#except for the deep blue and night wind part

[reedilla]

"But oh, it was clear why it was called the Sky Room. The walls and ceilings were painted in a blushing pink in one corner, a deep blue in the other, and between them the colors commingled and brightened into clouds, stars, whirls of night wind"

Grayson Daly, The Untimely Undeath of Imogen Madrigal

Marble House, Newport, RI

[queers-gambit]

The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread > > > next part, part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

> > > next part, part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

[ozai-the-bonsai]

Like Lovers Do

| Part 1 | Part 2 |

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: You and Daemon would dream about marrying each other before both of you became victims of political marriages, very much against your wills: he was sent to the Vale and you to the Riverlands. However, when your lord husband passes away, you return to King’s Landing, only to find out that your childhood sweetheart is now wearing a crown of his own.

A/N: Once again, I wrote too much - this is a long chapter (4.3k)! And full of smut and hot daddy Daemon... And thus concludes this mini-story (which was supposed to be a one-shot but anyways)... Hope you enjoy it! Again, you can always send me Daemon x reader requests!

Warnings: I am not a native English speaker, strong language, smut, strong smut (basically the whole chapter is a big bad smut)

Taglist: @throughgoeshamilton @mirandastuckinthe80s @xicesam @mariamyousef702 @eddiemadmunson @dont-try-pesticide @sweetybuzz25 @hc-geralt-23 @schniiipsel @ttae-yong @syrma-sensei @asiludida164 @kaitieskidmore1 @irmavanity-blog @pax-2735 @trickrtreatart @shanzeyxsyed @random-human02 @scarwicht @xcallmetaniax @instabull @niiight-dreamerrrr @my-dark-prince @stargaryenx @abaker74 @babywolff @sonnensplitter @bi-narystars @softtina @sadmonke @avalyaaa

Your feelings about dining with Daemon were complicated.

On the one side, your heart yearned to spend time with him, rekindle the bond you once shared with him and perhaps find solace in his embrace once again. However, the other part of you seethed with anger, unwilling to forgive him for disappearing from your life.

Oh, and not to mention that he was still married to Lady Rhea Royce, even though one could scarcely call it a marriage.

"I shall regret this night," you muttered to yourself as your handmaid (you had offered to bring her to King's Landing with you when you left the Riverlands) assisted you in getting ready for the evening.

In these thirty years of life, regrets have been my constant companions; what is one more to add to the tally?

"The Prince has undoubtedly ensured a feast fit for royalty, my Lady," Elyse told you while fastening the laces of your crimson dress, fashioned from the finest sateen.

You chuckled softly at the fact of how naive she was. "Oh, sweet Elyse, the dinner itself is the least of my worries." You spoke with a soft voice, only to earn a confused look from Elyse. "Don't you remember when I told you that the Prince and I go way back?"

"Oh, right - you grew up together, didn't you?" She asked, earning a nod from you. After finishing adjusting your dress, Elyse stepped away, taking a good look at you. "You are going to sweep the Prince off of his feet with your beauty, my Lady."

A soft smile formed on your lips. "You have done a wonderful job, Elyse, as always." You told her, causing Elyse's blue eyes to shine. "You may take your leave for today, darling - the hour will probably be quite late when I retire tonight."

After Elyse left you alone in your chambers, you took a deep breath and stood in front of the mirror for a while, lost in that vast ocean of thoughts circling your mind like crazy. You realised that you were scared to get the answers to those questions that had plagued your nights ever since you had left King's Landing.

Nevertheless, you deserved to know why - why he hadn't done anything to fight for you and why he had simply disappeared into the ghosts of your past.

Slowly, your feet took you to Prince Daemon's chambers. The corridors of the Red Keep were cold, the wind inside was giving you goosebumps. The white-cloak keeping watch in front of Daemon's chambers nodded at you upon seeing you and slightly opened the door to inform Daemon about your presence. A few seconds later, you were standing inside, your back facing the closed doors, a large dining table in front of you.

Daemon stood up from his seat and walked towards you, he was all in black except for the red linings on the sleeves of his black tunic. You couldn't help yourself but admire how unearthly he looked - the contrast between his silver hair, pale skin and black clothing added another layer of charm to his beauty.

He was ageing like Dornish wine.

For the third time that same day, the Prince brought your hand to his lips. "You are a feast for the eyes, my Lady."

You felt heat rushing to your face. Truth be told, you couldn't recall the last time you were showered with this many compliments in mere hours. "You flatter me, my Prince."

Daemon pointed at the table with his head. "Shall we?" He asked, earning a nod from you. You sat at the opposite ends of the giant table, which was adorned with all kinds of food: from roast duck to lemon cakes and the finest of wines...

"You remembered," you said, you didn't expect Daemon to remember how much you loved the taste of roast duck.

The Prince chuckled softly as he slowly filled his plate. "It pains me to hear your disbelief in me, love."

You raised a challenging eyebrow at him while you reached for the wine. "Forgive me for not expecting you to remember small details about me, my Prince," you spoke with a sarcastic tone, "I believed you had forgotten that I existed."

Daemon licked his lower lip, you could see that he kind of enjoyed you biting him back at every chance you got; however, you knew very well that you had to thread carefully with his patience. "You would be surprised at how much I still remember, love," Daemon spoke with a deep voice before taking a sip from his wine. "Are you planning on staying in King's Landing?"

You hated the way he changed the subject whenever he felt himself cornered.

"As long as my father holds his position as the Master of Coins, yes, I shall remain in King's Landing." You responded while taking a piece of the roast duck into your mouth. "Mmh, Daemon, this is exquisite!"

A small laughter left the Prince's lips, causing your heart to skip a beat.

"I gather roast duck is not one of the Riverlands' specialities," he muttered. "Are you planning on remarrying?" He asked, he seemed genuinely curious. Since your mouth was full, you shook your head in a short response as you swallowed your food. "A woman such as yourself does surely miss the marriage bed."

Upon hearing his last remark, you let out a loud laughter unfitting of a lady of your station; however, you didn't feel the need to force yourself to follow all those formalities when you were with Daemon - you never did.

The Prince was apparently having difficulty understanding what you found so amusing in his words.

"Miss the marriage bed?" You repeated Daemon's words. "Oh, Daemon, the day I miss my marriage bed, will be the day I ask you to burn me alive with Caraxes."

The Prince clicked his tongue. "Naive of you to think I would allow you to give voice to such absurdity, love."

Once again, you raised an eyebrow. "Absurdity, is it now?" You shook your head in disbelief as you brought your cup to your lips. "You have no idea what absurdity is, my Prince." After drinking all the remaining wine in your glass at once, you placed the cup back onto the table, your eyes finding Daemon's questioning ones. "When the lady wife of a wealthy lord becomes nothing more than a highborn whore, that is an absurdity."

"I believe your words need more elaborating, my Lady." Daemon spoke, his purple eyes moving slowly from your eyes to your lips and to your cleavage, only to return to your eyes once more. You felt warmness spreading through your body, his intense gaze was enough to make you feel dizzy.

Taking a deep breath, you fixed your gaze on the sky visible through the window, which was becoming darker by the minute. "I have told you earlier that my late husband was not able to father any children," you said, you could see from the corner of your eye that Daemon nodded at your words. "When he realised he needn't have taken me wife, he stopped seeing me except to bed me."

Slowly, you turned back to Daemon - there was something else inside his deep, purple eyes that resembled... fury?

"I became one of his whores," you spat out the words as if they were venom. "But I was the noble, wealthy, lady whore whom he could exclusively have for himself." As you spoke, the feelings of anger and disgust you had been trying so hard to suppress suddenly surfaced, making you lose control. "My only duty for the last decade was to let myself get fucked by a fat, old man over and over again! I couldn't even mother any children so that this fucked up fate of mine would be worth it all..."

You saw Daemon clenching his fists and chin in anger but you couldn't understand the subject of his fury - above all, he was the one who had done absolutely nothing to avoid both of your damned fates.

"Why, Daemon?" You asked as you pushed your seat back loudly. "Why didn't you do anything for us? Why did you leave me alone to drown in my nightmares?!"

Your voice was getting louder.

The Prince responded with an indifferent voice, absent from any kind of emotion, which only embittered you. "We were both married to different people, our destinies took us to separate places," he responded, causing your eyes to widen with shock. "It wouldn't have changed anything."

"Is this your excuse for leaving all the messages I have sent unreturned?" You asked with a disappointed tone as you started pacing up and down in his chambers. "You... You are unbelievable, Daemon!"

"Thread carefully," the Prince spoke with a warning tone.

However, at that moment, you couldn't have cared less - you wanted to trample on Daemon's damn boundaries until they were nothing but meaningless lines.

"You could have said something, done something - anything! But instead, you stood by as we were both shipped off - and to what end? You haven't spent a single night with your wife in years!" You shook your head in disbelief as you stopped walking to take a look at Daemon, who looked like an angry dragon that was about to throw fire any moment now.

"You didn't even say goodbye to me."

Then, everything happened all of a sudden.

Daemon roared in fury as he threw his plate (and multiple other plates) off the table, which ended up loudly crashing the nearby wall and falling down onto the floor, causing you to slightly jump in your place. The next thing you knew, Daemon was standing right in front of you, his right hand holding you by your chin with a firm grip, his fingers digging into the flesh of your skin.

"Because it hurt," the words left his lips silently but the power they held was immense. "I didn't bid you farewell, I didn't return to any of your ravens because thinking about you hurt me. So. Fucking. Much."

When he finally let you go, you were able to speak, though your voice sounded weak. "Then why?" you asked. "Why didn't you do anything?"

The Prince let out a scoff. "Because I am the prince, you believe I can do anything, change anything but it is not as simple as that, my Lady." As he spoke, you realised how close he was standing to you and how his figure towered over yours. You could still feel the fury circling him but he was trying to calm himself down. "There were arrangements done far beyond my reach, my station and yet you still dare blame me!"

You raised your hands in the air as you talked. "You talk as if you have tried to change the King's mind back then, my Prince." You spoke with a bitter tone, your index finger pressing against his chest as you hissed between your gritted teeth. "We both know that you did nothing of sorts - you decided it was better to bury your sorrows in some whores!"

Daemon aggressively grabbed you by your wrist, his hold was so firm it made you flinch as you felt the pain shooting through your body. "What would you have had me do?" Daemon's strong voice thundered in his chambers, causing you to flinch another time. "Take you to Dragonstone and make you my wife? Defy the King's will?"

There was a small silence for a brief moment, you could hear Daemon taking deep breaths as he waited for an answer. However, the single word leaving your lips was obviously not the answer he was waiting for.

"Yes."

It was hard to decipher the dark look in Daemon's eyes - it carried hints of anger and fury but also lust and yearning.

As the Prince slowly let your wrist go, you placed both your hands against his chest, his warm breath licking your forehead as you looked up. "Even now, I would have you take me to Dragonstone on dragonback," your voice was seductive, not caring to hide the desires spilling out with every word. "And marry me in the tradition of your House."

Daemon's breaths were getting deeper by the second, he raised his right hand to caress your face with the side of his finger as the other hand rested on your hip. "Such temptation," he spoke with a low tone while his fingers trailed down to your neck. His touch sent shivers down your spine, leaving you yearning for more. "And so eager to be mine, are you not, love?"

You wanted him to do unspeakable things to you.

At that moment, all you could think about was how it would feel to let him fuck you into oblivion - until you couldn't even remember your own name anymore.

"Please, Daemon," your voice was a mere whisper as the Prince leaned into you, his soft lips brushing your neck. "I have waited long enough."

His warm breath against the sensitive skin of your neck made you heave a sigh, which was followed by his lips leaving a small kiss. "For what?" He spoke against your neck. "Say it."

"For you to claim me as yours."

The next thing you knew - Daemon's lips rested against yours.

His lips were hungry, kissing you with so much passion as if he was trying to take away your next breath. Little did you notice that his hands were around your neck, holding your head to allow him to deepen the kiss.

You let out a small whine as Daemon slid his tongue into your mouth, claiming it as his, while pressing his body hard against yours. The heat that took over your body was insane - you felt it getting hotter and hotter with his every touch, with each brush of his lips against yours.

"Daemon," you breathed out his name when he left your lips to kiss your neck while backing you back up until your back ended up touching the cold walls.

A moan left your lips when he sucked on the skin. "Mmh?"

"You have too many layers on."

The naughty smirk he carried - you could swear it alone could make you reach your high right then and there - as he took off his cloak and his tunic was something you wanted to carve into your mind, never to forget. Before he could throw away the clothing, your hands started stroking his bare chest, moving to his well-built arms.

He looked like a Valyrian God.

"So eager, now, are you not?" Daemon spoke against your lips, his tone husky. His hands were wandering around your body, hungrily, making you almost forget how to breathe. "Let me show you how it feels to be fucked befittingly, my Lady."

His fingers quickly found their way under the skirts of your crimson dress, trailing up to the source of heat in your body. Upon feeling how wet you already were, the cocky smirk took its place on Daemon's lips.

You let out a deep breath as Daemon slid two of his fingers inside you, his other hand was holding you firmly from your waist. "I have just started touching you, and yet," the moan escaping your lips echoed in the room when Daemon curled his fingers inside you, "you are fucking wet."

Well, you were not the only person in the room literally aching to fuck - Daemon's trousers were failing to hide his hardness.

"You are one to talk, my Pri..." Before you could finish your words, Daemon found that sweet spot in you, making you cry out in bliss. When his thumb also joined his little game, circling over your clit, your only solution for silencing your cries of pleasure was placing your left hand over your mouth.

However, when Daemon suddenly stopped both stimulations, you were left confused.

Slowly, the Prince removed your hand from over your mouth. "You are not to silence anything, love." He spoke as he began to move all his fingers once again. Your hold against his arms tightened.

Biting your lower lip, you spoke with a voice that sounded no more than a soft cry. "We might get heard..."

"I do not give a fuck." Daemon responded as he brought you nearer to the edge. He breathed out your name. "You are mine, and the whole Keep shall know this."

"Fuck," you let out another moan when Daemon fastened the movement of his thumb against your clit, the heat between your legs was getting hotter with each passing moment. "Daemon, if you don't stop," you were out of breath, unable to open your eyes. "I am going to..."

Before you could reach your bliss, Daemon stopped the magic he had been carrying out with just his fingers, leaving you feeling somewhat empty. As your eyes found his darkened ones, you knew that he was about to rip your dress away from your body.

So before he could tear the exquisite fabric of your dress, you took the advantage of getting rid of his trousers, freeing his erection from the fabric. The Prince inhaled deeply when your right hand wrapped around his length, slowly moving.

"I am going to tear that dress apart," Daemon breathed out huskily as you went down onto your knees.

"Or you can simply take it off, my Prince." You whispered, seduction dripping from your words, before letting your tongue swirl around the tip of his cock.

"Bullshit," the Prince spoke but he was interrupted by a small grunt escaping his lips. "Don't tease me, love."

You clicked your tongue. "But that is where the fun lies." You responded in a naughty manner and wrapped your mouth around his cock, slowly taking him in. Daemon let out a long, low moan when you started bobbing your head.

His hands quickly got tangled in your hair, pushing his length deeper down your throat, triggering your gagging reflex. Careful not to let your teeth touch anything, you quickly pulled back, receiving a questioning look from the Prince.

"You are too big, Daemon," you said while wiping away the saliva from the edges of your mouth. "I cannot take all of you in."

Still, your hand was moving up and down his length. Slowly, you cupped his balls with your other hand, causing the Prince to gasp, his hold on your hair tightening.

"We shall work on that, love," Daemon's voice was husky when he talked, his purple eyes seemed almost black, darkened with lust. "Perhaps if I fucked your mouth every night..."

You let out a moan when the Prince lightly pulled you up from your hair, it was to signal you to stand up but your reaction to him pulling your hair only made his cock throb more.

"Interesting," Daemon whispered against your lips as his hands impatiently undid the ties of your dress, letting it fall to your feet in mere seconds. "You enjoyed that, did you not?"

His hands held you from your ass as he pulled you against his chest, you could feel his naked hardness against your lower stomach. Biting your lower lip, you nodded slowly. As a response, one of Daemon's hands moved to the back of your neck and held you tight while pulling you into a deep kiss.

Well, it was more like clashing tongues and teeth. Your hands were restlessly wandering around his god-like body, never able to get enough - each touch seemed to fuel the fire burning inside you.

A loud moan left your lips when Daemon's hand pulled from your hair, less lightly this time.

The Prince chuckled against your lips. "You are a far dirty girl than I have imagined, love." Without giving you any time to react, he held you up, your legs wrapped themselves around his waist. "That old cunt never let you explore what you like, did he?"

As Daemon let you down onto the sateen sheets of his bed, you shook your head. "I need you to show me, Daemon."

Placing a cushion under your lower back to arrange the height, Daemon licked his lower lip, he was standing at the edge of the bed. "Oh, you need not worry, my Lady," his tip was toying with your entrance, causing your breath to become deeper. "Together, we shall try even the dirtiest, sickest things known to men."

His voice, his eyes, his touch... Everything about him drove you crazy.

When Daemon gently pushed himself into you, you both let out a deep breath as he gave you some time to adjust to his size. When you nodded at him, he quickly picked up a steady pace. Still, you weren't quite sure you were getting everything out of this position. Hence, you decided to place your legs against Daemon's shoulders instead of having them wrapped around his waist.

The next time the Prince thrust into you, a loud cry of bliss left your lips without you having any control over it.

"Fuck!" You cried out as Daemon thrust deeper with a smirk on his face. "Daemon, you are so..."

"I know," he grunted the words while leaning into you. "Tonight, you shall see the stars, my Lady."

To let you try something else, the Prince picked up his right hand from the bed to wrap it around your neck. His grip was not harsh, he just applied the right amount of pressure while thrusting deep into you.

You could swear your eyes tried to roll behind your head. Several moans wanted to escape your lips but they came out muffled.

The way you reacted only made Daemon harder, as if it was even possible.

He grunted your name against your neck as he let go of you, placing the hand on your breast to toy with your nipple. "You are making me crazy," his voice was low.

"You," you were out of breath, "are sending me to another dimension, Daemon."

The Prince sucked on your neck. "I am not done with you yet."

You sent him a confused look when he abruptly stopped and pulled out of you; however, you were not expecting the Prince to literally flip you onto your stomach.

"On your knees," he commanded with a husky voice, which somehow turned you on even more as you stood on the bed on all fours. After thrusting into you, Daemon spoke once again. "Rest on your upper body and lift up your ass."

You adjusted your position as he instructed you and as soon as he picked up the pace, your cries started filling the chambers. He was continuously hitting the sweet spot inside you that sent your head over the clouds.

"Daemon," you cried out his name, "I am getting close."

"Not yet," the Prince hissed the words as you screamed into the sheets of the bed, knowing very well the muffled sounds could still be heard from the outside.

When Daemon's hands got tangled in your hair, you felt anticipation quickly growing inside you. The moment he pulled your hair with enough strength to lift your head up from the bed, your cries of pleasure only got louder.

"Daemon!" You cried out, the Prince picked up the pace with each passing second, and the slapping of his body against yours echoed inside. "Oh, fuck! I am coming, Daemon, if you don't..."

Apparently, the Prince had decided to give you your orgasm. Instead of slowing down, he let your hair go to hold you firmly from your ass with both hands as he fucked you into oblivion.

At that moment, you simply felt like an animal.

The sateen sheets wrinkled in your palms as you reached your orgasm, your whole body shaking as you screamed out Daemon's name, your sight becoming blurry.

After what felt like hours, when you finally came down from your high, Daemon turned you onto your back with a swift movement, pulling out. Before you could comprehend what was happening - mostly because your mind was still in that post-orgasm fog - Daemon finished himself with two strokes of his hand.

His warm seed landed on your stomach, on your breasts and on your face as the Rogue Prince grunted your name over and over and over again.

When Daemon let himself fall down next to you, you were finally coming back to reality. You slowly pushed yourself to sitting, not caring about the cum flowing down your cheek or your breasts.

Daemon chuckled softly. "You have no idea how dirty you look, love." His voice was low but one could still hear the remnants of your love-making.

With the idea creeping into your mind, a naughty smirk formed on your lips. "Perhaps the Prince would like me to take a hot bath," you spoke as you started playing with his silver hair. "So that he himself can join me as well."

His laugh was like a song to your ears. "I assume you could not get enough of me."

You shook your head. "I have waited more than a decade so that I could have a taste of you," the words left your lips in a bitter manner even though that was not the intention. "And that cock of yours is a forbidden blessing."

Daemon straightened as well, sitting next to you. "About that," he took your hands between his, his tone was so soft it resembled his sixteen-year-old self. "I intend to talk with my brother on the morrow."

Your eyes widened with shock as you asked with a shaky voice. "About... us?"

The Prince nodded while he left a small kiss on your forehead. "I shall take you to Dragonstone, on Caraxes, and make you my wife," he whispered. "Queen of the Narrow Sea."

[d3add0vedonoteat]

Chicken Soup for Carmy

⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️ harsh language, sexism and violence in one scene (not from Carmy). Hurt/comfort, fluff.

A/N: I’m literally feral for this man. I’m sick atm and I started thinking about taking care of Carmy while I was making chicken soup. Bonus combo with Carmy protecting you from an asshole customer. Not proofread bc my brain is rotting. Plz be nice this is my first time posting a fic 🥺

-

It was cold. You braced yourself against the harsh Chicago wind as you made your way briskly down the street. After a late night phone call from your brother sent you into a spiral, you couldn’t sleep. You’d been tossing and turning all night until finally, at 4am, you flung off the covers and got dressed. It wasn’t a surprise that you’d come here. This place consumed all your mind and your heart since you started working here a few months ago. You used your key to unlock the door in the alley, sighing with relief as the warmth of The Beef welcomed you inside. It was quiet, the lights were down, it was peaceful. You slipped off your sneakers trading in your kitchen clogs and tucked your things safely away in your locker. You tied your handkerchief on your head as you moved. It was so comforting, the routine of The Beef’s prep work. You felt so at home, moving from the prep area to the walk in, diligently beginning the tasks that didn’t need to be started for a few more hours. He would understand. You thought to yourself as you began to prepare fresh stock for the day. He was a man after your own heart, your boss, Carmen Berzatto.

Avoidant, chaotically emotional, one wrong thing away from a complete meltdown, that you both disguised as workaholic tendencies. As you finely chopped onions, your mind quieted. Everything was shut out except for the task at hand. Your brother’s angry voice on the phone accusing you: “you never come home! You don’t even care about us! You can’t take come take care of your own mother?!” was drowned out by the rhythmic pound of your knife on the cutting board. You were in the zone.

Until a voice startled you out of your bubble. “Chef?” You jolted, looking up at the man before you. Carmy’s hair was messier than usual, the bags under his eyes were deeper and more purple. His lips were parted with each soft breath he took. He gave you a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?”

“I uh-” your mouth felt dry and you tripped over your words, as usual when he set those intense blue eyes on you. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Carmy nodded, not pushing you any further. All he said before moving toward the office was a simple: “Heard, Chef.”

You watched him go, noticing the slump of his shoulders and the labor of his normally spry step. There was no mistaking it, Carmen was sick. You stared at the office door for a long moment before you made up your mind.

You set a heavy bottomed pot on the stove with some olive oil. Your hands moved with well practiced efficiency as you chopped garlic and onions, celery and carrots. The garlic and onions went in first. Then the celery. A sprig of thyme and a dash of white wine. While that simmered you quickly seared some chicken breast and chopped it into perfectly bite sized pieces. All into the pot with chicken stock and water, tightly covered to develop the flavors. Next came the pasta. You cracked eggs into the well of flour, mixing and kneading until it became a smooth golden dough. You carefully, tenderly rolled the dough and cut it into thick, short noodles. A bath in hot water to cook, then they too joined the pot. In no time at all, you were ladling a generous portion into a bowl. You set a toasted piece of chibatta on the side, grabbed a spoon, and took a deep breath in an attempt to settle your nerves. Softly, you knocked on the office door.

“Yeah?” His voice responded.

“Chef?” You entered, nervous. Words failing you as they so often did in his presence, you set the bowl before him. Carmy’s eyes widened. The aroma made his mouth water. He looked to you, gaze softening. “You made me chicken soup?”

Your cheeks grew warm. “Y-yeah, I mean chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”

Carmy couldn’t believe you. You noticed? He smiled at you. You were so beautiful. You were always so confident and sure on the line, delegating with efficiency, respect, and authority. He had hired you the second you stepped into The Beef. Your resume was impressive but there was something in the way you carried yourself that truly earned the golden reputation you had in the culinary industry. But you were different with him, in the occasional moments like this where it was just you and him. Shy, almost bashful, gentle, and soft. He loved it. He wanted more of it. He lifted the spoon, bringing a bite to his lips.

“Gotta get a little of everything.” You muttered, eagerly awaiting his response.

Carmy shot you a sideways smile. It was good. No, it was better than good. The warm broth slid down his throat and each bite exploded with a depth of flavor he couldn’t believe. It was pure comfort. It reminded him of being a little kid staying home sick from school. Curled up on the couch while Jerry Springer played, eating crackers and ginger ale until his mom would bring a bowl of chicken noodle soup. But this soup, your soup, was more than that. People always talk about cooking with love but he swore he could taste it. Each ingredient had been so carefully handled. Perfectly chopped vegetables, moist and flavorful chicken. The warm feeling in his chest grew as he inspected the bowl.

“Did uh, did you make this pasta fresh?” He asked, eyeing you.

“Yeah, it’s better that way.” You blushed.

“Thank you, chef.” He said. “It’s really, really good.” Carmy looked down, suddenly feeling heavy. The fear of closeness set into him and all he could think about was how he’d fuck this up. “You-you didn’t have to make this for me.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” You insisted. “It was no big deal.” You began to leave, giving him one last truthful smile. “I like taking care of you.”

“I like taking care of you.” Your words rattled through Carmy’s mind all day. Throughout all of lunch, prep, and dinner he couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said. The soup you had made was the first thing he’d eaten in too long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him and you’d just done it because you noticed he wasn’t feeling well. No motive, no games, just tender love and concern.

Love.

Carmy shook his head to try and shake the thought from his mind. No, no, no there was no way you actually cared about him. Not like that. You were just being nice.

That’s just who you are; nice. You were always so kind. The way you’d help Marcus workshop pastries, the way you’d make Tina laugh and listen to her talk about whatever trouble Louis had gotten in, how you’d encourage Sydney and remind her that she can do this. Even the way you’d throw snark right back at Richie or how’d you’d always set aside a portion of Family for Fak and Sugar, even Pete. You were always thinking of others. Carmy wasn’t special.

Yeah. Not special.

Carmy insisted the thought as he scrubbed the grill. Not special. Not special. Not special.

“Carmy?” There you were. You were always there. You had a thick denim jacket on, bag on your shoulder, knit beanie pulled down over your hair. Your brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Carmy shook his head. “I’m fine… you uh- you heading out?”

You shrugged, hoisting your bag a little higher on your shoulder and eyeing him skeptically. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah, in a bit.”

You chuckled, more exasperated than humorous. “No.”

“What?” Carmy asked, confused.

“No, you’re leaving too.” You insisted. You were feeling bold. Months of long looks and his hand on your lower back every time he passed you had culminated tonight.

You had taken over the front for Richie while he ducked out to take a call from his daughter. You’d insisted. It was slammed for dinner but everything was going fairly smooth until an irate customer approached you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He’d asked, slamming his plate onto the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean are you retarded or something?” He continued. You were stunned into silence. You had never had anyone speak to you like that. “How hard is it to make a fucking sandwich? I know your tits are bigger than your brain but Jesus fucking Christ it’s not hard!”

“I-I…” you were shaking. “I’m sorry that you’re not satisfied, sir. If you like, we can-”

“Not satisfied?!” He screamed. “How can I be satisfied with this piece of shit!”

He hurled the sandwich at you. It hit you in the chest, toppings and sauce splattering everywhere. Before you even knew what was happening, a blur of messy curls shot past you. Carmy launched over the counter, tackling the man. His fist collided with the man’s face over and over while Richie and Fak rushed after him. There was a cacophony of yells as Richie pulled Carmy back. “Get your girl!” Richie yelled. “Cousin! Go get your girl!”

Fak and Richie dragged the man out and threw him into the street. Carmy’s hands grasped your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” He wiped the sauce splatters from your brow. “Look at me.”

Carmy burned with anger as he watched you shake. Your white shirt and blue apron were covered in the sandwich. He imagined what you would do for him if he was in your position. How you’d care for him, how you’d tend to him… so he tried to do what you would. Gently he guided you to your feet and wrapped his arm around your waist. He practically carried you to his office where he sat you on the couch and quickly went to grab a clean shirt from his own locker. You were in the same place he left you when he returned. Carmy knelt before you, taking your face in his hands once more.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Tears welled in your eyes and you collapsed into his arms. He smoothed his hand over you back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over again. He felt like he was on fire. The feeling of you clinging to him, nuzzling your face into his neck, the smell of you, how you fit in his arms… it was too much. He wanted to run away and never speak to you again. He wanted to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted to scream. He wanted to feel your lips against his. He wanted to find the piece of shit that yelled at you and rip him to pieces. He wanted your chicken soup every time he was sick.

All those feelings were closing in on Carmy once again as he stared at you across the kitchen. You still had his t shirt on. You were looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, uh… what did you say?” Carmy’s voice was softer than he expected.

“I said I’ll walk home with you.”

“Oh, no that’s okay. Ive got to-“

“Carmy,” you stepped closer. Your voice was firm but so tender. “You need to get some rest. Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.”

He couldn’t help but smile back at you. “Alright…” he conceded.

The two of you braced yourselves against the cold and hurried down the sidewalk side by side. You argued about who would walk who home. Carmy insisted on walking you to your apartment but you protested on the grounds that he’d just go back to the restaurant once he dropped you off.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But you have to call me when you get to your place so I know you made it home!”

Carmy looked at the ground, smiling. The warmth in his chest from your soup was steadily turning into a molten pool of lava.

“Heard.” He grinned. You wanted to know he’d made it home. You wanted to make sure he rested. I like taking care of you.

“Well, I’m just up here.” Your voice stopped his thoughts from spiraling before it could even start. Carmy’s brow furrowed. “What?” You asked, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

“You live over there?”

“Yeah? Like a block down?”

There was a beat of silence before Carmy let out a breathy laugh. “I live right there.” He pointed to the building on the other side of the street.

“No shit!” You laughed in earnest. Your hand came to rest on his arm. “Guess I’m gonna be walking you home more often.”

Carmy’s entire body was on fire. He could imagine the tingle of your soft hand on his skin through all the layers of clothing. He wanted to hold you close again like in his office, but this time you wouldn’t be crying. A deep pit opened in his stomach. How long before he made you cry? How long before he fucked it all up? Until you hated him and quit the restaurant and everything fell apart because he-

“Hey,” your voice. Always your voice that brought him back. When he looked over at you it was like everything but your face faded into a blurry background. You were all Carmy could see. “Do you want to come to mine? I haven’t eaten and I KNOW you haven’t either.”

Carmy’s heart fluttered. “O-okay.” He started, his confidence rising when he noticed your hand was still in his arm. “Only if you let me cook you something.”

“Ooh,” you smiled. “I’d never turn that down!”

Carmy chuckled, feeling lighter for the first time in years as he walked so close beside you that your shoulders brushed. “It won’t be as good as your chicken soup.”

[mydarlingclaudia]

fish boy

note : divider is from @/cafekitsune. I also wrote this because I was inspired by this drawing by @sillydicejelly please go look at their art it’s very pretty! this is another summer fic because I’m not ready for summer to be over ugh. I liked writing this a lot but I did feel kinda silly towards the end

wc : 2.8k

tags : @lottiies

desc : he saves you from drowning and you come back each year, falling in love was easy. strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, I think angst (towards the end), not proofread, re2 and re4 Leon, gn!reader, au

It started back in 1997 when you were nineteen. Your family went to the beach for a week in the summer, like you do every year. Your family had a beach house there that they’d had since before you were born, you’d been going there your whole life, you’ve never noticed anything strange. Most days were the same; go into town, window shop and buy as much ice cream you could stomach, go home and swim until you couldn’t feel your arms, roast your skin, play with your cousins, eat, sleep, repeat.

But nothing stays the same forever, sometimes that was a good thing, sometimes that was a bad thing. But this change was just… odd.

One night you were just having a hard time, you and your mom had gotten into a fight earlier in the afternoon and it had just thrown off the rest of your day. You went out that night, maybe around ten after everyone had gone to bed, the wind was harsh, the water was harsher. That didn’t stop you from jumping into the water to try and let the cold water ease your mind.

It didn’t work, though. One big, unexpected wave had toppled you over in the deep water, and before you knew it, you were gulping down salt water, unable to tell up from down.

Miraculously, you didn’t die, even though you should have. You had lost consciousness, though. You didn’t know where you were when you woke up, all you could make out was a small shore, surrounded by cliffs and overgrown weeds, no one else in sight.

Except for a boy.

He was blonde, pretty, pale, too. There was something a bit odd about his face, but you brushed it off as your bleary eyes adjusting. You don’t remember what you said to him, mostly because you didn’t even know what you were saying when you said it, but he had helped you sit up and you rested against his shoulder, one of his hands awkwardly patting your back. It felt comfy, you could ignore the ache in your body and how heavy your lungs felt and just focus on his wet skin pressed against yours.

This must have been what Eric felt like when he was saved by Ariel in The Little Mermaid.

When your eyes finally did adjust, and you got a good look at him, you realized that the oddity of his face was scales that lined his cheekbones back towards his ears, and that his ears weren’t even ears, but webbed ones, like some sort of deep sea creature. You had backed away from him, a confused expression painted on your face while a slightly pained one was etched onto his.

Your eyes hadn’t been able to focus on a single part of him, flicking between his tail, his webbed hands, the gills that lined his throat, his sea-matted hair, the blue tint that surrounded his fingers and gills, everything. You had to be dead, there was no other explanation, but his voice had been so soft when he spoke to you, that you almost wanted to scoot closer again.

“Listen I-I just- you’re- I think I hit my head.” You had sputtered out, one of your hands flying up to feel against your head for any bumps.

“I checked already, you didn’t.” The fish boy had reassured you, pushing himself closer to you.

“I-I didn’t?” Your eyes were glued to him the whole time he had moved himself closer to him, you didn’t back away this time.

“You didn’t, I promise.” You flinched when he reached up to peel your hand away from your head, making him stop for a second, those pretty blue eyes of his robed over your face for another second before he pulled your hand away.

“So-so what? What happened?” He let go of your wrist, placing both his hands down on the sand, his eyes were yet to leave yours.

“You were gonna drown.”

“A-And you saved me?” He nodded, you let out a shaky breath. “So I’m not imagining this?” He shook his head this time. “Jesus, where are we?”

“By the lighthouse,”

“The lighthouse?! That’s like, what, four miles away? Goddamn.” You groaned, that explained why no one was around.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-I guess.” You watched as his eyes trailed down to your bare legs.

“… I’ve never met a human before.” He mumbled.

“I’ve never met a mermaid- merman- uhm, fish boy, I dunno.” He looked you dead in the eye again for a few seconds, then let out a giggle and shook his head, you had smiled at him.

You had to admit that this strange creature was kinda cute, you didn’t doubt that he could probably overpower you, but he had been gentle with you so far. He stopped laughing as you stood up, watching the way the muscles in your legs flexed.

“Shit, my families gonna be wondering where I am.” You had told him, putting your hands behind your head and pacing around in a small circle.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to take you back.” You stopped your pacing, looking back down at him and the dumb smile he had on his face.

“You are?”

“I mean… yeah? Why would I save you just to leave you stranded?” He chuckled, you huffed.

“Well, thank you.”

He was a strong swimmer, that shouldn’t have surprised you, he had helped you swim along when you got too tired to do it. You had told him to just leave you at a spot along the beach that was secluded because it’s right where ships would dock and that you’d just walk the rest of the way back home. Before you had left, he had eagerly told you his name, you told him yours. The two of you had lingered for a few seconds longer than necessary, him in the water, you on land.

You felt like thanking Leon again wouldn’t be a good enough way to show your gratitude for saving you, you didn’t really know how to properly thank him yet, but you had suggested meeting in the same place the next day shortly after sunrise. Leon bit, eagerly.

You were surprised when Leon showed up the next day. And the day after that, the next day, too, and every day after. He’d bring you shells and sand dollars, you’d bring him human treasures (coins, candy, ice cream, anything).

Leon would let you look at him, because the more you looked, the more intrigued you became with him, and he liked that feeling. You found more blue scales littered across his arms, he let you touch them. You liked his tail a lot, all the pretty blue and tan scales that shimmered in the sunlight paired with strong fins that were rough to the touch.

You could spend hours talking to Leon, and you did, your family would ask you where you were running off to, you’d just say it was a boy in town, it wasn’t really a lie. He’d ask you about all the places you’ve been to on land, you’d ask him about the ocean.

Leaving was hard. You had promised him you’d come visit again, maybe even on your own a few times a year. But you had promised Leon that you would be back the same time next year. You’d never forget how he frowned and nodded his head, asking you for another keepsake. You gave him a bracelet you bought in town.

—

You had the whole year to look forward to seeing Leon again. When you arrived on the beach in 1998, you were almost certain he wouldn’t show. As far as you knew, mermaids didn’t have calendars, how would he know when a year passed? On the drive up you contemplated how long a year was to them, you almost gave yourself a nosebleed thinking about it. You would just have to ask Leon.

But Leon had shown, and he showed up with a grin on his face and the best shells he had gathered over the past year.

“What do you call those?” Leon had asked you, pointing a blue finger at the overgrown wildflowers sprouting out of the hill above you and him. You looked over your shoulder, sparing a glance to the purples and yellows of the flowers that gently swayed in the wind.

“Those? Those are flowers.” You said to him, taking another cookie from the ones you had baked and brought to him, still looking at the wildflowers. You quickly learned that if given the chance, Leon would eat just about anything, especially sweets.

“They’re pretty.”

“There are prettier ones.”

“There are?” You finally look back to him, he’s only a handful of feet away from you, the cookies and other treats you brought rested on top of a stool between the two of you. Leon was laying on his stomach, forearms keeping him propped up as his eyes locked onto you, gentle waves rolling over his tail and reaching your feet, the two of you hidden away at the part of the docks no one ventured to.

“Sure, sunflowers, snapdragons, lilacs, chrysanthemums, tulips… I could go on forever.”

“… Would you bring me some?”

“Of course.”

And you did, you brought Leon as many flowers as you could carry, he was worth a pretty penny for all of these flowers. You were no expert on plants, but the night before you brought him the flowers, you took out a book at the library on them, just to know each one’s meaning so that if he asked, you’d be prepared.

Leon asked about anything he could think of, he always did. You were the same, in a way. You’d never been all that curious about the ocean until Leon came into your life.

You watched Leon with a softness in your eyes you don’t think you’ve ever even looked at a boy with when he’d twirl the flower stem between his fingers and study each individual petal, you wanted him to look at you like that.

“I wish I could take these back with me.” Leon had mumbled to you, eyes still glued to a tulip.

“Maybe you can, I don’t know how well they’ll hold up in the water, though.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” His eyes shifted from the flower in his hand up to your face, his smile dropping a tiny bit. “These are beautiful, I don’t want to just remember them.”

You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to tell him that you couldn’t keep everything you wanted, but you knew that you were keeping Leon as close as you could and that telling him that would be hypocritical.

“I’ll buy you as many flowers as you want.” You told him before you could even finish the thought, but you meant each word. Seeing his face light back up made your heart skip a few beats in your chest.

“You will?”

“If it’ll make you happy.”

“Yeah, it would.” Leon had smiled at you, you got out of your beach chair and scooted next to him in the sand, reaching a hand out to run over his wet back before you wrapped your arms around his shoulders in a hug. Leon had gone stiff for a few seconds, your grip loosened on him, he took that opportunity to move and wrap his arms around your waist. He didn’t let you go for a long time.

—

Years came and went, your visits with Leon stayed the same. You spent most of your summer at the beach now, talking with Leon, swimming with him, eating with him, any excuse you could find to be with him, you were there.

August of 2004 is nearing its end, it’s late right now, you don’t know whether it’s before or after midnight. You’re soaked through to the bone, salt water clings to your cold skin as you lay on a beach towel. Leon is next to you, he’s never not near you when you’re at the beach.

Leon gets more and more handsome each time you see him. You’re not sure what’s going on under the surface of the water, but something has hardened him. His eyes are a bit colder, he’s gotten a bit stronger, he’s more serious about things.

You don’t think you ever really knew Leon, you liked to think you did, but he’d never be able to come into your world and you’d never be able to go into his without an oxygen tank strapped to your back. You had to settle for this.

Leon’s never mean to you, though. He still asks questions, he still brings you shells, he still loves flowers. He’s gotten more touchy, he likes your legs, you continue to like his tail.

Leon shifts beside you, rolling onto his side to face you, you do the same.

“When are you leaving?” He asks.

“I’m not sure yet.” You couldn’t stay at the beach forever, you tried to work jobs that were more lenient, but you still need to eat and have a roof to sleep under. Your family notices how you keep returning to the beach for longer periods each year, they think you’ve fallen in love. You have.

“Just be sure to say goodbye.” Leon says this each time you have to leave, you always say goodbye, you’d never just leave him without telling him you wouldn’t be back for a while. You don’t say anything as Leon sits up, reaching for a tulip from the bouquet of flowers you brought, you grab one as well.

It’s silent between the two of you, you’re picking off the petals of your flower, reciting “he loves me, he loves me not” in your head repeatedly, you haven’t done this since middle school.

“If I had legs…” Leon starts, you stop what you’re doing, pausing on a he loves me petal. “Would you take me with you?”

“Take you where?”

“Just with you. I just… I just wanna be around you for more than a few weeks.” Leon’s words both warm your heart and make it clench at the same time, you turn your attention back to your flower, picking off more petals.

“Of course I would. I’d take you anywhere you wanted.” Your eyes flick to his face, catching his smile.

“I miss you, y’know.” You stop again, he loves me not.

“I’m right here.”

“I mean when you’re gone.” Leon huffs beside you, letting his hands fall down to his lap, still holding the tulip. “I don’t like when you leave. Every single day for the past six years I’ve swam up to shore waiting for you, even when I knew you weren’t going to be there. You’re the first human I’ve ever met, I’m pretty sure you’re the kindest one out there, too. You can go anywhere you want in the world and I’d never know it. I just want to see you.”

“And I want you to come with me,” You admit with a shaky breath. “Believe me, I think about you everyday, I try and find things that I can bring to you, I try to be here more than I probably should be. If- If we were able to be around each other every waking moment, I’d spend my life with you.”

“… I don’t want to be in the sea anymore.”

“Leon, you have no idea how easy I wish it was for us.” You can feel tears pricking at your eyes, you look away from Leon, the only petal left on your tulip is he loves me.

“Would you ever move here? To the beach?”

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“Then do it.” Leon meant it as a demand, but he said it so softly it sounded like he was begging. You toss your tulip to the side and look back at him, scooting closer, letting sand stick to your skin as you leave your towel.

Leon is still blonde, he’s still pretty, he’s still pale. His skin is still wet to the touch and you’ve come to love the scales plastered onto his skin, he’s not awkward when he holds you anymore, and there’s a different ache in your lungs when you’re around him that certainly isn’t you being waterlogged.

You bring a hand up to cup his face, his webbed hand closes around your wrist, leaning into your touch.

“I love you,” He murmurs against your palm, pressing a kiss to it.

“I love you, too.” You whisper to him. Leon doesn’t pull away from you, he never does until he absolutely has to. His hand slides up to latch onto yours, he holds it against his chest and leans in until his forehead is resting against yours.

“Please, say it again.”

“I love you.” You’re the one who leans in for the kiss. The summer you first met, you had found yourself laughing at the thought of kissing him because you thought he’d taste like fish. Instead, he tastes like salt water you’ve swallowed more than enough times, you’d drown in it knowing it tastes like him.

[wannabehockeygf]

Feels Like - Quinn Hughes

“We almost got away, we cut it close,

The city’s getting loud, if I choke,

It’s only ‘cause I’m scared to be alone,

Been trying to work it out you should know,

I would do whatever you wanted.”

***

part 2 // quinn hughes x gracie abrams albums fic trilogy

part 1 part 3

***

Summary: Quinn’s been up to no good, and it’s about time you find out.

Word count: 6.8k

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x fem!reader

Warnings: cheating, alcohol

Notes:

- me saying I’m so busy and won’t have time then I crank this out in a day !!

- this was so heart wrenching to write …

- not proof read as always

***

Quinn Hughes had a good head on his shoulders. At least, that’s what everyone always told him. Coaches, family, even the media—they all saw Quinn as the level-headed one, the smart one, the kid who knew what he wanted and went after it.

Except when it came to you. When it came to you, Quinn's head was anything but good. It was a mess—confused, conflicted, weighed down by the guilt that had been gnawing at him since last night.

Quinn ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He sat on the edge of his hotel bed in Boston, staring at his phone like it was some kind of bomb he had to defuse. Your name was still at the top of his recent calls, your last text a blue bubble of worry and reassurance.

“Heading your way, Q. On a train. Didn’t book a flight because it was too much, but I’ll be there in the morning. I love you.”

He swiped out of the messages and into Instagram, his thumb hovering over the search bar. His heart pounded against his ribs, each thud a reminder of just how much he had screwed up. He was still in last night’s clothes, a blue Hawaiian shirt that Jack had bought him as a joke and black slacks that clung to him uncomfortably. He hadn’t slept; instead, he’d gone out, did so much more than emotionally cheat on you, and then spent the night pacing his room, trying to figure out how to make this right—how to fix something that might be beyond fixing.

His phone buzzed in his hand, a new message from you: “Quinn, are you awake? Call me when you see this.”

Quinn's stomach twisted. He could picture you right now, curled up on that train seat with your eyes heavy from lack of sleep, your hair mussed from running your hands through it too many times. You were coming all this way for him, despite everything. You were coming to see him even after he’d hung up on you. He felt a pang of guilt so sharp it made his chest ache. You deserved so much better.

He knew that. God, did he know it. But knowing it didn’t make things any easier. If anything, it made things worse, because he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, couldn’t stop needing you. And yet, he was too weak to stop what he was doing—the other thing he couldn’t seem to stop needing.

His fingers hesitated over the search bar for just a moment longer before he typed in the name, quick and almost subconscious, like he was on autopilot. The profile came up instantly: smiling photos of her on some beach, her hair wild in the wind, sunglasses perched on her nose. She looked carefree, happy. The last photo was from a week ago, captioned with a simple heart emoji.

Quinn’s heart clenched. God, she was beautiful. And she made him feel things—things he didn’t feel when he was with you, his girlfriend, things that scared him as much as they thrilled him. She was everything you weren't: spontaneous, wild, a bit reckless. She didn’t make him feel like he had to be perfect all the time.

Which was probably why he’d ended up here in the first place.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to quell the guilt that surged up his throat like bile. He thought back to last night—the way she’d looked at him across the bar, her eyes dark and knowing, the way she’d smiled like she knew every secret he was trying so hard to hide. The way her lips felt against his, the heat of her breath, the sound of her voice when she whispered in his ear.

And then he thought about you. About your laugh, your smile, the way you looked at him like he was the most important person in the world. How you never hesitated to drop everything for him, even when it meant putting your own life on hold. Like right now. Like this very moment, when you were probably sitting on some cold, uncomfortable train seat to get to him because you thought he needed you.

He was such an asshole.

Quinn tossed his phone onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He felt like he was being torn in two—one part of him screaming at him to get his shit together, to be the guy everyone thought he was, the good guy, the guy who didn’t screw over the people he cared about. And then there was the other part—the part that was scared, insecure, the part that wanted so desperately to feel something real that he didn’t care if it meant hurting the one person who had always been there for him.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the word barely more than a sigh. What was he supposed to do? He didn’t know. He was in too deep, caught between two worlds that couldn’t coexist, caught between two versions of himself that he couldn’t reconcile.

He stood up, pacing the small hotel room, the carpet rough under his bare feet. His mind raced, thoughts bouncing around like ping-pong balls in his head. He couldn’t keep doing this. He had to make a choice. He had to choose.

But how do you choose between the girl who makes you feel safe and the one who makes you feel alive?

His phone buzzed again, and this time he couldn’t ignore it. He snatched it up, expecting another message from you, another plea for him to call, but instead, it was from the other girl. A simple text: “Had fun last night. When can I see you again?”

Quinn stared at the message, his heart hammering against his ribs. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? He wanted to smash the phone against the wall, to shatter it into a million pieces, to shatter himself along with it. But instead, he just stood there, staring at the screen, torn between guilt and desire, between what he wanted and what he knew he should do.

“Quinn?” A voice called from outside his door, sharp and insistent. It was Petey, knocking lightly. “You in there, man? We gotta head out to practice soon.”

Quinn stood frozen in the middle of his hotel room, his phone buzzing persistently in his hand. The screen glowed with the picture of you he had made his lockscreen, and every time he looked at it his heart dropped. His stomach churned, a sickening mix of guilt and anxiety that had been gnawing at him for the good part of twelve hours. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the mess of curls that he hadn’t bothered to tame since last night.

Last night. God, what a disaster.

He could still taste the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, still feel the phantom touch of her lips against his. She had been all over him, pulling him in with that damn magnetic smile of hers. And Quinn, the idiot that he was, hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it. Now, standing here, he felt like he was drowning in the aftermath.

“Huggy?” Elias’ voice came through the door again, more insistent this time. “You good?”

Quinn glanced at the clock—barely enough time to get his shit together before practice. Not that it mattered. His head was so scrambled, he doubted he’d be of any use on the ice today.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to move. One foot in front of the other, like he was on autopilot. He tossed his phone on the bed and headed for the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face in a vain attempt to shock some sense into himself. The water dripped down his cheeks, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for some sign of the guy everyone thought he was. The guy who had it all together.

But all he saw was a mess. A guy who couldn’t make up his mind, who was screwing over the one person who had always been there for him. The guy who, deep down, was terrified that he was going to lose everything if he didn’t get his shit together.

He grabbed a towel and dried his face, then ran a hand through his hair again, trying to make himself look halfway presentable. But no amount of water or towels could wash away the guilt that clung to him like a second skin. He was stuck with it, like a tattoo he couldn’t scrub off no matter how hard he tried.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. He shook his head, running his hands through his hair once again, feeling the strands tug against his fingers. He needed to get it together. He needed to get out of this room before he went completely insane.

He grabbed his practice gear from the chair by the window, where he’d tossed it last night when he’d stumbled in. The memory made his stomach twist: the way he’d pressed the button to hang up on you, the way his thumb had hovered over it like it weighed a hundred pounds. And then the other girl’s laugh, soft and sweet in his ear, her fingers trailing down his arm as she whispered something he couldn’t quite remember anymore but knew had made him feel like he was floating.

Quinn pulled off his clothes, replacing them with a questionable smelling sweatshirt and gym shorts, his movements jerky and stiff like his body was protesting every step. He glanced at the mirror on his way to the door, catching sight of himself—his face pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed with fatigue. He looked like hell. He felt like it, too.

With a sigh, he opened the door to find Elias leaning against the wall, one brow raised. “Dude, you look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it too,” Quinn muttered, stepping out into the hallway. The bright lights made his eyes sting, and he squinted, wishing he’d grabbed his sunglasses. Or maybe he just wanted to hide behind them.

Elias clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a once-over. “Rough night?”

Quinn forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Something like that.”

“Yeah, well, better shake it off. Coach is on one today, and he’s not in the mood for anyone dragging ass.” Elias started down the hall, and Quinn followed, trying to push everything to the back of his mind. Practice. Focus on practice.

But his thoughts wouldn’t settle. They kept bouncing back and forth like a damn tennis match: his girlfriend’s face, her worried messages, the way she always seemed to know when he needed her without him even having to say it. And then the other girl—the way she made him feel like he could breathe, like he could forget everything for just a little while.

He clenched his fists as they reached the elevator, trying to steady his breathing. Elias was rambling about something, but Quinn couldn’t focus on the words. His mind was a blur, a mess of emotions that he couldn’t untangle.

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside, the metal walls reflecting their distorted images. Quinn caught sight of himself again and grimaced. “I look like shit, don’t I?”

Elias snorted. “You said it, not me.” He glanced at Quinn, his expression shifting to something more serious. “But seriously, man, you okay? You’ve been off for a while now.”

Quinn swallowed hard, his throat dry. How could he even begin to explain what he was feeling? How could he tell Elias that he was standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between falling and flying, and he didn’t know which one he wanted more?

“I’m fine,” he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. “Just tired.”

Elias didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he just nodded, letting the subject drop as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to the lobby.

They walked out into the warm Boston morning, the humid air biting at Quinn’s skin through his clothes. He shivered, shoving his hands into his pockets as they made their way to the team bus. He tried to lose himself in the routine, in the familiar motions of getting on the bus, finding his seat, putting in his headphones. But even the music couldn’t drown out his thoughts, couldn’t silence the nagging voice in his head that kept telling him he was screwing up.

He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, willing himself to focus on the day ahead. Practice. Game plan. Not on the texts waiting on his phone, not on the girl he was supposed to love and the girl he couldn’t stop thinking about.

But his mind wouldn’t cooperate. It kept circling back, like a dog chasing its tail, never quite catching it but never stopping either. He thought about you, about the way she made him feel grounded, like he had a purpose. And then he thought about the other girl, about the way she made him feel alive, like he was on fire.

God, he was an idiot. A selfish, stupid idiot who didn’t deserve either of them.

He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the seat in front of him. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to choose between two things that felt like they were pulling him in opposite directions, like they were tearing him apart?

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out without thinking, his heart lurching in his chest. It was a text from you, and his stomach twisted as he read it:

“I’m here. Just got to the station. Can’t wait to see you.”

Quinn closed his eyes, a wave of guilt washing over him. You were here. You were here for him, because you thought he needed you. And maybe he did. Maybe he needed you more than he’d ever realized.

Quinn’s mind was spinning as the team bus rumbled through the streets of Boston, the city waking up around them in a blur of brick buildings and early morning light. He stared out the window, his reflection a pale, drawn ghost in the glass, looking back at him with tired eyes. The weight of his phone in his pocket felt like a lead ball, dragging him down deeper into the mess he’d made for himself.

He glanced around the bus, his teammates absorbed in their own routines—some with headphones on, nodding along to whatever music was blasting in their ears, others chatting quietly, their voices low and relaxed. Elias was beside him, scrolling through his phone, occasionally chuckling at something he saw. Quinn tried to mimic that ease, but his stomach was tied in knots, and every breath felt like it caught in his throat.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make him feel like he was about to crawl out of his own skin. But no matter how he twisted or turned, the guilt was there, gnawing at him, a constant reminder that he’d messed up in a way that couldn’t be easily fixed.

His phone buzzed again, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip, his hand twitching towards his pocket before he stopped himself. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at it. Not yet. The last thing he needed was to see another text from you, filled with love and concern, when all he could think about was how he didn’t deserve any of it.

But of course, his brain wouldn’t let him rest. As much as he wanted to ignore it, your last message played on a loop in his mind: “I’m here. Just got to the station. Can’t wait to see you.” He could picture you standing there, suitcase in hand, maybe looking around for him, your eyes bright with anticipation. The thought made his chest tighten, a painful squeeze that sent a ripple of nausea through his gut.

He thought about how you’d always been there for him, how you never hesitated to drop everything and come running when he needed you. And now, here you were, doing it again, without knowing that he’d spent the night with someone else, that he’d betrayed the trust you’d placed in him so completely.

God, he was a piece of work.

Quinn shifted again, his knee bouncing nervously as he tried to focus on anything else—the pattern of the bus seat, the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, the hum of the engine beneath his feet. But everything came back to you, and the way he was going to have to face you in a few hours, knowing what he’d done.

A part of him—the rational, level-headed part that everyone always said he had—knew that he should come clean, that he should tell you everything and deal with the consequences. But the other part, the part that was scared and ashamed and desperate to keep you in his life, was louder, drowning out the voice of reason with a hundred excuses and justifications.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to look you in the eye and pretend that everything was okay, when he knew it wasn’t? But then again, how could he tell you the truth and risk losing you forever?

He pressed his head against the cool glass of the bus window, staring out at the passing streets of Boston. The city looked bright and sunny, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his mind. It was the kind of day that would normally have him in good spirits, maybe even cracking jokes with the guys. But not today. Today, he felt like he was carrying a mountain on his back.

The bus jolted as it hit a pothole, and Quinn’s head banged against the glass. “Ow, fuck,” he muttered, rubbing the sore spot. Elias glanced over from the seat next to him, eyebrows raised.

“You good, man?” he asked again, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation. Quinn knew Elias was just trying to help, but right now, all he wanted was to be left alone with his own stupidity.

“Yeah, just...headache,” Quinn lied, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. He didn’t know how to explain the real problem without sounding like the world’s biggest jerk. He wasn’t ready for the questions that would follow, the judgment, the inevitable “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Elias nodded, turning back to his phone, but Quinn could feel his eyes lingering, like he was trying to solve some kind of puzzle. Quinn wished he could give him the answer, wished he knew it himself. But all he had were a bunch of jumbled pieces that didn’t seem to fit together.

As the bus pulled up to the arena, Quinn grabbed his gear and followed the rest of the team inside. The familiar smell of a rink—ice, rubber, sweat—usually calmed his nerves, but today it just made him feel queasy. He trudged to the locker room, his legs feeling like lead, and sat down on the bench, staring at his skates like they might somehow offer him some guidance.

“Hey, Huggy,” Brock called from across the room, already halfway into his gear. “You gonna put those on, or are you just gonna stare at them all day?”

Quinn blinked, realizing he’d been sitting there for way too long. “Right, yeah,” he mumbled, pulling off his shoes and shoving his feet into his skates. The process felt mechanical, like he was going through the motions without really being there. He tied the laces tight, almost too tight, like he was trying to squeeze out the guilt that sat heavy in his chest.

As he laced up, his mind wandered back to last night. He remembered the way her fingers had grazed his wrist, the light touch sending sparks through his skin. He remembered the look in her eyes, that dangerous mix of desire and something else—something that made him feel like he was balancing on a razor’s edge. And then he remembered your text, the way your voice had sounded over the phone, so soft, so worried. The contrast made him feel like he was being split down the middle, two halves of a person who didn’t know how to be whole anymore.

Quinn dragged his skates across the locker room floor, the sharp blades scraping against the concrete as he walked to the bench. His hands moved on autopilot, grabbing pads, buckling straps, all while his mind replayed the same scene over and over again: your smile, your eyes, the sound of your voice. The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, like a dog with a bone it refused to let go.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice Brock sidling up next to him until the guy was practically in his lap.

“You look like someone ran over your puppy,” Brock quipped, pulling on his jersey with a grunt. “What’s up with you today?”

Quinn forced a laugh, but it came out more like a wheeze. “Just didn’t sleep well, I guess,” he lied, his stomach twisting into another knot. Brock, bless his soul, nodded, accepting the excuse without question.

“Yeah, well, try to pull it together, man. You’ve got that ‘I just accidentally liked my ex’s Instagram post from 2017’ face.”

Quinn blinked, momentarily pulled out of his spiraling thoughts. “Is that...a thing?”

“Definitely. Don’t ask me how I know.”

Quinn couldn’t help but chuckle, a real one this time, and for a moment, he felt a little bit lighter. But the moment passed quickly, like a cloud drifting over the sun, and the heaviness settled back in.

He needed to tell someone. He really did, and he thought about telling Brock, someone a little older, with a little more experience, but he knew it wouldn’t go well. The man had a wife and kid, and admitting to him that he’s a cheater couldn’t go any way but sideways.

He finished gearing up, the ritual of it providing some small comfort, like if he could just get everything on right, he’d be okay. But as he stepped onto the ice, the cool air hitting his face, he knew it was only a temporary reprieve.

The practice rink the Bruins had given them was buzzing with activity, the sound of skates cutting into the ice, pucks clattering against the boards, the low hum of voices. Normally, this was his sanctuary, the place where he could clear his mind and focus on nothing but the game. But today, the rink felt like a prison, every noise amplified, every movement too sharp.

Quinn skated a few laps, trying to shake the feeling, but it clung to him like a second skin. He saw you in every reflection, heard your voice in the echoes of the arena. And every time, it was like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him.

“Quinn! Heads up!”

He barely had time to react before the puck came flying toward him, and he fumbled to catch it, the black rubber slipping off the tip of his stick and skidding across the ice. A chorus of laughter erupted from the other guys, and Quinn forced a grin, trying to play it off.

“Nice hands, Huggy,” one of them called out, and Quinn gave a mock salute, his heart pounding in his chest.

As practice dragged on, Quinn found it harder and harder to focus. His mind kept wandering, and every time it did, it went straight back to you. He thought about the last time you’d visited him, how you’d spent the weekend curled up together on the couch, watching movies and talking about everything and nothing. He thought about the way you’d looked at him, like he was the only person in the world, and how he’d felt like the biggest fraud alive.

He thought about a few mornings ago, when he’d kissed you goodbye before heading to the rink, your sleepy smile still lingering in his mind. He hadn’t known then what he was going to do later, hadn’t known how everything would spiral out of control. But now, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop replaying the night in his head, wondering how he’d let it happen.

The worst part was, he knew he didn’t deserve you. Not after what he’d done. But he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, couldn’t imagine his life without you in it. And so, he found himself trapped, caught between his guilt and his fear, unable to move in either direction.

When practice finally ended, Quinn was the first off the ice, practically sprinting to the locker room. He needed a moment to breathe, to think, to figure out what the hell he was going to do. But as soon as he sat down on the bench, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he knew without looking that it was you.

He stared at it, his heart in his throat, his fingers trembling as he reached for it. The screen lit up with your name, and for a split second, he considered ignoring it. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t just pretend you weren’t there, waiting for him, loving him, trusting him.

With a deep breath, Quinn swiped his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Hey,” he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

Quinn swallowed hard, his heart racing as he heard your voice on the other end of the line. It was like a balm and a burn at the same time, soothing yet searing into him with the heat of his own guilt.

“Hey! I’m here at the station,” you said, sounding bright and cheery, completely unaware of the emotional storm that was tearing him apart. “I was just wondering if you’re on your way or if I should grab a coffee or something?”

Your words were so casual, so normal, that they felt almost surreal to him. He closed his eyes, the images of last night flashing like a movie reel against the backs of his eyelids—her laughter, the way she’d leaned in close, her lips brushing his neck in a way that had sent shivers down his spine. And then he’d see your face, smiling up at him with that same soft look you always gave him, the one that made him feel like he was exactly where he needed to be.

He forced a laugh, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, I’m, uh, just finishing up at practice. I’ll be there soon.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t know what else to say. How could he tell you the truth? How could he explain that he’d been weak, that he’d betrayed you, that he didn’t deserve to have you waiting for him?

“Great! I can’t wait to see you.” Your voice was so full of warmth and excitement that it made his stomach twist. He could picture you standing there, probably wearing that old Canucks jacket of his that you loved, the one that was two sizes too big but somehow looked perfect on you. The thought made his chest tighten with an ache that he couldn’t shake.

“Yeah, me too,” he managed to say, his voice cracking just a little. “See you soon.”

As he hung up, Quinn let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The guilt felt like a heavy stone lodged in his gut, pressing down with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. He dropped his head into his hands, fingers tangling in his hair as he tried to make sense of his own stupidity.

He should have never gone out last night. He should have stayed in, watched TV, gone to bed early—anything other than what he did. But instead, he’d let himself get swept up in the moment, let himself be led astray by a smile and a soft touch, and now he was paying the price for it.

Why couldn’t he just have said no? Why couldn’t he have just kept his distance, like a rational human being?

But no, Quinn Hughes had to be an idiot. A complete, utter, monumental idiot.

He glanced around the locker room, hoping for some kind of distraction. Most of the guys were still milling around, showering, changing, talking about the upcoming game, like it was just another day. Like his whole world wasn’t collapsing around him.

Quinn stared at the locker room ceiling, the fluorescent lights casting harsh, white beams that felt like an interrogation spotlight. The thought of meeting you at the station had his stomach in knots, guilt gnawing at him like a relentless beast. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to find some semblance of calm, but the images of last night wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Why did I do that? Why am I like this?” Quinn muttered to himself, rubbing his temples as if he could erase the memory with enough pressure. The smell of sweat and damp gear filled his nostrils, a stark contrast to the sweet perfume that had lingered on his skin just hours ago. He grimaced, suddenly aware of how sick it made him feel.

His phone buzzed again. Without even looking, he knew it was another message from you, probably asking how long he’d be. He couldn’t ignore you forever, but he also wasn’t ready to face you. He needed more time—time to figure out what the hell he was going to say, time to gather the pieces of his shattered conscience.

With a groan, Quinn grabbed his phone and quickly ordered an Uber. The bus to the station was out of the question; the last thing he needed was more time to wallow in his guilt with nothing but his own thoughts for company. As soon as the confirmation buzzed through, he grabbed his gear, barely acknowledging his teammates as he rushed out of the locker room.

Within minutes, a car pulled up, and Quinn slid into the backseat, barely managing a greeting to the driver. He stared out the window as the city blurred by, the buildings and people blending into a haze of colors and motion. His reflection in the glass looked haunted, a man on the brink of losing everything.

His mind kept replaying the events of last night, a relentless loop of regret and self-loathing. He thought about the way he’d let himself be drawn in, the way he’d ignored that little voice in his head telling him to stop, to walk away. But he hadn’t listened. He’d let his guard down, let himself be led by his desires instead of his brain, and now he was stuck in a mess of his own making.

Quinn squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images, but they kept coming—her smile, her touch, the way she’d looked at him like he was the only man in the room. It had been intoxicating, a rush he hadn’t felt in a long time. But now, it felt like poison, spreading through him with every thought, every memory.

He opened his eyes, staring down at his hands, noticing the way they shook. He felt sick, his stomach churning with a mix of fear and guilt. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thrown away everything he had with you for a moment of weakness?

The driver made a comment about the weather, but Quinn barely heard him, his thoughts too loud, too chaotic. He just nodded absently, his mind a million miles away. He couldn’t focus on anything but you, waiting for him at the station, completely unaware of the storm raging inside his head.

The car finally pulled up to the station, and Quinn could see the throngs of people milling about, all of them blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil raging inside him. He thanked the driver and stepped out, his legs feeling like they might give out beneath him. With every step towards the entrance, his resolve weakened, the weight of his guilt dragging him down like an anchor.

There you were, standing near the entrance with your suitcase by your side, your face lighting up as soon as you spotted him. Quinn’s heart lurched painfully in his chest at the sight of your smile—so warm, so genuine, so undeserved. He forced a smile in return, even though it felt like a mask, a flimsy attempt to cover up the disaster he’d become.

“Hey, you,” you greeted him, your voice as bright and cheerful as ever. “I missed you.”

Quinn swallowed hard, the lump in his throat nearly choking him. “Missed you too,” he replied, his voice cracking just slightly. He leaned in to hug you, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that he hoped you wouldn’t notice. But even as he held you close, the guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the mess he’d made.

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with those eyes that always seemed to see right through him. “You okay? You seem…off.”

“Yeah, just tired,” Quinn lied, his smile faltering for a moment. “It’s been a long morning.”

Quinn watched your expression as you searched his face, and he felt a pang of anxiety strike deep in his gut. He couldn’t remember a time when lying to you had felt so awful. You were the one stable thing in his chaotic life, the person who always knew him better than he knew himself. And now, all he could do was lie to you, feeding you half-truths like they were the easiest thing in the world. The guilt twisted in his stomach like a knife.

“I get it,” you said, giving him a small, understanding smile that made him feel even worse. “Traveling always wears you out.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, trying to muster a laugh that sounded more like a cough. He reached for your suitcase, needing something to do with his hands. “Here, let me grab that for you.”

As he lifted the bag, he could feel your eyes on him, studying him. He turned his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, afraid that if he looked at you for too long, he might break down right there in the middle of the station.

The two of you walked toward the exit, and Quinn’s mind raced, trying to find a way to change the subject, to steer the conversation away from any topic that might reveal just how messed up he was feeling inside. He felt like he was standing on a tightrope, trying to balance between the truth and the lies, between who he was and who he pretended to be.

“So, how was your trip?” he asked, hoping to sound casual, but his voice came out a little too high-pitched, like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. “Everything go okay?”

“It was fine,” you replied, glancing at him sideways, deciding not to tell him about the woman with the accent who preached how much men sucked. “Kind of boring, actually. I kept thinking about you.”

Quinn’s heart sank. Of course, you were thinking about him. You always were. And here he was, thinking about someone else. His stomach twisted with a fresh wave of nausea.

“Yeah?” He forced a grin, trying to keep the mood light. “You didn’t have too much fun without me, did you?”

You laughed, the sound like a melody he didn’t deserve to hear. “Not a chance. You’re the fun one, remember?”

Quinn managed a weak chuckle. “Yeah, right. Me, fun. That’s a good one.”

As you two stepped outside, the warm air hit him, and he took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. The sunlight was blinding, making him squint as he tried to navigate through the crowds. He was grateful for the distraction, for anything that would keep him from focusing on the dark cloud hanging over his head.

Quinn tried to focus on the city around him, on the way the skyscrapers loomed overhead, their glass windows reflecting the blazing sun. He tried to lose himself in the noise of the traffic, the blaring horns and the distant chatter of people passing by. Anything to distract him from the overwhelming guilt clawing at his chest. He wished he could just disappear, sink into the pavement, and let the earth swallow him whole.

As you reached the hotel, Quinn fumbled with his key card, his hands shaking so badly he could barely swipe it. You gave him a puzzled look, and he managed a weak smile, hoping you couldn’t see the panic in his eyes. The door finally clicked open, and he hurried inside, dropping your suitcase by the bed.

“Home sweet home,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, but his voice cracked, betraying him. He turned away, pretending to adjust the air conditioning, but really just needing a moment to collect himself. The room felt stifling, the walls closing in on him, each breath a struggle.

You wandered over to the window, gazing out at the city below. “It’s a nice view,” you said softly, and Quinn’s chest ached at the sound of your voice. You were always so kind, so thoughtful, and here he was, lying to you every step of the way. He hated himself for it.

“Yeah, it’s… something,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the tension coil up his spine. He knew he needed to tell you, to come clean about everything, but the words felt like lead in his throat, heavy and impossible to get out. How could he explain something like this? How could he make you understand when he didn’t even understand it himself?

He took a step closer to you, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it. He hesitated, his hand hovering over your shoulder, before finally giving in and wrapping his arms around you from behind. You leaned back into him, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, breathing in your scent, feeling the familiar warmth of your body against his. It was almost enough to make him forget, to pretend that everything was okay, that he hadn’t completely screwed up the best thing in his life.

Almost.

“Quinn, are you sure you’re okay?” you asked again, turning in his arms to face him, your brows furrowed in concern. Your eyes searched his face, and he felt like you could see right through him, like you knew every dirty secret he was trying to hide.

“I…” He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “I need to tell you something.” His voice was barely a whisper, the words sticking to his throat like glue.

“What is it?” You tilted your head, looking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and he felt like the worst person in the world. How could he do this to you? How could he destroy everything you had together?

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned down and kissed you, hard and desperate, like a drowning man grasping for air. You gasped in surprise, your hands coming up to cup his face, and for a moment, he lost himself in the kiss, in the feel of your lips against his, soft and familiar and everything he didn’t deserve.

When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You blinked, confusion etched across your features. “Quinn, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“I messed up,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I messed up so bad, and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I can.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and Quinn felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He wanted to hold you, to comfort you, but he knew he had no right. Not after what he had done.

“I need you to know that I love you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I love you so much, and I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“What did you do?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Quinn took a deep breath, his hands shaking as he tried to steady himself. He knew he couldn’t keep lying, couldn’t keep hiding the truth from you.

You deserved better than that.

You deserved so much more than he could ever give you.

[goddessofvalyria]

ALIVE | Martin (In the modern world) x fem!oc

As I saw Ewan Mitchell in the music video for Fontaines DC - In The Modern World, I obviously know that music video made us Tumblr girls write sooooooo much and I'm here for that.

English is not my first language, be kind and enjoy it <3

READ HERE THE SECOND PART OF THE ONE-SHOT "DEATH"

Summary: Cassandra and Martin are both devastated, how can they no longer feel the pain? Getting lost in each other.

TW: 18+, MINORS DNI, She/Her pronouns, the fem!oc is named Cassandra with long wavy dark black hair and blue-purple eyes, masturbation (f receiving), SMUT, sex, drug use, violence, blood, murder, death, sadness.

This is my Masterlist

Words: 3184

Cassandra shivered as she stepped out into the cold night, her breath forming misty clouds in the air. The winter chill was relentless, but she barely noticed it. Her black fur coat provided some warmth, but it couldn't reach the cold that had settled deep within her. Her long, wavy black hair fluttered in the biting wind, framing her face, where her once-vibrant blue-violet eyes now appeared hollow and distant.

She walked quickly, her knee-high leather boots crunching against the thin layer of snow that covered the sidewalk. The streets were empty, silent except for the occasional hum of a distant car. She checked her phone, glancing at the last message she'd received. It was from someone she barely knew, a boy who was a drug dealer who had agreed to meet her tonight. He was a friend of a friend, someone who could get her what she needed.

When she reached the parking lot, it was nearly deserted, save for a single car parked under the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. Cassandra paused for a moment, feeling a twinge of hesitation, but she quickly pushed it aside. She didn't have the luxury of second thoughts tonight.

Martin sat in his car, nervously tapping the steering wheel as he waited. He didn't know who he was meeting, just that it was a girl in need, willing to pay well. But when he saw her approaching, he felt his heart skip a beat. It was Cassandra, the girl he had admired from afar and had a crush on during their school days. Back then, she was everything he wasn't—beautiful, popular, and effortlessly smart. He had been just another face in the crowd, unnoticed by someone like her.

Cassandra opened the car door and slipped inside, her movements mechanical, as if she was on autopilot. She didn't look at him, her focus entirely on the transaction.

"Do you have it?" she asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

Martin hesitated, the recognition hitting him hard. She didn't seem to realize who he was, but how could she? The boy she once knew was long gone, just as the girl she once was seemed to have disappeared.

"Cassandra?" he said softly, searching her face for any sign of the person he remembered. Her eyes flicked toward him, and for a moment, she seemed to wake up from whatever trance she was in. 

"Martin?" she said, her voice tinged with disbelief. "I didn’t know… Look, I just need the stuff, okay? I want to forget for a while."

He handed her the small bag of drugs, his hand trembling slightly. "What happened to you?" he asked, unable to keep the question inside.

"You were… everything."

He loved her in silence. He loved her for many years but he was the metalhead boy of the school.

Her gaze hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "What happened to me? Life happened, Martin. People change. Now, just let me be. I just want to forget and don't asking fucking questions."

Martin swallowed hard, struggling with the mix of emotions swirling inside him. He couldn't be rude to her. He knew he should just give her the drug, but seeing the girl who once shone with popularity and light, reduced like that, with obvious dark circles under her eyes, shaking hands and a spent cigarette between her fingers broke his heart. She had always been so beautiful, so… unique in his eyes and even if she had never deigned to look at him, he had always loved her in silence and from afar.

"Come with me" he said, the words spilling out before he could think them through. "We can talk… if you want, if you need."

She looked at him, her expression unreadable, but after a long moment, she nodded. She didn't know why she agreed, perhaps it was the familiarity of his face or the desperation in his voice, but she stayed in the car and then followed him back to his small, modest house.

Inside, the dim light cast shadows across the room, amplifying the feeling of isolation. Cassandra sat on the edge of his bed, removing her fur coat and laying it beside her. The room was dark, quiet, almost stifling, as Martin stepped out to get her some water.

When he returned, he stopped in his tracks. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp, he noticed the bruises on her arms, the way she winced as she adjusted her position on the bed. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut, and he felt a wave of anger and sadness wash over him. She was wearing a short black dress with thin straps and torn tights. How could she not feel cold? It was clear that something was wrong with her.

Cassandra caught him staring at her and tried to cover her bruises with her hands, trying to hide the evidence of her pain. But it was too late. The tears she'd been holding back began to fall, silent and steady, as she wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold herself together.

"I don’t know how I got here" she whispered, her voice breaking. "I don’t know who I am anymore."

Martin sat beside her, unsure of what to say or do. He had never imagined seeing her like this, so broken and lost. He wanted to help, but he didn't know how. All he could do was be there, offering what little comfort he could.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pill. "Here" he said, his voice gentle. "It might help… take the edge off."

Cassandra looked at the pill in his hand, then at him. "You don't have to pay for these" he said lowly. For a moment, she hesitated, but then she took it, placing it on her tongue and swallowing it down without a word. She lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as if searching for answers that would never come.

Martin lay beside her, the two of them silent, lost in their own thoughts. The darkness in the room seemed to mirror the darkness within them, a shared pain that neither of them knew how to escape. And so they lay there, side by side, two lost souls in the night, hoping for some kind of relief, however fleeting it might be.

"Who did this to you?" he asked. "Someone who tells me he loves me"

Cassandra drifted into a restless sleep, the pill he had given her slowly taking effect, Martin's phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen.

"I know you have something for me, a friend of a friend tell me that you can help me. - Joe."

It was a message from Joe—Cassandra's boyfriend. He wanted to meet, to buy drugs. Martin stared at the message, his mind racing. This was the man who had done that to her, the one who had destroyed the girl he had once admired. He knew him, in high school Joe had beaten him up numerous times in the school bathrooms.

Without a second thought, Martin replied, agreeing to meet. He gently covered Cassandra with a blanket, his heart aching as he watched her sleep. Then, with a grim resolve, he slipped out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

The night was even colder now, but Martin barely felt it. His mind was consumed with thoughts of what he was about to do. He drove to the meeting spot, a desolate area on the outskirts of town, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Joe was already there, leaning against his car, looking as smug and careless as ever. Martin's stomach churned with disgust as he approached and Joe sat in the passenger’s side. Joe didn't even bother to greet him, just held out a hand, waiting for the drugs. Martin handed them over without a word, his mind already calculating his next move.

"Did you have only this? Fuck, now I have to hear my girlfriend's scream when she yells at me" he said with grief in his voice. "She is still your girlfriend" Martin replied. "We are together, yeah, but she only likes to be fucked like a whore she is and then... sometimes,... you know, she is mad as hell and she screams at me that for my fault her life became a fucking nightmare."

Joe wasn't a smart guy, he talked nonsense as he popped the pills. "Sometimes I hurt her, but it's just to let her know I love her. Only when she threatens to leave me and report me to the police, you know Cassandra is fucking bitch."

Martin looked at him as he felt the anger rising. How could he let him go free after those words? Cassandra would come back to him and he would hurt her. Now she was sleeping at his place, but after that? After taking more pills she would go back to her boyfriend.

As Joe turned to walk back to his car, Martin's vision went red. He moved before he could think, grabbing the seat belt from his car and looping it around Joe's neck in one swift motion. Joe struggled, his hands clawing at the belt, but Martin was stronger, driven by a rage he had never felt before.

"You are beating her, right bastard?"

The two of them wrestled, Joe managing to land a few blows, but Aemond didn't feel the pain. His face was smeared with blood, but he didn't care. All he could think about was Cassandra, about the life she could have had, about the life she still could have if this monster were gone. With a final, desperate twist, Martin tightened the belt, and Joe's struggles ceased.

He killed him for her.

Panting, Martin let the body slump to the ground, his chest heaving. He looked down at Joe's lifeless form, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over him. It was done. He had done what he had to do.

The night was still dark when Martin disposed of the body, leaving no trace of what had happened. His face and clothes were stained with blood, but he didn't care.

He drove back to his apartment, the adrenaline slowly fading, replaced by a numbness that left him feeling empty.

By the time he returned, dawn was just beginning to break, casting a pale light through the windows. Martin quietly entered his room, closing the door behind him. Cassandra was awake, sitting in the center of the bed, her eyes fixed on the wall. She had noticed his records, her fingers tracing the edges of one of them absently.

When she turned to look at him, her eyes widened slightly at the sight of his face, still smeared with blood. "Martin…" she whispered, her voice filled with a mix of concern and confusion. "I still feel the pain.... I...fuck, I still feel the deep darkness in me"

"You have blood all over your face, what happened to you?" she looked at him, God, her eyes were so beautiful. Long black eyelashes, black eyeliner, they were breathtaking.

Martin walked over to her, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I did what I had to do," he said, his voice steady.

For a moment, Cassandra just stared at him, her mind processing his words. Then, without warning, she got up and moved toward him, her eyes locked on his. Her hands gently cradling his face, feeling the still fresh blood on his skin.

"Thank you" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Thank you."

Martin was about to respond when she leaned in, her lips crashing against his in a fierce, desperate kiss. The intensity of it took him by surprise, but he quickly responded, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer. "You're safe now" it was a kiss filled with all the emotions they had both been holding back—fear, anger, relief, and something more, something they had both been denying for too long.

Cassandra pushed him back onto the bed, her hands frantically tugging at his clothes, as if trying to erase everything that had happened, everything that had hurt her, with this one act. Martin didn't resist; he wanted this as much as she did, maybe even more. The world outside, the blood on his face, everything else faded away as they gave in to the passion that had been simmering beneath the surface.

Their movements were frantic, desperate, as if they were both trying to cling to something real, something pure in the midst of all the chaos. The bed creaked beneath them as they had sex.

“I need something strong” she whispered. “I need to know that I’m alive”

They leaned closer and their eyes met in another kiss. Their lips touched softly, as if they were trying to convey everything they couldn’t express in words. “I need something stronger than drugs” she murmured against his lips. Martin kissed her again, this time rougher, harder. Everything finally made sense. “I want you” Martin whispered. “I’ve always wanted you, even when you didn’t even look at me, I was there, silent among the outcasts and I watched you shine. But your darkness doesn’t scare me, share it with me.”

She leaned down to kiss his neck with languid, wet, provocative kisses and he grabbed her by the thighs, moving his hands up under her robe. "Cass" Martin groaned, looking up and meeting her eyes. He moved his hands to her dress, pulling it off her head. Cassandra began by removing his shirt, his hands tore off her tights and then moved to the elastic of her thong, hooking it around his fingers. "You are beautiful" he whispered as she raised her hips allowing him to remove her panties. Her long hair fell in front of her and she, who was not wearing a bra, destabilized him. He moved closer and slowly kissed her nipples, making her moan.

Cassandra moved her hands down to the elastic of his boxers, pulling them off along with his pants. In that moment she just wanted to forget all the pain she had felt, she wanted to let it all out, light a fire inside him.

"Make me forget" she murmured. "Make me forget" she was begging him. The girl leaned forward to kiss him, he made her lie down against the pillows of the bed and slowly got on top of her, covering her with his body. Cassandra caressed his back with her hands, making him shiver when her nails caressed his skin. "For me you exist, for me you have always existed" he whispered taking her face in his hands, he caressed her soft lips.

"You are so beautiful fuck, you are so… so… I… I have always seen you, I have always wanted you." he was desperate for her.

"You won't feel any more pain, you won't feel anything, I'll make you feel alive" he whispered, pushing himself inside her: God, she was so hot, wet, tight. He held her close, she moaned, inhaling his scent, she kissed his face still stained with blood. "I don't feel anything" Cassandra whispered. "I only feel you." she arched her back.

They moved together, faster, harder, until everything else faded away and there was nothing left but the unstoppable need to be closer, to feel more. "Tell me I'm yours" she whispered, holding him as if he could abandon her. "You're mine, you're mine, you're mine" he whispered, kissing her, pushing between her hot, wet thighs.

Cassandra, his Cassandra was lost in the most dissolute pleasure. He continued to fuck her until he felt her tremble, a sign that he was about to come.

"You are mine, you are mine, you are mine" he repeated feeling his cock buried deep inside her. "You are mine, always remember that, you are mine" "I am yours" she whispered scratching his back, Martin shivered. He gave her a stronger thrust, looked into her blue-violet eyes, she pressed herself against him and came with a loud moan.

Martin followed shortly after her, came out of her body and fell on top of her taking her in his arms and giving her a kiss on her swollen and shiny lips.

"I feel alive, I feel alive…" she whispered holding him in her arms.

Cassandra's eyes locked onto Martin's, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper reflected in her gaze. Slowly, she leaned in, her breath warm against his skin. Her lips met his with an intensity that took him by surprise, and he responded, pulling her closer, as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more desperate. She tasted the metallic tang of blood on his lips, and instead of pulling away, she leaned in further, her tongue gently tracing the cut. She sucked softly, tasting the blood, her actions filled with a strange blend of tenderness and need.

Martin groaned, the pain of his wounded lips mingling with the pleasure of her touch. She didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, as if in that moment, she was trying to absorb all of his pain, to take it into herself.

Their kiss was fierce, raw, and full of unspoken emotions—pain, longing, and a desire for connection that neither had known they needed so badly. The world around them faded away, leaving only the heat between them, the taste of blood and passion mingling as they lost themselves in each other.

“We should stop” Martin whispered. “No” Cassandra replied. “No one has ever killed for me.” She kissed him again and again, clearly aroused by the sight of him covered in blood. “You have me now” she whispered, grabbing his shirt and rolling onto the bed, him on top of her.

She was a fucking freak.

And he matched her perfectly. 

The morning light slowly filling the room, casting long shadows on the walls.

When it was over, they lay tangled together in the sheets, both of them breathing heavily, their bodies slick with sweat. Martin held Cassandra close, his heart still racing from everything that had happened that night. She rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his skin, as if trying to memorize every inch of him.

They didn't speak; there was nothing left to say. In that moment, they both understood each other perfectly. The world outside might still be cruel and unforgiving, but for now, they had found something that could make it all bearable.

And as the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the window, Martin closed his eyes, holding Cassandra close. 

"Come away with me and sal 

i promise you’ll be in it 

i don’t feel bad 

i feel alive in the city 

you despise 

wait for the day, when you come riding on by 

seems so hard just to be 

if it matters 

you complete me, yeah 

in the modern world"

[mochiwrites]

I desperately need to do something with this secret life au I have bouncing around in my brain. so! snippet/warm up time.

( it’d be really cool if I got any asks about it. and maybe some reblogs 👉👈 )

———————————

Grian’s wings flutter at his sides as he stands before the Secret Keeper. He feels his feathers ruffle with the wind as a breeze goes past, the wings at his head twitching. He’s oblivious to the world around him, eyes glued to the mossy rock formation in front of him. It’s a good thing it isn’t night, else Grian could be at risk of losing very precious hearts if a mob were to sneak up on him.

Though that isn’t something he has to worry about, not at the Secret Keeper statue.

He purses his lips, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes practically burn holes into the statue. Or well, they probably would, if the statue were made from something flammable. He feels like he’s entered a staring contest with the Secret Keeper, a weird feeling for a lifeless statue.

Except this statue doesn’t feel very lifeless. It’s been making Grian a bit uneasy since the game began, leaving him to wonder if They did something to it.

There’s certainly something odd about the statue, Grian knows this for sure. He’s felt drawn to it since the game began, like it’s been calling to him. Whispering at him. He isn’t exactly the Listening type, it’s all lost on him. His Eyes don’t do him much either, unfortunately.

“What is it about you?” he muses, speaking to a statue that cannot speak back. He stares at its face, the wide eyes and curved mouth that seems frozen in a smirk. The hood looks like it’s been intricately cut out in the stone, like someone had been an agonizingly long time into making sure it was perfect.

This isn’t the first time Grian has done this, just stared up at the Secret Keeper. He can’t help it. The statue feels so familiar, like Grian has seen it somewhere before. No… maybe it’s more than that.

It’s like Grian knows this statue, the Secret Keeper. There’s this nagging feeling in the back of his mind, tugging on some part of him that he doesn’t have access to. It tugs on his soul, his very being and essence, and like being led by string, Grian finds himself back here every time.

He doesn’t understand.

Grian takes a step forward, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. The wings of his feathers fluff up. “Who are you to me?” he questions, desperate for some kind of answer. “Why do I feel like I know you?” It’s pointless, he knows. A statue isn’t going to suddenly start speaking to him. It’s inanimate. Stone. It will not answer. Yet Grian stubbornly asks his questions anyway.

He stares up at the statue, frustration dipping his brow as his lips tilt low.

“Whatcha doing?”

A startled squawk sounds from Grian as he turns around on his heel, brown eyes meeting blue. He finds the amused face of Martyn, forcing the avian to let out a breath.

“Martyn,” he sighs, “You can’t do that, man!”

Martyn immediately breaks into laughter, very clearly finding enjoyment from Grian’s reaction. “Sorry, sorry! You make it too easy dude. You’re even easier to sneak up on than Timmy is.”

Grian looks at him as if offended by the comment, “I’ll have you know that Tim is very easy to startle. You just sneak up on me when I’m deep in thought!”

“Too busy ogling the Secret Keeper to notice me sneakin’ up, huh?” Martyn retorts, lips curling into a slight smirk.

“I wasn’t ogling it!” Grian’s wings fan out, flapping slightly in agitation. “I was studying it!”

Martyn hums, not buying Grian’s excuse but not bothering to call him out on it. “And what were you ‘studying’ this time, Grian?”

He pauses now, steam being pushed out of him at Martyn’s question. His wings drop along with his shoulders as he lets out a quiet breath, turning his attention back to the statue. He doesn’t answer immediately, staring at it with a confused expression. “This might sound crazy but… does the Secret Keeper feel… familiar at all?” he slowly asks as he looks back to Martyn.

The man stares at him, looking absolutely lost, if a bit concerned. “You feeling alright dude? Or is this your task or something?”

“I’m perfectly fine, and no it’s not my task.” Grian frowns. “Can you just answer the question?” Thinly veiled patience is laced in his voice, something Martyn can pick out easily after having known Grian for so long.

“Alright, alright,” he sighs, directing his attention to the statue in front of them. He hums, narrowing his gaze slightly. “Nothin’ familiar about it I’m afraid. Creepy smile though.”

“Creepy?” Grian parrots, joining Martyn in looking at the statue. He frowns faintly, “I don’t know… I think it’s kinda nice. Cheeky. A bit silly, y’know? The smile of someone mischievous.”

Martyn turns to look back at Grian, eyes shining with soft concern, “Look, Grian, unless your task is to spend hours ogling this thing, you might wanna get a move on. We’re in a death game, remember?” His stare turns a little colder, harsher. “We’re not gonna be all buddy buddy for very long.”

Grian knows he’s right. There’s no point in wasting time trying to figure out a brain puzzle with no clues. He’s not focusing on what’s important (isn’t the important thing that missing piece? The fracture somewhere?) and it could cost him greatly. Except his eyes trail back to the Secret Keeper’s gray ones (he wonders what they’d look like if they were green), staring at them. It’s like those eyes stare right back at him.

He frowns before sighing. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just hard not to be curious,” he weakly argues, shrugging. “I feel like I know him from someplace, except I don’t know where.”

Martyn is quiet for a moment, eyes faraway. “…I guess I get that,” he relents, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Have fun with your stone Romeo. I’m gonna hit the road and get back to completing my task.”

Grian makes a spluttering sound at that, “S-Stone Romeo?! It’s nothing like that!”

( Above them, the Secret Keeper watches on in sadness. This feels like some kind of punishment. It’s agony, torture. It’s worse than hiding away in his valley all alone, wishing for friends. He wants to reach out. ‘I’m right here!’ He wishes to scream.

He Watches as Grian spares him one last glance, hesitation in his expression. He turns on his heel and walks away.

Scar wishes he could call for him.)

[alligator-teeth]

Thinking about how underrated dragon preds are. They’re literally known for eating people, yet I hardly ever seen them utilized for vore. There are so many different kinds! Big western dragons who guard massive hoards of treasure that spot a tiny little human who they immediately want to claim as theirs. Swooping down over a village, causing a wide panic among the townspeople, and somehow managing to herd their human out from the crowd to an open area, where they proceed to pin the little one beneath their claws and snap them up greedily, gulping them down with haste so they can hold their human deep within their belly, finally safe and ready to be added to their hoard. A western dragon’s gut being like a sauna, with stomach walls that glow a warm red which showcases their mastery over fire. The belly walls constantly kneading and quickly exhausting any poor human trapped within it, putting them to sleep and keeping them cozy.

Regal eastern dragons who live high in the mountaintops, hardly ever seen and regarded as ethereal beings who don’t tolerate the presence of mortals. A lone human traveling among this gigantic forest of towering cliffs and peaks (think Jueyun Karst from Genshin) suddenly hearing this deep roar that sends shivers down their spine, giving them the feel that this forbidden area is haunted. Hearing the wind pick up and seeing a long, snake-like shape glide silently over their heads, before watching the figure descend and land in front of them with practiced grace. The eastern dragon regards them with a curious look, lowering their head to sniff the terrified human, enjoying their scent, deciding that this little creature is lost and alone and would greatly benefit from their protection. Gently grabbing the human in their jaws before the little one can try to escape, tilting their head back and slowly swallowing them down with the aid of gravity. The trip down their throat is long and tight, and when they make it to the dragon’s stomach, it’s quite cramped, but it is a pleasant temperature that isn’t overwhelming. It’s cooler in this belly than a western dragon’s would be, and the walls glow a comforting blue, while the human is given a noodle hug and the creature rumbles happy little coos.

Gigantic sea dragons who are known for sinking ships, slamming their great tails and gouging out chunks of vessel with their serrated claws, their roars echoing in the stormy night as they churn up violent waves. Sailors fall into the icy waters and sink like stones, yet one human manages to cling to a piece of shipwreck, saving themselves. The sea dragon watching this pathetic little thing stubbornly refuse to let their life go, and they hate to admit it, but they’re rather impressed by the fortitude shown. Deciding this human might be interesting to keep around, so they expertly slice through the water and open their jaws wide, inhaling the human and their piece of driftwood together. The throat of the beast being so large, swallowing down both is no problem, and when the human makes it to their belly, they find they are cast in total darkness except for the soft blue or green bioluminescent markings dotting the belly’s walls. There is heat here, and it makes the small amount of water that has made it this deep into the sea dragon warm, like a bath. Skeletons of fish and bones from whales float idly like stark white buoys, and within the belly that feels like the deepest parts of the sea, the human can only shiver and listen to the sea dragon rumble contentedly, wondering when this creature will get tired of them and finally let them go. That’s not happen in the slightest.

Just. Dragons. There are so many more I could list here but then this post would take hours to read. I love dragons so, so much.

[barbieaemond]

Thorns in your mouth

PART 1

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

WARNINGS: angst, smut, oral sex, a bit of religious kink, a bit of choking

WORD COUNT: 787

Author's note: Widow's blood is poison. This will likely have a third part.

taglist: @zae5 @arcielee @bunbunbl0gs @multyfangirl @chompchompluke

“Until all the roses turn to black.” you said, but they didn’t have the time to either wither or blacken. A fresh new bouquet of white roses is found on your nightstand any other day following the events above Storm’s End.

His lack of regret is also lack of concern. He doesn’t care about the Gods as much as he doesn’t care about the maid knocking while you are sprawled on the chaise as if lying in your tomb, still but feverish, waiting for another death.

“Answer.” he mumbles, with his mouth full of your cunt.

“My lady?” The young woman calls, but the call of his tongue drains you of every will, except the arching of your back, the drops of sweat on your temples. The swirls of his tongue are soft as a rose on your throbbing flesh, sharp as a thorn as he buries it deep inside. One last time and you're melting in a trickle of blood—of bones.

Your hand knots his hair and pulls at the roots, clawing at your need, raw, a wound split open that leaks and pours into his mouth. His name is a curse and a blessing clashing on your tongue, your fingers keep pulling, grasping silver and leather.

A flash of glinting blue before your eyes and you greet it with a smile, as one upon seeing a star. There’s a sneer twisting his mouth, one that you felt curling your own lips countless of times. That sneer is a glimpse into a mirror, a glimpse at your own desire. Ugly, exactly as desire is.

He thrusts inside you with ease, an act that goes almost unnoticed as breathing, but necessary. You're an extension of his body as he grips your waist and starts rutting with a cruel purpose.

“Do you like taunting the gods, don’t you?” he grins watching the seven pointed star stuck with sweat around your neck.

“I like taunting you.”

He wraps his fingers around the thin silver chain and twists, so hard he’s able to lift your head from the cushion.

“Will you get on your knees after this? Will you ask the Gods forgiveness for your sin?”

“I will ask them to give me more of it. I will beg them to make me sin before it vanishes.”

“What?”

“The smell of you on me.”

It does fade away for a few days. Everything fades away except the wailings of the Queen echoing through the walls.

“It’s not your fault.” you whisper in his mouth “It’s not your fault.”

“You’re lying.” he croaks in your neck, guiding your hips to move slower and slower.

“I know, but you believe me.”

Fingers dig in your skin, willing to break you, to tear his grief to pieces. But in the end, he only says “Yes.”

Everything was slipping from his grasp like water. Helaena, Aegon, his mother. You were the only immutable condition. Stable, firm, stone that does not scratch despite the winds, rains and storms that come against it. And he wanted to carve himself into the woven you were made of.

He asked you to stay one night, and the next, and the one after that.

“My husband will grow suspicious.” You said once, lying next to him, your flesh still entangled in one another.

“You could slip some widow’s blood in his cup.”

“To make myself a widow?”

“To make myself your husband.”

“You are.”

“No. I will be when I will fuck you in the royal gardens and no one will spare us a look. I will be when I can come inside you and see you round with my child.”

That was the last night you spent together.

Despite all the careful measures and lies and deceptions, this thing was just as plain as those white roses, plain as Aemond intended it to be. It only took a careful look. A glimpse at how your eyes would find his and his yours. It only took asking the maid to whom she was bringing those bouquets of white roses. And she did ask, Queen Alicent. She did look.

“This thing must end, Aemond. Immediately. We need her husband’s support, his army. Why are you challenging the Gods? Have they not cursed you enough?”

“I thought the Gods had forsaken me by now.”

“You forsook them the moment you succumbed to sin with a married woman.”

“I can assure you, Mother, she’s more my wife than his.”

“Enough! The Gods may have forsaken you but I did not. And I will not let you forsake your family even further.”

And enough it was.

Roses were left to bloom on their branches. While you, and him, withered and blackened.

[shigarakisdumbwhore]

Here Without You - Dabi/Hawks Love Triangle

A/N: This fic is inspired by this ask. I'm not sure what took me so long to write it but here we are!! So shout-out to supernatural-hunter1 for the amazing idea, thank you so much!! Possibly will be a series. Also shout-out to my sister in law, a real one. She helped proof read, gave me some ideas, and helped with the name. I love you bby gurl

Summary: You had been developing a deep crush on Dabi for quite some time. But he was difficult to get through to and know. His distant demeanor made it hard to get close to him. However, when Hawks shows up, things take a turn in a different direction than you could have imagined. Dabi doesn't know your true feelings, you don't know Hawks is a spy, and they don't know you're in love with both of them. This love triangle is about to cause lots of drama and confusion.

Words: 2,241

Warnings: None, really. Except some violence and smut in future chapters. Yet to be written though.

Taglist: @supernatural-hunter1 @desiretdeni

AO3 Link

Dabi was always the smart and cunning guy. An asshole, but let's be honest… was your taste in men ever really that great? No, that's why you were formally a part of the Paranormal Liberation Front. You were here because you weren't really smart, or were you?

If Shigaraki truly meant his promise, and succeeded, that would mean you were smart. The world would be thrown into chaos but at least you wouldn't be on the hero's side, right? Take Hawks for example. He was a new recruit, a hero under disguise. He claimed to be on the villain's side. You hadn't met him yet, but Dabi talked about him. He seemed really distrusting of him.

Sometimes Dabi just needed to let things out. He was never really a vulnerable kind of guy. Most times he just muttered whatever insults, or vented about god only knows what. You were usually that person who paid attention. The others would roll their eyes, especially Twice who talked about Hawks in a completely different perspective. The strong difference in opinions made you really want to meet this guy, just to get a feel for yourself.

Tonight was one of those nights for Dabi. He was sitting outside on a log, a little ways from the base. He had been gone too long, so you came out to look for him. He didn't move or flinch when he heard you.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Heh," he scoffed. "I'm just thinking."

"About?"

No answer. That was expected. Oddly enough, Dabi was like a foggy piece of glass. If you got up really close, you could see something on the inside, except you could never make a clear image of it. He would never tell you what was truly on his mind, but the best you could do was give him some company as support. Dabi didn't really show appreciation to you. However, he didn't yell at you or discourage you from hanging around him.

There was a long period of silence. The night was a little cold and dark. Your arms were wrapped around you as you clung to the little body warmth you had. A chilling breeze came through, rustling the trees and dead leaves throughout the forest.

"Are you cold?" A small blue flame appeared, illuminating the side of his face and hand. You smiled.

"Yeah, a little." In front of you, he sent a large flame at the ground. All the dead leaves and twigs turned into fuel for his flames. The air became dry and hot as the warmth rushed to your face in a large wave, too much for you to handle. You scooted yourself back until the heat became tolerable, but Dabi stayed right where he was. There was an extended period of silence. Only the sounds of the fire cracking, the wind in the trees, and your own breath could be heard in the night.

After some time, Dabi stood up and offered to take you back. Despite not saying much, you could see that it healed Dabi. The look on his face had changed, and his eyes looked calm. You enjoyed your time together and wondered if he did too.

It's not like you cared what Dabi thought of you. You didn't like him… kind of. You didn't really know exactly how you felt about Dabi because having a crush on Dabi was like asking for a knife to the heart. He could never be a normal boyfriend in a healthy relationship. That was asking too much from him. Really, that was too much to ask from any man who was connected to the Paranormal Liberation Front. It was best not to get involved in romance for everyone's sake.

As you laid in bed, it kept you up. What were you and Dabi? Friends? Acquaintances? Strangers? Maybe lovers? It's not like you could ask him, getting an honest answer from Dabi was like pulling teeth. But did you care? Yes, oddly enough, you cared very much. And maybe he didn't feel the same. The rejection would break you.

The next morning was hard to get out of bed. Staying up thinking all night wasn't the best idea, especially when Twice came yelling into the room. The door opened fast, slamming into the wall. You sat up in excitement.

"What? Is it an emergency?"

"No! Yes! Hawks is here and I want you to meet him badly!" He was hopping around with excitement. Finally, you had the opportunity to meet the famous Hawks.

"Okay, okay, fine. Just let me wake up a sec-"

"Sorry, am I intruding? I wasn't sure exactly where Twice was taking me."

Walking through the door was a handsome blonde man. His hair was slicked back in the front and a bit messy in the back. He had thick-winged eyes that would rival any make-up artist. His features were strong and beautiful. Behind him were two large red wings. You felt like you'd seen him before but he looked so different in person.

In your embarrassed state, you jumped up out of bed and quickly tried to fix your appearance. However, wearing your little pajamas didn't help much. This handsome guy was Hawks. A few times you had heard or seen him on television but never paid attention. You wish you did now.

"N-no, it's fine. I'm Y/N."

"Hawks," he smiled as he extended his hand out to shake yours. As you reached out to meet his hand, you could feel butterflies in your stomach. God! Why did Twice have to bring him in at such a bad time? He should have known better as your wingman. Well, literally.

However, it was confusing. As exciting as it was to meet the famous Winged Hero: Hawks that Twice raved about, how would this go when you told Dabi? Would he understand or be upset? No matter how badly you wanted to hide it, you needed his approval deep down. What would you do?

You had liked Dabi for a long time. You could simply deny it no longer, but he was so distant. And here was this handsome man delivered to your bedroom. Sure, he was a hero at one point and still technically is, but he's been truly helping the cause. Twice wouldn't speak so highly of just anyone.

"It's nice to finally meet the guy Twice goes crazy for," you said, with a hint of sarcasm in your voice.

"Likewise, he talks about you a lot too. He's just a friendly guy." His voice was smooth and charming, as well as his looks, but that wasn't entirely enough to trust him. He had a head start because of Twice, but he still needed to prove himself.

Twice gave him a thumbs up as he said, "Oh, I'm so glad you two got along. Would have been much worse if Dabi was here."

Hawks rubbed the back of his neck with a bashful look on his face. "I'm sure he'll come around."

"Pfft, good luck with that…"

"Tough to come around?"

"Yeah, you could say that. He's kind of… nevermind, it doesn't really matter. We'll just see how you hold up here."

With that, the boys left the room so you could get dressed and ready for the day. Toga came in to do your hair as she usually does. She loved doing it in different styles and you let her because it seems she never got to have a good childhood, much less a good adolescence. Sometimes she teased you about Dabi, but you always denied it.

"I'm gonna do something pretty with it so you look pretty for Dabi," she giggled. She laid across the bed and did your hair over the edge as you sat down in front of the mattress. This gave her a good overhead angle.

You held a fashion magazine in your hand, flipping the page as you sighed, "You know I don't care about that." On it was a group of girls in beautiful dresses you wish you could own. If only you didn't pick this life for yourself, maybe you could wear a nice dress like that. Maybe if things were different, Dabi could take you out on a date with those dresses. A normal date where you both went to dinner at a fancy restaurant. But why was a villain daydreaming this about another villain? It would never be that way. Life wasn't that kind.

"Mhm-hmm," she rolled her eyes as she continued. Once she was done, she grabbed a mirror from beside her to show you. You smiled as you took a good look in your reflection. She always took good care of you, making sure you looked nice and beautiful.

"Thank you, Toga." You wrapped your arm around her and gave her a little side hug from the floor. She gave you a sweet smile as you left the room, hopefully to run into Dabi. Would he like your hair? Would he even notice it?

You didn't know much about Dabi. He didn't talk about his past, wouldn't share his real name, and dodged any personal questions. It was scary not knowing anything about him, especially when you liked him so much. It shouldn't matter regardless. Dabi wasn't boyfriend material. You'd end up heartbroken… but it was nice to dream about it.

In a perfect world, wearing that dress from the magazine. You both had money to dine at a fancy restaurant in a beautiful town. It was nighttime. The restaurant was decorated with string lights outside, where the waiter seated you two. The meals were delicious. You laughed and talked together all night. Maybe he wouldn't have his burn scars. You always wondered how he got those…

From behind, you heard a familiar voice call out your name. When you turned around to see who it was, you recognized Hawks. Curious as to why he was calling out to you, you stopped. He quickly walked up to you and smiled.

"I feel like we didn't get a proper introduction with the way Twice did it, so I came to really introduce myself." He took your hand in his and brought it to his lips, planting a soft kiss on the back. "Hawks." You couldn't help the blush from rushing to your face. It must have been noticeable because he chucked.

"Wh… what was wrong with our introduction before?" It was a stupid question, you knew why. But why did he care so much about how you two met?

"I felt bad with the way Twice introduced us. Not that he meant any harm."

"No, no, he's a great guy. He's just a bit oblivious sometimes." There was a short pause of silence. "You're quite flashy and audacious," you said, in reference to his new introduction.

"Eh, it's kind of what I'm known for," he chuckled.

You took this moment to really take in his features. The way he smiled, the color of his eyes, his mannerisms. He didn't seem the type to be a villain. That made you nervous. There had been one occasion, before you joined, that Twice made the mistake of bringing someone in that didn't quite belong. But you wanted to give Twice the benefit of the doubt.

His handsome looks or charm wouldn't work on you. You'd need to know more. There had to be a reason that Dabi didn't like him, and the only way to learn was to ask. Assuming Dabi would tell you, hopefully.

For a moment, you and Hawks made some small talk. He asked for a little tour and general information on everyone. Nothing was too suspicious so you answered what you knew and what would be safe to share. As you two went along, you could see why Twice was so fond of him. But that only made it so confusing why Dabi didn't.

"What made you join?"

"I wanted to be free. I feel too tied down with all the rules and stipulations. Especially the spotlight." He looked out ahead, but seemingly at nothing.

"I get the feeling," you looked down at your feet, reminiscing, "I felt the same way too."

"At least here, you can do as you please. That's what Twice told me Shigaraki says anyway. That's how I want to live."

"That's why I felt connected to Shigaraki too. I bet it's hard for you to always have people watching you, recording you, and whatnot. You're brave for being here, even if it's in the shadows."

He turned to look at you, and smiled. It was a warm smile that melted your heart. Hawks and you seemed so alike. So if Dabi didn't like Hawks, would that mean he secretly disliked you?

Time went by too fast, accidentally spending the whole day together. Hawks was so free and fun to be around, you hadn't noticed how late it had gotten.

"I should turn in now, I enjoyed talking to you."

"Is it that late already? Wow." He pulled his sleeve up to look at his watch. "Okay though, just promise I'll see you around again sometime soon."

You chuckled and blushed as you two went separate ways. You felt different inside. For the first time, you felt seen by a guy. Today went almost like those dreams with Dabi. It was strange. However, you decided to bury those feelings as you went inside your room to rest.

Reblogs are appreciated <3

[zeewritez]

The Sailor and The Samurai - II

Mizu x Femme Shipmate/Pirate Reader

Hello lovelies! I didn't expect so many people to enjoy my last fic, but I have some time between classes to make a little sequel. Hope you enjoy!

Notes: A leanbh (uh lan-uv) means my child :), alcohol consumption, peer pressure (?)

Part I

It had been a week since the Banshee had taken sail and the crew expected to dock in Shanghai the following day. Y/n had woken up uncharacteristically early with an unexplainable feeling of anxiety. She could feel in her bones that something was wrong.

Upon getting dressed, she made he way to the stern. The winds were powerful and packed a mighty chill for the spring. She was glad to be wearing a proper coat. The girl peered out into the vast abyss, looking for potential danger. Yet to no avail, as the sky was still a deep blue and nothing could be seen in the distance except for faint outlines of waves. See and sky blended almost seamlessly.

"Good morning my dear," her father's voice rang behind her along with the sound of his heavy boots. "How come you're up so early?"

"Something's off," she told him, not removing her gaze from the distance. "I can tell."

The captain placed a firm hand on the shoulder, squeezing gently. "I feel it too, a leanbh," he said, reaching for his rosary absentmindedly. As he walked away his daughter did the same, unintentionally mirroring him and running her fingers over each blood-red bead. She repeated her silent prayers several times as she roamed the ship. Looking for danger around every corner and from each angle of the vessel.

"y/n," a voice rang out from above. It sounded like an angel but when she looked up it was no other than the latest addition to the ship: Mizu. "What's the matter?"

Y/n couldn't help but smile at him despite the distress in his voice as she climbed to join him on in the crows next. It was odd to her that he was up there, especially so early, but she set that aside once she was greeted by his beautiful blue eyes.

"Something is wrong," she told him as she sat in front of him, her legs tucked neatly to her side. The wind blew with more anger than it had on the deck, causing her hair to dance around her face in pirouettes.

"What's wrong?" the young man asked plainly.

"I don't know," she said. "But I can feel something bad is approaching us. Like there's a danger we can't see yet."

"Is that so?" Mizu asked with a small smile tugging at his lips.

"You don't believe me?" y/n said with a grin, tilting her head.

"I didn't say that," Mizu retorted. y/n rolled her eyes, her smile not faltering, as she rose to her feet. Mizu did the same, not wanting her to leave without him. She had no intentions of this regardless. She gazed upon Mizu's face, so strong yet equally soft. She leaned towards him like the moon to the earth, falling forward endlessly. Yet as the moon never reaches the earth, neither did she reach Mizu. Just behind him, golden rays began to reflect on the water.

Turning around she was greeted with the cause of her worries: a bright red sun began to paint the sky. It was only a few brush strokes, yet she knew it was the beginning of crimson sunrise.

"I need to go," Y/n told Mizu with sudden urgency, her voice serious like Mizu had never heard previously.

Y/n rushed down the crow's nest with speed and purpose. Once on the deck, she rushed to the rear of the ship. She swung open the doors to the captain's cabin with no hesitation.

"What is it, y/n?" her father asked, taken aback.

"Look at the sky," she said. The two walked out onto the deck and sure enough the red had grown larger, taking up more and more of the sky.

"We'll monitor the winds," the captain said. "If they don't settle by early afternoon we'll begin furling the sails and bunker down for the night. I pray we won't be blown off course too badly."

As the day went on the winds refused to calm down, they stirred up the water with anger, tossing the ship ferociously before even a cloud could be seen.

Yet the cloud eventually made an appearance. First, they fell over the sky like a chiffon curtain at noon, then by early evening, they fell over the sky in thick drapes. The sun was nearly blotted out completely.

Captain Cabe called for all hands on deck to secure what cargo was on the deck, furling the sails and anchoring the skip in some attempt to stay on course. Two of the largest men were tasked with escorting Fowler from the cell to a secure storage room on one of the lower decks. Rain began to fall from the heavens as if on queue.

Mizu was pulled aside by the captain with a special task.

"I want you to stay by y/n," he told him, his voice both sounding like a demand and a plea. "You are a trustworthy man, I can tell. The storm will pass, but God forbid Fowler escapes, you keep her safe."

Mizu nodded without a word and went off to look for the woman in question. She was scurrying across the deck in an attempt to void the cold rain that poured from the heavens.

"Y/n," Mizu called out for the second time that day. She saw him and took his hand without a word, pulling him close behind her as she led him to her quarters: a small room next to the captain's cabin.

"Your father has requested I stay with you until the storm is over," Mizu said plainly, though he felt his face heat at the words being said aloud.

"Truly?" y/n asked as she kicked off her boot and threw off her coat which was now soaked. Her blouse and skirt were surprisingly dry, with only some dampness at the hem of her skirt. She sat down on her cot, leaning forward.

"Are you mocking me?" Mizu asked as he sat on the chair by y/n's desk, his eyes trained on the young woman.

Y/n shook her head, telling him "I would've wanted you to stay with me regardless of what my father asked of you."

"Truly?" Mizu asked coyly.

"Why of course, good sir," Y/n said as she laid down and looked at the beams that made up her ceiling. She could feel the boat rocking, yet she knew from experience this was only the beginning. She only prayed the doors to her bookshelf wouldn't swing open like last time. A strong wave hit the vessel, causing Mizu's chair to slide a few inches.

"Is this normal?" Mizu asked, her voice no longer playful.

"Pretty normal," y/n replied nonchalantly. "Judging by the winds it will get worse before it gets better." The boat shook again, this time throwing Mizu off of the chair and y/n off of her cot. Both of them giggled as they came to their feet, only to nearly be thrown back onto the floor. Mizu grabbed y/n gently by the waist, afraid she might fall.

"How do you normally pass the time during storms?" Mizu asked. A sudden glee lit up y/n's face.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, removing herself from Mizu's grasp to dig through a chest. It was filled mostly with clothing, yet at the bottom a promising clear bottle. "Behold!"

"What's that?"

"Vodka," she explained proudly, taking a seat on the floor. She patted the ground next to her, beckoning Mizu to join her. "It's like sake, but ... different."

Y/n popped the cap and took a long swig from the bottle, then offered it to her companion. He eyed it suspiciously, before taking an equally long sip. She raised her eyebrow in anticipation of his response. At first, it tasted of nothing, then a sudden burn scalded the back of his throat.

"You drink this?" he asked. "For fun?"

"A few more sips and I promise it'll be fun." The sailor took the bottle from his hand and threw back another gulp. Then two more. A trail of the clear liquid ran down her chin, which she wiped away. She handed the bottle back to the samurai. No words needed to be exchanged to signal that this was now a matter of pride. Mizu took the bottle, taking just as man sip as she had, but with a pause between each as though he was questioning everything. y/n giggled at his expressions.

"It's not that bad," she said, taking the bottle back and corking it again. With great effort, the bottle was returned to the chest. She nearly stumbled as she attempted to sit once again. It was impossible to tell whether it was the alcohol or the state of the rocking ship that caused this. Regardless, Mizu gently held onto her waist as she sat down once again, this time much closer to each other. Y/n looked over at her new friend's face, her lids heavy as the alcohol took its course.

"You're so beautiful Mizu, did you know that?" The man didn't know whether to laugh or be flattered by her drunken affection.

"Nowhere as beautiful as you, y/n," he retorted. He just then noticed that his hands were still around her. Y/n raised her hand to gently cupped his face, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb. She was fully aware that her sober self would never do such a thing, but she couldn't stop herself. There it was again, that force that brought her to Mizu, drawing her in. Then, a sudden realization hit her like an earthquake. She was astonished she hadn't noticed it sooner. 

"You're far too beautiful to be a man," she said. "Too kind, too gentle, as well. No man would be satisfied with simply holding me in his arms. He would try to claw at me and undress me."

Mizu's eyes grew wide. She'd never been outed so quickly, so unprompted. She thought she had mastered the appearance of a man, yet hadn't mastered their cruelty. Mizu, dumbfounded by y/n's observation, opened her mouth to speak yet no words could exit her lips. Y/n gently placed a finger across the blue-eyed woman's lips.

"You need not speak," the sailor spoke, her voice more sincere than Mizu had heard before. Y/n reached behind the woman's head, untying her hair, which fell down her shoulders like black silk. With her hair untied, it was now plain as day: the samurai she had grown to admire so this past week was indeed a woman. Y/n repeated her question: "You're beautiful, Mizu, did you know that?"

A wide smile fell upon Mizu's face. She now cupped y/n face, peering into her eyes. There was a safety in them that she hadn't seen in a long time. Without uttering another word, the two women finally gave in to their gravitational pull. Their lips met in a powerful collision of passion, their bodies melding into one. They became a supernova of desire. 

[cherepizza]

Sorry for being inactive I barely have spare time. It's been nearly two months, woah!! It still feels like march started yesterday

There's a variety of different religious beliefs in beacons' world. One of the world's largest and most widespread religion has 8 major deities who are shown with quite similar appearances. The easiest way to identify a god in their standard form is to to look at their body color. A deity may be accompanied by symbolic plants/animals and objects, especially if the image is colorless. Text also might be present. Some gods have alternative forms which can be more popular in iconography than their standard ones.

It's disrespectful to show gods from the back side of the body, except for one.

1. Goddess of knowledge, medicine (especially the part dealing with childbirth) and law. All 8 sides of her body are "front" sides with two hands and two antennae. Always depicted with light-blue skin.

2. God of creativity and passion, whose all sides are backs. Has bright red skin. In the past this god used to have darker spots all over his body, but gave them away to a mortal who ended up having too many offspring, passing the spots to all of his male descendants. Antennae are not shown (you don't draw dicks on sacred images).

3. Goddess of plants and harvest. Besides her plant-growing abilities she's also known for creating and spreading diseases. Has light-coloured skin with a yellow or ochre tint.

4. Goddess of beasts. Created all living organisms and is able to control them. Beacons are resistant to the full mind control but susceptible to her power of inflicting dread and anxiety. Associated with willpower. Her standard form is a brown-coloured beacon but more often she's shown as a spiky snake-like creature. In this form she can change size and grow so large she'd shadow the sun or become smaller than any bug to crawl under the clothes of those who she deemes unworthy of her presence and sting them. Stings are excruciatingly painful.

5. Goddess of rain, rivers and the sea. Shares ruling over the last domain with her brothers. Though her powers are inextricably tied with sustaining life, she has no direct control over living beings. Typically shown with dark blue skin.

6. God of wind. Controls wind (..who would have thought) and serves as a protector of travellers. Talkative and upbeat, he cheers them up, gives advice and tells entertaining stories, helping them continue their journeys. Has orange-coloured skin.

7. God of deep water. Hides below the surface and rarely shows himself, though in his early years used to live among mortals and taught them sailing along with his sister and brother. His long antennae can easily wrap around victim's legs and drag the unlucky one to the bottom to either kill or imprison and force to work on him. Can control underwater beasts but only to a small extent. Associated with quiet death.

8. God of change. The all-present spirit is inert and cannot change on its own. This god makes sure night would change into day, hunger would come after nourishment, and every living thing would eventually meet their death. He's quite a lonesome god and under normal circumstances rarely interacts with mortals or other entities. Has exceptional persuasion skills. Several myths support the idea of him creating the moon and stars which partly explains why he's described having white skin. The other part comes from that no mortal has ever seen his true form, so no other colour can represent his ever-changing appearance except pure white.

–––––

Important to note that for beacons relationships between siblings play a much greater role than those between parents. So instead of being paired up with a husband/wife higher gods belong to their own sibling groups which go as follows:

Goddess of knowledge – god of passion

Goddess of plants – goddess of beasts

Goddess of rain – god of wind – god of deep water

God of change (only child oh)

In older times gods were treated as separate entities connected only by blood but in recent decades there's been a shift to a more monotheistic view of world. Since gods come from the same source (force/spirit/power) it was believed that they sort of popped up in the world that already existed before them and were left to fool around and figure out what to do by themselves. They weren't a part of the spirit anymore and the only connection remaining was the ninth eye in the middle of the head that could actually see (for mortals it's basically blind, so they were believed not to be bound with the source at all). Some followers suggest that deities and, in fact, the whole world were never separated from it. When the force splitted itself into "sides", giving gods physical bodies, it manifested into other living beings as well, allowing itself to have as many perspectives of the existing world as possible. When a living thing dies, their side turns away to a new life. Gods' powers are not separate, but a spectrum, manifestations of the same thing. The number of turns is considered to be unimaginably big, but finite. It's up for debate what will happen when the force will be out of turns.

[k0r3s-smu1]

​🇦​ ​🇸​​🇹​​🇦​​🇷​​🇷​​🇾​ ​🇳​​🇮​​🇬​​🇭​​🇹

Summary: You and the boy you've been crushing on for years, Muichiro, go stargazing together.

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff

Reader: Female (But you can block some stuff out and pretend its gn)

A/N: I know this is supposed to be a smut account, but I couldn't help myself. I really like this one, and I hope you Mui simps do too :) Tell me what you think!

I held his hand as he led me through the night.

The air was chilly and I could hear the faint chirping of crickets in the background. 

His grip on me was firm but gentle, and he kept his gaze forward. 

I smiled warmly as I watched him, the way his long, silky black hair glided behind him in the wind.

He took time out of his busy life to stargaze with me, so I couldn’t help the butterflies in my stomach as I pondered why.

I’d been friends with him for such a long time, it wasn’t uncommon for him to do something like this… But I still felt incredibly special.

He never paid attention to other girls, or anyone, actually.

He’s always been so forgetful…

Except when it comes to me.

It’s like he actually listens. He actually cares. 

Sometimes it seems like he zoned out during a conversation, only to later surprise me with the dress I eagerly told him about earlier.

He’s an interesting boy, and I often feel like I, a regular village girl, have no right hanging out with such a high ranking slayer. I don’t know why he’s with me.

I don’t know why… but I’m so grateful.

The grassy hill we stood atop was illuminated with the moonlight. Wild flowers grew everywhere, and they danced with each passing breeze.

But the most beautiful thing of all was the boy in front of me. His blue eyes watched the stars above him in awe.

I really wished it was me instead.

He sat down gracefully and looked at me expectantly. 

I crouched next to him and watched the sky as well.

It was so clear tonight, almost no clouds obscuring the view. I tried to make out some constellations with him, pointing and tracing the sky.

He always had such a calming effect on me. I should’ve been nervous, sitting with the boy I’ve liked for years, but I felt completely at ease.

Completely safe.

I turned my head to look at him, and saw that he was already watching me.

“W-what?”

I asked, heat rising to my cheeks.

He blinked at me before murmuring, 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N. How come you don’t have a boyfriend?”

I jumped at his response, backing away a bit.

My face must’ve looked so red at the time.

“H-huh!? Ummm… I-I don’t know… I guess uhhh…”

I searched for words and panicked, confused as to why he would say such a thing.

It wasn’t unlike him to say random stuff right out of his head, not bothering to check whether it was appropriate, but this was a bit different.

His gaze stayed glued to my face before continuing. 

“The boys in your village must be blind if they can’t see what I see.”

I faced him, a blushing mess.

“What do you see…?” He stayed silent a moment before responding, his hand on his chin thoughtfully.

“An artist. Someone who sees beauty in everything. Someone pure, with a smile that radiates warmth. You’re strong and hardworking, cheerful and captivating. You’re understanding and kind, showing respect to everyone… even those who don’t deserve it.”

He ended it in an annoyed tone before continuing.

“Everything about you is so beautiful, your skin, your eyes, your lips,”

He eyed them as he spoke that last word in a way that made me tense up.

“The stars above us can’t compare to you, Y/N.”

He kept almost the same factual expression, the only indication that he was embarrassed was the light pink hue in his cheeks.

I don’t know if time slowed down or if I was just staring at him for a weirdly long amount of time, that he didn’t seem to mind, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

I think a part of me was expecting him to just turn away and act as if nothing just happened, but he didn’t. 

He was serious.

I almost wanted to cry, and I didn’t know why. But the deep happiness in my chest was undeniable, and I didn’t even mean to but it just came out;

“Muichiro… Can I kiss you?”

I asked him, begging with my whole heart that he wasn’t just being friendly and that the speech meant nothing.

I realized what I said but I didn’t take it back.

His eyes widened and his blush darkened, but he simply replied, 

“Yeah.”

It was my first kiss. I didn’t know how exactly to go about this, but I awkwardly scooted nearer until I was right in front of him.

I gathered my courage to lean forward, insecurities suddenly popping up.

What if my breath smells bad?

Did I wear lip balm today?

What do I do if it's not a simple peck?

what if… what if…

what if….

Before I could think further, Mui moved forward and captured my lips with his.

It was gentle, and soft, and I closed my eyes and immediately melted into it.

He held my hands and tilted his head a bit.

My mind was blank. I wasn’t worrying about anything.

The sensation of his lips, and his hands grounding me into the moment was all I could comprehend.

I wanted this moment to last forever, but alas, he pulled away.

A cheeky grin spread across his face.

“You were too slow, so I had to take the lead.”

He told me playfully.

I blushed realizing what just happened.

I turned away bashfully.

“So…does that mean you’re… My boyfriend now…?”

He smiled at me warmly.

“Obviously.”

I laughed and hugged him, breathing in his fresh scent.

We cuddled on the hill that night, watching the night sky and the twinkling stars, just the two of us.

[strnilolover]

(I strongly recommend listening to the song as you read)

Reader x Matt Sturniolo

Trigger Warning's: Suicide (jumping off bridge), Mentions of death, being around as spirit form?, healing after death, mental health struggles (I think that's all?)

A/N: This is written from the readers Pov, not my own. You can imagine who you'd like since no name is ever specified, but this was written thinking about Matt as the male counterpart. There is no dialogue except for the lyrics.

———————————————————————

“Up with your turret. Aren’t we just terrified?”

I stood there in the middle of the bridge, my head hung back as I looked up at the night sky. I knew that this idea wasn’t going to be good, but I felt as if I was in this dark hole I couldn’t climb out of. My thoughts plagued me to a degree where my skull felt like it was burning.

“Shale, screen your worry. From what you won’t ever find”

My feet moved themselves to the edge of the bridge, looking at the waves crash against the pillars that were plunged deep into the water. I felt the bile of fear and guilt crawl up my chest, threatening to expel itself from my parted lips. I hope no one ever finds me.

“Don’t let it fool you. Don’t let it fool you down.”

But I knew this was for the best. The pain everyone else would feel would only be temporary as the memory of me would slowly dissipate into nothing. I couldn’t let myself feel guilty for what I was about to do, not after I’ve already written a note to those I love.

“Down’s sitting around. Folds in the gown.”

My white dress, wrinkled and worn, flowing around my body as the wind brushed across my skin. Tired of sitting around and waiting, I step forward.

“Sea and the rock below. Cocked to the undertow.”

The waves crashed over the rocks, disappearing and re-appearing as my foot stepped off the ledge. The weight of falling sending a shock through my body, it felt welcoming. I didn’t feel afraid, I didn’t think about anything else. I felt – free.

“Bones, blood and teeth erode. With every crashing node.”

My body hit the water, the sharp rocks cutting me before everything went black. The crashing waves send my lifeless body flowing through them, pulling me under and back up again. I didn’t feel anything, everything was at peace, everything felt right.

“Wings wouldn’t help you. Wings wouldn’t help you down.”

Even when the thoughts told me to stop and turn back, I knew once my foot fell over the edge, there were no wings that I could grow to save myself. No anchor I could throw back up to take me back to the one I love, the one I didn’t let help me.

“Down fills the ground. Gravity’s proud.”

Gravity had won. Smiling down at me as I continued to flow through the water, it’s feel of satisfactory. But it did do me one thing, when he went looking for me after finding my letter. Pushing me toward the shore for his tired blue eyes to see.

“You barely are blinking. Wagging your face around.”

He pulled me out of the water, my lifeless face staring back at him as the water spilled from my lips. His sobs tore through the night air, holding me close to him as he tried to wake me up. Whispering ‘sorry’ repeatedly as his forehead rested against my cold one. I tried to whisper, to tell him I’m okay now, that I don’t feel pain anymore.

“When’d this just become a mortal home?”

He hovered over my body as it lay in the casket. The funeral home was packed with loved ones and people who held me close to them. He whispered his speech to me, his face stained with tears, the dark bags evident for anyone to see. He couldn’t believe I would do this, why I didn’t come to him for help. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but he couldn’t hear me no matter how hard I tried.

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t. Won’t let you talk me. Won’t let you talk me down.”

He couldn’t move on. Even after all these years of me being gone, of my soul following him around everywhere he went. He never moved on from me, keeping my things close to him as many tried to tell him it was okay. But he was having none of it, he couldn’t stand the thought of letting me go completely, promising to keep my memory alive for as long as he lived.

“Will pull it taut. Nothing let out.”

He closed himself off. To his family, his friends, his brothers. The guilt of not being able to help eating him alive for so many years. But he finally learned to move on slowly. I was with him every step of the way, his brothers too. He learned to love again, but to make it known I was still special to him.

I was always with him, every step of the way. I knew he could feel it, up until his final breath, the end of his life. Finally re-joining me where we were happy once more.

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[ladylooch]

okay I read ur fanfic of the reader riding Nico and it was amazing. I have a really spicy request similar to that. Imagine his girlfriend grew up a rangers fan and him doing whatever he wants to her after the series win 😈 like him putting his fingers in her mouth 😮‍💨

A/N: Hi Hischier anon! I don’t think this needs any more words from me except what I wrote below. Hope this soothes the ache of losing… and ignited something a whole lot better 🤪

Word Count: 720

Warnings: SMUT 18+ content

You almost think you got away with it. 

Wearing your long loved, well worn Rangers blue tucked under Nico’s jersey with your WAG jacket tossed over them.

You would have believe it too.

Why not?

Last night was thrilling- full of excitement and eagerness and no mention from your boyfriend about the shirt he took off of you in bed last night. He tossed it to the side, ignoring the RANGERS spelled along the front in bold, red letters. His lips nippled aggressively at yours, but no mention of the sin came from him.

Now, in the weak sunlight of the morning, his hands on you bring you to the realization you didn’t get away with shit.

He sits behind you on the bed. Your face down, ass and throbbing folds crudely exposed to the air as Nico winds up and slaps your ass cheek hard. You grunt in pain, whining a bit at the rawness of your skin.

“You gonna say sorry yet?” He asks again. Impatience darkens his tone.

“No.” You even have the audacity to snicker. Born in New York, raised a Ranger’s fan, you’ll bleed that blue and red until you leave this earth- no matter who you share your bed with. Nico blows out a disappointed sigh. He reaches for your hips, flipping you to toss you on your back. Your breasts bounce up, aching for him to touch. He looks them over, knowing it’s what you want. He studies you, teeth raking his lip into his mouth before it snaps back out aggressively. 

The tips of his fingers drag up your stomach. Goosebumps break out along his trail until he circles your nipple, watching it pierce the air. He circles once, twice, then continues between your breasts and up to your mouth. They glide up your chin, then twist your lip beneath their touch. Without him even asking, you flick your tongue out, stroking his flesh. The control shifts for a moment, his eyes closing, enjoying the velvet of your wet mouth. When his eyes open, he shoves his fingers into your mouth. He’s gentle, much gentler than he wants to be because you really haven’t been like this together. But not enough that he isn’t willing to push you.

He strokes along your mouth, spreading his fingers wider, as his dick edges along your slit. Your eyes close and you moan. This eases his fucking of your mouth a bit. He loves the way your pleasure sounds around his fingers.

“Good girl.” He praises as he pushes in. Your eyes spring open then crinkle in pleasure. Your teeth scrape at his fingers as he grins down at you. You’re turning into an absolute whore for this man, sucking appendages and pushing your hips into his thrusts, moaning like you can’t be tamed. “Jesus.” He grits, the slickness of your folds increasing his and your indulgence. 

Your mouth rips away from his fingers as a desperate, loud moan clutches your throat. 

“Fffuck. Nico.” You sputter as he fucks you deep and fast. Your whole body is shaking, fingers clutching at whatever parts of his body you can reach. Nico grabs your hands, pinning your wrists on either side of your head as he works his hips into you at an angle, stroking places of you he’s never touched before. “Ah!” You shout, orgasm gripping your soul, working little, uncontrollable whimpers from your lips. He slows his thrusts to help you ride out the waves. You can barely breathe as he kisses along your chest, reaching a nipple and sucking it between his wet lips. Your fingers come up, grabbing his hair to pull his mouth to yours.

“Hi.” He grins. You laugh as he begins to move again, sighing in pleasure at the sweetness in his strokes now. “Think you’ve learned your lesson, no?” He chuckles.

“Maybe.”

“Gonna give up that Rangers blue yet?”

“Never.” You snarl, then shove his shoulders to straddle him. He gasps at the quick transition, then holds your hips as you ride him, bouncing up and down in a way that has the power in your hands. His palms come to your breasts, holding them, kneading them, watching as you work him over so damn well.

When he comes, jerky and loud, the New Jersey Devil captain thinks that maybe having a Rangers fan for a girlfriend isn’t all that complicated after all.