#being waiting for s2 for so long !!! when is it ?

[aziraphales-library]

Hi! I've noticed that almost every post-s2 fic has some form of Crowley being heartbroken (drunk and/or sleeping usually). (Usually these fics also include Aziraphale having been wrong during the Final Fifteen and needing Crowley's help.)

Are there any post-s2 fics out there where Crowley *isn't* heartbroken? I'm hoping for ones where there's a secret plan and Crowley was headed on a covert mission at the end of s2, but anything where he isn't just falling apart would be great.

I do get a bit tired of seeing so many sad, drunk, heartbroken Crowley fics. Here are some where he is Not Like That...

Betrayal Stings Like a Serpent’s Bite by Inherently_human (G)

When the Supreme Archangel walks into the bookshop, he is shocked to still find his demon there. And he's singing and tidying, of all things. Guilt tears at Aziraphale, but Crowley reassures him of the only truth that matters: he trusts him.

Aziraphale vs. The System by gatoradeeh7x3 (T)

Crowley decides to take Nina and Maggie's advice and speak with Aziraphale following The Kiss. He proposes a one-month trial period as Aziraphale's second-in-command. Follow along as Aziraphale tackles the challenges of institutional reform while Crowley waits patiently for his angel to see reason.

Two sides of the same coin by Sylvestris123 (T)

After Aziraphale is recalled back to Heaven to become Supreme Archangel, Crowley tries to pick up his life. Before long they find themselves in the next battle to save the Earth - this time from the Second Coming and the Final War.

Deep Blue Sea (or: Crowley's Thoughts About Coastal Erosion) by Imagined (T)

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Several complicated emotions cross over his face—his familiar, well-known face, and Crowley can precisely pinpoint everything that is going on with his brows and his lips and the pinching of his eyes, can read in the lines of Aziraphale’s expression the way he is working up to something— “Who are you again?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley crashes like the wave against the rocks.

Five years after he left for Heaven, an angel plummets out of the sky, with no recollection of much of anything, really. While navigating his own complicated feelings, Crowley is left to wonder what happened to Aziraphale, and most notably… to figure out why their wings are turning grey.

A Light in the Dark by cyankelpie (T)

After leaving Crowley to return to Heaven, Aziraphale Falls, certain that no one will help him pick himself back up. Crowley proves him wrong.

On the Side of the World by profdanglais (M)

The demon Crowley has gone rogue. Precisely what “rogue” looks like on a demon who was never anyone’s idea of “manageable” is something neither Heaven nor Hell is currently equipped to deal with. Hell is rebuilding and Heaven, under the auspices of the Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, is focused on spreading the Word of their prophet, known as the Second Coming--of what, exactly, remains unspecified. Neither side seems to remember who Crowley used to be, nor have they bothered to change the passwords. The Metatron has no interest in demons, rogue or otherwise. His Plan is going swimmingly and he couldn't be more pleased. Now if only he could figure out who’s responsible for all these unauthorised miracles that just keep happening, far and wide, on planet Earth.

- Mod D

[riddlers-roulette]

Probably a bit of a hot take, and definitely petty fandom salt, but i’ve come to notice that in recent years, with most fandom spaces becoming puritanical in their efforts to ice out anything that can be labeled toxic, or anything that just doesn't fit the fandom’s prevalent opinions on a situation or character–a phenomenon that has only been exacerbated by TikTok and the overuse of “therapy-speak”--there seems to be a general lack of nuance and/or sense of media literacy in most vocal fandom spaces when it comes to a story that is not just black and white.

Arcane is one of the most recent example of this, with (arcane s2 spoilers ahead) characters caitlyn and vi being discussed pretty heavily with the terms like “domestic abuse” and “abuser apologism” particularly when it comes to caitlyn’s act of jabbing her rifle at vi’s side before walking away, leaving vi anguished. Now, i’m not saying domestic abuse is not real–i’m just saying, that in this instance, I don't believe that the act was domestic violence, nor do i believe that any of the parties that make up CaitVi are abusers.

Arcane itself is a complex story with heart shattering situations that the characters find themselves in constantly, often putting them at odds with their morals, the morals of their environment, and the morals of the audience. Do I think caitlyn was right to jab her rifle at vi? No. But we as an audience can tell that neither does Caitlyn herself. Neither does Vi. But when Caitlyn did so, it was when she was under immense emotional duress, her mother’s killer getting away, and she was blocked from taking vengeance by the person she trusted the most. When she said the horrible things she did, she was hurting and angry and lashing out–she was punching the walls like a woman gone. And why is it that we can offer characters like Jinx the grace to absolve her of her crimes due to her own psychotic breaks, but not other characters to their own actions done in moments of their own breakdowns? Vi punching Powder, for instance. An act that had Vi villainized by the fandom for a long time. 

Which brings me to another point–absolution. It is one the extremes characters tend to fall into when it comes to fandom, with the other extreme being amplification. A character’s sins tend to be glossed over, or explained away so that the character in question becomes an unquestionable angel and champion of justice, or, in other cases, tend to be overly exaggerated, making the character out to be the worst of the worst, the lowest of the low. Rarely is there an in-between, with multifaceted characters complete with riveting backstory and motivations and complicated characteristics inevitably losing a little of what makes them, them, all in the pursuit of woobification, gratuitous groveling from other characters, and victimization; it’s an apology fantasy on steroids. In other cases, and often, connected cases, if one character is getting the baby treatment then chances are that another is getting the villain treatment, becoming a sort of caricature of themselves. Motives and environmental factors and politics are all thrown out the window, and all that’s left is cartoonish, flat, oft one-dimensional portrayals. 

Arcane’s Silco is an example of the former, with the singular trait of caring for Jinx becoming twisted and emphasized until he is nigh unrecognizable. His harmful actions towards the undercity are erased and he is lifted up instead as something other than he was. He is transformed from the fascinatingly flawed, human depiction to something bland and uncanny. He is just a Poor Sad Betrayed Meow Meow who is also a Good Dad. But it’s okay because he also does crimes! Except wait, those crimes are also sanitized and cutesy, or horrific and without reason or logic. He has lost what makes him, him.

And for the other half of the coin, the unnecessary villainization, we have Jayce! Jayce was hated upon widely, especially after the release of Season 1, and his struggles were erased.

(and yes, there were struggles. Jayce was more privileged than those from the Undercity, that is unquestionable, but he was not as privileged as the other Council members or even most of his peers. He had the fortune of a patron, but that was something that had to be earned, and he could always risk losing. He was from a House, yes, but it was also a minor one, and he would have labored in his factories alongside other workers–he wasn’t a crazy wealthy guy. He staked his entire life on his research that he was actually going to take his own life when his dream was taken from him. His dream wasn’t to generate wealth by unlocking the arcane, but rather, it was to put these tools in the hands of the common man too. One of his first act as councilors was to immediately try to root out corruption. He was able bodied and from Piltover, and so, had more privilege than Viktor (who is my favorite arcane character) that is undeniable. But Jayce did have struggles, he wasn’t taken seriously by the Council due to his own status and had to go through them initially when it came to his own HexTech. Jayce had struggles,but Jayce is a POC and Viktor is a white boy, so Jayce’s problems are gonna be minimized by fandom but that’s a whole other issue–)

And yet, three years ago, the Jayce hate was at a total high, with every action of his being dramatized so as to make Viktor’s pain far more excruciating. 

I’ve derailed a little! The point of this post was to point out the “therapy speak” in fandom that often comes at the cost of lifting one character up and bashing the other, all while skipping over the context and nuance for the gray situations the characters found themselves in. All this to say–with fandom’s recent behaviors when it comes to relationships in fandom, it really makes you wonder if people have forgotten that relationships aren’t easy and actually require constant work and effort. That relationships change and evolve and grow with each obstacle that comes one’s way, and that sometimes things get rough, but that love is being able to understand and empathize with one’s partners–that not everything is black and white and that not every mistake is irredeemable.

edit: also, don’t really care enough to argue with ppl on this point in the notes. it’s tired and repetitive and half the time it’s like arguing with a brick wall. if this gets out of hand I will start deleting and/or restricting replies

[wingedshadowfan]

⚠️arcane s2 act iii spoilers // caitvi ending commentary ⚠️

the difference between the last individual scenes of vi and caitlyn, and the one they shared actually made me sob, so vhere's my analysis of what it all meant

caitlyn is at home, in her family mansion in piltover. her monologue seems to be a messege or an archive for the kirammans or historians after her; she's also looking at the kiramman house files, a family heirloom, a symbol of her legacy and her station, a connection to her mother. she's perhaps looking for something needed in order to start rebuilding the city, perhaps checking if jinx could still be somewhere out there, maybe even seeing what ekko saw about the undercity's vents and water ducts. she still seems to have purpose, or to be in search of one for herself.

vi is also in caitlyn's house in piltover, but she's not with caitlyn. in a city not her own, in a house not her own, it seems she's chosen to sit in a room alone with her thoughts, staring at the fireplace. we hear her humming the tune to a song her mother used to sing, the same one jinx was humming when we first saw her this season - vi's small comfort, the faintest memory from those before her, and nothing to leave to those after her. no roots and no legacy. she's grieving everyone and everything she's lost. stripped of will and void of purpose.

caitlyn is excited to hear vi humming a song. we don't know how long it's been since the war ended, but this implies she hasn't been doing much other than sitting by herself in silence in quite some time. she's become a shell of herself, and caitlyn is worried - she's there for her but doesn't want to push her either. she asks her if she's "still in the fight", and this is a loaded question that i can see two main meanings in - one notably sadder.

1) are you still in there?

what part of you is left, and is it strong enough to keep fighting this state you're in? do you have it in you to keep going? do you have the will to live in spite of it all? is there any fight left in you? are you still with me, or are you just in the room?

and i feel like caitlyn knows the answer but wants to hear it from vi, check in on her and encourage her to open up if she's feeling ready to. because she heard her humming to herself.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't mean it in a cute, flirty or romantic way. she means it in a self-deprecating "i know i'm not being easy right now" kind of way.

i'm not fun to be around, to have to take care of and wait around for. i'm making things harder for you and i'm holding you back by not cooperating and just getting better. i can't help it.

and she adds onto this, "nothing's ever gonna clean me out"

you're stuck with me. i'm a nuisance to you but i can't leave you because you're all i have left. i think i'm lost and broken beyond repair. i'm crooked. i think i'll never be okay again.

2) have you given up on zaun?

are you still in on fighting the system? have you given up on trying to make others see your people for who you are? do you still have hope in the dream for unity and freedom for zaun?

it sounds like caitlyn does, and she's still up for it, just like she was in the latter half of the first season, before jinx kidnapped her, tried to get vi to kill her, and blew up the counsil building just as its members were about to vote for zaun's sovereignty, killing caitlyn's mother. but caitlyn can't do it on her own - it's vi's home, vi's people, vi's identity - and she needs to know if vi still believes they can change something.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't literally mean caitlyn, or herself. she means the opposing poles they represent - piltover and zaun, oppressor and oppressed, a pristine policewoman and a crooked criminal. until piltover's view of the undercity and its people changes, zaun will always be a torn in its side, fighting it, defying it, trying to free itself from its clutches. small, perhaps insignificant, an inconvenience, but a part of it that it can't get rid of or erase. it'll always be there, it'll always fight back.

and when she says nothing's ever gonna clean her out, she means she'll never be bent out of shape and lose that part of herself - the ugly, dirty, raggedy part that grew up on the streets of zaun and was raised among all the tragedy, misery and poverty of the undercity. a product of the system. she'll never let that be "washed out" of her, she won't forget her origin or her goals. this is who she is, her identity - not just in the eyes of piltover, but in her own heart - a zaunite.

EDIT: i also saw this interpretation on tiktok if you're interested. to summarize: there's a spanish saying "like nails and dirt" which is used to refer to two people who are inseparable, so this is a testimony of vi's love for caitlyn having given her reason to keep going and stay by her.

[sabulana]

Once again thinking about the Lost and Found department and the whole Afterlife stuff in Dead Boy Detectives.

It got a little long so...under the cut it goes.

So we know that Lost and Found deal with missing children, but who deals with adults? There must be a separate department for them, right? Why would there only be a department focusing on children when there are plenty adult ghosts hanging about as well?

Why is it called 'Lost and Found' when this usually refers to missing objects? Do the people working there see souls/children as objects? We know the Night Nurse has a certain way of thinking from the way she refers to the boys and how she acts (at least, prior to meeting Kashi) in that they must be 'naughty' or bad in some way because they refuse to cross over, without considering why that might be. She does show signs of beginning to change after meeting Kashi, (and I would have loved to see more of that in S2) but I wonder at everyone else in the department.

And for that matter, what roles are there in the department? We've seen the Night Nurse, the Notary, the assistants who follow the Night Nurse and the Principal (side note, would love to see if the boys and Crystal ever find out that she's Niko) but besides that, what actually goes on? Charles possessing Esther did set off an alert down there, but there must be other ways of tracking lost souls. They're not sitting on their hands, waiting for kids to possess the living, after all.

Also are there any men/male-shaped beings there? I only remember seeing women. And I say '-shaped beings' because we know the Night Nurse isn't human, she just looks like one. Is anyone there human or formerly human? Perhaps they're all trans-dimensional beings, who look human because that is the best way to have humans cooperate when they end up in their department. Kids aren't going to want to go with someone who looks like a monster, after all. And the Night Nurse is definitely a monster.

Also wondering if all the assistants/clerks have names or if they're referred to by role in the same way the Night Nurse etc are. I know the Night Nurse has been referred to as Asa in fics, but this is unconfirmed in canon, and is from the comics featuring the Nightmare Nurse. (I haven't seen Doom Patrol, but I know she was portrayed there, I just don't know specifics).

Next on my mind is the division of labour in L&F. The Night Nurse personally goes to collect the boys, but she's head of the department, right? Why not delegate? Does she go to collect every lost child that Death doesn't collect? Because there seems like there is probably a lot, tbh, given the world population.

How many people work in that department, and how is it all organised? Are there people tracking those that don't move on? If so, how come the Devlin family had to stay stuck in that loop for 30 years? Surely they would have been easy to find since they were in the same place the entire time.

And what about the suicide victims like Shelby, who walk the earth? Are they considered 'lost'? It seems kind of unfair that they have to just wander like that instead of getting an afterlife someplace else.

I have more thoughts but I'm typing this on mobile and gave myself a headache doing it. Anyway, the point of this is... I am about to make up a whole lot of shit about how the Afterlife works for my current WIP.

[sweetpapercroissant]

actually sam’s the one that sunk his claws in dean. but y’all aren’t ready for that conversation.

[inappropriatestork]

So I've been staying off Tumblr for MONTHS to avoid Good Omens season 2 spoilers because I was having a whole executive dysfunction thing and took forever to get around to watching it.

Well, today I finally did, and I realize I'm late and all, but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS THAT.

[love-songs-for-emma]

the "john watson cheats on his wife" arc will forever haunt me

[thefunniestguy]

hang on i'm gonna yell about season2 in the tags more bc now i'm . thinking so much

[animeshotsh]

Moms | Jinx x Fem!Reader | Arcane ¤

Summary: You are worried since your girlfriend has dissapear since Silco's death. Only for her to show up at your home, but not alone.

Warnings: SFW - SOFT - OFF CANON IN TERMS OF TIME - Worm joke - grammar mistakes - spoiler s2 - sad!reader - mentions of alcohol -

Even since the big explosion that took place in the uppercity the undercity had gone into a crisis of gang fights and just more violence.

No one really knew what had happened, there were rumors of Silco being dead, but who attacked the uppercity?

Well, since Jinx your girlfriend was a fan of gadgets, guns and bombs, and how she had stopped coming to your home to visit you, you connected the dots.

Then when her face was in a wanted poster it became real.

God you were scared for her, where was she? Was she safe? You did check her usual hideouts and the ones that were secretly for the both of you so no one would target you. But nothing. You were left with zero trace of her.

You had to push yourself out of your home to work and put a fake face of not caring when someone mentioned her, or when you saw the enforcments go around.

~~~~~~

Your day was long, so when you finally got home you left yourself fall on the old couch. Dust covered the place even if you have tried many times to clean it.

Just like any other night you started to feel sad, memories of you and Jinx coming back. How you met her, how she seemed curious of you at first and how you had felt like her experiment, then your first kiss with her, the cuddles, doing her hair and nails....

And so you started to cry again but your spiral of depression would have to wait since a knock at your door alerted you.

Now, you were born and raised in the undercity, you knew how dangerous it could be, thats why you have trained yourself on being able to use knifes and be quick on your feet.

You swiftly took out your blade going in silence towards the door, the knocking continued, being more frenetic.

Your heart went up fast your brain already thinking on vitals points to hit and a back door from the apparment complex till you hear it.

"No! Im not shooting her door"

That voice...

"Well because she is nice? You will love her, but no more than me"

You went quickly and opened it revealing a figure under a cape, but you could see the blue hair and pink eyes.

You were fast on pulling her in, no noticing the small kid that followed by her hand.

"Jinx! Fucking hell, are you alright? Wait, thats blood? Its not yours right? I need to get you cleaned, hold up"

Just as you were going to go and look for something she pulled you back and kissed you, it felt different, like this was a kiss that was more to ground herself than anything.

"Just...just shut up. And its not mine"

Jinx said getting away a bit. She could see your worried expression and by the look of your aparment and the alcohol bottles she could tell you had been dealing with a lot.

Fuck, why did she hurt anyone who got close?

Her mind stopped when she saw you go down on your knees and see behind her leg.

"Why do you have a kid with you?" You asked seeing the dirty kid who looked back at you then at Jinx then at you.

Jinx and the kid seemed to talk without saying a word, then with a nod from her the kid went to you and hugged you.

You were suprised and a bit taken back, but hugged her back.

"Suprise! You are a mom now, I know you have said how you wanted to adopt a kid if you could"

You gave a Jinx a pointed look then separated from the kid who had a different look now, a look of...fondness?

"Jinx...I- Im not even going to ask. Im just glad you are fine"

Her heart broke at your honest words and loving smile. She did swear no one would take you from her.

~~~~~~~~

Jinx insisted on you moving to her hideout, saying that someone could have seen her and your house was not safe anymore.

Honestly? You thought she was trying to make her own world there. A place where she, Isah and you could live under colors, see insects fights. Play hideout and just....be a family.

When Isah went to sleep you went to Jinx who was messing with her old gun, not getting it back together just...moving pieces.

"Jinx, you know this cant last forever" You had started to say slowly getting her to stop messing and look at you.

"Dont tell me you agree with lefty?"

You snorted at the nickname she had gave to Sevika.

"No, well maybe a bit. Look i dont want you to be a vigilant or anything, i want you to be whatever you wanna be. But, we are in difficult times now, and you Jinx" You said taking her hands in yours "You are what is keeping the others together, something i have never imagined"

"Because I jinx everything, right?"

You moved your head and made her look directly at you.

"You dont do that. Stop saying that. You met me, and we are together right? We have been together for so long, i dont plan on going anywhere".

"...Even if i turn into a worm?"

"Yes Jinx, even if you turn into a worm. I will still be at your side, loving you  and caring for you. But i wont let you be on our fights, sorry but you would be a loser"

And with both of your laughts the bitter reallity seemed to go away at least for now.

[gothwineaunts]

Well hello there, readers!!

So, I have been lurking on our socials and in the webtoon comments of Nevermore's finale episode and have picked up some very subtle hints that y'all want to know when we're going to drop Season 2. Firstly I do want to let all the smarties who guessed we'd come back on Halloween based on our Ulalume quote know that they were onto something. When we originally left that hint for you, we were indeed planning to return in late October, but some unforeseen setbacks over the summer pushed our production schedule back. Still, I wanted to say congratulations for getting the hint right! We were impressed so many of you figured it out.

As for the updated launch of season two? While I don't have a specific date to share yet, I can tell you it'll be in January.

I know, I know. Trust me, I wish it was sooner too. I can't tell you how much Flynn and I miss updating weekly. Y'all make creating this series so exciting for us with your energy and excitement and creativity!! The talent I've seen in this community is off the charts. We feel unspeakably lucky to have readers like you along for the ride, and can't wait for you to see the episodes we've been working on.

If you're new to Flynn and I, it might not be common knowledge that we always do the absolute most all the time, compulsively, without stopping ever (save us, ahahhaa). And let me assure you that the opening episodes of season two? Are very most. A lot of most. Super long. Really, extra pretty. I wish I could post them now but I think webtoon might um. Be upset with me if I did that, so. Just trust me, ok? One thing I can share in th emeantime is some of the S2 character concepts. A few characters are getting minor glow ups. See if you can spot the differences!

Okay, well! We'll see you in January!! Or before, if you hang around our socials. I mean we're not disappearing. We'll be here, just. Plodding along on buffer in the background. If you're dying to spoil yourselves with wip streams you can hit up our patreon but I almost wouldn't recommend it on account of. You'll be so confused, at this point. Lmfao. Like. Wow, it would be a really weird time to join a wip stream with no context. This sounds like a shameless plug but I'm being serious when I say it's probably best you don't hop in at this particular moment?? But I mean. I'm not a cop. I'm just your weird goth wine aunt. 🍷

Cheers, Kit Trace

[nadvs]

　 —⊹　♡　︵　∘　 pretty lies ⟢

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you thought you could manage meaninglessly hooking up with your ex-boyfriend. you were sure that if you lied to yourself enough that you’re not still in love with him, you’d eventually believe it. it takes one bad night to see that you’re both still very much attached.

on loop “breakup tutorial” by laraw

content warnings toxic relationship, alcohol, smut

continuation of this blurb, inspired by this ask! started as a blurb but got very long! not necessary to read the previous works. takes place between s2-3. div credit.

You sit on your bed, the lump in your throat refusing to go away. You’ve been on the verge of crying since your friends left almost half an hour ago.

It was so embarrassing. You were hanging out downstairs, showing them something on your phone. That’s when Rafe texted you, the notification clear for everyone to see.

“Who’s Don’t Text?” one of your friends asked, confused by the contact name.

You locked your screen, meeting their cautious stares, sure they already knew.

Who else would you have saved as Don’t Text other than your toxic ex-boyfriend? It wouldn’t have been so damning if he hadn’t sent ok see you tonight.

So, you admitted it. That you’ve been hooking up with Rafe for the past few weeks, ever since the night of your friend’s birthday when you drunkenly texted him to ask for a ride home.

You knew what they were thinking. That you’re an idiot for inviting the man who you always cried over back into your life, the man who you repeatedly told your friends is an asshole, the man they watched tear your heart out when you tried to make your relationship healthier, just to be told by him that no, it wasn’t going to happen, he wasn’t going to try to get better for you.

While you thought it’d be a relief to have the secret off your chest, it wasn’t. The tension in the room was heavy, your friends piecing together that this is why you didn’t want them to sleep over on the one night you have the house to yourself. It’s because Rafe is coming over after they leave.

As you lean against your pillow, you read through your emotionless conversation with him, a noncommittal string of plans to hook up. Earlier this evening, you had texted my place later? He replied with time? You said around 1. He responded with ok see you tonight.

Your confession made your friends look at you with worry and contempt, asking “are you sure it’s a good idea?” when you told them it’s just sex and that he’s saved as Don’t Text because one day, you really are planning on not texting.

But they weren’t convinced. They said you’ll just undo your healing and wind up hurt all over again. And you’re angry because they’re right.

You brushed past the subject, saying that you’re unattached. It’s a lie.

Every time you see Rafe, you feel shameful relief. He’s a drug that gets better and harder to stop with every hit. Admittedly, you couldn’t wait for your friends to leave so you could sink into mindless pleasure with your ex.

He’s on his way now.

You scroll up to the top of the conversation with him. The oldest message is from when you asked him for a ride a few weeks ago. You had deleted everything, every piece of evidence of your relationship, when you first broke up so that you wouldn’t go back and reminisce.

But you still have a hidden folder in your phone. Of photos and videos and screenshots. And because you must love to torture yourself, you open it.

Photos of memories that you used to cherish and now wish you could forget flood your screen. You open your favorite photo of you and Rafe.

It’s a captured moment of you two on a couch at a house party, unknowingly being photographed as you laugh together, your head thrown back, Rafe gazing at you with a dimpled smile and unconstrained love.

Ironically, the friend who was telling you earlier tonight that he did nothing but make you cry is the one who took the photo.

You continue to scroll through the folder, stopping at a screenshot of a text he sent you. You remember reading it for the first time so clearly.

You’d been together a little over three months. You’d gone to the beach and settled on the sand by a hidden cove. Rafe brought a blanket and your favorite drink and you sat together and talked as the half-moon shone down over the water.

You had innocently asked if he had eaten yet and he opened up to you about how you’re the only person in his life who really cares about him. Nobody else worries if he ate or if he slept or if he’s been drinking too much. You hugged him and kissed him and stroked his hair, whispering promises of how amazing he was.

Your eyes travel over the text he’d sent you the morning after. I can’t believe you’re real.

Those sweet moments were dirtied when your relationship slowly descended into a twisted, toxic mess. Rafe became jealous and controlling and you became combative and unforgiving, both of you poisoning each other the longer you were together.

It’s day and night when you compare how your texts used to be to how they are now. Whether you were on good terms or arguing, at least when you were together, your messages had passion behind them. Now, every text is cold and clinical, making plans to fuck and nothing else.

Your phone buzzes. He’s here.

As you pace down the stairs towards the front door, you regret the way you dressed. After your friends left, you showered and slipped into your sexiest bra and panties and draped a silk robe over your shoulders.

It’s something you’d do when you were together, dressing up in something you know he’d love. But now, it feels silly, going the extra mile for a man who didn’t consider you worth fighting for.

Rafe waits for the door to open. It’s all he fucking does these days. Wait. Wait to get better, wait to be over you, wait to see you texted him and just ignore it instead of feeling his heart come together and break apart.

You keep the lights off, but when you swing open the door, he can see your figure in the muted dark. Your robe is barely held open by the knot over your waist. The sight of your cleavage sends hot electricity through him.

“Hey,” you say impassively, stepping away so he can come inside. You see that he cut his hair. It’s not hanging over his forehead anymore. He buzzed it and he looks so damn handsome that your heart skips a beat.

He grimaces when he notices your expression. This is why he’s been avoiding meeting your eyes lately. Because of that blank way you look at him, unaffected by his presence, only interested in sex, detached when you used to hold onto him like you’d die without him.

Rafe purses his lips, trying to act like seeing you doesn’t make his blood run hot, like one second of looking at you doesn’t make him hard. You’ve been broken up for nearly two months now, so he doesn’t understand why he has the impulse to compliment you on how pretty you dressed for him.

“How long are you alone?” he asks. He doesn’t want to deal with being seen by your parents. You’ve already told him how much your family and friends don’t approve of him. He can do without the reminder of how much he doesn’t fit in your life anymore.

“All night,” you say. “They’re not back until tomorrow.”

He follows you up the stairs, eyes trailing up your bare legs, already wanting to rip that robe off of you.

He hasn’t been in your bedroom in ages. He didn’t expect it to be so hard to be in here again when he owns the title of ex-boyfriend.

You pull him in immediately. You can’t deal with your thoughts anymore. You just want to drown in pleasure with someone who knows your body better than you know it yourself.

Rafe tastes like cinnamon with a hint of whisky, and you’re mad that he’s been drinking, but you think you forfeited the right to be mad at him for his choices when you ended things.

His tongue is warm against yours as you pull him down onto your bed. You sink into the mattress and he hovers over you. His hand roughly drags up your thigh, squeezing your ass, his cock already hard against you.

You hate how much you love the effect you have on him. Why does it make you so proud that you can get him so hard, that you can text him to come over and he does, savoring you like you’re forbidden fruit he’s been starving for?

Rafe’s kisses are ravenous, teeth nipping at your lips, kneading your ass, groaning against your mouth.

You spread your legs so that he’ll touch you and he knows what you want, because at this point, he reads your body like a book. He presses his fingers against your core, rubbing over your panties.

“Couldn’t wait for me, yeah?” he mumbles against your mouth.

Your brows pinch in sadness. Ever since you became exes with benefits, you play this game, dirty-talking taunts, fighting for power, as if one of you can win if you prove that the other needs this more.

But you don’t have it in you tonight. Not after the way your friends looked at you. Not after going through that stupid folder. Your heart weighs a thousand pounds.

“Just…” you breathe.

“Just what?”

He pulls your panties to the side, the warm pads of his fingers making direct contact, and you slightly buck your hips, a whine spilling from your mouth.

“Just what?” he demands, tracing up and down.

“Just make me feel good.”

It’s a plea much deeper than it sounds. You don’t just want the sexual gratification. You want to feel how you did before. Happy with him. Happy with who you are when he’s around.

Rafe’s lips press against your neck, taking on the challenge. He hasn’t gone down on you since the first time you fucked after your break-up, when you roughly pushed him down and sat on his face, using him, treating his body with so much anger.

He tells himself he hasn’t eaten you out since because it’s too loving of a gesture for two people who are just hate-fucking. But it’s not the truth. He doesn’t do it because he falls in love with you even more every time he tastes you.

He can’t bear to need you any more than he already does. You broke him in every sense of the word. You proved to him that he’s unloveable.

“Rafe, please,” you whisper, arching your back.

“What?” he rasps. “What do you want? Just fucking say it.”

You stay silent as he leaves open-mouthed kisses over your neck. He’s frustrated that you’re not answering.

“You want me to go down on you?” he says impatiently.

“Yes,” you whisper. He catches the shakiness in your tone. You don’t sound like who you’ve been since you started hooking up. You sound gentle and adoring like who you used to be with him. You sound like the woman you’re not anymore.

He ignores it, not giving in to ask what the hell is going on with you, not when he knows you’ll brush him off. He pushes your robe off your body, the silk slipping over your skin quickly, and shifts lower to put his head between your legs.

You moan when he kisses you over your panties. Your hands lace in his hair, but you don’t feel the locks you used to feel. Instead, you run your nails over the soft buzzcut, wondering when and why he cut his hair, knowing you won’t ask because you don’t make much conversation with him anymore.

He’s rough when he pulls your panties down, rushing to spread your lips apart and taste you as soon as he can. The heat of his open mouth against you makes you quiver in bliss.

Rafe’s head is swimming. You’re so soft and hot and wet against his mouth, sweet just like he remembered. He groans against you, starting to lap at every dip, your folds slick and delicate.

Your hand runs over his hair as you writhe beneath him, feeling his mouth working you, listening to the sounds of him licking and sucking.

He’s an addict relapsing and he wants to overdose, to replicate how this was when you lived in the promise of a relationship together, even though he knows it’ll kill him.

“Talk how you used to,” he murmurs.

“What?” you ask.

“Do it.” His voice is hoarse as he grips your thigh. He’s fucking mortified to be asking to be spoken to and praised the way he used to when he’d please you like this. But he needs it.

You look down to see Rafe’s head between your thighs, expecting clarity, but getting nothing else. He keeps his eyes off of you, licking you slowly.

“How I used to?” you whisper.

He shifts to run the tip of his tongue over your aching clit, pushing hot pleasure through you. You’ll do anything he wants if he makes you feel like this.

“I can,” you stammer breathily, willing yourself to fall into the old habit. He locks his lips around your clit and you shudder. “Shit. That’s good.”

“Yeah?” he pulls back to groan.

“So fucking good,” you say. “You know exactly what to do.”

Euphoria floods every one of Rafe’s senses and he lets himself believe, for just this moment, that you meant all the good things you said to him and none of the bad.

He sucks your most sensitive spot slowly, warm breaths pooling over you every time he pulls back.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “That’s perfect.”

Your words spur him on, his tongue flat against you, his lips and chin wet and sticky. He’s obsessed with the way you’re talking and breathing and moaning. He loves the sounds you make when you’re so deep in ecstasy that he’s giving you.

Your words are in your throat. You used to tell him you loved him whenever he did this to you, but you can’t and it’s a jarring realization that it’s not because you wouldn’t mean it, but really, because this is supposed to be indulgent and sinful, not loving and sweet.

“Whose?” he rasps. It’s what he used to always ask. Who your pussy belongs to. Whose you are.

You can’t say it.

“Whose?” he demands.

You give in.

“Yours,” you whisper. Saying it makes the tears that’ve been threatening to come out finally fall out of the corners of your eyes.

You’re his and you don’t want to be. Because being his means loving a broken man who doesn’t want to get himself together for you.

Your throat aches as you swallow down the pain, shuffling beneath him so he’ll take his mouth off of you. No matter how earth-shatteringly good it feels, you’ll cry if he keeps going.

You turn to perch up on your knees, looking back, but not meeting his gaze because you can’t handle him seeing you teary-eyed. Too many times in the past, you were vulnerable with him just to be called sensitive.

“Hard,” you say in a hush. You want him behind you, fucking you with force, giving you raw pleasure because you need the reminder that that’s all he’s capable of offering you.

Rafe’s pissed off that you cut it short, roughly tugging off his shirt and pulling down his jeans. He realizes you’re still in your bra and he unhooks it, because if he’s nothing but a fuck to you, he deserves to see all of you.

He holds himself at his base, on his knees, finding your entrance. The head of his cock sinks into you and you push back, needing him now.

Rafe smirks depravedly, revelling in the way you look with your ass up in the air for him, desperate for his cock. Good. Because he’s so fucking desperate for you that he still can only come to the thought of you.

His hands are on your hips and he shoves into you, making you gasp, granting your wish to give it to you hard.

He pulls back, then drives back inside over and over, your skin slapping against his, your ass recoiling with each thrust. Every plunge into you is fucking perfect. You’re squeezing him so tight.

Your breaths quicken, both panting as he fucks you from behind, filling you with a deep, hard pressure. It feels so damn good, your moans uncontrollable, but you can’t shut your mind up.

It’s all too much. Loving someone who accused you of not caring about him as much as he did about you was exhausting, but having to pretend you don’t love him at all is even worse.

You bury your face into your pillow, asking yourself the hell you’re doing, getting dressed up for him, letting him continue to take pieces of you every time you meet like this. For the first time, you can’t get lost in the pleasure. The pain is louder.

Rafe’s fingers dig into your hips as his body tightens with the promise of an orgasm. This is what makes it all worth it. When he’s balls deep in you, he doesn’t have the self-loathing thoughts that haunt him every minute he’s alone, he doesn’t have to pretend he’s somewhere else.

It feels so right to be inside you, even though you’re someone he’s supposed to hate. He’s empty, but with you is the only time he’s whole and he so deeply resents that he’s not enough for you, that all this has to be so goddamn complicated.

He sees stars when he comes, pumping deep inside you, grunting a broken string of fucks into your quiet bedroom air. It’s embarrassing to come this fast, but eating you out got him so worked up that he couldn’t control it.

He’s weak, hunching over, one arm holding himself up as stays inside you and skims his other hand over your hip and between your legs, rubbing your clit exactly how you need to come.

Your face is against the pillow, now wet with tears. You won’t be able to come. You can’t.

“Stop it,” you say, voice thick with sorrow.

You shift forward, feeling him slide out of you, collapsing to your side.

“Fuck,” you mumble in the pillow.

Rafe is at a loss. You were just moaning, pushing back against him, and now you’re angry at him, not wanting to let him give you an orgasm.

“What?” he murmurs, moving to lean over you, his hand resting on your sweat-sheened back. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes,” you say impulsively, because while it’s not physical pain, it is emotional agony. You can’t do this. Casual sex isn’t all that casual when the person you’re doing it with owns you in every possible way.

Rafe stiffens. You’re crying. He can hear it in your voice. When you sniffle, he feels like the lowest of the low, the biggest piece of shit in the world. He must have lost himself in the moment, going too rough.

“Are you okay?” he asks. His hand runs up and down the curve of your back, watching you with worried eyes, but like always, you won’t look at him.

“You can leave now.”

Rafe pulls his hand off of you. The bed shifts when he stands. You hear the shuffle of clothes. You look up to see his broad silhouette leave your bedroom, in just his boxers. You wipe away your tears.

In the dim glow of the lamp light, you watch him come back into your bedroom. He’s holding a towel, damp with warm water, and you’re weak, so you let him lie next to you in bed, gently turning you onto your back and wiping between your legs.

It’s something he’d do as a boyfriend, knowing his way around your home, cleaning you up. Not as an ex who’s using you for sex. Every hook-up you’ve had since you broke up ends with one of you abruptly leaving, no concern for aftercare or pillow talk.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, dabbing gently. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Any and every shred of anger and disappointment he holds for you is silenced. He’s disgusted in himself for hurting you. No matter what you are to him now, you were once the sun in a storm, the only person who didn’t make him feel like he was in the background of his own life.

He sounds devastated and you wriggle in your sheets to get a look at his face. His gaze darts to you for just a moment, but it’s enough for you to see that his eyes glossed over with tears.

You feel a prick on your heart. He’s crying over this? You would’ve thought he’d be fine with hurting you during sex. After all, he’s fine hurting you every other way.

“It wasn’t… it didn’t hurt,” you say softly. It’s the first time you care about not hurting his feelings since your catastrophic break-up.

“What? You said it did.”

You gently put your hand on his, stopping his movements, letting your tears fall now because there’s no point in hiding them anymore.

“I meant… what we’re doing hurts,” you admit, looking down at your hands atop the towel because you can’t bear to look into his eyes. “Hooking up like this. It’s fucking with my head.”

Rafe takes a moment to breathe, his chest rising and falling with tears that won’t stop.

His hand slides out from under yours and he sits up, wiping at his eyes. You toss the towel aside, sitting up, too, finding your robe and draping it over your body, even though he’s seen you naked so many times before.

You watch him in the dusk of your bedroom, the light soft over his handsome features, his lips parted as he stares down and tries to gain composure.

“You’re saying you want to stop?” he finally asks through hitched breaths.

You don’t know the answer. You don’t know if you want to stop having Rafe in your life, even in this twisted capacity.

You’re silent, sniffling as your cries refuse to cease. You can’t believe you’re here, both crying on your bed, both having crumbled so quickly.

“You have to answer me,” he says, blinking fast, his tone on the verge of a whine.

Your face is pinched in misery as you gaze at him. He looks up, his eyes bloodshot and glimmering.

“Do you want to stop?” you ask. It’s mostly a cop-out, a test to see if he feels anything more than lust for you.

“Don’t turn it on me,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “You told me to leave. And I’ll go and never come back if that’s what you want.”

Rafe’s eyes burn from the tears. He’s in pieces. He’s not going to be the one going out on a limb here, asking you to keep this arrangement with him. You have to decide.

“Do your friends know that you still see me?” you ask. What happened earlier tonight with your friends won’t leave your head.

“What?” Rafe squints in frustration.

“Do they?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. How the fuck did he get here? He was just living in a fantasy, finishing inside of you, releasing all his stress, and now, he’s facing the demons that he’s constantly trying to outrun.

“Yeah,” he says. “Why?”

“What do they say?”

“What are you getting at?” he huffs.

“Do they tell you to stop? Or that I’m bad for you?”

“You know we don’t talk like that,” Rafe tells you.

You chew on your lip, gently sweeping under your eyes with shaky fingers. You were the only one he didn’t keep at an emotional distance. The only one he opened up to who never told him to toughen up. It seems that hasn’t changed.

“My friends found out tonight,” you admit. He’s immediately on edge. It was an ongoing theme in your relationship that they never liked him.

“And what, they don’t approve?” Rafe mutters. “So, you’re ending this because you live by their rules?”

You pull your legs forward, curling into a ball with your forehead on your knees.

“Please stop,” you whisper defeatedly. “It’s not like that.”

He stares at you, a hole in his chest as your shoulders skitter with your cries. He always hated seeing you cry.

It’s overwhelming dealing with his own tears, so it’s a million times worse seeing yours. His reflex is to tell you to stop. But when you were his girlfriend, you’d told him, screamed at him really, that it was cruel of him to tell you to quit being sensitive when your body was just letting out pain.

And he’s been ruminating over everything you ever said to him, trying to figure out if there was an exact moment you fell out of love with him. He doesn’t want to be called cruel again.

“What’d they say?” he asks.

You’re surprised to hear the gentle tone of his voice. It’s relieving to not be fighting with him for once.

“That I’ll just end up hurt again,” you confess, your words muffled. “And I am. Already. I don’t remember what it’s like to not hurt.”

Rafe aches, taken aback. You’ve been cold and apathetic every time he’s seen you since the night you drunkenly hooked up in his car as exes. He never knew you were hurting, that he still has the power to do that to you.

“Me, neither,” he admits, his voice brittle. You lift your head to look up at him, needing to see his face to believe it.

“What else?” you ask.

“What else?” he echoes.

“What else do you feel?”

He swallows. It’s odd, not having the urge to hide behind his pride. But your gaze is so sincere, your sniffles so hard to listen to.

Rafe has never been good at talking through his feelings. He prefers to show them by yelling and throwing things and fighting because those methods are easy and safe.

Crying never feels safe. At one point, it did. With you. Before you broke his heart.

“You can tell me,” you say. “I won’t start a fight about it.”

“I don’t give a fuck if you start a fight,” he says, a humorless laugh leaving his lips.

“What do you give a fuck about?” you say, keeping your temper in.

Rafe mumbles your name in frustration, shaking his head.

“I don’t want to… talk to you about this shit just for you to not…” he trails off.

You know your ex well, aware that he needs to be coached through hard conversations. He doesn’t think before he speaks when he’s vulnerable. He rambles, at times all over the place, making it hard to understand him.

“For me to not what?” you ask.

“Think what I think,” he admits.

You rest your cheek on your knee, your eyes stinging with tears.

“What are you thinking?”

“Goddamn it. That I miss you, okay?” he says sharply. “And you just… you look at me like I’m a fucking stranger now.”

It’s the last thing you expected to hear. You thought you were just hook-up to him. Not somebody he misses. Your throat is raw. Your pulse is loud in your ears.

Rafe looks down again, breath shaky as his crying gets closer to sobbing. He’s a mess. He doesn’t do this shit in front of people. He does it alone, when he can’t hold it in any more, letting his cheeks burn with tears when he lies on his pillow at night, knowing there’s no point in trying to stop.

“You miss me?” you repeat. He scoffs, as if he’s angry you pulled it out of him. “What do you miss?”

“Why are you asking me this?” he mutters, annoyed. You always do this, pull at the string barely keeping him together, making him speak. It’s what he always loved and hated about you.

You take a beat before you answer, accepting that you’re about to break the promise you made to yourself to never open up to him again.

“Because I miss you, too,” you admit.

It’s the first time in months that you see light in Rafe’s eyes. A few seconds of heavy silence pass between you.

The moment’s not even over, but you already know you’ll think about it for a long time, about the feeling of sitting with him in your dim room this late at night, practically naked together on your bed, wordless. Every sense of anything sexual is gone, the atmosphere much more fragile.

Even after weeks of hooking up, this is the most intimate moment you’ve shared in a long time.

Then, his brows furrow, uncertainty and anguish flashing on his face. He doesn’t believe you.

“I do,” you say softly, nodding to confirm it.

Rafe opens his mouth to speak, looking down again, another tear rolling down his face and dripping off his chin. You watch the way his glossy bottom lip trembles, as if his mouth is refusing to let him get the words out.

This is when he cracks all the way, holding his head in his hands, silently sobbing. You gaze at him with a broken heart. You’ve seen him cry, but never this hard.

Despite all the pain and anger that festers between you, you shuffle closer. Your bunched up robe falls off your chest and you don’t care. You rest your hand on the back of his neck, guiding him to cry against your bare shoulder.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He shakes his head no against you. It’s so far from okay. It’s not fair to meet someone and give them all of himself just to be ridiculed and told that all of him isn’t enough.

But impulse and muscle memory take over and he wraps his arms wrap around you, bare chests pressed together, his face in the crook of your neck.

“You said I was just like my dad,” he murmurs shakily against your skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You compared him to his father once, just once, during a fight when you were together. He’d gotten angry at you for being upset, and you knew his dad had done that to him in the past, and the vile, spiteful words came out of your mouth with no filter.

You regretted it immediately. You had no idea he held onto it, too.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, running your hand up and down the back of his hair. “You’re not. I said that just to hurt you. I didn’t mean it.”

He burrows his face deeper, smelling you, his heavy arms lightly trembling as they encircle you. It’s ridiculous how he wanted an apology from you for so long, but now that you gave it, he feels guilty.

“I hurt you, too,” he says. “Your friends are right to hate me.”

“They’re just protective,” you say, your voice wobbly.

“You shouldn’t…” He breathes in sharply. “You shouldn’t need protection from me. I know I fucked up. I fucked up so bad so many times.”

Your mind replays your vicious fights before and after your break-up, how deeply he hurt you when he hurled insults at you and accused you of cheating and blamed you for your problems.

But the good parts weave their way in. You were best friends. You made so many good memories. He loved you, took care of you, spoiled you. You always came together after a fight. Until too much damage had been done.

You can’t deny that he fucked up. But you did, too. You were mean. You were spiteful. You ignored him because you knew how much it hurt him.

“I fucked up, too,” you say, never having liked when he spoke low of himself, hating that you’ve called him names and insulted him in the past. “You deserve to feel good about yourself, okay?”

Rafe exhales shakily. He’s not sure he agrees. He knows there’s a screw loose, something missing in him. Maybe someone like him is fated to hate himself because there’s nothing to love.

“You know why I miss you?” you offer, not waiting for a response. “I had fun with you. I loved how full of life you are and how intensely you care. I loved how you called me your girl and how you much you looked out for me.”

It’s the best thing you could’ve said. This is why you owned his heart. Why you still do. You can unravel him, but you can also you tie him back together. You’re the only one who knows how to.

“Why aren’t you my girl, then?” he finally mumbles.

You swallow hard. It’s not that simple. Not even close.

“You know why,” you say.

Rafe wills himself to pull back, leaving your shoulder wet with his tears, sitting inches away from you.

Your eyes are glossy and red. The sight is pure torture for him. You sigh when he swipes his thumb under your eye, wiping away a fresh tear.

“No, I don’t,” he replies, because really, he’d rather be in a fucked up relationship with you than be apart.

His chest twists with unease. That’s why. He’d choose to be miserable together because at least you’re together. You’d rather be happy with him or be nothing at all.

You look down, frustrated that he still doesn’t get it.

“You always said you loved me more, but it was the other way around,” you say. “Loving someone means wanting to be the best person you can, because it’s what they deserve.”

You meet his hardened eyes, feeling dizzy.

“Why didn’t I deserve it?” you ask.

Rafe’s skin goes cold. He pulls you in, his hands cradling your jaw as he meets your lips tenderly, because he can’t go another second without kissing you. You let him. It feels too good not to.

“You do,” he breathes when he shifts back, his nose nudging yours, his hands still holding your face. “You deserve it. You deserve everything.”

“You’re everything,” you whimper impatiently. He expels a breath of relief. The tears welling in his eyes are from happiness this time. You still care about him. There’s no way you don’t.

“I’ll be better,” Rafe says. You’ve heard him say it so many times before. Your heart isn’t fully out of its cage yet, but you’re willing to listen.

“How?” you say.

It’s been tumbling in his mind nonstop. A world where you’re together is all he thinks about. He straightens, palms still on your cheeks, gazing down at your watery eyes.

“I won’t yell at you,” he says. “I won’t control you. I won’t ever hurt you.”

“You can’t promise to never hurt me,” you say, skeptical.

“Watch me.”

Your lips briefly curl into a sad smile that fades away. He nervously licks his lips, needing you so bad that he feels it in his bones.

He’ll make a fool of himself if he has to. He got this far. He’ll spill his guts to you and if you tell him to leave, he’ll pick himself up and go, because at least he tried. He’s half a person these days anyway.

“I was born to be with you,” Rafe whispers through his tears, staring into the beautiful eyes he dreams about every night. “You’ll always be my girl, alright? I love you.”

A wave of hope and fear and excitement and worry crashes into you. You need a second to understand that this is really happening, to come up for breath.

You gaze at him, taking in how soft and sweet he looks. This is Rafe. Not the man who makes you feel like you can’t do anything right. Beneath everything, beneath his anger and his trauma, the person looking at you is who he really is, someone who just needs to feel loved.

“Talk to me, please, baby,” he begs, thumbs stroking your skin. He can’t take the miserable look on your face. “What are you thinking?”

“That it’s impossible not to love you back,” you confess. “I think maybe we… we can try this again.”

Rafe kisses you hard, passion and joy blazing through him, every part of him wanting every part of you.

Even if you tried, you couldn’t keep track of how many kisses he’s leaving on your lips and your cheeks, overcome with love. You sink into the satisfaction and relief of hope. You never thought you’d feel that with him ever again. Hope.

“I’ll be good to you,” he whispers breathlessly, his forehead against yours. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you,” you say, your hands dragging up his firm, naked back. “I never stopped.”

Rafe kisses you again and again and again, his head swimming, his heart racing. He won’t fuck this up. He’ll die if he loses you again.

He gently pushes you so you’ll lie on your back and you sigh in pure relief when his hand dips between your legs, sliding his fingers up and down.

He’s painfully aware that you never got the pleasure he did tonight. He needs to give you an orgasm, to make you feel all the happiness he possibly can.

“My girl,” he says. “I’ll only ever make you feel good. I promise.”

He shifts to rest his head on your chest, fondling you as he lies right over your heart. He hears it pounding, feeling so lucky that you made space for him in it and so determined to never let it hurt ever again.

You wrap one arm around his shoulders and the other settles over his cheek, stroking softly as he traces circles right where you need him to. Your breath is shaky, your body loose, craving him in every sense.

“I fucking live for you, you know that?” he whispers, finding heaven in the way you’re panting and moaning.

You writhe beneath him, adoring how he knows what to do, knows when to dip a finger in you, when to move back up to your clit.

You whisper that you love him over and over as you reach your orgasm, mind-blowing pleasure ripping through you, sure you’ve never felt this much physical and emotional relief at once.

As you tumble down into a blissful fog, Rafe continues to gently run his fingers over you, moving up to kiss you again.

“I live for you,” he repeats against your mouth.

You feel the same way. You know now that you two weren’t destined to fall. You were meant to be happy together. It just took some time to get there.

[alargehunkofdebris]

Why There’ll Never Be Another Good Omens 2 Experience

The strangest thing happened after a few days post my watching of S2. I got a wave of real, bittersweet sadness.

Not due to the obvious – I was dealing with that too, but with more excitement than anything – but because I realized something, as a writer and consumer of media. I realized that it’s unlikely I’ll ever get a media experience close to what I experienced at the end of Good Omens 2. Because really, its setup was absolutely unparalleled – in general, and for myself personally.

I am currently writing my third romance, and what I’ve learned primarily about the genre, the way for it to really work, is that there needs to be something keeping the couple apart initially. The more things keeping the couple apart, the stronger the romance hits. The more the couple clashes with each other, the better it is. Societal norms, class issues, initial dislike, literal danger—all these aspects are what make a romance a story. It’s that conflict that creates the compelling narrative. No romance was ever popular because things worked out well from the beginning – it’s that “look at what we were, and look at us now” aspect that gives readers/watchers that satisfaction. It’s the “I can’t believe this happened” effect. The “I would never have foreseen this” effect. The “they’ll never be together” effect. It’s why forbidden romances are so incredibly popular.

Another aspect that makes a romance story really work well is the amount of time it takes for the romance to develop. A couple that gets together after a few days? Eh, it’s tricky. You better make it really dramatic somehow. A great example is Titanic – class differences, betrothal, and a huge amount of danger threatens this couple, so them being in love after only a few days works. But what really sells this one is because we can see how this romance has survived beyond those few days. We see it 80 years in the future, still there, in the memory of Rose. That is why it hits so hard. Romances that span over long periods of time (especially ones that are bittersweet/tragic) hit so much more than ones spanning a short period.

But wait! There’s more!

You can up this effect by not only having the romance take time in story…but having it take time in real life, for the viewer/reader.

This is why romances in TV shows that take years to finally work out are so compelling. It’s that “Pam and Jim” effect, that will-they-won’t-they deal. We are waiting right along with them, and we’re feeling that same relief when all those things keeping them apart finally fall away. This is harder to pull off, because there’s never that guarantee that the story will make it that far. TV shows get cancelled, creators lose interest or die, etc. So it’s not just “Will They, Won’t They,” it’s “Will They, Won’t They, Can They Even Try?”

This is also compounded by that fear that it won’t happen in-story after all, and while in romances you’re pretty positive that things work out (they kinda have to, for it to be labeled a “romance”) in other media, there’s always that possibility. Look at Community – there’s a forbidden/conflict-ridden romance that didn’t end up working out, even though it was “Will They, Won’t They”d for six entire seasons. You also then have shows and ships where fans are almost sure it won’t happen, but still hold out hope. (See: Supernatural, Sherlock, etc.)

Now. Now look at Good Omens. Look at that absolutely unparalleled, unbelievable set up. It’s unbelievable because it takes almost every single thing that makes a romance compelling, and not only uses all of them, but dials them up to 11.

Why are they at odds? Why are they forbidden from being together?

Because they are literally the most opposing forces you can imagine in Western Canon. They are the Angel Guarding The Gate and The Serpent of Eden. The literal only way you could’ve made this a bigger deal would’ve been to make it God and Satan, and even that would’ve not hit as hard, because it’d be like two CEOs getting together – there’s no fear of a higher power adding that delicious conflict. And to add to all this, in real life, the couple is portrayed as two men, which adds that second meta level of conflict.

And what fear/danger is keeping this couple apart?

Not just familial disappointment—but disappointment from God and Heaven and Hell. Not just moral guilt, but the guilt of potentially dooming the entire Earth. And finally, on top of that, the very real danger of being killed. Not only that, but making it as though you never even existed.

And in real life, they face all those roadblocks that queer couples in media have been battling for years and years, but I'll talk about that more in a second.

Okay, then Time. How long have they been kept apart?

For…all of it.

All of the time that ever existed.

They, quite literally, could not have been kept apart longer.

And this leads into those final two points, the ones that actually really sell it. Because I can sit down right now and write a story about an angel and a demon falling for each other at the beginning of time against all odds…but what I can’t do is to have already written it thirty-three years ago.

That’s how long this story has existed. Thirty. Three. Years.

I’m not even counting how this is using characters that have existed as opposing forces for thousands of years. I’m not even saying that, even though that’s also a part of it. But besides that, this story, this exact story started thirty-three years ago, and is still being continued by the author to this day.

Do you know how uncommon that is?

Yes, we have canon that has lasted for many, many years. Hundreds. We get new versions of beloved older stories ever year. But it’s so very rare that they are by the same creator. We get new Sherlock Holmes content, but it is not written by Arthur Conan Doyle. This, on the other hand, is actual canon content, written by the author of the original. That is unbelievably rare.

That means we’ve got a fandom where some people have grown up with these characters. People who read it at twenty are fifty-three. People who read it at fifty are eighty-three. Kids who saw their parents reading the book now have children of their own. It is a cult classic that has been in the hearts of so many people for generations. Me, personally, I fell in love with it ten years ago, at age twenty, at the very beginning of my own writing journey. This story means so much to people, because it’s stood that test of time.

And yet, this story was never explicitly romantic. So many saw it that way, but it was never something confirmed. Because this was a book from the 90s, at a time where this kind of romance just wasn’t in popular media if it wasn’t played as a joke. It was, back then, the same kind of “forbidden” as a romance between angel and demon. So people imagined, but they never expected anything more. And they’ve continued not expecting more, because even in the 2019 first season, there was never any true confirmation of anything, and people accepted it. You have a 33-year-old story here – it’s possible that this major change/confirmation could happen, but all things considered, it was unlikely. You would never blame the creator for not making major developments to a story they wrote with their late friend a lifetime ago. And no one in production was saying a word to confirm or deny, but we’ve seen all this before. It was a Will-They-Won’t-They…Probably-Not situation.

And then you have the end of S2.

And that's where that bittersweet sadness comes in for me, personally. Not at a huge level, not to the point where I'd have it any other way, but it's there regardless. Because I realized that this was a unique situation that could never be replicated, for me, and likely for many, especially readers of the book pre-show. In all likelihood, I would never again experience a romantic payoff like this one. Because it was the most forbidden of forbidden romances, the couple of which have been kept apart by the worst of all dangers and highest level of guilt for the longest amount of time literally possible, written over a real-life span of time where this kind of romance went from “completely taboo even in real life” to “finally acceptable in popular media,” written by the same creator, and not confirmed as canon until the story reached the age of Jesus Christ himself.

And the real kicker is, even after everything these two literally star-crossed lovers have gone through…they’re still being kept apart. They’ve still not taken down those final, seemingly insurmountable barriers between them. It wasn’t a “here you go 😊” move to make long-time fans happy – it’s being used as a perfect, painful plot point. After 33 years, we’re still having to wait longer.

Chef's kiss. Couldn’t have been a better set up if it was mathematically calculated. And yet, the best part is that it happened organically.

It just works.

[rafesangelita]

[🍪] chocolate chip cookie, includes; a fic inspired by a song of your choice!

maybe frat!rafe or either dealer!rafe (👀) with friends by chase atlantic😁😁😁😁😁😁😁they’re at a party and all her friends are fucked up and yk HAKSJDKD

₊˚⊹ᰔ 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

pairing: dealer!rafe x fem!reader

summary: ❝all of your friends have been here for too long, they must be waiting for you to move on. girl, i’m not with it, i’m way too far gone.❞ — after confessing his feelings for you, rafe gets nervous and leaves you the following morning. now you two are at a party, and he isn’t leaving without you.

warnings: friends w benefits au, mentions of drinking and dealing of drugs, arguing, suggestive ending

word count: 0.7k

a/n: wrote this with s2 rafe in mind..

you were the only sober one at this party. along with rafe, who never drank when he was dealing, and vowed to never get high on his own supply. you knew he’d be here— a party wasn’t a party if rafe wasn’t serving up people in the corner of the living room. you stared at him from a distance, his eyes occasionally finding yours when he looked up from the stacks of money on the table. you hated how good he looked tonight. skin flushed with a sheen of sweat from having so many people around him, his bangs hanging loosely in his face, with that blue jeans and white t-shirt combo that you loved so much.

you swallowed thickly, your trance being broken when one of your, very drunk, friends grabbed onto your arm for support. “stop looking at himmm!” she slurred, cackling when you rolled your eyes. “he just wants you for himself without any real commitment.” she nearly lost her footing, a yelp leaving her lips as you decided to guide her out of the kitchen. while your friend wasn’t all the way wrong, she didn’t know enough about you and rafe’s ‘situationship’ to form an opinion on it. your friends only knew what you told them, which meant they’ve only ever heard your annoyed rants.

“let’s get you over here..” you sat her down on the couch where the rest of your friends drunkenly talked amongst each other. rafe wasn’t far from where you sat, his laugh echoing in your ears as he started stuffing his black backpack full of cash. you could tell by the smile on his face that he had a good night for shop. sensing that you were looking at him, rafe felt the burn of your gaze as he got up, having no intention of leaving this party without you on his arm. you smelled his cologne before he approached you, the scent making your heart flutter in your chest.

“hey, can we talk?” rafe stopped in front of you, your friends turning around at the sound of his voice. you looked up at him, cursing under your breath at how handsome he was. “leave her alone, asshole!” rafe smiled at your friend, flipping her off before getting you up and taking you outside. “your friends are annoying as fuck.” he stopped by his truck, backing you up against the vehicle until his thigh sat comfortably between your legs. you knew what he was doing. “they’re drunk..” you glared at him, “what do you want?” rafe tilted his head at your words. “what do i want?” he repeated.

“you gonna act like you weren’t staring me down in there?” he laughed, cupping your chin. “you look pretty.” turning your head away from him, you shrugged him off as you arched a brow. “i was looking at you, and?” you ignored his little compliment. “..and you haven’t replied to any of my messages or called me back.. why?” you shook your head. “are you seriously asking me this? you tell me you have feelings for me while you’re inside of me, and then leave without a word in the morning? excuse me if i felt like you were toying with me or something.” you crossed your arms over your chest.

“i got nervous, alright! but i swear to you i meant every word. i would never mess with you like that..” he stepped closer. “i’ve been wanting this, us, for a long time, y/n. i’m not good at this stuff, but i want to try, i want to do it with you.” your gaze softened. “do you mean that?” your voice was small, a clear indication that you weren’t trying to argue with him anymore. “i fucking swear by it.” you watched as his jaw clenched. “i wont disappoint you, baby.” finally, for the first time in two weeks, he took you in his arms. you sighed, feeling a weight you didn’t know was there, lift off of your shoulders.

“is this a revenge dress?” you laughed when he pulled away, inspecting your outfit. “no, but it worked.” you teased. rafe leaned down and kissed you, in which you wasted no time in returning. “come on, let’s get out of here.. ‘before your friends threaten me.” you let him place you in the passenger seat, a squeal leaving your lips when he landed a harsh smack to your ass.

[emilys-bangs]

the end of beginning | e.p

Tags: bau!reader, fluff, no use of yn, s2 baby emily, a whole lotta yearning

Summary: In which Emily is new to the team and finds a friend in you. Requested here.

Word count: 1.2k

Emily has always felt out of place. 

In high school, in her mother’s lavish gatherings, in the sprawling estate that she’d eventually learned to call home. It’s never something she can help, though with gritted teeth she developed the art of blending in with fake smiles and perfectly crafted words. It’s a habit that stuck with her, one she’s never quite learned how to shake off even after all these years.

So it makes sense that she doesn’t fit in at her new job.

It works just fine with her. Emily has had a lifetime to get used to it; isolation had become her friend, the liquid movement of her following shadow more than often her only, constant, companion. Despite that, she had a small, lingering hope. That maybe coming back to DC would mean making herself a home, finding—if not friends—companions that she could be casual with, invite out for a round of drinks when the thick silence of her apartment was too much.

Hope was quickly snuffed out. Her boss only thinly veils his distrust, and the youngest—Reid—stares at her with accusing eyes. The rest of her coworkers are lukewarm, not quite yet interested in getting to know her; their gazes are more often than not tinged with condescension, as if they’re not sure she’s earned her place. It seems like everyone’s waiting for her to slip up, for Hotch to chew her out and pluck her from the neatly rounded group they’ve found themselves being, a well oiled machine that works perfectly in order without her.

Everyone, apparently, except you.

You and Garcia, that is, but the tech analyst’s influence is a lot less reassuring given that it’s behind phone calls and computer screens most of the time. But with you there with her—in the field, at your joint desks in the bullpen—things are more bearable. 

“Hey.” 

You’re whispering slightly as you slip into the vacant seat in front of her, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug.

Emily looks up at you. The dimmed lights of the jet reflect in your eyes, painting you in softer edges as you sit down across from her without waiting for an invitation. There’s an easiness to your movements, one that she would say is out of place considering how long you’ve known her. Still, warmth spreads to her icy fingertips, and she can’t help the small smile that pulls at her lips.

“Hi,” she says back, matching your tone. Other than the hum of the jet itself—and the rumble of distant snores she’s too far away to be bothered by—a soothing silence has settled across the cabin, and her voice doesn’t carry much farther than your seat. The smile that you return is friendly, a sight that she’s been slowly getting accustomed to these past few weeks.

She’s a little surprised when you don’t offer anything more to say. You simply lean back in your seat and take a sip from your mug, her eyes tracing the bop of your throat as you swallow and look down at the sudoku in your hand. Emily’s finger is still slotted inside her book; she’d automatically marked the page and shut the cover closed when you appeared, some subconscious mechanism turning in her head so that you get her full attention.

The revelation that you might simply want her company comes too late. 

You’re looking back up at her, your eyes meeting hers as a slow warmth runs beneath her icy skin. Emily should look back down; she has nothing to say, other than the blunt but genuine question of why are you here, but you give a small shrug and she’s enraptured, tracing the sheepish line of your pressed lips.

“Gideon’s snores get a little loud.” You say.

Emily’s surprised to hear her own laugh. It seems you are, too. A small movement draws your brows upward, but the curve of your mouth is distinctly pleased, your eyes brightening beneath the dim lights of the jet. The sound doesn’t last long—it’s low, soft, joined by your own laugh for a few brief seconds—but its effect carries tension from Emily’s shoulders, makes her slip her finger out of her book with a genuine smile.

“That they do,” she murmurs back, already familiar with the loud rumbles that have made their way through thin motel walls, occasionally piercing her already irregular sleep. The sleeves of her cardigan are pulled over her knuckles; she tugs them higher, seeking to cover the ice in her fingertips. 

“Are you cold?”

Maybe she is. Maybe the sound of your voice spills warmth down her veins. Emily doesn’t like admitting things, but her smile gives her away. It borders on shy, barely wide enough for her dimples to curve in her cheeks; she wishes she had a mug of her own to hide behind, but she has an inkling that hiding from you would be pointless.

In the end she shrugs.

You set your mug and sudoku down. “I’ll be right back.” 

She’s left staring at your empty seat, brows furrowing slightly as goosebumps break out on her skin. The jet really is ridiculously cold. And yet when you come back less than a minute later holding out a fuzzy blanket for her to take, she shakes her head.

“Oh, I can’t—”

“Please,” you insist. “I remember I forgot to layer up the first few times on here and I was miserable. Makes you stiff,” your lips twist into a smile, and you’re looking at her so earnestly that she submits.

“It does,” Emily says, this time accepting the blanket. You beam at her and she goes warm, though it has nothing to do with the fuzzy, light gray wool now draping over her lap. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Emily places her book on the table before effectively burying herself in your blanket. It’s warm and soft; when she brings it up over her shoulders, a faint scent of perfume nuzzles against her nose. Yours. In seconds, her hands grow warm. She chances a glance at you, a thank you almost tipping from her lips again—just to continue the conversation, hear your voice, when you do it for her.

“What does that say?” You’re peering at the worn cover of her book. The edges are curled, the spine broken. The margins are full of her loopy scrawl and unsteady underlines, more than a few pages dog eared.

Emily bites back a smile at the curious draw of your brows. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” The French slips effortlessly from her lips, smooth and curling. “The Dangerous Liaisons. It’s a French classic, one of my favorites. I could tell you about it,” her hand peeks out from the edge of the blanket and she fidgets with her hair, tucks it behind her ear, “if you’d like.”

You lean your elbows on the table, sudoku very much ignored as you peer at her with something like astonishment. A grin pulls at your lips and she’s suddenly overheating.

“I very much would, Agent Prentiss.”

“Emily.” 

“Emily.” You agree, tilting your head in a nod. “Tell me about Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” You butcher the title beyond belief. The displeased wrinkle of your nose says you know it, and butterflies erupt along Emily’s lungs.

She laughs, the beginnings of a blush staining her cheeks.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @moonlight-simp 

[bluebeary-jay]

Face to face

Din Djarin x f!Mandalorian!Reader

Summary: as riduurs, you and Din can finally show your faces to each other without suffering any consequences. but when the time finally comes, your insecurities and fears of rejection come into play, threatening to ruin this important moment

Tags: just pure tooth-rotting fluff, Din and Reader being insecure, they're sweethearts though and so in love, Din being a supporting husband <3, mandalorian customs are probably half-accurate but i did my best in research 😌

Word count: 3K

A/N: haiii guys!! long time no see 🤗 i had this idea ever since i watched s2 of the mandalorian almost a month ago and i'm finally done! thank you to all who stick around and i really hope you'll enjoy my first attempt at writing din (feel free to let me know what you think 🤭)! i love all of you darlings 🥰 and as always, happy reading!! 💕

Din Djarin wouldn’t ever admit it to anyone, but he always wanted a family. The memories of his parents were hazy, but he remembered how much they loved each other and in the depths of his soul longed for a connection like this someday. Being the bounty hunter didn’t give many opportunities to look for a relationship, however, and with time he abandoned the hope for a place and people he could call home. He convinced himself that he was content being on his own.

But then the Child came along, and with it everything has changed. This little wrinkly womp rat became the most precious being in his life and Din was ready to die to protect Grogu – but he never expected that he’d also meet his future riduur because of the kid.

He did. You, a fellow Mandalorian Din spoke to only a couple of times in the hideout on Nevarro, decided to help him on his quest, and from this moment on he didn’t stand a chance. You were everything Djarin admired – brave, compassionate, skillful and kind – and though you both respected the Way of the Mandalore and never removed your helmets in each other’s presence, he knew in his soul that you were beautiful as well.

It was a long road to come to terms with what he felt for you and gather the courage to actually let you know it. But it was all worth it just for this moment when you exchanged your vows and he officially became yours, and you his. Now you were his riduur and he finally had every right to admire and cherish you like you deserved.

And most importantly, he could finally see you. The pair of you talked about this moment a lot during the nights spent on the Crest, tangling your fingers together when the ship was flooded with pitch-black darkness. Din used to whisper to you of his dreams, how he longed to run his eyes over your uncovered body, taking his time to commit to memory every little detail of your physique and expressions. You, with a giddy and wistful tone, told him how impatient you were to at last find out how his lips would feel on yours and what color his eyes were. Even when you both knew you were going to marry, you didn’t rush things and never removed your helmets until your union became official.

But you did see each other’s faces, once, though not in a conventional way. Din remembered it clearly as a day, though his eyes – as well as yours – were covered by a piece of a material the entire time. Both of you were desperate for each other that night, the tension hanging above your heads straining the resolve about waiting. And then came the moment when you didn’t fight it anymore. Instead, you both sat down on Din’s cot and without your sense of sight spent the next hour talking and trailing fingertips down each other’s faces.

Din reminisced about this moment a lot of times. He tried to remember the shape of your features to create a full picture of you in his mind while he laid alone in his bed, longing for your vicinity. Even if your bodies were separated only by the layers of beskar, it was still too far for him.

He didn’t have to wait any longer now.

It was the day of your wedding and Din Djarin never felt happier than in that moment when you recited Mandalorian vows and he got to touch your bare hand again, not covered by a glove, to put a custom-made ring on your finger. It wasn’t a necessary but he wanted to make this day memorable and meaningful for you. A few tears of joy were shed, but his face was still concealed by the helmet, allowing his emotions to take hold of him.

He hadn’t let go of your hand since the small ceremony (if one could even call it that) ended, and you squeezed his palm every few steps as you walked toward a house that was going to be your home for the next couple of days. The Child was being taken care of by other Mandalorians so that you could be completely alone for this special moment.

You were buzzing with excited energy for the whole week prior to your wedding, but now Din could sense his partner’s nervousness. He wasn’t exactly surprised – after all, it has been years for both of you since anyone saw you without your helmet on. But with every moment that you neared the bedroom, you seemed more insular, more withdrawn and hesitant, and Din started to really worry.

“Are you okay, cyar’ika (darling)?”

You slowed down, not answering right away, which caused Din to furrow his brows with confusion. Maybe you didn’t want to do it after all? Maybe it was too sudden for you? Or maybe he came off as too eager?

“Cyar’ika,” he repeated softly, wanting to put you at ease – but it didn’t seem to meet the target. “If you’re not ready…”

“No. No, I’m ready. I just…”

You trailed off. Din wordlessly guided you to the edge of the bed, cradling your hands in his – one gloved one and one not. The light of the setting sun flowed in through the small window and reflected off the hard beskar you both wore, bathing your figure in a beautiful golden light.

He was already so in love with you. What could possibly be the cause of your hesitation?

“I’m just nervous,” you murmured at last with your head bowed, looking at your joined hands. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” the Mandalorian repeated before he could think, and shook his head slightly. “What are you… What are you talking about? Why would I ever be?”

You lifted your gaze, and though Din couldn’t see your eyes, he could almost feel the weight of your fears on his own shoulders. The modulator in your helmet was hiding any trace of it, but he knew you long enough to recognize the tiniest shift in your body language.

“Ner kar’ta (my heart). I could never be disappointed with you.” He laced his fingers with yours, once again admiring how perfectly they fit together, and lifted them to his chest. “You own my heart and soul now, and nothing will change that.”

He hoped to soothe your nerves, but you were still silent. It wasn’t at all what Mando was expecting from this evening and he was at a loss for what to do to fix it.

“Would it help if I showed you my face first?” he asked after some time, and your head snapped up.

“No.” Even with the modulator, your voice clearly sounded broken and regretful, and it was wounding Din more than anything else could. “We were supposed to do it together.”

“We can,” he assured quietly, swiping his thumb over your knuckles. “But the most important thing to me… is for you to feel comfortable during it. If you want to wait–”

“I don’t.” You untangled your hands from his hold and instead brought them to his chest, placing them on the beskar breastplate. He couldn’t wait to take it off and feel your touch on his skin. “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t marry you and make you my riduur.”

You leaned forward and lightly bonked your helmets together, a sweet gesture Din loved since the first time you did it.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum or’atu an mayen. (I love you more than anything.) More than life itself.”

“I know,” he answered simply and delicately brought your hands to the edges of his helmet. It was obvious what he was offering you. “That’s why I’m willing to do it for you.”

You were still, not daring to move, and Din nodded slightly to show you that he’s certain of his decision. His heart was beating heavily in his chest, though, and he could feel sweat forming on the back of his neck.

Showing your face to others was one of the worst crimes in Mandalorian culture, but doing it with your riduur was the highest honor that not everyone was fortunate enough to experience. But Din Djarin was among the lucky ones. Even though it was not in a way he always imagined, he didn’t care as long as you were happy.

You gripped the edges of his helmet tighter and a high hiss sounded, a telltale sign that the metal piece was ready to be removed. And slowly – so very slowly – you did. Din felt a flow of cooler air on his hot skin: first his chin, then his cheeks, finally his forehead…

And lastly, he inhaled shakily before lifting his head to look into the void of your visor.

A second passed by. Then two. Then ten, though Din felt like it must’ve been a full minute now. And still you didn’t move, just watched him silently, motionless as a statue.

The Mandalorian swallowed with difficulty, starting to feel very self-conscious. The crisp air cooled the sweat gathering on the nape of his neck and he had to use all his self-control not to fiddle his fingers nervously. He felt so naked and exposed under your gaze, though he absolutely shouldn’t – you were his riduur and there was no reason to feel ashamed or insecure with you. But he couldn’t help worrying: what if he wasn’t what you expected? What if you didn’t find him attractive at all?

Then a movement of your hands drew his attention and he watched, transfixed, as you slowly started to take off your glove, tugging one finger off at a time. Once your hand was freed from the confines of the protective material, you flexed your fingers before lifting both of your palms to his face.

Even though Din was acutely aware of your every move, he still somehow flinched in surprise at your touch, causing you to freeze and search his eyes with the air of concern around you. He quickly gave you a small nod, silently begging you to proceed, and, thankfully, you did. Your fingertips traced his cheeks, so delicately it almost tickled, brushing down the path to his stubble, and then back up to the arch of his nose and eyebrows. Djarin’s eyelids fluttered closed and he let out a shaky breath, giving in to the most amazing sensation that your touch was.

“I knew you had to be the most beautiful being in the galaxy,” you whispered from under your helmet with a voice filled with a plethora of raw emotions. Din regretted not being able to see your face at that moment, but if it would help you feel more comfortable in such a memorable and important situation, he was ready to do anything for you.

“I’m sure you’re a million times more radiant, cyar’ika,” he said back. His voice was weirdly weak and raspy, sounding strangely to him – probably because he knew there was another person hearing him without his helmet on. “Even if I don’t see your face, mesh’la (beautiful), today or ever… The love I have for you will never change or waver. That I promise.”

“It won’t exactly be fair to the Creed if I don’t remove my helmet in front of my husband,” you answered, half-teasing, but Din knew there was a real worry behind your words.

“You know very well there’s nothing said about it in the Creed.” He opened his eyes, offering you a small smile. “And I don’t remember our vows mentioning it, either.”

You clicked your tongue with exasperation, but Din also saw your shoulders relaxing, a sign that some of your nerves ebbed away.

“Gev bic (stop it),” you laughed, letting your hand fall down – but before it could happen, Din caught your wrist and lifted it back to his face. He slowly kissed the inside of your palm, down to the veins disappearing under your sleeve, his eyes fixated on your visor the entire time. His smile grew slightly when he felt a shiver run through you.

“I love you, ner kar’ta,” he whispered. “Even if you’re a half-Hutt under your armor.”

“Don’t push it.”

You let go of his hand and Din’s face fell, fearing that he really went too far. He reached for you but stopped when you straightened up and took a deep breath, your hands going to the last thing that separated you from him – your helmet.

He held his breath and his heart beat erratically as he watched you. He tried not to blink, not wanting to miss the moment when he finally got to see your face. Just the fact that you were willing to do this meant so much to him, but…

Slowly, you took your helmet off and placed it down on the mattress right next to his. Then, a pair of irises gazed into the depths of Din Djarin’s heart.

…you were wrong.

Oh, how wrong you were.

There was no mistaking it that you were by far the most breathtaking sight the Mandalorian had ever laid his eyes on.

The Maker must’ve been overly generous, or maybe favored you, for looking at you… it felt like coming home.

You stared at him with gentle, tentative eyes of the most beautiful color in the world, and Din would’ve gladly lost himself in them. Your lips, so tempting and soft-looking, were parted slightly as you awaited his reaction, but he couldn’t move. He just watched, spellbound, and wondered if this truly is reality and not some cruel, elusive dream.

He hadn’t felt such awe even when he saw Grogu doing his magic for the first time. Hadn’t felt such elation even when a new skin made of beskar was forged just for him. Had never before felt such love in his life.

You were a wonder. A miracle.

“Cyare?”

Your voice sounded almost fearful to your ears, but you couldn’t help it – Din seemed unable to utter even a word, and panic started to flood your veins when you noticed tears gathering in his dark, beautiful eyes. “Din–”

But before you could move away, he slipped off the bed and knelt by your feet. You were so taken aback by this action that you didn’t even react when he cradled both of your hands in his and pressed lingering kisses to your fingers, one after another.

“If I could, I’d marry you all over again,” he rasped, meeting your gaze with so much love and adoration in his brown eyes that it took your breath away. “How did I get so lucky…?”

“I think I’m the lucky one,” you let out a breathless laugh of relief, your pupils darting across the lines and grooves of his face. “You… you’re not just saying that, right?”

“Cyar’ika, look at me.” He gently tilted your chin up, making your eyes meet his. For a second he faltered, parting his lips in wonder at the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, before he swallowed and gazed at you again. “Do you doubt my words?”

No. There was really no questioning his motives. You knew Din was as honest as one could be and there were only your own insecurities at play here. But the longer you looked at him, his expression so full of love and devotion, the less relevant your own doubts were becoming.

You couldn’t think of anything else but him.

“I really want to kiss you,” you whispered instead of answering, and his face broke into a wide, joyous grin. “Can I–?”

The Mandalorian didn’t even wait for you to finish – the second those words left your mouth, he surged forward and pressed his lips to yours forcefully, eliciting a surprised sound out of you, which soon turned into a needy whimper. You didn’t give him a chance to back away and instantly tangled your fingers into his hair, moving clumsily to be closer to him.

But when you attempted to climb onto his lap, your breast plates collided with a metallic clank, forcing the pair of you to put some space between you. Din huffed with frustration, while you laughed and cupped his face in your hands.

“You’re quite impatient for a bounty hunter,” you accused him playfully, nudging your nose with his. You took a deep, calming breath, wanting to surround yourself with the smell of him completely, but your riduur didn’t let you indulge for long.

He moved quickly and, without a warning, kissed you briefly again – and then one more time. It was more like a light peck, and you longed to feel his tongue inside your mouth once more, but at the same time relished in every sensation that his lips brought. Every touch he gave you was something infinitely precious.

“I’ve waited longer than you,” he murmured. His hands were already moving, taking off the beskar on his forearms and shoulders, reaching where he could without removing you from his lap just yet. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, cyar’ika.”

You smiled widely and looked up from his deft fingers to throw another teasing comment, but in one second you lost your train of thoughts.

Because Din was blushing.

The feared Mandalorian’s face – a face you were finally allowed to see whenever you desired – was sprinkled with redness across his cheeks and ears. And you were the cause of that.

The thought of it almost caused your eyes to water.

“What are you looking at, mesh’la?”

Your eyes found him again and you smiled brightly, causing Din’s heart to skip a couple of beats.

You took his stubbly chin in-between your fingers and brought his lips closer, planting a soft kiss there that had the Mandalorian melting. He covered your hand with his, feeling the band on your finger under his own.

A miracle.

“I’m looking at you.”

[bumblesimagines]

Curiosities

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Overwhelmed and distraught by his duties and the death of his child, King Aegon decides to indulge in his favorite pastime: visiting the Street of Silk. However, he decides this time, he wants to seek comfort in the one person he's always been curious about.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

TW/CW: Typical GoT warnings, Aegon being Aegon, mentions/implications of child exploitation, mentions of teen-adult relationships, mentions of Targcest/incest, death of a child, sexual content dontttlookatme, (Y/N)/Reader is a brothel worker, potential spoilers for S2, mentioned/implied homophobia (the Faith)

Aegon is a pathetic wet cat of a man (derogatory) but Tom is so pretty

~~~

Aegon hardly remembered the first time he'd visited a brothel.

Perhaps it was the mixture of drinks in his system preventing him from recalling the first time he'd stepped foot in a brothel. He'd been a teenager, he knew that much, and he'd likely paid for the prettiest woman in there. He'd had enough experience messing with the maids around the castle to know what to do and he'd ensured to pay well for the service. But despite not recalling the act itself or even the woman he'd done it with, he vividly recalled the worker who'd caught his eye the second visit. 

It'd been a week or so after the first visit and he'd gone in sober, willing to drink whatever the brothel had in stock until he passed out or was kicked out. He sauntered in with his typical confidence. He was a prince; everyone wanted a taste of him. The other customers in the brothel regarded him with smug smirks and nods of acknowledgment, to which he returned with the same smugness. He'd taken a seat at one of the tables and savored the way workers glided toward him in revealing clothing - or no clothing at all - with coy smiles and flirty coos. His eyes, however, failed to lock on the women flocking to him. 

Across the way, he noticed one of the rooms with the curtains drawn back by a few inches, giving view to the worker and customer inside. A boy around his age, perhaps a year or two older, sat on the bed with his rope drawn back and hanging loosely from his shoulders. A woman had her head on his chest, her eyes shut tight and cheeks stained with tears while her red-colored lips formed words.

The sight would've made him laugh, it was utterly pathetic for a grown woman to cry on the chest of a boy, but his heart lurched longingly when the boy raked his fingers through her hair and gently rocked her. The act looked so... sweet.

"Who is that?" Aegon questioned one of the women settled at his side, hardly paying any mind to the soft stroking of his chest. She tilted her head over her shoulder, searching for what'd caught his attention before she spotted the two. She gave a soft hum and looked back at him, her lips delicately dragging over his cheek and stopping at his ear. 

"That would be (Y/N)," She told him softly, her voice velvety. Her long lashes tickled his skin. "Poor Nora lost her husband to a horrible fever not long ago, My Prince. I hear he looked like (Y/N) in his youth. She seeks comfort, not pleasure." 

"I see," Aegon murmured and finally took a swing of the wine offered to him, waiting for it to settle into his veins before he gave in to the ladies around him. His eyes continued to drag toward (Y/N) throughout his stay. 

Men in brothels were no surprise, not to frequent customers, at least. Some enjoyed the company of men without facing scrutiny, some needed the money, and others were simply raised in the brothel. Throughout his visits to the brothel, Aegon learned it'd been the latter for (Y/N); a boy born in a brothel who simply never left. He found his curiosity spiked with each visit, each time he caught sight of him serving wine or slipping behind the curtain to entertain someone new.

Aegon never approached. It was completely new territory, territory he'd been told by septas and maesters he should never enter. 

It'd only been when his little son and heir died at the order of his older half-sister that he decided he couldn't give a rat's ass about what the Seven thought of him. They'd never given him a time of day, even as the King of Westeros, so why should he care? His son was dead, his sister-wife was a mess, and the Council acted as if it were all a mere inconvenience. 

When he staggered into the brothel that night, everyone stopped their doings to stare at him wide-eyed and silent. Each of them bowed, whether dipping their heads or bending at the waist and watched him as if waiting for him to crack. Aegon hated it. He hated how everyone seemingly viewed him as weak. He was the King, for fuck's sake! The wine and ale swimming through his veins made his senses and emotions heighten, forcing tears to spring to his eyes. 

"Drinks on me!" He hollered into the room, and the crowd within erupted in cheers and whoops, the energy returning to the room tenfold. A laugh tumbled out of his lips and his shoulders straightened, soaking in the gleeful looks and nods sent his way. They loved him now, even if they believed him to be a usurper or not. They loved him.

Aegon took a goblet from a table and drank its contents, feeling the liquid burn his throat and send a shudder up his spine. He set the goblet aside and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, vibrant eyes searching the room until they spotted the object of his desire. He made a beeline for him, ignoring the ladies who attempted to catch his eye until he stopped by him and grasped his arm a tad roughly. 

"Your Grace?" (Y/N) stumbled slightly with the tug, his grip on the pitcher tightening to avoid spilling any wine. He stared at him, brows lifting and eyes blinking owlishly. Aegon had never seen him up close before, and regret settled in his belly at the realization. What a fool he'd been, letting time pass him by. 

"You're mine for the night," Aegon told him, taking the pitcher from his hands and setting it down at the table he'd been serving. The men there shifted uncomfortably under Aegon's stare, none of them uttering a single word of protest and instead turning their attention onto the other workers around. 

Brothels had unspoken rules. Everything that happened in a brothel, stayed in the brothel. No one spoke a word of what went down or whom they saw within the walls of one, unless they wished for their own secrets and pleasures to be spilled to the public. Of course, Aegon expected his new Master of Whisperers to hear of it by the time he returned to the Red Keep, but he trusted Lord Larys to keep it to himself. 

Without another word, he turned toward the nearest empty room and tugged the curtain open far enough for the two to step inside before tugging it close again. Aegon's heart raced in his chest, be it from the drinks or genuine excitement, he couldn't be sure. He turned to face (Y/N), finding the young man already seated at the edge of the bed watching him. 

"What do you want, Your Grace?" He asked gently, his head tilting to the side while Aegon fumbled to get his clothes off fast enough. He looked enticing in the soft candleglow with his rope pulled apart to show his chest and stomach. It made heat spread throughout Aegon's body. 

Discarding his layers of clothing, he stumbled forward and grabbed hold of (Y/N)'s face, lips slamming against his clumsily. "You." He exhaled and pressed their lips back together, pushing (Y/N) flat against the bed with ease and digging his knees into the mattress. His hands forced the silky robe further apart, undoing the belt and pushing it further down (Y/N)'s shoulders until he could grab a fistful of it and yank it off the bed. 

"What is it you want from me?" (Y/N) asked next, breathless and head tilting back to allow Aegon more access to his neck. Aegon suckled and nipped whatever skin he could reach, littering his skin with red and purple marks that'd surely vex the Madam who owned the brothel, but he was a king. He could do as he pleased. 

Aegon laughed airly in return, leaning back to admire his work and pressing his thumb into one of the bruises. "What everyone else wants." He responded, eyes slowly raking over the rest of his body; from his rising and falling chest down to his thighs. Irritation flared in him at the fading mark of fingers and he placed his hand over his thighs, squeezing until he ensured the only mark left was by him. 

"Your Grace," (Y/N) reached out to cup the nape of his neck, and in one swift move, Aegon found himself lying beneath him. He blinked up at him and then laughed giddily, hands flying to (Y/N)'s hips and squeezing the flesh there. (Y/N) leaned back on his thighs and took him by the shoulders, pulling him up into a sitting position so they were face to face. "What do you really want?"

"Yo-" The word died in his throat when (Y/N)'s fingertips brushed back his messy silver hair behind his ear. His lips pressed together tightly, eyes jumping away from the worker to focus on the lewd mural painted over the wall. (Y/N)'s palm pressed against his cheek, his thumb stroking his skin.

The gentleness of it, the sweetness, the comfort. It was all foreign to Aegon. He was used to being slapped, pushed, screamed at, ignored. Nobody had ever touched him with genuine kindness, not even Ser Criston who seemingly preferred his brother over him, or his mother who spent most of her time staring at him in exasperation or disappointment. The only people who ever looked at him with pure love and adoration... were his children. Little Jaehaerys.. 

Tears sprung to his eyes immediately, a sob threatening to rise in his throat. His teeth clamped down on his bottom lip as his vision blurred, fingers curling around the sheets in a desperate attempt to stop the tears from falling. He couldn't cry in front of someone else, much less a stranger. He was a king. He had to be strong. Crying showed weakness. Aegon wasn't weak. No, no, they were all wrong. He was strong. He-

"I'm here, Your Grace." (Y/N) cooed softly, and Aegon's eyes snapped back to him. He smiled kindly at him and pulled him closer, his fingers tangling themselves in Aegon's hair. They ran through the silver locks sweetly, comfortingly, detangling the knots that'd formed and scratching gently at his scalp. "I'll take care of you."

With that, the wall he'd so desperately built crumbled, his arms slinging around (Y/N)'s waist as his lips parted to release whimpers and muffled wails. (Y/N)'s arms curled around his shoulder, cradling his head and humming gentle lullabies Aegon vaguely recognized. His body trembled and shook with each sob and cry, arms pulling and tugging him closer; seeking out the warmth and comfort he'd been deprived of since his childhood. A father who ignored him, a mother who begrudgingly cared for him, siblings who hardly liked him... a dead son. 

(Y/N) only moved to lean back into the countless pillows, bringing Aegon along with him and letting the king rest his head over his chest. His skin had long grown wet with tears and saliva but he remained silent, focused on rubbing circles along Aegon's back and brushing back his hair until the hiccups and sobs subsided, quieting down into sniffles and tired sighs. Part of him wanted to feel embarrassed but he felt too exhausted to allow the emotion to take hold of him. 

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Your Grace." (Y/N) told him softly, and Aegon's face scrunched up again, the last few tears spilling down his cheeks. Nobody had bothered to comfort him, and he'd been too overwhelmed by everything to seek it from his sister-wife. They hardly understood each other. Her with her odd riddles and sayings, him with his drinking and affairs. 

(Y/N) shifted underneath him, reaching over to the nightstand and retrieving a handkerchief. He dipped his fingers under Aegon's chin and tilted his head toward him, gently dapping at his cheeks and under his nose, drying and cleaning the evidence of his weeping. Nothing in his face changed, no disgust or boredom in his eyes. Only the kind smile and soft eyes. It made Aegon relax fully and completely. 

His fingers tightened on Aegon's chin, tugging on it gently and pulling the king up before connecting their lips again. Aegon slumped against him, his clear mind focused on the softness of his lips and the hint of wine still on his tongue. The back of (Y/N)'s ankles met Aegon's bare thighs, carefully pushing against them until their hips were pressed together. He swallowed the breathy whine that escaped Aegon, a brief teasing smile appearing on his face before Aegon began rocking needily against him, the smile vanishing. His parted lips allowed Aegon to venture into his mouth, tongues colliding on occasion. 

The hand along Aegon's back began exploring, running over the muscles he'd developed despite spending most of his time lazying about. His hand dipped downward and playfully squeezed the mound of flesh there, a low groan escaping Aegon. He pressed his forehead against (Y/N)'s, his lips curling into a smirk at the innocent look that (Y/N) gave him. Cheeky bastard. It was expected from a brothel worker, though. 

The clumsy rocking of his hips increased and the fingers that retangled in his hair gave a tug, gentle enough to not create any real pain but hard enough to get his attention. Aegon whined and dropped his head down to (Y/N)'s shoulder but he eased his rocking, his fingers digging tightly into the pillows and sheets beneath him. At his easy submission, (Y/N) smiled again and pressed a chaste kiss to his temple. 

"Good," He breathed and Aegon flushed at the way heat rushed to his lower belly. (Y/N)'s hand left Aegon's backside and reached for the nightstand again, pulling out a small round cup and bringing it closer. Despite his trembling thighs, Aegon managed to peel himself away from (Y/N), the loss of contact making his hips buck. 

"What is..." Aegon trailed off, (Y/N)'s hand taking his wrist. His thumb swiped over Aegon's fingers, pressing each down until one remained uncurled. The realization dawned on him fairly quickly, the way his features brightened making (Y/N) laugh softly before he dipped the finger into the liquid Aegon assumed to be some sort of oil. 

"I'll guide you, Your Grace." (Y/N) told him softly, setting the cup aside and guiding his hand down between their bodies. Aegon's eyes flickered between (Y/N)'s face and his hand, a strangled curse escaping him when warmth greeted his digit. His free hand tightened further around a pillow, the designs threaded into it imprinting in his palm. The way (Y/N) held eye contact hardly helped with his attempt at self-restraint. 

His mind ran wild, promptly forgetting about politics or the fact they were nearing a war for the first time in decades in order to focus on (Y/N)'s face. The darkening bruises along his neck only made Aegon's mouth water and heart flutter with pride, every gentle gasp and quiet whine that left him only made his veins burn with desire, something he found more addictive than the intoxication of wine. His head swooped down, burying itself in his neck to drag his tongue over the bruises and darken them even further with more suckling.

His hand began moving, slowly and experimental at first. Aegon hardly considered himself a gentle lover, for he preferred the joy of rough and fast fucking, only ever being considerate when it came to his sister-wife. Even then, even with Helaena, he often chased after his own high and pleasure over everyone else's, but he'd been desiring (Y/N) for far too long to make a fool of himself. When he curled his finger and heard (Y/N)'s breath hitch, he smirked and slipped in a second digit. 

Aegon humbly believed himself a quick learner when it came to things he enjoyed, so by the time he added a third digit, he'd already ensured (Y/N) had turned into a panting and whining mess. (Y/N)'s heels dug into his calves roughly enough to turn his pale skin red, the subtle hint of pain only fueling him to quicken his pace. He'd left (Y/N)'s collarbone and part of his chest covered in markings, ensuring any other patrons (Y/N) took for the following days knew who'd taken him to bed. 

The hand tightly gripping his bicep flew down to Aegon's wrist, squeezing around it and pulling his fingers out. His lips formed a pout immediately but he savored the gasp and light huff that escaped (Y/N). He swallowed and leaned up, capturing Aegon's lips again before pushing back against him, toppling Aegon onto his back once again and straddling his hips. Aegon's eyes brightened, his hands digging into (Y/N)'s thighs in anticipation. 

"Shit," A guttural groan left the king, his blunt nails leaving imprints in (Y/N)'s skin when he wrapped his fingers around Aegon's length, his thumb pressing over the slit. Aegon's hips bucked and he threw his head back, his adams apple bobbing with a harsh swallow. His chest heaved and a mixture of a whine and a plead fell from his lips like a prayer. 

"Easy, Your Grace." (Y/N) cooed, his free hand moving to Aegon's chest and pressing against it, fingers gently massaging into the muscle. The hint of mischief in his words didn't go over Aegon's head. His heels dug into the crinkling sheets and his nostrils flared with the deep breath he took, his grip on (Y/N) loosening and thumbs rubbing over the areas apologetically. (Y/N) nodded approvingly and Aegon gave a lopsided grin. 

His composure lasted a whole three seconds before it crumbled with a few pumps from (Y/N)'s hand, though he only continued with a chuckle instead of scolding him. Aegon's eyes turned glassy again from the sensations, his breath hitching every few minutes while the knot in his stomach tightened. He let out a whiny noise when (Y/N) paused his movements, his bottom lip jutting out. However, when he caught the way (Y/N) pushed himself further on his knees and hovered over him, he clamped his mouth shut. 

Aegon's breath hitched again followed by a sharp curse as (Y/N) lowered himself at an agonizingly slow pace. A dribble of drool slipped out from the corner of his parted lips and trailed down his cheek. His mind had long gone blank, the only thing he focused on being the sensation of (Y/N) taking him with only soft pants and the occasional hiss. He desperately wished to move, to flip them over and ensure (Y/N) wouldn't be able to walk for at least a day but he wanted to be good, he wanted the praise he rarely ever got. So he remained still, hands moving to (Y/N)'s hips and clawing lightly at him. 

"You're doing-" (Y/N) cut himself off with a soft grunt, the hand at the base of Aegon's length leaving to plant itself on his other shoulder. Aegon swore he saw stars when (Y/N) fully settled on him. (Y/N) breathlessly laughed at the awestruck, hazy look on Aegon's face, his hand gently cupping his cheek and kissing him. "-so well, my sweet Aegon." Aegon whined softly at that. 

"Please," Aegon whispered and (Y/N) gave him a thoughtful look despite the teasing curl of his lips. "I'll be good." He murmured, words slurred but he hardly felt the effects of everything he'd taken that night. 

"Will you?" (Y/N) still sounded breathless, the candlelight showing off the gleam of sweat on his skin. His hands moved from his shoulders to wander over Aegon's chest and stomach, trailing over his biceps and arms until they reached his hands and laced their fingers together. Aegon nodded hurriedly, so desperate and wanting but the feeling of their hands together made his stomach flutter with a newfound emotion. 

"I-" Aegon had little time to finish his sentence before (Y/N) rose to the tip and then slipped back down to the base, the action knocking the air out of both of them and further tightening the knot threatening to break loose at any moment. One of (Y/N)'s hands untangled itself from Aegon's to slam beside Aegon's hand, a half-hearted attempt at balancing and grounding himself. Aegon held onto the other hand tightly, refusing to let him go for even a second. 

(Y/N) leaned down and pulled him into a heated kiss full of all tongue and muffled cries, Aegon's restraint chipping fully away when (Y/N) grinded down on him a few times. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and wrapped his arm around (Y/N)'s waist tightly, his thighs beginning to ache and burn deliciously.

"Go ahead," (Y/N) exhaled on his lips and Aegon lost himself. 

Much time passed, the sound of pained groaning and grumpy muttering from the other side of the window telling them the sun would soon be rising. The thumping footsteps of patrons nursing hangovers echoed through the brothel as they shuffled out, the jingling of coins and such mixing in. The quiet chatter of brothel workers followed, cups and chairs clinking as they began cleaning up. 

"Your Grace," (Y/N) sighed sleepily, his eyelids visibly heavy and lip slightly jutted out. Aegon felt equally as exhausted but the sight of him rubbing tiredly at his eyes made his heart swell, finding himself unable to resist kissing his semi-swollen lips. (Y/N) hummed softly, his fingers slipping between their faces to push Aegon back. "You must head home. Your-" He cut himself off with a yawn. "Your kingdom requires you." 

"I'd much prefer staying here forever," Aegon responded, coiling his arms tightly around (Y/N)'s body and dragging him closer against him. His whole body ached, his muscles sore and head spinning from the beginning of a hangover. (Y/N) breathed out a snort and rubbed his cheek into the soft satin pillow, eyes beginning to droop. 

"You mustn't. They'll come looking for you, Your Grace." 

"Aegon." He groaned. "Call me Aegon."

"Aegon." (Y/N) repeated softly. "Go home."

"Come with me, then," Aegon told him quietly. At his words, (Y/N)'s eyes snapped open, the sleep jerked away from his body and replaced with surprise. Aegon chuckled at his wide-eyed expression. "Come with me to- to the Red Keep. Come... be my paramour. You'll have your own room near mine... and- and you'll receive whatever you wish for. No one will dare say a thing."

(Y/N) stared at him for a long moment before he cupped Aegon's cheek and pressed a fleeting kiss to the tip of his nose. "You're exhausted, Your Grace. You do not understand what you're saying. You'll come to once you properly rest. You must go now before the sun rises and others see you." He said, slithering out of Aegon's hold to retrieve their clothes. He slipped his robe on with ease and offered Aegon his tunic. 

"I'll get dressed," Aegon took his wrist and dragged his lips over the back of his hand. "If you agree to become my paramour and live in the Red Keep." 

"We're only allowed in the Red Keep to entertain, Your Grace. You'll never be allowed to have a brothel worker as a paramour, much less a man. The Faith will never allow it. The Dowager Queen and- and-" 

"I do not care what they think. I am King. I can do whatever I want, and I want you to be mine."