (90s!rafe cameron x fem!reader)

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

summary: rafe is too busy making phone calls and closing deals to pay attention to you on your christmas cabin getaway. you resort to tried-and-true methods of distraction to gain his attention back.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

❆ the library ❆ the most wonderful time of the year

tags: early 90s businessman!rafe cameron, husband!rafe cameron, sleigh ride *wink, wink*, smuttish

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

"our cheeks are nice and rosy, and comfy, cozy are we. we're snuggled up together like two birds of a feather would be"

— sleigh ride, ella fitzgerald

⋆⁺₊❅。aspen, colorado. december 1993. ⋆⁺₊❅。

“No…no, we’re not lowballing because this geezer didn’t know what he was getting into. We already went down half a mil for him, that’s plenty. 3.5, end of story.”

A long sigh expels from your mouth toward the logs above your head. Rafe purchased the Aspen cabin last summer, and it wasn’t until yesterday that you were finally able to make good use of it. Bags packed, plane boarded, you were pleasantly surprised that the pair of you even managed to make it here.

It’s a beautiful log cabin, built using the blueprint the eldest Cameron drew up himself. He spent months barking orders over the phone to get it done in time for last Christmas, yet here you were, a year later, lying in the Ralph Lauren-quilted King for the first time.

And Rafe is too busy barking orders into another phone to see it.

“No, no, just…get it done,” he snaps, and the plastic of the phone slamming into the receiver follows moments later.

His footsteps thump the hall. The bedroom doors swings open and Rafe sighs as he saunters in.

“Sorry, baby, it’s just…this fuckin’ deal, it’s ridiculous. I didn’t think I’d be this busy.”

You roll onto your knees, perching yourself in the center of the bed. “Are you too busy?”

Rafe whirls around from where he was slipping his wedding ring into a dish on the dresser. You squirm a little, a nearly Pavlovian reaction to the sight of him shedding jewelry. He never liked to dirty it. He never wanted anything preventing him from getting messy.

“What? No, baby, of course not,” he coos, taking one large step toward your figure on the bed.

His hands cup your face, thumbs pressing under your jaw. The pout on your face is slow to smooth and it makes him tut his tongue and shake his head at you.

“Come on, angel, ‘m sorry. ‘m not too busy for you.”

His kisses are soft and warm and soothe the sting for just a moment. Pattered over your mouth and scattered over your jaw, creeping slowly lower down your neck and toward the collar of your sweater.

"G-good, because...—because I have a surprise for you," you whisper, head tipping toward his affections.

Rafe scrapes his teeth over your collarbone, evoking a shiver that makes him chuckle. He pulls back enough to run the pad of two fingers over the aggravated flesh while he knocks your head aside with his own and fits it in the other side of your neck. His mouth there is all-consuming, enveloping a patch of flesh with hot breath and hard teeth.

"Oh yeah?" he mumbles against your skin, tongue lolling between his lips to roll over the indentations he left behind.

"Y-yeah," you squeak, fingers reaching for the nape of his neck and pressing tight.

When he stands to his full height again, Rafe's lips are swollen pink and coiled upward. "Well, show me."

You gently drop his hands from your waist, slipping your own under the hem of your sweater to lift it over your head. When freed from its fabric, you sit only in a delicate lace bra, comprised of Rafe’s favorite color on you: lilac. It was purchased unbeknownst to him a few weeks ago when the vacation was definite, knowing you wanted to do nothing but enjoy the quiet and remote solitude with Rafe in bed.

“Jesus,” he breathes, watching your breasts squeeze together as you unbutton your jeans and push them down. A matching set of panties awaits.

When your clothes are gone and only the lingerie remains, Rafe steps back to truly appreciate the sight. You kneel in the center of the bed again with warm cheeks, giggling when your husband ruffles the back of his hair. On the soft flesh of your chest, the intricate golden ‘R’ gleams in the soft cabin light.

Rafe can't help but reach out and feel it between his fingers. "Did all this for me, sweetheart?"

You nod, lip between your teeth and hands reaching for his shoulders. You smooth over the broadness of them, down his biceps, slipping to his chest as his knees bump the mattress with proximity. His breath tickles your nose, mint-scented from the tiny Altoids he pops between stressful phone calls and during every car ride.

Rafe hums, and it’s as he’s leaning in to meet your mouth with a sideways grin that his mobile phone begins to trill on the table in the hall. His smile slips instantly, a groan leaving his throat.

“No,” you pout, hands grasping at the nape of his neck again. “Don’t answer it.”

He winces, hands gently prying your own away by the wrists. “I’m sorry, baby, I gotta. ‘s probably about the deal.”

You fall back on your heels with his absence, scantily clad and suddenly cold. You glance through the brightness of the window, where the afternoon sun blares over the snow and creates a glare nearly blinding. When the wind picks up, it blows swirls of flurries across the fluffy ground and through the pines.

You know the other couples and families in the surrounding cabins are all likely whooshing down the slopes or snuggled in their warm, wooden confines. When Rafe proposed this vacation, he promised hot chocolates and fur blankets and diamond tennis bracelets.

And though the bracelet sits around your wrist, given yesterday morning on the car ride from the airport, the other things have been absent. Especially the naked bodies wrapped within those fur blankets.

“Jesus Christ, why is everyone so fucking incompetent?” Rafe snaps into the phone. “I was clear on 3.5. The next person to call and suggest anything other than that is getting fired.”

A breath puffs through your cheeks, lips pouted almost childishly. You sit back and kick your legs out, dangling them over the edge of the bed. You swing your feet over the Aztec patterns of the rug, toes painted Rafe’s favorite shade of pink.

“Todd, I’m not having this conversation again.”

Groaning, you slap your hands against the comforter and push to your feet. You find Rafe pacing the hallway, big white plastic clutched in a tight fist, free hand balled up in another. It unclenches when he reaches up to swipe his palm over the top of his hair. He turns on his heel to switch his direction, gaze grazing you.

You tip your head and huff, making your pout evident. Rafe turns again, holding a finger up to you. And if you weren’t annoyed before, you were certainly annoyed now.

“No—Todd, get your shit together.”

When the first finger pointing at the air makes its appearance, along with the narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, you know the stern business side of Rafe has taken over. And when that emotionless, ruthless side of Rafe appears, it’s hard to get the usual side of him back. It usually takes a few hours of decompression and a stiff drink to bring him back down.

But right now, you want him to pay attention to you. You don’t want to wait another minute, let alone a few hours.

While his back is to you, you reach behind you and unhook the lilac lace bra. It drops to the floor with a muffled thud, but it still takes Rafe another turn to notice the change. He steps to turn again, however quickly does a double take. His eyes find your bare chest and pebbled nipples, brows still furrowed but lips parted.

You place your hand on your hips and tip your head again, waiting. Paying attention now? twinkles through your gaze, and Rafe doesn’t appreciate the attitude. He makes this known through a shake of his head. Knock it off is the message coded through his gaze.

Yet it only flames your fire, and you’re reaching for the elastic band of your panties before you can stop yourself. Rafe tips his head back to the ceiling and pinches his eyes shut.

“Yeah, Todd, ‘m fuckin’ here. But my answer’s not gonna change.”

You fling the panties toward your husband, giggling when his eyes fly open. He instinctually catches the delicate fabric, balled up in his fist. It makes his jaw clench and he doesn’t even need to turn to know what awaits him. In his periphery, he can see every color of your flesh bared to him.

“Todd,” he says to the ceiling, tongue swiping of his lip. “‘m gonna have to call you back.”

He slams on the end button, but the giggle in your throat hitches when he finally looks at you.

“You’ve got five seconds to get your ass in that bedroom.”

His warning sparks through you like a hot surge, yet you’re slow to compute. His bright-eyed gaze burns through you intensely and pointedly, the ball of muscle in his jaw bulging with tightness.

You’re about to protest and justify your silly antics when he takes a step closer, tone low and gravely.

“1…”

You perk up, fingers looped behind your back. Another step closer.

“2…”

Your knees bounce over the bed, rumpling the fur throw draped over the edge. Rafe’s strides are practically leaps as he enters the room, tossing his phone and your panties toward the floor before knocking you on your back with a heavy hand to your chest.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he hisses. “No goddamn patience. Should teach you some manners, princess.”

You’re nearly giddy as his belt clinks open, zipper snicking after. You watch him shed his clothes with writhing anticipation, hands balling the blanket beneath you.

“But, it’s Christmas, yeah? And I’m feelin’ a little nice.”

He’s basically rambling to himself, but you’re not one to argue when you’re given a gift. He throws your thighs open, big palms cupping the width of them behind your knees. He uses his grip to tug you flush against him, eyes set firmly on where your bodies are prepared to meet.

“You, however,” Rafe continues, just barely breaching your entrance.

“Are nothin’ but naughty.”

#rolly!#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron smut

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astrolovecosmos · 1 year ago

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The Planets & Random or Obscure Associations

~Sun~

Creativity, vitality, head of state, the father, games, yellow and orange clothing, articles of value, jewelry, gold, brass, power, diamonds, citrine, topaz, jasper, amber, rhodochrosite, mistletoe, almonds, citrus, succulents, sunflowers, fevers, heart, back, spine, grapes, walnuts, rice, chamomile, frankincense, juniper, saffron, marigold, rosemary, rue, palaces, towers, luxury.

~Moon~

Eternal, cycles, silver, aluminum, pearls, moonstone, opal, selenite, chest, glands, lymphatic system, nervous system, emotions, mother, ancestors, nurture, rebirth, tides, baths, ocean, brew, boat, sap, willow trees, succulents, pale color plants, white flowers, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, melons, shellfish, pumpkins, lakes, fountains, ports, fishponds, pools, springs, sewers, dairies, toys, reflection, blankets, objects of comfort.

~Mercury~

Communication, journal, pen/pencil, any writing tools, wings, phosphorous, mercury, agate, tiger's eye, brain, nervous system, eyes, respiration, thyroid, speech, hearing, intellect, vehicles, money, bills, paper, books, pictures, parties or social gatherings, scientific instruments, butterflies, messages, mail, hazel, mulberry, myrtle, seeds, aniseed, dill, fennel, lavender, liquorice, marjoram, parsley, valerian, hazelnuts, beans, mushrooms, pomegranates, carrots, celery, libraries, schools, markets, fairs, public spaces, tennis or badminton court, studies, banks, bowling greens, offices, blue, white, or light colored flowers.

~Venus~

Love, relating, lust, high-quality fabrics, copper, bronze, sodium, malachite, tourmaline, emerald, rose quartz, kunzite, sapphire, pastels, throat, kidneys, lumber region, art, music, aesthetics, social life, fashion, jewelry, wine, pleasure, alder tree, fruit trees, paint, ash tree, birch, pomegranates, early flowering, daisy, mint, marshmallow, meadowsweet, mugwort, plantain, tansy, roses, thyme, vervain, yarrow, potatoes, strawberries, wheat, sugar, nectarines, ballrooms, bedrooms, dining room, gardens, fountains, wardrobes, theaters, looking and feeling good.

~Mars~

Lust, conquest, desire, flaming sword, red things, fights, iron, brass, bloodstone, carnelian, cinnabar, pyrite, magnetite, ruby, garnet, hematite, muscles, reproductive organs, blood, kidneys, immunity, heat, action, arms, pepper, sharp instruments, cutlery, attacks, scissors, weapons, physical intimacy, bites, stings, scalds, burns, accidents, hawthorn, pine, thorns, cactus, aloes, anemone, arnica, belladonna, garlic, ginger, hops, mustard seed, nettles, wormwood, chives, onions, leeks, radish, rhubarb, tobacco, labs, furnaces, distilleries, bakehouses, ovens, smiths, butchers, fields, anger, passion, self-focus.

~Jupiter~

Expansion, optimism, religion, religious sites, tin, seduction, turquoise, chrysocolla, topaz, citrine, jasper, liver, pancreas, pituitary gland, sciatic nerve, excess, abundance, prophecy, philosophy, knowledge, universities, foreign travel, luggage, honey, oil, silk, fruit, distinct clothing, merchandise, horses, domestic birds, gambling, indulgence, entertainment, oak, dandelion, sage, endive, chervil, asparagus, figs, churches, temples, palaces, altars, courts, mansions, woods, orchards, winery, cornucopia, connecting with the soul.

~Saturn~

Limits, boundaries, father time, lord of death, shadows, lead, iron, steel, calcium, asbestos, sulphur, diamond, onyx, calcite, skeleton, spleen, skin, teeth, nails, joints, structure, crystallization, old age, blockage, anything dark, wool, heavy materials, agriculture, wheelbarrows, spades, farm houses and buildings, cold, laws, aspen, blackthorn, buckthorn, cypress, elm, toxic plants, hemlock, henbane, belladonna, hellebore, barley, beetroot, safflower, parsnips, spinach, deserts, woods, valleys, caves, church yards, ruins, coalpits, sinks, wells, mud, institutions.

~Uranus~

Eccentrics, mavericks, invention, genius, revolution, change, trends, disruptive science or tech, uranium, magnesium, lapis lazuli, sapphire, aquamarine, azurite, chalcedony, electricity, neon lights, plaid, nervous and circulatory system, pineal gland, chaos, violence, upheaval, astrology, steam engines, coal, machinery, coins, baths, fishponds, dangerous places, computers, magnets, quantum physics, research, welfare, humanity, hypnotherapy, railways, banks, gas, psychiatric hospitals, offices, hospitals, dispensaries, fortified places, chemicals, mingled/mingling, spirit and matter.

~Neptune~

Illusions, veils, diffuse, deception, water, oceans, mysticism, enlightenment, artistic pursuit and understanding, zinc, potassium, amethyst, fluorite, jade, sugilite, coral, aquamarine, pineal gland, lymphatic and nervous system, spine, mental processes, addiction, psychoses, disease, photography, music, substances, gas, religion, poetry, mimicry, chameleon, anesthetic, telepathy, empathy, dancing, psychic gifts, places near water, hospitals, places of healing, jeweler, painters, brewers, musicians, visionary.

~Pluto~

Power, influence, darkness, new life, what's hidden underneath, seeds, volcanoes, deep earth or ocean, bury, explosions, eruptions, abduction, plutonium, smoky quartz, obsidian, jet, pearl, deep reds, reproductive organs, the unconscious, nuclear, transformation, death, birth, rebirth, underworld, riches, earthquakes, big business, murder, detection, detective, invisibility, sneak, enforced change, hidden places, underground, drains, sewers, radioactive places, the occult, black magic, sacrifice, renew.

#zodiac #astrology #planets #sun #moon #mars #venus #mercury #jupiter #saturn #uranus #neptune #pluto

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 8: I Just Need A Stronger Dose]

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

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), angsttttttttttt!

Both the series and chapter titles are lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.9k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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

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“What’s it about?” Aegon purrs in your ear, his ivory-and-red scarred arms circling around your waist, his fingers lacing over the lowest part of your belly, kindling heat and hunger that he draws out of your bones like water from a well, his ring of gold wings and jade eyes glinting in the sunlight that pours in through the library windows.

Smiling, you turn a page in the archaic, dusty book that’s cradled in your arms. It’s not on a subject you’ve ever seen before; of course it would only be here, where the Targaryens once worshiped their own gods and practiced rituals of fire and blood, that the occult would not be torn up and discarded like weeds. “Witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?!” Aegon feigns being scandalized as he kisses your neck, soft lips and seeking hands. He’s been out in the courtyard sparring with a guard; he smells like salt and wine and rose oil and the ocean. “I do hope you don’t turn out to be an unrepentant sinner. I’d hate to have to burn you.”

“We’d match then.” You turn another page, sketches of different types of sage, dark forbidden recipes that promise to hurt or heal or protect. “I can’t say I am persuaded by the more mystical elements. But there are some interesting insights into herbology, I think.”

“You don’t believe in magic?” Aegon muses, pulling up the skirts of your pale, ashy blue gown, his palms on your bare thighs. His lips curl mischieviously against your throat. “You reside on an island of dragons, in an oppressively gloomy castle built by spellcasters, and you don’t believe in magic?”

“You have it, perhaps,” you say. “Your family. Your house. I don’t believe in it as something that is real to the rest of us.”

“Don’t the Celtigars claim to possess a trumpet that summons a sea monster or something?”

“A horn,” you say, amused. “To wake krakens. And yet as much as my father enjoys boasting about it, he’s in no hurry to prove its efficacy, is he?”

Aegon turns your face to his and kisses you with a fierce, greedy hunger. “You’re magic,” he says as his hands move to loosen the laces of your gown. “You heal people. You bring them back from the dead.”

You’ve forgotten the book entirely. It tumbles out of your grasp. As Aegon tugs off your gown and it falls with a rustle to the stone floor, you reach back to touch him: white-blond hair, scarred cheek, his voice and his heat and his flesh that you need more of. Sunlight and late-summer air, a weakening red-tinged gold, hit your bare skin. Aegon is undressing himself too, and now his shirt and trousers are gone, and now he is leaving euphoric indigo shadows on your neck and shoulders, ghosts of pleasure that will haunt you long after this moment has passed, and now as he stands behind you his fingers find the warm, yearning wetness between your legs and stroke you there, parting folds, plunging between them, retreating just as you feel yourself climbing towards a peak, beginning the divine cycle over again.

“Yes,” you beg, hushed and hidden between the shelves of this ancient library, taboo texts and stories no one else remembers. You push your hips back against Aegon and he inhales sharply, reaching out with one hand to steady himself against the bookshelf as the other teases you, readies you, drives you mad with red ravenous lust. You can feel that he is hard. You can feel your fingers buried in his hair, the rough scar tissue of his chest against your spine, your bodies moving with an easy, harmless rhythm. “Please, Aegon, please, I need you…”

“Do you believe in magic now, wife?” he murmurs, a grin in his voice; and the shock of it drags you into a climax, a whirlpool, a storm, a fever that singes and scalds. He has never called you this before. His wife, his queen.

You cry out as the pleasure pulses through you, as your muscles unravel and your skull is cleared of the knowledge of all the ways in which the world is so irretrievably wrong, as you drink up every drop of Aegon with your eyes, lungs, spiraled fingerprints, the pores of your skin.

“Well, do you?” he asks again. He kisses you forcefully, possessively, biting at your lower lip. “Have I convinced you? Do you believe in magic now?”

And you smile dazedly as you answer: “I believe in you.”

“That will suffice, I suppose.”

He follows you down to the floor. You roll onto your back, pull him between your open thighs, cradle his face with your hands and kiss him deeply as he enters you, fills you, moves blissfully inside you. Long-dormant dust swirls into the air; specks of it float in aisles of sunlight like ships bobbing in the open ocean. The stone floor is cold and unforgiving, Aegon warm and kind. You arch into him, your hips rolling in time with his, your tongue tasting wine on his lips and salt on his flushed cheeks.

“You feel fucking incredible,” Aegon gasps. His braid is tucked behind his ear; you moved it there, or he did, it doesn’t matter, it belongs to both of you. Each time he thrusts, there is an indistinct sort of pleasure—low, muted somehow, like rocks covered by the sea at high tide—that builds, yes, but agonizingly slowly. You know he wants to make you come again. He’s trying to last, he’s battling against himself; but his face is already blood-red and his hands are trembling. He never discusses the pain with you, but it’s still there. He goes to the maesters when he has sunburn to be soothed or wounds to be cleaned and bandaged, he goes to Lord Larys Strong with his fears. He does not want you to think he is weak. He does not want to disappoint you.

You whisper through his mess of silver hair: “It’s alright, Aegon.”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes, tiny oceans erased. “No, no, oh fuck, I’m so sorry—”

“I want it,” you insist. Your hips rock more quickly, taking the blame away from him, easing his burdens. “I want you to come, I want you to finish inside me, please, please, I want to feel you dripping out of me tomorrow, I want to remember this, I want you, I want you, I want you—”

Aegon moans, shudders, pours himself into you, a rush of energy and heat, a closeness you never believed was possible for two people to share. His unsteady hands constrict into fists against the stone floor. His teeth close around your collarbone, more violet blooms like the colors of a garden, more tokens of him that you carry around like gemstones. The waves wash over him, and then they recede; the tension evaporates from every scrap of him and Aegon collapses onto the floor beside you.

Skating his thumb along the line of your jaw, marveling at you in the dreamlike haze of the afterglow, he says softly: “We have to talk, Angel.”

Fear settles in the cage of your ribs, a cold heavy thing like the iron dragons that preside over the dark corridors of the castle, ominous leers and bared fangs. “What is it?”

“I don’t know what to do with you.” His words are serene, his murky-blue eyes drowsy; his scarred chest rises and falls with slowing breaths. “When I leave to rejoin the war effort, I don’t know where you should go. I don’t know if you should stay here. I don’t know if I should have Larys try to take you to Storm’s End, or maybe Tarth or Estermont. I don’t know if you should return Claw Isle and wait out the bloodshed with your mother and sisters. I don’t know anything. And I can’t choose wrong. I can’t lose you. I can’t be responsible for your ruin.”

“I think I should stay on Dragonstone,” you say. “As long as you and Aemond are in the Riverlands, you would be able to fly back to see me.” And I might be able to help if Aegon is injured again.

He smirks, sadly, regretfully. “That would be my preference as well. But I fear it’s unwise. What if Daemon or Rhaenyra decide to come back to the island? They’re both far too preoccupied at the moment—Daemon fucking Nettles at Harrenhal, Rhaenyra stomping out rebellions in King’s Landing—but circumstances could change. Even if the Blacks believe you to be my unwilling captive, I don’t trust Daemon to treat you with decency. I don’t trust Rhaenyra’s paranoia to spare you.”

“I want to stay here. It’s our home now. It’s where I belong.” And you nestle into him, tangle up in him, will him to help win the war and then return to you.

Aegon chuckles, kissing your forehead. “Can you believe I was worried about whether this would work?” This: love as something physical, not just words or allegiances, not just something that changes how you see the world like peering through mist or smoke. “You had such a fear of it. Such adamant dread.”

“I feel safe with you.”

“Because I am a sad, weak, floppy little man?”

“No,” you say, smiling. “Because you’re a good man. Even if no one else has ever seen it. I see it all. I see you.”

There is the echoing noise of a door opening, then slow, laborious footsteps. “Your Grace?” Larys says reticently from the other side of the bookshelf.

“Stop,” Aegon orders. “Wait.” He grabs your gown off the floor and helps you into it, then yanks on his own shirt and trousers. “Approach,” he tells his Master of Whisperers.

Larys appears, resting his interwoven hands on the handle of his cane. He bows, tactfully averting his gaze from your wrinkled dress, untidy hair, glistening sheen of shared sweat.

Aegon says: “Your timing is impeccable as always, Lord Larys.”

“My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. You have a guest and I did not want him to…catch you unawares.”

“Ah. And of course I have no idea who that could be.”

The library door opens again; you hear its archaic iron hinges creak. Swift light footsteps cross the room. Aemond breezes into the aisle between bookshelves and stands there, tall and willowy and watchful and with his long hair plaited into a thick silver braid. His clear blue eye shifts between Aegon and you, stoic, betraying nothing. Of course Aegon does not know about Aemond’s proposition. You would never tell him as long as the war wages on. It would be a distraction, a danger, an unnecessary wedge to drive between two people who desperately need each other.

“Back already?” Aegon says. “I’m sure the people of the Riverlands miss you dearly. They’re probably waiting outside with their livestock all in a row just waiting for you to soar by and cook their supper for them.”

Aemond ignores this. He stares at you, then looks back to his brother. “I’m starving from the journey.”

“How fortuitous, we’re famished as well.”

Larys notes helpfully: “The cooks have prepared soft-shelled crabs, seasoned, battered, and fried in oil. They’re ready now.”

“They’ve prepared what?” Aemond asks, nauseated.

“You’ll like the crabs,” Aegon says, and as he walks past Aemond he thumps him roughly on the shoulder. “You’ll see how much I enjoy them and you’ll suddenly want every last one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the courtyard, under the next day’s late-afternoon sun, Aegon is sparring with a strapping knight supplied by House Chyttering, one of the noble families you inspired Larys to bring surreptitiously into the Greens’ service. When the king practices like this, his opponents go easy on him. They assail him with halfhearted swings of their blades and feeble shield arms. The goal is not to turn Aegon into a robust warrior; he would need years for that, and he will not go into battle on his feet anyway. He just needs to be strong enough to ride a dragon.

Near where you stand, Lord Larys and Aemond are deep in conversation. Aemond is saying: “It is my understanding that she and Daemon are operating almost entirely independently at this point. Is that consistent with what you’ve heard?”

Larys nods. “When Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White betrayed her side, Rhaenyra lost faith in all the Dragonseeds. She ordered the arrest of Addam Velaryon, but Corlys warned the boy before he could be imprisoned and he escaped on Seasmoke. For protecting his bastard son’s life, Rhaenyra had Corlys thrown in the dungeons. A curious lack of empathy from someone who has so recently lost three sons of her own. The Velaryon fleet has abandoned her. Rhaenyra has offered a substantial reward to anyone who brings Nettles to her, dead or alive, as the girl has been sentenced to death for treason.”

“Treason?” Aemond echoes doubtfully.

“Seducing the so-called queen’s husband.”

“Right,” Aemond says, thoughtful. In the center of the courtyard, Aegon is beating back the Chyttering lad with clumsy (yet determined) strikes of his sword. “What will Daemon do now, I wonder. Has he tired of the girl yet? She is a nobody, unlearned and of ignoble birth. Surely she cannot hold his interest for long, even if she is a dragonrider.”

“Time will reveal all, my prince,” Larys replies. “Perhaps Daemon will abandon Nettles. Perhaps he will defend her against Rhaenyra’s wrath. Perhaps he will send her away to safety.”

This heartens Aemond; it brightens his face like cool ethereal moonlight. “If she leaves, Sheepstealer will no longer be a threat to us. I can meet Daemon in battle. And in a fair fight, Vhagar will annihilate Caraxes.”

“I urge you to proceed cautiously,” Larys says. “You are the Greens’ greatest military asset, you are the prince regent, we need your leadership. If anything was to happen to you…” The Master of Whisperers trails off.

Aemond acts as if he hasn’t heard him. Instead, he unsheathes his sword and announces: “I think my brother needs more of a challenge. Allow me to assess the status of his recovery.” Then he takes a step towards the king.

Your hand juts out and closes around Aemond’s wrist. He blinks down at it, stunned that you have voluntarily touched him, perhaps. It is not an affectionate gesture, but it is a familiar one. You command Aemond, your voice low: “Don’t hurt him.”

“I never do,” Aemond replies, bewildered. Then he goes to meet Aegon in the center of the courtyard. The Chyttering knight retreats as Aemond approaches, twirling his sword effortlessly.

Aegon takes a defensive stance, both hands clutching the hilt of his own weapon. He’s grinning, but you don’t think he’s taking this seriously. He already knows he’s lost. “No great contest. I just have to aim for your left side.”

“Good thing I’ve never trained with my maiming in mind.” Aemond lunges and you yelp, started and fearful; he moves staggeringly quickly, his blade cutting through the air to clang against Aegon’s once, twice, and then the king is knocked to the ground with the point of Aemond’s sword at his throat.

“I yield,” Aegon says from where he’s sprawled on the gravel. “You win. You are superior. You could still easily murder me if you chose to.”

“As long as you are aware of it.” Then Aemond takes his brother’s hand and pulls him to his feet, helping to brush pebbles from Aegon’s light armor.

“I should order you executed,” Aegon jests. “You’ve humiliated me in front of my wife.”

“I’m sure she was already well acquainted with your myriad of failings.”

“They are rather evident,” Aegon admits.

“Hm,” Aemond says to himself. Then he stalks back inside the castle with his silver hair flowing out behind him: to consult books, to plan battles, to console himself with wine, to put on Aegon’s crown and admire himself in a mirror, to brood as he glares at the walls, you aren’t sure.

Aegon slides his sword back into its scabbard and joins you by Lord Larys. When he speaks, his words are smug and anxious and eager and heartbroken. “I think I’m ready to go, Angel.”

“Tomorrow? When Aemond leaves?”

“Tomorrow,” Aegon agrees. He smiles, off-balanced and sad-eyed, as he takes your hands in his. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face, but as always, he is still wearing his tiny braid; right now it is stained with dark gravel dust like soot, like ash. You can feel the chill of his gold dragon ring under your fingertips. “I have to help them win this war, Aemond, Criston, Daeron, Mother. I have to try to stop the end of the world.”

You mean to say something—I understand, I’m proud of you, I love you now and I’ll love you forever—but your voice breaks and you have nothing to offer him.

“I know,” Aegon says gently, cleaning a tear from your cheek with his thumbprint. “Come and walk with me. There’s one last thing I have to make sure I can do.”

On the long stone staircase that leads from the main castle entrance down to the beach, Sunfyre the Golden is waiting for his rider. He makes those alien sounds that unnerve you—clicks, growls, squeals, whistles—but Aegon seems to comprehend them. He rests a palm on his dragon’s gleaming face, just between his reptilian, liquid-metal eyes. Rain is rolling in off the ocean; the sky is thick with dark, low clouds. Cold wind claws at your hair and unfurls in your lungs, proof of the rapidly approaching end of summer. Winter Is Coming, you think, words that you have grown to hate.

“Would you like to go too?” Aegon asks as he prepares to climb up into the dragon’s saddle; and to your surprise, he is only half-joking. “I know Sunfyre won’t hurt you now. He understands what you mean to me.”

“I personally abhor dragons.” And all the destruction that only they can curse the earth with.

Sunfyre snorts; steam rises from his nostrils and he stretches out his wings, pale pink membranes that match your gown. Aegon laughs. “You will have to learn to appreciate them. Your house is the same as mine now. And we owe everything to these beasts.”

“Perhaps I’ll accompany you next time.” But no, you will never ride a dragon; you know that absolutely, unquestioningly.

“I’ll be back in time for supper,” Aegon says. “And then I intend to keep you awake all night with—”

He cuts off like a severed limb. There is a scream in the sky, not of a man but of a dragon: too shrill to be Vhagar, too unfamiliar to be Tessarion, tinny but fierce, hostile, growing louder. The creature zooms by with blinding speed, a blur of pale pearlescent green, the fastest dragon you’ve ever witnessed, small but lethal.

Moondancer. That has to be Baela and Moondancer.

A column of fire bursts from Moondancer’s gaping jaws as she hurtles past Sunfyre, but just a sliver of an instant too late, narrowly missing him; still, the inferno is close enough that you can feel the apocalyptic heat, can see the air wrinkle and warp like the fabric of existence wearing thin. High above the ocean—her shadow like a bruise on slate-colored waves—Moondancer banks and begins to turn back towards where you stand.

“Get inside the castle!” Aegon is roaring at you. You are too terrified to move. “Go, go!”

“Aegon, you can’t fight them alone—!”

“Go!” He gives you a hard, frantic shove. “You get inside the castle and you stay there!” Then as you sprint up the staircase towards the entranceway, he clambers into Sunfyre’s saddle and takes off into the churning, thunderous sky.

You can hear them overhead: shrieking dragons, human shouts, flames crackling and billowing, wings flapping like the sails of a ship. You stagger into Dragonstone screaming for Aemond. Larys rushes to you, the guards materialize like vultures around a corpse, but none of them can help Aegon. Only Aemond can. Only he and Vhagar.

You tear through the castle. You are banging on doors with your open palms, racing up steps, calling for Aemond until your throat is raw and you can taste the coppery sting of blood. Aemond comes running and grips your shoulders to steady you. He is panicked, he is petrified. “What, what is it—?!”

“Baela, Moondancer!”

Aemond understands immediately. He bolts for the castle entranceway, you following close behind him. He does not tell you to remain within the towering, mist-sopped walls of Dragonstone. Perhaps it does not occur to him; perhaps he knows you would not listen.

“Your Grace!” Larys is imploring you. Not my lady, not Lady Celtigar. Your Grace, because Aegon believes I am his queen. “Your Grace, please, I beg you, stay here where it is safe!”

When you and Aemond cross through the doorway and out into the windswept, iron-grey air, you look up to see it just as it happens. Sunfyre and Moondancer are gnarled together like a sailor’s knot, hissing and snapping, drawing blood from each other, clawing and clinging with suicidal rage. Now their wings are little more than shredded ribbons of thin membranous flesh. Now the dragons are plummeting towards the beach. And Aegon is falling, falling, falling from an impossible height, his hands reaching to grab for a rope that doesn’t exist, his legs kicking as if through water. He is crashing to the earth like a bird shot through with an arrow, like an angel whose wings have been sheared off, ripped out by the root, burned away.

You are shrieking his name, but you know this is useless, that you are useless, that nothing you’ve ever learned or practiced can stop this. You and Aemond are racing down to the beach, clutching each other’s arms on the staircase so neither of you trip and stumble off of it. You are dimly aware that there are guards and maesters behind you, and Lord Larys too, and that they are speaking in frenzied phrases that you cannot understand. You and Aemond are united in that. You are both beyond words.

Aegon is on the sand. He isn’t dead; he isn’t even unconscious. He is screaming like he was on the day you met him, when half his skin had been scorched by Meleys’ flames, when he was near death and you were the only reason he lived. Now he is not burned; but his legs are destroyed. They are not just broken. They are shattered, grotesque bulges everywhere, moon-white bone splitting through the skin in two places on his left leg and three on his right. His trousers hang in bloody tatters. Someone is wailing, someone sounds like they have lost their mind. Someone is raking their fingernails against your face until your cheeks are bleeding. Oh, it’s you, it’s you, but you don’t feel real, and neither does this moment, and neither does the knowledge that Aegon will not leave tomorrow to help win the war, may never walk again, may not be alive by midnight. You have dragged men back from the brink of death, countless men, and you have done so with almost supernatural composure; but this is no anonymous doomed soldier. This is Aegon, and he is ruined.

Down at the other end of the beach, Sunfyre is tearing out Moondancer’s throat with his teeth, loosing a vicious subterranean snarl. From the surf, a seemingly uninjured Baela emerges, coughing seawater from her lungs and reeling on her hands and knees. Larys is instructing someone to take her to the castle dungeons. The maesters and guards are swarming around their fallen king and trying to decide how to move him without damaging his legs further. Aegon, meanwhile, is reaching for his brother.

“Aemond—”

“I’m here. I’m right here.” Aemond drops to his knees and tenderly sweeps Aegon’s shaggy silver hair out of his eyes. “We’re going to get you inside and the maesters will set your legs. You’re going to be alright. We’re going to help you.”

Aegon howls, tears flooding down his face. He snaps at Aemond as he grabs his hand and squeezes it: “When the fuck is it going to be your turn to get hurt?!”

“It will happen eventually, I’m sure,” Aemond replies grimly. Then he glances up at you. You have to free yourself from this shock, this horror. You have to help Aegon.

You kneel down in wet, bloodied sand and begin to examine him. In a trembling voice, you tell Larys and the maesters and the guards how he must be carried—feet-first when going up the staircase, lessening the strain of gravity on his legs—and that the wounds must be painstakingly cleaned before the fractures are set to prevent infection. You try to say more, but you can’t. Your gaze lands on Aegon’s agonized face and is trapped there, a mutual recognition of the death of one future and the bleak, torturous nightfall of another.

Why couldn’t I stop this? I love him, I love him, why can’t I stop him from suffering?

Aegon looks to Aemond and says something in High Valyrian, something halting and with immense effort. Whatever Aegon asks for, Aemond is momentarily taken aback by it. Then he nods, understanding. And when the guards lift Aegon—Larys and the maesters supervising, the king shrieking until the pain knocks him unconscious—Aemond links his arms around you and stops you from following them up the jagged stone staircase.

“No! Let me go, let me go!” You fight him, and you don’t just fight, you screech and claw and strike at him, you scratch at his face until you rip his eyepatch away and Aemond’s glittering sapphire shines in the fading light. Raindrops are beginning to fall. You’re crying; tears fill your eyes until your sight is hopelessly obscured, until the world is nothing but a grey like smoke, ashes, storms.

Aemond is murmuring to you patiently: “Shh. Stop, stop. Please don’t fight me. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.”

“Aemond, let me go!”

“He doesn’t want you to think of him as someone helpless, someone weak—”

“You did this!” you scream into Aemond as he entombs you in his arms, unbreakable like steel. Your fists drum futilely against his chest. “You started this war, you murdered Luke, you started it and it’s going to kill Aegon, you did this, you did this, it’s going to kill him and it’s all your fucking fault!”

“I know,” Aemond whispers, lips to your ear, his heartbeat thudding against yours. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s going to kill him,” you moan, sobs ripping through you; and at some point you stop fighting Aemond and begin holding onto him, not because what you’ve said isn’t true but because he understands, and because he’s the only person you have left who can.

I want Autumn, you think powerlessly, miserably. And I want her child to have another chance at life. I want Everett. I want Alicent and Jaehaera. I want Helaena and Maelor and Jaehaerys and Otto. I want wisdom, guidance, innocence, hope. I want the future and I want the past.

“I can end this war,” Aemond swears to you as the full moon rises and the waves crash against the shore. “I can make things right again. I can end it. I can win.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It is hours later when Aemond allows you into the room, illuminated by flickering candles and ghostly moonlight. Aegon lies unconscious in the same bed where he made love to you for the first time, where he might never again, where he showed you that there is something besides fear and pain and surrender to be found in marriage.

His legs have been set as well as they can be, bandaged, elevated. You would have done nothing differently if it had been you to tend him in place of the maesters: Jasper from House Hardy, Lothair of House Stokeworth, men you have taught everything you know to just as they shared their expertise with you. Aegon has been given as much milk of the poppy as his body can endure without his heartbeat slowing until it stops. You sit on the edge of the bed and untie his braid, weave a new one, undo it again, knit and unknit glistening silver strands like the strings of a spider’s web. You can’t imagine what will happen next. You don’t want to.

When Aegon stirs, you clasp his hand, letting him know that you’re here. His dragon ring is missing, you notice; no gold wings, no jade eyes. It must have slipped off when he tumbled from the sky. And you remember what Aegon told you about his dreams of Helaena, about the warning she imparted to him, her ghost or her memory or something else wearing her face: Don’t fall, don’t fall.

“I’m sorry, Angel.” His voice is hoarse and whisper-thin. He’s trying to smile but can’t quite manage it. “I wanted to be strong enough. I wanted to start over with you.”

Start over how, Aegon? In peacetime? As a dynasty? With retribution or forgiveness? With children? “You will. You still can.”

“I knew I’d disappoint you.”

“Aegon, I’m not disappointed,” you say, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I just want to help you. I want to take care of you. I love you.”

But he blacks out again before he can give you his familiar refrain, something in High Valyrian that he doesn’t know Aemond has provided you with the translation of. To your misfortune. And is Aegon wrong when he says this? Is he really?

You drift into a fitful sleep beside Aegon, wake up only a few hours later with sore, damp eyes, make sure he’s still breathing. It’s raining heavily now; sheets of it patter against the windows and thunder quakes the castle. You rise from the bed and walk without knowing where you’re going. When you find yourself sitting on a stone bench in the gardens, drenched with rain and freckled with fiery torchlight from the mouth of an iron dragon, you don’t remember how you got there. You are cold and shivering; you are so profoundly, numbly despondent that you cannot move, cannot think, can only sit with your arms curled around your bent knees and your eyes vacant.

By the time Aemond finds you, your dusky pink gown—stained with splotches of Aegon’s blood—is soaked through. Aemond lurks just inside the doorway of the castle that opens into the gardens, sheltered from the storm. “Why are you sitting in the rain?”

You do not answer. You cannot answer. You stare blankly out into the night as droplets pelt you, stinging your skin like needles.

“You should come inside,” Aemond tells you. “You’ll get pneumonia.”

Nothing he says matters. Will going inside cure Aegon? Will catching pneumonia rob you of any life worth living?

Aemond sighs and strides out into the rain to meet you. “I have to go back to the Riverlands now. Will you be alright here?”

Your words are a question, but your tone isn’t. You speak bitterly and without looking at him. “Why would you care.”

“I care intensely,” Aemond says, kindly now. “If you don’t know why, you haven’t been listening.”

“You don’t want me. You just want to feel like you’re better than him. That you’re worthy of being chosen, worthy of fathering the heir.”

He shrugs. “Nothing in life is without ambition. Love is never entirely selfless.”

“Mine is.”

“No,” Aemond says severely. “No, you want things for yourself. You want a choice in who you marry. You want to escape the burden of bedding someone dull or repugnant or cruel. What makes you think you’re so high above the fate that the rest of us have suffered? Do you have any idea how desperately few people get to marry for love? But you can’t endure that resignation. You have to covet something more. Even if it gets you killed.”

Have suffered, Aemond said. Not will suffer. Have suffered. At last, you turn to him. “You’ve never had a wife. When were you ever forced to lie with someone?”

He stares at you and does not answer, cold rain dripping from his face, a vulnerable childlike apprehension in his lone blue eye.

Then you remember: the madam at the brothel, Aemond’s aversion to her unmistakable familiarity. What had he said when he apologized for leaving you there? It is a place that I associate with great unpleasantness. “At the brothel,” you realize. “The Pink Pearl.”

“Yes,” Aemond says, very quietly.

“How old were you?”

“Barely thirteen.”

He was a boy, you think, horrified. Not a man. Just a boy. “Who took you there?”

“Who do you think?”

There is only one true possibility. Aegon, just a few years older and already corrupted in every sense of the word, drunk and miserable and lustful and lost.

“He thought he was doing me a kindness,” Aemond says. “He didn’t intend for there to be any harm, I’m sure of it. But that doesn’t mean no harm occurred.”

“That should never have happened to you. I’m sorry.”

“A lot of things should never have happened.” Aemond’s hair hangs in long, disheveled waves. Now his clothes are sodden with rain too, not a pale pink like exposed organs or half-healed burns but a verdant, jealous green. “I can’t leave until you come inside out of the rain.”

It doesn’t matter where I am. I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop the world from crashing down. “If he’s dead I want to be too.”

“He’s not dying,” Aemond insists. “He won’t be able to fight, but he will live.”

He won’t, you think, lifeless words that are cold and grey like tombstones. The suffering is too great. The trauma is too dire. It stacks up like blood-red coins in his liver, his heart, his lungs, his kidneys. And eventually the scales will tip, and it will kill him, and I’ll have to watch it happen.

Aemond offers you his hand. “Let me walk you back inside.”

“Please leave me.”

“I can’t,” Aemond replies, distressed.

You are weeping now; your own words choke you. “I want to stay here.”

“No you don’t. The pain just feels so heavy you can’t find your way out from under it.”

He is still holding out a hand to you. At last, you take it. And you make a confession, dark, venomous, unfamiliar like the voice of a stranger. “I used to believe war was hell for everyone. I used to want the suffering to end. But I don’t think I do anymore. I think I want the Blacks to suffer greatly. I want them to suffer more than they ever knew was possible.”

And in the maelstrom of the driving rain, Aemond grins until his teeth look like fangs in the shifting, rageful, rust-and-blood glow of the firelight.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader

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pupsmailbox · 8 months ago

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ACADEMIC ID PACK

NAMES︰ adeline. agatha. alastair. alex. alexander. alexandria. alisa. amber. ambrose. ambrosia. amorette. andrew. annabel. annabeth. annalise. anya. arden. artemis. arthur. ash. ashford. aspen. athena. atlas. atreus. augustus. avery. beatrix. blair. blake. blythe. bram. bronwyn. caspian. charles. charlotte. christopher. circe. claude. coraline. crimson. damian. damien. damon. daphne. darcy. demeter. diana. dorian. durant. ebony. eden. edgar. eleanor. elenor. elizabeth. elvira. emberl. enid. eris. everett. fantine. felix. fern. genevieve. george. grey. griffin. haven. hazel. hecate. henry. hester. holmes. hyde. inkesse. inkette. inkie. inky. isolde. ivie. ivy. james. jane. journalle. julian. julius. juno. kane. killian. lenore. lilith. lorelei. luna. magnus. malachi. mallory. maude. meredith. naomi. narissa. nicodem. nightesse. nightwing. nimue. noire. noiresse. noirette. odessa. odette. oliver. ophelia. orion. percy. persephone. peyton. phineas. phoebe. quill. quille. quinn. raven. ravenesse. ravenette. ravenne. remus. romero. rory. rosalind. rose. rowan. rowena. rufus. salem. scriptesse. sebastian. stoker. sylvain. tanith. theo. theodore. theodosia. trista. tristan. victor. victoria. vincent. virgil. wilhelmine. willow. wynona. xanthe. zoltan.

PRONOUNS︰ acade/academia. amber/amber. an/antique. arch/architectself. arch/archive. art/art. art/artist. arti/article. arti/fact. artifact/artifact. baro/baroque. bea/beauty. bis/bisque. book/book. bookworm/bookworm. calligraphy/calligraphy. can/vas. candle/candle. cer/ceramic. char/charcoal. chess/chess. clas/classic. clay/clay. clock/clock. co/collect. coco/coco. cocoa/cocoa. cof/coffee. coffee/coffee. col/color. coll/collection. collage/collage. con/cept. crea/cream. crow/crow. cur/curate. dra/drama. dust/dust. essay/essay. fea/feather. feather/feather. fig/figure. fil/film. flicker/flicker. gal/gallery. glaze/glaze. globe/globe. gold/gold. hazel/hazel. his/history. history/history. hon/honey. hue/hue. hypo/hypothesis. illus/illustrate. ink/ink. journal/journal. ki/kiln. knowledge/knowledge. le/letter. learn/learn. letter/letter. li/library. lig/ligature. lit/literature. mar/marble. mur/mural. murder/murder. muse/muse. muse/museum. night/night. no/note. novel/novel. page/page. paint/brush. paint/paint. paint/painting. paper/paper. para/dox. pen/pen. pho/photo. pi/pigment. piano/piano. poe/poet. poem/poem. por/trait. porcel/porcelain. print/print. qui/quill. quill/quill. raven/raven. rea/read. read/read. ren/renaissance. rev/revolution. scrapbook/scrapbook. script/scripts. scroll/scroll. sculp/sculptor. sculp/sculpture. sketch/sketch. speci/specimen. spine/spine. sta/stamp. stai/stain. stamp/stamp. statue/statue. story/story. stu/dy. study/studie. study/study. surreal/surrealism. tea/tea. theo/theory. theory/theory. thes/thesis. time/time. tweed/tweed. violin/violin. wheel/wheel. ⌛. ⌛︎. ☕. ✒︎. ✒️. 🏛️. 🏺. 📜. 🕯️. 🖼️.

#pupsmail︰id packs #id pack #npt #nput #name suggestions #name ideas #name list #pronoun suggestions #pronoun ideas #neopronouns #emojiself #nounself #dark academia #light academia

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queenofthehaus · 4 months ago

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「 ✦ Queen of the Haus ✦ 」

「 ✦ Welcome to the Haus of Bingo ✦ 」

If you’d like to see what fandom events Aspen is participating in, follow the queen and turn the post notifications on!

aspen's kinkmas

aspen’s spicy darkfics

bingo & events participation

see masterlist #1

see masterlist #3

↳ fairytale bingo

⟶⟶ card 1 [coming soon]

⟶⟶ card 2 [coming soon]

↳ fandom bingo

⟶⟶⟶⟶ mcu edition

⟶⟶⟶⟶ rpf edition

↳ fandom mini bingos

⟶⟶ neverwhere bingo [coming soon]

⟶⟶ the little prince bingo

⟶⟶ the magnus archives [coming soon]

⟶⟶ the martian bingo

⟶⟶ reverse: 1999 bingo

⟶⟶ superhero trope flash [coming soon]

⟶⟶ valentine trope flash [coming soon]

⟶⟶ wonderland bingo [coming soon]

↳ fandom-free-bingo

⟶⟶ frosty edition

⟶⟶ flight edition

⟶⟶ gingerbread edition [coming soon]

⟶⟶ maritime edition

⟶⟶ medical edition [coming soon]

⟶⟶ october edition [coming soon]

⟶⟶ tolkien edition [coming soon]

⟶⟶ valentine’s edition

⟶⟶ wild edition

⟶⟶ world book night edition

↳ febuwhump

⟶⟶ feb five

↳ fictional delights bingo

⟶⟶ under the sea bingo [coming soon]

↳ #ficwip

⟶⟶ all ships week 2024

⟶⟶ dark & cozy 2024

⟶⟶ ficwip5k 2024

⟶⟶ hey, sweetheart [coming 2025]

⟶⟶ level up 2024

⟶⟶ once upon a bang [a fairytale bang coming 2025]

⟶⟶ spitefest 2024

↳ halcyonian love

⟶⟶ cycle 1 [coming soon]

↳ halloween horror bingo

⟶⟶ 2024 [coming soon]

↳ hero hardships bingo

⟶⟶ 2025 [coming soon]

↳ hurt and comfort bingo

⟶⟶ card 1

⟶⟶⟶⟶ pick your poison bingo [coming soon]

↳ julybreakbingo

⟶⟶ post july 23

⟶⟶ pre july 24

⟶⟶ july break bingo 24

⟶⟶ post july 24

↳ kill-a-character bingo

⟶⟶ 2024

↳ kinky-things-happen

⟶⟶ card 1

↳ love like no other

⟶⟶ a dark romance bang [coming 2025]

↳ lovers bingo

⟶⟶ card 1

⟶⟶ card 2

↳ marvelous yahtzee

⟶⟶ round 1 [coming soon]

↳ marvel-smash-bingo

⟶⟶ card 1

↳ multifandom-flash

⟶⟶ april flash

⟶⟶ bdsm flash [coming soon]

⟶⟶ cult flash [coming soon]

⟶⟶ dune flash [coming soon]

⟶⟶ fear bingo

⟶⟶ halloween flash

⟶⟶ here there be monsters

⟶⟶ march flash

⟶⟶ may free 4 all

⟶⟶ omegaverse

⟶⟶ round 1

⟶⟶ round 2

⟶⟶ round 3 double flash

⟶⟶ superstitions bingo [coming soon]

⟶⟶ taboo flash

⟶⟶ yule flash [coming soon]

🩶 aspen writes ~ desktop preferred

#bingos #fandom events #aspen's fics #aspen's haus #aspen's world #aspen's vault #aspen's library #aspen writes #masterlist

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kentomilk · 1 year ago

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ᴺᴬᴺᴬᴹᴵ ᴷᴱᴺᵀᴼ ᴵᴺ

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐓'𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

it seems there is never an activity too lackluster or intimate for this couple to find pleasure in each other's company with their busy lives.

husband!nanami kento x wife fem!reader.

catalogue. fluff, slice of life content, non-sorcery au/ non-curse, modern au, salaryman!kento, sick & soft kento, (1) mentions of praise kink. wc: 1.95k thea’s preamble. inspired by this incredible art, i must admit i look at this at least once a day. → ✨ also this is my first published work, it's a bit rough but hopefully with time it gets better. thank u for reading <3

kento is a man of routine and order, we all knew that. he wakes up at a set time, kisses his beautiful sleeping wife, carries out his morning routine of showering and oral hygiene, dons his best suit, light breakfast, and is out the door by 8 AM. the evenings he returns home aren’t any less lax, whether he’s home at 6 PM on the dot or late by a few hours, he’ll always greet and kiss his beautiful wife, have dinner in his study whilst he continues more work while the lovely missus reads on the chaise or continues unfinished work of her own as well, then shower and oral hygiene, sleep.

perhaps that was an oversimplification, but don’t be fooled one may think the man adopts and follows this lifestyle out of a need for security, financial or otherwise. or that he loves the unrelenting and perpetual cycle of working painstakingly 10-hour days, he certainly isn’t given highly-coveted tasks for being a slacker. he’s grateful for what the occupation provides, the salary and bonus that come with his overtime, to lavishly spoil his family, but that's all.

he has no ambition to climb the ladders that will put him in places he doesn't care to be, to rub elbows and kiss ass with scummy executives, leeches, and conceited thugs, only to trash talk and scheme against the moment he steps foot in his home.

all he asks is for saturdays and sundays, as they happen to be Kento’s favourite.

the days he has off from his draining 9-to-5, to be spent properly with his lovely wife. who was ever so patient with him, ever so supportive, and ever so his to love and cherish so as long as his body would allow him. even if his body was battered down to a pulp, he’d find alternatives as necessary, but let’s hope it never comes to that.

there would be times when not much would differ from the previous weekend, and well into the next, spent doing the same activities, or nothing at all. he never wanted to take for granted the time you spent together, and sometimes that meant not always making the most of those days, and he’s okay with that.

whether the two of you lazed in bed until the afternoon or spent a whole day cooking a feast completely from scratch, starters to dessert. visiting the farmers market to cook said feast, reading in your cozy home library, or even the sudden bouts of spring cleaning.

there is always a welcome invite for spontaneity, a picnic under the stupendous aspen tree you simply adored at the local park. a quick overnight trip to a scenic and quaint town, whether your destination is reached by train, plane, automobile, or even boat. the occasional painting date has become a more frequent activity as of late. but there is one “special” activity that some might consider, unique. one that is relatively low cost, that is done from the comforts of your humble abode, that further advances the intimacy (according to kento), and is reserved solely for you, one that kento absolutely adored, shaving.

usually, it was something he’d done alone after showers with either a rechargeable or disposable razor or by his barber when it came time for his bi-monthly hair trim. but recently it became a task that you’d undertake by kento’s request, sort of.

while you didn’t mind what would grow from a days of not shaving, he preferred maintaining a clean shave for the clean-cut classification for a man of his occupation, it also became supplemental to his hygiene routine that he grew to love.

it wasn’t something you saw often, kento so dishevelled with the most tragic undereye bags from the lack of sleep from what you’d think was months suffering from insomnia, condensed into a few days. a coarse stubble emerged from the days he’d spent in bed, and his nose was flushed with how often he’d been blowing it with the nearly empty box of tissues that was full just the night before. his eyes were dull and watering, a sight you truly hated.

"honey, have you seen my hard drive?" he'd sorely asked for the 3rd time today, "it's in the laptop, kento." you called back, changing the towels in your bathroom.

he was delirious, with a runny nose and little to no comprehension of where he was or what day it was, thanks to the combination of flu medicine and kento’s determination to finish a work proposal whilst in bed, common sense would also call it overworking. despite your gentle commands that he needed rest, there was no triumph on your end, as duty calls. he was relentless, in his defense there was a conference that was meant to be held in person had it not been for his sudden ailment. though a live video conference was able to be arranged, owing to the urgency of the matter at hand.

so you figured the fastest way to get the man back into bed was to help him complete this ordeal swiftly, that meant helping him in the shower, given his sore muscle ached. applying small dots of concealer under his eyes as to not bring attention to his fatigued face, deterring from the presentation at hand.

dressing him in his warmest wool suit, but only the upper half, kento was sound enough to know there was no need to abandon his fleecy Pompompurin pajama pants. the executives were only to see from the shoulders up after all. and lastly ridding him of a heavy five o'clock shadow that was speckled with smears of dried rice from the porridge you had made him earlier.

“ok, that should be enough,” you whispered, carefully taking off the damp towel that no longer retained warmth, and squeezing out the shaving cream from the canister into your hand.

you proceed to spread the milky foam in a thin layer across the lower half of his face, letting out a soft chuckle at the finished outcome. you picked up the brand-new razor from the counter, puffing your cheeks and letting out a deep breath.

“i trust you.” kento whispered, his voice scratchy and hushed.

you smiled in response, quietly informing him that you were starting. you crouched to his eye level, pulling his cheek upward with one hand, so the skin where you would shave would be taut. you intently watched his face as well as the area that you had just removed facial hair, making sure that there were no nicks or alter in his relaxed expression, verging on sleep. once you gained confirmation of such, you proceeded to shave the next row, and the next, working inwards towards his lips.

rinsing the razor after each use, and wiping on a towel you had draped on the counter. though nerve-wracking for a first try, it had been executed well and was quite therapeutic. your eyes were attentive and your hands steady with every down stroke. as you continued to rinse and repeat, literally, you looked up into the bathroom mirror to see your husband rotating his head to view the work that had been done, then looking straight at you with a simple grin and tired eyes, asking what he thought so far.

“you’re doing so good, my love.” he plainly states, but those watery eyes said otherwise with an innuendo you couldn’t miss, in a singular eyebrow raise. stupid praise kink, you thought, looking him up and down, wondering how even in this state, where he acquired the audacity. it wasn’t long until the two of you burst into a fit of laughter, kento being cautious as to not rub off the shaving cream with one hand that covered his eyes as he leaned back in the chair.

“what even are you.” you snickered, quickly calming yourself with the reminder of the razor in your hand.

you proceeded to shave, on the brink of completion, now focusing above his lip, where you took even more caution than you had before, due to the sensitivity of his skin in that area. opting to sit on his lap, nearly chest-to-chest with his sore arms that maintained enough strength to have a secure hold on you, even though your knees were bent, and your feet touched the heated floor effortlessly.

a few stolen kisses on kento’s behalf, and nothing more than a restrained smile that he was fighting from getting any bigger as you finished the last few strokes. in his mind, it was anticipated that the minute kento finally got better, you were going to contract what he had afterward anyway. and in turn, he’d take care of you.

so what's the harm in a few more kisses?

“so my dear husband, how would you like to start our weekend?” you asked, still cozily tucked under the blankets, looking at your husband who was similarly bundled under the toasty blankets, with your hand situated on top of his, placed gently on your cheek.

“well dear wife, it’s been days since i’ve last shaved.” he simpered, looking down at you with sly eyes.

it was something the both of you saw coming, once again he hadn’t been shaving for a while, but of course, it was deliberate. you softly laugh in response with your voice still heavy in slumber, “i’ll go get the facial steamer— in a few minutes, i want to savor every second of this vacation.” further burrowing yourself into his chest.

it had been a few months since the first time you had to shave kento’s while he was recovering, the proposal went flawlessly if you omit the booming sneezes that startled the executives even through the screen.

you had since made the switch to a straight blade like the ones you’d see used in old school barber shops, watching tutorials on methods exercised by professionals for efficiency and safety.

invested in a proper kit that supplied everything you’d need. from shave oil, pre-shave oil, shave cream, a velvety brush to spread the lather, after-shave (which smelled phenomenal), and blade replacements.

it’s been even longer since his barber last gave him a proper shave after a haircut, and that time will only continue to be prolonged. he loved how close you’d be when focusing, but time after time you’d only grown to relax the tension in your muscles. you’d sit on his lap for more of the session, and those sessions would only go longer from the last.

where there would be conversation taking place about your lives, now and the future. sometimes there would be easy-listening music playing from the speakers that would lay the cornerstones of an “impromptu” dancing session, where kento’s hands would be politely placed on your lower back, and his hand strong in yours, waltzing all around your bathroom for what felt like forever.

he was shirtless, and truth be told a little chilly, and you were wearing an old shirt of his, to him you always looked beautiful. even though there was still plenty of shaving cream on his face, it would eventually be smeared on yours. there wasn’t much more he wanted in life.

if you ask him, any weekend is well-spent, even if you do spend the entirety of it in bed, painting beautiful sceneries, cooking your favourite dishes, dancing with ardour despite having taken one class on ballroom waltz, or you shaving his grown-out stubble. as long as you're by his side, nothing is ever a waste of time. that’s how it’s been, that’s how is it, and that’s how it’ll be.

and who knows, maybe next time kento will convince you to cut his hair.

[interactions] reblogs, comments & likes are appreciated ₊˚⊹♡

#[🎠] — .thea’s chronicles #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #nanami fluff #kento fluff #kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x fem!reader #nanami x fem!reader #kento x fem!reader #nanami kento x fem!reader #kento nanami x fem!reader #kento x you #nanami x you

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ask--the--newsies · 10 months ago

Note

I might’ve got another idea already(hasn’t even been a minute im so sorry)

aspen(after a “date” with them delancey’s) bein’ comforted by the boys :O?

[ race and albert stand outside of the library. albert is pacing with his hands in his pockets while racetrack fiddles with his cigar. ]

#roleplay #newsies #newsies rp #uksies #ask the newsies #albert dasilva #racetrack higgins

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stylesonfilms · 2 months ago

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ink & innocence - 13

word count: 7.3k

hi! this was inspired by one of the comments left in my inbox so thank u for the suggestion! i've read the other ones and have noted them down as well. happy reading!

"Harryyy, come on!" Aspen's playful whine echoed through the quiet library, earning a raised brow from an older patron seated nearby. Aspen winced apologetically before turning back to Harry, who stood a few feet away, his expression as unimpressed as ever, though the slight curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

"No," he puffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he bent down into the book cart. With one hand, he pulled out another hardcover while his other steadied the wobbling stack she had precariously piled earlier. He reached over, extending the book toward her without breaking stride. "Here, unless you wanna use me as a ladder again."

Aspen's cheeks flushed. The last time they'd done this, she had struggled with the top shelves and made him crouch down so she could awkwardly step onto his thigh. He hadn't let her live it down since.

It had become their little routine. Aspen was buried neck-deep in midterms and work shifts, balancing her time between lectures, the library, and stolen moments of quiet with Harry. On the nights where their schedules aligned, Harry had made it a habit of swinging by the library before closing time. At first, Aspen had protested his help, insisting she could finish on her own, but Harry, as persistent as he was, always wore her down. Now, she couldn't help but smile every time she saw him stroll through the doors with that easy confidence, ready to argue until she let him pitch in.

Today was no different. Aspen had barely clocked in after her lecture when Harry texted her: Be there at 4. A simple message, but it left her cheeks warm for the rest of her shift. By the time he arrived, they'd fallen into their usual rhythm. Aspen would work, and Harry would pretend to grumble about helping but inevitably do it anyway—though only after extracting a promise of a few kisses in his car afterward.

"Come on, if you make an Instagram account, we could all follow you, spy on your so-called private life," Aspen teased, glancing over her shoulder with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She wiggled her eyebrows dramatically, biting back a giggle when Harry rolled his eyes.

"You already do that," he shot back, sliding another book into her waiting hands. "And I only really talk to you guys anyway. What's Instagram gonna do that my contacts and iMessage can't?"

Aspen jutted out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, cradling the book to her chest. "But then you could post all those artsy photos you take! Come on, Harry, you're practically an undercover photographer."

That earned her a full-on laugh, low and rich, as Harry leaned his hip against the cart. She wasn't wrong. One thing Aspen had quickly learned about him was his knack for capturing beauty in the mundane. Whether it was the glow of a sunset behind the mountains, the way fog curled lazily through downtown's alleys, or the candid snaps he'd take when she wasn't looking, his camera roll was a treasure trove of little moments. She knew he had an actual camera at home, too—one he swore was on its third memory card. But the thought of him sharing even a glimpse of those moments on Instagram made her grin grow wider.

Harry sighed dramatically, rubbing the back of his neck like he was truly at a crossroads. "Alright, alright," he relented, earning an excited squeal from Aspen. "I'll make one so you can do all your little tagging stuff, but I'm not promising to post a single thing."

Aspen narrowed her eyes, as if weighing the seriousness of his promise, before finally giving in. "Deal." Her grin was infectious, and Harry couldn't help but chuckle. She'd been pestering him for days, and deep down, he didn't really mind. The idea of her tagging him in pictures, forcing him into her corner of the social media world, wasn't so bad. Maybe he'd even scroll through it occasionally when he was bored or needed a distraction between clients.

Sliding the last book onto the shelf, Aspen turned back to him, her hands on her hips. "You know," she started with a sly smile, "this means you officially owe me now."

Harry raised a brow, smirking. "Oh yeah? And what exactly do I owe you?"

"A coffee," she declared confidently. "Because I've been running on fumes all day, and if I don't get caffeine soon, you're going to have a grumpy librarian on your hands."

Harry chuckled, stepping closer and letting his hand brush lightly against hers. "Alright, love. Let's get you your coffee. But only if I get one of those kisses in return."

Aspen's cheeks turned a deep shade of pink, her bashful smile tugging at his heart as she nodded. "Deal."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry carried his jacket hooked on his finger over his shoulder, the fabric swaying slightly with each step, while his other arm rested securely around Aspen’s shoulders. The warmth of his touch seeped through her sweater, grounding her as they exited the softly lit library into the crisp evening air. The muffled hum of passing cars filled the quiet space between them as they strolled toward his car, their pace unhurried, comfortable.

"Zayn told me earlier he’d be out with Isobel," Harry began, his voice low and inviting as he reached to open the passenger door for her. He leaned casually against the door frame, his jacket still dangling from his finger, as Aspen climbed in. "So I was wonderin’," he continued, his green eyes catching hers in the dim glow of the streetlamp, "if you’d like t’stay for dinner? It’s not too late. I could whip us somethin’ up."

Aspen paused, her hands fumbling slightly with her seatbelt as she glanced up at him. The way he stood there, effortlessly charming with a soft smile playing on his lips, made her heart flutter. "Yeah! I’d like to, H. Thank you," she replied, her own smile small but genuine.

Harry’s smile widened just a fraction before he leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead. The gesture left her momentarily breathless, her eyes fluttering shut instinctively at the tenderness. He shut the door gently behind her and rounded the car, sliding into the driver’s seat with an ease that came from countless nights like this. As the engine purred to life and warm air began to flood the cabin, Aspen’s stomach let out a low growl, breaking the comfortable silence.

Harry let out a puff of air, a laugh that was both teasing and fond. "Hungry, are we?" he teased, glancing at her sideways with a smirk. Aspen’s cheeks turned pink as she ducked her head in embarrassment, but her lips curved into a sheepish grin.

"Maybe a little," she admitted, the confession barely audible over the soft hum of the heater.

By the time they arrived at his apartment, Harry had already shrugged off his jacket and was heading for the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable," he called over his shoulder as Aspen toed off her shoes and hung her tote bag neatly on the coat rack by the door. Before disappearing into the living room, she felt the soft press of his lips on her forehead again, a fleeting touch that left her cheeks warm.

Harry rummaged through his fridge, the faint clink of jars and the rustle of packaging filling the kitchen as he searched. "Baby?" His voice broke the quiet after a couple of minutes, pulling Aspen from her thoughts as she peeked her head around the corner.

"Yeah?" she asked softly, stepping into the kitchen. The cold tile against her pink, frilly sock-covered feet made her shiver, but the sight of Harry, slightly hunched with his head in the fridge, was enough to distract her. He turned toward her with a package of chicken in hand, his smile easy and affectionate.

"Are you okay with chicken? Gonna do somethin’ easy with it—maybe some broccoli and potatoes?" he asked, holding up the ingredients as if to get her approval.

Aspen nodded quickly, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t see her silent affirmation. Realizing her mistake, she squeaked out a soft, "Yes... yes! That sounds good, thank you."

Harry chuckled quietly to himself, charmed by her shy but earnest response. She pulled one of the chairs out from the island and perched on it, her feet resting on the footrest as she settled in to watch him. Aspen wanted to keep him company, to be near him while he worked his magic in the kitchen, but she stayed quiet, her gaze soft as she observed him move.

Harry worked with a practiced ease, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he began chopping broccoli and seasoning the chicken. The faint clatter of utensils and the rhythmic chop of the knife filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of a glass or a soft hum from Harry as he focused. Aspen found herself mesmerized by the simple yet deliberate way he moved, every gesture seeming natural and unhurried.

"You’re really good at this," she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the faint sizzle as he turned on the stovetop.

Harry glanced up, his green eyes twinkling with amusement. "At cookin’? Or at convincin’ you to stay for dinner?"

Aspen giggled, her hands fidgeting slightly in her lap. "Both, maybe," she admitted, her cheeks tinting pink.

"Well, lucky for you," he said, flashing her a grin as he set the pan on the stove, "I happen to enjoy doin’ both."

Dinner had gone by in a blur of easy conversation, soft laughter, and the comfortable rhythm that Harry and Aspen had found themselves settling into. Aspen was shy, yes, but around Harry, there was a growing ease—a sense that she could let her guard down without judgment. They spoke about their day, her recounting a particularly funny mishap during her shift at the library, and him sharing a story about a client who insisted on getting a tattoo of their cat dressed as a pirate. It left Aspen giggling behind her hand, her laughter light and airy, a sound Harry was quickly growing addicted to.

As the plates were cleared and the last bites of dinner had been taken, Harry stood and began gathering the dishes, shooting her a teasing look when she moved to help. "Sit tight, love," he said, shaking his head. "I’ll take care of this. You’ve had a long day."

Aspen hesitated, her hands half-reaching for a plate, but she relented under the warmth of his gaze. “Okay,” she murmured softly, her voice small but sweet.

Harry rinsed the plates before stacking them neatly in the sink. He turned to her, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and his expression softened. "Y’want somethin’ more comfortable to wear? Don’t have to if you’re fine as is, but if y’want, I can grab you a shirt or somethin’."

Aspen blinked at him, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face before she nodded. "That would be nice... if you don’t mind."

Harry’s grin was immediate and reassuring. "‘Course not. Be right back."

He returned moments later with a well-worn black t-shirt, the fabric soft from years of wear. He handed it to her, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. “Bathroom’s just down the hall on the left,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction. Aspen nodded, clutching the shirt to her chest as she padded down the hallway.

Inside the bathroom, Aspen closed the door behind her and let out a quiet breath. The room was clean, with simple touches that felt inherently like Harry—spare but thoughtful. A small plant sat in the corner near the window, and the counter was neat, save for a watch and a bottle of cologne. She couldn’t resist running her fingers lightly over the label of the bottle, smiling to herself at how even the scent of it made her think of him.

She slipped out of her sweater, folding it neatly on the counter, and pulled Harry’s shirt over her head. The fabric was oversized, hanging loosely over her frame, and the faint scent of him clung to it—something warm and comforting. She decided to keep her leggings on, smoothing them down before taking one last glance at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks warmed as she imagined Harry seeing her like this, wearing his clothes.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, the faint sound of running water guided her back to the kitchen. Harry was standing at the sink, his sleeves rolled up, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he scrubbed at a pan. The sight of him made her pause for a moment, her lips curving into a soft smile before she shuffled into the room.

Harry glanced up as she entered, and for a second, he froze. The shirt was far too big for her, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, the neckline slightly loose on her petite frame. She looked small, cozy, and unmistakably his. The thought hit him with a surprising intensity. His shirt. On her. It felt... right. Like a quiet claim, subtle but undeniable.

"Y’look good," he said after a beat, his voice low and sincere as he dried his hands on the towel. He crossed the room toward her, his green eyes soft as they took her in.

Aspen’s cheeks flushed pink, and she toyed with the hem of the shirt, glancing down shyly. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s lips quirked up in a fond smile. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over her arm. "You make it look better than I ever did," he added, his tone playful but laced with an underlying tenderness.

Aspen peeked up at him, her lips twitching into a small, bashful smile. “You’re just saying that.”

"Not a chance," Harry replied, shaking his head as he gazed at her. In that moment, with her standing in his kitchen, wearing his shirt and looking like the very embodiment of comfort, Harry couldn’t help but think that this—her, here—was something he could get used to. Something he wanted to get used to.

With the dishes done and the clock showing just past eight, Harry leaned against the counter, drying the last plate. He looked over at Aspen, who was seated on one of the kitchen stools, idly running her fingers along the hem of his shirt. She looked completely at home, and the sight filled Harry with a quiet warmth he didn’t quite know how to put into words.

"Not too late yet," Harry said, tossing the dish towel over his shoulder. "How d’you feel about a movie? Could use a bit of a break after today, yeah?"

Aspen’s eyes lit up, and she nodded. “That sounds nice. I—I wouldn’t mind cuddling up with you again,” she admitted, her voice shy but steady enough to make Harry’s chest swell with affection.

He grinned, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. "Alright then. Y’pick somethin’, and I’ll get the living room sorted. Just gimme a sec to change out of these," he said, gesturing to his skinny jeans and button-up shirt.

Aspen’s cheeks warmed at the thought of him getting more comfortable. "Okay," she replied softly, sliding off the stool and padding into the living room. She browsed through his small stack of DVDs on the shelf, her fingers brushing over the spines as she considered what to watch.

Meanwhile, Harry disappeared into his room, tugging off his work clothes and swapping them for a pair of gray sweats and a plain white tee. He left his hair a little mussed, the loose curls falling naturally around his face, and kept only one of his rings on—a silver one he wore on his index finger. As he glanced at himself in the mirror, he wondered if Aspen would notice the change.

When he returned to the living room, Aspen was kneeling in front of the TV, the remote in her hand and a movie paused on the screen. "This okay?" she asked, turning to him with an uncertain smile.

"Perfect," Harry replied as he crossed the room. But instead of sitting down next to her, he grinned mischievously, lunging toward her with playful energy.

Aspen let out a surprised squeak as Harry tackled her onto the couch, gently but with enough force to leave her laughing breathlessly. "Harry!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed as he settled them both into a comfortable position after teasing her a bit. He tucked her firmly into his side, pulling a throw blanket over the both of them with one hand.

"There," he said with a satisfied grin, his arm draped around her shoulders as she snuggled into his side. Her small hand rested on his abdomen, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath her fingers.

Aspen sighed contentedly, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Being close to Harry like this was quickly becoming one of her favorite things, and she couldn’t help but smile at how natural it felt.

Harry, meanwhile, was busy memorizing every detail of the moment. The way Aspen fit against him like she was meant to be there. The feel of her hand resting on his stomach, moving ever so slightly in rhythm with his breathing. He started tracing light patterns along her arm with his fingers, the repetitive motion soothing for both of them.

"Y’comfy, love?" Harry asked, his voice low and warm.

Aspen nodded against his chest, her face half-hidden by the fabric of his shirt. "Mmhm. Very," she murmured, her shyness laced with contentment.

Harry glanced down at her, his green eyes softening as he watched her settle further into his side. She looked perfect—completely at ease, her cheeks still slightly pink, her fingers brushing lightly over his stomach as if she couldn’t help but touch him.

The movie started, but Harry found it hard to focus on the screen. His thoughts kept drifting back to Aspen. How cute she looked in his oversized shirt, her leggings still clinging to her legs. How much she looked like she belonged there, with him, wrapped up in their own little bubble of warmth and comfort.

"Y’know," Harry said softly after a while, his fingers pausing their movements on her arm, "I could get used to this."

Aspen peeked up at him, her shy smile returning as her heart fluttered at his words. "Me too," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Harry’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied grin. "I should have y'around more often, then, hm?" Aspen nodded, settling more into his side when he gave her arm a reassured squeeze. When Harry caught her beautiful brown eyes flicker down to his lips, he took that as his sign to tilt his head and close the space. She sighed contently, which made Harry grin into their kiss. Slowly, he was learning her little clues and asks without having to actually ask for them. Harry didn't mind. He vowed to himself to understand her always.

As Harry settled onto the couch and his eyes wandered back to the TV, Aspen couldn’t help but notice the subtle differences in him. His curls were slightly messier than usual, like he’d run his fingers through them carelessly after changing. Her eyes flicked to his hand resting on the edge of the blanket, and she noticed he was wearing only one ring, a simple silver one on his index finger. It was such a small detail, but it made her stomach flutter. Even with all the tattoos winding across his arms, his lip piercing catching the light, and the remnants of chipped black polish on his nails, he looked so much like the Harry he showed only to her—soft, unguarded, and entirely hers. It made her heart ache in the best way, knowing she got to see him like this, in these intimate, quiet moments.

The movie had long since settled into a soft lull, its dialogue blending into the warm hum of the apartment. Aspen and Harry had started the evening curled up together, but as time passed, their slow breathing matched the quiet rhythm of the soundtrack, and without realizing it, they both drifted into sleep. Harry’s arm remained wrapped around Aspen, her cheek resting on his shoulder, and the blanket had slipped slightly, pooling at their legs.

Hours passed until Harry stirred, his body instinctively turning toward his side in search of comfort. In his half-conscious state, his hand moved as if reaching for Aspen, but when his fingers met only the cool fabric of the couch, his eyes fluttered open. Disoriented at first, he blinked into the dim glow of the room. Where had she gone? The clock on the wall read just past midnight. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, the blanket falling away as he stretched and glanced toward the hallway.

A faint light spilled from the kitchen, and Harry padded toward it, the hardwood floor cool beneath his bare feet. Leaning against the doorframe, he found her standing in front of the open freezer, her petite frame silhouetted by the soft white glow. She was peering into its depths with a furrowed brow, her hands rubbing her arms lightly as the cool air spilled out around her. She hadn’t noticed him yet, too focused on whatever she was searching for.

“Aspen?” His voice was soft, still laced with sleep, and her head whipped around so fast that a lock of hair fell into her eyes. Her cheeks flushed instantly, and she slammed the freezer door shut, stepping back awkwardly.

“Oh! I… I didn’t mean to wake you,” Aspen stammered, her voice barely audible. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, fingers twisting together nervously as she searched for the right words. “I was just, um… I got thirsty—well, no, not thirsty, but… hungry? Kind of?” She trailed off, her cheeks already flushing as she realized how jumbled her explanation sounded. Her gaze dropped to her socked feet, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

Harry leaned casually against the kitchen doorway, a soft, sleepy smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t teasing, just patient and understanding. “You’re fine, love,” he said gently, his voice still raspy from sleep. “What were you looking for?”

“I… uh…” Aspen hesitated, her hands nervously tugging at the hem of his oversized shirt she wore, the soft fabric bunching under her fingers. Her heart thudded as she felt her cheeks burn hotter. She wanted to tell him, but the thought of admitting she was craving something so specific—so indulgent—made her stomach twist with embarrassment.

Harry noticed her hesitation, his brow furrowing slightly. Taking a step forward, he tilted his head, meeting her gaze even though she tried to avoid it. “Aspen,” he said softly, his voice coaxing. “It’s okay. Whatever you want, just tell me.”

“I—” Her voice wavered, and she swallowed nervously, still unable to meet his eyes. “It’s silly. Don’t worry about it.”

Harry smiled warmly, taking another step toward her. “Silly or not, you’re standing in the middle of my kitchen at midnight. So whatever it is, it must be worth finding, yeah?” He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought for a moment. “Let’s see… were you looking for snacks? Chips? Crackers?” He tilted his head playfully. “Maybe leftover pizza?”

Aspen shook her head, a soft laugh escaping despite her nerves. “No… none of those.”

Harry grinned, encouraged by the sound of her laugh. “Alright, what about something sweet, then? Chocolate? Cookies?” He paused, pretending to consider. “Ice cream?”

At that, her cheeks turned a deeper shade of red, and her fingers twisted even tighter in the fabric of his shirt. She nodded shyly, glancing up at him for only a split second before looking away again. “Ice cream,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s heart melted at how utterly bashful she was. He stepped closer, his hand brushing gently against her arm to reassure her. “Ice cream, huh?” he repeated with a soft chuckle. “That’s not silly at all, Aspen. I’m glad you’re comfortable enough to raid my freezer.”

Her head snapped up, wide-eyed. “I wasn’t raiding!” she protested, her voice rising slightly in defense before softening again. “I mean… I was just looking.”

Harry chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—just looking,” he teased, opening the freezer himself and glancing back at her. “So, what flavor are we after?”

Aspen hesitated, nervously toying with her hair now. “I, um… I think you had mint chocolate chip the other day?” she said hesitantly, her voice wavering.

Harry caught the way her blush deepened, and his smile softened further. “Mint chocolate chip,” he echoed thoughtfully, his tone light and reassuring. “Good choice, love. Let’s see if we’ve got any left.”

He turned back to the freezer, but his mind lingered on her. The way she looked so small and shy in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, made his chest ache in the best way. She was adorable, and he loved how vulnerable and comfortable she was around him—even when she was nervous.

Harry leaned into the freezer, moving a few frozen bags and containers around until he spotted a familiar green carton pushed to the very back. “Got it,” he announced, pulling it out with a triumphant smile.

Aspen’s face lit up, and she let out a small, delighted laugh. “You’re good at this.”

“I try,” Harry teased, grabbing two spoons from the drawer before motioning toward the floor. “C’mon. Let’s eat before it melts.”

They settled on the cool tile, their backs against the cabinets, and Harry opened the lid with a satisfying pop. He offered her the first spoonful, watching as her eyes lit up at the first taste. “Still your favorite?” he asked, taking a bite for himself.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, nodding enthusiastically. The sweetness melted on her tongue, and she sighed contentedly. Harry still had sleep in his eyes, but being able to be awake with her was worth any amount of sleep.

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of spoons against the carton. Harry glanced at Aspen between bites, his gaze lingering on how the overhead light highlighted the soft curve of her cheeks and the way her eyes crinkled slightly when she smiled. She looked completely at ease now, the embarrassment from earlier forgotten, and he felt a wave of warmth settle over him.

“You know,” he said after a while, his voice low and thoughtful, “this feels kind 'f perfect. Jus' you and me, stealing ice cream in the middle of the night.”

Aspen glanced at him, her shy smile growing. “Yeah,” she agreed softly. “It really does.”

As they continued to share the ice cream, the quiet intimacy of the moment lingered, filling the kitchen with a warmth that had nothing to do with the light overhead. Harry twirled his spoon in the carton absently, a small smile playing on his lips. “Alright,” he began, breaking the silence, “I’ve got a question for you.”

Aspen looked at him curiously, her spoon poised mid-air. “What kind of question?”

“Nothing too serious,” Harry assured her, leaning back against the cabinet. “Just… what’s something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t had the chance to yet?”

“Nothing too serious,” Harry assured her, leaning back against the cabinet. He stretched his legs out in front of him, his bare feet crossing lazily. Her legs were shorter than his, a small quirk that turned the corner of his lips up when he noticed it from how they sat. Despite his casual posture, his green eyes were alert, focused entirely on Aspen. “Jus… what’s something you’ve always wanted t'do but haven’t had the chance t'yet?”

Aspen froze for a moment, the question hanging in the air. Her fingers traced the edge of the ice cream lid nervously, her mind racing with possibilities. There were so many things she had dreamed of, so many ideas she’d quietly nurtured but never spoken aloud. “I don’t know,” she murmured finally, her voice soft. “There’s a lot I’d like to do someday.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into an encouraging smile. He knew that hesitation of hers, that instinct to downplay her desires, but he wanted to hear more. “Like what? Give me one thing,” he coaxed gently, his voice low and warm.

Aspen’s breath caught. The way Harry looked at her—calm, patient, and interested—made her feel safe, like her answer really mattered. She dropped her gaze to her lap, gathering her courage as her heart thudded in her chest. “I’ve always wanted to travel,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just… pack a bag and go somewhere completely new. Maybe Italy, or Japan.”

Harry noticed the shift in her tone as she continued, her shyness giving way to quiet enthusiasm. “I want to see the art, the history,” she went on, her words picking up pace. “Experience things that feel bigger than me.”

He couldn’t look away. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about her dreams, the subtle curve of her lips as her confidence grew—it was like seeing a different side of her unfold, piece by piece. His chest ached in the best way, a deep warmth blooming inside him. “That sounds amazing,” he said softly, his voice full of sincerity. “You’d love it. You’ve got tha' curiosity about you—like you’d soak it all in, every detail.”

Aspen felt her cheeks flush, her gaze dipping once more. His words struck something deep within her, something fragile and precious. She wasn’t used to being seen like this, to someone noticing and valuing the quiet parts of her that she often kept hidden. “What about you?” she asked quickly, desperate to shift the focus away from herself. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of the shirt she was wearing—Harry’s shirt—and she peeked up at him, her shyness mixing with genuine curiosity. “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

Harry chuckled, a low sound that made Aspen’s heart flutter. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he gave her a playful look. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“I won’t,” she promised, her eyes wide and earnest. She meant it; she couldn’t imagine laughing at him, not when he was sharing a piece of himself like this.

“Alright,” Harry said, his voice taking on a mock conspiratorial tone. “I’ve always wanted t'learn how to surf. Properly, I mean. Not just flopping 'round on a board.”

Aspen blinked in surprise before a soft laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t mocking—it was light and delighted, filled with a warmth that spread between them. “That’s not silly at all,” she said quickly, her smile growing. “I can actually picture you on a beach.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah? With all the tattoos n' everything?”

She nodded, her cheeks dimpling. “It suits you. The freedom of it… the connection to nature. It feels like you.”

Harry felt his breath hitch at her words, but it was subtle and went without notice. She said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but it hit him deeply. He wasn’t used to being seen in that way, his desires and identity so easily understood. “You’re pretty good at this, you know?” he said quietly, his voice tinged with awe. “Seeing people for who they are.”

Aspen’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink, and she ducked her head shyly. “I just… like paying attention.”

He smiled softly, his heart swelling at her words. He realized that was one of the things he admired most about her—how much she noticed, how much she cared, even if she didn’t always say it aloud.

The moment hung between them, tender and unspoken, as their hearts opened just a little more. And in the quiet warmth of the kitchen, with an empty carton of ice cream forgotten beside them, Harry felt something settle deep within him—a certainty that this, whatever this was, was worth every moment.

Aspen shifted slightly, tucking her legs closer to her body as she glanced at Harry. The weight of their conversation hung in the air, but it wasn’t heavy—it was comforting, like a warm blanket wrapping them in something safe and intimate. Her voice was soft when she spoke again, careful not to disrupt the gentle mood they’d settled into.

“What’s something that calms you down? Like... instantly?” she asked, her curiosity genuine. Her wide eyes studied him, searching his face for an answer.

Harry tilted his head back against the cabinet, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. His closed eyes peered open to look at her with a sheepish smirk. “You’re gonna think ’m cheesy.”

Aspen raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin slipping onto her face. “What is it?”

He finally murmured, “Talking to you.” Harry let out a small puff of air, though he wasn't lying. She was his grounding piece. She took his mess and made sense of it.

Aspen let out a playful whine, nudging his shoulder with hers as her cheeks flared pink. “Harry! Be serious!” she giggled, her laugh bubbling up and breaking the quiet.

“I am serious!” he defended, grinning now, though the teasing glint in her eyes made him laugh softly. “Alright, alright. Lemme think.”

She waited patiently, her gaze steady on him. Her heart thudded gently in her chest as she watched him search for an answer, the way his brow furrowed slightly and his lips pressed together in thought. Finally, he spoke.

“Tattooing,” he said simply at first, but there was a weight in his tone that made Aspen sit up a little straighter. His fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of his shirt as he continued, his voice quieter now, more reflective. “Whether it’s actually tattooing someone or just sketching a new design... it’s like everything else disappears for a while. There’s jus' me n' the lines I’m creating. It’s... grounding.”

Aspen tilted her head, her interest piqued. She could tell there was more he wasn’t saying, so she stayed quiet, giving him the space to keep going.

“It’s not jus' about the art,” Harry admitted, his green eyes flickering to hers before looking away again, as if what he was about to say felt too vulnerable to meet her gaze. “It’s... therapeutic, in a way. When I’m tattooing someone, there’s this trust, y'know? They’re letting me leave something permanent on them, something that means something to them. And when I’m sketching, i’s like... I can take whatever’s in my head—whatever’s making me feel restless or stuck—and put it on paper. Turn it into something that makes sense.”

Aspen’s heart ached at the sincerity in his words, the way he spoke with such quiet passion. She hadn’t expected such a heartfelt answer, but it made sense. Tattooing wasn’t just a job to him; it was a part of who he was.

“It’s kind of like...” Harry paused, searching for the right words. “When I’m holding the machine, or even just a pencil, it’s like I have control over something. Like no matter how messy life gets, I can create something beautiful from it. It’s calming in a way nothing else is.”

Aspen’s lips parted slightly, her breath catching at his honesty. She’d always admired Harry’s talent, but hearing him talk about it like this—so deeply, so openly—gave her a new perspective. “That’s... really beautiful,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “I never thought about it like that before.”

Harry looked at her then, his gaze steady and full of something unspoken. “It’s the same feeling I get when I’m with you,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Like everything else fades, and it’s just us. Simple.”

Aspen felt her cheeks heat again, her heart thudding against her ribs. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t—his eyes held her in place, and she didn’t want to break the moment.

“Thank you for telling me that,” she said finally, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. She reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing against his hand before curling around it. “It means a lot.”

Harry smiled softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, baby,” he murmured, his voice like a promise. And in the quiet stillness of the kitchen, with only the faint hum of the fridge in the background, they stayed like that—two people learning each other, piece by piece, with every shared word and touch.

Harry's thumb brushed against the back of Aspen’s hand as he held it, the simple contact sparking warmth that spread through both of them. He glanced down at their joined hands, a soft smile tugging at his lips before he looked back up at her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her wide eyes flickered nervously between their hands and his face. She was shy, as always, but there was a comfort in her expression now—a softness that told him she felt safe.

The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator, but neither of them noticed. Harry’s gaze lingered on her, taking in the delicate curve of her cheek, the way her lashes fluttered as she peeked up at him. His chest tightened with an unfamiliar ache—not of pain, but of something deeper. Something he couldn’t quite put into words. He felt it every time she looked at him like that, like he was someone who mattered, someone who could make her feel special.

Aspen’s heart raced as she felt the weight of his gaze. It was gentle, but it held an intensity that made her stomach flutter. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention—wasn’t used to someone looking at her like she was something worth cherishing. Yet, with Harry, it felt... right. Natural, even. Her fingers fidgeted slightly against his, but she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to.

Harry leaned in slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull back, to stop him if she wanted. But she didn’t move. Her breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly, but there was no fear—only a quiet, nervous anticipation. His hand gently released hers, moving to cup her cheek instead. His thumb brushed along her skin, soft and deliberate, as if he were memorizing the feel of her.

“You’re somethin’ else, Aspen,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, like a promise wrapped in affection.

Aspen’s lips parted slightly, her breath trembling as her thoughts spun. She didn’t know what to say—wasn’t sure she could form words even if she wanted to. All she could do was feel—the warmth of his hand against her cheek, the way his green eyes held hers like she was the only thing that mattered.

Harry dipped his head, closing the small distance between them. His lips brushed hers gently, barely more than a whisper of a kiss. It was soft, tentative, as though he was asking for permission rather than taking. Aspen’s heart thudded against her ribs, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

When he pulled back slightly, their noses still brushing, Harry searched her face, his thumb still stroking her cheek. “Okay?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Aspen nodded, her cheeks burning as her lips curved into a shy smile. “Yeah,” she breathed, her voice almost as quiet as his.

Encouraged by her response, Harry leaned in again, pressing another kiss to her lips. This one lingered a little longer, though it was just as gentle. His heart swelled at the way she leaned into him, her fingers lightly brushing against his knee for balance. She was hesitant, but she wasn’t holding back. Not with him.

Aspen felt her nerves melting away, replaced by a warmth that seemed to start in her chest and spread to every part of her. Kissing Harry felt... safe. Like she didn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing or being too much. He made her feel like she was enough—just as she was.

When they finally pulled apart, Harry rested his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed as he soaked in the moment. “You’re somethin’ else,” he repeated, his voice filled with awe.

Aspen let out a quiet laugh, her fingers curling against his knee. “You’ve said that already,” she teased softly, her shyness giving way to a growing comfort in his presence.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, opening his eyes to look at her. “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

She smiled, her heart fluttering at his words. And as they sat there, still tangled in the intimacy of the moment, Aspen realized that maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe him.

"Something good, I hope.," Aspen quipped, her doe eyes looking up into his.

"Oh, you have no idea."

Aspen only felt the heat crawl up her neck and blush her face. Harry thumbed over her reddening cheek, a cute trait he learned to adore about her. After a few moments of just being in each other's silence, her lips released a tiny yawn which made Harry's lips crack a small smile. "C'mon," he tossed the spoons in the sink above him, pushing himself to stand up before he held out a hand. "Satisfied now, baby? Or is there somethin' else you would like? My kitchen is all yours."

Aspen shook her head shyly, taking his big hand to prop herself back to her two feet. "No, no. I'm all set now. Thank you so much, Harry." The mans heart softened at her words. "Alright, then le's get you back t'bed."

His voice dripped in sleep, low and hanging on to the two brain cells that were currently keeping him awake now. "I'll get you tucked into bed and I'll take the couch." Harry picked up the empty carton, tossing it onto the pile of trash in his bin. Before Aspen could say another word or even think of one to say, his arms slid around the back of her thighs and under her arms to sweep her off her feet.

"Harry!," Aspen exlaimed in surprise, kicking her feet as she giggled. Harry kissed her shoulder and carried her bridal style down the hall to his bedroom, where he carefully set her down under the sheets. He pulled them back over Aspen, who was slightly sitting up against his headboard. "Do y'want me to stay until you fall asleep? I'll take the couch tonight so—."

Aspen shaking her head cut his sentence off. He tilted his head and furrowed his brows at her shy expression and wandering eyes, taking note of her fidgeting fingers. "You...," she started, come on Aspen—she sucked in a breath— "You can stay. Only if you want, but please." The girls words were rushed by still remained shy and squeakish. His lips tugged back into a smile, which he found himself doing more lately because of her compared to the last few years of his life.

"Are you letting me know I can stay?" Harry knew her offer was more of her asking, but he didn't want to shine that light onto her. The man gently brushed her hair behind her ear. Anything to make her feel comfortable, he would do. When she nodded again, he hummed contently. "I would love t'stay with you, Asp. Thank you f'letting me."

Normally, Harry would be down to his briefs if he had been by himself. But to not scare Aspen off, he climbed into bed after removing just his ring on his index finger. He let it clatter into the little tray and he settled under the covers next to him. He didn't mind that she picked his side of the bed, his mind quickly allowing it to become just hers.

Aspen had always had issues falling asleep or staying asleep in a bed or a place that wasn't her own. The first and only time she had a sleepover was when she was eleven, and she had called her sister to pick her up at two in the morning because she just couldn't sleep. But it was different in Harrys bed. She molded into the divot in the bed that was previously there, which she pieced together was Harry's original side of the bed. Aspen felt safe, felt comfortable surrounded by his scent and the soft duvet.

"Is it okay if I hold you?" Even though they cuddled here and there (every time one of them was over), he still thought it would be respectful to ask in case she needed her space. That idea quickly left his mind when she shuffled closer and curled back into his side like she had earlier in the night. His arms instinctively wrapped around her small frame and his nose buried into the top of her head, followed by a small lasting kiss.

"I've got you, baby. Get some sleep."

And with that, Aspen found Harry in her dreams once more.

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