#feelings of witness notwithstanding

[dont-open-dead-inside-25]

god, do people just... express emotions on accident? is that it? because every time i express something other than unbridled joy it's a deliberate and calculated move... isn't it, if you don't like someone/what they're doing you make micro changes to your behavior and then when they ask about it you say it's fine because that's the script for that situation..? if you're uncomfortable you show it in the "im trying to hide this feeling" way... like you're perfectly capable of not showing any emotion but that's not what you're supposed to do. people are supposed to be able to tell that you're hiding something you have to hit that sweet spot. and if they're close they can ask you what's up and if you're feeling rebellious you can tell them and then you can talk about it. if you're upset and "hiding" it and the person doesn't notice that's their fault. they're not doing their part in the social interaction. right?

[madamealys]

Imagine Aemond and Aegon Targaryen take you as their wife. (+21)

***

The king is on the throne room, listening to the babbling of his nobles. Today’s topic concerns the marriage of his sons. Since the queen only delivered him boys, Viserys is not inclined to search for a bride that is not a Targaryen. And despite the strong protests of his wife, there is a good solution for it that might also appeal to his brother, Daemon, as well as that follows the Targaryen tradition: betrothing his daughter to Aegon.

In the meantime this occurs, whilst the solution is agreed between the king and the council, no one can foretell what a simple arrangement might result. And so whilst they are leaving in discussions concerning Aemond’s betrothal, let us take a look at what is happening outside these quarters.

Notwithstanding the fact that you are the daughter of the feared and powerful Daemon Targaryen, who took residence at Dragonstone with his sister-wife Rhaenyra Targaryen, you are everything he is not.

Sweet tempered, gentle, kindhearted and good. Your wit is as sharp as any sword, your tongue, when provoked, cut as hard as any iron. You are patient, often tolerant to others flaws. This makes you a great companion to all.

As the only daughter of Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra, it does surprise to those who know them for a long while that you came up with a different personality. Regardless, they spoil you and only want the best for you. And Daemon knows that by the time of your marriage age, he is not marrying you to anyone. Perhaps your father is aiming higher than you know.

You’ve grown close to your brothers: Jace being close to you in age has always been your twin. But you were also close to Luce, a sort of mother to Joffrey, Viserys and Aegon. Being the only lady amidst these men also meant that you were very protective by them.

Now years went by and you are a well formed women, whose uncle requested you to spend some time at court—probably in ignorance of the plans arranged for you between him and your parents.

Your oldest brother, Jacaerys, is already married to his cousin Baela Velaryon, all the whilst Lucerys is married to her sister, Rhaena. Joffrey is betrothed to Sara Stark, and even Viserys and Aegon are about to be betrothed to some good noble lady. You remain unmarried, though.

This idea does not occupy your thoughts for many times since you prefer to spend your time helping your mother, with whom you are very close, and flying your dragon, Dreamfyre. Due to your introspective and intense nature, it is in the air where you feel mostly… free and wild, a side you like to keep to yourself.

But ever since you’ve been summoned by the king, you suspect your liberty and wilderness are about to be end. Resigned to your sense of duty—for duty means to sacrifice who you are, or part of it anyways—, you speak nothing of the matter.

“Remember, my daughter, who you truly are”, your mother, who is carrying another child in her belly, speaks to you in the day you are departing to King’s Landing next to your father. “A Targaryen, no more, no less. Equal to all.”

You understand that she and the Queen Alicent do not always see eye to eye. The subtle warning is there, but you too have your share of pride. You smile.

“I shall not disappoint you, mother.”

“I know you won’t. You are my daughter, every bit of me is in you.”

That saying, Rhaenyra kisses your forehead and you are finally ready to leave.

***

Aegon is waiting impatiently for his betrothal. With Aemond by his side, both brothers can only conjecture about the cousin whom they last saw when everyone was a toddler. Both recollect you differently: Aegon judged you as a child who had weird interests; but Aemond understood you as someone who had a very interesting side underneath a gentle demeanor.

“I hope you do your duty well, Aegon”, muses Aemond thoughtfully.

“How else should I do? I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I am not allowed to forget that”, and then Aegon shoots an amusing glance to his younger brother. “What a shame the crown cannot be shared with you, though.”

Aemond limits himself to a roll of eyes, but Aegon knows he agrees with his sarcastic remark. But soon they are distracted of their small talk for the heavy iron doors of the Red Keep are about to open, with the King’s herald announcing your name and your father’s.

Every sound dies before such announcement, but what matters is how you are seen by your betrothed. Aegon looks astonished by the woman you’ve blossomed to. Your silver locks tied in perfectly braid seem to reinforce your heart-shaped face, whose intent lilac eyes mirror innocence.

Your rosy lips open shyly in an inviting smile, and Aegon cannot help wonder what it would be like to kiss you. It doesn’t really help that your black gown reinforces your curves.

Aemond too cannot help lingering his gaze on you. A damsel in every sense of the word, you are like a character of the novels he used to read as a child. Fond memories of the time spent together in this period rush in the back of his mind.

Lovely as always, he thinks to himself, suddenly aching for the idea of never having you. But… he cannot help himself either, can he? Must Aemond be the second in everything, a shadow of his brother?

“Greetings, niece!”, King Viserys smiles down at his brother’a child. He leaves the table to greet you properly, and Daemon is smirking proudly in response. The rogue prince is more than aware of the attentions you caught, specially of two royal princes, which only fuels his ego.

His ambitions will fruit, he knows.

“Your Grace, my uncle”, you dip to a curtsy. “I appreciate your warm welcome.”

“Soon we will be united as one once again. Tradition shall follow like has always been dictated since the days of Old Valyria”, boasts King Viserys. “Y/N is such a pearl, brother. How on earth did you manage to produce a lovely daughter?”

“A question I often ask myself, brother”, says Daemon, proudly. “She is my only girl, very precious to us. We don’t expect a marriage that is below of the prize she is.”

“Father!”, you protest shyly.

“Don’t be too humble, daughter. It’s the true”, he smirks at you, gently ruffling your hair. “We must always be aware of who we are.”

“Then let us celebrate this union. I notice our sister hasn’t come. What happened?”

“Rhaenyra is heavily pregnant, in due time to labor now.”

Whilst they exchange amenities, you are heading to your seat when Aegon comes to greet you. This tall, handsome man, whose looks mirror yours, astonishes you with such a charm that your knees go weak.

It doesn’t really help your case that Aemond is promptly joined by his side. You blush.

“My lords”, you curtsy graciously. “I appreciate the warm welcome.”

“My lady”, greets Aegon, pompously. “How different you look.”

“Forgive my brother”, subtly Aemond meddles in the conversation. “He lacks gallantry when it comes to words. You have grown to a beautiful woman, cousin.”

You detest how the presence of these two men affect you. Worse, that not only your betrothed allures you, but so does his brother.

Aegon flushes, irritated with how poetic Aemond is towards you.

“How could I when a beauty like our dear Y/N stands before us? A mortal could not voice out the most proper form to express such an awe.”

“Oh, please. I am unworthy of these praises though I deeply appreciate them. Shall we enjoy the rest of the evening together? I have missed the company of you both for a while.”

You smile. And soon subtle rivalries dissolve. How could they deny you anything?

***

It’s been a curious, unspoken agreement that you arranged with Aegon and Aemond. The mornings are spent with the latter and the evenings with the former. The evening you spend by your soon to be mother-in-law, whom you manage to charm.

Today, you are flying with Aemond. You come to figure out how you two have lots in common: the same taste for history, philosophy, art and even politics. Not to mention, dragons, of course.

“You are nothing like your father”, muses the quiet prince, once you two land the dragons somewhere nearby a lake, out of the people’s sight.

“This is something I hear often”, you smile at him, eyeing his handsomeness even though part of you admonishes for desiring a man who is not going to be your husband. “But we have some traits we share. Like the taste for wilderness. We are not easily tamed.”

“I’ve always sensed you had something of the sorts in you, Y/N. You pose as the good lady, but are you?”

“I am dutiful”, you say. “I do my duties. Never claimed or aimed to be perfect.”

“Neither have I, even though my dutiful performances have been somewhat misinterpreted”, he snorts.

Before you know, you take his hand in yours. Unconsciously, fingers are laced.

“I think you’ve been misunderstood for a very long time, dear Aem. And I wish so many of us saw that.”

Silence hangs for a while. You and him share a long gaze. You find yourself wishing he kissed you, but Aemond knows his place. He looks away and withdraws his hand. Never before you felt so cold. So you sigh.

***

All the whilst you engage in conversations with the Queen, learning queenship from Lady Alicent herself, Aegon finds Aemond in the corner of the court, observing you with a mix of admiration and distrust.

“If this was about to any other man, I’d have him hanged for looking at such a manner to my wife”, says Aegon, amused.

Aemond has the decency of blush and look away.

“Pardon me for prying, brother.”

“What is there to be pardoned? She is a handsome woman, I give you that. Like honey, too sweet to avert the gaze away”, says Aegon, encouraging his brother to share. “Rumour has it that Aegon shared Visenya with his Baratheon brother.”

Aemond scoffs.

“Visenya wouldn’t play this part, surely. You must be mistaking to Rhaenys.”

“Either one, they shared her, didn’t they? And like my namesake, Aegon was no jealous man.”

The one-eyed prince turns his head to his older brother, intrigued by the subtle suggestion.

“What the fuck are you trying to say, Aegon? Straight to the point if you may.”

Aegon smirks at him.

“I think that, since she likes you too, we should both take Y/N as our wife.”

***

Aegon awaits you this evening in his privy chambers. He’s been anxious for this moment, even though with his mother’s strong presence at court, he didn’t have any moment alone with you aside of public courtship.

A knock of the door is heart, taking away of his thoughts. The prince of Dragonstone stands, concealing his unusual insecurity. When he opens it, he is struck at the thought of you.

So beautiful in the green color, your full breasts almost out of the tight gown you purposely chose to reinforce your curves. The desire alight in Aegon’s eyes makes you dripping wet in your legs, but you know this is the farthest you go to tease him.

Right?

“My prince”, you dip to a curtsy as you walk inside the door, shivering when hearing the click that locks it behind you.

“My princess”, he then takes the chair for you to sit and makes sure to pour red wine in your glass before serving you himself.

When earning you a smile, Aegon forgets that he one day was the charmer, never the charmed.

“You look gorgeous, cousin.”

“I could say the same about you, lord. Thank you. I’ve been looking forward to hearing more of you, out of the prickly ears of the court”, you tell him.

“Indeed. Formalities are not my thing, I’m afraid. But at least the king has been noticing me”, Aegon doesn’t usually open himself this way and when noticing what bursted out of his tongue, he prefers to occupy himself with wine.

You do notice, though, and try to captivate him by sharing something about you.

“Despite being close to my family, I was raised to be somebody else’s wife. I know I was not allowed to choose my heart, even if my parents did.”

Aegon reads you, you spot some early distrust despite the mutual attraction. You feel eager to please him, but you hold back yourself. Eventually he settles.

“I do lament that I am your groom and not Aemond.”

You blush, but do not fly away of the subtle accusation.

“Well, I was always closer to Aemond in age and in interests, my dear, but this does not mean I regret that you are the one I will espouse.”

His slander fingers play on top of the table, and you find yourself holding your breath. When does this tension suddenly come up?

The stare he gives you pierces your soul and you know that, if he wanted you to, you’d be on his knees before him, pledging innocence. But why does the mere image of you in this position arouse you?

“I am hard to love”, muses Aegon, resented. “I am by no means jealous of you and Aemond, but…”

And your anxiety takes your best, of course. You rush to his side and take his hands into yours, surprising him by the urge of your usual composed manners.

“My prince, my liege, you are no hard to love. Your smile enchants me, your eyes read my soul like no other. Your jokes bring a smile to my lips, your good manners give me the certainty that I am not marrying a monster.”

“How can you be certain of this?”, Aegon inquires, puzzled.

“We are lights and shadows. I saw both of them in you and I still choose you.”

He knows you speak the truth, so he lifts you and pinning against the wall, Aegon kisses you. You realize you’ve been longing for this kiss, wishing to feel the taste of his mouth, to pair your tongue with his.

Your husband to be is as sinful as you are a saint. And yet you let him have his way with you. Soon, his mouth is on your neck and sounds start to leave yours.

“My beautiful princess”, Aegon works to kiss your chest, almost ripping your gown with his teeth to get into your breasts.

“Calm down, lord. I need to get to my chambers in whole state”, you smirk at him.

And it’s when you are surprised by how easily he slips to his knees, his lustful eyes wiping off your smirk.

“L-Lord…”

“I want to hear you call my name, Y/N”, he lifts the skirts of your gown, caressing your paled thighs. “I want you to sleep thinking of me doing this to you. Rewarding for being such a good princess.”

And he at first inserts his finger in you, getting you aroused. You are surprised to find yourself so wet, as well as he.

“Never before untouched?”, Aegon asks you, sounding too anxious.

“Never”, you moan, eyelashes barely lift as you search support in the wall. Your hips begin to follow his finger, and you get scandalously louder as his finger finds deeper ways to get to your core.

Aegon watches you in awe and lust, ignoring the bone he has for being the reason you are coming undone—and not Aemond. Though he wills to share with his brother, he knows that ultimately the prize of having you like this is his.

“Let me ruin you”, he groans before replacing his fingers with his mouth.

His tongue dives into your womanhood, twirling around your clot before sucking it skillfully. You are breathless, burning, aching for this prince. Your mind goes blank and all you can think is of this blissful experience of being ruined by this man to whom you are expected to marry.

He drinks every juice he can of you, not stopping until you are about to release. And when you think you do, he removes his face away and stands in absolutely composed.

“Aegon!”, you protest, vexed to be left this way.

“You don’t think I’ve noticed how you teased me?”, he smirks, approaching to you. “We will fuck you, my lady. My brother and I. You wait and you will see.”

Never before you got so pink before.

And when Aegon smiles devilish to you, you are surprised by your own thoughts of wishing this to be true.

***

Aemond is practicing his sword this day when he spots you at a corner, unaccompanied. The one-eyed prince, who happens to be shirtless in this lonely practice, tosses away the sword to greet you in a gentleman like manner.

“My lady Y/N”, he doesn’t mind to get a shirt and dress when you stare at his perfect abs, which makes him smirk. “To what do I get the honor of your presence?”

“Aegon has departed to Citadel to visit Daeron”, you tell him, trying to control your impulses. “The queen forbade me to follow him. She said I’m under your charge, lord.”

Aemond moves from the yard to get to you. You find yourself holding your breath at the proximity of him. Suddenly both arms lock you against the wall.

“Are you now?”, and here he lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Are you playing with us, my lady? Have you been instructed to turn me against my brother?”

Though he sees he’s offended you by the suggestion, Aemond does not take back what he said. And even though you are annoyed by these unflattering words, you don’t run from a fight either.

“You may call me many things, my prince, even though I judged you to know me better than this. But I am no home wrecker.”

And here he pins you against the wall, much to your dismay. He begins to unlace your gown, completely not fearful of being caught. And you barely protest, already dripping wet by how he presses his knee against your womanhood.

“Who am I to judge?”, he lowers his gaze to your mouth, your neck and your breasts. “These are lovely nipples, Y/N.”

You’d have decency covered them, but guessing your moves have Aemond hold your wrists above your head. You are at his mercy and he knows it.

“My brother told me about the gowns you wear, aware of how they reinforce each. But he did let me take a look at them before him.”

A sensible person would have been horrified for being in this position, but you feel aroused by this. To know they wish you like you wish them makes you warm.

As if he reads your mind, Aemond starts to caressing your right nipple, pleased to see you horny.

“Aemond…”, you moan.

Naughty that he is, underneath that dutiful demeanor he puts so well to the public, it’s this prince who speaks dirty to your ear.

“You will be fucked so well, my love, that you shall not have to choose, I promise you. Aegon and I have always shared what we loved the most”, and saying so he bites down your ear. “I will fuck your pussy until you burn and you will feel it with my being. The first born son will be mine, though. I know it.”

And then his indecent tongue paces around your lips only to get to your neck and then…

“Aemond!!”

Like a thirsty prince, he sucks each nipple, biting it, craving it desperately. You want more, you are doomed, you know well. Your pious conscience accuses you of whoring, but nothing is stronger than giving yourself to this prince.

But of course Aemond has to interrupt it.

“We best not get caught”, he whispers, smirking victorious before the protest you shoot him in a gaze. “I thought you liked it, no?”

You pull him for one long kiss, though, and every lust is carefully put aside as Aemond, albeit hesitantly, kisses you back.

Not long after that, the rogue prince realizes that he left more than lust in the taste of your tongue.

***

The marriage, albeit scandalous, happens. Fortune rises underneath tradition. Some might say this is Aegon and his wives in other forms, back to the flesh in another version… certainly a good omen for those who believe in old stories.

Feasts and tournaments are thrown by the king and his brother to celebrate this unique union, never before seen until the day Aegon espoused his two sister wives.

“I hope that you know what you are doing”, says Rhaenyra at this day of your marriage. “These are wayward boys, one of whom nearly got into a fight with Lucerys.”

“I remember that night well, mother”, you try not to sound so irritating at your mother’s grudge. “This is not the time to speak of what has long been buried in the past. If I recall well, they have amended their relationship and all is well, as it should be.”

“I only worry over you, my daughter.”

You gently place a kiss over your mother’s face and smile at her.

“I aim as high as any Targaryen would in my position.”

“As ambitious as your father”, so chuckles Rhaenyra.

“I am his daughter too, after all.”

And you two smile in confidence.

***

Later that evening, bedding ceremony begins. You want both of your husbands there in your chamber. And when they show up, you cannot believe your eyes.

“Lady Y/N, you are beautiful”, says Aegon, already partially naked. He’s the one to pull you, making sure you stand between him and Aemond.

You feel Aemond’s cold hands rest in your hips, giving you shivers.

“We have all been longing for this, haven’t we?”, he murmurs in turn.

You turn your head at him, barely blinking as he is about to kiss you but this moment is stolen by Aegon, who plants his lips against yours. It’s a slow kiss, peppering for what’s coming all the whilst Aemond slowly lifts your nightgown, caressing gently your tits before removing it over your head.

“I am too fortunate, I’m afraid”, you whisper before stroking Aegon’s face. “Such handsome men.”

You kiss him back before breaking it to do the same with Aemond. Now Aegon leans to kiss your neck, whilst his brother plays with your tits.

You get hornier and naughtier, moaning softly before these teasings.

“There’s no need to play the good girl anymore, Y/N”, says Aemond, biting down your lip.

“Indeed”, and here Aegon pulls back your hair as his brother inserts his finger in your womanhood. “We will ruin you, won’t we, Aemond?”

You gasp as Aemond fucks you with his finger, trying not to lose control as Aegon kisses your neck and plays with your tits again.

“We will, indeed. But I need a reward for all this waiting…”

“We both need it”, agrees Aegon. “Show us what you are capable of, Y/N.”

So indecently you go down to your knees. Your eyes spark bright when looking at each erected manhood, unsure what to choose first until you start to caress Aemond’s all the whilst giving the privilege to Aegon’s.

You come to agree with both of them. You are hardly a saint, or divine by any means. You lust after each, and you devour these cocks with devotion. Pausing in between, you let them guide you.

It’s indecent, it’s sinful, but you like this. And so do they.

“Let us treat our princess kindly”, says Aegon, leading you to bed. “Not sparing my seed in these red lips…”

And here he uses his two fingers to play with your mouth, which you promptly devour. Only then he inserts them into your womanhood. Oh, how condemned you are. Such is the price for loving these wayward brothers.

“You may go, brother. I will watch”, says Aemond.

His voice purrs something in you and you find yourself a beggar. Where has your pride gone to? Oh, nowhere to be found.

“My lord!”, you push Aegon to your lips, so you kiss him fiercely and passionately. “Please!”

Aegon smiles like a lion, aware that he has the prey he wants under his power. Thus it is he finally makes way to penetrate you, deflowering his beautiful flower after years of repressing his desire for you.

In the meantime you and Aegon consume this flame, Aemond burns alone, touching his manhood before the scene he watches, which in turn wakes in him darkest desires. He wants to possess you, to make you his, to dispute over your flesh, to hear you call his name.

But there is something powerful in delegating this to Aegon, submitting to his brother’s will even here.

As Aegon collapses over you, he doesn’t let his brother to waste his seed. Though your womanhood is sensitive, you ache for more. They know you are as hungry as they are.

Aemond doesn’t need to be summoned. He crawls over your body, and here with no eyepatch to cover his eye, you stare at old wounds, at his taunted gaze covered by a beautiful sapphire.

“Fuck me”, you mewl under his powerful stare. “Aemond…”

He is gentle at first. Slow is his touch over your curves, taking his time in holding your face, drinking on your pleading eyes as he cups your nipples, touching each until they are hardened enough to make you beg. Only then he bends over you, kissing you passionately, prompted to release his fire.

It’s indeed a very wild evening. Soon Aegon comes to dispute you. Suddenly all of the three are sitting in bed, and you are in heaven. Standing in between them, your husbands’ mouth devour your exposed skin, and new levels of pleasure are disclosed as you are under their power.

Neither part dares to stop what’s been doing however until you throw your head back at Aemond’s shoulder and let a cry out.

“The dragon lady has burnt”, so whispers Aegon in your ear, watching as Aemond kisses you softly.

What a night. Oh what a night indeed. And you couldn’t have been happily married, could you?

***

Epilogue.

What has started as a lustful game between the three parts soon results in a successful partnership. You do love each brother and they love you in turn.

To a general astonishment, this works like in Aegon I’s days. You rule court, playing your part well. Welcoming guests with your smile and good manners, much of which you’ve learned from the former Queen, who actually cares for you like a daughter she never had.

All is well. You are Daemon Targaryen’s daughter after all. Peace is established successfully and familial relationships are restored. Soon, your brothers are back to frequent court with their wives whom you delight to call sisters.

In due time, you prove to be as fertile as your lady mother. You produce fifteen children, not many of which come to adulthood. These are:

1. Jaehaerys II, who takes as his wife his sister; had offspring of their own.

2. Rhaenyra, wife of Jaehaerys.

3. Maegor, lord of Harrenhal; he first took as espouse his sister, Daella, but she died in childbirth; then he contracted a new marriage to Minisa Tully.

4. Maekar, lord of Summerhall: took as wife his sister, Rhaena.

5. Rhaegar, died in infancy, known as Prince of Winter.

6. Rhaena, Lady of Summerhall; wife to Maekar.

7. Baela, lady of High Garden.

8. Daeron, became a Maester at Citadel.

9. Aerys, lord Hightower; married lady Gaena Tyrell.

10. Helaena, lady of Winterfell.

11. Mariah, died in infancy.

12. Visenya, lady of Casterly Rock.

13. Daenys, lady Arryn.

14. Viserys, ward of the West.

15. Alys, Viserys’s twin and wife.

***

“You are still as gorgeous as ever”, whispers Aegon in your ear.

It’s late evening and both of your husbands are found in your arms. You still shiver at how King Aegon speaks to you, how he plays with your tits. You purr lightly.

“Oh Egg, you know not what you speak”, you giggle quietly. “Despite my efforts in looking elegant to you and Aemond, I gave birth to fifteen children.”

He plants a kiss over your forehead, careful in not waking Aemond, who sleeps against your left breast. From certain perspective, you three are engulfed in one another.

“I maintain my word. When did I ever look out of our bed, wife?”, says he, once very familiar amidst brothels before marrying you.

You turn at him with malice in your eyes as you speak.

“No whore does what you taught me to do to you”, you smirk.

Aegon sighs heavily, sinking into your lips again.

“Always restless.”

You chuckle.

“Not always”, you lean against his chest. “But I have been blessed, that is for sure.”

As you stroke Aemond’s hair, you slowly drift to sleep, glad that Aegon is looking after you.

“Haven’t we all?”

Chroniclers maliciously say you’ve married Aegon out of duty and Aemond out of pleasure, but what do men know of a woman’s heart? You love them both, with no difference of affections. And you are more than pleased to know they are not jealous when it’s about you.

It’s how it works. Tradition, power, yes. But love and confidence too.

You sleep this evening like you slept many others in the former twenty moons: as the luckiest woman of the Seven Realms.

[userautumn]

i've said it before and i'll say it again — shipping notwithstanding, if 9-1-1 chooses not to make eddie queer, that would be one of the biggest missed opportunities i have ever witnessed in media history and that's not even an exaggeration. i'm not a straight!eddie hater but god. his arc is primed for a late in life sexuality realization wrapped in his feelings about religion and masculinity. it's all right there. please.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Warnings: mentionings of torture, injury.

Don’t Tell Him

The pain is greater and more agonising than all the beating he got in that filthy cell in Serbia, because this pain isn’t just physical. Sherlock knows that if he answered John’s insistent questions about who the shooter was, it would break John’s heart, despite what Mycroft says.

“Tell him, brother mine,” Mycroft urges. “John is far more resilient than you give him credit for, and his feelings for you…”

“Don’t!” Sherlock snaps. “The love of his life shot me in the heart. I refuse to add that burden to his confused mind.”

“I agree that he is confused, but not for the reasons you think, Sherlock,” Mycroft says cryptically.

Sherlock closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He’s not only in constant pain, but he’s also exhausted with all the emotions that this whole business regarding Mary Watson throws his way. It’s so much harder to stay focused and aloof when the painkillers leave his brain all foggy and relaxed. His pining for John comes to the surface, tugging at his heart.

“Go home to Mary,” Sherlock urged John before Mycroft arrived. “She needs you more…”

“I’m staying,” John interrupted in his stubborn tone. “Just fetching some clothes and stuff before I’m going with you to Baker Street tomorrow. Non-negotiable!”

He had lifted his chin in defiance, daring Sherlock to protest. His last words are a puzzle Sherlock still hadn’t been able to deduce.

“You need me, and I need…to…”

***

John has gone to Aldi to buy milk, bread and eggs, wile Mycroft stays to keep an eye on his brother, with strict instructions from the good doctor to call if anything changes regarding Sherlock’s pulse, heartrate, temperature, and several other unnecessary trifles. (Sherlock’s words)

“John, for Christ’s sake, go!” Sherlock says exasperated. “I’m fine.”

John looks sceptically at him, grabs his wrist and takes Sherlock’s pulse. When he’s satisfied, he hurries out of the bedroom and descends to the front door, probably running all the way to the shops to reduce his absence to a minimum.

“Are you still convinced that he only has friendly feelings for you?” Mycroft asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Don’t tell him, Mycroft! He can’t know. If he’s ever to realise how much…I…I wish she had finished…”

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft rarely raises his voice but when he does, it speaks volumes.

“I would not survive your demise, brother mine. She can count herself lucky that she didn’t kill you. Even John’s plea for her life would’ve been in vain, her pregnancy notwithstanding.”

Mycroft’s voice trembles with emotions, which is odd to witness.

***

Sherlock has no sense of time anymore, but he thinks it’s been days since his conversation with Mycroft. Something is being delivered, and John’s steps are heavier than usual when he ascends the stairs.

Carrying something. Not groceries. Two bags. One over each shoulder.

When John brings his meds later, Sherlock observes that something is different. John’s face is displaying a variety of conflicting emotions. There’s determination and insecurity, sorrow and relief, anger and hope. The last deduction does something to Sherlock’s shattered heart.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asks calmly, although he’s terrified of the answer.

John’s voice sounds mechanical, as if he’s rehearsed what he’s about to tell Sherlock.

“Mary left a note. She’s gone. The baby isn’t mine. Her name isn’t hers. She’s apparently an assassin. Worked for Moriarty. She shot you. You knew, and you wanted to shield me. I want you to stop doing that.”

He sheds his clothes down to his pants and tee and climbs carefully into bed. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

Is this real, or a hallucination?

“It’s real, Sherlock,” John tells him, as if he’s the one who’s become a mind-reader.

He lies down beside Sherlock, letting his palm rest over the wound, over his heart. The heart that beats solely for John.

Does he know? If so, how?

“You’re not as subtle as you think, Sherlock. What I saw traces of before this, became clear as day when your brain function was compromised by painkillers. Am I wrong?”

Don’t hide. Tell him.

“No, John. You’re not,” Sherlock says and places his hand over John’s.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

@helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear

@meetinginsamarra @topsyturvy-turtely @phoenix27884 @jolieblack @221beloved

[countesscee]

i know there’s a lot of talk about the differences between the original webtoon and the drama adaptation of marry my husband, and a lot of it pertains to people disliking it, but i.. actually kinda like how the drama is?

it’s different enough from the manhwa that i’m genuinely so into it because i get such pleasant surprises.

like, the drama’s take su-min’s obsession towards ji-won is one of my favorite things to watch— it goes beyond the usual female villain archetype of just wanting to destroy the female lead and/or achieve their man. no, su-min’s so fucking dependent on ji-won that she permanently ruins everyone’s relationship with ji-won so that ji-won relies solely on her. there was the elevator scene that perfectly describes her tactic: su-min waits to comfort her after every altercation, to remind her that it’s an us vs. them scenario (notwithstanding that su-min is the sole reason why conflict happens to ji-won).

how toxic. how interesting to watch. (edit: goes without saying that i do not condone this abuse in real life. nonetheless, it is very interesting to witness because i feel that i’ve never seen this type between female relationships depicted in kdrama. you can tell that su-min has a really twisted kind of love for ji-won, in the way that she expects ji-won to always be hers, and it reflects in her actions. it’s like. she wants to swallow ji-won whole, whether to be her or to be with her (and only her)).

also— the reveal?!?! i did not expect that but it’s still on my mind and so FUCKING funny. hands down one of the best reveals for pure comedy gold.

[terrence-silver]

how do you think what Larusso's relationship would be like! beloved (daniel's oldest daughter in her twenties) and old man! Terry during the Cobra Kai timeline, especially if beloved, was extremely morally similar to Terry? let's say, they "match each others freak." ❤️ I love your blog, especially because I'm also a writer and I love your take on Terry, your in-depth character study of him is terrific, sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language, I'm Brazilian, lots of love from here!

Hello, Brazil! ❤️

---

Frankly, I think Daniel would just feel downright haunted by one of his kid's proclivities and her character long before Terry ever returns into the picture --- years and years before he does, actually. This is an ongoing process that stems back to the time Mr. Miyagi was still alive; it's like Terry Silver never went away in the first place, notwithstanding the lingering trauma and bad memories that Daniel would have to live with on a daily basis, but that his own daughter is starting to resemble one of his demons from the past in worldviews, personality and behavior now too; it is literally the worst development imaginable. Nothing and nobody in his life is safe. Moving on is impossible when the battlefield is happening under your own roof. This whole city, the passing decades, The Valley itself as a whole and each passing generation feels like it has something of Terry Silver's in them and he's never truly gone. His darkness is stubbornly ever-present.

It's like Terry infected everything, even things and people he never actually touched.

Never came in contact with.

Never interacted with.

Nonetheless, it is there, finding ways to seep into every pore of his existence like an infection, possibly leading to Daniel being strictest precisely with his oldest daughter in the hopes that he'd steer her away from becoming the way she's becoming to overcompensate for her shortcomings and all the things he's expected of her but that she didn't live up to from his point of view. Something she might take to heart, because what child of their parent's wouldn't? Cause her to feel like she's far from her father's favorite. Like he cares for Sam, Antony and Louie a lot more and that he sees them as 'the good children he can feel proud of' because they're incarnations of everything Mr. Miyagi espoused...unlike her', which couldn't be further from the truth because Daniel would adore his estranged daughter too, but still, his stance towards her would be here causing her to wish to rebel, go against the mold even more and willfully embrace every bad impulse she has even more than ever before because it's hard to reconcile the fact that she's incompatible to her family. That she's distinct. Daniel takes a different approach with his problematic older daughter because he loves her and doesn't want her to grow into a morally questionable person, but is simply so afraid of what he's witnessing in her that his methods might be unbalanced, their root found in fear --- infinite parental concern. Meaning, he might snap, he might yell, he might be judgmental and not always be an exemplary, patient parent, because validly, it's hard to be exemplary when your own kid reminds you so much of a past abuser who messed you up for life. He might take some draconic measures with her too. His belief in pacifism and 'letting go' might just vane as well. What choice does he have? She's starting to resemble...someone he knew a long time ago. Someone he'd rather not speak of anymore. Jesus! He doesn't even want to think about it ever again! Hard not to! When she's right there, at the dinner table, in his own house, his own flesh and blood, someone he adores, someone he would do anything in the world for --- anything but accept that she's going down a negative path. What parent worth his penny would? Should he just allow that without doing anything?

So, when she befriends Terry, of all people?

Becomes a little too close for comfort with him?

It's a nightmare.

It's like watching his life's work and efforts at setting a good example literally collapse and history repeat itself except in an infinitely worse way than could ever be anticipated. Daniel would be convinced Terry Silver has perversely planned this for god knows how long and that getting under the skin of his daughter was premeditated, and heck, knowing Terry, maybe it was too and that this is revenge. Some sort of sick scheme. Grooming. The desire to continue ruining his life by hitting Daniel where it hurts most, even decades after everything that's went down and for the longest time, Daniel would feel like he's the only one who understands the unhinged gravitas of the situation, causing him to feel crazy and all alone in the world, with nobody to get his point of view and how eerie and harrowing Terry being with his daughter actually is, whereas Amanda, for example, wouldn't see the full picture for a good while, her concerns being limited solely to the age difference, but not the actual context under which any of this is happening seeing as how she's not entirely aware of what went down between Terry and Daniel because Daniel didn't tell her. In fact, she might even understand why their daughter likes Terry Silver. He's rich, he's handsome, he's charming, sure, a little sleazy, perhaps, but ultimately the harmless, inoffensive kind of sleazy (ultimately being too old for their daughter). She might even see Daniel freaking out as slightly overblown. He's overreacting. Of course, man's old enough to be her grandfather and it's a reason for concern and intervention but surely, not the amount of panic and crisis Daniel's exhibiting --- except, it makes the whole situation only feel the more dizzyingly infuriating, because that, that guy, right there, is also simultaneously the worst person Daniel knows and he knew quite a lot of those. And now, his own daughter is consorting with him. How does Amanda...just not get it!? He would feel like he's losing his damn mind. Terry Silver ruined so much of his late teenage years and the years that followed, influenced by the lingering trauma and trust issues; the last thing Daniel would allow for him to have his daughter's soul too. This whole discourse might just lead to the Larusso's marriage encountering shaky grounds.

Amanda could easily be taking her daughter's side, because ultimately, she'd see her daughter as a free person (and she'd critically misunderstand how awful this whole thing) is and Daniel would become more and more volatile seeing as how he wouldn't feel empathized with in the least bit. ''It's the man who tortured me when I was just eighteen!'' he'd yearn to scream out. ''He made me believe he was my friend. That he had his best intentions at heart. And then he tortured me and I trusted him, Amanda! He and John Kreese! They did it together! And now, Terry Silver's got his hooks in our daughter and she's letting him! You're telling me to calm down!? I can't calm down!''

Daniel would fight against the situation with all his might.

He'd argue.

He'd get his hands dirty.

He'd ironically show that bit of Cobra Kai he had in him all along.

He'd do things he'd do in no other situation if it meant changing his kid's perspective.

But, he'd under no circumstance accept his daughter being the way she is.

Just like he wouldn't accept her being with the enemy.

Terry Silver can't have his family.

Terry Silver, though? He'd manipulatively and very sweetly expertly exploit this pre-existing rift in the family to masterfully to divide the Larussos even further and get exactly what he wants by being the (seemingly) understanding, concerned supportive shoulder for Daniel's daughter and offering the camaraderie she doesn't feel she ever had at home. He becomes her support network. Her only support network, eliminating everyone else who isn't him because there's 'no matching the freak' of someone who has a couple of decades of experience in malice ahead of you, who fought in a war and who could, effectively, push came to shove, kill and die with relish. Daniel's daughter might think she can go toe to toe with Terry where being chaotic is concerned (and he'd fuel and enable her belief that this is true) but is there really anyone who actually can? Heck, he might even encourage her to keep a good relationship intact with her folks all while effectively sabotaging said relationship purely so he'd seem guiltless in the matter, playing good cop, bad cop accordingly. But, ultimately he's cool! He's awesome! He lovebombs! He lavishes! He's generous! He's seductive! He can give the spoiled Italian princess the life she's used to and so, so, so much more. He takes on whatever mask and personality is best suited for the situation to draw people in! He's older and by extension, probably makes a younger woman feel more mature and 'cool' by comparison too, appealing to whatever mommy and daddy issues are present! He's all about embracing instincts, impulses, holding nothing back which feels liberating to the otherwise Zen and possibly stifling teachings of Mr. Miyagi! He's rich! He's knowledgeable! And he's Terry Silver, which automatically could mean a world of damage. Never doubt the man's an influence that would entirely destroy what little stability's left in this family and turn Daniel's daughter against her father, mom, brothers, her sister and literally everyone she ever knew. In the end, she'd get more than she's ever bargained for. She thought she had control over the situation. She didn't, though.

Her dad would've been correct all along.

Terry Silver corrupts and devours.

Nothing's for free.

[ainyan]

FFXIV Write - Day 2: Horizon

Thancred leaned against the forward railing of The Seventh Dawn, his body lightly pressed against Kal’istae’s back. She, too, clung to the railing, her feet planted on the bottom rail while she held on to the top. The ship’s rail, built to provide safety for Elezen and Roegadyn sailors, was almost too high for the Hyuran Captain to lean on comfortably, much less the fulm-shorter Au Ra. So he held her in place, keeping her steady so she could gaze out towards the west and the lowering sun.

For safety, of course.

If Kal’istae took any exception to his precaution, she did not show it; her face was lifted into the breeze created by their slow passage westward, midnight strands flitting about her face and horns as she inhaled deeply of the salty sea air. “What did you want to show me?” she asked curiously as she scanned the horizon but saw nothing but the wavering surface of the sea and the reddening disk sinking below it.

“Patience,” he murmured, trying to ignore the way the hints of lavender and starflower that scented the breeze made his pulse quicken. 

Her laugh was soft and low and mingled with the crash of the water against the bow of the ship. “Have you not figured out yet, Captain Waters, that patience is not my strong suit?” But she did not push the matter further, content to gaze out over the water and enjoy the warmth of him against her spine.

It was a start.

“Watch,” he whispered against her horn as the last of the sun sank below the horizon. Against her back, he tensed, and she could feel his arms tighten about her, fingers gripping the railing in anticipation. In response, she clung to the damp wood and stared intently at that single point of red before it winked out.

One heartbeat.

Two.

A dull flash of emerald green erupted from the point where the sun had disappeared, briefly illuminating the sky. In the center of that burst of light stood the outline of a great ship, hulking and monstrous and lit from within by that same ghostly foxfire. Kal’istae gasped and jerked backwards into Thancred’s chest, and his arm slid around her waist, holding her close as they watched the spectacle.

It hung in the air for a handful of heartbeats, then the green faded, stealing with it the silhouette of the ship, and all that was left behind was the deepening twilight, the first of the stars, and the afterimage burning in their eyes.

“Was that the Agrius?” she asked, her voice soft and reverent.

“Aye,” Thancred murmured, not loosening his hold on her; instead, he filled his lungs with the scents of her lavender and starflowers and told himself it was only to settle a stomach made raw by the sight of that accursed ship. “Which ship it is depends on where you are, but here in the straits between Limsa and Ul’dah, it’s usually one of those lost during the Battle of Bahamut. Though this is the first time I’ve seen the Agrius.”

She was silent for a long moment. Then, “Thank you,” she said softly. “Whatever ship it was notwithstanding, that was an amazing thing to witness.”

He was silent for an equally long moment. “You’re welcome.” Suddenly self-conscious, he stepped back, reaching out to help her down before shoving his hands into the pockets of his loose breeches. “I should go make sure we’re still on course,” he said suddenly.

She gazed up at him. “Where are we going?”

His gaze trailed past her, towards the ocean beyond. “Ultimately, Limsa Lominsa. I hope to pick up the trail of the Garleans there. But first? I’ve a stop to make.”

“Where?” she repeated.

His single eye remained cast out to sea. “I’ve business to see to in Horizon.”

FFXIV Write 2024 (Daily Prompt List)

Day 2 - Horizon

OC: Kal'istae Miurani

NPC: Thancred Waters

AU: The Scions of the Seventh Sea

[ephemeral-fae]

Thinking about how Catherine and Grigor turn to each other in the wake of Peter’s death. How they were the only ones who witnessed it (Hugo and Velementov notwithstanding). How Grigor is the first person Catherine has to convince that he’s not dead. And how once it is revealed that he is dead, by both of them breaking simultaneously, they two are the only ones truly ravaged by the grief it brings. 

Thinking about Catherine asking Grigor to tell her stories about Peter. Thinking about Grigor’s loyalty being won in the first episode by the simple fact that Catherine makes Peter happy. Thinking about the fact that Grigor won’t kill her because Peter loved her.

The two of them were wholeheartedly in love with the same man. A man who was baffling, who was obviously without remorse or second thought for much of his life. A man who hurt them both, intentionally and unintentionally, over and over and over again. A man who they both had tried to kill, and who had tried to kill them in return. No one else was as completely devoted to him. Not Elizabeth, not Georgina. Everyone else in his life saw him as a pawn, as something to manipulate to get what they want, noted when Georgina states “Nothing I used to own is mine anymore.” and when Elizabeth gets mad at him for not secretly ordaining Paul. Catherine and Grigor though. They get mad at him, yes. They are hurt by him time and time again. But they don’t use him. They love him. Completely and purely. Naively. It is why Grigor is the only person Catherine trusts with Paul. It is why she kisses him when they get back to the palace. The only people who can understand the depths of their grief are them. Their love for him blinded them. Their love for him stunted them. No one else will ever understand the depths of their love for such a madman, and no one else will ever comprehend the depths of insanity they were both slowly driven to by their love for him. In both their love for, and grief of Peter, they are completely united.

“I could’ve said anything else. Any other words. Salt bath, otter spit, Irish stew, hurt me, love me, kiss me, forget all, touch me, hit me, shoot me. Love you with every sinew and one day it will hurt all over to never touch you again. To never feel our eyes meet and inflame me. To never hear an inane thought that somehow made my blood sing. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” - Catherine the Great

“Fuck you for your lack of love. He was a man who felt everything. Not with the hurdles and cul-de-sacs and fences we stop ourselves with. If he was fury, he was nothing but fury, nothing but joy, nothing but killing. He knew life whole, not by measly portion. He loved me that way. He was the rarest of men. He was all fucking in on life! You will never see his like again! For my life ended too, in that freezing water. I loved him. More than I have ever loved anything or ever will.” - Grigor Dymov

[arminsfavoritepookie]

Sugar daddy Reiner who epitomizes gentility and compassion, an absolute pillar of strength and security to those around him. His authoritative presence commands respect, accentuated by his well-tailored black suit, accentuating his broad and sturdy shoulders.

The sartorial statement screams of raw power, reiterating Reiner’s dominance. With an arm perpetually poised on the small of your back, he shields you from the noise of business dealings, bringing an overwhelming sense of calmness, shielding you from any misfortunes.

Donning a pristine white, thigh-slit dress personally chosen by him, you bask in Reiners enchanting persona, basking in the rays of elegance and sophistication emanating from his commanding persona. Reiner’s golden blonde hair and rough-hewn stubble make him the epitome of manhood, filling your heart with an unparalleled warmth whenever he whispers into your ears, expressing his devotion for you.

Notwithstanding his tenacity, Reiner often feels agitated when around multitudes of people, unease rising from within. The formidable self-doubt pulls him down, leading him to question his adequacy in being with someone of your calibre, someone that the world regards as a paragon of beauty.

As you witness the unanticipated trepidation seeping into his eyes, you realize his deepest fear; the fear of losing you. A sensation of profound gratitude flows through you, filling you with an undeniable sense of satisfaction that you're capable of providing him with the solace and protection he seeks in moments of vulnerability.

The thought of leaving him is unfathomable, and thus you tenderly hold him, imparting him with stability and fortitude, becoming his faithful and steady partner through thick and thin. Reiner’s presence in your life imbues it with unmatched worth, leaving you no room for contemplation of life without him.

Sugar daddy Reiner embodies all that is charming and tender in the bedroom. His gentle caresses, paired with soft, delicate kisses, have you transfixed and yearning for more.

His firm grip, clasping your hand in a tight embrace as you begin to writhe, all the while his visage buried in the soft, supple flesh of your neck, sends shivers down your spine. Your cries of ecstasy, though unbidden, come naturally as he indulges himself, his thick cock plunging ever deeper within you.

Yet, as you writhe and twist under his affectionate ministrations, you cannot help but sense a hesitation. It is as though he holds back, unwilling to truly unleash the full force of his tremendous size upon your form.

Though you are no delicate flower, his robustness intimidates you, and he knows this all too well. With subtle hints, you have tried to coax him into letting go, but to no avail. His responses, each and every time, are a kiss and a whisper, professing his love and his reluctance to ever harm you.

Sugar Daddy Reiner often woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his body trembling with fear. His dreams were always vivid, haunting him with terrible images and sounds that he couldn't shake off. But the worst part was when he would claw at his own skin, as if trying to escape from some unseen monster, calling out your name in a piteous whimper.

Your heart ached seeing him like that, shattered and broken, and you wished you could take away all his pain.  But you couldn't. Not really. Because there were certain boundaries to your relationship with him; he was nothing more than a sugar daddy to you, not your boyfriend, not your husband.

You knew that his nightmares were a symptom of something deeper, something he wasn't willing to share with you, and it frustrated you to no end. 

Every time you attempted to address the issue of his nightmares, he would push you away, shutting himself off from you and asking you to leave. This was deeply frustrating because you longed for him to take that final step, to offer himself to you wholeheartedly, yet it seemed like he was hesitant to do so.

The emotional distance between the two of you became a source of constant worry, gnawing at you every time you were together.  Although Reiner's constant attention and generous gifts were appreciated, they never felt enough. You craved more than just material possessions, and it seemed like he was simply attempting to make up for the lack of intimacy with his lavish offerings.

Despite his efforts, you knew that this wasn't what you wanted. You wanted the real Reiner, flaws and quirks included, but the impenetrable wall that stood between you two seemed insurmountable. 

Reiner was intuitive enough to notice that something was amiss. He bombarded you with incessant texts and calls, making you anxious and overwhelmed. You knew that avoiding him forever wasn't a solution, so you tried to force yourself to face him every time he asked to see you. But it was always the same routine— the half-hearted touches, the strained smiles, the promises that never materialized, and it only added to your growing frustration.

  Every time you came up with an excuse to decline his invitation, his voice carried an underlying sadness that further fueled your sense of inadequacy. You wanted nothing more than to give him what he asked for, to show him how much he meant to you, but somehow you could never muster up the courage to do it. You remained stuck in a self-imposed trap of disappointment, struggling to find a way out.

Sugar Daddy Reiner was a man who had it all—the money, the power, the influence. But all of it seemed meaningless in the face of losing you, his heart's greatest desire. As he lay awake at night (for the first day without you) , he could feel his heart tearing apart at the thought of you leaving him.

He knew deep down that all you wanted was for him to let down his guard and reveal the man he truly was beneath the polished exterior.  But Reiner was trapped in the grip of his insecurities, unable to break free of the gnawing doubts and incessant anxieties that consumed him. Every time he tried to reach out to you, you always avoided him, leaving him feeling even more isolated and alone.

It was like a vicious cycle, with his fear driving him deeper and deeper into despair.  The more he pushed you away, the more desperate he became to hold onto you. He would try to catch glimpses of you whenever he could, stalking your social media profiles, driving past your apartment building, and sending you messages that he knew you'd take hours to respond.

  It was a frenzied haze of emotion that he found himself caught in—the urge to be close to you, to hold onto you tightly, to never let go. And yet, he felt powerless to stop himself from spiraling out of control.  In a moment of clarity, he found himself walking down the quiet street towards the quaint little cafe where you worked.

He knew that this was his last chance to save what little was left of his shattered heart. He knew that if he could just speak to you, really speak to you, and lay all his cards on the table, he might just be able to salvage something from the wreckage.

Sugar Daddy Reiner, a man of poise and prestige, appeared as if he had been through the wringer. His normally impeccable hair was disheveled and unkempt, resembling a bird's nest perched atop his head.

His eyes, typically radiant with care, now appeared to be exhausted, surrounded by a pair of dark circles that bespoke an underlying burden. It was apparent that something had upended the self-assured and unwavering Reiner, a sight so unfamiliar that it nearly shattered his identity.  

As he approached you, his hands trembled with an unease that seemed palpable, begging for reassurance. His throaty murmur was barely audible over the rustling leaves and soft swish of grass, "Can I talk to you for a moment?" You saw him, then—vulnerable, in pain, his once mighty demeanor wavering in a quiver.

Without a second thought, you grasped his hand, silently reassuring him with your presence and comforting words. The tenseness in his frame slowly began to ease as you tightened your embrace. The closeness between the two of you sparked something more intense than a simple attraction.

  After a moment of shared embrace, Reiner spoke, "Are you done with me?" You could sense the despair lurking behind his question. Your heart wrenched with empathy. Shaking your head vehemently, you could see his grasp on reality starting to fade, fearing the loss of another loved one. You gently spoke,

"No, I am not done with you. I could never be." The declaration eased his trepidation for the moment, but the angst in his eyes was apparent. He spoke again, his hands shaking with uncertainty, "Then why have you been avoiding me?"

   At his inquiry, you swallowed your emotions and thought about how best to answer him. After a deep breath, you expressed, "I want more of you. Not just the physical, but the entire package. I want to know what inspires you, what moves you, your hopes, your dreams." He went silent for a moment, his eyes now glued to the ground, weighed down with heavy contemplation.

Then, he raised his head and spoke in a raspy, earnest voice, "I want more too." He took a deep breath before continuing, his words shaky, "I'll give you anything, anything you want. Just stay with me."

Tears began to trickle down his cheek as he clutched onto your uniform, a wave of anguish over the possibility of losing another. It was an act of vulnerability, rare for a man who was usually impenetrable, but one that showed you how much he genuinely cared for you.

Sugar daddy Reiner who showered you with lavish clothes and all sorts of gifts that night, leaving your heart racing and your hands trembling. The excitement didn't stop there, though, as he whisked you off to his penthouse apartment and proceeded to ravage your body with his rough and unrelenting thrusts, finally letting go all sense of hesitation. 

You moaned and writhed beneath him, unable to resist his masculine charms as he explored every inch of your body. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, grunting out words of love and affection that left you dizzy with desire.

  When it was over, he held you tightly, unwilling to let you go. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your neck as he whispered promises of forever, his words echoing in your mind as you drifted off to sleep in his strong embrace.

Reiner, who once was just a sugar daddy to you, is now your beloved boyfriend, and you couldn't even imagine a future without him by your side.

[lost-technology]

Slowly re-reading / savoring the manga. My thoughts around the end of Trigun Maximum 2... So, Vashwood shippers, we need to talk. Well, every fanficcer really, but especially you... Why do I see so few fanfics covering Wolfwood's FEAR of Vash? All of the early volumes of manga, Wolfwood is seeing WEIRD PLANT THINGS. He was witness to the Fifth Moon incident. He sees Vash's healing capabilities in Trigun Maximum 1 and through 1 and 2, sees Vash's general endurance (the one time he got exhausted and sick and wrecked the bike notwithstanding). He saw Vash STILL IN THAT CONDITION sticking his neck out for others, just reckless with his own life and it scares him. He gets hints at Vash's general immortality and wonders if he is unkillable. He wonders at how much he is like his brother. Underneath the guidance and dare we say... growing friendship, there is this underlying terror. At least, that's what I feel from reading the manga. And it makes me feel like... mangaverse Vashwood shippers... unless you're ignoring canon and just writing something self-indulgent or you're writing a post-series AU, or at least a late-series thing, I feel like "No way they're bumping and grinding right away." And if they are? Any note on Wolfwood's wondering just what he's gotten himself into and just what he is romancing? Same with Vashmeryl in the manga... the sharing of PTSD stuff, the terror she has. She's gotta overcome her fear of Vash after that, which happens in the manga... I just feel "this is not a romance manga" and anything shippy is really self-indulgent on the fans. Which is OKAY, but... I don't know, I just don't see it when people insist on any of it being canon and it sort of baffles me at the amount of shipping this fandom has (okay, so it really doesn't because all fandoms have shipping... but, it's like, when a friend and I do shipping roleplays for Fire Emblem: Awakening, that makes a lot of actual sense because half that game is a shipping sim. It's Character Horny-Chess)! Not an anti-post, just me casually wondering, after going to the fanfiction section of Ao3 at how quickly and readily some of the shipping stuff is, even in non-ship centric fics when I go and read the manga and read "Wow, even Vash's friends are scared of him, at least a little bit, if not a lot." Poor guy.

[mizushidokoro]

Chapter 261 thoughts, sukugo, stsg/sgst, and why this update isn't an L for me actually

I think Yuta means well, and he genuinely cares about Gojo, but to frame his final decisions as becoming something "monstrous," I think is another example of Gojo being misunderstood, or understood for only part of who he is.

"Are you Gojo Satoru because you are the strongest, or are you the strongest because you are Gojo Satoru?" It's both, isn't it? Gojo's strength is as part of his identity, as is his humanity, but the two are opposed. Gojo doesn't have the luxury of being "selfish," to "seek meaning" for himself by carving out his own path the way that Geto does when he leaves, because a single misstep from him could upend the world. A Gojo Satoru who pursues his own truth, the way everyone else in the world does, is monstrous, and he's aware of the fact. That's the contradiction at the heart of his loneliness. He cannot realize himself, as an individual, without giving up on his humanity (meaning, his ability to connect with others as a human). But to preserve his humanity, his sense of belonging in the world, Gojo cannot pursue self-realization as an individual actor.

So Gojo stating he can't avoid becoming a monster and wanting to catch up to Geto who left him behind ... man that hurts me. Push meets shove, and he has to make a sacrifice. And Gojo chooses (or resigns himself, for lack of other options) to strength, the path of loneliness.

In what way does Gojo want to ''catch up''? To finally use his strength to chase after his own ideals, taking action, moral uncertainties & collateral be damned? I think that's the decision he makes when he kills the higher-ups w/o being certain it's the right thing. I think it's also in a very literal gay yearning way -- he wants to chase after Geto, the last person in his memory who could stand at the top with him and that he had a true connection with albeit for a short moment in time, because choice notwithstanding, it still remains that Gojo doesn't want to be alone.

For what it's worth, I don't think that means Gojo doesn't "care" about his students, fellow teachers, or humans in general. But he gives up his sense of "belonging with" -- instead of the form of attachment that is "love," his care takes the form of detached, unilateral "compassion," as a deity feels for its subjects.

So that's Gojo's state of mind when he goes into this fight vs. Sukuna, embracing/giving himself up to the loneliness that comes with unrivalled strength. But in the end he finds in Sukuna a distorted reflection of his own "monstrosity," someone who matches and in fact exceeds him in strength. Gojo finds someone who knows his positionality, who's powerful enough to witness him, give him the chance to just selfishly be, and go all out. Someone with the capacity to understand him, to whom Gojo can show his "love." Which Sukuna doesn't reciprocate of course (if only Geto were there!!! then he couldve had it all!!). But Gojo went out being acknowledged by someone who could finally understand him. He didn’t die alone.

I don't think the fact of Gojo's students using his body is tragic in a new or different way. Gojo's stated himself that he doesn't care what happens after he dies (paralleling what Sukuna tells Yorozu, also, another skg w), and I don't think they have much of a choice given the state of affairs, though of course it always hurts to be reminded of how detached and alone Gojo was. But after sitting on it for a while, personally, I feel like this chapter helps understand what Gojo says in 236, and takes the sting out of his death.

[juniper-sunny]

A Knight to Remember - Part 1

Medieval AU | Knight!Silco | Silco x Female!Reader | No (Y/N) | Romance | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff || SFW | WC: 5.50k | art by @designfailure56 (full piece here)

ao3 | betas: @deny-the-issue @silcoitus <3

A mysterious stranger is sworn into your retinue as your own personal guard. You have no need for his service, and he seems less than eager to take on his new duties. But he soon endears himself to you in ways you are not prepared for— only for you to surprise him as well…

taglist (open): @sherwood-forests @ilikemymendarkandfictional @ursawastricked @quirkykaty @let-the-monster-out @ariaud

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The rumors came first, that a stranger was to join your household staff for the first time in nearly a decade. A peculiar occurrence in and of itself, as all of your servants came from families that had served yours for generations. Stranger still how he was assigned to be your personal guard when your lord father had previously seen no need for you to have one.

Your mother came upon this man in a rather unfortunate circumstance. On her twice-annual voyages abroad, her retinue had been beset by bandits on her journey home. At first she thought the man one of the bandits until he turned his own sword upon them. Her companions emerged from the struggle with minor injuries and your lady mother herself was entirely unscathed, not shaken with fear but exhilarated by the battle. It was with great enthusiasm, then, that she requested the stranger come to your home so she could properly reward him. As thankful as your father was for the intervention, it triggered an overreaction in him: you and your mother were forbidden from leaving his lands until he deemed it safe, and your new guard was to accompany you everywhere apart from your personal quarters and the washroom.

It was with great reluctance and resentment that you attended the stranger’s swearing, a sentiment you had expressed in no mild terms to your father. After all, your preference was to leave and join your elder brother on his travels. Your father regretfully and kindly acknowledged your frustration, but his word was firm: you were to accept the man’s service as if it were a souvenir from your mother, equivalent to a new scroll or dress. As if it were adequate recompense for being forced to stay home.

Still, you could not help but observe the man with curiosity. He was tall, dark-haired, and slender, carrying himself with a noble dignity more befitting a lord than an attendant. Armored with a severe and solemn manner that made you feel like you should be bowing to him instead of the other way around. His posture was ramrod straight even as he went to his knees, his eyes lowered to the ground as he raised his chipped, battle-worn sword for you to touch. Despite its appearance, the blade was cold and sharp underneath your fingers, as piercing as the look he gave you with his singular, uncovered eye. Turned upon you as he pledged his sword to you.

“Silco,” you declared his name for him and witnesses to hear. A strange name to be sure, the first sibilant syllable flowing smoothly into the next, unhindered by the tip of your tongue touching the back of your teeth. He stared at you throughout his rehearsed speech, swearing himself into service. It was only your training in genteel conduct that enabled you to return his gaze, sure that he could sense how uncomfortable you were with his silent appraisal of you.

After all the pomp and circumstance, your daily life continued mostly unchanged. He was a quiet shadow who escorted your every step. Your attempts to make him feel welcome and become better acquainted were politely but undeniably rebuffed with his short, avoidant answers. Soon the novelty of introducing him to your other attendants wore off, their attempts at engaging you in gossip buffeted by your genuine ignorance of his character, notwithstanding what your lord and lady parents had already shared with everyone.

(Your maids’ hushed giggles at his supposed good looks were especially bewildering, what with his large eyepatch covering almost the entire left side of his face. Perhaps they could glean his handsomeness from what little was visible— a long, distinctively pointed nose; sharply slanted high cheekbones; lined scars carved from his temple to the edges of his thin lips— but any attraction to him was beyond your own reckoning.)

So you ended your attempts at engaging him, speaking to him solely to wish him “good morning” or “good night”, or inform him of your intended plans for the day. He acknowledged all of these with impassive expressions and minute nods.

He navigated the corridors of your home with ease, but the first true test of his capabilities was escorting you through your father’s lands, through crowds of commonfolk and the cluttered arrangement of edifices. You dismissed your father’s concerns that assassins were lying in wait and resumed your thrice-weekly ventures into town. If you were to be caged to his estate, you refused to be confined to your father’s hall. At least the fresh air and sunshine still tasted of freedom.

The knight kept two paces behind you, closer to you than your other attendants who followed at five. You tried to ignore how claustrophobic his proximity made you feel, focusing instead on your usual duties of greeting the townspeople. Only acknowledging his presence when courtesy demanded you provide introductions before turning your back on him entirely. He watched you with a bored but observant eye as you conversed with others. Listening indifferently as you comforted a farmer’s worries about his harvest, gave a tonic to a woman whose husband was sick with fever, or offered honeyed candies to children who hailed you. His lips thinned with some indiscernible emotion when you freely offered silver to a young bride-to-be as a wedding present, but he voiced no remark on it.

All of these passed on the way to your first proper destination of the day, the town blacksmith. As you approached the smithy, you asked the knight a direct question for the first time in so many days.

“Did my father offer to have your sword repaired? Or are you to receive a replacement?” you inquired politely.

“He said that I am to receive a newly forged sword,” Silco said nonchalantly.

“Then perhaps it should please you to meet the blacksmith Talis; he will be responsible for crafting it,” you offered, greeting the artisan in question with a smile as your party arrived at his station. The two men exchanged pleasantries, and for the first time, the knight’s eye lit with feeling, albeit a subtle one: curiosity at what the craftsman was capable of, shining through while he studied the small armory critically.

Talis allowed the knight to handle a sword. The weapon was of an average caliber, a well-used short blade meant more for a soldier’s training than actual battle. Still, he examined it carefully, holding the blade close to observe the quality of the metalwork. It seemed to pass muster, as he next held it in a strong grip, passing it easily from one hand to the other. He handled it gracefully, slow thrusts and circular spins painting a hypnotic dance in the air, not a tool but an extension of his own body. It did satisfy you to see the knight return the weapon and offer his sincere gratitude to the smith, departing with a handshake and a tiny, upward quirk of his lips.

“Thank you,” he said to you, infused with a modicum of warmth. You would have liked to respond with a chuckle, but you restrained yourself.

“It was my pleasure—” the clamoring of church bells interrupted you, a sonorous rally calling everyone to daily prayers. Your party joined the slow surge of peoples making their way towards the church. Deep breaths helped calm you as swarms of bodies pressed in around you, meaningless chatter and thundering footsteps on the stone floor reverberating into an almost overwhelming cacophony.

After entering the church, you peered between heads and shoulders, seeking out the priest. It excited you to see Father Hoskel, one of your favorites. You peeled away on your own, heading straight to him while your retainers looked for seats in the pews. As you hoped, the knight chose not to sit with the congregation but stationed himself next to the only exit, his gaze following you dutifully as you reached the priest.

“Good day, child,” Hoskel received you with a mischievous smirk. Casually stepping aside as you walked around the pulpit to stand in front of him. Maneuvering himself so his back was to the room, his plump form shielding you from view.

“Good day, Father,” you replied cordially. Smiling as you clasped his wrinkled hands in yours, surreptitiously slipping a coin of silver into his grasp. “I trust that all is well with the church and your health?”

“All the better for having seen you today,” he beamed at you. Squeezing your hands in appreciation as he clumsily palmed the coin, tucking it into a pocket inside his habit. 

Continuing to chat about insignificant matters, your own impatience rose as the other churchgoers settled down. As their movements quieted, you bade farewell to the priest and left him, not heading back into the aisles but out a backdoor used only by the clergy, your exit concealed by the priest swishing his voluminous robe.

You were careful to keep your steps quick but quiet, exercising the utmost caution lest a careless echo gave away your escape. When you left the church threshold back outside where paved stone met dirt, exhilaration mounted in your heart. A deep breath of fresh air reinvigorated you as you turned towards the woods and hurried—

“Are you not meant to join the others in prayer?” a low, smooth tenor of a voice materialized behind you, startling you. It was the knight, standing formally straight, his hands clasped behind his back in bored ceremony. Questioning you condescendingly as if he were a nursemaid guiding a forgetful child.

Of all the people to be caught by, the knight was perhaps the least desirable one. You hid your irritation with a bright tone, “I prefer to meditate in private, in quiet contemplation where I might not be disturbed by others.”

He nodded in acknowledgement. But when you continued your way out of town, he persisted in following you. His footsteps were so silent, you were only alerted to his presence when an instinct nagged you to look over your shoulder.

“My apologies for not making myself clearer,” you faced him with gritted teeth bared in a false smile, still walking at a brisk pace. “I will offer my prayers in solitary contemplation.”

“Surely the church has a quiet vestry available for use,” he pointed out. “Will your prayers be heard in the woods?”

“Is nature not a part of God’s domain? He shall hear me no matter where I pray.”

“So why pray in the woods and not the church if they are one and the same?” he countered.

You huffed in annoyance, coming to a halt. He stopped as well, and his perfect imitation of your trajectory only served to provoke you even further.

“Please tell me, sir knight, do you answer to my father or myself?” you asked.

“Your father pays me with his silver but I am entirely at your disposal,” he answered with a small smirk, seemingly finding amusement in your exasperation.

“Then I would have you dispose yourself of my company and return to the church.”

“I’m afraid I cannot,” he said. “Your father’s orders were to never leave your side and they supersede your own.”

Does he only offer half his loyalty because he is in possession of only half a brain? You bit your tongue, holding back the retort. “What else did my father command of you?”

“To keep you safe from harm.”

“I assure you, there are no dangers in these woods. He has not compelled you to report on my every movement?”

“No. He will allow you a certain measure of privacy.” 

“If you take my silver, would that ensure your obedience to my request?” You flipped him a coin, which flew in the air towards his face before he caught it with a smooth, lazy sweep of his hand.

“Yes.”

“Then I ask that you keep your silence around my father regarding this outing,” you told him curtly, turning briskly on your heel to stride into the forest.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said mockingly. 

His unpleasant attitude normally would have chafed you, but it was overshadowed by your delight at his concession. You resumed your journey at a near-sprint, determined to make up for wasted time. A part of you hoped to outpace the knight but he matched your haste with seemingly no effort on his part, his long legs easily keeping up with your smaller stride. 

Neither of you made any further attempts at conversation. Your footsteps crunched dead leaves on the forest floor, seemingly amplified by the tension between you. It was entirely one-sided on your part, as you came to the gradual understanding that the knight was merely attempting to adhere to his duties in following you. You might have offered him an apology for your terseness, but there was the thought that he might be annoying you on purpose. After all, he did speak with a humor that was lost on you. If he took some enjoyment out of your sour mood it made you less inclined to ask for forgiveness.

The foliage gave way to wild stones, small pebbles rolling underfoot before lodging into the muddy ground. You were careful to lift the skirts of your dress out of a puddle. Mud sloped downwards into larger, blocky stones bordering a deep lake of clear cold water, shards of sunlight dancing on the surface ripples. An osprey shot down from the sky, diving and reemerging with a struggling fish in its talons.

You sighed as you perched on an especially large rock on the edge of the lake, letting your feet dangle above the water. If you were a free woman you would have liked to go swimming. As it were, stripping all the layers of your clothing would have been too much of a nuisance and you would have no way of drying yourself off. Returning home with your couture soaking wet would disappoint your lady mother and perhaps convince her to forbid any future excursions. But you could enjoy the view, a quiet forest oasis at the end of a river.

“What is your homeland like, sir knight?” you asked by way of making polite conversation. You turned around, expecting to see him standing behind you. It surprised you to find him standing quite a distance away from the riverbank, much too far to have heard your question. He seemed to have shrunken in on himself, not standing with his usual impeccable posture but hunched inwards, arms crossed and hands fisting his sleeves. His eye darted around erratically, looking at the ground, the sky, the trees… anywhere but the water.

You frowned and hopped down from your seat, carefully stepping between stones as you walked towards the knight, calling out to him, “Is something wrong?”

“There was a bear,” he mutters. “We should leave before it returns.”

He spun on his heel and stalked away without another word. Perplexed, you hurried to follow in his wake. You had never seen a bear in this part of the forest, a fact you keenly wanted to point out to him. As upsetting as it was to have your time in nature cut short, the knight was clearly troubled by… something. The exact nature of it was unknown to you, but he seemed to believe that it was in the woods. So determined he was to make his escape that he was indifferent to you lagging behind him, struggling to keep up with his quickened pace.

It was all for the better that the two of you left when you did; you passed the church just as the townsfolk were exiting it, allowing you to mingle in the exodus. No one was any the wiser that you had not attended the sermon. By the time you reunited with your entourage, the knight had regained his stoic composure, giving no indication that he had been so unduly disturbed. You had no opportunity to privately ask if he was well until later that evening when you were about to prepare for sleep. He outright ignored your inquiry— which he had never done before— and instead wished you a perfunctory goodnight.

It was another fortnight until Father Hoskel hosted daily prayers again. Seeing as he was the only priest who allowed you to bribe him and sneak away, you were quite ready for some much-needed alone time. 

Well, almost entirely alone— except for the knight.

“Worry not, sir knight,” you addressed him dryly, as the two of you once again traveled into the woods. “I shall not be heading for the river today. Who knows if another bear will arrive to disturb the peace?”

The remark was meant as a weak joke, so it surprised you to hear the knight let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief through slightly parted lips. His tightened, white-knuckled fist released from the hilt of his new sword to drift to his side, loose and relaxed. A curious reaction indeed… but you steered in a direction away from the river, onto a less traveled but still familiar path. It was a longer route, headed southwest instead of east, a carpet of fallen leaves growing ever thicker as you ventured deeper into the forest. Placing your hands on the thin birch trees, flecked with spots and stripes of dark wood underneath their ivory bark, rough and bumpy to the touch. The knight eased his way between them as if they were living creatures who parted to make room for him, such was the grace with which he carried himself.

You arrived at a clearing, a grassy meadow of wildflowers surrounded by a half-circle of trees. Skinny green stems ending in dotted blossoms of yellow, orange, pink, and purple, stretched towards the sky to soak up the sparse autumn sun. You would miss them dearly when they succumbed to the winter frost. For now, you watched a lone bumblebee alight on a golden coneflower, crawling onto a petal toward its seeded heart.

If you had been alone you would have plopped down onto your back, the grass tickling your ears as you studied the sky, framed by flower stems in your periphery. But in your present company, that would be unbecoming conduct of a lady. 

As you slowly sank to your knees, you tossed a coin in the knight’s direction. You had hoped to catch him unawares but he snatched it out of the air, rolling it over his knuckles before pocketing it.

“Payment for your continued silence and protection, sir knight. The bumblebees can pose quite a danger to a helpless maiden such as I,” you chuckled. He made no response, but you could swear the end of his lips twitched upward before sliding back into place, a downward tilted line bordering on a frown. As the bee flew towards your face, you held up a finger for it. The insect landed on your knuckle. Its face was cute, with large shiny black eyes surrounded by equally dark fuzz. Just as quickly as it landed, it buzzed away, sunlight shining through the delicate webbing on its wings.

“Winter will soon be upon us,” you said idly. “I hope to return to the river by then, as the bears will be in hibernation. It will be safe to visit.”

“Bears are unpredictable creatures. Surely you know of safer hideaways than the river,” a scowl briefly flitted across his face before it disappeared, but the notch between his eyebrows deepened, harsh enough to be seen under the strap of his eyepatch.

“The riverside is my favorite,” you said quietly, unable to keep the wistfulness from your voice. “There is peace in water.”

“Water is not peaceful,” he snarled. The vitriol in his voice startled you, his composure melting in the heat of his anger, radiating out and poisoning the air. The flowers leaned away in the wind as if they were frightened of him. “You play in the woods with such ignorance, knowing nothing of the dangers of the world.”

“I will not deny that you may have seen more of the world than I have, sir knight,” you said patiently. “But do not presume that you— an interloper— know more of my father’s lands than I. When I say the river is safe, it is safe. You will see the truth I speak of in time.”

He clenched his jaw, a tendon in his cheek tightening, making no effort this time to hide his grimace. Glaring at you before he turned away forcefully. But he did not disagree, as if he remembered to hold his tongue around you, the daughter of his lord.

You folded your hands in your lap, watching him closely. He seemed keen to storm off, and perhaps you would have let him. But you had seen this wild rage in a caged hound before when your brother rescued it from an abusive master. It would not let anyone approach it, threatening to bite those who came too close, unable to distinguish between those with good or malicious intent. The knight may not have barked at you with the same frothing wrath as the hound, but it was clear that he was in a similar state of distress.

“How do you bathe, sir knight?”

He swung to face you, his fury transformed into bafflement, blinking confusedly. Raised eyebrows rising above the strap of his eyepatch.

“It is a simple question,” you maintained calmly. “How do you bathe if you have such distaste for water?”

He continued staring at you before closing his eye. His posture relaxed minutely, his stiffened shoulders lowering as he exhaled a long, low sigh. Turning upwards to face the sky as he took another deep breath. This time, it was not to unleash some more barbed words but in anticipation. Steeling himself for whatever truths he was preparing to speak.

“You need not speak of your troubles if they are too painful to recall,” you added belatedly, berating yourself for your nosiness. “It is no one else’s business but your own.” 

“No… I ought to tell you. I have already told your lord and lady parents of it, and it is only natural that you should come to know as well.” 

You waited in patient silence as the knight swallowed apprehensively, his throat bobbing. His tongue darted out to lick his upper lip. All throughout, his gaze latched onto something far off in the distance, not quite beholding the nature around him. 

“I had a brother once, not long ago,” he began slowly, voice low, spoken towards the flowers under his feet instead of you. You scooted forwards surreptitiously, keen to pick up on his words. “We were born into the lowest of poverty. Every meal we had was stolen or begged for or sometimes won with crude but necessary violence.

“I was a much weaker fighter then, an unworthy burden on my brother. But he never minded, or claimed not to mind. It was very generous of him to care for me the way he did. I would not blame him if he left to seek out his own fortune, but he stayed.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips now, but his eye remained downcast and sorrowful. Struggling not to lose himself in whatever nostalgia was left of better times. When you patted the ground next to you, he either did not notice or declined your invitation to be seated next to you. 

“We had a shared dream, not of living richly but of living well. Some days it seemed more futile than others; some days we came close to dying. But through it all, we had each other. And it should have been that way until the very end…”

His eye shone, a tear on the verge of spilling out. You were loath to look away, so captivated you were by his history and display of emotion. He clearly needed comfort but you were afraid to prematurely interrupt his telling. Still, he showed no inclination to move closer to you, so lost in his memories that he seemed to forget you were there. 

“We often supplemented our meager diet with fishing. I thought nothing of it when he asked me to accompany him to a river… but his intent was to kill me. If not with his knife then to drown me like a witch,” he laughed bitterly.

You stifled a gasp as your hands flew to your mouth. The horrors paralyzed you, legs frozen and rooted to the ground. Heart aching with sympathy for his pain. For there was no denying that he was in pain, and perhaps had been for as long as you had known him or even longer. 

“He is the reason why I have such ‘distaste’ for water, and why I only have one good eye,” a snarl burned the edges of his voice, his mourning turning into a jagged hatred for the brother he once loved. The knight raised a hand to his face, fingers trailing over his eyepatch. 

“Where is he now?”

“Dead,” he said simply, his tone of voice fell flat and sullen. “What an irony— the only fight I won on my own was against my very own brother.”

He sagged, arms rising from his sides to hold himself. Protection against whatever demons were plaguing him. The sky grayed overhead as if it mirrored the darkness consuming him.

You rose to your feet, taking a testing step forward. Not wishing to crowd the knight but to offer whatever consolation he might find in your presence.

“I— I only wish—” the knight whispered, “Why did you do it, brother…?” A soft, heartbroken plea to a dead man who would never hear him.

It was essential that your next words be spoken carefully. So you spoke, slow and quiet, attempting at compassion and not pity, “You could never be a burden, sir knight. We all must rely on others for our own needs. I am only sorry that your brother and your country could not rise to the task—”

“He was a good man,” the knight spat, the flare of his temper once again threatening to burn you. “Do not presume to speak as if you knew him.”

“He was a good man who tried to maim and kill you? Are good men forced to perform such atrocities where you come from?” you pointed out.

The knight glared at you, but you did not wither. He forcefully turned away from you again. Perhaps your queries had crossed a line, but they needed to be said. This time, there would be no getting him to look at you again.

“I am sorry,” you said again. “But it was a terrible thing he did to you that you did not deserve.”

Would that your sentiments were enough to heal his wounds… but he did not round on you again to shout. He fell to his knees, still facing away from you. A slow stumble like a column of snow collapsing under its own weight.

“Please… leave me,” the knight asked, low and brokenly.

“Do you remember the way back?”

He nodded, a miniscule motion of his head that you almost missed.

You spoke out to him one last time before departing, “I will not tell you to cease mourning your brother. Would that he loved you the way you loved him… But you deserve to live, sir knight; you are worthy of life and good health. I hope that in time, you will accept it as truth.”

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At the time, you were reluctant to tell the knight that he was excused from his duties for the rest of the day if he so wished it. As it were, he should not have been bothered with such mundane affairs amidst his suffering.

No doubt his heart was heavy enough without the additional burden of work.

When your handmaidens joined you outside the church, they inquired as to his whereabouts. You were about to tell them he had returned to his quarters, struck by a sudden illness. But the knight himself reappeared at your shoulder, so stealthily it was almost a miracle. His eye and his nose were reddened but he seemed no worse for the wear. The armor of his impenetrable composure locked back into place. In fact, he thanked you for your patience and divulged nothing further.

For the entirety of the walk back to your father’s hall, you fought the temptation to look back at the knight or pull him aside to speak to him. Such an opportunity did not arise until late into the evening when he escorted you to the staircase leading to your private chambers.

“Sir knight,” you addressed him. He had steered his gaze away from you all day. It was a customary standoffish practice you were familiar with, but he seemed to do it today out of embarrassment for his earlier display of emotion. A man like the knight would have seen it as weakness and preferred that you did not speak of it again.

But you were determined to help him in whatever way he would accept.

“Yes?” he said formally.

“We may part company tomorrow if you wish,” you offered. “An ailment of the heart should be tended to the same as any other sickness, with rest and recuperation.”

He blinked at you, puzzled. Opening his mouth to speak before he cleared his throat, “There’s no need. I will be fully capable of attending to you.”

“Be that as it may, the day is yours to do with as you please. Rest well, sir knight.”

“…rest well, my lady,” he said slowly. Returning your nod with a lower bow of his head.

The knight did not attend to you the next day, sending word of how he felt unwell. You felt sorrow for his pain but were a little gladdened that he was taking the time to grieve. It was unlikely that he would heal overnight from the wounds his brother inflicted, but with time, you were hopeful that the pain would become less overwhelming.

You did not breach the topic of his past again, but on your future outings you were keen to avoid the river. Showing him other places that you liked to visit, more determined than ever to make him feel at home in your father’s lands.

The meadow was home to your favorite bloom, the purple coneflower, with a heart of dark orange and warm pinkish-purple petals, long and straight, a plain beauty but still pleasing to the eye. As a child, you liked to pick them to sneak into your room. But they were hard to preserve as they often got squashed in the small pockets of your dress. At your current age, you were happy to observe them in nature in all their wild glory.

Farther into the woods, there were rings of mushrooms where the air hung still and quiet, with a fog that never seemed to disappear even on the sunniest of days, and no birds dared to sing. The less godly peasants whispered of fae that would snatch away any person who dared disrupt the circles. The clergy heartily disavowed such tales as frivolous. Still, it brought you great amusement to speculate if such otherworldly creatures were real. The knight himself could not be bothered to form an opinion on the matter, but you noticed him keeping his distance from the mushrooms.

To the east of the mushrooms was a wild apple orchard. They dotted both the ground and branches with yellow and red, so ripe and ready to fall without needing to be plucked. You polished one with your sleeve, glad to not be in the company of a handmaiden who would scold you for your indelicate manner. When you encouraged the knight to partake in a fruit, it surprised you that he obliged. He reacted swiftly when you shrieked. But it was only a green worm that alarmed you, skinny and wriggling on the skin of an apple you held. 

It was hard to gauge which sites he liked the best, or if he liked them at all. His impassivity never changed. The only exception was when he smiled at the fright the insect gave you. Still, his manner towards you did seem warmer, his voice less frostbitten when he greeted you at dawn’s beginning and dusk’s end. 

The times were peaceful, much to your satisfaction. It was proof that your father’s fears were uncalled for. But more importantly, the knight needed peace. His homeland was the sort of place where people could not sleep soundly, but had to guard themselves with one eye open and a knife under their pillow. Your family’s estate was much safer. With the exception of the day you introduced him to the blacksmith, the knight had seen no need to draw his sword while you were under his care.

The day when he unsheathed it to protect you was a frightful one indeed.

Part 2

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 13: Don’t Look Back In Anger]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, sexual content, medical stuff, discussions of suicide, chilling with the parentinis.

Word count: 6.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​ @joliettes​ @trifoliumviridi​ @bornbetter​ @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @bearwithegg​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @elsolario​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess​

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“You need to go to the hospital,” Aemond says.

You’re sitting on the threadbare floral couch in Aegon’s apartment, melting snow dripping from your hair like rain out of a bleak sky. You’re still wearing Aegon’s parka, but you’re freezing; you feel like you’ll never be warm again. Sunfyre, whimpering and pacing restlessly, periodically nudges your arm with his nose. “No.”

Aemond studies you. “Why?”

“I don’t want anyone else touching me.”

Aegon looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor in only his green flannel pajama pants, skin and scars and ink. When he lifts the towel he’s had pressed to the outside of your thigh, there is a six-inch gash in the flesh: silent inferno, scarlet lightning. His palms are stained with your blood. “I’ll kill him,” he says, low and fierce.

Aemond sighs. “No, you won’t.”

“I will.”

You tell Aegon: “No, really, you won’t. You’re not going to prison for Trent.”

“Well something has to happen to him!”

“The hospital is really not negotiable,” Aemond says. “You need stitches.” And he shudders, just enough that you notice.

“We could call the cops,” Aegon starts. “We could—”

“You get to leave,” you say, and neither of them understand. For the first time, your eyes snag on the pattern of the couch rather than just skate over it: ivy, red roses, calla lilies white like bones. You take a trembling breath and begin again. “In a week, or a month, or whenever, you both get to leave this city, and it won’t matter what anyone here knows about you. But everything I have is in Juneau. And it’s too small for secrets. If I tell anyone about what happened, they’re going to end up hearing Trent’s side of the story too. The cops wouldn’t see this as a warning sign or part of a pattern of violent behavior. They’d see it as a domestic disturbance, at least in part caused by me. I’ll spend the rest of my life as the girl who got caught fucking around on the local football hero with some degenerate drifter. The same drifter who Trent saved from drowning in the channel a month ago.”

“He did what?” Aemond asks, confounded.

“It’s a long story.”

“Okay, okay, Appletini,” Aegon soothes. “Just tell me what you want. Tell me what you want and we’ll do it.”

“You should wash the blood off your hands.”

“Why? It’s just you.”

After a moment, you smile down at him. He smiles back. And suddenly you’re warm again, warm everywhere like there are embers tumbling through your veins instead of just biconcave cells and menacing lineage. Aemond’s gaze darts between you and Aegon, a little intrigued, a little scandalized, like it’s not something meant for him to witness. Sunfyre’s tail wags hopefully.

“So,” Aemond says. “Your preference for confidentiality notwithstanding, you do actually still need stitches.”

“I’ll do them,” you reply.

“You’ll…what…?”

“I’ll do the stitches myself. I have all the equipment at the vet clinic.”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees immediately.

Aemond stares at you, his lone eye narrow and incredulous. Then he turns to Aegon. “You think this is a good idea?”

“If she wants to do it herself, she can do it herself. She did a great job stitching up Sunfyre’s face. You can barely see where the bear clawed him.”

Aemond raises an eyebrow. “Why did I believe you might serve as the voice of reason? Why was I that delusional? Yeah, alright, let’s go do some impromptu surgery. That can only end well.”

You examine the wound on your thigh. It’s a relatively clean cut, but deep; it will leave a mark that you’ll carry for the rest of your life. It’s about the same size as Aemond’s scar, you think disjointedly, your skull clouded with shock and searing pain. The bleeding has slowed, but beads like rubies brim at the edges of the severed quilt of flesh. “I need to wrap it with something so it doesn’t bleed all over my Jeep.”

As you and Aegon improvise a solution—a fresh towel secured around your thigh with duct tape, the white fabric soon splattered with red—Aemond goes to the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his face grave and distant. Sirens build outside in the frigid darkness.

Aegon whirls to his brother. “Did—?”

“No. I didn’t call them.”

The police cars zoom by the apartment building in a screeching procession, heading north towards the lakes. Flashing lights paint Aemond’s ivory skin in shades of fire and sky. Lines etch across his forehead, perplexed, wary.

“What’s that about?”

“It happens a lot around here,” Aegon says. He tests the duct tape, making sure the towel won’t get jostled when you move. “It means they’ve found another body.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Lidocaine, povidone-iodine, scissors, forceps, tweezers, surgical thread, bright lights and no shadows. The bruises on Aegon’s face from where Aemond slammed him against that Dodge Ram last night are vivid blooms: violets, irises, blue-dyed roses, things that don’t grow here. He stands beside the metal exam table as you work, running his hands through his wild, white-blond, blood-flecked hair. You’re both wearing the clothes that you left on the floor of your Jeep; you’re both back in that moment, or at least halfway in it, soundless electricity in the florescent-lit air, longing drenched with maroon pain, rage, feverish anxiety. You cut the right leg off your blue flannel pajama pants so you could suture your thigh without being practically naked again. Aemond duct taped a black trash bag over the missing window of your Jeep to keep the worst of the wind and snow out. You’ll have to explain that to your parents eventually. You’ll have to explain quite a lot to them.

Aemond roams between the exam room and the lobby like a leopard behind iron bars, not really wanting to be in either. He is unnerved by your suturing, unnerved in a way that is obvious and deeper than words; yet he is irritated by the news coming from the television in the lobby. He’s turned it on to see if they’re reporting on the Ice Fisher’s latest victim yet. Instead, they’re covering the weather. The blizzard that’s expected to hit Juneau tomorrow has picked up speed, arriving by noon instead of the previously estimated late-evening. It will drop several feet of fresh snow, enough to shut down the city for two or three days. This is a great inconvenience for Aemond. This will delay his clandestine plans.

Aegon is watching you stitch with awe in his eyes. He’s nearly sober and must be desperate to remedy that, but he’s hiding it well. “You are so fucking badass.”

“I am so fucking stupid. I forgot all about the bear mace. It was right there in the front of the Jeep with my purse, I should have told you to grab it, I just…I wasn’t being especially logical at the moment. It completely slipped my mind.”

“I think that’s a very understandable oversight.” He skims his calloused thumb across your cheekbone, light and fleeting just like the rest of him. One of these moments will be the last time he’ll ever touch me. “How are you feeling?”

“Everything hurts. Not just the leg. My back, my ribs, all over.”

“Appletini,” he says, deadly serious. “What are we going to do if Trent shows up again?”

“He won’t come here.” You’re sure of that. “He won’t make a scene in front of my parents. He has a temper, obviously, and when it first hits it blinds him. We’ve seen that over and over again. But he’s not as stupid as he seems. He won’t want to ruin his reputation. Juneau is his whole world.” Just like it’s mine, you think unwillingly, horribly. “Maybe he’ll go home and unwind with a few Heinekens and realize the best thing he can do is move on. Maybe he’ll just consider us even and never speak to me again.”

“That’s optimistic,” Aegon says flatly.

“It’s a catch-22, right? He can’t tell anyone I was with you without it coming out that he attacked me and vandalized my Jeep. I can’t tell anyone he’s a violet psycho without admitting what I was doing when he found us.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You think that. I think that. But other opinions may differ.”

“You don’t belong in Juneau,” Aegon says suddenly, forcefully. “This place can be beautiful but it’s so fucking small. The people are small, their minds are small, any future here would be a waste of everything you’re made of. You feel that, right? I know you do. You don’t have to stay here.”

Aemond peeks into the exam room, observes that you’re still suturing, winces and vanishes into the lobby again. The news anchors are talking about snowfall, an estimated thirty to thirty-six inches.

“We should spend the blizzard at my parents’ house,” you tell Aegon.

“What, all three of us?” He remembers Aemond. “All four of us?”

“Definitely. We’ll have room to spread out in, we can shovel a section of the yard clear for Sunfyre, we won’t have to worry about Trent showing up for an encore. And…you know. I won’t have to be away from you.”

He grins. “You can’t get rid of me, Appletini. Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet,” you agree, low and wistful. You finish suturing and bandage your thigh with gauze. Then you slide off the exam table, peel away your latex gloves, scrub your hands in the sink, and step out of your disfigured pajama pants. “Reach into that drawer. I keep an extra pair of jeans in there in case some animal gets its fluids all over me.”

Aegon passes you the jeans and pauses for a long time before he speaks. “Do you think Trent’s the Ice Fisher? It has to be him, right? After what happened tonight?” But his bruised face is full of doubt; his oceanic eyes are searching.

“I don’t think it’s him. I can’t really explain why, but I don’t.”

Aemond appears again, hesitating in the doorway. “Hey, idiot,” Aegon says. “We’re all going to wait out the blizzard at her parents’ house.”

“Why would we do that?”

“So I don’t have to spend three days alone with your oppressively stressful self, obviously.”

Aemond should jab back, but he doesn’t. He covers the damaged side of his face with one long agile hand and squeezes his remaining eye shut, flinching, uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“Nerve pain?” you ask.

“No,” Aemond snaps defensively.

“Here…” You paw though the cabinet and find a small white tube. “I have topical lidocaine, not just the injectable kind. It might help…”

“No,” he says again, stepping away from you.

“Aemond, let me—”

“No!”

“I’d leave him alone,” Aegon cautions you. You don’t listen. You follow Aemond as he retreats into the lobby and backs himself against a wall.

“Don’t touch me,” he lashes out, still holding his face in his hand, repulsed that you’re seeing him this way, repulsed by his own weakness.

“Fine. Then you do it.” Too swiftly for him to resist, you grab his wrist, squirt a plentiful amount of the lidocaine gel into his palm, and press his hand back to his ruined cheek, eyelids, forehead. He gapes at you, stunned. “Rub it in, then wait a few minutes. It should start helping.”

Aemond begins massaging the gel into the area around his scar. “Thank you,” he says huskily, averting his gaze from you.

“I don’t know what you have to be so shy about. You’ve basically seen me naked.”

Remarkably, Aemond smiles. He has dimples, you realize. He isn’t just marble or stone; he isn’t just formidable. He’s a little beautiful too. “I have things at home for it, but I forgot to pack them before I flew out of Miami.”

“Yeah, I bet you were in a real hurry to get here.” To find Aegon before he left for the next city. To bring back the long-lost prodigal son.

On the television, the news has pivoted to the Juneau Police Department’s latest discovery.

“Reports are coming in now that officers have found the eighth victim of the serial killer known locally as the Ice Fisher. The remains were recovered from Dredge Lake late this evening. While we are waiting for the victim’s identity to be publicly confirmed once the family has been notified, Chief of Police Eugene Baker has shared that the victim is a female in her mid-thirties. He has also reiterated the vital importance of Juneau residents not leaving their homes alone—no matter how briefly—until the killer is apprehended. The impending blizzard is expected to temporarily postpone the investigation…”

“Mid-thirties,” you consider. “Not Heather or Joyce or Kimmie. The Ursa Minor coincidence lives on.”

“The what?” Aegon says.

“No one from the bar ever gets murdered.”

Aemond watches the blue-white glow of the television, the edges of his face smoothing as the lidocaine gel dulls the erratic electrical signals of his severed nerves: fire, blades, tremors like tiny cataclysmic earthquakes. “Hm.”

The wheels in his skull turn, and then faster, and then faster.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 11:00 p.m., and your parents are still awake. They’re working on a 1,000-piece puzzle at the dining room table and sipping Earl Grey tea when you walk in. The puzzle box is propped up so they can reference it as they click the jagged fragments together. The picture shows the skyline of London.

“Hey, ladybug!” your dad calls. “Want to help us? I can’t seem to finish this fucking clock.”

Your mom laughs, slapping his broad shoulder playfully. “It’s called Big Ben, you caveman.”

“You don’t complain about my caveman ways when you need wood chopped for the firepit—”

“I have an unorthodox request,” you say. They both turn their full attention to you.

“What is it?” your mom asks.

“I would like Aegon to stay with us until the blizzard is over. And Sunfyre. And Aegon’s brother.”

“Aegon has a brother?” your dad says.

“Yes, and he’s…um…” What’s the word for it? Is there a word for it? “Kind of…different. But he’s very well-mannered and won’t cause any problems. He’s nothing like Aegon. He’s essentially the complete opposite.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aemond.”

“So Greek,” your dad marvels.

Your mom blinks at you, clutching her cup of tea with both hands. Steam curls up around her face like smoke, like fog. “And you and Aegon are…getting along again?”

“Yes.”

She looks to your dad. “As…friends…?” he says.

“No. Not as friends.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, that’d be just fine.” Your dad is trying to act nonchalant, but they’re both worried; they don’t understand, or maybe they understand too well, and that’s worse. You can hear Jesse’s ghost in the next room, in the attic, in the walls. He’s like that type of silence that starts to feel loud.

“I really, really appreciate it. They’ll be here soon.” Aemond drove himself and Aegon back to the apartment in your Jeep to pack up some essentials and get Sunfyre. “I’ll find the extra sheets and pillows. Aemond can sleep on the couch. And…there’s one more thing.”

“There’s a third brother and his name is Aristotle Onassis.”

No, Daeron. “If Trent shows up, don’t let him in.”

Now they’re really rattled. “What happened, ladybug?” your dad asks softly.

“I tried to end things with Trent. He didn’t take it well. He found out I was with Aegon and he smashed the back window of my Jeep with a rock. There was a whole…situation. I don’t want to talk about the specifics. I don’t need a hug or anything. I just need you both to know that he’s not welcome anywhere near me or Aegon.”

“Oh my god,” your mom gasps, her palm pressed to her heart. “Trent did that? Really?”

“Did he hurt you?” your dad asks; and his voice sounds nothing like the man who raised you. He sounds red and serrated and vengeful. He sounds like when he spoke to you about Jesse.

“No,” you lie, apparently convincingly enough. “But I’m afraid of him. I don’t think he’d try anything in front of you guys, but just in case…”

“Understood,” your dad says with a nod. “No need to elaborate. Trent is hereby banished from the premises.” He makes a cross with his hand like a priest performing an exorcism.

Your mom shivers as she drinks her tea, peering down at the half-finished puzzle. “Horrible. Just horrible. And he always seemed so nice…”

People aren’t always what they seem, Mom, you think bitterly, treasonously. Jesse seemed like he was getting better.

By the time you’re finished putting out food and water for Sunfyre and readying the couch for Aemond—your dad insists on helping you, though you try to refuse—there is a knock at the front door. The Targaryen brothers enter along with a frigid gust of Arctic air that blows the door wide open. Sunfyre, shaking snow from his fur, immediately makes himself at home by jumping up onto the couch and rolling all over it, kicking pillows to the floor.

“Great,” Aemond says tonelessly.

Your parents don’t even register the bruises on Aegon’s face, the dried blood on his hands and in his hair…not with Aemond in the room. They gawk at him: lofty height, long white hair, scar, sapphire, green Louis Vuitton suitcase, black Christian Dior sweatsuit. Eventually, your mom pulls her jaw shut and rises from the dining room table. “Hello!” she manages in an overcompensatingly enthusiastic warble.

To everyone’s surprise, Aemond goes to her and folds both of her hands into his own. “I wanted to personally thank you for welcoming me and my brother into your home. We will not forget your generosity, and it will be greatly rewarded. You will forever have the resources of Targaryen Enterprises at your disposal.”

“Have you ever tried not acting deranged?” Aegon asks him. “For maybe five minutes?”

“It’s our pleasure,” your mom stammers, transfixed by Aemond.

Your dad flashes a smile and gives Aemond a fatherly pat on the back. “Hell, if you’re ladybug’s friend, you’re our friend too. Do you have any pets, Aemond?”

“Yes, a Norwegian Forest cat. Her name is Vhagar.” He pulls a photograph out of his wallet to show them. The cat is freaking enormous.

“Goddamn, I’ve never seen one of those!” your dad exclaims. “How much does she eat? Do you let her outside? Does she hunt? What’s the life expectancy…?”

As they chat, Aegon rummages through the kitchen cabinets until he finds a bottle of red wine. You offer to get him a glass. “No point,” he says, winking. He drinks straight from the bottle, taking frequent little nips like taps of Morse code, sanding the edges off the present, the future, the past. When your parents retire to bed—no doubt to do some stealthy gossiping about their temporary houseguests—Aegon stumbles upstairs to shower, leaving you and Aemond alone. He sits down at the dining room table and moves puzzle pieces around with one index finger, linking them together faster than you would have thought possible.

“I forgot to tell you about him drinking wine,” you say.

“Well, wine is a given.” The rippling blue water of the River Thames is taking shape. “Make no mistake, it’s still suicide, what he’s doing now. It’s just slower. It’s the scenic route, sure, but it ends in the same place. You think he’ll make it to thirty?”

“No,” you answer quietly.

“He’ll overdose, or he’ll drive off the road, or he’ll fall into the ocean, or he’ll pass out somewhere and get claimed by the elements. He’ll be bones wrapped in roots and soil and we’ll never find him, we’ll never even have a body to bury. I’m not trying to hurt him. That couldn’t be further from what I want. Do you see that now? Do you understand?”

“You can’t fix him, Aemond. He has to want to fix himself.”

Aemond shakes his head. “He’ll never do it on his own.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” you say, heat like cinders in your throat. “I want the same thing you do. I’ve tried to get him to go to rehab, I’ve offered to help, I’ve given ultimatums, I’ve left him, I’ve come back, I don’t know what else there is to do. I’m watching him kill himself right in front of me, just like you are. It’s excruciating, loving someone like that. It’s hell.”

Aemond looks at you, a cold, razor-sharp warning. “I know.”

And he does love him, you realize. In a harsh way, in a tangled way, in a way that is burdened with years of betrayal and disappointment. But he loves Aegon too. If only that was enough. “He said that you were trying to protect him on the night of the accident. That your parents were always screaming at him.”

“They did a lot more than that. They hit him. My father harder, my mother more frequently. My grandfather broke his arm when he was ten.”

You can see Aegon as a sullen boy in a hospital bed, as an untamed streetlight-glowing teenager with the night wind in his hair, as a body floating in cold water. “And you think it’s a good idea for him to go back to that kind of environment?”

“Things are different now,” Aemond says, in a tone that offers no further explanation. “Is there a place where I can get some work done tomorrow?”

“Sure. The study is down the hallway, the second door on the right. There’s a desk and a phone in there and everything. Knock yourself out.”

“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that,” Aemond says, a sly smile on his half-ravaged face. And then he goes to the couch—not shooing Sunfyre away but merely shoving him aside to make sufficient space—and turns on the television so he won’t miss any of the news coverage, sliding his BlackBerry out of his pocket and clicking away on it.

When Aegon wanders into your bedroom—black Foo Fighters T-shirt, fresh green flannel pajama pants, dewy and flushed, aggressively rubbing his hair with a towel—you’re waiting for him. He holds up his hands to show you, grinning and proud. “No more blood. Happy now, vet lady?”

“Very.”

“It’s a problem, you know. I never seem to want to wash you off me.” His racoonish eyes flick to the mirror. It’s still decorated with the photographs he remembers, but there’s something missing: the magazine cutout of the Pacific Coast Highway, of California. “What happened to the convertible guy?”

“He got demoted.”

“Since when?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

But still, he knows: since New Year’s Eve, since everything started going wrong. Aegon glimpses his reflection in the silver glass and quickly turns away.

“Your face isn’t that bad. The bruises should start fading soon.”

He smirks. “You’re always looking in the mirror because you’re still trying to figure out who you are. I don’t like looking because I already know.” His eyes catch on the cardboard box full of Jesse’s journals, jutting out from under the bed like the monster of a child’s imagination. “Old birthday and Christmas cards? High school yearbooks? Hot Wheels? Legos?”

“No. Journals.”

His eyebrows shoot up, intrigued. “Yours?”

“Jesse’s.”

“Oh,” he says tentatively, treading lightly, not wanting to offend. “You’ve read them?”

“Bits and pieces. I think it would take years to finish them all.” And then you add: “If you’re ever curious and want to take a look, I don’t mind.” Maybe it would be good for you. Maybe it would show you what you have to look forward to if you don’t change. “Now come here.”

Aegon crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath his knuckles and knees. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you gently, unhurriedly, like you’re made of glass that’s already beginning to splinter. You hurt everywhere, yes, but one ache is worse than all the others. It is an emptiness rather than the pressure of trapped blood or the mending of skin and sinew. It is the cavernous void of a missing piece in the shape of him.

You reach out, graze the backs of your fingers over his bruised cheekbone, tuck his damp lock of hair behind his ear. “I guess we got interrupted earlier.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aegon murmurs. He smells like wine and soap, your soap. The heat of his skin is rising and infectious, a swelling wave, a fever. He’s holding himself back. He always seems to be holding himself back with you.

“I won’t be yours forever. But I am right now.” You press your lips to his jaw, your fingerprints to the kaleidoscope of bruises on his face. “Take me, all of me, I want you to have it.”

Aegon drags off your jeans agonizingly slowly, mindful of the bandage. He lifts away your oversized T-shirt, your doubts, your pain, your fear of the future. You strip him bare like winter pillages the earth. He is careful not to put any weight on your right thigh. He is tender and whispering, and when his hand slips beneath your blue silk panties you are stunned by how starved you are for him, how desperate, smothering moans against his throat, Aegon swearing that he won’t fuck you until you’ve come first; and then you do, so hard you see pinpoint stars like an unnamed constellation, like the glimmer of the Northern Lights. And then he is inside you, covering you like ivy, growing over you and through you and into dark needful corners that you hadn’t even known were there. He is freeing like an open sky, like the infinite line of the ocean. He is a memory you’ll never be able to mine from your bones.

When you wake in the morning to see white powdery snow falling heavily beyond your bedroom window, Aegon is sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping through an olive green journal. The pages, riddled with spikes and loops of untidy ink, rustle against his calloused fingers.

“He’s funny,” Aegon says. “I don’t know why I didn’t expect that. I should have.”

“Why would you expect it?” Why would you expect anything but ruin, but tragedy?

He smiles. “Because you’re funny too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents are in full entertaining guests mode; the kitchen rings out with clangs and thumps as they try out new recipes, cookies and muffins and reindeer chili with green chilies and cheddar cheese. You and Aegon are playing Mouse Trap on the coffee table in the living room, one of practically endless board games your parents kept from your childhood. Intermittently, as commercials appear on the television, Aegon jots down notes on the back of a Taco Bell receipt he found under the couch. Sunfyre alternates between collecting pats from you and Aegon and licking up fallen scraps in the kitchen. He trots around the house buoyantly, tail wagging, eyes bright and twinkling; it’s not often that all of his favorite humans are in the same place. An Oasis album rotates on your dad’s record player. Don’t Look Back In Anger reverberates through the house like a heartbeat.

Aemond is working in the study. You can sometimes hear the low melody of his voice, or the beeping of his BlackBerry, or the jangling of the phone. Each time it goes off, he picks up on the first ring. About once per hour he appears in the living room to switch the tv channel from the X-Files or Buffy to the local news before retreating back into the study. The Ice Fisher’s eighth victim has been officially identified: Nikola Kozlowski, an adjunct professor of Marine Biology at the University of Alaska. She was snatched, strangled, sunk into water too cold for you to imagine. Aemond stares at the television, artificial light dancing on his face.

“Hey, you want to play Don’t Break The Ice?” Aegon says, swigging red wine straight from the bottle.

“That’s in poor taste,” Aemond mutters as he leaves.

Aegon shouts after him: “It was a joke!” He sighs, flips the channel back to the X-Files, observes the commercial with peculiar interest. “You like Chia Pets?” he asks you.

“I don’t know, I’ve never had one.”

“Interesting.” He makes a scribble on the receipt, takes another gulp of wine.

Just before lunch, you and Aegon venture out into the blizzard together to clear a space for Sunfyre to run around in, tilling fluffy mounds of snow until you can no longer feel your cheeks or your noses, catching snowflakes on your tongues, dashing back inside for steaming cups of Earl Grey tea and bowls of reindeer chili.

“Aemond?” your mom calls, knocking timidly on the study door. “Dear, would you like some chili? It’s homemade! It’s a brand new recipe! We have bacon bits!”

Perhaps reluctantly—although he tries to disguise it—Aemond emerges for a lunch break. At the dining room table, he sits next to you instead of Aegon. Your mom attempts to compulsively feed him cornbread muffins; your dad asks him about Targaryen Enterprises. Aemond answers quite a few of the questions, gracefully evades others. He is someone who has a genetic gift for holding cards close to the vest. After a while, Aegon takes his half-empty wine bottle and staggers off. He’s wearing his black crewneck sweatshirt, cuffed jeans, combat boots, and his white-blond hair in a man bun. Aemond palpably disapproves of this.

“That’s a fascinating setup you’ve got there,” your dad tells Aemond, pointing at his sapphire. “I hope I won’t offend you by mentioning it, but I couldn’t let you leave without ever saying how brilliant I think it is. It’s the sort of thing a tech magnate would come up with. Innovative. Futuristic, even. In a humble Alaskan’s terms, it’s really goddamn cool.”

“No offense taken.” No, and in fact, you think Aemond is trying not to let on how pleased he is, how…touched. “I was given something disfiguring and pathetic and made it an asset. Now people look at me with astonishment instead of pity. Tech and finance companies name their products after sapphires, after me. Teenagers dress up as me for Halloween.”

“I bet the women like it too,” your dad notes with a grin.

“Well…” Aemond stirs his chili, avoidant. “I’m a little too busy for women.”

Your dad mumbles, rubbing his forehead: “A sexy genius billionaire…too busy for women…now I’ve heard it all.”

And Aemond smiles, even blushes, dunking a cornbread muffin into his chili. It’s the strangest thing: you don’t suspect that he had any desire at all to eat lunch with your parents, but now he doesn’t seem to want to leave. When Aemond at last returns to the study, Aegon plods down the stairs and throws himself onto the couch, flipping lazily through the television channels. Within two minutes, Aemond bolts into the living room.

“Where’s my Visa?”

“Oh, whoops.” Aegon takes it out of the pocket of his jeans and tosses it to his brother. The credit card sails across the room like a paper airplane. Aemond grabs it off the floor.

“What the hell were you doing with it?”

“Buying thank you gifts to show the Appletinis how appreciative we are for their hospitality.”

“Thank you gifts…?”

“Yeah. A George Foreman Grill, a Rainbow Art set, some Ginsu Knives, a lifetime supply of Zoobooks, a BeDazzler—”

“A what?”

“A BeDazzler,” Aegon repeats impatiently. “It bedazzles things. A Kidz Bop cassette tape, a Betty Crocker Bake n’ Fill, a Chia Pet…five Chia Pets, actually…oh, and a Psychic Reading with Miss Cleo for me. She said I recently received an alarming and unwelcome visitor. Sounds like she really has talent.”

“You’re useless,” Aemond says, glowering at him.

Aegon guzzles his wine. “How’s Mom?”

“Oh, you’re suddenly interested?”

Aegon shrugs, gesturing vaguely with his wine bottle. He’s very drunk. “It’s polite to ask.”

“She’s terrible,” Aemond says. “She misses you, she worries about you, she blames herself for everything. It never gets better. It only gets worse. Every year it gets worse. She wants to make things right. She wants a second chance. We all do. Mom, me, Helaena, Daeron—”

“Dad?” Aegon flings mockingly, like he knows it won’t be true.

Aemond watches his brother for a long time before he answers. “He’s dying.”

The shock hits Aegon’s face, slow but marrow-deep, spreading beneath the surface like dark tendrils of blood poisoning. “He’s…?”

“That’s not public information yet. People will panic…stock prices, you know…but the company is in good hands. The company will still be here in a year. But Dad won’t.”

Aegon shakes his head, not understanding. “What happened?”

“Cancer. Pancreatic, inoperable.”

“Jesus Christ,” Aegon whispers, swigging his wine.

“He wants to see you before it’s too late. He wants to apologize.”

Again, Aegon shakes his head. He stares out the window at the falling snow, at the cold grey sky. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“Aegon, please—”

“He never liked me, and if he thinks he does now it’s only because of the omnipotent, looming threat of the Great Beyond. Me showing up in Miami won’t fix anything. Not for him, and not for anybody else.”

“It will,” Aemond insists.

“Because you’re so happy to see me, right?” Aegon says; and he grins, a horrible, dazed, triumphant, venomous grin. “You’re so proud of the person I’ve become, the person I’ve always been. You’re beaming with it. You’re fucking ecstatic.”

“Stop.”

“Admit it, Aemond. You should have been born first. You should have been the heir. It always should have been you, and now it is. Can’t you just enjoy it? Can’t you just go back to your little conference calls and your conventions and your equity negotiations and leave me alone?”

Aemond’s hand juts out, seizes Aegon by the collar of his sweatshirt, wrenches him to his feet. Sunfyre growls, showing long canine teeth. “Why, so you can destroy yourself in peace?” Aemond seethes. “No, not a chance. You’re not going to be the weight we’re all forced to carry on our backs. You don’t get to become the Targaryen family ghost. You don’t get to haunt us. You’ve already done enough. Do you hear me? You’ve done enough.” He shoves Aegon back onto the couch, storms into the study, slams the door behind him.

Your parents peek skittishly from of the kitchen. “Everything okay out there?” your dad says.

“Yeah,” Aegon slings back. He drains the last of his wine, takes your hand, presses his still-healing lips to your knuckles. His face is a wasteland, miles away, years away. Sunfyre, whimpering, rests his head in his lap.

“Aegon,” you begin, laying your palm against his cheek. I would do anything to help you, to fix you. What can I do? What can any of us do?

“I’m not going back.” He gazes out the window, cold grey void filling up his eyes. “I’m never going back.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The days are seasons: silent colorless mornings, snow-glare afternoons, violet dusk peppered with star-fire, nights as black as volcanic glass. Rumbling, monstrous plows pass by on the street outside. Trucks and SUVs begin revving back to life, exhaust fumes melting icicles that hang like fangs. The long hours that Aemond spends in the study yield no revelations that you can see. He is courteous to your parents, jarringly so. Before he leaves, he places an envelope on their dining room table. You open it while he and Aegon are loading their luggage into your Jeep.

“Don’t bang my suitcase around,” you can hear Aemond commanding, muffled through the house’s frosted windows. “Hey, what did I say—?!”

Inside the envelope is a handwritten note and a check for ten thousand dollars. The note reads:

Thank you so very much for your remarkable warmth and hospitality. You have a beautiful home, and an even more beautiful family. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you ever require anything. In Targaryen Enterprises, you have a friend for life.

Yours most sincerely, Aemond

P.S. I apologize about my delinquent brother. I am indescribably mortified by his conduct.

P.P.S. Your daughter is far too good for him.

Once back in his apartment, Aegon sets a pot on the stove. He gets two mugs out of the cabinet—the large blue mug for you, the green mug with tiny gold stars for him—and dusts a kiss across your cheekbone, one of his swift weightless kisses, the kind that feels routine and limitless, like he’ll be doing it for the rest of his life. Sunfyre frolics around you both, panting happily, accepting ear scratches and high-pitched praises.

Aemond goes immediately to the television. He turns it on, flips through the channels, finds the local news. There is a flurry of words you can’t get a grip on right away: breaking news, the Juneau Police Department, the Ice Fisher, suspect in custody.

What appears in the little black box doesn’t make any sense. There are random, disconnected fragments—flashing blue and red lights reflecting off fresh snow, Trent’s apartment, officers in uniform, florescent yellow crime scene tape, Trent being led to a police car in handcuffs—and then they all come together in a boom like thunder. And then all the pieces fall into place.

“I made a call reporting Trent for suspicious behavior,” Aemond explains calmly. “I got a judge to issue a search warrant. They went into his apartment with dogs and UV lights and found hiking boots with blood on them. A lot of blood. Human blood.”

Trent?

“And not just boots. There are trekking poles too, and snowshoes, and chisels, and fishing lines, things that match evidence left in the areas where the bodies were discovered. All with blood on them.”

TRENT?

“They’re waiting for lab results to confirm that the blood matches one or more of the victims’ DNA, but I’m confident they’ll find what they’re looking for. He’s their killer, the worst one Juneau has ever seen. He’s not a mystery, and he’s not a legend. He’s just a man.”

You and Aegon are staring at the television, horrified, hypnotized; you can’t look away. Your heart is racing. You’ve forgotten how to breathe. Your pulse is a deafening roar in your ears, a storm over the ocean, crashing waves and winds that capsize ships. Trent’s face isn’t colored with rage, audacity, remorse. When he flips his long hair out of his eyes, he looks bewildered. He wears the blank, fumbling confusion of a child.

It can’t be Trent, can it? Can it?

“No more excuses. No more delays.” Aemond turns to his brother. His pale eye is savage and determined. His sapphire glints like a blade. “It’s time to go home.”

[morally-grey-variant]

love is a dagger [loki x oc][part two]

loki x oc

part two

[master post]

[read part one first]

Pairing: Loki x Original Character (she/they)

Agent Grey Forrest can’t quite reconcile her alliance with Loki. After six months of regular hand-to-hand combat and close-weapons training, they’re not quite friends but can’t exactly stay away from each other. Everything changes the day Loki accidentally stabs Grey during a training exercise.

Part Two Summary: Ten stitches later, Grey needs rest. Loki stays to care for his favorite agent, knowing he’ll have to answer to Tony -- and the other Avengers -- for the accident later. After witnessing Tony’s rage, they both know this is just the tip of the iceberg. Caring for an injured Grey tests the tenuous friendship, and as Loki bares a shred of his soul, Grey is forced to confront the truth of their feelings.

 Maybe later can wait a little longer. (wc 3 k)

Warnings: Later episodes become more explicit with dark themes -- Minors DNI. Blood, hospital/surgery/sedatives/stitches, general angst, mild swearing, non-explicit nudity, inferred non-descriptive references to hypothetical SA. (if I've missed something please let me know!)

I drift in and out of fitful bursts of sleep. Shouts from Tony, his face contorted in rage; Loki's strong, capable hands; fear and angst and blood, so much dripping blood everywhere.

The nurse shakes me awake. I immediately search for Loki; he’s hovering behind her. I can’t read his heavy expression. He stayed.

“Time to go,” she declares, although I couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes. She helps me upright and shows me how to change the bandage that now wraps around my torso, protecting the raw edges of the fresh wound. Loki hovers, observing, though I can’t read his heavy expression.

I shrug out of the scratchy paper hospital gown, but Loki politely averts his gaze. My cheeks still flush hot red. I'm still wearing my athletic leggings, and the nurse offers me a plain black sweatshirt branded with a stylized A that I gratefully tug over my sports bra. She leaves me with a paper box of bandages.

Loki smirks and offers me a hand. “Can you walk now, or do you need me to carry you again, Agent?”

I flush. “I can walk.” 

Loki escorts me out of the medical wing. His hand lingers at the small of my back, pressing the sweatshirt against my skin. “It's a long walk back to the SHIELD dormitories,” he muses. “How far can our brave Agent go before succumbing to the lingering morphine?” 

“To say nothing of the mortal wound in my chest,” I counter, instantly regretting it. His hand stiffens, fingers curling into my back. Fuck.

“I fear Tony may, quite literally, have my head for this.” His biting sarcasm just isn't there. He looks straight forward, fist pressed against the small of my back as he guides me down the hallway. 

“Let me deal with Tony.” I don't have the same sway as the others, but I might be the only person who will stand up for Loki. 

The thought tugs at a ragged edge of my heart. My head swims again; I stumble, catching myself against the wall with my right arm. 

“Careful,” Loki murmurs, both arms looping around me. My heart pounds, those ragged edges snagging against some insistent pull. 

“Let me help you.”

I lay a hand against his shoulder, gently nudging him back. “No,” I grumble. My breath catches as I remember the last time I refused his help. 

Damn it all, Grey. 

Loki wouldn't hurt me. That much I know for certain. Outside of our carefully coordinated sparring matches – today notwithstanding – he'd never so much as raised his voice towards me. 

But Loki relents. He released his grip, but kept his hands hovering just within reach. I slump against the wall, sighing.

“I'm sorry, Loki.”

“What on Midgard do you possibly have to apologize for?”

I shake my head, laughing softly. The movement tugs my stitches, and I curl forward, groaning in pain. Loki's hand finds my shoulder.

“I'm still horrible at close-quarters combat,” I groan, clutching a hand to my ribs. “I'm sorry. I should be better by now–”

“Oh, do shut up,” Loki laughs wearily. He hooks a finger beneath my chin, gingerly lifting my head. 

My heart does that tightening, flip-flopping thing again. Breath whooshes out of my lungs. Loki smiles knowingly; my face probably drops into some slack-jawed expression. 

He still hasn't kissed me.

We’ve trained together nearly every day. For six months, Loki has schooled me in hand-to-hand combat, or close-quarters sparring with knives and daggers wielded with a trickster's sly maneuvers. 

Six months of lingering touches that evolved from instructive placements - “no, you should land here,” a hand against a shoulder; “hold your stance like this,” a shifted leg, gripping a tensed thigh muscle far too tenderly – to more deliberate touches. Fingers brushing down arms. Stray hairs tucked behind an ear. Fingers splayed across worn leather armor. 

Vague exchanges that didn't exactly amount to confessions. But for Loki, they were everything.

“I would greatly prefer you come back to me in one piece,” before I left on a field mission. “Now, show me your right hook again.”

“I trust you, Loki.” A dozen times before a dozen different maneuvers. “You don't underestimate me the way the others do.”

“You're not a woman to be underestimated.”

Oh.

“Did you forget I'm the one who–” he begins, his voice dropping off before he could say it. Green eyes glance away from mine, though he never drops my chin.

“I still trust you, Loki.” My voice cracks in my throat.

His tongue darts out between his lips, parting them infinitesimally. A decision weighs on his dark brow. Yes. Please, Loki.

His finger slips off my chin. “You need rest. Come on.”

All the breath rushes out of me. He runs both hands through his dark curls, pushing them back from his face. Resetting himself.

Our journey back to the SHIELD dormitories took an age. I need two breaks, clutching my chest and waving off Loki's attempts to pick me up again. I know he would gladly lift me into his arms again and carry me straight to my room. If anyone here saw that happening, Fury would personally fire me. Canoodling with the higher-ups. Consorting with Avengers – or, the Avenger-adjacent.

We pause outside my room. One door in a long hallway of identical rooms. For the most part, that’s all I am to SHIELD – one agent in a long stretch of near-identical stories. An over-eager fighter with a knack for gathering intelligence, desperate to prove themselves to the right authority figure. A body to send to the front lines before the real stars of the show assembled, or even stepped foot outside the compound.

“Mission accomplished.” Loki announces quietly. He looks me up and down as if scanning for more signs of … what? Fatigue? Injury?

Loneliness?

I press my hand to the biometric scanner beside the door. It blips and glows with life, unlocking my door with a soft click. “Come in?”

“Is that a question, or a command?”

I grin, pushing the paper box of bandages into his arms. “Command.”

My room looks like every other dormitory on this floor: cramped and efficient, but blessedly private. A floor-to-ceiling window forms the exterior wall of the narrow room, looking down over the wooded area behind the compound. Beside the window, a built-in desk with shelves above takes up the other half of the exterior wall. The wall opposite holds a twin bed and a wardrobe, with the left wall consisting of more shelving. The right wall held a small door which leads to my private, if tiny, bathroom.

Loki’s gaze scrolls around the room, lingering on the personal effects strewn across the space. “The servants of Asgard have better quarters than these,” he mused, dropping the bandages on my desk. 

“This is no royal palace,” I counter, leaning against the doorframe as it slides shut behind me. I watch Loki carefully as he makes one slow turn, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. 

“Indeed,” he answers, “though Stark no doubt sees himself king.” 

I flinch, remembering our earlier encounter. “I don't remember much,” I lie, shifting my feet. 

“You threatened to kill me,” Loki reminds me with a sly grin.

“Then you’ll be sure to stay on my good side.”

Loki watches me for a long time. He releases his grip on the dagger at his waist, suddenly seeming to realize where his hand had unconsciously come to rest. With a roll of his shoulders and a shimmer of green light, he shifts into something more comfortable: black tapered joggers and a black hoodie. 

There it is again. That stupid heart-squeezing, stomach-flipping feeling. Loki never dresses down like this. The man – god –  never wears jeans, let alone sweatpants. I've rarely seen him out of his Asgardian finery, or a formal Midgardian suit.

“Is this all right?” His voice drops to a soft, low question. He offers a shrug at his own appearance.

“Whatever you're comfortable in,” I answer, tugging at the hem of the hospital sweatshirt. “Do you mind if I shower? I'm disgusting.”

He wrinkles his nose, smirking. “Please do.” 

I swat his arm lightly as I step past him, grabbing a change of clothes from my wardrobe. “Make yourself comfortable, and don't get blood on anything.”

“Already taken care of.” He drops into my desk chair, extending a cupped palm that flickers with the remnants of his magic. Of course. 

“Do you ever shower, or do you just magic it all away?” I laugh.

He smirks, lifting an eyebrow. “I do.” He gestures to the bathroom with his head. “Is that thing big enough for a bath?”

“Just a shower,” I shrug, sliding open the door and praying I hadn’t forgotten any stray underwear on the floor. “Why, do you need one?”

“Is that an invitation?” 

I nearly throw up on the spot. He crosses his arms, leaning back in the chair and smirking like the devil himself. I wouldn't say no.

“I prefer to shower alone, thank you,” I croak, wishing I'd come up with something cleverer to say as he lit up with a genuinely bemused laugh. “I'm exhausted and disgusting.”

“Oh, I'm aware,” he laughs as I slide the door shut behind me. 

Oh, my god. The filthy, blood-streaked reflection of a wild woman glares back at me in the bathroom mirror. My sweat-streaked forehead is smudged with my own blood – fingerprint-shaped blotches the size of Loki's fingers. My chest contracts at the memory of his hand cradling my head while the doctor sewed me up. 

Lifting the sweatshirt over my head, I flinch. The upward motion tugs at my stitches. Oh, this is going to be another nightmare. There's a good amount of grunting and hunching over and wiggling my torso before I'm free from the garment. 

The bright red, puckered tear in my flesh screams back at me angrily. Two inches below the elastic band of my sports bra, in the dead center of my right rib cage, the two-inch long stab wound is absolutely going to scar. Ten stitches meticulously pin the flesh back together. I wince as I graze my finger along the ridge, but the memory hurts more: me, clumsily jumping backwards; Loki lunging forward, confidently anticipating my evasion. His blade skimming over my ribs, scratching the bone. 

Loki's face as he realized too late what he'd done.

I trusted Loki; he stabbed me. Thor wouldn't be surprised.

That's why it rattled Loki, I realize. Everyone expects him to turn villainous again. No one expects him to be good.

But he'd been good with me for six months. Gentle. Often acerbic and sometimes short, but never cruel. He'd never hurt me intentionally, only small slip-ups here and there until I learned to properly block or anticipate attacks. 

I still trust him. That won’t change. 

I need to trust him now. I cringe.

“Loki?” I call, parting the sliding door a few inches.

“Is that my invitation?” he calls playfully.

“Ten seconds of seriousness, Loki.”

“As the grave, darling.”

My heart flips. Gooseflesh spreads down my arms. Darling.

“I need help.” My back faces the bedroom, pointedly ignoring the word. I can’t bring myself to look at him. “You can say no. I can call Nat.”

“You’ve yet to give me a favor to refuse.”

I draw in a deep breath. “I can't lift my arms over my head. I had trouble taking my sweatshirt off.” I begin, hoping he'll catch my meaning. Please don't make me say it out loud.

“Are you in pain?” He sounds closer now, but I still don't turn around. There's genuine concern, all sarcasm wiped away. 

“Only a little,” I lie. I can feel my pulse in the wound. “I… I need help.” I back up towards the door, nudging it open a few more inches with my hand.

“Oh.” 

“Oh,” I echo, my arms wrapped around my chest. “I'll just call Nat–” I begin, grabbing the edge of the door, but suddenly Loki's inches away. 

“Do you want to have to explain to her what happened today?” The edge of playfulness is back, because he knows I don't. Natasha and I are friends, but she doesn't approve of my training with the enemy. I'm not ready for this conversation yet, and it's steadily getting harder to explain.

I sigh, pushing the door open another inch until my entire back is visible. “Just help me,” I plead.

“Do you trust me?” 

There's a weight to his voice I don't expect. I turn slightly, and he's still right there behind me. Solemnity paints his sharp features. His bright green eyes waver softly as they reflect the bathroom's bright fluorescents. 

“Of course I trust you.” I answer with what I hope is equal solemnity. “As long as you can behave like a gentleman,” I add, forcing myself to smirk. Levity.

“More than a gentleman,” he teases back, gesturing for me to turn back around. “A prince.”

“I don't know how that's supposed to help,” I laugh. Gingerly, I raise my arms away from my torso. “Princes aren't exactly famous for their propriety.”

“Second sons especially,” Loki adds. “I'm going to touch your back. Is that okay?”

“Y-yes.” Something in my chest swells. He's never exactly asked for permission to touch me before. But he's never undressed me, alone in my bedroom, either. 

His fingers graze my back. “How…” he begins, his fingers sliding under the elastic band. “I don't understand. There's no clasp?”

I shake my head. How many bras has he undone? The thought deflates the warm balloon in my chest; I shove the thought aside. “No, it's … it's all elastic.” Explaining my stab wound to Natasha would be easier than explaining a sports bra to a man. A non-human man. 

“That's why I can't get it off myself,” I continue. “It's tight, and hard to pull it over my head on a good day. Much less with ten stitches in my abdomen.”

His fingers twitch. “Eleven.”

“What?”

“I counted eleven,” Loki explains quietly, gingerly tugging at the elastic again.

“Can't you use magic?” I ask, suddenly desperate to not be having this conversation. “I probably should've asked that from the beginning.” I didn't ask because I don't want you to use magic. The realization stirs the pit of my stomach.

His hands still, pinched between the band and my skin. “Not an option.” His words are clipped. My body tenses up.

“What?” I croak, head curling down towards my chest. Fuck. I’ve messed up, somehow. This shouldn’t be happening. This isn’t how I wanted this to happen. 

Something shifts in my brain. I can’t believe I’m actually letting myself admit it; actually accepting the admission. Letting myself acknowledge that I ever wanted it to happen. Wanted Loki to undress me, wanted his fingers to stretch across my torso and slide over my skin–

“Boundaries,” he finally says. His fingers shift, examining the straps along the top of the garment. They stretch in a web from the back to my shoulders. I force myself to hold in the full-body shudder his touch threatens to elicit.

“I’m not following,” I admit, biting my lip. “If you’re already… taking my bra off, how is magic … worse?”

Loki sighs. His fingers pause again. I can’t bear to turn around and look at him. What the fuck is going on? 

“I’m trying to be … better.” 

His words are unbearably soft, but I can hear how his throat pinches against them. His voice drags against those ragged edges of my heart again. “If all it takes is a snap of my fingers to undress you completely… What kind of monster needs such magic?”

My breath hitches in my chest. I freeze, clenching every muscle. What… what does that mean? I swallow thickly, breath shaking. Loki’s killed people. Loki’s hurt people. Loki’s a villain. Loki’s the bad guy. 

No. I don’t think he’s capable of … whatever he’s implying. 

“You aren’t a monster, Loki.” My voice shakes.

“You don’t sound so sure.” His voice is frighteningly flat. His hand pulls away from me.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I don’t feel like I’m inside my own body. My blood is ice and air simultaneously, my vision blurring to a single point on the wall in front of me.

“My life is plagued by acts of which I feel no sense of pride.” Dark tones undercut any warmth in his deep, velvet voice. “But if it helps… no, I would never… not that. I didn’t mean to … imply such, to frighten you. I’m sorry.”

A breath whooshes from my chest again. “Okay. I trust you.”

“You won’t meet another living soul who shares the same sentiment.” He truly, honestly, and completely believes that. “I can’t atone for what I’ve done, even if it wasn’t in my right mind. But I want to be … better. Is this all right?” His tone shifts on the last sentence, the pads of his fingers tapping against my shoulder. I nod silently.

“Square your shoulders.” His voice shifts, and I obey.

“You place so much trust in me. It makes me wonder,” he continues, his thumb sliding beneath the tight fabric. “Am I worthy?”

He tugs at the elastic band, pushing it up to my shoulders without waiting for an answer to his rhetorical question. “Arms forward. Head down.” He shuffles it up and over my shoulders with surprising ease and minimal strain on my stitches, then gingerly nudges my ponytail out of the way as he lifts it over my head. I tuck my arms back through, crossing them over my breasts. “It’s off.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, gaze locked on the white tile floor. “A perfect gentleman.” 

Perhaps in some attempt to protect my modesty, Loki slides the door shut. Turning back, one arm wrapped around my chest, I push it back slightly, peering through the small gap. His dark eyes gaze back. Something has changed between us.

His face sags under the weight of so much self-doubt. My chest cracks open. I press my lips together in a small, sad smile.

“You’re worthy enough to me.”

[continue to part three]

[ss-skyearn]

Senses

PAIRING : Hwang Hyunjin x afab!reader

WORD COUNT : 6.5k

GENRE : Angst, Smut, Fluff

WARNINGS/CONTENT : past Seungmin x reader, mentioned cheating (not Hyunjin or reader), brief episode of anxiety.

SMUT WARNINGS : grinding, brief handjob, attempted fingering, biting, spitting, sweat licking (*insert that one taste fancam where he's dripping buckets*), dirty talk, breast play, switch!Hyunjin, switch!reader, exhibitionism, mirror kink (?), slight non-toxic sexual possessiveness, creampie, overstimulation (m. receiving), unprotected intercourse (do not try at home), desperate sex.

A/N : A rewrite of one of my very first pieces so definitely not my best work, but I'm getting back into the groove of writing after a break from it, so have this while I work on a bigger project I'll hopefully be able to announce soon enough. Enjoy, lovelies. ♡

Upon hearing that, he'd turn you around, coming behind, pressing his chest to your back. He'd take your hands in his own large ones, and stretch them outwards.

"Look up, love. Close your eyes, look up and feel."

You'd scoff, "Really, Hyunjin? The titanic pose? Thought you were a creative arts major."

He'd bend down, just a tad, enough that the next words he breathed out were coherent enough to reverberate in your head long after he was done saying them, "They call me the hopeless romantic for a reason."

Rain. Melancholy.

These words have always been synonymous to you. One notwithstanding without the other. Always hand in hand.

The forbidden mutually dependent pair.

It's one of those times, when the sky gods decided to quench the earth's thirst for rainwater.

You find yourself sitting behind the steering wheel, hands white knuckled with the sheer force with which you hold it, your motor neurons running a mile a minute.

Thinking of him.

You stare out the windscreen, noting the raindrops that trickle down, swirling and making mindless patterns. The pitter patter sounds bounce off it, echoing in your empty Sedan, refracting through every solid surface present, wanting to get out, but failing.

Miserably so.

Their condition isn't much different from your own, you suppose.

Trying to break free, frantic in your motions, colliding through this barrier and that, only to effectively be trapped. In your own being.

It still induces anxiety of the unadulterated kind within you.

The thought of him.

Your olfactory senses work overtime, looking for even faint traces, the solace that it's still somewhere. Somewhere far away, but there nonetheless.

The scent of him.

Your fingertips brush against the leather wheel cover, that even after being smoothed down to perfection, remains rough to your touch. Nothing compares to what you once felt, what you felt only once.

The feel of him.

Your tongue twirls around and hits your palate, staying there and caressing, finding, feeling, remembering.

The taste of him.

As calming and grounding as the resounding of the raindrops is, your ears stand on alert, detectable sound range reduced to micro-hertz, trying to pick up even the faintest of melodies. But none of them compare to the one that remains your favourite.

The sound of him.

The trees sway about, leaves dangling in the strong wind. Some fall off, carried to places foreign, twirling about in the small tornadoes created by the gush of breeze. But it just doesn't compare to what your orbs once witnessed.

The sight of him.

Your eyes try to make sense of the criss cross motifs that are littered across your windows, focusing on the partially dried out trail left behind by the raindrops long forgotten, having fallen onto the ground, as if their existence was to serve that mere purpose.

But, within your heart, you can find no remorse. For it has been filled to the brim ever since you've refused to let it go.

The memory of him.

A loud thunder jolts you awake from the downward spiral you find yourself in more often than not.

Almost always when it rains.

Looking around, you realise that the roads that were jam packed, just now, you swear, are completely empty.

In your panicked and half dazed state, the memory still lingering, you pull the car straight to the fourth gear and step on the race.

The engine roars, wheels turn but the car doesn't move an inch.

While you're trying to make sense of just what the hell is happening, your line of sight lands straight onto the clutch.

A trail of smoke slowly seeps out from just underneath it, the smell of burnt metal suddenly hitting you.

Well, fuck.

You look around trying to gauge where it is that you are. To your pleasurable horror, you have no idea where in the world this place is.

You've been in this city for a good three months, but never have you stumbled upon this particular nook. Looking around, you note that after the traffic has been cleared, the place is unnervingly empty. Save for the few cars parked on the other side of the walkway, you don't spot a single soul.

Seems like you might have blacked out far longer than you estimated.

The sombre music playing through your phone comes to an abrupt halt. You glance down, only to find the useless piece of metal glowing and shutting off, the apple logo mocking you.

Well, fuck— two times over.

It is fairly late, but back in your hometown, that was the central hub of nightlife, nights were always bustling with people. More so than the daytime.

The only sign of life you can make out is the dingy convenience store in the distance, branded by a neon sign missing a few letters. With the remaining letters flickering, it makes for the perfect picture of a fucking haunted house.

But beggars can't be choosers. Ironic, really.

Climbing out, you close your car door shut.

Thud.

Probably with much more force than necessary.

You march up to the convenience store, peering into it through the dusty windows, trying to see if anyone else is inside, gauging the general vibe, as such. For all you know, it might actually be more dangerous inside than it is out here.

But fortunately, or unfortunately, you aren't sure, you spot a couple giggling and sharing a piece of croissant. It looks stale at best, dried crumbs barely holding onto the crust, making for a sad excuse of a pastry.

You know you're projecting. The poor pastry never did anything to you, to the memories crawling all over your brain, but you need an outlet.

Better an inanimate object than the couple who make you consider homicide.

Trying to contain your sudden murderous turmoil, you creek open the door and enter in. The inside of the store isn't nearly as crusty as the outside, something you're grateful for.

Not trusting yourself to glance at the couple, who you assume are busy with each other's mouths, if the smacking noises are something to go by, you make a beeline for the shelves.

Skimming through the various items sprawled on them, you aren't sure what you want. Hell, you aren't even sure if you want it.

You rummage about the store, staring at products but never really looking, your senses still on high alert and acutely aware of the rain that still rages outside with full force.

It was his favourite time of the year. Whenever it rained, he would pull you from under any shade you tried to shield yourself with, only to place you right under the downpour.

"Hyunjin!" you'd shout.

"Just let go, love. Live a little," he would say through a giggle.

"How is getting drenched living!?"

Upon hearing that, he'd turn you around, coming behind, pressing his chest to your back. He'd take your hands in his own large ones, and stretch them outwards.

"Look up, love. Close your eyes, look up and feel."

You'd scoff, "Really, Hyunjin? The titanic pose? Thought you were a creative arts major."

He'd bend down, just a tad, enough so that the next words that he breathed out were coherent enough to reverberate in your head long after he was done saying them,

"They call me the hopeless romantic for a reason."

Wetness suddenly makes itself known. You lift up the heel of your palm and roughly wipe off the tears that fall down your cheeks. But they keep coming, one after the other, trailing patterns on your skin, much like the raindrops did on your car window.

By the time you've calmed down, you look around to notice that the couple has left, their half eaten croissant laying on the counter.

Guess they had urgent matters at hand.

You're still trying to figure out your next game plan, about how you're going to get home, when your eyes land on the ramen section. The new flavour everyone's been raving about sits in the middle and as if on cue, your stomach rumbles. You realise you're suddenly very hungry.

The crying was worth something at least.

Taking one of the cups, you move toward the dining section of the store. Making quick work of cooking the noodles, you take a seat by the counter, physically seating yourself as far away from that darn half eaten croissant as you can.

In your hungry enthusiasm, you promptly choke on the spice level your dehydrated state was not ready for, and make a run for the milk section. Just as you're about to reach for your saviour, you collide with something— someone.

"Hey, are you okay?"

You look up and your anger at the couple, the hunger, the burn of your tongue, everything is forgotten. For the person who stands in front of you is no stranger.

It's him.

And he's touching you.

After making sure you're stabilised, he withdraws his hands from your arms and looks up, worry written all over his face.

You see as recognition dawns on him, as his eyes do a double take to make sure he isn't making this up, as his lips part to make way for a silent but evident gasp.

"It's you," he breathes out.

You put both your hands behind your back and clutch them together, mostly because you don't know what to do with them, and partly because it's you trying to appear nonchalant, even with the way your heart is thumping away.

"And it's you."

You know how silly you sound but that's just the charm of Hwang Hyunjin. He makes you silly.

He sweeps his hands through his hair, and as your eyes follow the motion, you take note of his hair for the first time.

"You changed your hair colour."

"Huh?" His hand falls off his hair.

It's your best attempt at a filler statement. Your way of saying that, no, I wasn't thinking— crying over you, over us.

"Yeah. I guess I did."

He moves back to the stove, and begins stirring his ramen a little awkwardly, failing to appear unbothered. His body language tells you he's uncomfortable, that he's very carefully planning out his next moves.

"Well, I was just having my break." He says. You're not sure why he's telling you this in lieu of a greeting, a formality, anything really, but all things considered, this might be his own attempt at a filler statement.

"Well then, enjoy."

Just as you're about to walk off, you hear a gentle voice,

"Leave after you eat. Please."

His voice sounds a lot like himself now. Clearer. More sure of itself.

Just like you remember.

And that shatters your heart further, for you can remember what that voice said to you in passing instances, in hushed whispers between all the chaos, in moments of vulnerability under the sheets.

You turn around and simply look at him, finally allowing yourself to really look.

In the two years that you haven't seen him, he's changed a lot, you note.

His hair is much longer, blonde and slightly wavy, face slimmer, cheeks hollowed out, jawline more defined. Lips pink and plumper than you remember ever appreciating, for a moment you let your mind wonder, think about if they would still feel the same against yours.

"I mean, your ramen.." he trails off and that's when you notice you had just been staring at him. That also makes you realise how apparent you have made that you don't want to exist in the same space as him.

"Um, I can eat it in my car. No worries."

"It's raining out. They'll get cold. Just eat here. I'll go to the back room or something."

A beat.

"If you want me to," he adds quickly, voice once again taking on the same note it had when his eyes first landed on you.

You want to hear that gentle tone once again.

"Eat with me," you blurt out.

He looks at you with a baffled look, and then, slowly but surely, you see a smile stretch its way on his pretty face and you feel fit to cry all over again.

"Alright, then. Go start. They're getting soggy."

You make your way over to where your cup lies, but hunger suddenly evades you. You stare blankly at the noodles drowning in the red soup and it just reminds you of your heart drowning in your sorrow.

Sorrow for the man who is making his way over to you, the man who is handing you—

Chocolate milk?

"You forgot to get it," he chuckles.

You're simultaneously flustered, and awed that he's still so attentive. Even after all that time.

He sits down next to you, and with the warmth radiating off him, you get a waft of his scent.

"Is that sandalwood?"

"In the, the.. ramen?"

You holler with laughter, "Why would there be sandalwood in ramen?"

"I don't know, you tell me!" he says, his shoulders rising up, face scrunched in exaggerated playfulness.

Ah, the dramatics. Glad they haven't changed.

"No, I meant your cologne. It's different now."

You say before you can stop yourself, only to immediately regret it.

The light atmosphere that was created, with struggle, if you were to pick apart a little, is gone as quickly as it came, and his eyes take on an austere look.

"Yeah. You liked it."

You tilt your head.

"You used to compliment me on how nice I always smelled and over time, I came to associate that scent with you."

I have an idea of where this is going and I don't like it.

"It reminded me of you. So I had to change it."

The way he says he had to change it, tightens the knot in your heart.

You clear your throat and stuff your face, to not say something you'll regret, again.

And choke, again.

You reach out for the milk, but he snatches it away, standing up and coming behind you,

"Don't drink when you're coughing, it'll worsen it. Look up for me."

You do, and he begins rubbing your back, counting out for you,

"One, two, three, in. Four, five, out. There. That's it. Breathe."

Even after he's done guiding you through it and you've caught your breath, he stays there, with his hand on your back.

"Um, thanks."

That seems to do the trick, as he quickly retracts his hand and slides back onto the bench beside you, a little further away than he was before.

You resist the urge to slide and make that distance the same again.

Maybe even less.

"So, convenience store, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Do you always work late night shifts?"

"Not really. I work whenever one of the part timers isn't able to make it."

The wording; 'one of the part timers', makes you think—

"Yeah, I own the place."

But what about—

"I'm mastering in creative arts, still. This is just a side thing."

Oh, that makes sense.

"I know," he continues.

"Wait, how do you know what I'm think—"

He laughs out loud, "Man, I love how you don't have a filter, even now. I still can read you from your face alone."

You huff, and go back to your ramen again.

It's the one constant in this entire situation that you can turn to.

Only to fucking burn my mouth.

This time when you wince and yelp, Hyunjin doesn't come to help you. No, that motherfucker laughs.

You slap his shoulder and just like that, the light hearted atmosphere has returned.

The elephant in the room remains unaddressed but as you continue to eat your food, the spice doesn't quite hit as much, and your heart doesn't quite hurt as much.

After you're done, you glance out the window. It's still pouring cats and dogs and you have no idea what to do.

You look over, only to find him already staring at you, giving you one of those looks.

You know what's coming. But that doesn't make you any less unwilling to answer when the bomb finally drops,

"So, how are things?"

"What things?"

Ignorance. Totally not a dick move.

But you'll do just about anything to delay the inevitable. To not address what you know he wants you to.

"With seungmin."

But he's not here to play, it seems.

"Non existent?" You shrug, not meeting his gaze.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the puzzled look on his face, "What do you mean? What happened?"

You scoff, "His ex happened, that's what."

He's even more confused now. Looking up at him, you wonder if he doesn't believe that his once-friend would do such a thing or if he's just naive enough to not understand what you're implying.

Something seems to click, and his relaxed stance is gone in a flash.

"So, you mean to say," he almost growls, voice sending shivers down your spine, "He did all that only to cheat on you?"

You're not sure what he means by all that but you don't have the time to ask.

His jaw ticks, eyes burning with intensity when he suddenly stands up and promptly starts pacing the aisle.

His hands come up to tug at his locks, those silky blonde locks you have yet to learn the feel of, if ever, and you can make faint phrases from his incoherent murmuring.

"—happening right now—"

"had the nerve—"

"—no way."

You watch him for a while, but soon his pacing gives your head cause to spin and you walk over to him.

You trudge up to his still pacing form, approaching him like you would a feral puppy, for he's certainly acting like one, and gingerly tap on his shoulder.

Seemingly not having noticed you advancing toward him, he startles, and turns to look at you.

And it's then that you notice. Eyes filled with the beginnings of what look an awful lot like tears, his water line is but a moment away from flooding.

"Hey, talk to me. What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry." He blurts out.

"What for?"

"At the exhibit—"

The exhibit? Surely, he's not—

"— when I said it didn't mean anything to me—"

Oh, hell no.

You step back, all attempts to calm him down forgotten, self preservation instincts kicking in.

"Stop."

Your voice is stern, laced with what seems to be venom, and you suppose it might as well be, for you value your self worth far more than the prospect of coming off standoffish.

"Please love, listen—"

Love.

That's what he'd call you. Only to fuck it all up soon after.

You don't want a replay of what happened, a rerun of the horror you were put through. Your heart can only take so much, after all.

"No hyunjin, I'm not doing this with you right now."

You stumble back. Quite literally stumble.

Your head is spinning, the gut wrenching feeling that you wished, prayed, hoped, begged to not return is back.

The memories of all those days return. In full force.

You had cried. Cried until your eyes dried out, until they didn't have anything to give. Until the washbasin tap ran out of water and was no longer able to conceal your sobs. Until your eyes burnt enough to droop. Until sleep tucked you in its icy tentacles. It won't leave you alone.

The thought of him.

All the delicacies in the world and you couldn't taste anything. All the calming fragrances, but you couldn't smell anything. All the beauty that was worth beholding, but you couldn't perceive anything. All the divine melodies, but you couldn't discern anything. All the warm bodies, but you could find comfort in none.

It wouldn't leave you alone.

The taste of him. The scent of him. The sight of him. The sound of him. The feel of him.

You had been deprived of it. And living without it all that time is a fate you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy.

"Hey, love.. "

You don't really know what's going on around you. You can hear his voice, the gentle rumble, but don't really understand anything. It's all white noise, blending in with the buzzing that's growing louder every second.

You feel something warm on your jaw. It feels nice. You grasp at it, holding tightly,

"Stay. Stay," is all you say through hiccups. You don't know what this feeling is, but you don't want it to go. It's grounding, warm, a stark contrast to your shivering body.

As soon as you cling onto his hands with your ice cold ones, Hyunjin is on high alert, winding his arms around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly close.

"Breathe, love, breathe. I'm here. Shhh."

It's taking everything in him not to break at what he's witnessing. You're almost at the brink of a panic attack, trembling, shaking, sobbing. But he has to stay strong. For you.

"Hey, hey, listen. Look at me. Look at me, love."

The voice is still distant. You try to move your eyes, to make sense of the situation, to no avail. Your shivering isn't subsiding.

Then suddenly, you feel the same warmth that was on your jaw, on your lips. Something soft, tender, and sweet.

You're barely moving your lips but this time when your tongue twirls around and hits your palate, not only does it remember, it also feels.

The taste of him.

And suddenly you can feel your senses coming back to you. Your head isn't hurting, your ears aren't buzzing, your eyes aren't unsure, the fragrances aren't mingled together.

For the first time in months, everything is clear.

Taste. Sight. Scent. Feel. Sound.

It's all clear.

Because it's all him.

When he breaks the kiss, you notice his cheeks are stained.

You thumb away his tears, whispering,

"Don't cry."

"You're one to talk," he sniffles.

"You're not doing it again, are you?"

You've come down enough to let out a timid voice, bringing down all the walls you've built around yourself.

One last time. Just one last.

He buries his face in your neck, and you're sure you hear a choked sob, "Never again, love. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

He turns the both of you over, seating himself on the bench, pulling you to his lap sideways.

"I never wanted to do it. But I had to."

You don't trust your voice enough to try to speak, so you can only urge him on with a silent look, hoping he'd catch on.

Of course, he does.

"Before our.. night together, Seungmin had told me he had feelings for you. He told me he knew I did too and asked me to stay away. Something about him liking you first," the annoyance written all over his face couldn't be more apparent, "I don't know why, but I accepted. I overestimated my restraint. I jumped in with you the first chance I got and trust me, love, I don't regret a moment of it. But when I saw Seungmin right after, I knew I had fucked up. I tried to talk to him, but he just wouldn't listen—"

"Is that why you guys fell apart back then?"

He gives you a pained smile, a draw of lips that's much more a dejection than an actual smile.

"He made me feel like I had wronged him. He made me feel so bad about everything. I truly believed I was in the wrong. That I was wrong to let myself indulge in you, wrong in enjoying it. And so I pushed you away. I thought- I thought he was better for you anyway—"

"And none of you thought about asking me? What I wanted?"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, love. I was too busy berating myself to see anything else." He leans forward and the next words are muffled in your neck, "I promise I'll be better. I promise. I'll put you first, always. Please. Please, I'm sorry."

Your breath hitches and you do not have the strength, nor the will, if you're honest, to stop what your tongue spills next,

"If I give you one last chance, can we go back?"

"That's all I ask," he breathes, the later part of his sentence right in your mouth.

This time when he kisses you, you are an active participant. Now that you can taste him, you're going to savour him. Both of your tongues dance together, the small sounds of moisture almost as loud as the raging storm outside, all because having been deprived of his sound for so long, it's all your ears can hear.

Your hips have a will of their own as they roll against his crotch and to your delight, find him already on the way to being ready for you.

"Need you," you mumble against his lips, "once more," without stopping the languid rolls of your groin against his.

"You can have me whenever."

The promise has your confidence soaring, and in that exact moment of conviction, you hook your fingers in his track pants and boxers, pulling them down in one fell swoop. He's fully hard by now and even prettier than you remember.

You take him in your hand, not pumping, not stroking, just feeling him and his wetness that is trickling down the shaft by now.

You know he must be impatient, must be having a hard time controlling himself, but he lets you inspect him, lets you run your thumb along his member, swiping and gathering his precum.

When you look up at him, his eyes are glazed over, half hidden under drooped eyelids. Looking right into them, you bring your thumb to your mouth and suck it clean. He lets out a puff of air, but no sound accompanies.

You want to hear him. Now that you can, you want to relish in the sound of him.

You moan with your thumb still in your mouth and it has the desired effect in the form of a groan from those pretty lips.

You lean forward, "You taste so good, Hyun. Here," You stick your tongue out for him, thinking he'd suck on it.

How dumb; to think he'd do something so tame.

Nothing could've prepared you for the way he sticks his own tongue out, dragging it against yours in one fat lick, and pulls away, with a myriad of spit strings connecting your wet, hot appendages.

Enjoying the look of awed surprise on your face, he takes advantage of it, and flips your skirt up, pulling your underwear to one side.

Running his fingers along your slit, another groan makes itself known. He starts pushing two fingers in.

That's when you hold his wrist, stopping him from penetrating you any further.

His eyes shoot up at you and before he can panic about what he did wrong, you frantically murmur, "No time for this," and lift your hips, coming to sit on your knees.

"But are you—"

"More than ready. All okay," you don't feel the need to string together proper grammatically correct sentences. So long as the meaning is conveyed.

"W-wait what abo—"

"Birth control."

"How do you know—"

"You're not the only one who can read me like an open book," you smirk, grabbing his now throbbing length, holding it upright and begin the delicious sink.

You don't really have a distinct memory of what it felt like all those years ago, but even so, you don't recall it being this good.

As your hips meet his, with him completely sheathed in, he falls forward, his face dropping in the juncture between your neck and shoulder as he whines. Actually whines.

"Oh God, please.. "

Hips flush against his, you smile and rake your fingertips through those silky blonde locks you've been eyeing the whole while you've been here. You take it all in. The feel of him.

"You good, Hyun?"

"Just- just, missed this, love this.. "

"What's this?" You can't help but ask. You swear you're not teasing, just curious.

"Love your pussy," and when he lifts his head up, for the second time that night, you see the tears pricking his eyes, "love you. I love you."

Overcome with emotion, you lunge for him, mouths meeting in a frantic clash of teeth and tongue and it's all you can do to keep your sanity intact.

Slowly, you begin to move your hips in circles, feeling every inch he has to offer, and does he have a lot of them, pulliing groan after groan from him, until his voice is echoing in the stand alone empty convenience store, in this distant cranny of the city that remains still half unknown to you, probably reaching out and echoing in the empty rainy night streets, but in this moment, you can hardly bring yourself to care.

"Fuck, best pussy I've ever had," he grunts in between kisses and it's then that you realise, you aren't entirely ready for this form of him.

Back in the day, obscene statements and vulgar language were your speciality. But such filth spilling from those pretty lips is, you realise, fucking lethal.

As you continue your slow grind on him, he finds enough will to sit back up,and reattaches his mouth to you.

His hands play with the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath and slowly trailing upwards, until they reach your breasts, cupping and kneading.

He groans again even though you're the one being stimulated, "Wanted to do this ever since you walked in with that fucking wet top clinging onto you."

A harsh tug of your nipples has you moaning, and your slow rut turns to full fledged bounces.

He continues to fondle you, his face scrunched up. You know the bounces aren't doing much for him, but he's trying to let you have your fun.

A single drop of sweat trickles from his forehead, down across his cheek and his neck. You're not in control of your own actions as you lean forward and press your tongue flat against the small droplet at the base of his neck and lick up the trail it had left behind.

"Oh god, love, when did you turn so naughty?"

His voice is strained and you just know it's only a matter of time before he loses it and takes control.

You're counting on it.

You bring your hand to the front of his face and fork out your fingers, digging them into his hairline and pushing, effectively shoving all his hair back, forehead on display. You lean forward and drag your tongue against his sweaty skin again and that's all it takes for his self control to snap.

"That's it. Off."

You get off him. Standing up frantically, he goes behind you, and winding both his arms around your waist, lifts you up. Reaching the table, where your ramen bowls are now keeping the poor croissant company, he deposits you on your knees atop the table, your front to the large window, back to him.

He grabs your hips and lifts you up slightly so that you're no longer sitting on your heels, and pushes you forward with his large palm against the small of your back, pert ass jutting out slightly, giving him enough room to enter.

The position is something new, and entirely too creative, you'll give him that— with you bracing your weight on your palms, knees on either side of them, slightly crouched forward, ass hanging in air.

Seems promising.

Yet you fail to fathom to just what extent it's going to wreck you, for when he starts pushing back in, your jaw falls slack, a wanton moan tumbling out before you have the chance to stop it.

He pulls out. Barely an inch and thrusts forward with so much force, you worry about hitting your head on the goddamn window.

"Oh, fuck—"

That only seems to motivate him further as he repeats the motion again, practically pounding you with calculated ruts.

Each time he rams into you, it's with a perfectly measured intensity to have you surrendering yourself to the onslaught of pleasure.

It's then that you notice a faint reflection of your connected bodies on the rain tinted window. Transfixed, you stare at him through it, at yourself, watch how his brows are furrowed in concentration, eyes not leaving the area where he enters you.

It doesn't take long for him to follow your line of sight and when he sees just what exactly is driving you insane, he grins. Almost diabolically.

"Does seeing yourself in the reflection excite you, love? Or is it the idea that anyone could walk by and see you taking it from the back that has you creaming around me like this?"

Oh god, you don't think you can deal with this.

"What do you— ah— mean? I'm n-not—"

One deliberate harsh thrust and your cunt makes the most lewd squelching noise, in complete contradiction to any excuse you might have tried to make.

This was of course intentional, as a chuckle resounds in the empty store, "No? Your pussy begs to differ."

And with that he pulls out, lifting you by the waist once again, and walks around the table to land you right in front of the window, your back to him.

He pulls only your hips backwards, bending you to the perfect angle and in one swift motion, is back inside you again.

"Watch all you want," he smirks and goes right back to jackhammering into your hole.

You land your hands onto the panel and with it so close to your face, the glass turns foggy.

His hands once again find your tits, groping, and mushing them together. You notice him staring at them through the reflection, greedy eyes enjoying the view of the deep cleavage he's created.

Just to mess with him, you open your mouth and let a dollop of spit fall down right into the cleavage, trailing down the valley, which is now non-existent, with the way he's pushing them together, between your breasts.

He groans, "Fuck, love, you definitely got a lot dirtier in the time we were apart. Seungmin teach you this?"

You grimace, not sure why he had to bring it up now of all times, even if it was partially the truth, "Can you not talk about other guys when you're balls deep inside me?"

"Why not? Like you said, it's me who's balls deep in you. If anything, I love how we can just talk about him when it's me fucking you this good."

You've never seen this side of him before. There's a strange possessiveness to his tone, one that lets you know this isn't just dirty talk.

"I always wanna fuck you, always wanna be in your cunt. Will you let me, love?"

You're turned on beyond belief. He's managed to continue to spew filth and fuck you into tomorrow, keeping up a fast and hard tempo all at the same time.

"Will you, hm?" He prompts when you don't answer.

"Let me have you to myself. Please?"

The all too familiar bubbling in your lower belly is all you can focus on, but through the haze of it all, you manage to mumble an "always."

He falls forward at that, bringing his hand around you, jutting is index and middle finger apart in a V sign, and slots them on either side of your clit. It's then that the real pleasure begins. He moves both the fingers back and forth alternatively, one moving backward when the other moves forward, occasionally bringing them together to effectively pinch your clitoris.

He remembers. He remembers just how you like it.

It's not the movement in itself, but the realisation that he remembers that snaps the coil that has been building, and with no further warning, you are coming all around him.

You wail, body thrashing about with how hard your orgasm hits you, eyes seeing white spots all over your field of view.

He slows down his thrust to rhythmic grinds, fingers taking on a gentle rub of circles on your overworked clit, trying to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.

You have partially come down, walls still fluttering around him, when he speaks with urgency,

"W-where do you want me?"

"Inside," it's not even a matter to mull over. You'd be a fool to not be painted by his pigment, to not want his essence to create the most beautiful masterpiece. One that remains sheathed inside you, for the world to never witness. Only yours to feel, to possess.

He suddenly sinks his teeth into your neck, biting down hard. You yelp and reflexively clench around him and that's all it takes for him to lose himself, hot liquid gushing and filling you up to the brim, dripping out and down, and he's still going, giving more of him to you.

When he's finally milked himself for all he's worth, he slumps forward, still buried in you to the hilt. This makes your body, previously bent, straighten and your tits press against the cool window.

You gasp from the sudden chill, and he whispers,

"Sorry love. Here," and reaches both his hands out to slip in between the glass and your breasts, scooping them fully, his hand now pressed to the cold casement.

You laugh, "Don't pretend you're doing this for me. After what just happened, I'm fully aware of your tit fixation."

He laughs too but doesn't deny it.

As he stills and catches his breath, you push your hips back against his now softening cock.

You can't help it. It's completely involuntary.

He hisses in overstimulation, but makes no move to stop you.

"Does it hurt?" You enquire, not stopping your movements, for if he says no, you'll have to anyway. Savour it while it lasts, your greedy mind tells you.

But what he says is not what you were expecting.

"Nothing hurts when you do it, love."

He whimpers, but doesn't attempt to halt you, still.

"You could run me over with a truck and I'd thank you."

Rolling your eyes at this antics, you stifle out a laugh. "Count me in."

Turning you around, he looks at you in mock offence, hand held over his chest, "You wound me, love."

You laugh even harder at that.

Gosh, did you miss this dramatic ass.

An endeared smile makes its way onto his face. He pulls you into his embrace again. And as his sandalwood fragrance tingles your senses alight, you drown right into it. The scent of him.

You could get used to this new scent on him, his skin, make new memories, forgoing the ones that scarred your soul.

"But really, I'm grateful. Thank you, for coming back to me."

"Just don't break my heart again."

He pulls back, just an inch, sorrow taking over his features, "I swear I never meant—"

You silence him with a finger to his lips, which he kisses on reflex.

"I know. No more apologies. Just promise me. That you'll stay this time."

He kisses your finger again with a nod.

"That you'll love me back this time."

Another kiss.

"That you'll never assume that anyone or anything makes me happier than you. "

Another.

Removing your finger from those plush lips, you move further towards him, if that, at all, is even possible.

You cup his face in your hold, "That you'll always fuck me like you did today."

A smirk tugs at his lips, cheeky demeanour taking over.

But his face suddenly softens, "You were my first, all those years ago. And I intend for you to be my last."

That has your insides positively melting, but under his gaze, you know of no way to react, except to smack him on the chest, and yelp, "You're so fucking corny today!"

And the smirk makes a comeback, as he leans down, and whispers right in your ear,

"They call me the hopeless romantic for a reason."

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[terrence-silver]

I'm feeling pretty blue today - what would CK Terry (or any TIG characters you feel like writing about!) to do earnest, sincerely cheer up someone they love?

I wish you lots of elation and happiness. Hope these help. ❤️

---

― When Jan Valek met beloved he already knew it'll be a moment he'll memorize and cherish for the rest of eternity. He already knew beloved will be something or someone that'll bring only true goodness into his life. He equates them to the light of the sun he and his kind were bereft of for centuries. He equates them with everything that's still noble, genuine, warm and sweet about humanity at large even though he doesn't view other mortals in the most of favorable light exactly. He has this incredibly exalted and romantic opinion of them, so, oh, the idea they'd ever feel blue about anything when he puts them all the way up there with the stars --- well, it strikes him. It is like witnessing a beautiful flower being sad about something; it cannot be conceivable because it isn't the flower's intended purpose in the grand scheme of creation. He's all affection and worship, collecting every tear from beloved's face with his lips and fingers, hugging them to himself with both hands and hiding them in his cape. He coos them. Caresses them. Hides them. Reminds them that in his infinite glory, God didn't create them for moments of sorrow. He's created them for joy. In fact, such is the depth of Jan's comfort and consolation of beloved that it telepathically revibrates through the entire coven and all his children feel it too. Beloved's not only loved, they're embraced. He remains with beloved instead of retreating underground when daytime returns, finding some dark, concealed place where he can hold them for as long as needed, time truly being meaningless to him. He could do this for decades if decades was what it took. Centuries, even, if need be. Ultimately, he waits it out with beloved and his arms around them don't unclasp until he literally senses their blood, scent and pheromones sing out with a change of mood before beloved themselves even realizes that they're no longer quite as upset as they were before.

― Terry McCain would downright willingly and tactically make a fool out of himself it meant beloved will simply...oh...you know...crack a smile for him? Why is that? Well, when you're a hardened, hot-headed Chicago Detective who has a tendency of taking things too far, to the point of utilizing excessive force during investigations and arrests, the sensitivity training doesn't really come all that naturally and so he counter-acts this by goofing around, in ways, even if that means getting beloved an adopted fuzzy pet out of the blue, enduring a scolding even when he doesn't give them space to breathe because he wants them to tell him what's wrong or waiting in front of their locked apartment door for hours when they want to be left alone, notwithstanding the fact he's also likely to just, you know, break in. He will be nosy. He will be invasive. He will employ his own professional deformation and investigate to get to the bottom of beloved's bad mood in the off chance they refuse to tell him, but one thing is absolutely certain; He will never, ever, ever leave them alone during this bad time, even risking being ridiculous and possibly overbearing doing so. Which means beloved can expect a takeover of their own life during the period of their depression. They wake up, they find McCain prepping up breakfast, wrapping his oversized coat or scarf around on a cold evening walk, tucking them in next to the fireplace and being fully domestic, threatening to knock some joker's teeth if the cause of their upset came from another person, or hey, he might just jokingly bring up doing so to deliberately appear like some dangerous wiseguy and hopefully amuse beloved through his antics. He'll try so many things that statically, something's very likely to just entertain beloved enough, even if begrudgingly, to have them snort through their nose with laughter at him faced with a funny anecdote from his First Communion.

― Gus Travis is paranoid and he is convinced beloved's current bad mood has something to do with him and taking it a step further than that, he gets this agitated impression that their depression is a prelude to an array of more serious underlining issues that remain yet unspoken; like them wanting to leave him or at least really seriously pondering it just about now. That they're deeply unhappy by his side and if he doesn't do something now to prevent it, history will only repeat itself and he'll lose someone he loves. Again. Would he really survive that crap twice? He doesn't think so. All the signs are there, after all, with his past bad experiences only further exacerbating the issue to the degree that depending of how blue beloved is feeling and for how long, Gus might just take it as far as really seriously telling them they should leave. Run away together. From this life. From his associates. From his gang. His syndicate. Sever all ties to them. Cut loose. Break out on their own. Turn a new page. Start a new life elsewhere. Far, far from here. Head out to sea on a boat if they have to. Not say anything to anyone. Pack up the basics. Hop in their car and go. Just go. Meaning that Gus Travis is genuinely probably willing to quite literally erase everyone and disappear if it could potentially bring contentment to beloved and ensure that they'll stay together. Just the two of them. Man could very well be halfway through the State of Washington on an escape spree before the conclusion might arrive that he did not, in fact, have to practically run away to make beloved happy. A kind word would've sufficed. Maybe a hug. But, Gus is a man of aggressive impulse, with an impassioned, streetwise nature to boot. His dryland mermaid is sad and he's expected to just...handle it in stride without shooting someone in the head? Yeah, no. Before anyone puts two and two together, Gus and beloved are too far gone to ever be found, headed somewhere that is bound to make them happy.

― Terry Silver does anything to cheer up someone he loves. And I do mean anything. Therein lies the danger of someone he cares for being even slightly upset or depressed, because he'd stop at nothing. There's no boundaries. Nothing is too ridiculous. No such thing as 'too far'. And no, I don't just mean throwing excess money and acts of service on a problem until it goes away --- I mean, he'd literally abuse someone to make beloved laugh. He'd hurt someone. He'd hurt whoever hurt them; whoever he feels fucked up their sunny disposition because trust and believe he's ready to have an enemy. Just point at one. If you don't, he's capable of inventing one himself. Throw an expensive car in the mix, sure, as a cherry on top of a cake. Does beloved want real estate? A company? A private island? Do they want him to buy out half of Los Angeles? Do they need a lavish vacation to fix their mood? An encouraging pep talk worthy of a Sensei? Should he knock someone's teeth out while they watch? Should he avenge them to remind them just how adored they are? Should he kill? Drag someone's bruised and beaten body and drop them off at beloved's feet as homage like a devoted blood hound would? Should he fuck beloved? Please, kiss, lick and work their body until their physique registers it as happiness? His mind will be working overtime --- the gears in his brain spinning and spinning and Terry will be likely to cheer himself up at the prospect of all the things he could do. He giggles and snickers as he plans. It is honestly just safer to tell this man what it is likely to make you content so he can go ahead and just do it for you because if his mind wonders too far in its deviousness, he'll do some pretty unhinged things in the hope it'll cheer beloved you up. But, point here is; he'd do just about anything, yes and beloved will probably never be as upset and in need of uplifting that will ever match the distance Terry Silver is willing to go to uplift them.

― Going to go out on a limb and saying Cash doesn't immediately know how to cheer up beloved or anyone as for that matter because this is simply not something he ever frequently does or has to do. His line of work or lifestyle doesn't exactly demand this of him --- in fact, even when he himself's in a gloomy mood, he merely fixes it with a quick beer and just shutting the heck up about it until it goes away. But, just because it is underexplored, new territory for him doesn't mean he doesn't care to the point he's thrown off of balance, pacing back and forth around the room, absolutely exasperated, an annoyed hand in his hair, feverishly thinking of what he should do, his mood sinking to dark depths right alongside beloved. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't talk. Doesn't do anything. He can't think straight. He's capable of spending days in front of beloved's room, just sitting there like a watchful warden in a state of limbo, waiting for a single word from them, a sign, a signal, a hint, anything that could indicate they're doing better now, and until he gets that, he might as well rot into the arm chair he's nestled into for all he's concerned. Cash takes whatever's going on very much to heart even though it isn't outright visible or easy to immediately tell at all times, but one order out of beloved's lips is enough to put him into action there and then without a single bit of protest out of him. If beloved said 'Rob a bank. It'll make me happy.' man outright would do just that entirely wordlessly. He'd be there getting his gun, gloves and mask ready, making the necessary phone calls, gone within the hour and already back home by the time they've woken up from their daily depression nap. He cares immensely. He doesn't always know how to express it or act on it, but even when beloved's in an infinitely better mood it'll be days and even weeks before Cash wholly recovers from whatever it was that bothered them, even if he doesn't really talk about it.

― Jack Blaylock, or rather, Timothy Calloway sits down and genuinely talks to beloved about it. Yes. Talks. Although never doubt this man too would be prepared to go to some truly harrowing lengths to merely see the slightest shadow of a smile on beloved's face, I get this impression he fixes them a warm beverage, makes them a lovely, intimate meal for two and tucks in by their side on a cozy, quiet evening instead, the lights of the city sparkling in the distance through the windows because civilian problems require civilian solutions and beloved's a civilian, first and foremost; so, he approaches their sadness in a way he knows they'll respond to best psychologically, not wishing to frighten them with promises of knives, blades, guns, murder, carnage, gore and all the things he'd do to anyone or anything that would ever make them sad or encroach on their happiness. He tells them anecdotes. Tales from his travels. All the places he's been. Seen. Spirituality. Past lives. How this is all unsolved karmic baggage and in few days time, it'll seem like a distant matter that'll only grow more foggy as time passes but that he's here, interconnected with beloved through countless past lives, feeling every bit of dejectedness they themselves might feel. He's here to face the fray with them because they're soulmates and that's what soulmates do. It is genuinely the most intense and eye-opening conversation beloved's ever had. One of those goddamn near live changing chats that seem a bit dream-like and slightly haunting and strange the next day but beloved truly does feel better afterwards because Jack will literally talk them out of their sour mood. Of course, has to be said that there's a disturbing factor to all of this because it is almost like Jack saw into beloved's soul and just about scraped off whatever was bothering them singlehandedly. Was there something in the coffee he's made them? Something in his general air and manner, how he knows to handle people? The sex they had afterwards? Beloved cannot tell, but they do feel infinitely better.