#but under it all there’s still two little flickering flames

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

One - The Price of Victory | Series Masterlist

Summary: As a deposed Aemond licks his wounds from a long fought war, Lady Rosaleen embarks from Raventree Hall to meet her husband-to-be | Word Count: 7.1k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage

The throne sat empty.

The great Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror loomed above, its twisted, jagged shadows flickering in the candlelight. Aemond stood before it, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his single violet eye fixed on the seat his brother had died fighting to secure.

He had once seen death, stared it right in the face that bore Daemon Targaryen's likeness, all for the worthiness of ruling from that very seat.

And yet he still did not possess the authority to sit it. Despite the fight through the flames, the blood, the agony. The sacrifices.

The war had been won, the Blacks were defeated, scattered or dead. And yet the realm was far from whole. He had thought the Green victory would bring order, that their triumph would be enough to heal the scars left by his brother’s rule and Rhaenyra’s rebellion. But Aegon’s sudden death had shattered the fragile stability they had only just begun to claim. Without heirs to secure what his brother had left behind.

He had returned to King’s Landing bloodied and battered, prepared to embrace whatever welcome awaited him. But his mother, his dear, grief-stricken mother, had not greeted him with open arms and cries of joy. She had wept and railed against him, her voice breaking as her fists struck his chest, powerless but furious. The Dance, with all its death and fire, had torn her heart to pieces, and though she had welcomed him home, the weight of her grief had been clear.

“Do you see what we are left with?” she had asked him, her voice rough and hoarse from the nights of mourning. Aemond remembered the rawness of her face, the pale grief etched into every line. “A land left in ruin. A son who cannot sit the throne. And my girl…my only girl…”

He felt the blood that remained in his weakened body drain from his face. He had heard vague murmurings of Helaena's sorrow after the death of Jaehaerys, but no one had prepared him for the truth that now burned in his mother’s haunted eyes.

At least Rhaenyra had taken mercy on little Jaehaera. She remained, not unlike Rhaenyra’s own sons, locked away, but now protectively in Alicent’s wing of the Keep under the close eyes of her grandmother. Aemond himself felt a responsibility toward his niece, she was a small, fragile thing, with Helaena’s soft eyes and gentle manner, bearing the scars of tragedy but untouched by the fire and vengeance that had consumed her kin. 

She was but a child. But her presence was a silent, solemn reminder of the sister he felt he had failed. 

The damage from the Dance was more severe than any one man could hope to repair. Rhaenyra had left the realm in disarray, her supporters either dead or reduced to whispers of rebellion. Houses that had once stood tall were now in ruin, their lands burned and loyalty frayed. Aegon’s death had formed a dark power vacuum, and already, ambitious Lords, eyes glimmering with the sweet promise of power, were already pressing their influence and claims.

Of course, there was still the question of Rhaenyra’s two trueborn surviving sons. Aegon the Younger and little Viserys. Glorified prisoners, yes, but their very existence cast a long shadow over Aemond’s claim. Both boys, with the ability to inspire rebellion in those who still held a candle to Rhaenyra’s long lost claim. The Council ceaselessly debated what to do with the boys in the tower, under guard, whether they might be kept as hostages, or if the crown would be safer without them drawing breath another day longer than necessary.

He found himself thinking of Alys, who said she had been with child and indeed appeared as such the last time he had seen her.

Alys had known him too well, perhaps better than he’d ever allowed anyone else. She’d known what fuelled him, what burned within him even when he’d barely grasped it himself. He had abandoned her for what he thought could have been his last moments above Gods Eye Lake. She had looked at him that final time with something unspoken in her gaze, with weight of words she hadn’t voiced. She had sworn she was carrying his child, and he’d believed her, if only because Alys Rivers had always known how to see truths that others could not.

When word had first spread of his fall, when the ravens bore news of his assumed death, she had slipped away, disappearing from Harrenhal without a trace. Even if she had birthed his child, the council would not care for another bastard to claim any place in his line, nor would his mother or his brother have allowed it. Aemond knew this, he had known it even when he had found comfort in Alys’ arms, seeking something to fill the gnawing emptiness.

He could only assume she was either gone, or dead. And the child? If there ever was one. Were they dead too? 

He clenched his jaw, willing the thought from his mind. Alys belonged to the past, like the ghosts of every flame he’d left smoldering in his path.

Aemond found himself alone, pondering to himself, without even the energy to write his warring thoughts on paper. What was there to write about anymore? The war was over. This was a time to rebuild. To heal. And yet he felt the cold, claw of guilt at his throat, no closer to the throne than he had been before.

The Small Council chambers felt barren, and Aemond’s position was heavily felt, having not been granted his seat at the head of the table this time around. He rolled his shoulder, the scars where Daemon had plunged Dark Sister through flesh and muscle stretching uncomfortably. The Maesters had said he’d be left with less mobility, but that it should not affect his duties. 

He was not sure whether to be pleased about that.

Ser Tyland Lannister, Lord Larys Strong, Ser Jasper Wylde and Maester Gerardys sat in silence, their expressions carefully measured. At the far end of the table sat his mother, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze steady. It was a wonder to Aemond the men that sat around this table were not dead following Rhaenyra’s short but tumultuous reign. He wondered if the shadows of war had made them distrustful of one another. In this there was no doubt. If Aemond himself were to have an opinion on anyone, it was Maester Gerardys, now more a prisoner than an ally, unable to flee King's Landing after the Pretender and Aegon’s death.

It seemed this opinion was shared, for several pairs of eyes carefully scanned the room. And he was not left without a lingering glance himself, the Kinslayer.

“We need the Riverlands pacified,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice broke through the silence, his eyes scanning the room. “The lords there are restless. House Tully may have bent the knee, but it was under duress. Loyalty is fragile.”

“The Tullys are irrelevant,” Aemond growled, his eye narrowing as he leaned forward. “They supported Rhaenyra. They will suffer for it, as will every house that stood against us.”

“And yet we need them,” Tyland insisted, “the Riverlands cannot be held by fear alone. We must bring them back into the fold, to rebuild what has fallen.”

Aemond caught the judgmental glimpse in Alicent’s expression. The corners of her lips were turned downwards. It was no wonder, she had lost her two eldest children, and by extension perhaps blamed Aemond partly for it. In fact, there was no doubt in his mind that she did, though she dare not voice it.

They were already fractured enough as it was.

“I have reduced the Riverlands to ash, burned their keeps and their armies, and yet you stand here telling me I need to beg for their loyalty?”

A soft voice cut through the tension. “That is not what they mean, Aemond.”

Alicent’s voice was gentle, but firm, and the council fell silent as she spoke.

“They do not question your strength,” she continued, her green eyes meeting his. “They question the realm’s ability to follow. A marriage, an alliance with the right house, will show the lords that the crown offers stability, not just fire and blood.”

Aemond stared at his mother for a moment, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Alicent, ever the pragmatist, was right. Without a wife, without an alliance, the crown would slip further from his grasp.

“You would see me tied to a family that fought against us,” Aemond said slowly, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. “You would have me wed a traitor’s kin. Some whore who seeks to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“I would see you rule, Aemond. Truly rule, not as a weapon to be feared, but as a king to be respected. And to do that, we need allies.”

“And who, exactly, do you propose I marry?” Aemond asked, his voice cold.

Tyland cleared his throat. “The Riverlands are still unstable. House Tully has suffered greatly, but they remain the strongest house in the region. Grover Tully’s granddaughter is of age, though her appearance leaves much to be desired. A marriage such as that would secure their loyalty.”

“The Tullys.” Aemond spat.

Tyland shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing the prince’s temper. “It is not ideal, I admit,” he said carefully, “but their support is crucial if we are to stabilise the Riverlands.”

Aemond’s lip curled in disgust. “No. I will not be tied to the Tullys. I’d sooner burn what’s left of their lands than share my bed with one of them.”

A tense silence filled the room as the council exchanged glances. Alicent watched her son closely, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She knew Aemond’s pride, his thirst for vengeance. But there was more at stake now than settling old grudges.

After a moment, Lord Larys Strong spoke up, his voice as soft and measured as always. “House Blackwood, though they suffered under war, there remains both a sister and cousin of the late Lord Willem Blackwood. Women of good health and said to be pleasing to the eye. The Blackwoods supported the Pretender at first, yes, but their rivalry with the Brackens runs deep. It would not take much to sway them to our side, especially with the promise of a marriage alliance.”

Tyland hummed, “The Blackwoods... their lands are a stone’s throw from Harrenhal, are they not?”

“Indeed,” Larys replied, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “They hold Raventree Hall, a strong seat. Though damaged, they are still a proud family, and their loyalty would go a long way in solidifying our control over the Riverlands.”

Aemond considered this, his anger still simmering beneath the surface, but the suggestion intrigued him more than the idea of wedding a Tully. The Blackwoods were an old family, their lineage stretching back to the First Men. And unlike the Tullys, they had the potential to be turned, to be controlled. He could see a use in them.

“Alysanne, the sister,” Aemond murmured, his lips twisting slightly. “She has a temper. Is that not so?” He glanced at Lord Larys, who inclined his head ever so slightly, confirming it with an almost imperceptible smile.

“A reputation, yes,” Larys replied smoothly. “But they say she is fierce in her loyalties as well.”

“Fierce,” Aemond repeated, with a faint note of disdain. “We need stability, not fire in my bedchambers. If I am to wed, I require someone who knows restraint.”

Tyland tilted his head thoughtfully. “The cousin,” he interjected. “Lady Rosaleen. Younger, unwed, and without Alysanne’s...spirited reputation. It’s said she has a measured disposition, more practical.”

“And this cousin,” Aemond said slowly, his gaze returning to the council, “she is... acceptable?”

Tyland nodded quickly, seizing the opportunity to move the conversation forward. “From all accounts, yes. A match with her would be seen as favorable to the Blackwoods, and the lords of the Riverlands might look more kindly on us if they see a prominent house backing your rule.”

Alicent, who had remained silent thus far, finally spoke, her voice calm and deliberate. “The Blackwoods may not have the strength of the Tullys, but they are more easily brought into the fold. And they have ties to the Vale as well. It would be a stronger alliance than it first appears.”

Aemond listened, his jaw tight as Alicent spoke. How calm she was, how assured, as if this were all some grand plan of her own design. It was as though they believed they were managing him, holding the crown above him like a carrot, promising him power only if he agreed to be led like a child.

He was a Targaryen prince. He had brought the realm to its knees, put cities to flame, fought on dragonback while others schemed in dark rooms. And now, these men, the same who had depended on him to break Rhaenyra’s forces, were telling him he needed a marriage to prove his worth?

“Very well,” he said, his voice firm. “If Rosaleen Blackwood is suitable, then send word. I’ll not spend weeks deliberating over this.”

Tyland and the other councilors nodded, clearly eager to push forward without provoking his anger further. But Alicent held his gaze, her eyes full of a quiet resolve that only deepened his resentment.

“Power must be won and held,” she said softly. “A wise ruler knows when to fight, and when to accept what the realm demands.”

Aemond’s lip curled slightly. “I need no lessons on ruling from those who never took up the sword themselves,” he replied, his voice low, his words laced with a veiled challenge.

Alicent’s face remained still, her expression unreadable, but he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Good, he thought bitterly. Let her see what she had turned him into.

Lord Tyland shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, sensing the tension in the air. "If there are no further questions, my prince, we shall proceed with sending word to House Blackwood," he said cautiously, glancing at Alicent as he stood, signalling to the other lords.

One by one, the men nodded their obedience and filed out, though each cast a furtive glance at Aemond as they went, as if wary of stirring his already simmering ire. When the doors finally closed, Alicent alone remained, her gaze fixed on her son, unreadable but purposeful.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he returned her stare, waiting for her to speak first. And when she did not, his voice came firm. “If you have something to say then do.”

"Aemond," Alicent began softly, her voice calm but with a mother’s authority. "You will listen to me on this matter. I did not orchestrate this alliance to spite you, nor do I take pleasure in it. It is meant to steady your rule, to make the people look upon you as something other than..." she hesitated, then continued, "other than the prince who left them in flames."

Aemond’s jaw clenched at her words, and he felt a surge of resentment well up within him. “It is the council, and you, who seem to think my claim is not enough, that I must be leashed to a wife for the sake of ‘stability.’ Do you think that will fix what’s broken?” His voice dropped to a low hiss. “Or do you fear what I might do if left unattended?”

“You know very well I do.”

A tense silence followed, her words sinking in, and she took a steadying breath, her voice laced with something colder than he had ever heard from her before. “Do you think this is what I wanted for you? You were once my smallest son, sensitive and watchful. You had no dragon, and you bore your lack of one as if it were a wound carved into your very soul. When you lost your eye, I defended you against your father and Rhaenyra both. I demanded justice for you. I would have gone to war for you then.” She paused, her gaze piercing, unrelenting. “But I did not know that you, too, would someday thrive at war, against all the blood that is ours.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered as her words cut through him, and Alicent pressed on, each sentence ringing with controlled pain. “And Lucerys, Aemond. A boy. A boy not much older than you were then. And you watched your brother maim himself in pursuit of a throne he barely understood.”

“It was not me who put him there–”

“The throne. All these horrors in its name, and you still cling to it. You are not that boy who sought justice anymore. I cannot treat you as if you are, because you, too, are changed. Changed beyond anything I could ever have imagined.”

She took a long breath, her expression softening only slightly. “I know you have lived your own horrors, seen and endured things I’ll never understand. But that does not release you from what you have done. This realm is broken, Aemond, and I do not have the luxury of turning a blind eye any longer. If you wish to rule, you will do so not as my boy but as a man who understands the destruction he has wrought and the lives he is responsible for now.

“And you will do so with a wife, of our choosing, at your side.”

"You speak as though I have any choice in the matter," he said, his voice low and controlled, though the bitterness was unmistakable. His single eye burned into hers, searching for any trace of the mother he had once known, the one who had stood by him when no one else would.

How was it that this woman could make him feel comfort and resentment in the same breath?

Alicent held his gaze unwavering, her own resolve as firm as stone. "You always had a choice, Aemond.”

Aemond stood in silence, the weight of her final words pressing down on him like an anchor. There would be no turning back. No reclaiming the innocence of his youth, no undoing the choices that had irrevocably altered the course of his life. But Aemond would not forget her role in this, nor the way she and the council wielded his title like a weapon to keep him in line.

He was a Targaryen, and he would have his due, with or without their approval.

Since that night Aegon had humiliated him, Aemond hadn’t set foot on the Street of Silk. The thought of returning filled him with distaste. He could still feel the shame that had burned through him that night, searing hotter than any physical pleasure he might have found there.

Any lingering need had fizzled away, replaced by something colder, harder. The women in those dimly lit chambers had meant nothing to him then, and they would mean even less now. He had no desire to seek warmth in the arms of strangers when he had seen, firsthand, how shallow and fleeting those comforts could be. 

When it would come to his new bride, would he even feel it then?

The Blackwoods, the Riverlands, a marriage alliance, these were the scraps thrown to a prince who had taken up arms and shed blood for the realm.

As dawn crept over the Red Keep, Aemond resolved himself to the path laid before him. He would marry Lady Rosaleen Blackwood, claim the title that was his by right, and bring the Riverlands into submission. But they would not break him. 

He was fire and blood, a Targaryen prince, and he would see his will done, even if the realm itself had to bend to him.

The first morning light broke over the twisted, ancient branches of the great weirwood in Raventree Hall’s courtyard. She stood by the open window of her chamber, allowing the cool air to fill her lungs as she watched the courtyard stir to life. Despite her resolve, there was a fluttering anticipation in her chest.

The summons had come suddenly, a raven delivered in the dead of night, sealed with the unmistakable mark of the crown. She, Rosaleen Blackwood, was to wed Prince Aemond Targaryen. A prince known for his ferocity, his scars, and his dragon.

This would change everything.

There was no one in her family who truly expected her to embrace the idea of a Targaryen husband. She was willful, outspoken, a trait her dear late mother said would lead to her ruin one day. But for Rosaleen, she had seen too many Blackwood women fade into quiet, thankless marriages to lesser lords. 

Surely, Rosaleen thought, there was more to life than that.

A knock came at her door. “Cousin?” called a familiar voice, light and lilting. “Are you prepared to greet your new future with a crown on your head and steel in your heart?”

Rosaleen smirked and turned from the window. Her cousin, Alysanne Blackwood, stood in the doorway with a mischievous look in her eyes. Alysanne was slender, quick with her wit, and one of the few people she could say she truly trusted. Her cousin’s easy humor balanced Rosaleen’s own seriousness and had kept her sane through many difficult times.

“Steel, perhaps,” Rosaleen replied with a half-smile. “I’ll not be donning a crown just yet, Aly. And I’ll thank you not to go spreading that nonsense, either.”

Alysanne grinned, unfazed. “Come now, surely you see the humor in this. A Targaryen prince, no less! Though from what I hear, he’s as likely to bite your head off as he is to kiss your hand.”

Rosaleen rolled her eyes. “I imagine he’s as dangerous as they say. I just wonder if the prince is worth the legend they’ve made of him.”

“I don’t know that you’ll be in the habit of judging such things as worth or value,” Alysanne teased. “But you’re right to be wary. These Targaryens, fire and blood, they say. Not exactly the family motto one would choose for a quiet, married life.”

“A quiet life was never in my plans, cousin, and you know it. This marriage will be many things, but quiet is not one of them.” 

The confidence in her voice gave way to a faint gleam of excitement.

“Of course,” Rosaleen said, her thoughts settling on her decision, “I’m taking you with me, along with several of the girls. They’re packing now.”

Alysanne raised her brows in mock surprise. “Is that so?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Rosaleen replied, her tone pragmatic. “My ladies will be my eyes, my ears, and my voice in King’s Landing. I’ll not go into that place with only strangers and stiff-backed lords watching me.”

“The prince may not be pleased to find his bride arriving with such strength in numbers.”

Rosaleen shrugged, unconcerned. “If he’s displeased, then it will be the first of many he’ll have to learn to bear.”

Alysanne nodded approvingly, clearly delighted at the thought of the Targaryen prince squirming. “I’ll pack my wittiest retorts.”

Alysanne’s laughter echoed down the corridor as she left, the sound fading as Rosaleen returned to her walls, donned with decorations, lost in thought. She knew there would be whispers, even accusations of ambition. She was no fool, she understood the risks involved. Marrying into a family of dragonlords was no simple task, especially when her family was deeply rooted in the traditions of the Riverlands.

Yet, she could not deny the thrill that had taken root in her heart. A Blackwood married to a Targaryen. It was a match that would change the fortunes of her house, potentially even the future of the kingdom itself. And if Aemond expected her to cower in the shadow of his dragon, he would find himself sorely disappointed.

The night was cool and quiet, as if in mourning. The moon cast pale light across the yard, making the gnarled branches of the dead weirwood glisten like skeletal fingers reaching up to the seven heavens. Perched along the branches, dozens of black ravens watched her with beady eyes, heads cocking as she neared, almost as if they recognised her.

This old tree had been known to her family for generations, its twisted, pale trunk and dark, blood-red leaves a constant reminder of their allegiance to the Old Gods. Who they were. Though the tree was long dead, the ravens still came, roosting among its branches as if drawn to its silent power. They had been her confidants since childhood, and tonight, she felt a pang of sorrow leaving them behind.

"Rosaleen."

The familiar voice came from behind her, soft and steady. Her father’s tone held a subtle mix of warmth and worry, the same note she had heard in his voice ever since the raven had brought the news of her betrothal. Rosaleen turned to face him, meeting his serious gaze, flickering slightly to the cane held firmly in his grip. In the dim moonlight, his face was shadowed, lines of worry etched deep into his weathered features. He looked at her as if he wanted to memorise every detail of his only daughter’s face before she departed for the dangers awaiting her in King’s Landing.

“This will be my last night with the weirwood for a while,” she replied, managing a small smile. “I thought it only fitting to say my farewells.”

Her father hummed, smiling, but bittersweet, “I wish I could go beyond seeing you off, my sweet.”

It was no surprise that her father was not well enough to accompany her to the capital. For as long as she has known her father his body had been fragile, and the pain in his leg had only travelled north to the rest of his ageing body. It was not worth holding against him, Rosaleen thought, she was his only child, and it was heart wrenching enough for him, she thought, to watch her fly the nest.

“It is alright,” she replied, “Aly has a sharp tongue and wit, she will make sure I am there safely.”

Her father hummed, half-amused, stepping closer, his eyes scanning the ancient branches above them. “I don’t need to tell you that this life is…dangerous, Rosaleen,” he began, his tone both gentle and firm. “The Targaryens aren’t like us. They’re like fire, burning bright but unpredictable. What may seem like warmth today could become a blazing inferno tomorrow.”

Rosaleen’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had no illusions about what awaited her in King’s Landing. Marrying into House Targaryen was no mere arrangement of names and alliances, it was a bond with an ancient family that wielded fire and blood as its inheritance.

But she was not afraid.

He was but a man.

Her father studied her, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. “You are strong-willed, daughter. I know this. But should there come a time of need…” he stepped closer, urgent, “send a raven to me with a black feather. Whatever the message, I shall know what it means. And I will come with an army to fetch you, come what may.”

Her heart ached, but she didn’t let the emotion show. She knew he needed to see her strength now more than ever.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You know I shall not be calling on this lightly.”

“I know, Rosaleen.” He gave her a sad, quiet smile. “But I also know that you are still my daughter, no matter whose court you find yourself in.”

A raven above cawed, the sharp call echoing through the silent yard. She felt the shadows of her ancestors around her, felt the weight of their legacy in her blood and bones. And she felt, in that moment, a swell of both pride and bittersweet finality. Her father had given her everything he could.

Tomorrow, she would leave Raventree Hall, but she would carry all of it with her.

Her father gave her one last long look, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Make them remember that fire may scorch the land, but the rivers remember their own.”

With a final nod, he left her to the night, leaving only the ravens and the weirwood to bear witness to her silent vows.

There was little privacy to be found within her retinue. With her father too ill even to make the two-week journey to King’s Landing, the responsibility of her male escort had fallen to Maester Carwyn, a young and less-experienced maester, but one who could be trusted to serve her family’s interests. 

The older, more skilled healer had remained at Raventree Hall to tend to her father, whose health could not afford his absence. But Rosaleen knew that Carwyn’s loyalty was unquestionable, and, in time, should she have children, she would feel secure knowing that it was Carwyn overseeing their care. And hers.

The journey south was slow, the landscape unfolding before them in bleak tones of ash and ruin. The scars of war marred the Riverlands, fields once green and fertile now charred to barren emptiness, village after village reduced to smoldering ruins. 

Rosaleen watched the silent devastation with a hard-set jaw, her gaze lingering on the skeletal remains of homes and the blackened husks of trees that stretched to the horizon. This was Aemond Targaryen’s doing, he and his dragon, Vhagar, had unleashed their wrath here. And now she was being offered to him as a balm to soothe the damage he had wrought.

As they neared Harrenhal, its twisted, melted towers looming on the horizon, Rosaleen found herself lost in thought. The ominous fortress held a particular weight in her mind, not just for its reputation, but because this had been the place where Aemond had nearly met his end in the bloody war. 

She had heard the stories of his injuries, the months he spent in agony. How strange, she thought, to be heading to meet him now, healed, yet still scarred by the same war that had left the Riverlands in ruin.

"Look at this wasteland," Alysanne muttered under her breath, loud enough for Rosaleen and their cousin, Arianne, to hear. "The Targaryens scorch the very earth they rule over and then wonder why we don’t all bow down with gratitude.”

Rosaleen gave her a warning look, though inwardly she shared the sentiment. "Careful, Aly. The journey is long yet, and King's Landing is still ahead of us.”

Alysanne’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous light. "I’ll say what I like. I’m a Blackwood, not some Targaryen leech. And I’m sure your husband-to-be would do well to remember that.” Her tone was more playful than bitter, but Rosaleen could tell that her cousin’s words carried an edge.

She would have to be careful of that.

In contrast, Arianne, her cousin on her mother's Piper side, had a softer presence. Where Alysanne’s remarks came wrapped in thorns, Arianne’s were gentle, as if she considered the feelings of each listener before she spoke. She wore her femininity openly, her manners delicate, and her voice always lilting with warmth.

“Surely it’s better to look forward now. The war is over. What good is it to dwell on all this destruction?” Arianne said softly, casting a glance around at the desolation.

“Better to look forward?” Alysanne scoffed. “Yes, to look forward to watching my dear cousin bound to a man who thinks the Riverlands are his to burn on a whim.” She shook her head, tossing a rebellious lock of dark hair from her face. “Forgive me if I don’t swoon over the thought of Rosaleen sharing a bed with Aemond Targaryen.”

“And why not? I hear he’s quite… striking. People say he wears a sapphire where his eye once was and hides it behind a leather patch, so he doesn’t frighten the women at court,”  Arianne countered gently.

Alysanne let out a derisive laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Striking, perhaps, if one finds it charming to bed a man with blood on his hands. The very same hands that set these villages to the torch.”

Rosaleen had to press her lips together to keep herself from smiling. If she were to save her practicality, she would have to reign Aly in no doubt. “It’s the match I was given, and the match I must make. Railing against it won’t change that.”

Alysanne snorted. "Of course. But I will not hold my tongue in front of any man.”

Rosaleen smiled faintly. “If it’s your goal to ruffle feathers in the Red Keep, I have no doubt you’ll manage.”

She beamed with pride at the notion, whereas Arianne turned once again to her book, peering amongst the faded pages. She knew better than to quell the fiery personality of her kin.

It was only when they were south of Gods Eye Lake that anyone was able to see the sprawling landscape before them, and King's Landing sat proud in the distance. Mighty and grand.

He is there. Rosaleen though, the beating of her heart elevated slightly with anticipation.

Since halfway through their journey, Aly had stayed in the same carriage as Maester Carwyn, suffering with motion sickness from the ceaseless rocking. So Rosaleen glanced at Arianne, who watched with equal interest as the gates of King's Landing came into view.

“Are you nervous?” 

Rosaleen wet her lips, dry from days of travelling. She thought of little more than the idea of a nice warm bath. “I think you are more nervous than I, sweet cousin.”

Arianne gave a tight lipped smile, and looked away, clutching her book, “I suppose I am. I have never ventured this far, and I am worried for you.”

“Do not worry for me,” Rosaleen replied, reaching over to place a comforting hand atop Arianne’s. “I knew what I was to face when we left Raventree. This marriage,” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “this marriage is my duty to our house. I do not fear the Targaryens, nor King’s Landing.”

Arianne sighed, her gaze drifting to the sprawling city. “It’s just that I don’t understand… how you can be so calm. There are so many stories about this place, about the people here, and the court. And Aemond—”

“Yes,” Rosaleen cut in softly. “But stories have a way of growing beyond the truth. I will judge him for myself when we meet.”

“I suppose you’re right. But if you ever need someone, anyone… well, you’ll have me here.” She managed a small, encouraging smile.

Rosaleen returned the smile, her fingers still gently clasping Arianne’s hand. “And I’m grateful for it. We may find we need each other more than either of us expects in this strange place.”

As the carriage rolled through the city gates, the noise of the capital filled their ears, the bellowing of merchants, the shouts of city guards, and the rustle of countless people moving through the winding streets. Rosaleen watched as they passed narrow alleyways, the crowded market stalls, the curious eyes of passersby who glanced at the small procession from Raventree Hall.

Above the din, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and Rosaleen realised with a start that the Keep itself loomed closer, its high stone walls towering above them as they passed through the final gate. It felt like stepping into another world, a world that pulsed with its own heartbeat of secrets, dangers, and alliances yet to be forged.

The carriage came to a halt, and Rosaleen straightened her spine, taking one last look at Arianne’s worried face before the door opened. They shared a brief, comforting smile before Rosaleen descended, feeling the heavy air of the capital settle over her.

This was to be her new home.

The great gate of the Red Keep loomed before her, the sunlight shimmering over the cobbled courtyard where her retinue assembled, heads low in a mix of awe and wariness. Her own eyes swept over the towering walls before settling on the figures awaiting her arrival.

At the forefront stood Lady Alicent Hightower, her expression poised and watchful, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her, Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, regarded her with an unreadable gaze, his features giving nothing away. He dipped his head in a formal greeting as Rosaleen approached flanked behind by her ladies and Maester Carwyn.

"Lady Rosaleen," Wylde greeted, his voice cool and authoritative. "Welcome to King's Landing. On behalf of the council, we thank you for your journey."

Rosaleen curtsied deeply, her gaze briefly catching his. “Lord Wylde,” she said, her tone measured yet firm.

Alicent stepped forward, features softened. “Lady Rosaleen,” she said, her voice gentle but layered with authority. “It is good to finally meet you. I trust the journey treated you well?”

She offered her a deeper curtsy, her ladies doing the same with a small bow of their heads. “The road was long, Your Grace. But I am grateful to be here at last.”

A small, approving smile touched Alicent's lips, though her eyes remained sharp. “I’ve arranged for you to refresh yourself, and your chambers have been prepared to your family’s specifications.”

Rosaleen noted the formal tone, the careful selection of words, this was a woman as deliberate as any lord, accustomed to weighing every detail. “I shall endeavor to make myself worthy of the honor.”

Alicent nodded, her face betraying neither warmth nor indifference, only the weight of years spent managing such exchanges. 

“I was sorry to hear of Lord Blackwood’s condition,” Alicent continued, “I have sent word to wish him well.”

A flash of surprise passed Rosaleen’s gaze. Whether it was a cold formality or a genuine gesture to extend courtesy to her family, it shocked her either way.

“Thank you, Your Grace, that's very kind.”

Her retinue had already begun to carry her personal belongings inside, diligently guided by servants of the Red Keep alike.

"Aemond is occupied this morning with matters of council," she continued smoothly, "but he looks forward to meeting you in the gardens once his duties are concluded."

There was no doubt that Alicent’s words were meant as both an apology and an expectation, a signal that her son’s duties came first, even before his own betrothed. But it did nothing to sway Rosaleen. A prince of the realm, this is exactly what she expected.

Lord Wylde spoke up, his voice carrying a hint of warning masked beneath polite formality. “You’ll find King’s Landing can be as unpredictable as the river currents of your homeland, my lady. But with such resilience as yours, we have no doubt you’ll thrive.”

Rosaleen met his gaze, giving nothing away. "The Riverlands are not so easily shaken. My lord. And nor am I," she said, a faint smile touching her lips.

If she were to look behind her, Arianne would be none the wiser, and Alysanne would be pressing her lips together to keep herself from giggling.

Alicent’s mouth too twitched, perhaps in approval, perhaps in caution. “Come,” she said, her hand gesturing toward the towering gates. “We’ll escort you inside. You must be eager to rest.”

Rosaleen followed Lady Alicent and Lord Wylde through the towering gates, their footsteps echoing in the vast stone corridors of the Red Keep. She felt the immense weight of the Keep settle around her, a sprawling, ancient place that loomed with shadows and secrets, its stone walls seeming to pulse with a life of their own.

They passed through grand halls lined with tapestries woven with the sigils of the great houses, the Targaryen dragons fierce and proud among them. Rosaleen’s eyes took in the details, the fine, intricate designs of each banner, the threads as precise as the histories they represented. She marvelled at the craftsmanship, at the reminders of both bloodshed and legacy. The Red Keep was beautiful, but intimidatingly so.

This is your new home, she reminded herself, feeling a tightness settle in her chest at the thought. She was no stranger to vast halls, for Raventree Hall had its own deep roots and ancient mysteries, but here the walls seemed to lean in, to judge her even as they welcomed her. 

There was a coldness to the Keep that Raventree’s worn stones lacked, a reminder that here, she was an outsider.

As they ascended a wide staircase, Lady Alicent glanced back at her, observing her carefully, perhaps to gauge her reaction. 

“You will find the Keep to be as boundless as the city itself,” Alicent said, her tone precise and measured, “though I daresay it can feel smaller than it truly is.”

She nodded though the Dowager Queen did not see. But she understood how a place as vast as this could be confining in its own way.

Eventually, Alicent led her up another staircase and down a quieter hall. “These will be your chambers,” Alicent said, pausing before an oak door, “most recently held by my daughter, Helaena.”

Rosaleen inclined her head, feeling the weight of that knowledge settle over her like a shroud. Helaena, the gentle princess, and then a queen, who had known her own tragedies, her life a mystery and a sadness to most of the realm. Rosaleen looked at the door, wondering if the walls within held her ghost still.

Alicent’s face softened, if only briefly, and she gestured for Rosaleen to enter. Her retinue were placing various items personal to her in indistinguishable piles, her ladies long since taken to their own suitable chambers. The furnishings were elegant yet subdued, and though the bedchamber was fit for a queen, it bore an undeniable emptiness, as though awaiting something, or someone, to bring it back to life.

Rosaleen turned back to Alicent and inclined her head respectfully. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She paused, taking in the faint sadness that seemed to shadow the Queen Dowager’s eyes. “I am deeply sorry for her passing. Her loss is felt beyond these walls.”

Alicent’s expression softened, though her gaze remained guarded, like she was accustomed to protecting her grief. For a brief moment, a glimmer of pain surfaced, a rawness in her eyes that she quickly concealed.

“Thank you,” Alicent replied, her voice quiet and even. She waited a beat before she nodded, gesturing to the walls around them. “Make it your own,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “In time, you may come to find comfort within these walls, as my daughter did.”

A reply was ready on her lips. But Lord Wylde, who had stood at the door, cleared his throat. 

“If I may, Lady Rosaleen, Prince Aemond will be expecting you in the gardens shortly.”

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[defaultcake]

missing you rn

[ruewrote]

𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑤.

PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader WARNINGS: suggestive, no use of y/n GENRE: best friends to lovers SONG INSPIRATION: DIE FOR ME by chase atlantic WORD COUNT: 1.4k REQUESTED: yes NOTE: got a little carried away . . .

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the cabin was quiet. the flickering flames in the fireplace cast small shadows across the room as the last embers of the night begin to fade into darkness. you were stretched out on your bed, the warmth of the fire still lingering in the air, even as the chill from the mountain outside crept through the windows.

everyone else had long gone to their rooms. the day had been packed with hiking, teasing jokes, and way too much food, now the others were all passed out, getting some much needed rest for whatever was going to come tomorrow. you should have been tired too, but here you were laid in your bed wide awake, staring at the wall beside you.

the soft creak of your door opening broke the stillness. you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“hey,” josh’s familiar voice whispered from behind you. he was always the last one up too, unable to sleep when it got too quiet.

“hey,” you answered, glancing over your shoulder to see him standing in the doorway, his hair disheveled, looking sleepy and tousled. he had that half grin on his face that made you feel warm inside. 

“can’t sleep again?” you teased, already knowing the answer.

josh shrugged, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor, making his way to you. “nah, i tried. it’s freezing in my room, and, y’know, it’s weird without you there.”

this had been a thing between the two of you for as long as you could remember. whenever you were on trips with the group, josh would find his way to your room after everyone else had gone to bed.

it started as something simple as after late night movie marathons or study sessions that turned into sleepovers, but over the years. it just became your thing. sleeping alone felt strange now, especially for josh. he always needed you close.

“come on then,” you mumbled, lifting the corner of the blanket without a second thought. there was no need for words. he was already climbing under the covers with you, fitting his body against yours.

he slipped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest, the warmth of his body immediately chasing away the chill from the mountain air. his breath was soft against your neck, and you felt him relax instantly, his head resting on the pillow just behind yours.

this was normal. it had always been normal. the two of you had shared beds, couches, even floors when crashing at friends’ places after parties. josh had always been touchy, needing to feel you, as if that contact helped him settle. you never questioned it. after all, you felt the same.

his presence was grounding, the one constant you needed in your life.

his hand found its way to your waist, his fingers casually slipping under the hem of your shirt, resting against your bare skin like it was the most natural thing. it sent a shiver up your spine, but not because you were cold.

you were used to this, he always did it. he always wanted that skin to skin contact, as if the barrier of clothing was too much separation between you. and you let him, because it didn’t feel strange. it just felt like josh.

“you’re warm,” he murmured sleepily, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your lower back. he said it every time, but the way his voice softened whenever he said it always made your heart flutter.

you hummed in response, pressing back into him just slightly, the lines of your bodies fitting perfectly together under the thick blanket. his fingers continued their slow, lazy path across your skin, drawing shapes you couldn’t quite decipher but made you relax into him even more.

the room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the dying fire and the soft sounds of josh’s breathing behind you. this was your rhythm. an intimacy that had never been questioned. 

josh had always been more than just your best friend, but you’d never dared to label it as anything else. the touches, the closeness, it was just how the two of you operated. you were comfortable, safe with each other. 

but tonight, something felt… different. 

maybe it was the calm of the cabin, or the way the mountain’s isolation made everything feel sharper, more intense. or maybe it was just the fact that your heartbeat picked up whenever his fingers slipped a little higher, his hand resting now against your ribs, dangerously close to the swell of your chest.

you wondered if he noticed the way your breathing hitched when he moved, the way your body tensed ever so slightly.

“josh…” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the room.

“hmm?” his response was a soft hum, his lips brushing the back of your neck now, almost absentmindedly.

for a second, you considered pulling away, setting up those boundaries that were supposed to exist between best friends. but the truth was, you didn’t want to. you never had.

the truth of it settled deep in your chest, an acknowledgment of something you’d both danced around for years.

instead, you turned your head just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. his face was so close, eyes half lidded in the dim light, his lips parted slightly in that relaxed way that made him look vulnerable.

your heart did that little stutter it always did when he was this close, and suddenly, the unspoken feelings that had always been lurking just beneath the surface felt impossible to ignore.

“josh,” you said again, this time turning fully in his arms to face him.

he blinked, eyes clearer now as he studied your face. his hand didn’t move from where it was resting on your skin, but his expression shifted, like he could feel the shift in the air too. “yeah?”

the weight of the moment hung between you, the closeness suddenly more intense than it had ever been. you opened your mouth to say something. anything, but the words died on your lips as josh’s gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

you weren’t imagining it. the way his hand moved a little more deliberately now, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, skimming just beneath your shirt. the way his body pressed a little closer to yours, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own.

this was no longer just about comfort. something had changed.

“i–” you started to speak, but before you could say anything more, josh’s hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast so lightly you almost thought you imagined it. but you didn’t. the look in his eyes, now more awake and intense, confirmed that.

his breath hitched, the same way yours had, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the shared rhythm of your breathing, matching and uneven at the same time.

“we… we’ve always been like this,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, as if he was trying to remind himself of what this had always been. “right?”

you nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “yeah. always.”

but it wasn’t always like this. not with the way his lips hovered just inches from yours now, the way his hand slipped further under your shirt like he was testing a boundary you weren’t sure existed anymore.

“maybe…” he whispered, his forehead now resting against yours, his voice so soft it was barely more than a breath, “maybe we’ve been fooling ourselves.”

his words hung between you, heavy and raw. and just like that, the unspoken tension between you, years of shared beds, lingering touches, and blurred boundaries, came crashing to the surface.

you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t. because deep down, you’d known it too. this was never just about needing to be close. it had always been more. you just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“josh,” you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand slid up to your shoulder, his fingers gently tilting your chin so you were looking directly at him.

and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his lips brushed against yours. soft, tentative at first, a question hanging in the space between. when you didn’t pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, the heat between you building until the air felt thick with everything you’d kept hidden for so long.

you didn’t know where this was going to lead, but in that moment, with josh’s hands on your skin and his lips on yours, you knew one thing for sure.

there was no going back to the way things were.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

© ruewrote 2024.

[ethereangel222]

all yours

© @nicholasachavez

nicholas alexander chavez & cooper koch x reader (anyone can read!)

part ii | part iii premise Caught in a passionate, unconventional relationship, Y/N navigates the love and desire between two very different men.

cw suggestive

Reblogs are highly appreciated.

PART I

The three of you had always had this easy, unspoken rhythm. Nicholas with his playful charm, always quick with a joke, and Cooper with his quiet, more thoughtful presence, the two of them balancing each other out. And then there was you, somehow finding your place between them, where their differences and similarities intertwined in ways that made your heart race. It wasn’t something any of you had planned, but here you were, in Nicholas’ apartment, the city humming outside the window, the soft glow of candles flickering around you.

Nicholas leaned back against the headboard, his dark eyes watching you both with that familiar teasing smirk. His fingers played lazily with the hem of your shirt as you sat between him and Cooper, his touch warm and grounding. “You’re too quiet tonight,” he spoke softy, brushing his lips against your ear. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

You felt Cooper shift beside you, his hand resting on your knee, thumb gently stroking circles into your skin. Unlike Nicholas, Cooper didn’t need to fill the silence with words. His presence spoke enough. Steady, comforting, always there when you needed it. His eyes flickered to you, and there was that shy smile of his that always made your heart skip.

“I’m just…” You trailed off, glancing between them, feeling the heat of both their gazes on you. It was moments like these, when the reality of being caught between them, of being theirs, felt almost overwhelming. “I don’t know… maybe I’m still trying to wrap my head around how lucky I am to have both of you.”

Nicholas chuckled, his hand sliding up your side in a lazy, sensual way that had your breath hitching. “Lucky, huh?” He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck, his lips warm against your skin. “I think we’re the lucky ones.”

You tilted your head back slightly, giving in to his kiss, but your hand sought out Cooper’s, needing the grounding touch of his fingers lacing with yours. Cooper’s lips curled into a soft smile as he watched Nicholas work his magic, his own hand gently squeezing yours. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his lips brushing against your temple in a featherlight kiss.

“You’re everything we didn’t know we needed,” Cooper whispered, sending a shiver down your spine. He was never one to push, always patient, always letting Nicholas lead when it came to these moments. But when he spoke, his words had a way of sinking deep into your heart.

The dual sensations of Nicholas’ lips on your skin and Cooper’s hand holding yours sent a wave of warmth through you. It was overwhelming but perfect, like you were caught between two flames. One burning hot and fast, the other slow and steady. You let out a soft breath, feeling the weight of their affection settle over you like a warm blanket.

Nicholas’ kisses grew more heated, his hand slipping under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin. “You’re ours,” he murmured against your neck, his tone low and possessive in a way that made your pulse race. “Don’t forget that.”

Cooper shifted beside you, his hand moving to cup your cheek, turning your face toward him. He kissed you softly, his lips gentle and careful, the contrast to Nicholas’ fiery touch making your head spin. “We’re right here,” Cooper whispered against your lips, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Always.”

The connection between the three of you felt electric. Nicholas, with his playful grin, tugged you closer, pulling you fully into his lap while Cooper pressed in from behind, his fingers trailing down your arms in a way that made you feel surrounded, cherished. They were both so different, yet somehow, they completed each other — and you.

Nicholas’ lips found yours, his kiss hot and demanding, while Cooper’s hands moved in slow, sensual patterns along your skin, his touch a quiet reminder of the depth of his feelings. You moaned softly into Nicholas’ mouth, your hands tangling in his hair, but when you pulled back for breath, you turned toward Cooper, needing to kiss him too.

Cooper’s kiss was always more tender, more deliberate, as though he was savoring every second of it. He cupped your face in his hands, pulling you closer, and you melted into him, feeling Nicholas’ hands still on your hips, holding you tight between them.

“You’re ours,” Cooper murmured, echoing Nicholas’ earlier words. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “And we’re yours.”

Nicholas smirked, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder, his hands sliding under your shirt again, sending shivers through you. “I think it’s time we showed you just how much that means.

Before you could respond, Cooper turned to Nicholas, his expression soft but determined. There was a moment of silent understanding between them, a lingering tension. Then, to your surprise, Cooper leaned in, his hand resting on Nicholas’ cheek as he kissed him.

It started slow, tentative. But soon, the kiss deepened, the air between them charged with the same heat that had enveloped the three of you. You watched, breathless, as Nicholas responded eagerly, his hands gripping Cooper’s waist, pulling him closer.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them turned their attention back to you, eyes dark with affection and desire. Nicholas grinned, wiping his thumb across his lips, while Cooper gave you that shy, endearing smile that you loved so much.

And in that moment, surrounded by their touches, their kisses, their love, you knew you were exactly where you belonged.

[okkotsuus]

"YOU'RE AS BEAUTIFUL AS THE DAY I LOST YOU" (katsuki b.) !

features: katsuki bakugo

contents: fantasy au. angst. hurt/comfort/more hurt. mutual pining. barabrian!katsuki. fem!reader. childhood friends to lovers to strangers to lovers again. kidnapping. grief. crying. implied panic attack. major character death. no beta we die like men. 3.9k

notes: i've been yearning desperately to make bakugo say stoick's famous line from httyd2 (my second favorite movie)... if there's interest i'm considering continuing this into the canon verse with it being these two 'reincarnated'.

tagging: @saexy (for enabling and encouraging me in killing off characters) & @meristryker (for enabling me in the gc like a real one)

never in all his life did the great katsuki bakugo think that he would ever love someone enough that he could die. watching the loving smiles of his parents, the gentle caress of his father's hand to soothe his mother's unbridled anger: it made his stomach churn.

yet, at the tender age of seven, while on a trip to a nearby village to discuss the war shifting on the horizon, he finds himself absolutely smitten by their chieftain's daughter. wide e/c eyes peeking out from behind her mother's leg, hands clutching onto the hem of the long skirt.

katsuki finds himself enamoured in that instance, seeing sweet you, looking at the boy with such curious eyes. he stomps over to you: temper even fiery in his youth. his hand grabs onto yours as he hauls you out from behind the safety of your mother.

under the dim candlelight of the meeting room, flickering flames cast dancing rays across your skin. his chubby little face is scrunched into a scowl, tugging you out of the room and into the courtyard with a tenderness that betrayed his expression.

"i'm katsuki and you better not forget it!" his pitchy voice calls, still dragging you behind him. he looks over his shoulder, soft red eyes narrowed in what was an attempt to be intimidating.

but when he sees the relaxing of your eyelids, falling slightly in contentment, with a warm smile that rivals any feeling of victory: the mask of indifference slips in a blink of an eye. red dusts over the slops of his face, baby-fat painted the same carnelian as his eyes. his small hand grips tighter onto yours, as if he never would let you go.

your chubby little face stretches as your smile widens into a toothy grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. "got it, katsuki, i'm y/n!" he swears your voice is just like the lullaby his mother would hum while rocking him to sleep, bringing a rush of warmth through his chest.

that day, katsuki bakugou falls terribly in love with y/n l/n.

the two of you are deemed inseparable, hands always connecting like opposing poles of a magnet. pinkies intertwined stronger than any woven cloth. it's as pure and innocent as it can be.

if one were to see y/n, then it was irrevocably certain that katsuki was a few steps away. it sends rumors spiralling through the lands that there will be a union between the bakugo barbaricum and l/n dynasty. you're only eight when there's an attempt made for your hand.

the thought of two families as powerful as you and katsuki's joining was a fearful thing to many. it spelled doom for many weaker civilizations, those who had dug their own graves with their actions.

your family, blessed be you to have been born to loving parents in a world such as this, easily rejects the many proposals. the l/n dynasty is in a state of power where they are not forced to fend for their village: allowing you this freedom.

running through the streets of his stronghold, chasing each other for the sake of some game that was the farthest thing from either of your minds. katsuki feels whole when you are at his side. the world doesn't seem so ugly, he doesn't feel so angry, everything sings the hymns of the heavens.

he can't pull his ruby eyes off of your form by the age of fifteen. the katsuki you had known, baby-faced with a slight stutter, has began to fill out into a man. his shoulders broaden and begin to carry thick cords of muscle. the chubbiness of his cheeks begins to give rise to sharper angles. his whiny voice is pushed aside by a more gravelly tone. he shoots up like a sprout, hunching over slightly in faces that used to fit him so easily.

but he isn't the only one who is growing into his frame. your shoulders soften at the corners, collarbones visible with every slight movement. your baby fat begins to settle and collect on your hips, rounding them. those toothy grins of yours become framed by pretty lips, always looking soft as a pillow. clothes that used to drape over your like a sheet now feel tighter in certain places, stretching over curves that popped up overnight.

the two of you don't know what to do with yourselves, stolen looks when the other isn't looking. you still hook pinkies, but the touch sends flares of heat running up the back of your neck. it's like you were just meeting each other for the first time all over again.

katsuki feels like a damn sap with the way his heart thunders under his skin: threatening to burst out. he's too taken to notice the heat that was rising to your face whenever he was around, the way your hands nervously would grip onto the swaying fabric of your skirt. too blind to see that you were just as infatuated with him as he was with you.

hurried words, lingering touches, sneaking glances, the two of you had every hint of love right in front of your faces. yet, there's a hesitance that lingers in the back of young minds: afraid that falling in love would end up with no one catching them.

unsurprisingly, katsuki is the one who jumps first. it's a quiet night, the moon is high in the sky. his breath puffs out in front of him like smoke, winter beginning to show herself once more.

you looked too beautiful under the soft azure glow that the celestial sky casts upon you, he simply couldn't bear another moment without you known how much his very soul ached for you.

on the eve of his sixteenth birthday he whispers the words like a prayer, voice softened and gentle for once in his life. "y/n... you plague my every waking thought, i cannot let my heart beat any longer without it being yours."

e/c eyes widen as your head snaps to him, lips parting in shock. katsuki beats you to it, rough palms (once baby-soft) cupping your cheek with a tenderness he was unaware he possessed.

the stars illuminate the sunkissed slopes of his cheekbones, showing the fine lashes that fan out over his eyes. katsuki was ethereal, in every sense of the word, it catches your breath in a hitch. your mind stumbles through everything you could say right now, desperately trying to find the perfect response.

but when the pads of his thumbs drag over the apples of your cheeks, leaving a buzz in the wake of his touch, all rational thought leaves as you allow words to flow like a stream. "i have loved you longer than i have known you, katsuki." your voice is hushed, only filling the small space between the two of you: like a secret that only he and you would ever know.

it sends a trill up your spine when his eyes visibly soften, his face had been growing more and more sharp by the day but only when he was with you did the curve of his cheeks soften. he turns back into a boy around you, as you turn back into a girl when held so gently between his hands.

katsuki surges forwards, nose clumsily knocking against yours, teeth colliding with your own. he's inexperienced, never having kissed a girl, much less even though of kissing anyone but you. you both are a mess, giggling softly through messy pecks smearing over each other's faces. it feels like you're both those giddy kids once more, chasing the other through the cobbled streets of your village. he makes your heart sing.

it was even harder to be apart from him now, hands fully clasped together as you walk through the streets of either of your hometowns. yet, no one is surprised. neither of your parents nor his even bat an eye when you announce the courtship at a family dinner.

love is as natural as breathing for you and katsuki. inherently you have always known exactly what the other needs. he knows just how much you like the wildflowers that grow en-route between your homes. you know just how much he likes when you rise on your tiptoes and press a kiss against the corner of his lips.

it's young and dumb, a rush of big emotions and smiles that stretch your cheeks so far they ache. once you both are eighteen, katsuki turns the courtship into a betrothal. an elegant gold ring, with a garnet slotted right in the center, it sits pretty on your ring finger. his band is thicker, small e/c gemstones scattered along the surface. when in battle he loops it through a chain around his neck: pressing a kiss to the ring before charging forwards.

the world has known y/n l/n and katsuki bakugo have been in love for nearly twelve years, official for three, and betrothed for one. the bakugo barbaricum and the l/n dynasty have began making their plans to unify upon the wedding. it sparks a wave of unease in the badlands.

all it takes is an emissary sent from the dark forest for your world to crumble into shambles. a demon who seems to be the land's scourge reincarnated, hand that turn all to ash, pillages your beloved village. he comes in tow with a mimic and a fire mage. destruction rains as you are brought to the center as their singular demand is you.

your eyes lock with the demon's red eyes, a color that had made you feel so safe until now. the hair on the nape of your neck stands pin-straight as his hand extended towards you: palm up.

a flurry of emotions rush through you like a burst dam, memories of katsuki at the forefront. you want to be selfish, to damn him and his band of criminals to hell, to fight back despite the gravity of the situation. but he is bringing terror upon the people you swore to protect with your life.

so, you step forwards, soft hand sliding into his own. never had a rough palm felt like daggers against your skin, never had you so violently despised the way carmine shines in the light of blue flames.

to save your people, your family, the home you have known your entire life: you go. swept away in black mist. the last thing you see of that place is the bakugo horde rushing towards the gates, your eyes lock with katsuki's before the void claims you.

katsuki lets out a guttural scream as her charges head first into the miasma, falling onto the ground as the last wisp flows just through his fingers. his fist slams against the ground, hands gasping at the dirt you had just been on. he allows himself to cry in front of someone other than you, a wail echoing through the ruins of your village.

that day, you disappear off the face of the realm. no matter how many search parties are sent into the dark forests in the badlands, they all return empty-handed (if they return at all). katsuki keep his ring around his neck, so it beats against his bare chest with every movement: like a reminder of how it felt when his heart actually beat .

scars wind around his arms, around his biceps, over his forearms, across his shoulders. his face is hardened, permanent frown on the lips you used to kiss so tenderly. he's angrier than ever, fuse short as his attention span.

he is a shell of the man he had been, going through the motions of survival but never truly being alive.

this persists for a grueling two years. for seven-hundred and thirty days. for seventeen-thousand five-hundred twenty hours. he is separated from the only person that has ever felt like home, the woman he has loved longer than he knew how to read.

he masks it behind his ego, boisterous laugh to hide the ringing in is ears that hadn't been able to stop. he's more violent the field, less forgiving when in training with kirishima. the explosions that thunder from his palms produce a blackened smoke that lingers and settles in his lungs like a fog.

yearning hits him late at night when he lays alone in bed, a bed that you had once shared with him. silent tears pour, running down the sides of katsuki's face as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. his breath feels short as his chest heaves to get air in. the man's mind is clouded with the look on your face as those bastards took you. he can still remember every single little twitch of your expression when you finally saw him. he remembers the way your breath hitched. he remembers the tears that began to pool at the corners of your eyes.

but, most of all, he remembers not seeing you: for what feels like the first time in his life.

katsuki cannot recall when he finally fell asleep, or if he ever even truly did. his dreams are plagued with you anyways, so the line between memory and dream is thin as a tightrope.

he has a dream that he makes it in time to save you and wakes up alone. that one sticks with him for months, hanging over him like a shadow. if he was only a minute sooner, a stride faster, reacted quicker. maybe you would be in his arms right now instead of gods know where.

relief comes in a rumor that circles in a tavern that a woman with h/c hair and e/c eyes was spotted wondering through the dark forest. katsuki doesn't hesitate, he makes no effort to send out a scout party. he rides at dawn, horse hooves beating against the grass in a frenzied gallop as he makes his way into the badlands.

none of the rouges or thieves hope to stand a chance with him, the smart ones don't even try. he vanquishes the less fortunate with a single swing of his cutlass. the man doesn't stop to rest, only to water his horse and allow it to graze while he catches a brief nap.

his horse comes to a stop right outside the dark forests, whinnying in rejection to enter. katsuki doesn't blame the poor thing, this was the kind of place people went with no intention to come back from. he dismounts, not tying his horse off: it would return with a whistle.

the forest is eerie, yawning opening that is reminiscent of a gaping mouth. but he didn't fear. because at this point, he'd rather not come back if it meant he wasn't coming back with you.

footfalls crunching against leaves and sticks echo through the dim lit treeline. the canopy is so thick that it completely obscures the bright sunlight katsuki has just been under: the perfect place for criminals to hide. the trees creak and groan, as if the land itself was breathing and living.

only when he hears the snap of a twig does he stop, his head snaps around, a flash of h/c darting just out of the corner of his visions. the man's heart stops as he stumbles to pursue, not minding the whipping of low handing branches against his face. not when he could see you darting through the underbrush.

he finally sees you in the full when you run into a path dead-ended by brambles. it's really you. y/n, his y/n.

but you look over your shoulder with such a forlorn look it makes his heart ache in his chest. you don't believe that it's really him. "toga, this isn't funny, it's cruel to keep making me see him." your voice is rougher than he remembered, as if your throat had been worn. it makes his fists clench at his sides.

the mimic had been wearing his face, just to torment you?

just the thought of it sends a rage burning deep in his chest. he has no way of knowing what you have been through. katsuki couldn't protect you: like he always feared he would fail to do.

his steps toward you are hesitant, ruby red eyes softening the second he sees your face. his heart is pounding out of his ribs, it makes him wonder if you can hear it.

a rough hand reaches up to roughly tug the chain that held his engagement band around his neck, the links snapping and clattering to the ground. he doesn't even look at it. with a gentleness, he holds out the ring to you.

your eyes dart back between the metal and him, hands tentatively reaching for it. the thundering race of your heartbeat is all you can hear. your hands, once soft, now rough as his bush against his own as you roll the ring between your fingers.

katsuki's heart breaks when he feels the callouses on your fingertips. he lowers slowly to his knees in front of you, tears fighting their way to prick at the corners of his eyes. he looks up at you like you are the light in the world, a goddess before him. in a way, you are, because he had prayed to every deity to hold you again, even if it was only once more.

"you're as beautiful as the day i lost you." his words come out in a rasp. thick emotion coursing through his chest; nearly choking him.

he watched your eyes widen, tears pooling as you too crash onto the ground. your arms wrap tight around his neck, face pressed side-by-side with his own. strong arms encircle your waist in an instant, pressing you closer with an urgency.

"katsuki... oh gods, katsuki..." you don't even know what to say, just repeating his name like a desperate prayer. your cheeks are wet and your chest aches but you don't care, because he's finally here.

lips clash desperately, just as messy as the kiss the two of you first shared five years ago. it's a mess of teeth and tongue as your fingers tangle into ash-blonde hair, his hands finding the back of your head and your hip. he sucks the breath out of you, as if wanting to absorb you into his being.

and you'd let him if he asked.

carmine eyes search for e/c, his hands cupping your cheeks as he pulls back to study your face. it's like you never left. your eyes are tired, there's some grime on your cheeks, a soft scar above your eyebrow that you've had since you were thirteen.

the softest smile spreads on his face, forehead pressing against yours as his lashes flutter shut. katsuki lets out a deep sigh, one he had been holding for nearly two years now.

warmth blooms in your chest as everything finally settles back into place like puzzle pieces. your hearts beat in sync, you draw breath when he exhales, everything is right in the world once more.

but your heart skips a beat as your eyes open to see that cursed white hair with horns peeking out from below it. tomura shigaraki. a wicked smirk on his lips as he's leaned back against a tree, simply watching.

your hands grip tighter onto the back of the shawl draping over katsuki's shoulders, breathing turning shaky and ragged.

no. no. no. they couldn't take this from you. not again. not after how hard you fought to escape the league just at the fleeting chance of being able to see the man you love. this had to be some cruel joke, right? a trick of the light, maybe...

even you aren't naive enough to believe that, your eyes close as you lean against katsuki, head burying into the crook of his neck. your fiddle with his hands to slip the ring back onto it's rightful place on his third finger. a part of you had already resigned to being ripped away again.

after two years with the demon, you learned firsthand what shigaraki was capable of. and you were not going to allow katsuki to find it out as well.

your legs shook as you stood, a weak smile given at your lover's confused look. "i'll always love you, 'suki, you know that." his eyes widen as his head nods, brows furrowing.

"then let me keep you safe."

carnelian irises widen in realization as his head turns to look back, growl ripping from his chest at the sight of the scourge of the realm's protege. his hands immediately reach for the hilt of his sword, explosions popping in his palms.

but you're already beginning to approach. katsuki seizes you in one arm, hauling you away like the day you first met. he runs through the forest with you: knowing that shigaraki would not allow the both of you to leave.

he bounds over winding tree roots, holding you steady and tight against his chest. the impending sense of doom begins to crawl up the back of his neck, but he needs you to be safe.

with you in his arm, he stumbles out of the forest, shrill whistle leaving his lips as the sound of hooves grows closer. with ease he sets you up on the saddle, but he does not join. you realize immediately what is about to happen. "katsuki-"

"no. it's my turn to keep you safe, y/n. i've always loved you, and i always will. in every life i will find you, and in every life, i will protect you." his words bring tears to your eyes as you desperately stake your head, sobs bubbling past your lips.

shigaraki creeps out of the forest and he delivers a harsh smack to the horse's haunches, sending it galloping away. within a second later a hand is reaching through katsuki's chest, mocking laugh against his ear.

"how heroic. i'll make sure you die slow, barbarian."

never in all his life did the great katsuki bakugo think that he would ever love someone enough that he could die.

that was until he lay on the edge of the forest floor, lifeblood leaking from the gaping hole in the center of the chest. but he wasn't anguished: because he died for you, the only person who he would ever love.

okkotsuus 24

[moondirti]

DOUBLE RAPTURE

MIGUEL O'HARA x F!READER x ALT! MIGUEL

「 Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other repeatedly. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge. 

And tonight – stuck between two men who don’t look, but are, each other – nothing can tamp your flame. 」

summary: after apprehending an anomaly who turns out to be an alternate version of your husband, you indulge in your filthiest fantasy.

explicit (18+) | 6.3k words | part two warnings: pure smut, pwp, THREESOME, cunnilingus, squirting, throat-fucking, blowjobs, unprotected p-in-v, anal, double penetration, tummy/throat bulge, younger miguel is submissive, spitting, cum swallowing, hair pulling, mild degradation, possessiveness, tooth-rotting fluff, every kink under the moon tbh

In truth, it comes naturally. 

Your Miguel – older, blunt around once serrated edges, wisps of grey streaking dark tresses – sits to the side. He fosters a tumbler in one grip, half-full with amber liquid. Scotch whiskey, neat; you’d poured the drink to give yourself something to do while waiting. It’ll help, you insisted. An outlet to sip on, or a loud-enough warning when set on the adjacent tea table. 

Now, you see that it was more for your sake than his. 

He’s entirely collected for someone watching another man’s hands run along his wife’s body. They pushed your shirt off a while ago, hurried to behold your covered form. You’re laying in your bra, breasts heaving while kisses trail down your stomach, nipping the sensitive skin there – and still, all you can focus on is him. Your Miguel, scrutinising the rush the man is in with disapproval glimmering on carmine eyes. If this whole thing hadn’t been his suggestion, you would’ve sworn the look was meant to kill. 

Because he likes to take his time with you. It hasn’t always been that way. Ages ago, following your premiere date, you fucked for the first time in a motel he rented, both your apartments’ farther than he would’ve liked to drive. But, again, he’s older now. Seasoned. There’s a heavy ring decorating your finger that winks reassuringly at him, three carats for the three year anniversary he proposed on. It amplifies the truth each hour you wear it – he is yours, you are his, and you’ve all the time in the world to do with each other as you please. 

Your third for the night is unfamiliar with the dynamic. 

(Though of course, it makes sense for him to be.)

You have to remind yourself of the fluid lines that mark each component of this little fantasy. They waver and wobble, bleeding into one another sometimes like wet ink on parchment. It’s hard to decipher the words they spell out when trapped in thick, indulgent lust – your legs spread to allow the man room as he moves down your body. But it’s even harder to ignore the way your skin burns with the intensity of your husband’s careful contemplation. It singes, redefining those exact perimeters for you:

One, and the most important given your suggestion, is that this will never leave your room. It’s not distrust that keeps it rigid – rather, a shared concern for the integrity of the multiverse. Your Miguel is all too aware of the dire consequences it could face should the rule be broken. You are too. It only narrows down to the partner occupying your bed and his naivete to it all. 

Two; to use the safewords established beforehand. You’re infamous for losing yourself to pleasure, the habit bordering on a dangerous degree. It’s why Miguel is watching, to ensure things start correctly. He’s piqued and ready to stop it should the man not understand your limits.

(However unlikely. Currently, you’re the one establishing them.)

The third – the one you have a particularly complicated time grasping – is that ‘the man’ in question is no stranger at all. In fact, it’s instinct to touch him in the same way you’re used to, your mind adequately fooled everytime you look at him. A full head of brown hair – albeit, cropped shorter than your voyeur’s, a fade in at his ears. Young skin, which you strain to notice is devoid of the crows’ feet you adore. Yes, he’s smoother, like time had taken sandpaper to your model and buffed out all his worn edges, but he’s still…

Miguel. 

(Though he urged you to call him Mig, entirely oblivious to the subtle cringe that’d crossed your husbands expression. That nickname is one you hardly resort to. He’s revealed a hatred for it. 

Another cue, then, that they are not one in the same). 

So, it comes naturally because you’ve spent so long in this exact space. Dusk flooding your home in plum hues, the colour of a berry ripe with rot. Overhead lights off, golden lamps projecting sensual shadows on white sheets. Your face warm with alcohol and your panties pushed to the side by a hero named O’Hara, whose palms are large and dry but a burning furnace on gooseflesh. 

The younger one, Mig, is not yet a hardened vigilante. He’s new to the game – DNA spliced with spider essence only seven months ago. In that time, he worked out his own method of inter-dimensional travel, tortured genius that he is. Hopped between worlds until, eventually, he blipped on your radar. You’d been sent to process the anomaly whose personhood you were unaware of, only to come face to face with a twenty-something version of your beloved. 

There’s no room for bias in the delicate scale of the universe. He’d found himself locked with other transgressors of his pedigree. Miguel – yours – was vehemently opposed to the notion of him joining spider society, uncomfortably affluent in his past recklessness. He knows, better than everyone else; it’s a security risk, letting in a spider-man so inexperienced. 

You think that it’s projection. That, and a recognition of the way his mirror couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you. 

(A flattering notion for all you refused to believe it. You’re about ten years his senior – surely, he’d have better prospects on his Earth. But you asked, perhaps to hearten any overprotectiveness that could manifest itself as risk.

Something wrong, Mig? 

He only looked at you behind the red laser field entrapping him, a small smile on his face. No. Nothing. You’re just different back home.) 

That was before. Before he embodied the exact enthusiasm Miguel had been afraid of, spearing your cunt with his tongue, his scalp no doubt aching under your relentless hold. He hums his encouragement despite it, begging you to direct him the way you please. At least he acknowledges his cluelessness – you can almost hear from the other side of the bedroom, acumen pulsing amidst heady air. Most men wouldn’t, their egos great fragile beasts. To have gotten around before might embellish their history with competent, but no one’s ever truly an expert on someone new. 

Mig doesn’t pretend otherwise. He’s keen to learn. 

That is the difference that encouraged this whole tryst. 

“Unfurl your tongue, Mig. You’re focusing too much on– Oh.” Your hips buck, shoving closer to the mouth that does just as you say. He laps your heated core with spittle-drenched dexterity, combing between puffy lips. “That’s it. F-fuck… Just. Just don’t stop.” 

The praise does well for him. He looks up at you, reverent – pupils not red, but black with the shadows his long lashes cast. You brush back locks that fall upon his forehead, affording him a better view of the effects he’s wrought. A thin layer of sweat clings to your flesh, gleaming with the fading sun outside. In your peripheral – framed gorgeously by the wall-wide window – it dips below the horizon, nebulous. Blurry on orange clouds. 

Pinned under observation and a feverish assault, you feel much the same. Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other with novel speed. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge. 

And tonight – bouncing between two men who don’t look like, but are, each other – the feeding of the flame goes untamed. 

You find that’s the cause for it. There’s nothing to cling onto for purchase, the one anchor in this equation seated on his leather armchair, ankle on knee, content in watching you soar to uncharted skies on the chin of another. Your head flops uselessly to the side, scanning him once more. 

There’s a tricky look to him, suspended on two lines of equal measure. You can tell he wants to join, to take control of the exploit and direct it how he sees fit. Perhaps it’s regret. Yet the pronounced mass in his trousers speaks to the contrary. Miguel palms it, testing his endurance by keeping his touch above cloth, rounding back once his heel presses its end. The sight catalyses your delirium; the knowledge that he, your dedicated husband, is tender with rushed blood and idle about it. Waiting for an opportune moment. 

When you reach out an arm in his direction, you hope he takes it as one. Mig sucks your weeping cunt in a symphony of lewd noises, as though he’s trying to push the grace he’s been granting. Slurp. Tracing the perimeter of your slit, revelling in the way it clicks at his ministrations. Squelch. Nose driving into your clit, so hard you suspect he’s trying to bury himself there. 

It only calls to your lips, how dry they feel. You’re parched of the one thing he chose to forgo, marking it as off-limits based on some arbitrary ideal. You don’t assume you understand it, instead wiggling your fingers – come here – at your husband. He skips over the grabby hands, devouring your bitten pout and droopy lashes, weighing them in his head. 

“Mi vida.” You plea, voice pitched high and winded. The glass’s bottom glints with the last swill of his drink. He knocks it back before rising – sweeping towards you, tantalisingly slow. 

Mig shoves your knees higher, practically folding you in half. Your hamstrings stretch with the motions, sending molten spasms to your core – that which he continues to eat out. He’s now doubtlessly coated with your juices, but he doesn’t relent, tracing messy patterns on the sweet spot he managed to pinpoint without your help. You’re reduced to a sore bruise, egged on with every poke and prod. Pleasure swells with blood, clogging burst capillaries. Delicate. Inflamed; deliciously so. You give him a validating pat on the head while a free hand wraps around your Miguel, ironing his waist as he ducks down to your lips. 

All three of you are on the bed now. You can’t begin to process the depravity of it all, the way things suddenly become hot and bursting and real. No – you’re much too enthralled by the rough kiss you’re pulled into. It’s dominating and tastes like smoked oak. Honey and faint vanilla where his tongue traces your fauces. The flavours batters you into something vapid, stupid, until the older man has to cup the back of your neck to keep you from sinking. 

Intoxicated – you thought you’d be familiar with it by now, how wholly he consumes you, but there’s a power imbued in his approach that has you struggling to keep up. It’s all you can do to keep moving your mouth against his, gathering the material of his shirt to pinion yourself. 

He’s got a stubble that colours his jaw in grey, the stalks of it grazing your nose and flaying you raw. It leaves you feeling sunburnt, dazed yet still pushing forward, like the balm for relief can be found at the back of his throat. That’s something else, you note, flicking your observation over to the face between your thighs. Mig keeps himself clean shaven, a youthful shine to his complexion, no peppered hair to obstruct it. Without it, you can clearly see the way his high cheekbones curve inward, hollowing out as they lead down to a pronounced chin. Charming, especially as it shoves between the globes of your ass to make room for his continued efforts. 

You’re close, so close. A dam about to burst with centuries worth of water and–

“Need help, corazón?” Miguel whispers, nudging your nose so you can look back at him. Your response comes in the form of a stuffy whimper, nodding minutely. What exactly he means by help, you’re not sure, but his double seems to understand, breaking the smallest bit away to whine a protest.

“That’s offens–” 

“Get back to licking her cunt before I change my mind about you being here.” Your husband orders, glowering when the reprimand seems to create the opposite of its intended effect. Mig grins wickedly, a cocky aura about him as he obeys. Just as he’s about to make contact again, his gaze catches yours. The subsequent wink he gives is a warning – loud and bleary and smug – preparing you for when he dives back in with a vengeance, plunging into your hole with that cursed muscle that runs like velvet.

The air pinches from your lungs, squealing on its way out. Your toes curl and your muscles tense and then Miguel directs your face back down with thick fingers, steering you by your cheeks. Your lips pucker, mouth unhinging at the silent command the action echoes. Tongue flattening, you prepare yourself for the little dance you’ve trekked a hundred times before – thankful, in some part, that he’s doing it to ground you. 

When he spits – hawking, a dense glob concentrated with scotch – onto an expectant palette, you suppress the devilish narrowing of your eyes. It’s almost habit to reflect his countenance, looking down with fondness and pride at the control you exhibit. Because you don’t swallow, not immediately. You wait for him to kiss you again, to gather the slaver and push it behind your molars with reinforced passion. And he does. Of course he does – that and so much more as he places claim to the hole that is solely his for tonight. You hardly notice when his clutch leaves you, skimming down to unclasp your bra. 

Not when your breasts jerk free, nipples pocking at the shift in temperature.

Not as he squeezes each, tugging at their peaks until they’re fully erect. 

Or even while he tickles the line of your abdomen, following the same path his counterpart did, smoothing over aggressive bite marks. 

It’s only when you break away for great, gluttonous breaths of air – your vision blurring with hypoxia – and Miguel reaches two digits to your fattened clit, do you finally run up to speed. It’s a little too late, though, because he presses down and escalates your delight to unprecedented heights. Enough to see stars – enough to scream the loudest you have in a long while, so that all your appeals are fully unintelligible but available for the world to hear. 

“FUCK! Oh my– Fuck, s-shit, shit…” You cry, tears finally breaking the tension at your waterline and running in an unending sequence. “B-both of y-yo– Ah! So good. I’m–”

Mig moans, sending vibrations right to the tightening ball of pressure in your gut. He’s snowballed his efforts, drinking you in with a sincerity. Specifically targeted is the spongy wall of tissue on the upside of your mound, suffering his battery and singing for it. String-plucked and pedal-pressed symphonies, composing a viscosity within you that sloshes behind your orgasm. Yes, he adds to it, but the fingertips rubbing you with bullish ferocity are going to break what’s holding it all back. You feel– know it. 

Using your hair to hold your head in place, Miguel utters a string of debauched nothings onto your lower lip, face pressed close to yours. They’re quiet enough that even you have trouble catching them, your ears ringing with rising alarm. But you sense the way his breath blows, what shapes it creates, how it twines – and that fills in every gap for you. The intimacy manages to speak to the truth, despite all the degrading dirty talk. 

“You like that, you filthy fucking thing?” Groaning, your husband increases his speed, goading you faster. There are crushing hands on your hips, and another wound into your scalp, pulling it taut. “So insatiable that you need two men to help make you cum, huh? Do you think you can?” 

“Yes, yes, yes please. Please,” The very implication that he might stop before you do inspires unruly desperation. Your hips, arms, head – they all thrash in unison. “I wanna– I want to cum, Miguel, for the love of everything! Please!” 

He slaps your clit in warning. The blow sends you reeling into a hush, so much so that you stop moving immediately, secretly wishing he’d do it again. To divert your energy, you stare right into his pupils, which shine with burgeoning playfulness. “You will, dirty girl. You’ll wish you didn’t though.” 

“W–” 

“Oye, wide eyes.” He turns to Mig, who's been curiously watching the display, jaw still moving against you. He unhooks under the attention, blinking rapidly. “Mouth wide open. You’ll want to catch every drop.” 

He returns to strokes you in circles – furious, fervent. It’s a screw to the cork, twisting forcefully to combat the tension it’s working to release. You squeal, screech, do just about anything except contract your body like you’re compelled to do. You leave yourself loose, watching as Mig registers what’s about to happen, following orders and transforming into a receptacle for it. His fangs peak from behind swollen lips. 

All you’re able to think about, plastered to this pane of double rapture, is how they don’t seem to retract. Permanent, unlike your Miguel – a fixture in his gums. 

And then the dam shatters. Implodes, actually – collapsing into itself until it’s a small particle floating out with the deluge. You can hear it, the rush of fluid squirting from you. Consistently, pouring into the puddle the younger man happily gathers. He beams with satisfaction and looks so much like your husband, who does the same, brushing tears off your wrecked face. 

With a core still convulsing, caught in the reverberant throes of pleasure, you’re mentally spent. Drained for every dime you’re worth and still wholly aware of the promise he made, flipping it over in your head. Again, and again, until it loses impact and dissolves from the impending future. For all you try, though, he holds power over you – even in memory.

You’ll wish you didn’t. 

Mig sits up, crouched on his haunches. Chest bare of everything – including the curls that span your husbands’ – and in just his boxers, you can’t help but focus on either one of two things. His maw, pulled in a downward smile and soaked with clear slick, a concoction of saliva and your fluid dripping from where his canines poke out. But you find that it fills you with unwieldy humiliation to behold, so you fall onto the next. 

Which just so happens to be his erection, trapped and throbbing from behind navy cotton confines. The head of it peaks above his waistband, purple and dribbling with pre-spend. It’s created a wet spot that grows larger by the second, and your humility is replaced by guilt for the poor thing. 

Miguel, cooing in faux sympathy, swoops to caress the shell of your ear with his sinful proposal. 

“What do you say, cariño? Want us to fuck you silly?” 

Your hole squeezes around nothing, empty, speaking with a will of its own. He hears it, because of course he does – he’s in tune with everything about you – and manoeuvres you onto your stomach. By mere muscle memory alone, you get on wobbly knees, presenting your rear to the ecstatic man behind you. 

And, your husband… Well–

He squeezes between your face and the headboard, tree-trunk thighs stretching out on either side of you. There’s a huge wedge in his pants, not at full size yet but stiff regardless, suffocated by time and space. Your mouth waters, appetite returning far too rapidly for how distant it seemed mere seconds ago. 

“Beautiful, hermosa.” Mig groans, spreading your ass to get a proper view of the way your pussy drips for him. A quick glance back provides you with a lovely picture. Him, positively captivated with your holes – both of them, it appears, based on the way his thumb grazes over your tighter clench. “Can’t wait to feel you on me.” 

His cock is out, too, briefs shoved under the sack at the end of his length. You take it all in like it’s the first time – despite the many traits he shares with Miguel. Fat, darker than the rest of him that gleams bronze even at night. Though rooted on a crop of tangled hair, whereas his alternate self prefers it trimmed short. When he strokes himself, anticipative, you note the mushroomed head. Circumcised. 

An impish idea suddenly crosses your mind. Succumbing to it, you arch your back, knocking your behind on him. The action traps the appendage between you and his pelvis, and to add insult to injury, you wiggle around until it slots between your cheeks. Mig’s face screws up, close-knit, his hands scrambling for purchase on your rolling hips. 

Something slaps your cheek. Grinning, you turn back to Miguel, his dick now extricated from its prison. The heft of it sways, tapping your nose and fluttering eyelids, so damn heavy that you cringe when it approaches. Two veins pop up from the smooth skin stretched along him, branching down to his frenulum, the spot you choose to start. 

Your tongue runs along it, lathering the plump seams on your journey to the top. His nerve endings are mainly reduced to his head – unlike Mig, who’s still moaning as you grind across his length – so you stay there, particularly concentrated on the edge and the valley it creates. Your temples warm with the gentle cradle of two large hands, piloting you on your trip around his cock. 

He smells like home – an ambrosial mix of leather and sweat, the backseat of his car where he fucked you on valentines. It’d been raining, windows made misty by passing fog, city colours painted on the grey wash. You’d teased him all day with a lack of panties and suffered for it, practically choked on pleasure, nothing on but a new pendant necklace. 

Right now, you’re stuck in a parallel state. You can’t breath under the leaden attention of both him and his mirror, doing your best to keep sucking and grinding regardless of your dwindling strength. It’s difficult, difficult to divide yourself and satisfy them both, but fuck do you want to. More than anything, you’d kill to see them come undone in your holes – simultaneously, in some unlikely reverie. Pumped full of cum and praise by double the man you love most. Your tummy lurches with nauseous desire, teeth separating as you take Miguel into your mouth. 

Peering up at him, if only to experience the way he loses control. But creases fold between his brow, reading your expression just as well. Without rush or need for brawn, he pulls the responsibility from under you, assigning it to himself by propelling into your trap, all in one go. He grates along the texture of your palette, cleaving your tonsils, and finally settling deep in your throat, triggering a series of ugly gags. To quiet down, you grip your thumb in a fist, focusing not on your lack of air but on contracting your throat around his tip. 

“Are you going to fuck her or continue to rut like a dog in heat?” Your husband bites at Mig, ever self-critical. The latter man sucks in a challenging huff, patting your waist as he withdraws to centre his cock between your folds. He wags it until it catches on the divet of your cunt, hot and surging with natural slick. 

Then, just when you think you can’t bear it any longer, he pushes in. 

“Ghmmngf!” You cry, forced forward onto Miguel’s breadth, coughing out the saliva and pre-spend that threaten to smother you. Nose smooshing to his groyne as the other bottoms out, sheathed fully within you. You swear you can feel him in your guts, silently praising whatever taught him how to make most of your narrow space. 

Like they’ve practised telepathy their whole life, both men dip to feel themselves through your body. Mig presses a sturdy hand to your stomach, positioned right at your mound where he protrudes outwards, admiring the visible bulge he creates in you. Similarly, his older counterpart cradles your neck, pinching the sides that expand and retract with the pistoning of his hips. He fucks your gullet slow, fast, and back to slow again – amused with the pace he can discern in more ways than one. 

If your eyes hadn’t been rolled to the back of your head, you’d be blinded instead by a pool of blissful tears. They bubble up uncontrollably, wetting the cheeks already glazed with almost every other bodily fluid. You’re ravished, cock dumb times two. Your cunt is stretched to its limits, sucking your paramour in with vacuum-like violence, the gravity of it equatable to the sun.

Or, no–

Not the sun. 

Something a hundred times larger, nearing the end of its life. With every rock of your body, it runs out of hydrogen, draining the last dregs of fuel before eventually caving in on itself, transforming into an infinitely dense mass. It happens in your core, Mig’s bruising pace only exacerbating the strain, contracting smaller and smaller. Boundlessly so, enough to brush off as you snake a hand down to your clit, tapping the sensitive bud, testing its reactivity. 

When you flick it, though, you’re drawn back into the dip of spacetime. It’s inescapable, the one fixed point in all this mess, imminent for all your ragdoll self tries to delay it. The room pounds with sex, the scent of it accompanying every particle, reducing air to balmy filth that acts as a catalyst in your undoing. 

Impossible. You know it’s impossible to acquaint yourself with the sensation of being filled on both ends. Despite it, you try. You claw onto what little authority you have, pushing past your clit to graze your nails on a pair of swinging balls. They’re full and drooping, slapping your thighs as their owner humps your cunt. 

“Keep doing that. Fuck, fuc– mierda, feels so good. Yersotight. Soft. Soft and… ah, small.” Mig babbles, bowing over your form to kiss the dip between your shoulder blades. Your teeth graze the cock ramming your craw, an unconscious tick that has your husband tugging your hair in admonishment. “Hermosa– s’okay if I? Gonna… gonna cum.” 

“Mmnmgh–”

“Not so fast.” Miguel says, tugging you off him at once. It causes the both of you teetering over the edge, to groan, something overtaking all executive functions and compelling you to listen. The lull finds Mig slipping out, unable to hold himself back should he spend another moment filling your pussy. 

You’re carried upward, manhandled off elbows and knees, to straddle your husband’s lap, facing a wide chest with pecs as comforting as pillows. When did he take off his shirt? Your vision swims, crossing, oscillating with the unexpected motion – until, well, it doesn’t, stopping as your forehead finds solace on the dip beneath Miguel’s clavicle. It’s a reassuring change, your brain rewiring into safety mode given the fact that, when you cum again – however overstimulating – you’ll be within the arms that have always expertly navigated it before. 

And he’s warm, an ever-raging bonfire that licks your breasts and pebbled nipples, heat penetrating your bones to seep into your heart. Your marrow follows soon after, melting into a potion of desire and relief, especially when his far more familiar cock replaces the void left by Mig.

“Wide eyes.” The older one calls. 

“Did–” Said man stutters, shuffling closer. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, pretty.” 

“Hngh… ‘Course n-not, Miggy. We’ve safeee– words, rmmbr?” You grunt, reaching a hand behind you to hold onto his bigger one, squeezing it for added reassurance. “My ass, tho-eahh. Please.”

“You’re– You’re being for real. Seriously?” He asks, rising hope evident in his tone. “Have you ever done it before?” 

“Of course she has.” Miguel interrupts, rolling his hips instead of bouncing your tired body on him. “First drawer on your right.”

You laugh when the mattress wobbles, sheets tangling beneath his hurried scramble. The bottle of lube is almost empty, bought spontaneously during your honeymoon to Cabo. Your then newly-wed wanted to indulge your fantasy of anal on the beach, tucked away on a private cove he’d found just for the occasion. It’s been a vice ever since, just like all things with him. You’re addicted to the man, flat-out, scratching to get your fix whenever possible. However possible.

And, of course – due to a devastating soft spot that makes it hard for him to begrudge you anything  – you now have two. 

Mig spurts a substantial amount onto his hand, rubbing it on his dick and the ring of muscle it faces. Two digits thrust into you, exploring your elasticity, scissoring to make room for a much larger insertion. The man seated balls deep in your cunt kneads your flesh; obsessed with the chub around your waist, thighs, your cheeks especially, pulling them apart to make this whole ordeal easier. 

Not that you necessarily need it, being used to it by now – though you preen under the attentiveness regardless. Your ego is a drowsy cat, tucked under a patch of sunlight, purring as its heavily pet all over. Muscles lax, borderline liquid as you moan with the training your rear clench receives. More lube is added when the previous pour dries up, shoved into the spasming sphincter, accompanying every lewd ministration used to loosen it. 

You gasp, loosening and wet. When fingers exchange for a dick that’s packed, solid as steel, Miguel captures you into another teeming kiss. It’s to occupy you through the temporary pain, you know, suckling your tongue into his mouth with a gentleness unbecoming of your current lechery. The pressure soon subsides, ebbing and waning to an easier to manage fullness. 

Fuck. You’re plugged on both ends, twin lengths driving into you, stroking each other through the thin wall separating your rectum from your vagina. Initially, they keep the same pace, working in tandem to strike and pull out at similar times – but the task is demanding. It prevents them from fully forfeiting to euphoria. Their nature soon takes over, a novel motley of priorities wrenching you apart. 

Miguel goes unrushed, sybaritic, fucking you in waves of doughy passion. He knocks against your g-spot, groaning at the way you flounder. The system unspools a little emotional well, tugging heartstrings until you bite his collar to quell your wails. He’s dedicated, a professional in the trade of you; his cielita – the term of endearment mumbled on your temple, lips pressed there in a perpetual kiss. 

And Mig– 

Bless him. 

He’s unhinged, ravished by the feeling of your gummy walls flexing around him. Consistently refreshing the lube that makes it possible, petrified at the notion that this could perhaps stop, doing all he can to counter it. His method is rough, fast, pelvis smacking your plush behind – of which Miguel has long since let go of. There’s emotion in the way he behaves too; a wild, unspoken, behemoth thing, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. Not the anal, but you, specifically, panting in his embrace. 

(‘You’re just different back home.’)

Your husband might’ve been too quick to judge. If what you suspect is true – which it likely is, an assumption based on an inextricable fondness you’d felt when you first saw the younger man, like you were made to love every version him, in every timeline – then his haste is not innocent clumsiness, but a more dangerous prospect. Desperation. Crestfallen, degenerate desperation. He hadn't the chance to feel any of you before tonight, for one melancholic reason or another. 

“M’not… w-won’t last long, beautiful.” He whispers between pecks, peppering them across your nape.

“N-No, me neither.” Whimpering, you twist to scrutinise his tousled appearance. “Want you to cum in me. Fill me so I sp-spend days scooping you out. D-Don’t wanna fo… Need to remember this.” 

“Fuck… you can’t talk like that and– and expect me not to embarrass m-myself.” 

“Isn’t she something,” Miguel joins, smoothing the stray baby hairs away from your sticky forehead, callused fingers grazing deliciously across sweaty skin. It’s now that you choose to regard their voices, the subtle variations between the two. One deeper than the other – smoked with a prominent accent that jumps at the end of every syllable. “Filthy, dirty little girl. We could stay like this ‘till tomorrow and she’d have no problem. Would bounce on our cocks until she milks us dry.” 

“Y’probably need it to keep you in shape– Hmnff!” Is how Mig strangles, cut off as you convulse around his thrusting length. The mass returns, settled in your cunt – a star verging on supernovae level catastrophe, about to implode while they participate in a literal dick measuring contest. 

“Watch it, wide eyes.” 

“Shuuu… shutup, shtp!” You keen, falling back on the chest of your paramour while Miguel fondles – slaps – your tits, mesmerised by the way they jiggle, your entire body jostled as their fat cocks jam you full.

“Is my girl going to cum?” One says. You can’t tell which, eyes squeezed shut, though you don’t think Mig would dare use that pronoun. My. Not in good conscience, not when he didn’t kiss you for fear that it’d be crossing a boundary.

“I swear I’ll burst if you squirt again.” 

“Don’t expect too much from her in this state.” The trigger to it all, that aching bundle of nerves mashed against your husband’s pubes, starts buzzing with electric urgency. You brace yourself for the lightning, the shock. “Silly thing, can’t begin to form words let alone ideas. Look at me, corazón. What do we say?” 

You don’t know. You can’t care. No flying fucks exist outside the devastating wreck that’s about to transform you, squalling loud and shrill from every organ that still retains its function. Heart fluttering like a baby bird’s wings. Lungs depressing into shrivelled cavities. Soreness gnaws on your cervix, abused by successive thrusts. Your bones feel like mush, macerated under mortar and pestle and dissolved in blood.

It’s coming, that celestial calamity.

Mig agrees, gasping. “I’m gonna–” 

“Oye. What do we say?” Miguel exhorts, catching your glassy-eyed stare with his. 

The former man barks your name, completely winded. Your asshole jerks on his cock, which twitches inside of you, ready to blow. Sopping with lube and pre-spend, spit and your own slick, you can’t control the syphoning noises your holes make, blubbering on the cocks that split you apart. 

It’s then the words finally find you – manners that your husband insists on. 

“Pleeaase.” You cry.

“Fuck!” 

Thick spurts of fluid coat your insides, wrung from the man behind you. His cum is blistering, burning the thin layer between him and Miguel – who surprisingly, given the control he’s exhibited thus far, follows suit, pumping you full of his seed. Your womb and rectum, the puffy folds and rim that try to keep it all in – are all frosted with pearlescent spend. Heady and dripping, staining a depraved mess on every crevice between your legs. Gross globs of it caking you, your skin barely visible anymore.

The thought alone – of two men’s essence, beckoned and bled out by you, mixing something disgusting on your most intimate parts – is enough to kick you off the edge. Flailing off that cliff, plummeting into an outburst that lets nothing escape. Not smell, or taste, or light – spinning a black hole of groundbreaking proportions. 

You orgasm, again and again – or maybe the whole thing is all just one prolonged, feral, exhausting endeavour. Cumming until your muscles physically give out, going paraplegic with the strain of constant contractions. You crumple, sandwiched between two sturdy chests, stuffed with cotton and sex and pure endorphins, flying with no sign of ever coming down. 

A siren's song – sleep, calling to you from the depths of consciousness – almost pulls you under. That is, until your husband manoeuvres you onto your back again, spreading your legs in a near split to expose your sloppy holes to your paramour. His expression is doused with reverence. Supple, soft, the tiniest bit guilty at the sight of you, desecrated by their combined efforts.

“Well?” Miguel prods, fanning your leaking cunt and asshole out wider. “Are you waiting for her to absorb it all? Clean it up.” 

And – for the last time that night – Mig does as he’s told, ducking to gather every last bit of proof with his tongue. 

Much later, you watch him pull his shirt over his head, snuggled close to your husband. The sky has deepened to its darkest form – midnight, a gibbous moon cushioned amidst glimmering stars. 

“Well, it’s been fun.” The man sighs, brushing imaginary lint off his abdomen. He winks at you before turning to leave, testing his luck now that it can’t backfire on him. “If you ever want to trade him in for a newer model, you know where to find me.” 

Miguel just grumbles beneath you, displeasure rumbling the hollows of his hairy sternum. You, on the other hand, smile gently, giving the parting gift of your humour. 

Only for something better to occur to you. When his grasp closes around your bedroom door knob, you call out – voice a faint, hoarse thing. 

“Mig.” You say. 

“Yeah?” He replies, blinking back at you.

“I think you should go for it.” 

And all your mild musings are confirmed when he nods, sheepish, like a child caught with a fist in the cookie jar. It’s okay – you mouth, because you know. Whoever you are on his Earth, with whatever cosmic odds stacked against you, you’ll fall. If only because it’s Miguel. Mig. Your O’Hara – such truth woven into the fabric of every conceivable reality.

Your husband catches on quickly, patting your sleepy head. It’s the first time he talks to himself with a tone that isn’t condescending, laying a sentiment you recognise as meaning more to his younger counterpart than anything you could say. Perhaps because it’s kind, a bit of proper advice made mushy by an echoed devotion to you. Or, perhaps because he’s witnessed the evidence to it consistently, all night long. Wide eyes.

“It’ll be the best thing you’ll ever do for yourself.”

part two

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[snowballseal]

Cauterize

Rafayel X Reader (LaDS)

Summary: An outdoor date gone wrong leads to Rafayel needing to find a way to save your life. The only solution - he has to use his evol to stop you from bleeding out.

Word Count: 2591

Warning: mentions of blood, injury, violence, Rafayel uses his fire evol to cauterize your wound. Don't know why my brain needed so desperately to write this...not going to think to hard about that honestly.

It's a whole lot of angst with a comforting ending.

---

It was meant to be a fun adventure.

That was all. Rafayel had admitted he hasn’t had many chances to explore the mountains around Linkon, always too busy with up-coming exhibits or commissions. You, of course, couldn’t let that stand.

So you did what any partner would do. Plan a picnic at your favorite hiking spot. You found it while you were still training for the Association, driven outside by the stress of your studies. When you stumbled upon the little lake, it became your safe place, your sanctuary from the chaos of life.

It was a perfect plan. You made the lunch, packed plenty of water, you even convinced Thomas to push everything off for a day so that Rafayel wouldn’t have to think about any of it.

It was perfect.

But little seems to stay perfect in your life.

“Watch out!”

Rafayel ducks just in time to avoid the energy blast from the wanderer. You raise your twin pistols, getting a few shots in before it darts into the trees. Heart racing, you dart over to the artist, your eyes tracking the rustling leaves as it moves around you.

“You okay?” You ask, voice tense.

“All good, cutie,” Rafayel huffs, brushing off his pants as he gets back on his feet. With a flourish of his hand, a dagger appears, glinting in the dappled light coming through the trees. “Let’s finish this quickly so we can still enjoy our picnic, yah?”

With a terse nod, you focus back on the eerie growl rumbling through the trees. Both you and Rafayel brace yourselves. Everything goes absolutely still for a mere moment.

Then the wanderer lunges.

The two of you fight with a practiced harmony, taking turns attacking, defending, moving in tandem like a dance between the trees. The leaves rustle under your boots. Your guns warm against your palms. The sound of Rafayel’s fire crackling in the air, followed by a pained roar from wanderer.

You get so caught up in the pace of it, in the instincts driving your muscles, pulling the triggers, spinning you round and round and round as the wanderer tries to evade you in the trees. You don’t notice the rock. A small rock. A rock that shouldn’t have mattered.

Except you step on it just right to have your ankle twist and give out under you.

Except it gives the wanderer just the right opening to take one last, desperate shot.

You can hear the energy sizzling through the air. You can see it, almost in slow motion. Yet you don’t have time to think before you feel the pain searing through your body. The blast slams you back into a tree, your body hitting the bark with a harsh ‘crack’.

And you crumble.

“(Y/n)!”

Everything freezes. Blood. So much blood. The dark vermillion stains the fallen leaves littered around you. And you’re not moving. Rafayel feels stuck, eyes wide, panic curling like a noose around his lungs, so tight he can’t breathe.

Please. Please. Please.

It feels like an eternity before you let out a low, pained groan.

The tiniest flicker of relief sparks in Rafayel’s chest. It lasts only a moment, though, because you don’t get up. The sight of you lying there, stark pain tightening your features, makes all the blood in his veins freeze over, an icy cold washing over his senses.

It’s not slow or drawn out. In an instant, all emotion slips from the Lemurian’s face, leaving nothing but an apathetic god, eyes smoldering with a vicious kind of anger. An anger that would burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe.

It happens in the blink of an eye. A mere flick of his wrist. The wanderer howls as flames consume it, burning it and its protocore to mere ash to be carried away by the breeze. Not even a single leaf is left singed in its place.

And Rafayel is at your side before the ash can even dissipate.

“(Y/n)? Hey, come on, open your eyes for me, cutie.”

You let out a low whimper, bleary eyes barely opening to meet his concerned gaze. Well, what you assume is his concerned gaze. It’s hard to make out, everything blurring before you, your head spinning. It makes you feel sick, and all you want to do is close your eyes again, to escape all of this. But you can feel his warmth, feel his fingers insistently pressing against your cheek, anchoring you, giving you something to focus on besides the pain searing up your side.

Rafayel mutters a curse. You’ve already lost a lot of blood. He takes a quick survey of your wound, a wide gash along your side. It wouldn’t be life threatening. As long as he could stop the bleeding.

Another curse passes his lips. Rafayel turns desperately back to your face, cupping both your cheeks with steady hands despite the panic digging into his chest. His heart squeezes at the pained whimper you let out.

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” His voice, another anchor. You focus on his low timber, his words reaching you as if through a thick fog. Still, you try to understand him, eyes set on his lips. “We just need to stop the bleeding, then you’ll be okay. I’ll call the emergency line after. We just need to stop the bleeding.”

But how? Rafayel racks his brain, trying to think of something, anything that might help. He can’t fail you, not when you’re looking up at him like all you care about is him being there. Not that you’re hurt. Not that you could be dying. His eyes flicker briefly to the side.

They catch on a tree, the bark burnt from one of his attacks.

Rafayel pauses.

What a horrible idea. And yet-

Those ocean eyes flicker back to you, pained. You stare back at him, brow knitting together, chest heaving, a question on your bloody lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Rafayel holds a hand to your wound. And then you’re screaming. Eyes clenching shut, your body nearly lurches off the ground as a new pain sears through you, hot and sharp like a blade digging into your flesh. Tears race down your cheeks as you try to draw away from it, away from him, but Rafayel presses his other hand to your shoulder, pinning you to the ground. 

You let out a shaky sob, fingers wrapping desperately around his wrist, and Rafayel almost breaks, almost stops. The smell of burning flesh is not an unfamiliar scent to him, but knowing it’s you, knowing he’s causing you pain, makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He leans over you, as if he can somehow shield you from the pain, forehead pressing against yours. You let out a soft keen and his lips trace across your cheeks, whispering between kisses “I’m sorry, please hold on just a little longer, my love. I know it hurts, just a little longer. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

It takes what feels like an infinity, but as soon as the blood stops, Rafayel snatches his hand away, his fire disappearing. You all but sag against him as the pain finally dwindles, more tears pooling along your lashes, sweat clinging to your forehead.

“All done,” Rafayel murmurs, voice unsteady, hands returning to hold your face. “All done, I promise. You’ll be okay. The emergency responders are coming. God…-”

He sounds close to tears himself. 

You let out a trembling breath, giving his wrist a soft squeeze, “S’okay, Raf…I’m…’kay…”

But everything is fading again. The shock. The pain. The adrenaline. You try to keep your eyes open, try to fight the sudden exhaustion that weighs down your eyelids. Rafayel’s lips quirk into a false smile, smoothing his now trembling fingers over your brow.

“Get some rest. Your body needs it right now.”

“But-” You try to argue, but your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.

“I’ll keep you safe until they arrive, so rest. Please.” He says the last word so softly, so pleadingly, that you can’t help but give in. Not that you could put up much of a fight anyways.

You keep your eyes locked on Rafayel until the darkness slowly pulls you under.

Your fingers never once leave his wrist.

---

The next thing you hear is the quiet beeping of a heart monitor.

It’s an odd feeling, waking up in an unfamiliar room, most of your body numb from a plethora of painkillers. Your eyes slide open groggily, taking in the white ceiling above you, the gray walls around you, the sleeping Lemurian curled over the edge of your bed, fingers wrapped tightly around your own, as though you might disappear if he lets go. A slight smile pulls at your mouth.

Silly fish...Even in his sleep, he carries the weight of his emotions so clearly. Brows furrowed, lips pursed in a deep scowl, eyelashes fluttering from uneasy sleep. A soft, fond sigh passes your lips, and you slowly reach your free hand to brush a rogue curl from his face.

The moment your fingertips brush his skin, though, Rafayel is awake. He jolts up like he’s been electrocuted, eyes wide, darting everywhere with a panicked urgency. Until they land on you. You blink at him, hand lingering in the air between you. Waiting. You can almost see his brain processing, the colors in his eyes flashing like little buffer signs. Until he realizes you’re awake, actually awake, and it’s like watching a drowning man finally fill his lungs. Then he’s surging back in like a raging ocean wave, fizzling into soft foam as he nuzzles into your palm.

“You’re awake.” His voice is rough and low, thick with disbelief.

“I am,” you rasp and rub your thumb lovingly over his cheek.

Rafayel shudders. He missed this. Your touch. Your warmth. You were so cold when you were sleeping, too cold. But now you’re warm again, so warm. He wants to bury himself in you, to be enveloped by your touch. He needs it. He desperately, desperately needs it.

And yet he holds back.

Because he can’t forget it. 

The sound of your scream still echoes in his ears. It’s like a chain around his body, keeping him locked in place, unable to do anything except nuzzle his face into your hand. It’s like having a pup cowering before you, begging for a scrap of affection but too scared to come closer.

And of course you notice.

“What’s wrong?” You press, fingers drifting down to hold his chin. Your eyes narrow with that look, unrelenting and calculating as they scan his face.

Rafayel flushes under the intensity of your attention. Seems not even a major injury dulls your sharp senses. And he knows there’s no use trying to hide it from you.

“How are you feeling?” But that doesn’t mean he can’t try to evade your question.

“I’m fine. Whatever drugs they have me on are working,” you hum, eyes narrowing further, “Now tell me what’s wrong, Rafayel.”

His eyes look anywhere but at you. Your grip on his chin grows firmer, forcing him to meet your gaze. And it’s awful. Here you are, laying in a hospital bed, dressed in a flimsy hospital gown, worrying over him. How pathetic…

“I’m sorry.”

You frown, “What for, fishie?”

Rafayel’s throat bobs. Wetting his lips nervously, his voice cracks as he whispers, “I’m sorry for putting you through that. I just- I didn’t know what to do and you were bleeding so much. I thought I was going to lose you.”

Oh. Your heart nearly fractures at how broken he sounds, the distress painted across his pale face. He blames himself. For either you getting hurt, or how he had to save you. Maybe both.

What a silly, silly fish…

Expression softening, your fingers return to tracing his cheek. Rafayel quivers under the tenderness of your touch, long lashes fluttering against your fingertips. He soaks up every ounce of your affection despite feeling wholly undeserving of it. His own fingers press desperately into the bed, resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you, to make up for the pain he caused. And that only breaks your heart more.

 “Rafayel, you did nothing wrong,” you murmur eventually, disrupting the heavy silence in the room.

“But-”

“No,” you insist firmly, voice not unkind, but leaving no room for argument, “You saved me. I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t done what you did. I wish you didn’t have to experience that, but you made the right choice. You saved me.”

He hesitates. Rafayel wants to believe you. You would never lie to him, afterall. Not about this. But still-

“Rafayel,” you call, brow perking up, “if you don’t come here, right now, and give me, the living person in front of you, a kiss, then I’ll be mad. I’ve been through a lot today, don’t make me go without my fishie, too.”

That’s all it takes to weaken what little resolve he has left. Rafayel’s lips meet yours in a starving show of affection, those trembling fingers finding your face as if to anchor himself. Every thought, every breath of yours belongs to him in that moment, his body leaning over you, his teeth tugging gently on your bottom lip, his fingers curling possessively through your messy hair. Still drowning. Still aching to breathe you in as if you’re the air his lungs so desperately need.

Yet it’s all impossibly tender.

Restrained in a way you’ve never experienced from Rafayel. And that alone is enough to make your heart melt. How could you possibly love this man so much?

When he draws away, forehead resting gingerly against yours, there’s a smile on your reddened lips.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you want to eat me alive with a kiss like that,” you tease, a little breathless, your eyes practically sparkling up at him. “Are you holding back because I’m injured, fishie?”

His ears go bright pink, embarrassment tinging his cheeks, and your smile only grows. Maybe it’s the drugs making you a little bolder, but you can’t help but reach out and swipe a teasing finger under his lips. Rafayel’s eyes narrow at you, bleeding into something dark that makes your chest flutter.

“Guess you’ll have to be patient, huh?” You don’t relent for even a second, though. It’s a good distraction, from both the minor discomfort starting in your side, and the blame he’s trying to carry. “Do you think you can handle it, fishie? I know how hard waiting is for you.”

“You know, when I gave you permission to call me that, I never thought you would use it so condescendingly.” That adorable pout returns, only making his flushed face look even cuter. 

“Oh, I’m just teasing you,” you hum, tone softening with unadulterated fondness as you reach up to fuss with his curls. “But, okay, I won’t use it like that if you don’t want me to. You know I love you, my sweet, little fish.”

Your words are accompanied by a chaste kiss that has Rafayel weakening again. He lets out a little huff, eyes fluttering shut as he basks in your touch once more. This is what he needed. You. Just you. And now that he knows you don’t hate him for what he did, he can focus on one thing.

Making sure you recover and reminding you just how much he cherishes you. And never letting something like this happen ever again.

---

I literally have no idea where this came from. I just got the thought, and I couldn't NOT write it. I love writing fluff, but man, angst just hits different.

Hope y'all enjoyed it! Keep sending in requests, I promise I'm working on those too!

[iamthemain-character]

Estel

astarion x reader

gender neutral pronouns

TW: you are sad :(

estel

 noun. hope, trust, *faith

The night was quiet as Astarion laid on his bedroll, the rough off-white canvas of the tent reflecting the glow of the small lantern. The simple blankets weren’t nearly comfortable without the presence of his beloved, the person who had captured the entirety of his cold heart. Without meaning to, he smiled as he thought of you, your own smile that brought spring, the body that brought summer. He loved your personality that was as thrilling as autumn, bringing about the idea of change and good things to come in his wintery soul. 

He gazed around his empty tent, a little frustrated that his lover wasn’t there with him in the moment. While he didn’t really need sleep, he craved the rest that he only found when he was tucked in the bed with the one person who saw him as he was. It was strange still to allow himself to be so vulnerable, to allow himself to want another person. At any moment, he expected you to suddenly disappear, to be whisked away, simply a mirage of the love and affection that he so desperately yearned for. 

As if needing the reassurance, Astarion pushed himself up from the blankets, walking towards the small sliver of light peeking through the flaps of the tent. His ruby eyes followed the flickering flames, watching their glow until it melted over your form. You sat, looking pensive as you stared at nothing at all. You looked so small, one knee hugged close to your chest, as if you could be your own comforter. Though, as Astarion considered it, that might have been your intention; you were just as dodgy with your emotions, shying away from anything that might so much as make your eyes sting  from vulnerability. The vampire elf never could understand how you were so well equipped at drawing out his emotions, untangling the yarn of his trauma and crafting it into a beautiful work of art. Yet you seemed unwilling–or perhaps even unable– to do so for yourself. 

If it had been any other person, Astarion would have turned away, would have resigned himself to a night alone and restless. After all, he didn’t really exude an aura of comfort or trust. But for you...his heart longed to do that. To be the kind of person you needed, that you deserved to have and love. For a moment, he pitied that he wasn’t that kind of person, that his tongue would never use its silver to soothe your wounded heart. As he continued looking at your forlorn expression, however, he realized that even if he wasn’t that person, he would try. He steeled himself, and he left the safety of his tent, allowing the cool night air to draw him towards the fire. You didn’t look up as he approached, seeming completely out of the present, and in a world entirely your own. From the looks of it, Astarion didn’t like whatever sphere was currently tying you down. 

“Hello darling.” The gentleness of his tone surprised even him, a sound that had not often been allowed past his lips. This seemed to stir you from your melancholy trance a little, your eyes flicking upwards to look at him as he approached. His long legs folded under him as he sat down beside you, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he draped his arm around your shoulders. He tucked your bent head under his chin, stray wisps of hair brushing his face as he settled in. He felt a little guilty from how much he benefited from the position; your warmth seeped through your clothes and into his skin, your mere presence providing a soothing sensation to his lonely heart. He could only hope that his cold skin acted as some sort of balm for your internal wounds. 

“Hi.” Your tone was even smaller than your form had appeared, tired and dejected. It nearly broke him to hear you sound so, your personality usually so full of life and light. 

“What are you doing out here, my love?” Despite the gravity of the situation, Astarion still felt nearly giddy that he could call you those two precious words. His fingertips mapped the folds of your sleeve, trasping its peaks and valleys in an effort to find your skin. He nearly preened as he felt you burrow deeper into his hold, your tense shoulders dropping as you relaxed. 

“Just...thinking.” Your vague response barely brushed his ears, and his eyebrows furrowed in reply. Astarion knew that if your “thinking” was anything like his, the thoughts weren’t going to pave a path to enlightenment. 

“That’s dangerous.” He said lightly, falling back on his sense of humor as he attempted to be an ally in your internal struggle. He was rewarded with an appreciative exhale of air from you, just a ghost of your usually musical laugh. Worry twisted in his stomach, as he reminded himself that he was going to do a lot more than share a lighthearted joke or give a physical support. “Care to share any with me? I have a lot of ear to lend.” 

That produced another small huff of laughter from you, and he smiled to himself, pleased at least he could provide amusement. Still, you were too silent, your emotions just beyond his grasp. 

“I’m fine, Astartion, honestly. Just tired.” Your voice broke the silence, but somehow those six words were worse. The elf had lived long enough to know that no one who said they were fine was ever truly fine. 

Yet he wondered whether or not he should push; there was a fine line between a crack and shattering, and he didn’t want to break something he wasn’t sure he could fix. Still, he hated the idea of you suffering alone. “Is that truly what is troubling you darling?”

You stiffened, leaning away from his side a little. “It's nothing, I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I said I’m fine, just drop it!” You snap, your tone harsh. You push yourself up from the ground, preparing to leave Astarion and his inquisitive nature behind. Astarion, however, had just as stubborn a nature as you. 

His cool fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back into him, your chest meeting his. He slipped his other hand around your back, resting it up between your shoulder blades, his forearm lining your spine in an effort to keep you close. 

“My love…” Astarion’s voice comes out as a murmur, soft and overflowing with affection. His crimson eyes swam with emotion, the concern and earnest care evident as he gazed into your eyes. 

The simple phrase breaks you, the stone walls around your heart cracking, and you feel your eyes well with tears. Words fail you, and you just shake your head, dropping it as the tears turn into waterfalls. 

“Oh, darling..” He coos, and he wraps both arms around you, holding you together as you fall apart. 

Astarion guides you over to your tent, getting you settled into a space that he knows will provide more comfort to you. He keeps his hands on you, reminding you of his presence as he takes off your shoes and your heavy outerwear. Occasionally, your tears renew in their vigor, and he has to stop to cradle you, murmuring reassuring whispers in your ear. 

Hours later, the two of you lay in bed together, your body comfortably tucked against his, assuringly locked in by his arms and legs. Your face finds safety in the neckline of his shirt, hiding your swollen face and red-rimmed eyes from unseen eyes that seem to weigh on you so heavily. Your tears have dried, your aching heart set out bare before Astarion. But he hasn’t run, he didn’t take advantage of your vulnerability. Instead, he now lays, his hands carding through your hair. 

His fingers curl the ends of your tresses, feeling the silky sensation. Once again, he finds himself lucky that he is able to be here in this moment, holding you in a way no one else could. It broke his heart to see you so distraught, to hear all the burdens that lay on your shoulders. Yet he feels a change in his heart, as if your own vulnerability has allowed him to do so too. As he hears your breathing even, your body relaxing against his, he realizes that perhaps he didn’t need to be some miraculous support or expert comforter. Perhaps, it was simply enough for him to murmur, 

“I love you.” 

And hold you through the night. 

[nhlclover]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇(𝐄𝐃) 𝐏𝐓.𝟐 | 𝐋𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐒

summary: a year later, quinn finally learns about what transpired between his brother and his girlfriend

warnings: none really, trevor being a little shit, maybe a little awkward

word count: 1.15k

note: this is a part two to this fic! i recommend reading that before you read this one :)

Luke pulled into the driveway, slotting his car between Jack and Quinn’s. The lakehouse stood timeless as ever, nestled against the sparkling blue of the water, framed by the tall, swaying pines. Everything looked the same, but it felt different for Luke.

It had been a full year since that summer — the summer that left him reeling with a storm of emotions he had barely been able to handle. Luke had spent the year distancing himself from those emotions, trying to forget how he’d spent the entire summer prior trying to avoid you, while simultaneously longing to be around you. The ache had faded with time and distance, and, the crush that had once felt all-consuming had faded to a mere flicker.

Now, as the familiar smell of pine and sun-warmed wood greeted him, Luke felt a strange mix of nostalgia and apprehension. He hoped that being here again wouldn’t bring back those old feelings, especially since you and Quinn were still as strong as ever.

He brought his bags into the house, the quiet environment signalling that everyone was out back. Luke dropped them in his room, heading to the back deck. On the dock, he spotted you slotted under Quinn’s arm, the two of you watching the sun begin to dip below the horizon. Luke felt himself smile, genuinely happy for the two of you. Happy that both of you had found someone so perfect for one another. This thought felt like a breath of fresh air.

The first couple weeks of summer were surprisingly easy. You all fell into the familiar rhythms of summer — long days on the water, games of volleyball and football, and late-night bonfires accompanied by laughter and jokes. Luke felt comfortable around you, the awkwardness from last year had dissolved, and he genuinely enjoyed your company now that his emotions weren’t a tangled-up knot.

One night you found yourselves gathered around the firepit, everyone laughing and joking as you played a game of truth or dare. The flames crackled, casting flickering shadows on everyone’s faces, and the air was warm with the scent of burning wood and the distant scent of the lake. A couple rounds of the game had brought out embarrassing stories like Cole telling everyone about the time he fell into a pond in front of his middle school crush and the completion of ridiculous dares, such as jumping into the freezing cold lake. The round turned to Trevor, who’s eyes narrowed on Luke.

“Alright, Luke,” Trevor smirked. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Luke replied, rolling his eyes at whatever ridiculous question he knew Trevor was about to ask.

Trevor leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Do you still have a crush on y/n?”

Everyone fell silent, the atmosphere tensing. Luke’s eyes went wide, his heart skipping a beat as every single pair of eyes turned toward him. He stared at Trevor, momentarily at a loss for words, then shifted his gaze to you, sitting on Quinn’s lap wrapped in his arms. You looked just as startled as he did, but quickly shook your head, your eyes pleading with him.

“I didn’t say anything to anyone, I swear,” you promised him.

Quinn, who had briefly tuned out as he scrolled on his phone, looked up, completely caught off guard by the question. “Wait, what? Since when did you like her?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he glanced at Luke.

Luke cleared his throat, trying to appear nonchalant, though his heart was hammering in his chest. “It was a thing last summer, but it’s over now. She actually helped me get over it.” He shot you a grateful smile, hoping that would end the discussion.

“You knew?” Quinn turned to you, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern.

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “It was no biggie, babe. I just reassured him that we were in love and that he needed to get over it.” You laughed softly, your tone lighthearted, but your eyes flickered with a touch of worry as you glanced at Quinn.

Quinn’s eyes searched your face, and though he tried to keep his cool, a flicker of worry crossed his features. “You sure you’re over it, Luke?”

“Absolutely,” Luke replied firmly. “I swear, it was just a stupid crush. It’s done.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely over it,” Jack chimed in, leaning back in his chair. “He hooked up with some girl like… a bunch of times during the winter. Right, Luke?”

Luke shot Jack a look of disbelief, but it actually worked to diffuse the tension. Quinn’s shoulders relaxed, and a teasing grin spread across his face. “Scoring on and off the ice… nice.”

Luke chuckled, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, feeling the tips of his ears burning at Jack revealing that secret. The chorus of laughter from the group faded softly.

“Wait, Trevor, how did you know that Luke had a crush on me?” you asked, curious as no one had told anyone else about the goings of last summer.

Trevor sat up, clearly relishing his moment. “I mean, come on. You avoided her like she had the plague, but then couldn’t stop staring at her every time she walked by. You’d freeze up whenever she talked to you, and don’t even get me started on that time you nearly burned the burgers on the barbeque because you were too distracted watching her by the lake.”

Luke’s face was bright red now, and you were laughing with the others, though your eyes were soft and understanding. “It wasn’t that obvious, was it?” Luke groaned, half-laughing, half-horrified.

Quinn threw his head back, laughing. “That’s what that was? I just thought you hated her.”

You joined in, nodding in agreement. “Same! I thought he couldn’t stand me.”

Everyone laughed, the tension from the past evaporating in the cool night air. Luke ran a hand through his hair, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I was in deep shit last summer,” he confessed, shaking his head. “Like, the deepest shit I could possibly be in.”

Quinn shook his head, his smirk growing. "Man, I’m never letting you live this down."

Luke rolled his eyes, however he was relieved that the tension had eased and that the past crush was finally out in the open and behind him. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead and tease me. I deserve it.”

The game moved on, and so did the night, filled with more laughter, dares, and ridiculous truths. Luke felt something settle inside him, a sense of closure he didn’t realize he’d needed. As the fire crackled and the moon shone down on the lake, he finally felt free – free to be himself, free to be around you, and most importantly, free to enjoy the summer for what it was: a chance to make new memories and let go of the old ones.

[novaursa]

hi!! could i request a targaryen! reader x jacaerys velaryon.

reader is daemon and laena velaryon daughter, she’s the epitome of daemon when he was in his prime (crazy daemon) but got her mothers looks. she’s betrothed to jace not baela. the scene when the dragonseeds meet jace and ulf blatantly disrespects jace, she enters the room and steps in. she looks down on him like someone below her to remind him his place, both jace and her do. especially threatens that her dragon (maybe oc dragon of balerion or cannibal) has a particular diet of eating his own kind, she’ll turn a blind eye when her dragon starts eating silverwing, leaving ulf back being a dragonseed in the slums where he belongs. then the dinner scene too!, not to forget hugh too, even though he doesn’t do anything just a mere threat. not addam though loves her uncle 🫶🫶

you can choose however you want it story to be structure you have full autonomy🫶🫶

Wayward Daughter

- Summary: When Ulf disrespects Jacaerys, you remind him of his place.

- Paring: cousin!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

- Note: The reader is Daemon's and Laena's oldest daughter, she is bonded with Cannibal.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The wind howls as you stand with Jacaerys atop the rocky outcrop of Dragonstone, your gaze drawn toward the towering peaks of Dragonmont where the dragons circle high above. The skies are turbulent today, a reflection of the tension that hangs in the air. Jacaerys stands beside you, his posture straight, though there’s a flicker of unease in his dark eyes. You feel it, too. The Dragonseeds—those commoners and bastards who claim Targaryen blood and now seek the right to mount dragons—have arrived. And with them, comes trouble.

The Cannibal stirs behind you, a deep rumble vibrating through his massive chest, his black scales blending with the stormy sky. The others might flinch in his presence, but you’ve known him all your life. He’s wild and uncontrollable to anyone else, but you’ve forged a bond with him like no other. His dark and dangerous energy is a mirror of your own, a reflection of what it means to be Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter. Where Jacaerys holds the warmth of his mother’s love, the steadfastness of duty, you are a flame lit by a different fire—wild, unpredictable, fierce.

Ahead, the Dragonseeds approach, two of them standing out from the rest: Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer. Ulf’s silver hair shines under the fading light, but it is his swagger that grates on you. There’s something in the way he carries himself, a man too confident for someone who spent most of his life in the slums of King’s Landing, now reaching for power he has never earned. Hugh, on the other hand, stands a little to the side, his dark eyes flicking between you, Jace, and Ulf, as if he knows trouble is brewing.

"Your Grace," Ulf greets Jacaerys with a smirk that barely conceals his contempt. He steps closer to Jacaerys, reaching out as if to touch him, to invade his space. "Such fine hair you have, my prince," Ulf says, his voice dripping with false admiration as his fingers graze the edges of Jacaerys’s dark locks.

The brazenness of his gesture sparks a fury within you. Jace’s jaw clenches, but he remains still, trying to hold his composure. You, however, are not one to allow such disrespect to go unanswered.

Without a word, you step between them, placing your body protectively in front of Jacaerys. The look in your eyes is one of warning, as sharp as the point of a sword. Ulf’s smirk falters when he meets your gaze. He may think himself bold, but he hasn’t yet faced the fury of a Targaryen woman with the blood of Old Valyria running hot in her veins.

“If you ever touch him like that again, Ulf, I will feed Silverwing to Cannibal piece by piece,” you say, your voice low and venomous, yet steady as steel. “And when there’s nothing left but bone, you will be sent crawling back to the slums of King’s Landing where you belong.”

The threat hangs in the air like the scent of wildfire. Ulf blinks, his smirk wiped away, replaced by something like fear as he glances at the looming shadow of Cannibal behind you. You don’t move, holding his gaze until he looks away, defeated. He shifts uncomfortably, taking a step back, the bravado drained from his face.

You spare a glance at Hugh Hammer, his hands open in a gesture of appeasement. Unlike Ulf, Hugh is no fool. His eyes meet yours, and he inclines his head in a small nod, acknowledging your warning without the need for words. He knows Ulf was out of line, and he has no desire to provoke you or Jacaerys further.

“I meant no harm,” Ulf mumbles, his arrogance melting under the weight of your stare. He steps back again, his hands raised as if to show he’s harmless. “Just a jest.”

“There is no jest in disrespect,” you snap, still holding your ground. “Jacaerys is your prince, and you will show him the respect he deserves, or you’ll answer to me.”

Jace’s hand brushes yours lightly, a silent gesture of gratitude. His eyes flick to you with a look that says more than words ever could. Though he could stand up for himself—and does, more often than not—there is something deeply satisfying about the way you step into the fray for him. He is your betrothed, your equal, but in this moment, you are the one with fire in your blood, unafraid to burn those who dare disrespect what is yours.

“Enough,” Jacaerys says at last, his voice firm as he steps forward, reclaiming his space. He doesn’t need to say more; the point has been made. Ulf and Hugh both bow their heads, though it is Hugh who seems more genuine in his respect.

As the Dragonseeds shuffle away, Jacaerys turns to you, his expression softening. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs, though there’s a hint of amusement in his tone.

You shrug, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Maybe not,” you admit. “But I wanted to.”

He chuckles, the anomasity of the moment easing. “I’m beginning to think I should fear you more than I fear Cannibal.”

“Good,” you say, your smile widening. “You’re learning.”

The two of you stand in the fading light of Dragonstone, the storm clouds swirling above. 

And anyone who dares to come between you will face your wrath.

The hall of Dragonstone is filled with the low hum of conversation as you enter, your eyes scanning the room where the Dragonseeds have gathered. The flickering light of the hearth casts shadows across the ancient walls, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine lingering in the air. At the head of the table, Jacaerys sits beside you, his gaze steady, though you can sense the tension in his posture. This dinner is meant to solidify alliances, but with men like Ulf the White at the table, it feels more like a test of wills.

You take your seat beside Jace, your attention briefly drawn to Addam of Hull, who sits across from you. His eyes are sharp, observant, but there’s an easy manner about him that sets him apart from the others. Addam is different. He carries himself with a quiet dignity, a reflection of his true lineage—though unspoken, you know well enough that he’s Corlys Velaryon’s son, a secret that sits heavy in the air between you, though neither of you have ever addressed it.

Ulf sits a few chairs down, his posture languid, as if he believes himself the lord of this table. His pale eyes flick toward you, and you can see the resentment simmering beneath the surface. It’s no secret that Ulf has never forgiven you for the way you put him in his place earlier. Good. You have no intention of letting him forget it.

The conversation is polite, if a bit strained. Rhaenyra, seated further down, makes an effort to engage the Dragonseeds, offering words of gratitude and hope for the future. But your focus shifts when Ulf, with that insufferable grin of his, leans back in his chair, his goblet of wine raised as if he’s already claimed a victory.

"Seems the prince and his lovely bride-to-be have more fire in them than I thought," Ulf says, his voice carrying just enough weight to draw attention. His eyes flick to you, lingering just a little too long, the implication behind his words hanging in the air. "Targaryens always were a fiery bunch."

You feel Jace stiffen beside you, but you remain calm, a slow smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You relish moments like this—when men like Ulf think they have the upper hand, only for you to remind them who they’re truly dealing with.

“Oh, Ulf,” you say, your tone light, almost playful, “it’s not just fire we have in our blood. It’s power, something you seem to misunderstand.” You pause, letting the words sink in, then take a sip of your wine. “But perhaps that’s why Silverwing tolerates you. She must sense the need for something stronger in your bloodline.”

The remark lands as intended, and you see the flicker of irritation flash in Ulf’s eyes. His hand tightens around the goblet, but he doesn’t respond right away, perhaps knowing better than to provoke you any further in front of the gathered company. Instead, he shoots a sidelong glance at Hugh, who remains silent but clearly uncomfortable with the rising tension.

“Careful, Y/N,” Ulf says, trying to keep his voice steady, though you can hear the edge to it. “Not everyone at this table shares your sense of humor.”

“Good,” you reply, raising your goblet in mock toast. “I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood. And let me make myself perfectly clear, Ulf, if you think for one moment you can match me in wit, let alone in power, you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed.”

There’s a low murmur from those seated nearby, eyes flicking between you and Ulf. But before the tension can escalate, Addam speaks up from across the table, his voice calm, cutting through the growing unease.

“Ulf,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind, “let’s not forget why we’re here. This war requires unity, not division.” He glances at you briefly, a knowing look in his eyes. There’s no fear or contempt in his gaze, only understanding. Addam is smart enough to recognize what’s at stake, and perhaps that’s why you find it easy to respect him, unlike Ulf.

You give Addam a small nod, acknowledging his attempt to smooth things over. There’s something about him that you can’t help but admire—his steady demeanor, his quiet strength. It’s no wonder Corlys holds him in such regard, bastard or not.

“Of course,” you say, your voice softening as you turn your attention to Addam. “We’re all here for the same cause, after all. It’s not every day one has the chance to fight for a true queen.” You smile at him, the warmth in your tone genuine. Unlike Ulf, Addam has earned his place here.

Addam returns the smile, though his eyes remain sharp, ever watchful. “A true queen indeed,” he replies, lifting his goblet in a respectful toast. “To Rhaenyra.”

The tension at the table eases somewhat, the air growing lighter as the others follow Addam’s lead and raise their goblets in agreement. But even as you join in the toast, your eyes linger on Ulf, watching him closely, waiting for any sign that he might try to push you further. He says nothing, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him, though you can still feel the undercurrent of his resentment.

The rest of the dinner passes without incident, the conversation flowing more easily now, but you keep your focus sharp. Ulf may be cowed for now, but men like him don’t forget slights easily. You’ll be ready when he tries again.

As the meal winds down, you lean closer to Jacaerys, your hand resting lightly on his arm. “We’re surrounded by would-be dragons, but not all of them are worthy,” you murmur quietly, your gaze shifting toward Ulf, who is still sulking in his seat.

Jace follows your gaze, his lips curving into a small, wry smile. “I trust you to remind them of that,” he says, his voice low, only for your ears.

You smile in return, feeling the weight of the moment lift slightly. If the Dragonseeds—or anyone else—wants to challenge you, they’ll find themselves facing not just one dragon, but two.

[admiringlove]

promise. woah. i never thought i'd be putting out works so quickly again, but here we are. back to back, for @angstober. anyway. here is the third angsty fic in this little thing i'm doing. hope you all like it! event masterlist can be found here.

“what do you want to wish for?”

oikawa tōru asked, his voice a soft whisper against the night sky as the two of you sprawled out on the rooftop of your home. it felt like a scene pulled from a dream, the kind of adventure only found in childhood fantasies. giggles bubbled from your lips as you had climbed out of your window, heart racing with the thrill of rebellion, helping him scale the side of your house like an agile cat burglar.

the world below was muted, but up here, the stars seemed to dance, twinkling brightly as if they were in on your secret. you both lay there, side by side, under the vast expanse of night, the air filled with the sweet scent of freedom. though the sky was an infinite canvas of beauty, your gaze was drawn to oikawa’s moonlit features—his hair shimmering like stardust, his smile a beacon of warmth that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

“i don’t know. maybe… being friends with you forever?” you replied, the words tumbling out in a rush, your voice bubbling with innocent delight. “this is kinda fun! i want to do things like this all the time for my whole life.”

you giggled, feeling like a child again, wide-eyed and wonderstruck at twelve years old. oikawa grinned at you, that infectious smile that had the power to light up the darkest of nights. he had promised you then, with all the certainty of youth, that he would always be by your side. that nothing would ever change between the two of you, that your bond would remain untouched by the swirling chaos of the world.

in that moment, nestled under the cosmos, everything felt perfect. like the stars had conspired to grant your wish, sealing it in the universe's embrace as you both lay there, suspended in time.

but as the seasons turned, so did everything else. you grew older, and with that maturity came the inevitability of change. oikawa tōru, your childhood companion, blossomed under the weight of ambition, his dreams stretching far beyond the horizons you once shared. alongside his aspirations, his ego swelled, filling every space between you with a shadow of what once was.

he broke his promise a total of five times—each one a quiet dagger to your heart. five moments that etched themselves into your memory, forever lingering like echoes of laughter on a summer breeze.

the first promise shattered like glass was the one where he vowed to always stick by your side. you never imagined that the flickering flame of fame would ignite a fire so fierce it would consume him whole. oikawa was yours; he was your tōru, the boy who knew his limits and cherished the bond you shared. but the allure of the spotlight was intoxicating, and soon it became clear that he loved the limelight more than he loved the friendship you had built.

you had always envisioned him as a star, but this was a different kind of brightness—a dazzling glow that captivated all, leaving you standing in the shadows. the ooh's and aah's of admirers surrounded him like a halo, and while it stung at first, you learned to tolerate it, just as iwaizumi had. after all, the two of you loved oikawa in your own ways, even if those affections took different forms.

you loved him with a quiet intensity, a flame that flickered softly in the background, while iwaizumi’s was a roaring fire of loyalty and friendship. yet, it still hurt to watch the setter receive countless confessions, to see him chase fleeting romances with girls whose names you struggled to remember. each time he embraced someone new, you felt a pang of loss, but you buried that pain deep within, telling yourself that his life was his own. you had no rights over him, no claim on the heart that seemed to drift further away with each passing day.

in those moments, you stood on the sidelines, a spectator to a performance that was supposed to include you but had become a solo act. it was a bittersweet reality, one that twisted your insides with every laugh he shared with someone else, every moment that felt just out of reach.

“you know he’s a little slow on the uptake, right? he’s not the brightest when it comes to feelings. you’ll be fine, don’t worry,” iwaizumi often reassured you, trying to soften the blow. but deep down, both of you knew the truth: the great oikawa tōru would never see you the way you saw him.

the second promise he broke was to always remember you. once high school began, oikawa seemed to forget you, as if you had become invisible. even though you’d carved out a place in his life, it felt like you were no longer a priority. being the manager of his volleyball club wasn’t enough; you needed him to be as present in your life as he was in your thoughts.

he forgot you time and again. plans to meet at the local diner vanished as he canceled for a date with someone else. those fleeting encounters always ended in disappointment for him, as the demands of volleyball crushed any chance of a real relationship. even simple invitations to hang out with friends were brushed aside in favor of practice.

it was like this with him. distance that you loathed and his presence that you loved. someone who had become unreachable so slowly, it felt like poison flooding your veins and oxygen healing your mind at the same time.

"you love oikawa, don’t you?" mattsun’s voice broke through the chatter one day as the three of you walked behind the rest of the group. your heart raced, eyes widening as you grabbed his tricep tightly, whispering urgently, “don’t say it out loud! what if someone hears?”

“dude, everybody knows,” hanamaki chimed in with a laugh, “it’s just oikawa who’s clueless.”

the revelation lingered in your mind for days. was your affection for tōru really that transparent, so obvious that the whole world could see it—except him? the thought weighed heavily on you. did he purposely ignore the signs, or was he genuinely too dense to notice? it was a confusing puzzle you couldn’t seem to solve, even after turning it over in your mind countless times.

the third promise he broke to you was the one that stung the most: that he would always make time for you. as the weeks turned into months, you noticed how his busy schedule seemed to consume him, leaving little room for your friendship. he used to carve out moments for you, laughing and sharing secrets, but those moments had dwindled to almost nothing. still, you clung to the hope that he would realize how much you meant to him and return to your side.

the relentless teasing from makki and mattsun didn’t help either. their playful jabs seemed to dig deeper, amplifying the distance between you and oikawa. it was clear that their antics only annoyed him more, and each laugh felt like a fresh reminder of how things used to be.

you found yourself questioning where everything had gone wrong. you replayed every interaction in your mind, convinced that you had done everything right. you had been the dutiful friend, standing by him during his insecurities, especially when he struggled with that junior a few years back. you had supported him through thick and thin, cheering him on during his victories and comforting him during his defeats. so why was this bitterness directed solely at you? the confusion and hurt gnawed at you, leaving you feeling like a ghost in a friendship that once felt so vibrant and alive.

the fourth was that you would be important to him, always.

you felt as if you had faded into the background, no longer even a side character in the unfolding story of his life. gone were the moments when he would light up at the sight of you; now, he barely spared you a glance. sometimes, during practice, he might meet your eyes for a fleeting second when you called out corrections or offered advice to the team. other times, when you passed out water bottles, his hand would brush against yours for a split second before he flinched away, as if your touch were something toxic.

the realization hit hard: you must have done something wrong, but the weight of that unknown burden only deepened your confusion. what had changed? what had driven a wedge between you?

when you confided in mattsun about oikawa's reaction, he refused to believe you. makki simply laughed, teasing you for being "delusional," as if your feelings were unfounded. but you knew what you saw—how oikawa's face had briefly twisted in disgust before he pulled his hand away. it felt like a betrayal, like a silent confirmation of everything you feared.

that’s when makki devised a plan to lock you in the broom closet with oikawa, insisting it would clear the air between you two. you warned them against it, certain that oikawa would be furious, but their laughter drowned out your concerns.

the next day, as you were putting away cleaning supplies, tōru's voice suddenly broke through the mundane silence behind you. “makki said you wanted to speak to me about something- hey! open the goddamn door!” his voice boomed, frustration evident in every syllable as he pounded his fist against the wood.

your heart raced as you stood there, wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing in a mix of panic and disbelief. finally, you managed to reply, “they did this on purpose. just let it be. mattsun will open the door in a bit.” your voice was barely a whisper, uncertainty coursing through you as the reality of the situation settled in.

“but why? this is just stupid and annoying, and i really don’t want to be here. i have to be somewhere right now,” he complained, groaning as he slid down the wall and settled onto the floor. the weight of his irritation hung heavily in the air, making it hard to breathe.

you stood there for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. biting your lip, you mustered the courage to ask, “do you hate me?”

“what?” oikawa blinked in surprise, his expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. “the heck does that mean?”

“it’s a simple question,” you pressed, determination lacing your words. “do you hate me?”

“no?” he replied, shrugging as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “i don’t think of you enough to feel anything.”

the bluntness of his words hit you like a physical blow. it stung more than you’d anticipated, a sharp pang of hurt that settled deep in your chest. in that moment, you realized the days when he would boast about being your best friend—someone who understood every nook and cranny of your life—were truly over.

here you were, still gazing at him with the belief that he held the strings that commanded the universe, while he seemed to regard you as an afterthought. you felt invisible, like a ghost haunting the periphery of his life, and the realization that he didn’t spare you a single thought throughout his day crushed your spirit.

“right,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips. “sorry I asked.”

he shrugged, nonchalant, and you called out, “mattsun? open the door, please?”

the door swung open immediately, and you heard the thudding footsteps of your friends dashing away, eager to avoid oikawa’s wrath. stepping out of the broom closet, you felt a heavy weight settle on your chest, and you walked away before he could say anything, needing space to breathe.

maybe makki was right. maybe you were delusional.

the fifth and final promise—or perhaps lie—was that he would always be by your side and never hurt you, no matter what.

now, here you were, standing behind him in the gym after they had lost to karasuno. oikawa kept serving the ball over and over, pretending to receive it again and again until he could finally get it right. he couldn’t understand what he did wrong, and the tension hung thick in the air. iwaizumi was there with you, attempting to coax the setter into stopping, but nothing worked. all you could do was watch as he spiraled into frustration, destroying himself with each failed attempt, wracked with the belief that he wasn’t trying hard enough—that he wasn’t good enough.

“oikawa, that’s enough!” you called, stepping toward him and grabbing his arm gently. “come on, let’s go home. it’s dark out-”

“let go of me!” he shouted, jerking his arm away. in his sudden movement, he lost his balance and fell hard onto the gym floor. a yelp escaped his lips, and without a second thought, you crouched down to his level, instinctively reaching out to help him.

“are you okay? come on, let’s get to the nurse’s office. they probably still have some medicine or sprays-”

“i don’t need you parading over me like a fucking basket case!” he yelled, the frustration spilling over in his voice. “i’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. i’m not a loser!”

“oi, watch it,” iwaizumi’s voice cut through the tension, firm yet concerned. “be glad someone’s still trying to help you.”

“well, i hate them! i hate them for pitying me, and i hate them for sticking around in my life like a fucking housefly!” he snapped, gritting his teeth as he struggled to stand. you knew he had likely sprained his knee in the fall, and you reached out, grabbing his shoulder to steady him as he wobbled. your lips pressed into a thin line, resolute but unreadable.

“let’s go to the nurse’s office,” you said, your voice devoid of any emotion. iwaizumi stepped closer, ready to take your place, but you shook your head.

“i got this. don’t worry. you pack up; I’ll get his knee wrapped and go home.”

the resolve in your voice echoed in the gym, a quiet determination amid the chaos surrounding you. oikawa stared at you, uncertainty flickering across his features, but you knew you couldn’t let him fall apart. not now.

you walked alongside him, your grip tightening around his arm whenever he faltered, fighting to maintain his balance. as you reached the nurse's office, you pushed the door open, the quiet space greeting you with a sense of foreboding. you knew the room would be empty at this hour, so you guided oikawa to sit on one of the beds, his weight leaning heavily against you.

you stepped toward the cabinet, your heart pounding in your chest as you reached up to retrieve the relief sprays and bandages. when you turned back, you found oikawa staring at you, disbelief etched across his features as you approached. slowly, you knelt before him, examining his knee, which was already starting to bruise ominously.

“why are you doing this? i just said i hate you,” he muttered, his voice wavering. you didn’t reply, keeping your lips pressed together in a straight line as you focused on the ugly discoloration forming on his skin. gently, you sprayed the cooling relief over the bruise, and he flinched at the sensation, a wince crossing his face.

the silence in the room felt unbearable, an agonizing pause hanging between you like a chasm. finally, you whispered, “i’ll bandage you up, and then iwa-san will take you home.”

“say something!” he snapped, his voice piercing through the stillness and making you clench your jaw. you finally met his gaze, frustration bubbling to the surface. “what the hell do you even want me to say? you don’t have enough time in your day to think of me while i was in love with you all along! and now i’ve just found out you hate me when i don’t even know what the fuck i’ve done. so pray tell, what exactly do you want me to say to you? what do you think is left?”

he blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, before mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. irritation flared within you, and you raised an eyebrow. “hello? i don’t have superhuman hearing. you’re going to have to speak up if you want me to hear what you have to say.”

“i thought you were different!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the small room. the force of his words caught you off guard, and you blinked in surprise. before you could respond, he continued. “i thought our relationship would stay the same, but you started liking me like everyone else. i thought you weren’t any different.”

“you’re a dumb fucking idiot,” you retorted, stepping back from him, your heart racing. incredulous laughter bubbled up from your chest, a mix of disbelief and anger. “are you serious? you made me think you hated me just because i fell in love with you? oikawa, what is wrong with you?”

“i don’t know, i just—”

“did you ever stop and think about the fact that i never did anything about my feelings because i respected your goals in life?” you challenged, your eyes narrowing. your frustration turned into sharp words. “did you ever use your brain? or do you only pretend to have one in front of other people?”

he blinked at you, the realization dawning on his face as he struggled to formulate an apology. but you shook your head, cutting him off. “save it. i’m done with you. and i’m done with this stupid club. i quit.”

you walk toward the door, each step feeling heavier than the last, as if the weight of your emotions is anchoring you down. for a fleeting moment, a part of you wishes he would call out to you, that the twelve-year-old boy who once convinced you to climb onto your roof to stargaze would surface again, pleading for you to stay. but that part of him is gone, replaced by the distance that has grown between you.

you pause briefly at the entrance, your hand lingering on the doorknob. a sigh escapes your lips, a mix of relief and sorrow, before you finally push the door open and step into the hallway. the quiet thud of the door closing behind you resonates in the stillness, a finality that feels like an unspoken farewell.

as you walk away, the realization sinks in: oikawa tōru was never yours to begin with. he was a comet streaking across the sky, brilliant and untouchable, while you were left on the ground, staring up at him in awe, wishing for a connection that was never meant to be.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[small-sinclair]

May I plz be tagged in the part two to this

Okay :3

A Raven’s Song

*************

Vincent watched you silently as you laid in his bed. He had put your leg in a splint and wrapped your throat with care. He was able to put your hair back in a little braid and changed your shirt to a tank top.

He heard your words say “beautiful” again and again, but he didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to though his body betrayed him along with his mind. Were you saying it to save yourself? Were you just saying that? If you were, he’ll make sure your body was used and managed correctly. If not, he would marvel at your voice and yearn for it to say his name.

Bo wasn’t all too happy that he let you live, but who is he to judge? Bo had your friend tied in the chair under the garage! Vincent can keep you; he can have you for the night as his own. Or you show your true colors.

Which ever comes first.

As he watched you, he sketched your form, focusing intensely on every detail. He drew and shaded your flawless skin, untouched and scared from this world. He outlined your stretch marks, freckles, and little lines with so much detail and warmth. He admired your gentleness and how peaceful you looked as you rested; he only wished he could give you something for the pain for your throat and leg.

Why did you fall down the stairs? Why did you come down? Don’t you know monsters live in basements and demons live near stairs?

His eyes fell on his mask that sat next to him then back at you. You ruined his mask but he doesn’t have the heart to melt it down. Your finger prints are pressed into the wax; he thinks they’re perfect. The more he looked at you, the more he began to fall in love, the more he realized how calm he felt, the more he found himself feeling still and centered.

He closed his eyes and sat his pad down. Waiting for you, caring… it felt forever.

When he heard you murmur and say your eyes fluttering open, he sits a bit closer and straighter. His hand instinctively held yours and squeezed it as if you two been in love all your life. The sweet nectar he drinks is poison enough but he’ll live just for you.

Once your eyes opened, you recognize him. His scarred face covered but his black hair, but you could see where scar and skin met. His bright blue eye shined in the candle light, and the flames flickered back and forth like a dance. He looked as if he’s been waiting for you, and that’s enough. That’ll always be enough.

Your throat ached as you whispered, “Hi.”

He shakes his head and places a finger over his lips, singling you to be silent.

You nodded as you squeezed his hand back. Soon, your eyes began to flutter and drift off, but you still breathed, “Beautiful… beautiful raven…”

Vincent frowns and felt himself choking back a muffled cry. If he is your raven, then rest in his nest and be warm by his protective wings. Let him give you everything that shines and sing you to sleep.

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE, BOYCOTT TLOU, DAILY CLICK, STREAM THIS SONG TO DONATE

⚰︎ — 𝒗𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆!𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔

song: valse sentimentale, op. 51, no. 6 - tchaikovsky

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut and slight angst, oral (r!receiving), sexual tension, afab reader, extensive descriptions of blood, blood drinking, bloody kisses, minor descriptions of pain, set in the unspecified past, omission of abby’s true identity until near the end, eventual breakdown then comfort, loosely dracula-esque, not proofread

a/n: wanted this to be a fully fleshed out oneshot but i didn’t have time😔 happy halloween from me nonetheless <3

vampire!abby, who shares an uncanny resemblance to the portraits that line her opulent walls. they gaze down at you with the same set jaw and stern brow, the same shock of golden waves. her family tree, she says, but it seems off… you have yet to lay eyes on any family. it’s as if she were a phantom that tore herself away from the constraints of oil and varnish and who is now playing the part of flesh and bone.

vampire!abby whose hospitality knows no bounds. even if her eyes glow a little too azure in the flickering flame of the hearth. even if her body is too still, her chest frozen with the lack of the in-out-in-out animal rhythm of breath. it matters not, because she has opened her home, and her heart, to you in a time of need. these little oddities don’t outweigh her charms.

and oh, how charming she is. vampire!abby has a way with words, a honeyed tongue that drags heat from within to the apples of your cheeks. the things she finds to compliment you on are never ending, all with a charismatic smile to top it off. she doesn’t dangle her affections and beckon, she lays it out flat on her palm for the taking.

vampire!abby, who you only see when the sun sets. it would have been strange, if not for the way she thrummed with a liveliness, a natural gift for conversation and entertainment that instantaneously vanished all growing doubts. she tells you stories of her adventures, spoken with the fondness of a distant memory. she shows you rare books that lay thick and dusty in your palms. the smell of worn leather and aged paper and her infiltrates your senses as she leans over your shoulder. frankincense, lavender and something unplaceable that crackles in the air. she looks at you as she flips the brittle pages gently, as if she’s read it, memorised it, a hundred times over…

vampire!abby, who keeps her restraint under control by the skin of her teeth. the sound of your pace racing rapidly beneath the thin sheet of your skin each time she comes near and the way your eyes dilate. not to mention the heady smell of your blood that fills the air night and day… she could eat you alive. oh, how she wants to, but she’s found herself growing fonder of your presence each day. she’s forgotten how lonely she has become, in this manor-shaped grave. burial site no longer, your mortal warmth makes it almost feel like a home again.

vampire!abby, who, finding herself unable to prey on you, decides to lavish you with affection instead. waltzes in the strong, soothing frame of her arms, in a ballroom so desolate the marble floor blurs as she spins and swivels you around. custom-made attire of the finest silks and velvets, all for you. then the gentler moments; the slow drag of fingertips as she buttons up your blouse, a gloved thumb trailing its way down the slope of your neck. fabric, the only thing separating the much wanted feel of skin-on-skin.

vampire!abby, who is the one to cut the suspended rope of tension between the two of you. she admits her feelings for you so sweetly, a choral my love, my love, mine. she asks you if these feelings also plague you, though she knows the answer before your lips part, with the telltale gallop of your heartbeat beneath your ribs. yes.

vampire!abby, whose lovemaking feels eternal because she knows that these moments with you are fleeting, your little mortal life a single dot in the long-drawn pages of her immortality. her lips ghost over every searing inch of skin, pressing openmouthed kisses wherever she can. she spends hours between your sprawled thighs, licking strokes between the puffy, silky lips of your cunt, nose pressed to your soaked warmth as she savours your saccharine taste slowly until your legs tremble around her head. all the while, she ignores the boiling fingers of hunger that dig into her guts. skin, sweat, essence. she swears these are the only parts of you that she will ever taste. she could never, she would never…

but vampire!abby cannot fight the nocturnal nature that calls to her like a siren song. the closer you get, the more time she spends revering your body, the less she has a grasp on her beastly temperament. she wants you, all of you. all that plagues her mind are the shivering veins that entangle through your body, the richness that lingers just beneath the surface. she thinks and thinks and thinks until the chord within her snaps.

vampire!abby, who confesses her true nature to you keeled over on the floor through heaving breaths. her fingers claw at the fabric covering your knees, not out of malice but out of desperation. her too-bright eyes are wide moons that hang over the ocean, and her brows are drawn together in pleading. this is the defiling, monstrous truth, she whispers through quivering lips. please love me as i am. i cannot bear another loss, but if you desire to leave… no harm will come to you. but i beg you, stay.

vampire!abby, who is stunned when you gather the heap of her broad, icy body into your arms. tears slip down the curve of her cheeks as you whisper soothing promises into the silken pile of her hair. you were a fool for staying, for pitying this hellish creature, but she was still the same person who had captured your heart, who clung to you now with the ferocity of somebody begging for proximity, for compassion, for companionship. you realised, just as shocked, that you would give her all these things and more.

vampire!abby, who doesn’t ask for your blood, but you offer it to her anyway, tugging down your collar and baring your craned neck to her. there is silence before you feel the velvet of her tongue gliding down the smooth expanse of skin, her fingers rubbing circles along your waist to calm any lingering nerves. her mouth travels upwards until it stops abruptly, pausing on the steadiness of your pulse beneath. she presses a feather-light kiss to the spot before you hear her the click of her expanding jaw, then the piercing, bright-burning feeling of her canines sinking deep.

vampire!abby, whose bite feels tender when the searing pain gives way to a weakening, otherworldly bliss. you melt like chocolate in sunlight when liquid ecstasy encompasses you at the feeling of fangs reaching the innermost parts of you. and she is enraptured with the taste of you, sticky ambrosia dripping thickly down her throat and seeping out the corners of her lips when greed overwhelms her. droplets spill onto her snowy collar and the silky blue cravat laced around her throat. warbling moans tickle against your skin as she savours each note, each shifting depth that reveals itself with each gulp.

vampire!abby, who licks the remnants clean. the puncture at your neck, her lips, her fingers, the valley between your breasts where stray droplets lay. not before peppering you with bloody, breathy kisses though, the tang of copper sharp on your tongue.

vampire!abby, who then bites you rarely. she could never get sick of it, but she wants this to remain a delicacy to her, something done in the intimate hours entwined together. each time, you offer a different part of your body, and she can hear the anticipatory quickening of your heartbeat. you’ve both acquired new tastes, palates that harmonise with one another and have forged a bond like no other. she can only hope that, one day, it will be forevermore.

[daydreamingleclerc]

gorgeous; lewis hamilton

y/n's boyfriend is arguably one of the worst men on the planet, so, she decides to hook up with a pretty boy she meets in a club.

includes; smut, oral (m, f), fingering, degradation, teasing, spanking, hair pulling, face fucking, sir!kink, dom!lewis, sub!reader, infidelity, unprotected sex, squirting. this hasn't been proofread.

this is part of my taylor swift masterlist which you can find here. thank you to @sainzcaleruega and @landopeaches for always hyping up my writing even when i think it sucks <33

he was arguably one of the most attractive people she'd ever seen. that was a fact. his skin glowed under the harsh lighting, somehow making him look ethereal in a sea of sweaty, aggressively lit men and women, and whenever he looked over in her direction her skin buzzed with a sense of anticipation she didn't find anywhere else. a sense of excitement she hadn't felt for what felt like a lifetime.

as stubborn as he was in these situations, he had to admit - she too, was one of the prettiest women he'd ever laid eyes upon. the way she looked so effortlessly, shamelessly gorgeous in a room full of women who'd tried a little too hard to impress drew him to her like a moth to a flame. she didn't have to try, not for him, anyway.

"can i buy you a drink?"

the line was cheesy, and half-expected when she waltzed up to the bar. he watched her every move, as she weaved her way in and out of the crowd with ease, as if it was a habit. her lips curled up into a half smile and she pondered on the origin of his accent.

"i've got a boyfriend," her eyes raked across the selection of flavoured liquor standing on the shelf, and she waited for his reaction to come. he waivered, only slightly. "but if you want to take me home with you i suggest you try a lot harder than buying me a drink."

the man smirked and stood in closer, only by a few millimeters. his hand draped over the small of her back, and in that moment she noticed his scent. he smelled divine, the scent of richness and old money that she'd scoured so hard to find; he smelt like a man who was familiar with the ins and outs of what he was doing and that was almost enough for her to cave.

"what are you drinking?" he questioned. his voice was soft yet firm, and even under the boom of heavy music, she could hear him crystal clear.

"surely you should be able to tell," she glanced over at him for the first time since he struck up a conversation, but soon faced the liquors again, "a man with your intelligence, expertise. you know what a woman wants, so figure it out."

he admired her nonchalant nature, and so he went ahead and ordered for her, "a whiskey on ice and a tequila sunrise," his eyes flickered over to her as he spoke and immediately flickered back to the barman.

"anything else?"

"two orgasms," the barman almost walked away until she spoke, he nodded, and she glanced over at the pretty man beside her, "i'd ask for a couple more, but that's just being selfish."

he leaned in closer again, his fingers brushing her hipbones and marking his territory to those around him. "it's rude to have no manners," his finger's ran up the side of her dress, feeling out the zip just underneath the armpit so he could toggle on it later, "but then again, you'll be using them later."

"you seem oddly confident," she rose to his game fiercely and feistily, her eyes still avoiding him, "it's almost a pity."

her cockiness was arousing to him. he loved it when women fell at his feet, but this game was so much more entertaining for him to play. he couldn't help but hide a smirk. "we'll see who's going to be pitied when you're desperate enough to beg."

the drinks were brought to the pair of them quickly, and he watched as she knocked back both orgasms without a singular hitch in her face - oh, if only she knew how the orgasms he provided would leave her reeling.

"aren't you going to ask me about my boyfriend, about why i'm here in a crowded club all alone?"

it was clear to him she'd played this game multiple times before, but now she'd just confirmed it. "no," he simply smiled, and when she startled, his face grew wider, "judging by the fact you're out, talking to me, allowing me to buy you drinks, means you don't want to talk about him," his finger circled the rim of his whiskey glass, "but it also tells me you've come here to do this before, time and time again, desperate for somebody to show you a good time. am i right?"

her mouth suddenly went dry.

she sucked the cocktail through the small straw, and he waited patiently for her response.

"you could say that's correct," it pissed her off to admit he was right; she didn't like doing that, "do you think you're up to the task?" her eyes looked right into his, and for the first time that night, she allowed herself to get lost in them, "because i don't think you've got what it takes."

their lips were so close in that moment, she could feel his breath fanning at her skin and it ignited a fire inside of her stomach. the tension could be sliced with a knife, and when he placed his finger on her lips to halt her movements, it drove her crazy.

"you couldn't be more wrong, sweetheart."

"prove it to me, then."

her lips puckered slightly so she could kiss the pad of his finger, but in his haste he allowed himself to divulge in the taste of her tongue. sparks flew inside of her stomach at the prospect of what was inevitably going to happen, and when his tongue slid along her bottom lip, she fought it. Y/N wasn't one for giving in that easily.

"i don't even know your name," the man muttered against her lips, pulling away for a short breath of air in the midst of all his hormones, "and i'd, at the very least, like to tell you mine so you know what name to type into your phone next time you go looking for a man to make you feel good."

"you're so cocky," she hummed, pulling away from him snappishly to fumble on the counter for her drink. she admired the lipstick stain smeared across his chin. "it's almost humbling."

"you're so eager," he retorted, allowing himself a moment of composure. her body language was buzzing, and her eagerness to allow him to have his way with her was radiating off of her skin and bouncing among the pair of them like energy. "you might as well just bend over and let me fuck you in here."

he watched as the glimmer in her eyes shone, and cottoned onto the notion that she loved the thought of that. she knew that he could sense it, too, and she cursed herself for allowing her eyes to be so distinctively emotional.

"your eyes say everything you don't, darling," he paused and leaned closer, and when she went in for another kiss, he laughed. "see, i'm already starting to pity you."

he watched as she knocked back her drink, and as much as he wanted to tease her some more and hang back in the club for an hour or so, this was his forte.

"i hope your boyfriends not expecting you back anytime soon," he grabbed at her hand as he pulled her through the crowd, the manner brash and needy, nothing like the way she waltzed through it last time. "my name's lewis, by the way. you're gonna need to remember that."

/

his hotel room wasn't that far of a journey, and Y/N thanked her lucky stars when her initial thoughts were right - he was rich, and she was going to make sure to be calling him again.

"you still haven't told me your name," he said, handing her a small glass filled with tequila soda.

she took a sip, "is that a bad thing?"

"i'd at least like to know your name before i fuck you, yeah," he took a sip of his and perched on the edge of the armchair opposite her. her legs looked deliciously long and slender from this angle, and the light bounced off of them and caused a sleek shine. "is that a bad thing?"

"i suppose not," she hummed, and leaned forward to place her drink on the table. her cleavage squeezed between her arms as she moved and lewis struggled to keep himself composed. "Y/N."

Y/N.

he felt at peace knowing he had a name to put to the face, and it was just as beautiful as he imagined. she leaned back in her chair and her eyes gazed over him, and he was in awe of how she did everything so effortlessly. he leaned over the coffee table and hovered over her, his hands resting on the arm of her chair.

now that they could see one another clearer, and the atmosphere was less intrusive, there was a self consciousness surrounding them, as if they didn't want to get it wrong or overstep their mark; even though they both knew what they were here to do.

when lewis leaned down to kiss her, she melted into him almost immediately, and any traces of the feisty, fiery lady she once was at the bar had subsided. she was his, ultimately and indefinitely his, for this night.

lewis' hands trailed down her arms and along the stitching of the dress in an attempt to find the zipper from earlier. "may i...?" he asked, although when she'd started to nod, he was already pulling it down.

the dress completely unzipped and when lewis sunk to his knees and helped her to shimmy out of it, she didn't stop him. his lips caressed her thighs, kissing at the hot, slightly sweaty skin just to tease her as his thumbs and forefingers massaged at her calves.

her impatience had begun to seep through and it was clear to him she was beginning to become desperate when he noticed the material of her lace underwear changing colour due to the damp patch. he couldn't help but smirk.

his lips trailed across her pubic bone, that was partially hidden by the flimsy excuse for underwear, and as he kissed along the hot skin, she jolted and shimmied in anticipation.

"waiting for something?"

Y/N bucked her hips, but lewis' hands flew to her thighs and stopped her before she could gain any friction from the contact. "i said," he repeated, "are you waiting for something?"

she grumbled, "if you're not gonna fucking do it, then i'll find someone else who will."

lewis' eyes darkened, and she soon realised she was probably going to regret saying those words. he yanked at the material of her underwear and pulled it off in one swift motion, tossing it over his shoulder. "legs up," he motioned for her to swing her legs onto the arms of the chair, and she obliged, swinging them up onto the arms despite the ache it brought to her thighs. "good girl, you do know how to listen."

he savored the moment, allowing his fingers to slide within her folds and touch her delicately, swirling the pad of his middle finger around her clit and pressing softly into her opening. she was mewling, soft little whimpers and hardly-there noise that screamed out so much.

lewis' tongue swirled around her clit and immediately her hands flew to his dreadlocks. his hands splayed across her thighs as he worked his tongue around her, his facial hair only adding to her sensations.

"you taste so fucking good," he pulled away for a minute, and she looked up to watch him conjuring up spit. "i could stay here all fucking night."

she moaned, tipping her head back and getting lost in the feeling of him. she'd never experienced head like this before, and she couldn't quite contain herself. his hands moved from her thighs down to her bum, where one massaged the flesh and the other trailed up to where she needed attention the most.

"are you sure you can handle this? hm?" he cooed, pulling his lips away from her clit and causing her to cry out, "i don't know if you're ready."

"i am," she pouted, "please, lewis."

he smirked, and with that he pressed two fingers inside of her, and immediately she began to clench. "see, i told you i'd have you begging."

his fingers inside of her felt surreal, the way they hit every ridge and curve so well and slid through her wetness. she was dripping down his hand, she knew it, and she showed no shame. his fingertips curled and when they tickled her g-spot she flinched, her legs shooting outwards with a mind of their own.

"god, fucking hell if you keep on doing that i'm gonna cum."

lewis kissed at the inside of her thigh as he continued to fuck her with his fingers, "what did i tell you earlier about your manners, darling? they really are atrocious."

"i-i'm sorry," she mumbled, "please can i...?"

"please can you what, Y/N?"

she frowned for a second but she was whipped into shape quickly when he slapped her thigh. "please can i cum?"

"see," lewis kissed her clit and made her jolt, "that really wasn't so hard, was it baby?"

she shook her head, and when lewis' movements sped up, she saw it as her sign to cum. her legs trembled and her back arched off of the armchair, and she came hard and fast all over his fingers. he looked up at her with hooded eyes as she came down from her orgasm, her arms were over her head tugging at the armchair cushion and her back was still arched. she looked fucked out already, and her heavy breathing made him hard as a rock.

he knew he needed her now, no more waiting. he had to be inside of her, he wanted to make everyone in the rooms surrounding him know he could pleasure a woman right.

she felt a buzz in her stomach at the manhandling. lewis had picked her up from her state on the armchair and pushed her onto all fours on the adjoining sofa.

"do you still believe that i don't have what it takes, sweetheart?"

she turned her face round to look at him, and when he pulled his shirt off to reveal a body full of tattoos, she almost died on the spot. he knew she was checking him out, and he couldn't help but flex a little as he weaved his belt out of his trousers, and when she shook her head with a smirk on her face, she knew she was in trouble.

"well i think you're a fucking liar." he grabbed at her neck and squeezed the flesh softly until she made an audible choking sound, and then he released her. she continued to admire him through hazy eyes, and when he stood completely naked behind her she almost felt her knees give way.

he lined himself up with her and pushed in all the way, leaving her almost screaming at the fullness. he left her no time to properly adjust to his size before he pulled out and slid back inside her again with ease.

"oh, fuck, lewis," she cried out, her head throwing back. he grabbed ahold of her hips and squeezed at the flesh of her bum, slapping and kneading it between his hands. "you're so fucking big."

he left a slap to her bum once more. he enjoyed the ego boost.

"so fucking tight," he grunted as he continued to thrust, each time getting deeper and deeper, "your boyfriend really doesn't fuck you right, does he baby? hm?"

"no," she whined, a yelp of pain drawn from her lips when he wrapped his hand around her hair and used it as leverage, too. "only you, lewis."

he slapped her bum again. "that's the right fucking answer, only i can fuck you this good," his hips were slamming against her bum now, and lewis watched the constant loop of recoils that took place in front of him. "isn't that right, baby? hm? you're never gonna go to anybody else, that pussy's all mine, isn't it?"

"n-no, sir," she choked out, and lewis audibly growled, "nobody else. yours."

he laughed at her garbled nonsense. "good girl, you sound so pretty now that there's not a thought left in that pretty little head."

Y/N knew she wasn't going to last much longer, and lewis could tell because of the wet sounds her pussy was making as he fucked her, and the way she clenched him like a vice every time he pulled back out.

"gonna cum for me, Y/N?" he left a slap to her bum and pulled her right up against his chest by her hair, until he managed to wrap an arm around her torso and lock her in with his strength. her arms wrapped around his neck and she tugged at his dreads. "come on, baby. i know you can."

his free hand reached around and strummed at her clit, leaving her no wiggling room. the overstimulation became too much, and as lewis' lips bit down on her earlobe, she squirted all around him, her pussy clenching and convulsing uncontrollably as she screamed and rode out her high.

it took everything in lewis not to cum inside of her then and there, but he knew he needed restraint. he needed to be careful.

he pulled out of her and she fell limp, but lewis manhandled her once again, "don't think you're finished yet, baby," he pushed the strands of sweaty hair from her face over to the side of her neck, "i wanna see my dick in your pretty mouth first."

she hummed, and took as much of him in her mouth as she could, and lewis couldn't help but thrust his hips. the contractions of her throat gagging around him made his groan, and he had to suck in deep breaths every time he pushed back into her mouth.

spit trickled down Y/N's chin and pooled at her knees on the floor as she sucked at him sloppily. the movements of her tongue combined with his thrusts down her throat meant he wasn't going to last long.

"hold still," lewis said, bunching her hair up into a ponytail with his hand and fucking her face, the noises falling from her mouth at the sensation enough to make him groan. "fu-uck, that's it. good girl."

one hand fell to her cheek and she looked up at him as his dick slipped in and out of her mouth, and he couldn't hold it in any longer. he pressed the base of his dick flush against her tongue, and admired her pretty face as beads of cum landed on her tongue, nose and cheeks.

she gathered it all up on her tongue and he watched as she let it drool from the tip and trickle down onto her chest, merging with her spit and sweat. he'd never been more ready for another round in his life.

Y/N sat back on her heels and when lewis held out a hand for her to get up, her legs wobbled and she had to wait several moments before they regained usage.

"thank you," she smiled, wiping her chin, "i've not had sex that good in a long time."

"ditto," lewis smiled. the pair of them sat back on the sofa in silence, enjoying the company of the other person. "if you want to stay, you can."

"thank you," she smiled again, a sincere, almost apologetic smile. "i'd love that, but i think i need to shower before i make my mind up."

he nodded, and rose to his feet with an outstretched arm, "come with me, i'll help you clean yourself up."

[munsonthings86]

we've been celestial even before this

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: after she has a particularly rough day, steve takes his girl stargazing

warnings: cursing, fluff, soft!steve, established relationship (but still fairly new), oversimplified summary, reader depicted to be nineteen, these two being the biggest lovesick idiots for each other

an: i've been having a lot of fun writing about these two. they own my entire heart. hope you guys enjoy this one * don't copy my work *

wc: 6.1k

steve and sunshine's timeline

The trembling flame of the Coffee House scented candle illuminated your messy bedroom in a flickering, warm, honey light. The smell of the candle resembled nothing of coffee, more like hot cocoa or caramel you thought, but it did its job of calming your rattled nerves, nonetheless. Most of your wooden floor was hidden beneath neglected pieces of clothing that you'd pulled from your closet in a hopeless attempt to string together a decent outfit that morning. I'll tidy up tomorrow, you shrugged, though knowing you, there was a high possibility that "tomorrow" would turn into next week.

Procrastination was a terrible habit of yours, and the tension that the day left you with was doing very little to diminish it. Your early morning shift at Family Video was borderline torturous; Keith saw to that when he scheduled you sans Steve and Robin and had two inept new hires shadow you. Sure they were nice and all, from what you can recall anyway, but you were too out of it to bestow on them the patience you typically had.

Once the stint came to its much desired end, a dreadful date at the Indiana Bureau of Motor Vehicles awaited you. In your venture to become more of an independent and responsible "adult" (being merely nineteen, the word made your blood run cold), the goal of obtaining your permit was set in stone. The written test was passed with flying colors, but like any classic BMV nightmare, you'd forgotten a required document to actually get the damn permit.

Nearly plunging to your knees, you begged the grumpy old woman behind the counter to let you run back to your apartment that was “just down the street”. Truthfully, it was a thirty minute trip on foot, but she didn't need to know that. If you ran, you could make it back in twenty.

But, again, like any classic BMV nightmare, all she left you with was a hardly sympathetic, "Sorry ma'am, but if you don't have all the required documents, I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow. The office closes in fifteen minutes." Through clenched teeth, you thanked her for her time, though she neglected to return the gesture, squawking "Next in line!" in a tone that was poles apart from her customer service voice.

Mercifully, your day wasn't all terrible. On the way back home, you stopped by the library to return a week's long overdue book and, instead of crucifying you for it, the lovely librarian recommended a novel she thought you'd appreciate. Rose in Splendor by Laura Parker. Unbeknownst to her, you'd been dying to read it ever since it was published last year. The grouch over at the BMV could definitely take a page out of her book. No pun intended.

Curled into bed and tucked under your beloved ivory crotched blanket, you thumbed along the pages through gravelly, blurry eyes. You kept promising yourself "one more page", but that was well over ten pages ago.

The male love interest was recounted having perfectly tousled brown hair with a body to die for, and you couldn't help but to think of your Steve. You missed him terribly in that moment and the one thing that kept your woe at bay was the anticipation of you two's nightly phone call. It was the selling point of all your days spent without him, truth be told.

The chime of the landline in the hallway between your kitchen and bedroom pierced through the otherwise silence of your apartment, prompting you to glance at the clock on your wall. 9:32 p.m.

Speak of the devil.

Folding a little doggy ear onto the page to preserve your place, the blanket keeping your legs warm was tossed among your strewn out clothes as you nearly slipped, scurrying to answer the phone. You couldn't bite back your smile as you pressed the receiving end against your ear, hearing the music that was Steve's voice, fill your mind.

"Hi, sunshine."

A breath that was unknowingly caged, freed itself at the sound. "You're nearly on time," you teased, referring to earlier today when Steve promised to call you at 9:30 sharp tonight. Usually, he called you earlier than this, but he was jammed with babysitting duties for the six kids you were considering adopting for yourself at this point.

"I know, I'm sorry," he chuckled. "They finally fixed that game at the arcade that's been down for the past few weeks. Gaga, I think it's called."

"Galaga," you corrected, giggling to yourself. It wasn't a rare occurrence whenever the kids would drag you along on one of their many hangouts, so you were rather well-versed in their nerdy recreations. "Yeah, that's the one. I could barely pry their grubby little hands off the thing. Especially Dustin."

Based on his tone, the roll of Steve's eyes as he spoke was nearly audible. As much as he complained about constantly having to be the one to look after the party, there was a part of him that covertly loved the fact that they depended on him so much. Not only was it somewhat of an ego boost, but he's always dreamed of having little nuggets of his own to protect and guide and treasure.

The daydream of Steve being the ideal father, unlike his own dad ever was, reeled your bottom lip between your teeth as the cord of the landline fell into the trap of your twirling fingers. It was so vivid; a shirtless Steve wearing blue jeans that hugged his bottom so perfectly, driving a rackety lawn mower along the wild grass of the front yard to the house you may or may not have pictured the pair of you living in.

In that utopia, the children that you may or may not have pictured parenting with Steve, sat behind the lemonade stand that was built by their father, giggling and toying with a leaky hose as they awaited customers. You'd be watching your little family from the boxy window of the kitchen, fixing them an afternoon snack, unable to contain your laugh when the hose goes haywire, soaking your lover from head to toe.

The imagery made you giggle out loud, head falling against the wall as your stomach cramped. "What?" Steve asked, laughing along with you though it's purely out of instinct, because of course he didn't know what you were laughing about. But hearing your audible delight was contagious. He couldn't help it.

"It's nothing," you assured, smiling softly before continuing, "just hoping your day was better than mine was."

"Well I don't like the sound of that," he frowned, sneakers squeaking against his floor as he shifted his weight onto his other leg. He watched as the days worth of dirt that'd found solace on his shoes, abandon patterned scuffs on the wood. Memories of the pointed sound of his mothers voice demanding no shoes in the house rang through his head like a siren at the sight. He would've ditched his footwear at the door, but he knew he was running late for his phone date.

"What happened?"

Commencing your response with a weary sigh, you shrugged, laughing dryly, "A lot. It's not even funny how exhausted I am right now."

Steve's chest tightened. He hated when you had a bad day; it left a bad taste in his mouth. Even worse, whenever Steve would make an effort to get to the bottom of what ailed his girl, he had a less than impressive success rate, seeing as vulnerability was one of your shortcomings. Steve knew better than to pry. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to do his damnedest to make these final hours of the day your best.

"I'm sorry to hear that, honey," he lowered his head, offering a comforting smile that though you couldn't see, you could hear in his voice. "'S alright," he heard you murmur.

It fell silent for a beat before Steve inquired, "When are you comin' home?", to which you furrowed your eyebrows, letting out a confused chuckle. "Uh, I am home."

Jokingly, the boy scanned his apartment and though he saw some of your forgotten belongings from previous visits, he couldn't seem to pinpoint you. "That's weird, I don't see ya. You hiding somewhere?"

The laugh that erupts from your core at your sappy boyfriend is inescapable. Your shoulders quake as you snicker and Steve's never heard a sound so sweet. Mission accomplished. For now, anyway. "You're an idiot."

"For you, yeah," he retorts, "thought we already established that." The apples of your cheeks are growing sore as Steve's honeyed words denies your smile the chance to falter. Any inconvenience that was precedent to this very moment was long forgotten by virtue of the prince charming that was your boyfriend.

"I'll come see you soon, lover boy," you quipped.

"You makin' fun of me?" He was completely unoffended. Prior to the few weeks of you dating, Steve spent the better part of the past decade containing his cascading love for you behind the dire dam of the friendzone. Despite delay, the dam was broken and there was no playing "Mr. Cool Guy". Steve was crazy about you. And he'd be even crazier to not show it.

"I wouldn't be me if I didn't," you teased. "I'm gonna head to bed, though. I have another shift in the mornin'. That damn Keith," you rolled your eyes, groaning as Steve laughed through his nose.

"Alright, sunshine, I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay," you glowed. "G'night, Stevie." You waited for him to respond with a "goodnight" of his own before returning the phone back to its base, already pining for your boyfriend's presence again. Though you poked fun at it, what Steve said about you not being "home" wasn't just him being sappy. You were feeling the same way.

No matter where you were, whether it was school, work, the arcade, shit, you could be in the Upside Down, but as long as Steve was there, you felt at home. It made you reflect on the times where you'd be lying in bed, unable to slip into a slumber as you couldn't shake the feeling of wanting to go home, though geographically, that's exactly where you were. It was because you missed Steve. And any place where he was absent, was no home of yours.

Sauntering back into your bedroom and kicking away garments to clear a path, you cocooned your body into the blanket that was now stained with the scent of your burning candle, and continued from where you left off in your book. You figured you'd make some decent progress to hopefully avoid another late fee at the library.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It'd been forty minutes later, give or take, when you stood on sore legs, cleansing and moisturizing your face before calling it a night. Your dull eyes wore dark and heavy circles like a hideous skirt, a clear manifestation of the fatigue you were weathering. You rubbed at them unkindly with the hopes of looking even a little more lively, but to no avail.

The bulb of the bathroom went out like a flame once you flicked the switch off, and you abandoned the journey back to your room at the sound of a series of knocks to the front door. Clasping the opening of your robe with shaky hands, you wondered who could be here at this hour. You weren't expecting any visitors. Approaching the door with hushed footsteps, a miniscule view of none other than Steve Harrington could be seen through the peephole of your door.

The tension in your shoulders dissipated, ribs doing their best to cage your fluttering heart. You squealed, fingers fumbling with the lock and you could swear the metal thing had something against you, the way it stalled to unlatch. Steve smiled from the other side of the door as he watched the knob twist and jangle, warmed to know that you were just as eager to see him as he was to see you.

The brown lettering that labeled the white entryway '2F' swung out of view and Steve made eye contact with you for a split second before stumbling back a bit when you threw yourself into him.

Elevating yourself with the tips of your toes to reach him, you trapped his neck between your arms as he returned your hug with one arm, the other remaining properly tucked behind his back. "Hello to you too," he laughed breathlessly before briefly stamping a kiss to your shoulder.

"What're you doing here?" you buzzed, pressing little pecks to as much of his dotted skin as you could. You were suddenly a ball of energy. Finally at home. "When you said later, I thought you meant, like, tomorrow or something."

"Well, I missed you," a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "Wanted to come see ya."

The smile he wore carved thin lines into his cheeks as he spoke, walking your tangled bodies back into the quietude of your apartment. He stopped at your cutesy welcome mat, kicking his shoes off before revealing his arm that held a bouquet of just about the prettiest flowers you'd ever seen.

"Steve," you pouted, releasing your hold on his shoulders, "they're gorgeous." Cradling the peach hued roses dressed in a newspaper-style wrapping paper, your eyebrows scrunched together as you reminded yourself of the time. "What florist is open at 10 p.m.?"

The boy chuckled, locking the door behind him. The plaid pajama pants he wore swung loosely on his legs as he approached you. "There isn't," he ran fingers through his disheveled hair that was long overdue for a trim, "I saw them while I was out with the kids and I thought of you, so I got 'em." He shrugged like it was nothing.

"I was gonna surprise you with them at work tomorrow, but I figured I'd just give 'em to you now, ya' know, all things considered."

Heat rushed to your chest and face as you ogled him, filled with an overwhelming sense of luck to be his. Your feelings toward him felt so immense that at times, you could barely articulate yourself. Words of love and adoration raced through your mind a million miles a second yet you always found yourself terribly speechless.

Steve was so open with his affection for you. It’s a love people pray to experience at least once in their lifetime. And what a heaven-sent gift it was to earn that kind of love from Steve.

These would look perfect by the living room, you thought, turning to the kitchen to retrieve a vase after slipping him a fleeting kiss.

Scouring the white cabinets, you almost failed to remember that you didn't particularly own a vase, given the fact that you'd never actually received flowers before. The realization dejected you a bit.

Steve trailed behind you mindlessly, a frown weighing on his lips as he watched your shoulders droop. Leaning against the space on the counter next to you, he slid down a little, leveling with you, "What's wrong, honey?"

A mumbled, "I've never gotten flowers before," left a pang in his chest, your eyes never leaving the shelves of your cluttered cupboard. "Never needed a vase before."

It was now Steve's turn to slump his shoulders while he gazed at you with sad eyes. How could someone so lovely, so divine as you, not be treated the way you deserved? He would buy you flowers every day if you wanted and he had to bite his tongue when he almost cursed himself for not doing it already. But it's okay. He was here now.

Luring your waist into his body with those burly hands of his, he spoke with assurance laced in his voice, "Well, that's okay," he cooed. "Here, use one of these for now," he pulled a mug that you would've otherwise had trouble reaching, as it sat on the very top shelf, "and tomorrow we'll pick out a nice pretty vase for ya'."

Filling the black cup with water, he planted the roses down as neatly as he could. The flowers sat in the mug awkwardly, all splayed out with the stems way too long for your liking. But somehow, it still managed to be nothing short of perfect. "Cute, a little weird," you shrugged, a smile teasing your mouth, "but cute."

Steve chuckled lowly, situating himself between your legs once you sat on the surface of the tile countertop. "That's funny."

"What is?"

"I said the same about you when I first met you," he laughed, unable to contain his smile before getting the joke out. The face you made didn't help. "Shut up, Harrington," you jab at his shoulder softly, cracking a smile of your own.

Though there was a newfound romance, the typical banter that was mutually exchanged wasn't going anywhere. You were glad that nothing changed between you when you started dating.

Toying with the drawstrings on Steve's Gap hoodie, you began zoning out, the thought of going to bed while cuddled up with your boyfriend, sounding all too alluring. Looking up at him, he was already intently staring at you with painfully adoring eyes and you couldn't help but melt under his heated gaze. "Hi," you muttered, shyness clouding you.

"Hi, sunshine," he smiled, adjusting the collar of your robe with careful fingers. "I'm sorry your day sucked."

"It doesn't, anymore," you replied, sincerely. Steve's eyes lit up at that. It wasn't a secret to anyone that his presence alone seemed to be the antidote for some of your worst days. You'd even admitted it yourself, once or twice. But it never failed to ignite the nerves in Steve's body with fervor.

Although you were completely honest that your mood had gone up about ten octaves since he'd been there, Steve didn't want to just be there. He wanted to do more. It was what you deserved.

"You up for a little adventure?"

"Depends," you squinted. "What kinda adventure are we talking about?" He shifted his weight onto his other leg as his eyes veered off to the ceiling, thinking.

Steve happened to have a few tricks up his sleeve.

"There's somewhere I wanna take you," he drummed a rhythmless beat on your thigh with his fingers. The sneaky expression on Steve's face told you everything you needed to know. He was up to no good. As much as you wanted to go on a late night escapade with your boyfriend, you had to be somewhat, even a little, responsible.

"Steve, it's late and we both have work in the morning," you huffed, losing your grip on the strings you'd been distracting yourself with.

Steve playfully rolled his eyes, flinging his body out of your clutches dramatically. He was going to get you to cave. Whether you already knew it or not. "Alright, grandma, I promise to have you back home at a reasonable hour. Deal?"

The internal battle on whether you should stay or go was evident in your features, though, realistically you had already come to the conclusion that you'd humor him. The "grandma" bit is what really did it for you.

"This is a dumb idea."

"I'll be waiting by the car," he smiled an accomplished smile before leaving the kitchen. Letting out another sharp exhale, you hauled your body off the counter and headed towards your bedroom, discerning that a robe probably wasn't the dress code for wherever it was Steve was taking you.

Concealing your underlying tank top with a hoodie almost similar to Steve's, you threw on some sneakers before snuffing out the diminishing candle. Giving your appearance a once-over in the mirror, you wondered what you'd just gotten yourself into. Though any time with Steve was time well spent, you couldn't help but to look at your bed longingly as you shut off the lights to your apartment, meeting Steve outside.

He stood by the passenger side of the car, fiddling with a loose thread by the end of his sleeve. The fall season brought a night frigid breeze that blew his hair over his eyes like a curtain, making him pout. You hugged your body as you neared him, brushing his brown tresses from his face, though the wind reversed your efforts in no time.

He pressed a kiss to your palm as he became a puddle under your touch, appreciating the way your toasty hand felt against his icy skin. Steve took his own turn rubbing at your arms when he saw you visibly shiver, teeth nearly chattering. "You wanna tell me where we're goin'?" Misty clouds left short-lived trails in the air between the two of you when you spoke.

"Now where's the fun in spoiling the surprise now?" He opened the car door to punctuate his sentence, gesturing you inside. You could only rebut with a roll of your eyes as you entered, though you and Steve both knew you were loving every bit of this. It warmed your heart knowing he was so keen on saving your day from the horror it started it out to be.

Digging through the glove compartment, you sifted through old receipts and other rubbish that really needed to be thrown away, searching for the mixtape you and Steve made for little times like these. Moments that may now seem small, but would soon become memories that you'd cherish for years to come. It served as a little time capsule; hearing the songs you two carefully picked, easily transporting you to these times even when you'd become gray and old.

As Steve began driving off, your fingers found the sneaky cassette that was scribbled with yours and Steve's initials along with doodles of suns, to represent you, and poorly drawn anchors in honor of Steve's Scoop Ahoy era, to represent him.

Regardless of Steve's slight disdain for that period of time, it was one of your favorites and obviously that was due to the fact that the uniform he wore, showed off his legs in the best way possible. It was the perfect eye candy that summer.

The low sound of Bob Marley singing Could You Be Loved floated through the quietness of the car, easing away any tension within you that might've still been trapped. You admired the way the town was so still. The time was hardly 11 p.m., yet there wasn't a soul to be seen; only lonely litter that drifted through the breeze, aimlessly. It was a stark difference from just a few hours ago when you had to dodge shoulders as you cut through the crowded streets on your way home.

The sky was dark and empty apart from the glowing crescent moon that seemed to be chasing you as you drove. It was the only light source you had aside from the street lights that lined the sidewalks. You started counting them and even got to as far as nineteen, but soon lost count once Steve picked up his speed a bit.

Your eyelids threatened to close as the calming drive coupled with the music, fought to lull you to sleep. But instead, bright neon lights stung your sensitive eyes that grew accustomed to the darkness. Squinting, you read the colorful sign labeled "Darling's Diner", and nostalgia strikes you. It had been years. Too many years since you and Steve had been here last.

"Holy shit," you glimmered, hurriedly unbuckling your seatbelt. Steve's hand that found comfort on your thigh during the ride gave it a squeeze before he put the car in park, rushing over to open your car door. He took your hand in his, adoring the way your stunned face gleamed under the glow of the pink and blue neon bulbs. "Surprise," he cheered in a low tone, lightly bumping his shoulder against yours.

The smile you had burned your cheeks but the elation you felt made it all too easy to ignore. The feeling you got whenever you came to Darling's was something indescribable. There were countless fond memories attached to this place and it left you all soft and gooey inside to know that Steve planned on making more with you here. Instinctively, you practically dragged Steve behind you as you rushed inside, the homey scent of burgers, fries, and shakes wafting to your nose.

The floors were still the black and white checkered tiles you remembered them to be; stained with drops of grease and sprinkled with deserted fries. Walls were not much neater, though they were messy with posters and vinyl records instead.

"Want the usual?" Your nod was immediate and shortly after, Steve approached the busy woman impatiently pressing buttons on the register. Wisps of hair fell out of her ponytail and clung onto the film of sweat developing across her forehead. She visibly shrunk into herself as she heard the bell above the door ring, signaling new customers. It was a much busier night than usual.

Regardless of the surge of patrons, the booth you and Steve usually sat in once upon a time, wasn't occupied. The wears and tears corroding the red leather almost served as a name tag, assigning the seat for you two. It was impossible to forget the days Steve came here with you after school, carelessly doing homework while listening to whatever song played on the jukebox.

The table was tidy apart from laminated menus and coloring sheets scattered across the surface. You smirked thinking of the times you and Steve swore you could be the next Picassos, the way you took those things so seriously. As if they'd be hung in museums, you did your best to color them, but not without the added challenge of switching papers with Steve every few minutes. A fun little game you played.

Colored pencils sat by the condiments and you made yourself busy adding hue to the Back to the Future poster, sliding Steve a sheet with some random sports car you didn't know the name of, when he made his way over. He traded you with a cup of hot cocoa with jumbo marshmallows that threatened to abandon ship. "Thanks, Stevie."

"Anytime," he smiled, biting at the cherry that was kissed with a touch of the whipped cream that sat atop of his strawberry milkshake. His long legs brushed against yours as he sat next to you, knees finding mutual rest against each other.

A waitress on pink roller skates offered a kind smile as she brought over a basket of fries that Steve and you snacked on while you chatted and giggled, coloring your own and each other's papers as time seemingly flew by.

"How long has it been since we've last been here?"

"I couldn't tell you. Anything before senior year is such a blur," you responded, adding finishing touches to Steve's car before taking the last sip of your now barely hot, hot chocolate. "I'm just sad we stopped coming here."

"Me too," he swung an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in for an apologetic kiss to your temple. "But I promise to bring you a little more often. It was our spot when we were kids and it'll be our spot now."

You looked at him with bright eyes while hugging his torso, despite the awkward position. Trying to understand what you did to deserve someone like Steve was a dead mission, as you could never fully wrap your head around it. How does one try to understand why they've gotten so lucky?

He kissed away the marshmallow mustache idling on your upper lip before tapping your leg twice, "C'mon, we've got one more stop to make."

The spot he sat in was quickly losing its fever as he stood, holding a hand out for you to take, but you just stared at him with a face that was an odd marriage of scolding and amusement. "Steve," you warned.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you can yell at me about it later. But I promise you'll love it." Waving his hand to urge yours into his, you accepted it with little hesitation at his grin. You wished the woman at the front a good night as you left the bistro, while Steve dropped a tip in the jar next to her.

He didn't let your hand go until you were sat in the passenger seat, subsequently getting behind the steering wheel, inserting the key in the ignition. You could tell Steve was tired too, the way he full-body stretched as he yawned, rubbing at his eyes that were getting a bit red from fatigue. He wanted to go to bed and cuddle and forget about the world just as much as you did. So why were you still out there?

"What's all this for, Harrington?"

He answered your question with another one of his own, "What's all of what for?"

"Tonight. Everything. The flowers, the diner, and now something else. I'm really grateful for it, don't get me wrong," you warmed his hand when you held it, "but why so much?"

Steve shrugged, averting his gaze to the gear shift sitting between you two. He softly rubbed at your knuckles while he gathered his thoughts.

"Well, you told me that you had a shit day. Just wanted to change that. I like when you're happy."

Your throat felt like it was closing in on itself and your chest stung when tears pricked at your eyes. Steve looked back at you affectionately, the voice of his eyes telling you just how much he cared for you. It made your heart so full. It was too much to handle sometimes.

"I like when you're happy too, Stevie," you beamed, blinking away the pool by your bottom eyelashes. Cupping his cheek, you pushed your plump lips against his that were a little chapped, though you didn't seem to mind at all. Reluctantly, you pull away and Steve doesn't think it was nearly long enough as he sneaks in a few extra pecks.

The drive to wherever on Earth it was that Steve was taking you, was much different compared to the one prior. It almost didn't look like Hawkins. For the past couple miles, Steve's burgundy BMW had been the only car on the road. The trees were taller, a darker green and stronger in numbers than the ones you were used to. The street lamps were less abundant and dimmer than usual, and the animal crossing signs told you that you were more than just a little ways from home.

You had almost said something until Steve pulled off to the side, parking the car on an empty hill just off the road that overlooked Hawkins and the neighboring city. It looked so small from here. Steve smirked at the puzzled expression you threw his way as you removed your seatbelt.

"Before you ask, just come outside. There's something I wanna show you."

You didn't bother waiting for Steve to open the door for you, as you stepped out, attempting to conjure up what he could possibly be wanting to show you out here. There was nothing to be seen but dirt and fallen leaves and branches. "What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Look up," he responded, leaning against the hood of the car.

Your furrowed eyebrows relaxed as a gasp fell from your lips at the sight of the cloudless sky, lighting up with numerous twinkling stars, an image you could only dream of seeing for yourself since you were a little girl. The mighty city that sat so close to Hawkins fostered light pollution that made it nearly impossible to see the stars at night. If you were lucky, you were only able to make out about one or two, though you weren't sure if they had been stars or planets, instead. Either way, it ignited your soul to be able to see such a bright and beautiful piece of the universe, making you feel so small in the best way possible.

That didn't nearly amount to this very moment though, where there were more stars that you could count, sitting so prettily in the midnight sky.

Mouth still agape, you utter, "Steve, it's beautiful," and other than that, you were rendered speechless. You couldn't dare to tear your eyes from it, worried that if you did, it would all disappear, proving to be a mere hallucination from your tiredness. Steve adored the way you stared at the heavens, noticing the way it was the same way you looked at him. All he could see was a clear reflection of the stars in your eyes, and it perfectly spoke to the way he felt about you.

He saw everything when he looked at you. The sun, the moon, the stars, the universe, even the galaxy. His past, his present, his future. All of it. To him, you encompassed everything beautiful and divine. He was convinced you were too good for this planet. Too extraordinary. How did he get so lucky?

"Look," you pointed at two stars that sat close to one another, shining impossibly brighter than the others, "do you think that's us in another universe?"

Steve smiled at your question, cherishing how whimsical you could be sometimes. Your voice was soft and full of wonder and he couldn't be more content in this moment. "Yeah," he nodded at you, "I'm yours in every universe, sunshine." He kissed the back of your hand, holding your intertwined hands against his chest.

"Y'know I was thinking to myself the other day about how weird relationships are," he stated, looking down at his feet. You peeled your eyes away from the sky, gazing at your boyfriend for the first time since you stepped out of the car. "Weird, how?"

"I don't know, like how you randomly meet someone and get to know them really well and one day just decide, 'I like this human. I'm gonna spend all my time with them and take care of them.' Maybe weird isn't the word, but it's definitely interesting," he rambled, talking with his hands, even the one that was still laced through yours.

You nodded along, understanding where he was coming from. It was something you'd thought about yourself. He continued, "Like, I look at us and how far we've come and it scares me a little 'cause I see how my parents are now. They were best friends before they got married and now I can count on only one hand the amount of times I've seen them hug or kiss. Freaks me out."

This was one of the few times Steve spilled what was weighing on his mind. You could always tell when something bothered him and though he'd give you bits and pieces when you asked what was wrong, it was never anything as nuanced as this. It made you proud to see him develop so much.

"We're not them, Steve. It's like you said, I'm yours in every universe. Maybe they aren't each others every universe," you sighed, "We won't end up like them, I promise"

You always knew how to reassure him. It was one of the things Steve loved so much about you; your way with words. Nothing sort of a poet, he thought. He engulfed your face with his palms, kissing you with every ounce of passion he had.

Lowly in the background, you could hear the song Just the Two of Us by Grover Washington, as the mixtape was still playing in his car. "It's our song," you smiled against his lips when you pulled away. You took his hands from your face, grasping them when you asked him, "Dance with me?"

He nodded, holding your body against his as your head fell against his chest, looking down at the sleeping town that felt so far away. You swayed back and forth, finding comfort in the near silence, listening to the rhythmic beating of Steve's heart. "Thank you for this, Steve," you whispered. "I'm lucky to be yours."

"Even if you weren't, I'd still do it for you," he admitted, running hand across your back, tenderly.

The little sentence made you think. Steve has been in your life for well over a decade now and he never failed to be there for you even when you didn't know how to ask for it. He was the one who took care of you whenever you found it a little difficult to take care of yourself. The one who never dared to leave your side.

You and Steve were in love even before you were. You'd been celestial even before this.

"I love you, sunshine," he murmured, head resting on top of yours.

"I love you back, Stevie."

💌 1 new message from jojo: pls pls pls comment/reblog (or both teehee) if you enjoyed, it means a lot! inbox is open!

[shadowdarlings]

Rain & Redemption II

Tamlin x Reader

Synopsis : The Lord of Spring has returned, with his nightingale in tow. While readapting to civilized life you and Tamlin face reality together.

part one

Pairings : TamlinxReader

a/n : so i am really digging the first part of this story and decided that i want to continue writing at 12:07am so i hope you enjoy this as much as i did <3

Warnings : slight angst (with comfort), mentions of trauma, suggestiveness, as always possessive tamlin (in a good way)

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Dinner with Tamlin was a drawn out affair. The deer he hunted down, no doubt in his beast form, had to be prepped and cooked. While he began dressing the fallen creature you took it upon yourself to begin sifting through the discarded and destroyed artifacts that littered the dining area. Although the manor had been shredded and abandoned, you couldn’t help but marvel at its refreshing beauty. Here there was light. Massive glass windows looked out to a rose garden that was surely once well manicured. The sun had already started its descent past the horizon but light still streamed in from every corner. The manor was everything that your home under that gods forsaken mountain wasn’t. The Hewn City was all darkness and stale air. You began sorting things into two piles. Items that were fairly unharmed were deemed “to keep”, others that had been completely torn apart were tossed into a discard pile. The two of you worked diligently in silence until he looked up from the deer and said, “You never told me your name.” You tore your gaze from the chipped vase in your hands and met his stare. “You never asked,” you began with a playful smugness, “but it’s Y/N.” Something unreadable flickered in his green eyes before a slight smirk cracked on his face. “Well, Y/N,” he said with a dramatic pause, “our dinner is ready to be cooked. How do you like your venison?”

You both agreed that without a working kitchen that a fire would be the best way to roast the deer. While he built a fire you toyed with an idea. “What if we preserved some of this beautiful bounty into something that will last beyond a night?” you asked him. Tamlin threw another piece of wood onto the makeshift fire and answered your question with his own. “As in a jerky? How do you mean?” That was exactly what you had meant. The future of your time in this manor and when you would next have a full meal was entirely uncertain. The topic had hardly been broached. “Unless you intend to spend the rest of your days hunting and building fires, it might be a prudent idea.” He looked you over before replying, “Smart, little bird. We’ll make two steaks for tonight and dry out the rest. It should preserve overnight and we can feast on jerky for weeks.” Satisfied with your quick thinking you helped him prepare the meat for roasting.

“What did you mean when you said you are not fit to be a ruler?” you asked after another bout of silence. Tamlin stilled his spinning of your dinner over the fire and his gaze shot to the flames between you. “I’m sorry,” you quickly said, “If I’m prying too much.” He did not look up from the inferno but said quietly, “I have abandoned my people and my post. Those who reside in the Spring Court put their faith in me. I have failed them again and again, in so many ways.” You blinked once at his brutal honesty before prodding further. “Will they not look to you once more? Surely there is a way to regain their trust.” His eyes moved from the fire to your own. They were filled with such sadness, such regret. “I would not know where to start, little nightingale.” You scoffed lightly as his response. “Well,” you began, “I think leaving those woods and coming home is already a start, wouldn’t you say? If you’re willing to return just to ensure the safety of a lone Night Court citizen, I can’t imagine what you might be willing to do for your people.” The sadness in his eyes faded ever so slightly as he said, “Since you’re so full of wisdom tonight, pray tell how might I continue this path of redemption?” You smiled at that.

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Tamlin was restless. Every time he started to fade away, sleep evaded him and he was jolted awake by poisoned memories. He had declared that he wanted to sleep outside the manor to stay alert for any looters or more dangerous creatures. He’d shifted into his beast form and taken post directly in front of the entrance just as night had overtaken the Spring Court. Truly, he was not sure if he was ready to sleep under this roof again. The two of you had talked for hours, discussing your histories and what the future of the Spring Court might look like. He’d escorted you to your room and bid you a gentlemanly goodnight, but your conversation replayed in his mind endlessly. A loose plan had been set in place to begin repairing his relations with those that depended on him. You had been so eager and determined while you both brainstormed ideas for making amends. He admired your tenacity yet was not fully convinced that this plan would work effectively. The thought made him queasy. His heart began a pace that tightened his chest and he was sure that if he’d been in his fae form that his palms would be sweaty. Tamlin shoved his anxieties down and recalled what you had told him about Rhysand, about how he’d condemned the entire Hewn City to a life of cruelty and rot. Although the idea of tomorrow sent him into an unending panic, he did not wish for you or any of his people to endure the same neglect for another moment.

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The morning light creeped in through the open window in your bedroom. It took a moment to recall everything that had happened, where you now were. The bedding had been dusty but a few shakes had it cleaner than before. You didn’t mind dirt, you’d spent a year lying on the forest floor. Waking up in a soft bed had become unfamiliar, but you relished the softness of the pillows and blankets before sitting to stretch your limbs. Moving to the armoire, you sifted through the clothing to find a pale green dress and a set of cream slippers. The outfit was plain but you didn’t particularly mind. Your mission for today did not require glittering attire. You fixed your hair into a loose braid and pulled two strands from the front to frame your face. After giving yourself a once over in the looking glass you deemed your appearance fit for the task at hand.

Tamlin was already dressed in a tunic and pants that were similar in style to the night before. You only gave yourself a moment to admire his wide shoulders before clearing your throat. He turned from his work on the piles you had created the night before and said “Good morning,” before he faltered. His eyes widened slightly and dragged up and down your figure. Meeting your gaze once more he choked out, “Well don’t we look the picture of Spring today?” You rolled your eyes at him and moved to take the picture frame from his hands. “We have a job to do, remember?” Tamlin huffed out a weak laugh before replying, “How could I ever forget?” He looked tired. You wondered if he slept as marvelously as you did. Considering that he spent the night on a set of marble stones you didn’t know how he possibly could.

The two of you moved outside to where the deer had been smoking overnight. Indeed it had preserved itself into a jerky that would remain edible for weeks. He started packing the strips into the wooden bin you had found in the kitchens when you said, “I have another idea.” He did not pause his movement or even look at you as he said, “Of course you do.” You pulled a basket from behind your back and waved it in front of his face to draw his attention. “I was thinking,” you began, “we should gather some flowers to take as well. These gardens are completely overrun. There are flowers and berries that need culling anyhow.” He straightened and assessed the gardens before the manor. “As you wish,” was all he said. Tamlin had been quieter than he was last night. You thought it best not to pry further and with his permission granted made your way into the thick of the garden and began collecting the fruits of spring.

When your basket was full and Tamlin had stored all of the dried meat you both began your trek to the nearest village. On horseback, he had told you, it would only take a half hour to reach your destination. After the fall of Spring his array of horses had all been stolen or set free by anonymous citizens. After two hours of walking the two of you were tired and parched. A nearby stream trickled with fresh water and you both drank deeply from its supply. “It’s just over that hill,” he said. The hike had been mostly silent. You were learning to enjoy quiet moments with the High Lord. It was almost as if you had a mutual understanding that the silence was not rude, but instead a peaceful reprieve. “No turning back now,” you said, standing from the stream and straightening your lightweight gown. He grunted in acknowledgment as you both continued your parade to the village.

The sight of the meager town was heartbreaking. Several houses and shops had fallen into rubble and the village center had looked as equally abandoned as the manor. Tamlin halted immediately, his breath quickening. Sensing his discomfort you moved to lace your fingers between his, squeezing tightly. The High Lord did not balk from your touch but instead gave a light squeeze back and continued his approach. The two of you reached a small home that had a plume of smoke rising from a stone chimney. A sign of life. Unlocking your hands you raised a fist and gave two sharp knocks to the wooden door. A few moments of shuffling and then the door swung open to reveal a gruff looking fae male. His eyes first landed on you, then travelled upwards to the towering Lord behind you. The male’s eyes widened with shock and reproach. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” he spat at you both. You calmed the annoyance that flowed through you and made your voice gentle as you said, “I- We come to offer a favor to you and your home.” The male looked down at your basket and the dried jerky Tamlin held in his hand. “We don’t need your charity,” the male responded, “we’ve been fairing well enough on our own, girl.” A sweet voice sounded from further into the house, “Mikah? Who is it?” A pretty looking female stepped into the light of the entrance and put her hand on Mikah’s arm. When she turned her gaze to the two of you her expression almost mirrored the males’. “Our High Lord and his… this girl have brought favors.” She looked down to the goods you had presented and back to Mikah. “I told them we were just fine,” he said with a hint of finality in his tone. The female scoffed at him and observed the two of you once more. “We are most certainly not,” she started. “Invite him and the girl inside.” With that she turned and strode back into the house. Mikah gave Tamlin an incredulous look but opened the door further for you to enter.

The female’s name was Cera, you had learned. She fussed over dishes and refreshments as she lamented about their struggles. The village had been ripe for naga attacks and most residents had decided to evacuate the area for fear of their families. “Mikah did not want to leave, of course. He spends most of his days hunting, although they are not always fruitful.” You and Tamlin listened carefully to her story. There were only a few families that had stayed after his disappearance. They all struggled. You glanced over at Tamlin and were met with a stern face. His jaw was set and his eyes were dark with despair. Underneath the modest wooden table you grasped his hand once more, turning your attention back to Cera. The four of you spoke for several hours. You and Tamlin expressed your willingness to help in any way you could with the naga and the rebuilding of the village. After exchanging the dried meats and gifts from your basket, the two of you made your way back to the front of their house. “Thank you for having us,” you said “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” Cera reached out to pick up your hands. She looked at you then at Tamlin, her eyes pricked with tears. “Thank you for coming back. We need you,” she said. He nodded his head towards her and straightened as he said, “I could not have done it alone. It will take all of us to rebuild. I am thankful for your time.”

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Tamlin let out a heavy sigh when the two of you began your walk back to the manor. The day had been filled with conversations like the first he’d had with Mikah and Cera. The two of you had made your way to most of the families remaining in the village and presented your gifts as well as your pledges to restore their homes and lives. He was exhausted. Once the two of you had crested the hill overlooking the town he paused. You looked at him in curiosity. He was overwhelmed with emotions… gratitude, despair, grief, hopefulness, apprehension. Without thinking he grabbed your waist and pulled you close against his chest. He could hear your smooth, calming heartbeat. He breathed in your scent and closed his eyes. Only two days ago he had been more beast than man. Now he was walking on two legs and meeting with the people who had once trusted him. He felt your hands wrap around his middle as you nuzzled into him further. He could have stayed like this forever, but you pulled back looking up at him with those bright gorgeous eyes. “You did well today,” you said to him still in his grasp, “I’m proud of you.” Tamlin hadn’t heard such perfect words in a very long time.

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