#fic: duet

[actuallyrandompersondaily]

"Marry me," Buck pleaded, feeling feverish in his desperation.

Eddie laughed lightly, apparently not realising that he was being deadly serious.

"Buck, we haven't even kissed yet."

Buck darted forwards at that, pressing a short but bruising kiss against Eddie's lips.

"Marry me, Eds, please."

"We also haven't gone on a date yet, baby. I want to do this right."

"Date?" Buck asked. "What, so we can get to know each other better? Eddie, I'm coparenting your kid. I've spent more nights in your bed this past year than I have in my own. You just told me you love me, and you think there's any way we can do this that isn't right?"

Eddie visibly softened at that, pulling Buck in for another kiss.

"Ask me again tomorrow, okay? If you still want to. You said you only figured this out today, right? Just... Ask me again tomorrow."

[ash-and-starlight]

Sokka splashed a line of water through his path. The fire fizzled. Zuko’s eyebrow raised, then he forged on. The path zigzagged out of the constellation, hopped eastwards through the galaxy’s north. Hiss. Hiss. Sokka met him each time with a streak of water. Zuko pressed on, building rhythm with each star he joined up.

The Mercy of Magpies Chapter 4 out now!!

as always written by thee @ranilla-bean and betaed by @faux-fires

Chapter Post || Cover || Map and Characters || Ch2 || Ch 3.1 || Ch. 3.2

[star-lights-up]

the random illustrations i did in as-close-as-i-could-get-to-quentin-blakes-drawing-style for my random matilda Jean grey centric/cherik au idea (this)

click for better quality

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Four | Series Masterlist

Summary: Aemond can't seem to steer clear of the pianist, and it's not the outcome either were expecting | Word Count: 8.4k~ | Warnings: smut, hate sex, oral sex (f receiving), sabotage

It was the third day in a row Aemond had been unable to function in the morning without standing in the shower, forehead against the tiles, water lapping against his shoulders and eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he fisted his length to completion.

It wasn't always this hard to get off, was it?

Each build to that blissful peak was haunted by the memory of her. How warm she'd been. How tight. Her face as she clenched hard around him. And he'd stop, not wanting that memory to be the thing that hurled him off the edge.

But it was the third day in a row he'd failed to do so. It was always her. Lips parted, cheeks flushed, her necklace taught across her heaving collarbone, that finished him off.

At first, he groaned in annoyance. But slowly, as his control each time wavered, acceptance began to creep in. And with that, regret.

She was easy to avoid. Being a rival school meant that he didn't even have to see her if he didn't want to. And it partly made him realise that he saw her so often before this because he'd secretly hope he'd bump into her.

Now it couldn't be more different.

He sat in the practice room, several students tuned their instruments. His grandfather advising them. Aemond’s fingers ghosted over the strings of his cello, the vibrations almost too subtle to feel beneath his fingertips. He hadn’t planned on letting things go as far as they did. But each rehearsal, each rivalry-fuelled exchange, and then finally…

He’d left her there.

The regret lingered like an uninvited guest, seated firmly at the back of his mind, as he replayed that night over and over. He didn’t mean to think of her, but it happened without effort.

Aemond’s bow slipped on the strings, producing an unsteady note. His jaw clenched.

He hadn’t spoken to her since.

He hadn’t allowed himself to. If anyone knew about it, his family, Otto, they’d see it as a distraction, a sign of weakness. He couldn't afford that. Not with his performance on the horizon. Not with the pressure to perfect every movement, every sound. He had worked too hard for too long to let a single night get in the way of his future.

His hand reached for his phone, hesitating before he let it fall back to his side. Realising perhaps that he didn't even have her number. Only her Instagram in his search history.

He wanted to know if she was thinking about him too, or if she had written him off as cold, arrogant. He wasn't sure which possibility unsettled him more. His pulse quickened as he imagined her face when he left, maybe angry, or worse, indifferent.

Otto, hands in pockets, stood in front of him, encouraging Aemond to raise his gaze.

“Good. Keep going.”

There was something unsettling about how nice Otto was being today.

Aemond’s bow hesitated just above the strings. He hadn’t played his best moments ago, distracted by thoughts of her. His grip tightened. Otto didn’t seem to notice the mistakes, or worse, he didn’t care.

His grandfather had always pushed him toward perfection, to sharpen every note like a blade. So why did he feel so...forgiving now?

Aemond straightened his back, shifting his weight. Something was off, and he hated it. His grandfather wasn’t the type to offer encouragement, not like this, not when he should have been correcting the slight tremor in Aemond’s bow hand or the uneven pacing. His praise was always earned, and Aemond had always known how to achieve it. But this? This wasn’t earned.

He adjusted his grip on the bow, unsure whether to obey or question Otto’s uncharacteristic behaviour. Aemond’s focus wavered again, the image of the pianist still clinging to his thoughts, and with it, the same suffocating mix of regret and uncertainty.

He could feel Otto’s attention sharpen, even if the older man didn’t say a word. It was the silence, the way he let the imperfection hang in the air, unaddressed, that gnawed at Aemond. His grandfather never let mistakes slide. He always demanded more, always expected Aemond to rise above his peers, to be better, stronger, sharper. Perfect.

But not today.

Today, Otto’s silence was suffocating.

When the last note faded, Aemond let the bow drop to his lap, frustration twisting in his gut. His breaths were shallow, controlled, but the tension refused to release.

Otto didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on Aemond, the weight of his presence unbearable.

“I don’t need...this,” Aemond finally muttered, his voice harsher than he intended. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Aemond thought he saw the flicker of something, a knowing, a calculation, one of those silent judgments Otto was famous for. But then his expression smoothed into that unnerving calm again.

“I’m just observing, Aemond,” Otto said, his tone measured, as if he hadn’t noticed the frustration brimming beneath the surface. “You’ve been different lately. Distracted.”

Aemond bristled, his fingers gripping the bow tighter. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Otto tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “I’ve seen this before, you know. You’re slipping. Like you were when you were with her.”

Alys.

The accusation hit Aemond like a cold blade, slicing through the control he’d been struggling to maintain. Slipping? He wasn’t slipping. He was still practising every day, still working toward the recital, still chasing perfection as he always had.

Being distracted by Alys and then by the pianist were two different tortures. He wanted to open his mouth to speak in support of Alys, for she hadn't done anything to slight him, not really.

But she kept slipping into his mind, no matter how much he tried to push her out.

Aemond’s jaw clenched. “I’m not slipping.”

Otto took a slow step forward, his eyes narrowing as if he could see right through Aemond, see the truth buried beneath the surface. “You think I don’t know when my grandson is distracted?”

Aemond tried to steady his breathing, tried to push back against the overwhelming sense that his grandfather had already pieced it together. He couldn’t let Otto know. Not about her. Not about what happened. It was supposed to be nothing, a moment of weakness, something he could forget. But Otto could read him too well.

“I’m not distracted,” Aemond shot back, his voice sharper now, more defensive. “I’ve been practising. I’m ready.”

Otto raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Perfection requires more than practice,” he said slowly, as if lecturing a student who wasn’t quite understanding the lesson. “It requires control. And you, right now, are lacking it.”

Aemond’s chest tightened. It wasn’t just his playing that Otto was talking about, it was his discipline, his focus. His life.

“Whatever it is,” Otto continued, his tone growing harder now, “you will end it.”

“There isn’t anything to end,” Aemond replied, his voice steady but edged with defiance. He looked Otto in the eye, unwilling to show the tension that was building inside him. “There never was.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Because whatever had happened, it was a mistake. One he shouldn’t have made in the first place. And yet, as he spoke the words, a flicker of doubt settled in his chest, gnawing at the truth he was trying so hard to maintain.

“Good. Now play again.”

As Aemond finished packing up his cello, carefully placing the bow into its case, he heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps approaching. He glanced up to see Oscar Tully, his classmate, standing in the doorway with a wide grin plastered on his face. Oscar was one of the more easygoing students, always looking for some distraction from the gruelling practice schedules that everyone else seemed to thrive on.

“Ah! Aemond! Did I give you one already?”

Aemond gestures dismissively, “I don't—”

But somehow the leaflet ended up in his hand anyway. And upon looking at the shorter man before him, he didn't muster up the courage to say he didn't want it. Oscar’s voice was practically buzzing with excitement.

“There's an amazing music venue off Crownland Plaza. You should come, have a look!”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, closing the latch on his cello case with a soft click. “Crownland Plaza?” he repeated, frowning slightly. He ran through the mental list of all the concert halls and events he frequented. The Royal Opera House, the exclusive classical recitals, the private performances he’d been invited to, but Crownland Plaza? It didn’t ring any bells. 

“It’s incredible! They’ve got these outdoor performances, indoor as well of course, a real mix of stuff too. Not just the highbrow stuff, but, you know...real music.” He emphasised the last two words as if it held more meaning than Aemond could understand.

Aemond’s expression remained neutral, though his curiosity flickered briefly. He knew the best music events in the city, the ones that mattered, the ones that attracted the critics and the virtuosos. How could there be something he'd missed? Something that wasn’t on his radar?

“What kind of music?” Aemond asked, unable to fully mask his interest.

“Everything, man, but they make it feel so alive, you know?” Oscar’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. “And the crowd! They’re not like the stiff ones we get at our recitals. These people are there to feel the music. To live it.”

Those words sound familiar.

A pang in his chest accompanies that thought.

Before he could respond, Oscar clapped him on the shoulder, his smile never fading. “You should come! It’s a fun vibe, and I think you could use it. I mean, I never see you at anything like this.”

Aemond opened his mouth to refuse instinctively, but Oscar was already backing out of the room, waving his hand in the air as he walked. “Think about it! It’d be good to see you loosen up for once.”

He wanted to screw up the leaflet in frustration. Annoyed that people had been able to see his detachment.

Was there really a music scene, so far from the perfection and formality of classical music, that he never knew about?

He shook his head and turned back to his cello, lifting the case with one hand. He had a routine, a plan. He didn’t need to waste his time at some event where people felt the music without understanding the discipline behind it. But the seed of curiosity had been planted.

And tonight he'd find out.

The bar off Crownland Plaza was nothing like the grand concert halls Aemond was used to. It was small, intimate, almost hidden, the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you knew exactly where to look. From outside, he could already hear the faint strains of music filtering through the walls, not the elegant, calculated compositions he was familiar with, but something looser, wilder.

He stood outside for a moment, his fingers flexing at his sides as if instinctively preparing to grip his cello again, to find the order in the chaos. But there was none here. It was messy, unpredictable. He wasn’t sure if he hated it already.

I can always get a drink, he told himself. If the music grated on his nerves, at least he could distract himself with a drink, and maybe make a quick exit before Oscar could find him.

He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him, and was immediately engulfed in sound. The music wasn’t just something you listened to here, it was something you felt. People laughed, danced, and clapped. 

The low, steady hum of the bass vibrated through the floor, while trumpets blared in sudden bursts, sharp and brassy, filling the room with energy. A piano, somewhere in the back, played rapid, uneven chords, cutting through the noise with a rhythm that seemed to defy expectation.

Glancing towards the stage, the scent of beer and heavy perfumes floating through the dark atmosphere, he spotted a man playing a double bass almost the size of him. So much like a cello, Aemond thought, but the way he was playing it, as if he were stringing his very smile into the music, without the refinement Aemond was so used to, he was ashamed almost, embarrassed, to admit to himself that he was captivated.

Feeling wholly out of his depth, he slid to the bar, tapping his card and craving the familiar touch of the amber liquid that would calm his nerves. Something strong, he thought. 

The glass barely touched his lips before he saw her.

She was sat at a table by herself, perched on a stool in a darkened corner, with a warm, almost orange light casting shadows on her features. She watched the performance, one hand perched on her cheek, smiling slightly but with a sense of unease that she could only distance with her drink in front of her.

Discomfort rose in his throat. Did he feel bad? Should he feel bad? It was difficult to tell.

One thing was for certain. It would certainly not be her falling over her words if they did happen to exchange them that night. That much he knew about her.

The little that he did.

The song eased off and she applauded, and it was easy to spot her eyes scanning the space as if she could feel she was being watched. Landing on him.

Any smile immediately dissipates. Replaced by a sharp, unreadable look that stilled him to his spot. She didn’t make any move to wave him over or call out, yet something in her expression told him everything. 

If you don’t choose to come over now, don’t bother again.

It felt like an ultimatum. He could sense the line in the sand as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud. Aemond took a breath, then made his way over, hoping his usual composure would hold steady under her gaze.

When he reached her, she didn’t waste a second. “What are you doing here?” she asked, arching an eyebrow, her tone dripping with challenge.

“Apparently not what you’d expect,” he replied evenly, trying to meet her edge for edge. But she just crossed her arms, eyes narrowing as she looked him over, sizing him up. “Believe it or not,” he replied, a touch defensive, “I don’t follow you around.”

She let out a dry laugh. "Right. You don’t follow me," she shot back, her voice low but cutting. "You just leave me half-naked in a storage closet without a word.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she kept going, her voice laced with bitterness and a hint of disbelief. 

“I'm not fucking stupid, Aemond. It's not like I was expecting this grand declaration of love or some bullshit like that, but you could have at least said something.”

He looked away, the weight of her gaze pressing on him as if challenging him to face what he’d done, who he’d become. “I didn't mean to make you feel that way.”

“Oh, well, that fixes it,” she shot back, bitterness seeping through every syllable. 

He clenched his jaw, grappling with the truth of it. The fact was, he hadn’t thought past that moment. Hadn’t questioned what it meant to him, or to her, only that he’d needed an escape, a release. That pull between them had flared too brightly, burning too hot to ignore. But standing here, he could see her hurt, her pride cut through, and it unsettled him more than he’d ever admit.

“Look,” he said finally, his voice forced calm. “I'll be the first person to say it was a fucking mistake. Whatever you think of me, I never wanted to make you feel used.”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, her mouth set in a firm line. “I will not be a placeholder for whatever it is you can’t face. I don’t expect anything from you, Aemond, but I’m not here to stroke your ego or be another one of your distractions.”

For the first time, he felt the weight of her words sink in entirely. She wasn’t expecting him to change, wasn’t even expecting him to care, only that he’d own up to his part in this, instead of hiding behind his own fear and avoidance.

She saw through him, and if he was honest, that terrified him. With her, the easy deflection wouldn't come, and he found his words flooding from his lips unbidden.

“I know I have a problem, don't need you to rub it in my face.” The words felt like they scraped their way out, a truth he’d barely acknowledged even to himself. For a moment, he felt stripped down, like he’d handed her a piece of himself he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back. And there was a strange, unsettling relief in it.

But she only crossed her arms, her face unreadable, her silence somehow louder than any answer.

“If your plan is to keep distracting me, or using me, or whatever this is, don’t bother. And I’m not stupid, I know there’s always somebody else—”

“She’s gone,” Aemond said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended.

Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Good for you. But it doesn’t change anything for me. It’s not about her, Aemond. It’s about you.” She gestured at him with a short, deliberate motion.

He felt the irritation gnaw at him again, the same one he felt in that dark, stuffy closet before they fucked. He clenched his fists. Hating that she was right. Hating that this…stranger, saw him so deeply and shamelessly.

“If you're looking for someone to save you, it's not going to be me.”

He loved that look on her face. That firm, serious expression that gave way when he touched her, watching her crumble. Why did pushing her too far excite him? It was a dangerous game. One that if played too much would repel her too far.

And before he could say anything else, she was up and gone, her head disappearing into the lively, dark crowd.

He wasn't sure if she had friends here already or if she was just an easy personality, because the way she morphed back into the rampant crowd and immediately found a dancing partner was borderline impressive. Even if it did make his fingers tighten around his glass watching her.

He reminded himself he had no right to feel that way.

But as aggravated as he was. He stayed. Watched her face light up with warmth as she danced and clapped to the vibrant music on stage. He had to admit there was charm to it. Even if he couldn't see himself dead doing what she was, so carefree.

The words of Otto Hightower didn't even cross his mind as he drank another. And another. His gaze following her somewhat lazily now as the night dragged on, his head swimming with thoughts that had no right being there.

She drank too, sipping various gin and tonics. Not drunk. But certainly flushed. She wore sheer black tights, a tank top and skirt, and whenever she raised her arms to clap, her nipples poked against the fabric, the swell of her breasts spilling over the straps slightly.

Sometimes she would glance over to see if he was still there. Or still watching her. And this time, when she did catch him, she rolled her eyes and slipped through the crowd to the fire exit for air, where several smokers were gathered to chat.

The cool night air hit her like a balm, easing the heat that had flushed her cheeks, though the irritation simmering beneath the surface didn’t dissipate as easily. She leaned against the brick wall, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, the screen glowing as she tapped at it with unnecessary force. The smokers nearby didn’t pay her any mind, lost in their low, murmured conversations and the occasional flicker of lighters.

She opened her rideshare app again, squinting at the lack of available taxis. “Of course,” she muttered, half under her breath, her annoyance mounting. The night was supposed to have been an escape, a brief respite from everything, not another reminder of how much he lingered in the edges of her mind.

And speak of the devil.

“Trouble finding a ride?” Aemond’s voice cut through the haze of her irritation, smooth and maddeningly calm. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there, likely looking as composed as ever, though she could feel the heat of his gaze on her back.

“What do you want, Aemond?” she snapped, whipping her head toward him. He was leaning casually against the frame of the fire exit, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

“Relax. Just offering to help,” he said with a shrug, though his one eye glinted with something that set her teeth on edge. “My place isn’t far. You can come there if you can’t find a ride.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter, cutting through the cool night air like glass. “Gods, you are delusional,” she snapped, shoving her phone into her bag. “Why in the world would I want to go anywhere with you?”

Aemond tilted his head, his calm appearance unshaken. “Because you’re drunk, it’s late, and your so-called ride isn’t coming.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t fucking call me stupid–”

The rumble of her phone in her pocket made her quip die in her throat. But nothing gave her that sinking feeling like seeing ‘Mum’ across her screen. With a huff, and hoping he wouldn’t notice, she shoved it back into her bag.

“You not answering that?” he asked, his voice cool but probing, as if he had the right to know.

“It’s none of your business.”

“It’s just a question. You’re acting like it’s a bomb or something.”

“Drop it,” she said firmly, but the way she gripped her bag strap betrayed her agitation.

Aemond looked as if he considered probing more, if not so that he could get more of a reaction out of her. Instead he exhaled, sharp, through his nose and gestured towards the street, pushing himself off the wall. “Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

She looked away, taking a deep breath as if considering whether to fire back or walk away without a ride. “Fine,” she strained, “but don’t act like you’re the one doing me a favour.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his lips quirking into a smug half-smile that made her want to smack it off his face.

The roads were mercifully quiet. No chance of anyone they both knew seeing them walking back to his place together, surely. If someone did, they’d no doubt blab to Lyonel, she’d get a sharp talking to about hanging around with someone who wasn’t from their school. Not like there was any secrets she could divulge, none that she even would. But all the same, being involved with someone from a rival school was not something to sneeze about. 

He made no attempt at conversation, which she was grateful for. Doubly so when he led her aside to a large apartment complex and swiped his key fob for the doors. Not that she was particularly thrilled to be spending the night on a guy’s sofa who she’d fucked once in a storage closet, but for tonight, it would have to do.

It was perhaps the slowest ascent in a lift she’d ever felt. More so, because she could practically feel his gaze on her. 

Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her body angled away from him, but it didn’t stop her from feeling that heat. That suffocating awareness of him.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Aemond drawled.

She rolled her eyes but kept them fixed on the numbers lighting up above the doors. “Not everything needs to be filled with your commentary, you know.”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smirk, but his eye darkened, studying her. Before she could fire another quip, the lift came to a halt, the doors sliding open with a soft chime.

“Ladies first,” he said. 

His apartment was tidy, just like she had expected it to be. There were few ornaments, only what was needed. A stainless steel coffee machine stood proud in his kitchen, alongside a few mugs that were pastel colours. She stared at them as Aemond moved through the apartment. They seemed out of place alongside his cool, darker aesthetic. And her mind immediately went to the woman she’d seen him with the first time they’d met. For some reason, it made a bitter taste in her mouth. Wondering if he’d been telling the truth when he said she was gone.

Aemond puffed up some cushions on the sofa with the kind of detached efficiency that made it clear he didn’t care whether she was comfortable or not. “You can crash here,” he said flatly, tossing a blanket onto the armrest. His eye flicked to her briefly before he turned away, heading toward the kitchen.

“Was she here,” she asks. 

He scoffs, pulling an espresso cup out of a cupboard, “thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t. Just curious.”

He turned fully now, leaning against the counter, his arms folded over his chest as he regarded her with an exasperated look. “No, she wasn’t here. Satisfied?”

“Thrilled,” she replied, the sarcasm dripping from her tone. She didn’t break eye contact, even as the silence between them grew heavier. “Did she get the same treatment as me?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing as her words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. He didn’t answer right away, the tension between them coiling tighter with every passing second.

“What treatment would that be?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“You know exactly what I mean.” She stepped closer, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “The whole hit-and-run routine. Or was she special?”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always trying to pick a fight.”

“And you’re always dodging,” she shot back, her voice rising slightly. “Maybe you are a sex addict.”

He was quiet. This was different than when she confronted him at the club. This was more intimate, she was right here before him, demanding a response, a reason. Wanting to see him squirm at least. His grip tightened, white knuckled on the counter. And he found he didn’t have a reply.

She huffed, “are you embarrassed of me, or something?” she asks, her voice softening slightly as if the idea of it genuinely bothered her. “Like, you don’t want to be seen with me.”

“Of course I don’t. If anyone found out I was fooling around with someone from a different school, someone I’m meant to compete against, what do you think that does for my reputation? What do you think people will think of me?”

Her arms fell to her sides, her posture rigid as she stared at him like he was a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve. “You’re such a fucking coward,” she said, her tone low but biting.

He scoffed, though his defenses felt thinner now, threadbare. “Coward? No. Just realistic.”

This time it was her turn to scoff, “realistic. Fucking perfect–”

“Fine,” he snapped. “You want honesty? I’ll give it to you.” He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating as he looked down at her, his single eye burning with intensity. “I am messed up. I’ve been messed up for a long time, and yeah, maybe I’m addicted to sex, alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

She swallowed. And knew he didn’t really want an answer. He just needed somewhere to direct his anger. 

“You challenge me. You don’t just roll over and play nice. You fight me, push me, tear me apart, and I fucking love it,” he admitted, “I love it and I fucking hate it. I loved it, you were right there, and I needed it.”

His hand was extended, as if tempted to grab her face but he didn’t. And she heard the strain of his skin as he clenched his fist. Her breath hitched, and she hated that his words, raw and vulnerable as they were, stirred something in her. 

“Bullshit,” she responded, “you didn’t need me. You just need something with a pulse.”

“Maybe,” he shot back, his voice rising again. “Maybe I take because I don’t know how to ask. Because needing someone feels like weakness, and I can’t afford to be weak.”

For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. She could see it in his face, the conflict, the self-loathing, the desperate need for something he didn’t know how to name.

“You’re a mess,” she said finally.

“And you’re perfect?” he shot back, though there was no malice in his words, only a tired sort of defiance.

The tension between them was unbearable, crackling like a live wire in the charged silence that followed. She opened her mouth, maybe to retort, maybe to leave, but before a word could escape, he closed the distance between them in one quick, purposeful stride.

He kissed her, hard and bruising, with all the pent-up frustration and confusion that had been simmering between them for weeks. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t tender, it was raw and unrelenting, like a storm finally breaking.

She resisted, her hands pressing against his chest as if to shove him away, but it only lasted a second before she grabbed at his shirt, pulling him closer instead. Her nails scraped his skin through the thin fabric, her movements every bit as furious as his.

Her head tilted back as his mouth moved to her neck, biting and kissing with equal fervor. The line between anger and desire blurred so thoroughly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Don’t think this means anything,” she warned, her voice shaking, though she didn’t let go.

“I don’t.”

Her lips crashed into his again, silencing whatever else he might have said. She hated how much she wanted this, hated that he made her feel like this, but in that moment, with his hands roaming her body and his lips leaving trails of heat along her skin, she didn’t care.

She tugged at his shirt impatiently, her fingers fumbling in her haste, and when it finally gave way, she pushed it off his shoulders with a growl of frustration. Her hands skimmed over the hard planes of his chest, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted fast, frantic, and over with. She wanted to get him out of her system, to snuff out the unbearable tension that had plagued her since that day in the storage room.

But Aemond had other ideas.

He pulled back, just enough to catch her wrists in his hands, stilling her movements.

“Not like this,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“Don’t—” she started, her words clipped with irritation.

“Not like this,” he repeated firmly, his grip on her wrists loosening as his hands slid down to her hips.

Before she could protest again, he scooped her up with maddening ease, his hands gripping her thighs as he carried her to the sofa. He set her down gently, his movements careful.

“Aemond,” she said, her voice laced with both annoyance and need, but he just shook his head, his hands already tugging her skirt higher and rolling her tights down her legs..

“Let me,” he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “I’m not rushing this.”

Her breath hitched as he knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, spreading her open as he leaned in. His lips followed the path of his hands, pressing heated kisses against her skin as he pushed her skirt higher.

“Just fuck me—”

“Stop being so fucking stubborn.”

Her head fell back against the sofa with a groan, her fists clenching at her sides as she tried to fight the pull of his touch. “I don’t need this—”

“Yes, you do,” he cut her off, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

Before she could find the words to bite back, his lips found the sensitive skin at the crease of her thigh, and her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. He traced it with his tongue, rendering her mindless and unapologetically dragged his attention to the gusset of her underwear, fingers hooking indecently through them to pull them aside.

Despite telling her he wanted to take his time with her, this is one area where he did not hesitate to take what he wanted. As soon as his tongue met her, swiping lazily through her folds to taste her, her body trembled, the sharp gasp that escaped her lips was answer enough.

“See?” he murmured against her, his voice tinged with a smug satisfaction. “Not so stubborn now.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to, because he set to work in earnest, his mouth and hands coaxing reactions from her that she didn’t want to give. Her nails bit into the sofa cushions, her hips shifting of their own accord as he drove her higher, slower than she wanted, but impossibly thorough.

Every time she thought she was close, he pulled back just enough to keep her on edge, forcing her to feel every second, every touch.

“Aemond,” she finally managed, her voice half annoyance and half need.

His response was a low hum against her that sent another wave of heat rolling through her, and she realised, with a mix of frustration and something far more dangerous, that he had her exactly where he wanted her.

Without warning, two fingers prodded at her, slipping inside her with a slow, measured thrust that made her entire body tense. He groaned softly, feeling the way she clenched around him, tight and wet, her body betraying just how much she wanted this despite her stubborn nature.

"Fuck," he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips sucking at her pearl, rolling his tongue over it as if to play with her.

Her head fell back, her lips parting as a shaky breath escaped her. His fingers moved in rhythm, curling slightly with each thrust, seeking out the spot that made her gasp and tighten around him.

Aemond finally pulled back, his fingers sliding out of her with an almost lazy care, his gaze glinting with satisfaction as he watched her try to catch her breath. He licked his lips, as if savouring the taste of her, and leaned forward to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh.

Her hips rolled to meet his lips, and he revelled in the control he had. And it didn't take long, the tension coiled in her stomach snapped with a sharp cry she couldn’t hold back, her body arching as the release washed over her in waves. He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, drawing out every last tremor until she was left gasping and trembling beneath him, her fingers that were in his moonlight hair so tight and gripping it burned.

“Told you,” he said quietly, his voice low and rough. “You just have to let go.”

As if he was telling her that, she thought with distaste.

Fucking hypocrite.

Instead of backing off, he leaned in closer, his hands skimming along her silky thighs. “What’s that look for?” he murmured, his tone almost teasing.

“You tell me,” she shot back, willing the shake out her voice.

Aemond smirked, tilting his head, “I think I know.”

She was about to say, ‘tell me what I'm thinking then, you smug asshole’, but Aemond straightened, confidently pulling his jeans with his boxers over his hips. She tried to keep her gaze fixed firmly on his face, but when they'd last had sex, she hadn't seen him, not really. But her curiosity betrayed her, and he caught her eyes flickering downwards.

Equally so, when his large hand took himself in his palm, and gave his length a few maddeningly slow, hard strokes, coaxing pearly liquid from the ruddy tip of him. 

Asshole.

His hands found her hips, tugging her closer to pull at the waistband of her skirt. But with a glare, she swatted his hands away, “I can do it myself.”

He scoffed, “please.”

He pulled her skirt over her hips, everything coming with it. His touch over her thighs firm and unapologetic. He made quick work over the rest of her clothes, savouring every second of her surrender. 

He smirked, a hand sliding up her spine to undo her lacy black bra, his breath shuddery against her neck, “cute,” he commented as the fabric fell from her skin.

“Stop staring,” she muttered, her hands coming to cover her now bare chest. 

His grip came to her wrist, “you always this bossy?”

“Only with you.”

“Hm, lucky me,” he grins, pushing her hands to the sofa so he could see the vast expanse of her body beneath him. She hated, hated, that he could make her pulse race like this.

Her breath hitched as he teased himself against her entrance, his previous actions making the friction deliciously non-existent. She knew he was doing it on purpose, running the head of him over her to coat himself in her slick, and dragging it to her bud, setting every nerve alight.

“Fucking— hurry up.”

He laughs lowly, “just taking my time, baby. Thought you might actually appreciate someone paying attention to you.”

Her glare could melt steel. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

“What?” he asked innocently, his lips curving into a smirk as he shifted just enough to draw a gasp from her. “So fucking impatient.”

“You’re unbearable,” she hissed, though her voice trembled as he rolled his hips, barely pushing into her, then pulling back.

“Hm,” he hums, “I think you're talking too fucking much.”

Before she could fire back another insult, he slid forward, filling her in one fluid motion that knocked the breath from her lungs. She was prepared, but all the same, the stretch around him was distinctively overwhelming, stealing the words right out of her mouth. Her hands tightened where they gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her body adjusted to the sensation.

Aemond stilled for a moment, his jaw clenched, breathing laboured as if trying to maintain control. “Not so mouthy now, are you?” he muttered, though his voice came out more strained than smug.

Her breath hitched, but she wasn’t going to let him have the last word. “You’re still—oh gods—so insufferable,” she managed as he shifted his hips, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.

He smirked at that, clearly satisfied with the reaction, and began to move, his pace slow and deliberate at first, as if savouring the way she tensed and relaxed beneath him. The deliberate drag of him against her sent sparks rippling through her, and she bit her lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing how much it affected her.

“Thought you’d be louder,” he taunted, his voice strained as he buried himself deeper.

“Thought you’d be better.”

Aemond’s smirk faltered, replaced by a dark glint in his eye that made her pulse quicken. “Oh, you want better?” he rasped, his voice low and dangerous. Without waiting for a response, he pulled out and flipped her legs up, draping them over his shoulders with a swift, practised motion. The shift left her gasping as he pressed down, angling his body to sink into her again, this time with an intensity that had her clenching around him instantly.

“Fuck—Aemond—” she started, but the words dissolved into a strangled moan as he set a relentless pace, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, and more devastatingly accurate.

“You still think you can run your mouth?” he growled, his breath ragged as he drove into her with a force that made the sofa creak beneath them. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he leaned further into her, folding her nearly in half. “Fucking love it when you struggle to take me,” he bit out, his voice thick with triumph and lust.

Her nails dug into the fabric of the sofa, her head tipping back as the overwhelming pressure of him inside her and the angle of his movements sent her spiraling. Every thrust struck that sweet spot, over and over, leaving her helpless against the waves of pleasure crashing through her.

She couldn’t respond, couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe properly as her body tightened and pulsed around him, her mind clouded by the intensity of it all. And he revelled in it, watching her crumble beneath him, her bravado finally stripped away as he watched her body move with the force of his rutting into her.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he muttered, his voice strained but edged with a dark satisfaction.

She tried to glare at him, to muster some kind of retort, but her body betrayed her, trembling violently as the coil deep within her snapped. A strangled cry tore from her throat, her walls clenching around him so tightly it nearly made him lose his rhythm.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough and strained as his movements became frantic, erratic. The sight of her body trembling beneath him, the way she clung to him as though she couldn’t help it, was the final push he needed. Her walls clenched around him in the aftermath of her release, and the last few desperate squeezes undid him completely. 

He pulled from her quickly, not even having to stroke himself to completion as hot ropes of his release coated her stomach, her breasts, painting her gorgeous body until there was nothing left. Deep, rumbling groans were all she heard through her haze, and the warmth of his cum on her skin.

He stayed there for a moment, his gaze flickering over her, watching the way his release glistened on her body. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though it lacked the usual smugness, replaced by something quieter, almost contemplative.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she uttered once her breath had calmed. 

“Can’t help it,” he replied, reaching for a discarded towel with a smirk. Their back and forth had certainly not faded. He began to gently wipe her skin, his movements surprisingly careful. It was almost disconcerting, seeing him like this, still snarky, but not cruel. The slow drag of the towel along her stomach, over her ribs, told her he was taking his time.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to fuss over cleanup,” she quipped, arching a brow at him.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” he retorted, smirking a little. He offered a hand, helping her up. For a moment, they stood close, neither quite ready to step back. When she finally did, the fleeting press of their bodies parted, leaving them both a fraction colder as they gathered their clothes.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, stepping away to gather whatever clothing was still intact.

He nodded, rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor. “Don’t get used to me being nice.”

She let out a small snort. “Trust me, that’s the last thing I’ll ever expect from you.” Despite the barbed words, her tone lacked its old venom, and the corner of her mouth twitched with something close to a smile.

She slipped her top over her head, glancing up at him as she smoothed it into place. “So,” she began, crossing her arms over her chest, half in defense, half in uncertainty. “We should probably talk. About this. About… us.”

His gaze flicked to hers, and for a moment, he looked uneasy. “Right,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Guess we should.”

She took a step closer, feeling that familiar surge of defiance rise within her, though it was tempered now. “I’m not expecting some grand declaration of love,” she reminded him, her voice low. “I’ve never been that naïve. Especially not with you.”

He winced slightly, and she realised how that must have sounded, but there was no taking it back. “You really think I’m that incapable of—” He paused, shaking his head. “It’s not that I don’t care,” he corrected himself, his tone quieter than usual. “Just…not sure I know how to care the way you’d want me to.”

She frowned, fiddling with a loose thread. “All I ask is why you’re so keen on carrying on like this. If it’s because you think I’m just a good time—”

“No. No.”

Her brows lifted in skepticism, but she didn’t interrupt. Not this time.

He took a breath, gathering whatever fragments of honesty he could muster. “You…you challenge me,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “And I hate it. Except I don’t. It drives me crazy that you can get under my skin like this.”

She studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether to believe him. “We’re competitors,” she said, bluntly. “Different schools, different ideologies, different everything.”

He shrugged, though his eyes never left hers. “Can’t deny that.”

She sighs softly, “so we’re doomed, is that it?”

“I’m not saying we have to be,” he offered quietly.

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Aemond exhaled. “Maybe I am.”

Her expression softened despite herself. She could see the conflict there, the way his posture had lost its usual confidence, how his shoulders seemed weighed down by something he didn’t want to name.

“I usually know what I want. But ever since…since Alys…” His voice trailed off, and he pressed his lips together. “She ended things because she felt I used her. And maybe she was right.”

She blinked, not expecting him to bring up Alys so bluntly. “And you think you’re doing the same thing with me?”

“Am I?” he asked, his voice low, almost pleading for an answer he couldn’t give himself. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If I’m just—replacing her with you. Because it’s easier to fill that void than confront the fact that I might not know how to…be with someone.”

Her initial instinct was to lash out, to remind him she wasn’t a placeholder. But the look in his eye gave her pause. Instead, she inhaled slowly, weighing her words. “You think you’re just repeating the pattern,” she said quietly. “Different person, same problem.”

“Alys said it. And I was too damn proud to listen. She cut things off because she didn’t want to be the fix for whatever’s wrong with me.” A mirthless half-smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe she had a point.”

The admission brought a heaviness to her chest. “So…what now?” she asked gently, unsure if she even wanted the answer.

Aemond’s gaze flicked away, his jaw tightening. “Otto’s been breathing down my neck,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’s convinced I need total discipline for the competition. Zero distractions. I’ve…I’ve been trying to keep it together. But this?” He gestured vaguely between them. “Us? It’s not helping.”

Her lips parted in surprise, and a sting of hurt made itself known. “So you think we should—what? Pretend this never happened?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. We don’t have to pretend it never happened, but…we can’t let it happen again.”

She stared at him for a long moment, the words lodging in her throat. Part of her wanted to argue, to demand he face whatever was broken inside him instead of cutting her out. But she saw the raw conflict in his eyes, the fear that clung to him like a second skin. For a moment, she could see him for what he truly was. A man afraid of commitment or any true, real and raw feeling.

For a moment she simply saw the waves of silver that framed his face. The scar through his eye and brow. And cloudy blue of his left eye that stared back.

She wouldn't like to admit there was a strange beauty to it. Why would she? When he was the one turning her down. Bruising her ego.

“Fine,” she said, her voice hushed, almost hollow. She hated how final it sounded, but she couldn’t force him to confront his demons. Whatever they were.

Aemond nodded once, slowly, as if sealing a deal that left them both unsatisfied. “Yeah. Right. Better this way.”

Better this way, she repeated silently, wishing she believed it.

After Aemond disappeared into his room without another word, she glared at the closed door for a moment, frustration and something heavier gnawing at her. It shouldn’t hurt that he’d ended things so neatly, as if all of this, or rather, whatever it had been, was simply an inconvenient dream.

She sank onto the sofa, her mind a whirlwind, the competition, the tangled mess of emotions she could barely name, the strange pang of rejection. Did it matter that she’d thought there was something between them? Or that for the briefest moment, she felt seen in a way she hadn’t expected? 

None of it mattered now. He didn’t want her.

When her phone lit up, she felt the familiar thrum of annoyance that it might again be her mother. But instead replaced with confusion at the unknown number plastered across her screen. She frowned, the face ID unlocking her phone to reveal a photo of her and Aemond disappearing into his apartment building earlier that night. 

Her stomach dropped. A cold chill burning in her blood.

Below the image, the message read:

Did you have fun? I wonder what Lyonel would think if he knew you were sleeping with the enemy. Might want to consider your next moves carefully. Wouldn’t want your lovely solo compramised.

Her pulse pounded, anger and dread warring in her chest. A threat…aimed at both her reputation and her chances in the competition. She swallowed hard, staring at the ominous text. A wave of tired resignation washed over her, as if the night hadn’t already beaten her down enough. Her shaky hand raised to her mouth as if to muffle her gasp but nothing came out anyway, her face going dark as she locked her phone. 

Her heart drummed a rapid, uneasy rhythm. Even as she lay back against the sofa, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders, she couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the threat. This person knew her, had her phone number. 

Better this way, she repeated again, a mantra that felt emptier each time she said it. But she couldn’t pretend any longer that walking away was so simple, especially now that someone was determined to make her choices even harder.

✨ Please note ✨ I no longer do taglists. If you would updates, please follow @targaryenrealnessdarlingfics and turn on notifications!

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

See, y'know, I don't think "ruthless" is really an appropriate word to describe Ed. I mean, yeah, there's the pirate of it all, but OFMD doesn't operate with irl standards towards this stuff. If anything, Ed's got the opposite of ruthlessness going on (he is full of ruths?). There are certainly times when you could make the argument he's behaving cruelly, but that's not his base state and it's always informed by extreme emotional turmoil where he's feeling forced to behave that way. If anything, Ed is extremely prone to just rolling over, not getting his way, and letting people treat him like shit.

Stede, though. STEDE. I adore my guy Stede, but he's where I think we run into some real potential for unchecked anger issues and ruthlessness. Stede is the kind of guy who feels like he has a lot to prove, and even when he's perfectly capable of resolving things with his own style, we see him resort to violence purely out of seeking social approval or just because he wants to. We're talking about a guy who easily manipulated a boat full of assholes into setting themselves on fire (not just because Ed was hurt, either, but clearly also because he's getting personal satisfaction out of it). I think killing Ned Low is the perfect example - Stede has already won, and in the real world I'm sure it would be dangerous to let Ned live, but if that was a genuine concern in this world, someone would've mentioned it (not least of all Ed, who is the one to directly say to Stede that he doesn't have to kill Ned). Stede kills Ned not because he has to but because he wants to, because Ned hurt Ed and the crew and (not least of all) because Ned insulted Stede by calling him a pet, someone who can't take care of himself or hold his own as a man.

Basically. We need more fics where Stede is allowed to be angry and violent in response to shit, where Ed gets captured and Stede burns cities to the ground to save him, where they get through the bad shit and Stede's still struggling with feeling like he has to bite people in the throat for being rude to Ed.

[darcycrow]

cigarette duet is finally over :') here's chapter 26 disclaimer it's long asf

i like that it started with armin and ended with annie and both have an equal amount of chapters it scratches an itch in my brain however the total word count ending with -99 really did damage to my stomach i cannot look at it i wanna edit and add one word or two thousand to get a completely decent number but i also have this irrational fear of deleting the whole thing if i go back and edit hahahahahAHAHAHAHHAHRAMBLINGGGGG

also my gut feeling was right and i definitely did need to add something (ok quite a few things) before posting it 🥹🥹 this time i wasn't being ALL ditsy and forgetful, i just didn't want to write that scene as i didn't deem it necessary. but now i'm very very happy i did.

(pics aren't mine and i do not condone it but i can't deny it looks so fkn adorable 😭😭 that's miss cat after aruani abandon her sending them pics with the new owners of The Bench™ 😭😭)

[feroluce]

Lucid Dreamer (1/2)

part 2

Gepard notices that it's been. Quiet lately. Like weirdly quiet. TOO quiet. He hasn't seen Sampo Koski in almost a week, which is about the longest he's ever been absent. And he is NOT worried. He's not! So what if they've been getting along more lately! So what if Gepard sometimes looks for him in his favorite hiding places! So what if he's been dreaming about blue hair and green eyes! It's nothing!!

But they're….strange, these dreams. Gepard doesn't usually remember what he's dreamt. It's out of his mind seconds within waking up. But these stick with him, they won't leave him be, they feel different somehow.

He dreams of Sampo bringing food to the frontlines and eating breakfast in his tent with him. Sampo always sneaks him extras. He dreams of chasing Sampo through the alleyways, Sampo sometimes letting himself be caught, Gepard sometimes catching him, and trying to ignore how it feels more like a game now more than anything else. He even dreams that Sampo tags along with him on one of his few civilian days. Sampo runs errands with him, prattles about inane bullshit while Gepard picks out groceries for the week, drags Gepard into some bakery he's never been to but he thinks Serval mentioned once.

And sometimes, it feels so close to reality, that Gepard half expects to see Sampo, shamelessly swaggering into the frontlines with all the guards' breakfast like his wanted poster wasn't only recently taken off the walls of Belobog. He's disappointed when it's always someone else instead. He tells himself his disappointment is ridiculous and if Sampo wants to go prowl around the Snow Plains or wherever he is, then fine. It's not any of his business.

…But it IS his job to investigate any unusual criminal activity relating to the frontlines. And the frontlines are Sampo's usual haunting grounds, and this is unusual activity, and Sampo IS technically a criminal, so it is absolutely part of his duty to look into this - is what Gepard tells himself the entire tram ride down into the Underground.

Natasha tells him he's gone, and Gepard has to steel himself. He knew Sampo made enemies wherever he went, there are a lot of people who would love his head on a platter, but he didn't think-

Natasha corrects him that she means literally gone. As in off-planet. Sampo always leaves her a note before he goes anywhere, so she knows not to expect any supply runs from him. He should be back in exactly two weeks. Thank the Preservation.

Gepard goes back home. He waits.

The uneasiness doesn't leave him.

"Where did you go?" Sampo stops dead in the middle of some story about Seele, and how you'd think someone with as blunt a mouth as her wouldn't have so much trouble asking a woman out, even if that woman IS the Supreme Guardian, and stares at him. He nearly fumbles his cigarette.

"Ahaha, what do you mean, I'm right here?" Sampo smiles at him the same way he always does. Gepard has no idea why he asked. It just popped out. He can never tell when Sampo is lying, anyway.

"I don't know. I feel like I haven't seen you in a long time." Gepard idly mouths at his own cigarette. He almost never smokes, but he wants to ration their stocks of Blizzard Immunity, and it helps with the cold. It's seemed colder lately, for some reason.

Gepard flicks his lighter once, twice, sighs at the third time because a metal prosthetic and thick gloves make the damn things so difficult. Sampo reaches over and wordlessly kisses the end of his cigarette to Gepard's, lighting it. "Thank you."

Nothing happens for almost a full 30 seconds. Something churns behind Gepard's ribcage. Because Sampo never leaves a "thank you" hanging. This is the part where he gives his spiel about how helpful and kind he is and Gepard either brings up how long his rap sheet was before Bronya helped clear his name, or just stares deadpan because seeing Sampo squirm is weirdly satisfying.

"…I'll be back in one more week."

Gepard jolts awake in his cot, mouth dry and eyes bleary.

The hell.

The next dream he has, Sampo looks tired. Sometimes he seems normal. Sometimes he says strange things, like how he wishes he'd gone to some restaurant in Belobog. Ate his favorite food more recently. Brought something with him. Gepard asks why he can't do that now. Where would he bring something? Sampo only shrugs. His rebuttals have less energy.

Gepard doesn't know if he wants to dream more, or less.

He ticks down the days on his calendar. Natasha hasn't told him any different. She promised she would if she got any kind of message. Sampo returns tomorrow, from whatever vacation or seedy business dealings he's been off having. He is not excited about it. He is not looking forward to it. He's not!!

Gepard falls asleep late that night, unable to settle. He dreams again.

He's alone. There are tons of people everywhere, the frontlines are always crowded. But he's alone. They all pass right by him as though he were a ghost. Gepard starts to walk before he realizes his feet are even moving.

He checks the trashcans in the dead end alley. He checks the supply crates that someone always stacks too high because they don't feel like finding more space for them. He pauses to check the soldiers that march past him, watching their footprints in the snow.

He finally finds Sampo on the rooftop along the northernmost wall, the one that looks out over the plains, towards Everwinter Hill, towards where the Stellaron had once been kept. With a full moon and an entire land of white snow, Gepard can almost see clear out to the horizon.

"Found you." Sampo stiffens, and Gepard is almost prepared for him to sprint off the roof. He doesn't. But he doesn't relax either. Gepard sits down next to him and stares out at the wastelands.

"…I fucked up." It wasn't what Gepard had been expecting. Sampo never 'fucks up,' Sampo just gets into incidents that are entirely, supposedly, not his fault and that he just happens to always be within the vicinity of.

"What did you do now?" It must be really bad if Sampo is coming to the Silvermanes for protection.

Instead, Sampo ignores his question completely. "See out over there? Right on the other side of that mountain. There's a safe house that way. It's hidden under a lot of snow and dead trees, but it's there. And in that safe house is a box full of letters. I need you to deliver those letters for me."

Gepard's brow furrows. It's a weird favor to ask. Sampo would never tell anyone where his hidden safehouses were. It defeated the whole purpose of a hidden safe house.

Something is wrong, something is really really wrong.

Gepard turns back to look at him again and startles, all of his questions dying in his throat, because the entire left side of Sampo's head is suddenly matted down, dark and sticky, his skin is dyed red red red-

"In three more months, there's gonna be something big happening." Gepard grabs Sampo's hand and it feels slick and warm against his palm. "I won't be here. So I need you to do my end of things for me." Gepard tries to keep hold, but something is fading, something is slowing, the sun is coming up but the colors are all wrong, everything feels like encroaching fog, Sampo's hand slides right through his. "I was gonna come back with my mask to finish setting the stage, but…" Gepard makes a frantic grab for Sampo's wrist, the air twists, he comes back empty-handed. "They have you. And you're the Iron Wall of Belobog. So it'll be ok."

Gepard finally manages to find his grip, snatches the front of Sampo's dark wet jacket and yanks him forward to hold onto him, and this close up, he can see it better, his colors are bleaching out, leaking outside the lines as if Sampo will become part of the background, as if he's fading into the strange fog that's been closing in on them. His fingers are already starting to feel empty again.

"Wake up."

Gepard jolts awake, uncurls his hands from where they're fisted in the blanket, scrubs the dampness off his face. Breathes. Breathes. Breathes. Today is supposed to be the day.

He throws on his civilian clothes, and he goes down to the shipyard the IPC had built. He finds a spot where he can see every person that returns to Belobog, and he waits.

And he waits and he waits and he waits.

No one he recognizes appears.

[maenecoon]

loose idea but kimchay fucking in a music studio

chay who's a small aspiring musician who does mainly pop/bright cute songs. he also fucking hates wik's guts, sneaking into wik's recording studio to snoop around. he swears, wik's voice cannot sound that good, it has to be the work of extreme auto tune or a ghost singer he's had shackled in the basement of his studio or something.

of course, wik finds him. or, wik is already there.

crowds chay into the recording booth, whispers into his ears, all breathy and sultry - chay gathers that it's hotter irl, somehow. chay, moaning and panting into the microphone as wik pounds into him.

and then, a few months later, when chay's finally convinced his company of an image change, wik publishes a new collaboration single. the recording, with chay's pants and heavy breathing, starting the song.

so many more shenanigans to ensue, like cockwarming wik while he writes his songs/finishes up producing, them having song camps/producing songs together, fucking in the studio some more, pop idol chay trying to teach wik tiktok challenges, having beef on twitter, etc 😂 would be funny!!

[pummedraws]

Commission done for Mdmevastra on AO3 for their fic! <3 It took me quite a while to finish it but I am finally done! :D Fang and her OC Builder!

[abyssalmermaiden]

"Thank you..."

(with Odette of @ahollowgrave <3)

copying over my tags on Pigeon's post:

ghost Viola has been lonely for thousands of years-getting all dressed up for a fancy date with a woman as beautiful kind and genuine as Odette is something she would have enjoyed while she was alive- and it means even more to her now. Viola rarely gets truly nice things in any version of her story and this among the best and sweetest TTuTT <3 her ghost outfit would normally be what she died in but I'm saying that Odette's abilities and the love and care she offers allows Viola to view herself differently and that affects her appearance, even though she's dead Odette is helping her to have a present not just a past

[sheepiemc]

Seven Stupid Reasons to Summon a Demon

Reason #1: lonely

It was a day that started like any other. 

Your alarm went off (like always). 

You got ready for work (like always). 

You commuted (like always). 

You did your job for four hours (like always). 

Then, it was time for lunch. 

Normally, you opt to stay inside “the office” (or wherever it is that you work) and bring something from home to save money. But looking at your lunch — the same thing you eat almost every day — makes you sigh. 

You look out the window to the city down below. It was a gloomy morning, but now that it is midday, the sun is starting to shine through the clouds. A beam of sunlight lands on your skin and you enjoy the warmth. The ring on your finger catches the light and you look down at it. 

How ridiculous would it be to summon a demon to have lunch with you because you don’t want to eat alone? You banish the thought from your mind. You don’t want to disturb the demon you were thinking of; you are certain he has a lot on his plate (like always) and he wouldn’t appreciate being  bothered with something so trivial (like always). 

You sigh and look outside again. Maybe the fresh air will do you some good. You decide to spend your lunch break walking around downtown just because you can. Honestly, you don’t know why you don’t do this more often. You can find a lot of hidden gems this way. 

You wander around aimlessly before you happen upon a record store. It's just a little hole-in-the-wall place, mostly unassuming. When you step in, however, you're greeted by a music-lover's paradise. Multi-colored vinyl records, signed band posters, and album covers decorate the walls. The atmosphere is groovy and retro, speaking to a bygone era of funk and flower power. There’s even a disco ball hanging from the ceiling! You take in the scenery for a moment as you stand in the doorway. 

“‘Sup.” The guy behind the counter greets you without looking up. “If there’s anything you need help with or want to listen to let me know.” You nod, even though he isn’t looking at you, and go to explore the stacks. 

Your fingertips brush past rows and rows of records. You search all your favorite genres, looking out for your favorite bands, and find some gems. You don’t have a lot of money right now, so you can’t go crazy. You twist the ring on your finger as you contemplate what to get.

Actually, now that you think about it…

Maybe you can find something to add to your “special collection”. 

See, you were inspired by a certain demon to develop a “cursed” record collection of your own. Since cursed magical items are hard to come by on earth, whenever you find yourself in a place that sells records, you like to check out the classical music section for albums that feature, or are inspired by the devil. It's something you like to share with him and only him. After shuffling through the stacks, you find something you think will work. You smile impishly to yourself, proud of your new purchase.  

You make it through the rest of the workday thinking about the record. You aren't going to listen to it just yet; you like to share the experience with the devil himself. It's a good excuse to summon him from the Devildom — well, good enough for you anyway. You like to have a few more albums to listen to before you call him, so you don't feel as guilty for asking him to stay a bit longer. 

You take a deep breath when you finally arrive in your quiet room, in your now-still apartment. You place the record on top of the others and take a look around — empty, except for your cat, sleeping peacefully on your bed. You could invite friends over to fill the silence, but your friends are notoriously terrible at last-minute plans. You absentmindedly twist the ring on your finger. 

You need something to fill this oppressive quiet, your fingers itch and ache, you have to DO something. 

You have to play the piano. 

You go out to your living room, where you keep a digital piano. It’s a little fancier than a regular old keyboard but you live in a small apartment and you're not exactly rolling in it so it's the best you can do. 

The room is dark. 

You hate the silence. 

You sit at the bench and flex your fingers, hovering above the black and white keys. No sheet music, right now you just need to play your emotions. You play a low note and listen to it reverberate. 

Then a chord. 

Then another. 

You close your eyes and start improvising a melancholic melody over a haunting chord progression. You are so lost in what you’re creating you don't notice the blue light flooding the dark room. It’s gone almost as soon as it arrived and it brings with it a figure covered in shadow, a figure you also don’t notice. He stands tall in the center of your room, tilting his head to the side as he listens. Once he gathers what happened intuitively, he stands over you, proudly watching you pour your potent emotions into your playing. 

You strike a final chord and exhale loudly, ruminating on the final note. You gasp lightly when a teardrop you didn't notice falls from your face onto the keys. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when another chord is struck up the piano. The shadow figure reveals himself to be the very demon you were thinking about while playing. Lucifer doesn't look at you as he continues to play a lighter melody. Your hands jump away from the keys and press against the rapidly beating heart in your chest.

He continues to play, not yet sitting. His sketch sounds hopeful, almost as if to say, "I'm glad to have you with me again." He sneaks a glance at you and smirks, finally taking a seat on the bench next to you. You just watch him, absolutely mesmerized, still in shock that he's really in front of you. 

He stops playing and looks at the keys closest to you, a signal — it's your turn again. Your melody is more playful than moody this time, there's a lightness now that wasn’t there before. Lucifer responds with something firm and grounded. When it's your turn, you tickle your way closer to his side. He gets lower, too. You scoot closer. From the corner of your eye, you see him smile a little bit wider. In the middle of his turn, you start playing again and together you improvise a beautiful, colorful piece of music together, full of happiness and longing, celebrating each other. 

When you can’t contain your excitement any longer, you interrupt the song and throw your arms around him. The force of you throwing your entire body weight at him only pushes him over slightly — he’s quick to catch you in his arms, twisting his torso to face you. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say into his neck. It comes out as barely a whisper. 

You feel more than hear the chuckle rumble in his chest. “You’re the one who summoned me here.” 

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t do it on purpose?” 

He looks at the keys on the digital piano. “Something was calling out to me.” 

“I guess I’ve been kinda lonely today… And I was thinking about you… A lot…” 

Lucifer hums contentedly, stern lines on his face smoothing out. Obviously, he likes it when you stroke his ego. 

You roll your eyes playfully and bury your face in his neck again. “I’m sorry for summoning you by accident, I know you're very busy but…” You play with his tie. “Can you stay here a bit, with me?” 

Lucifer sighs softly. You steel yourself for the words you're sure will come out of his mouth, “I can’t” or “Not right now”. 

“MC, I don’t think you realize that I want to see you just as much as, if not more so than, you want to see me.” He traces his finger along your jaw and lifts your chin so that you're looking at him. “If I’ve made you think I feel otherwise, that is my fault and I must apologize.” 

You feel your heart skip a beat when the Avatar of Pride apologizes to you, a lowly human. You’re in such a state of shock, you don’t know what to say so Lucifer continues to fill the silence. “If I had the ability to summon you to my side whenever I wanted, I can’t say I wouldn’t abuse that power greatly.” 

His hand rests at the side of your face, thumb wiping another tear you didn’t even know fell. You got so used to that rowdy house in the Devildom, so full of people and chaos, that coming home to your quiet, little one-bedroom apartment in the human world every day has been wearing you down. More tears start to flow as the weight of your loneliness comes crashing down on you.

You hold him tighter and press your face into his shoulder, hiding in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess,” you say, laughing.  

He chuckles. “Don’t apologize. I appreciate all aspects of you. Even when you are a mess.” 

You sit on the piano bench for what you wish was all eternity but is likely only about 10 minutes before you reluctantly untangle yourself from the demon you unwittingly called to this realm. 

“Well, since you're here…” You stand, pull him from the bench, and lead him to your bedroom… where you keep your records! You present him with the newest addition to your collection with a wide smile. 

He takes it from your hands and looks at the cover thoughtfully. He reads the title out loud, “The Mephisto Waltz & Other 'Satanic' Piano Music Of Franz Liszt - John Ogdon”. 

He looks back at you. “Interesting,” he says in the most uninterested tone. You laugh out loud, you thought he might like that. 

“Well, if you don’t want to listen to it, I can just-” You reach for the record but he pulls it out of your reach. 

“I never said that.” 

He walks over to your record player and carefully sets it up while you sit on the edge of your bed. When the music starts up, you're surprised by how fast-paced it is but you're still into it. Luci looks at your desk chair meaningfully then back at you. You scowl and shake your head slightly, tapping the edge of the bed next to you. He smiles and sits down beside you.

You lean against him, sneakily snaking your arms around his middle, and play with one of his hands. 

You feel him relax, almost imperceptibly, leaning into your touch. He chuckles, and softly says under his breath, “This brings back memories.” 

He closes his eyes and you lift your head to stare at him, left wondering whatever the hell he meant by that. You would ask, but he loves to be intentionally vague whenever you bring up his involvement in the lives of humans from the past. 

"This isn't what I thought this song would be," you quietly admit as you play with his gloved fingers. 

"Oh?" 

"It's called a waltz, so I thought, you know, we would be able to dance to it…"

"You wish to dance with me?" He says in a teasing tone, one that makes your face feel hot. 

"WELL, I JUST THOUGHT-"

"That would be fairly amusing…" He says, almost more to himself than to you.

He uses his free hand to lift your chin up so that you're looking at him. If your face wasn't red before, it definitely is now. 

"It was a silly idea, we don't-" 

"No, no. I believe I would like to dance with you as well." 

His smile is rather wolfish as he stands from your bed and pulls you up along with him. The next song on the record starts and it isn't very apt for a dance, either.

"The music-" You begin to protest before Lucifer snaps his finger and the record begins to glow with a blue light. A record scratch abruptly interrupts the music when Chopin's Waltz in A minor, B. 150 starts to flow through the speaker. 

He pulls your body to the proper position, one hand on your waist, the other cradling yours. Of course, he'll lead. You roll your eyes playfully. 

"Do you remember how to do this?" He asks, amused. 

"Pshh, of course I do," you say right before accidentally stepping on his foot. "Oop, sorry." 

He chuckles. "Follow my lead." 

And you do. You dance around your little room, only stepping on him a few more times before you get the hang of it again. ("It's been a long time, okay??") You twirl and pivot, avoiding tiny obstacles around your room, laughing when you attempt to take the lead by spinning him out and back into your arms. 

He finishes the dance by lifting you by the waist and spinning around. You giggle uncontrollably, feeling lighter than you have in months. When he brings you back down, you lace your hands together behind his neck and put your head on his shoulder. The music shifts to something soft that you can slow dance to. His arms tighten around your waist, holding you close as you sway together. 

“I really needed this,” you say. “I’ve missed you guys so much.”

You feel him stiffen slightly at the remark. You smile to yourself, delighted that something so small could affect him. 

You look up at him, “I’ve missed you most, of course.”

He smiles down at you and the affection you see in his eyes is so genuine, it embarrasses you. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, MC.”

You look down to hide your quickly reddening face. “I wish I could summon you more often but I know you’re very busy. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

“Oh, yes,” Lucifer hums, as if he has to think hard about what he was doing before this, “I believe I was in a meeting with Lord Diavolo.”

“Lord Diavolo!?” Your eyes widen with panic. You push yourself away to look him straight in his face, hoping he’s just teasing you. 

His wolfish grin returns as he smooths down a lock of hair that is out of place on your head. “Yes, but it was one of those frivolous meetings he likes to trick me into. ‘Oh, Lucifer, you must try this bottle of Demonus I found in the depths of the labyrinthine cellar.’ Nothing truly important, I promise.”

Relief quickly washes over you and you relax back into his embrace. “So... I get to keep you a little longer?” 

“Tonight?” His hold around you tightens. “You may keep me as long as you wish.”

[actuallyrandompersondaily]

He'd opened the door to her knock, surprised to see her.

"Are you here for Eddie?" He asked, slightly confused. "Because he's just gone to get groceries, it's just me and Chris here right now."

"What?" Maddie replied, equally confused. "Why would I be here for Eddie?"

"Because you're... on his doorstep?"

"Yeah, and?"

"I don't know about you, Maddie, but that's usually what I'm after when I show up to someone's house."

She sent him another look, one that very much read as 'you're a dumbass but I love you.'

"I needed your help with a surprise for Chim, Buck. If you wanted to let me in any time soon."

He rolled her eyes at her teasing, moving to the side as he gestured down the hallway in an 'after you' kind of way.

"I'm guessing you went to my loft and realised I wasn't there?"

Maddie looked back at him, bemused once more.

"It's a Saturday and you're off-shift, Buck. I came straight here."

[wrongcaitlyn]

i sent this to @wronghuntress earlier but just decided i should share this here too bc i've been having a very specific tyt scenario in my head all day

kayla posts a tiktok to please please please at the "i beg you don't embarrass me motherfucker" with the caption of "me when introducing literally anyone to my brother's friends"

and then nico duets it with like half his face showing with the caption "what does this mean kayla phoebe knowles"

and yes i did literally come up with her middle name just for this specific scenario

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Two | Series Masterlist

Summary: the monotonous days of practice are starting to grate, but made more complicated by the pianist's lingering words | Word Count: 4.3k~ | Warnings: sexual tension 😘

“Aemond, darling, please…” Alicent pleaded behind the closed door of his bedroom, her worried, motherly voice muffled through the thick frame, “it's not the end of the world, love, okay?”

He'd been in the exact same spot for several hours, his knee bouncing irritably and impatiently. He closed his eyes, as if trying to put on the image of being completely calm. But his hands were clasped painfully, fingertips sore from practice, and he could barely hear his mother through the door anyway, with the large headphones pressed to his ears, with the uncomfortable sting of the cello raking into his brain.

His heart was racing with stress, playing the same bit of ‘Cello Concerto' over and over again, trying to find the part where Otto had incessantly pressured him to perfect it. Wrong timing. Wrong tune. Incorrect finger placement.

Each time he stumbled over the same tricky passage, his frustration mounted. The melody was supposed to soar, but all he could feel was the grinding pressure to not mess up, to not let Otto down, to not disappoint his mother who believed so fervently in his talent.

Where in others, he witnessed nurture in the form of pride, loving gestures and unconditional support. He could see no merit in it. Love to Aemond was tight and oppressive, and weighty on his shoulders.

The door to his room creaked open slightly, and his mother’s voice, muffled and distant through the noise-canceling headphones, attempted to break through the barrier of sound. "Aemond, dinner," she called, her tone gentle yet persistent.

He barely glanced up, giving a slight shake of his head. The outside world, even the simple call to dinner, felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

"Aemond, please," she tried again, her voice firmer now. A choice of tone usually reserved solely for Aegon. "You need to eat. You’ve been at this for hours.”

Aemond cradled his cello gently between his knees, the hum of the ensemble drifted in the air, each musician fine-tuned to perfection with scales and snippets of melodies to practice. But despite this, Aemond found his thoughts elsewhere, his memories blurring into his current reality, where a new challenge in the form of the pianist had emerged.

With every draw of his bow across the strings as if he were an artist gliding a paint-slick brush over canvas, Aemond found his concentration fragmenting. His thoughts were pulled back to the pianist’s effortless expression, her ability to blend technical mastery with palpable emotion. A stark contrast to his own methodical, disciplined approach.

She irked him. She intrigued him. Two feelings which should not hold hands in Aemond's black and white reality. Every single thing his musical education had deemed secondary, she challenged. In the brief moments where he could witness her artistry himself, her performances always lingered, whereas his own, for all its precision, rarely achieved.

“Focus, Aemond.”

Otto's chide was soft and yet audible to everyone. It echoed a long and tired reminder of years past. And he found himself unable to pull back the glare that his own grandfather shot first down the bridge of his nose.

Practice ended how it often had, disappointed and dejected. He could no longer think of her or the words she'd said in their last encounter without feeling the frustration thud in his heart. After all, could the skills she so easily spoke about even be learned?

He longed to see what she saw, how she felt when she played.

The route back to Aemond's apartment was mentally tiring, and the frustration that usually ebbed away with every step, somehow lingered, and permeated throughout his body. For some time, playing the cello had not been met with accomplishment, now more often than not, met with a long and exhausting sense that he could be better.

That is what Alys had said as well, a few weeks ago, when she'd packed up the rest of her things, still pink in the face from Aemond's lips and tongue having pleasured her between her thighs to completion. The difference between her attitude and her parting words almost gave him emotional whiplash.

“I can't be the one to distract you. Not when you need to focus. Not when you have the opportunity to be great.”

Her voice was firm. And there was no room for argument or rebuttal. When Alys said something had to be how it was, that was it. Aemond had watched silently, scrubbing a hand over his face at the closed door of his apartment. He wanted to argue that if Alys had in fact cared that she'd be distracting him, her lack of presence would be just that.

How often now had he been sinking between her thighs, just to think of something else?

He never thought himself a sex addict, and yet the idea of going so long without it, with the show yet months away, made him angry to think how affected he was by it. This was hypocrisy the likes of his brother, Aegon, would love to shove in his face, he just knew it.

The stone square that choked the Grand Sept was speckled with light through the trees, rustling in a manner some would have found comforting. Couples kissed near the fountain, artists drew for money, set up with a view of the Sept while onlookers watched with joy, and children tripped and squabbled through the various nooks that had once marked the spot of a great dynasty.

This was where he waited, taking in the view and the gentle, somewhat melancholic lull of people's lives go past him without a blink. It was an hour before he'd have to traverse back the way he came for his personal booking, to practice the pieces he so desperately wanted to perfect. 

During the day, his phone was off. Nothing was more important than what he deemed his life's work.

With a soft sigh, he sat on the wall, watching the square empty as afternoons drew in, his seeing eye following longingly at a brother and sister, who must have had the same age gap he and Aegon had, chasing one another on the cobbled path. Their squeals of glee and bright, happy faces stirred something heavy in his chest.

Had he ever felt as carefree as that. Had he ever felt like a child. Or had he been a grown man for so long.

His thoughts drifted to his own childhood. He would stand stiff and rigid at recitals, looking out to the expectant gaze of his mother, her burning pride gazing into him. There, there was no room for carefree joy akin to the brother sister chasing each other through the square. His childhood, if it could be called that, was dominated by routine and scales, not play and abandon.

He glances at the golden ticking hands of his watch and with a heaved sigh, lifts his cello case to trudge back along the cobblestones to the music school, feeling the familiar pull of responsibilities. Yet, something about the moment nagged at him, a sense of loss for experiences never had, for a childhood spent in service to a future that demanded everything.

With a heaved sigh and another trudge through the now darkened halls of his music college, Aemond pushed open the door, expecting a deep, sullen and wooden silence. Only to be greeted, or rather, whatever the negative version to being ‘greeted’ is, by the sound of the delicate, light twinkle of piano keys. 

He watched at first with a sense of both unease and interest as she played, her face partly hidden by the locks of hair that had fallen between her concentrated brows. He couldn’t even really see her playing, but could feel the sensitivity of her fingers on the black and white keys, the piece melancholic. 

Aemond willed the crease between his brows, attempting to feign disappointment between his awe. 

“You’re in the room I booked.”

Her eyes pierced the darkness between the opening of the grand piano, searing a memory into his mind through her vibrant gaze. At first, she seemed surprised at not being alone, and then her features settled, and he saw the wrinkles at the corner of one of them that made it clear that she smirked at seeing his annoyance.

She stood and closed the lid with a soft thud, pulling her bag over her shoulder, “yeah well unless you want to try moving a grand piano?” she smirks, raising one eyebrow as if daring him to reply.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his cello case against a nearby chair, conceding the point without words.

 “Didn’t think so,” she replied in a jokey manner, smiling down as she organised her sheet music into a neat satchel bag at her side.

While she wasn't looking, he found himself watching her, for no particular reason. There was something about the way she moved, the confidence she exuded even in the simplest of actions, that intrigued him. It wasn’t just curiosity about her attire or a superficial interest, he found himself wondering about the depth of her character, about the source of her fearless demeanour. If his stolen looks were not to see what she was wearing today, then perhaps to see if he could glimpse into her soul for just a moment, to see where she got her fucking audacity from. 

He sat to prepare his cello, running his middle finger over the bow strings, the density of them feeling somewhat satisfying against his calloused tips.

“You’re not going to lecture me about how I need to… ‘make love to my music’, or some shit like that?”

She chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to resonate a little too deeply within him. “What you do with your cello in your alone time is none of my business,” she quipped without looking up, her voice light yet laden with a hint of mischief.

“Hmm.”

The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a dance of mutual curiosity and veiled interest. As she packed up her things, Aemond found himself unwilling to break the moment, his usual reserve shaken by her presence. There was something about her, a boldness, an unapologetic embrace of her own talent and identity, that challenged him, that made him question his own guarded nature.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave, she paused, glancing back at Aemond who was methodically preparing his cello. A thought seemed to strike her, and her eyes lingered on him, curious and considering.

"Actually, do you mind if I stay a bit longer to listen?" she asked, her tone casual but with an underlying sincerity that caught Aemond off guard.

Aemond felt a mixture of apprehension and pride swell within him. He was used to accolades and audiences, but her request felt different, more personal, more significant. His initial instinct was to guard his practice, a time he usually kept private, a sacred space where he perfected his art away from prying eyes. Yet, something about her frank interest, devoid of any apparent ulterior motive, piqued his own curiosity about how she might perceive his music.

He was so taken off guard, as he was so often by her, that he forgot to say anything and simply nodded. He positioned his cello, settling it between his knees, his back straightening as he prepared to play. The invitation was extended on his terms, yet internally, he acknowledged a desire to impress her, to validate his approach and perhaps, to challenge her own musical opinions.

Her posture was relaxed, but attentive, as if she at least wanted to offer him the respect of knowing she was listening wholeheartedly. As Aemond drew the bow across the strings, the first notes resonated through the room, rich and precise. He chose a piece that showcased his technical prowess, a complex Bach suite that required meticulous control and deep concentration.

As he played, he found himself increasingly aware of her presence in the room. Each note was not just played for the sake of practice but as a demonstration of his skill and dedication to his craft. He watched her reaction out of the corner of his eye, her expressions subtle yet revealing. She seemed genuinely absorbed in the music, her earlier playful demeanour replaced by a focused seriousness that matched his own when he played.

The last draw of his bow brought those guarded walls back up again, the same ones that usually came tumbling down when he felt that in the throes of playing, feeling as if he was alone, were so easily crumbled. When the last note vibrated into silence, Aemond allowed himself a moment to gauge her reaction fully. She had leaned forward in her chair, as if she wanted to see his technique closer.

“You play with such precision,” she almost whispered, so quietly he strained to hear them. As if the words hadn’t been for him at all. 

He wasn’t certain how to place her review, negative or positive. And it aggravated him that even in her criticism, she was aggressively neutral. 

"Precision is crucial," he responded, his voice steady but his mind racing. He ached to say more, but alongside fearing he would appear defensive, he was unsure whether he wanted to invite criticism from her.

She paused, considering his question, her eyes locking with his. "Precision is your strength, no doubt," she began, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke. "But music, at least to me, also needs to breathe, to have a life of its own beyond the notes on the page. Your playing is impeccable, but it feels tightly controlled, almost constrained."

He quashed the rising irritation, or at least as much as he could, forcing himself to consider her words from a place of growth rather than confrontation. "So, you're suggesting I let go a little?" he asked, watching as she smiled at his confusion. 

“Maybe,” she said lightly, “allow it the freedom to surprise you. Control you. You might find you like it.”

He couldn’t help but dissect the slight flirtatiousness in her voice. And yet it was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness he was accustomed to in such discussions.

She broke the silence that seemed to bulge between them, “do you like it?”

His mother watched him eat, her gaze laden with a mix of pride and concern. The clink of cutlery filled the brief silences as she finally found the words.

"Do you enjoy it, Aemond?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying weight. "The cello, I mean. Do you actually enjoy playing?"

Aemond paused, his fork suspended in mid-air. It was a question that had lingered at the edge of his consciousness, unvoiced and unanswered. Did he enjoy it, truly? Or had it become merely a vehicle for his ambition, a pathway that he had been set upon rather than one he had chosen?

"It sometimes feels like the only thing I know how to do," he admitted, and for someone so often so sure, his voice wavered. 

His mother’s hand reached across the table, her touch warm against his. "Music should be a source of joy, not just a pursuit of perfection," she reminded him gently. "It’s a gift, Aemond, meant to be cherished as much as honed."

Aemond paused, the question catching him off-guard. "Do I like what?" he asked, unsure if she was referring to her suggestion or something more implicit.

She bit back a small smile, and yet it still wormed its way onto her face, “losing control.”

Her question, laced with a hint of playfulness, hung in the air, and Aemond found himself momentarily lost for words. He was unaccustomed to such directness wrapped in…flirtation?

“Losing control?” he repeated, his mouth feeling a little dry. 

“Mmhm,” she hummed, “you hold the reins so tightly. Might be liberating to loosen…or even let go, once in a while?”

The atmosphere between them seemed to thicken, the words ‘losing control’ echoing not just through the room but through Aemond’s thoughts, disrupting his usual composure.

Aemond shifted slightly, the concept of loosening his grip, both metaphorically on his music and literally in his life, seemed to resonate deeper than he anticipated. "And you think that's something I need?" he asked, his voice lower, the hint of a challenge lacing his words.

She didn’t move an inch, but her presence seemed more pronounced. The subtle scent of her perfume mixed with the mustiness of the old practice room created a contrast that was oddly intoxicating. "Isn't it?" she countered softly, her gaze steady on his.

The air between them was palpable now, her every word pulling at something he usually kept well guarded. His heart beat a rhythm almost too pronounced, mirroring the tension that seemed to pulse through the space.

Clasping her bag closed, she stood, "Music is about feeling, about passion. It’s not just the notes, but the spaces between them, the breaths, the moments of surrender.”

Aemond’s response was caught in his throat as he absorbed her words, her proximity, the undeniable tension that seemed to dance around them like the very music she spoke of. How the hell did she do that?

She allowed herself a cheeky smile, one that reached her eyes so quickly that with those alone he would know she was amused, “maybe you should surrender to it sometimes.”

A part of him wanted to dismiss her words, to reinforce the walls he had built around his methods and beliefs. After all, she was the face of his competition, a symbol of the school he had been conditioned to outperform. Yet, the way she spoke about music, with such a raw, inviting passion, made it impossible to ignore the pull he felt towards her ideas, towards her. The rivalry was supposed to be clear-cut, a battle of schools and skills. But with her, it blurred into something messier, charged with an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite name but felt all too powerfully.

It was a dangerous mix. 

To admit she affected him would mean opening a door he was adamant to firmly keep shut tight. One that could lead to complications. Not even in terms of the competition. But for his prized discipline. She watched his expression to her words closely, her eyes reflecting a glint of knowing. He desperately wanted to hate her for it. To remind her that she was no better than him simply because she wasn’t plagued with the need for perfection like he was. That she, beyond the walls of the music school she seemed to haunt, could leave her instrument within them. Whereas Aemond was forced to carry his cello on his shoulders, to support its heavy toll on him, and that every step he took, it took more. 

It seemed like she was going to say more, as her lips parted. But as quickly as they did, they closed softly again, and that enigmatic smile returned. 

Fuck her. 

When Aegon had been in his early twenties, he’d moaned and groaned on the sofa, his phone slobbed to one side, complaining that the girl he was currently texting was verbally edging him. Aemond had merely grimaced, finding his brother's frustration more amusing than relatable.

But now he felt that aggravation of it. The fact that she knew he was hanging on every word, and still chose not to say anything, to leave thoughts dangling in the charged air between them.

She gave him a final nod, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken words and tensions that lingered, then turned and walked away. It was only when she was halfway down the hallway that the perfect response sprang to his mind, but by then it was too late. All he could do was watch her retreating form disappear into the dim, wooden corridor. 

In that moment, Aemond felt like a modern-day Eurydice, fading into the shadows, but with a twist, this time, Eurydice longed for Orpheus to look back. Aemond knew that if she turned, if she offered him one last look, it would mean stepping back into a narrative filled with complexities and perhaps inevitable loss. Yet, he craved that backward glance, a sign that their fleeting connection meant as much to her as it did to him, even if it meant returning to the shadows.

Aemond tried to refocus on his practice as he returned to the solitude of the music room. He played mechanically, his usual precision present but the soul of the music notably absent. The strings didn't sing; they just spoke in monotonous tones. With more than half of his allotted practice time remaining, he packed up his cello, and resisted the urge to hurl it across the room.

Driven by a need for something more tangible, more human than the cold wood and strings of his cello, Aemond left the practice room abruptly.

No more than 15 minutes later, he stood at the smirking figure of Alys Rivers, leaning against her door frame, arms crossed and wearing delicate lacy sleepwear, as if she could supernaturally anticipate that he would come to her.

Her eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and satisfaction, seeing him slightly dishevelled, a rare break in his usually composed demeanour.

“I don't want to fucking hear it.” 

Alys, unfazed by his sharpness, raised an eyebrow and smiled wryly, stepping aside to let him in. Her reaction was more teasing than concerned, her amusement clear in her casual posture. 

"Where?" Aemond's voice was blunt, his usual grace undercut by a barely contained frustration.

"The bed," Alys responded with a flick of her head toward the bedroom, her smirk deepening as she watched him stride ahead.

As he passed her, she couldn't resist adding, "Need some instructions, or do you remember the way?"

Aemond didn't respond, his back to her as he moved into the bedroom. Alys followed at a leisurely pace, her demeanour confident, almost cocky. She leaned against the doorframe, watching as he shed his jacket with quick, jerky movements.

Alys pushed off from the doorframe and walked over to him, her steps deliberate. "Something's happened-," she said, reaching out to smooth the crease between his brows with her thumb, her touch light but insistent.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm. "I said I don't want to fucking hear it," he retorted, his voice low and strained.

Alys met his gaze, her expression partly unreadable. "Okay," she conceded, pulling her hand back gently. She gestured towards the bed. "Show me what you need.”

As Alys led him toward the bed, Aemond followed mechanically. His movements were automatic, driven by habit more than desire. Pulling her hips towards him and slinging her legs over his shoulders was like second nature at this point. Alys was warm beneath him, her body responding in all the familiar ways, her breaths, her touches, her sighs all scripted from past encounters. Yet, as Aemond moved with her, his mind was elsewhere, disengaged from the act. 

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted sounds of their closeness, but inside Aemond, a storm was brewing. The physical motions were all correct, but the emotional undercurrents were misaligned, leaving him feeling even more isolated as they moved together. Alys seemed not to notice, or if she did, she chose not to address it, caught up perhaps in her own interpretation of their actions.

Afterward, as Alys settled beside him, her breathing even and content, Aemond lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She was close, yet he felt miles away, trapped in a cycle that provided physical release but no real solace.

Sensing his detachment, Alys’ voice broke through the silence, “you okay?”

Aemond didn't answer. Instead, he gently disentangled himself from her and slid off the bed. His movements were smooth but distant, as if he was pulling away from more than just the physical proximity, leaving the bedroom without so much of a backward glance at Alys, barely wounded from his dismissal, naked in bed. Alys watched him go, her expression resigned. She remained silent, making no move to follow him or press him further.

In the living room, Aemond walked straight to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink, his hands mechanically tilting the bottle, the familiar clink of ice soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep sip, letting the liquid burn down his throat, hoping it would wash away the disquiet clinging to him.

As he turned, his gaze fell on the grand piano sitting under the low light in the corner of the room. It was an elegant piece, one that Alys had long forgotten, now sitting idly and out of tune. The dust gathered in its crevices spoke volumes of its neglect, a stark contrast to the careful maintenance of instruments at his own school.

The piano, much like himself tonight, felt abandoned, left to stand as a mere piece of furniture rather than the vibrant instrument it was intended to be. Compelled by a sudden urge, he approached it, his fingers running along the cool, smooth surface of its keys, each one silent and stiff from disuse. Aemond pressed a key tentatively, listening to the dull thud that echoed back, as if to taunt him. 

For a brief moment, he considered the task of tuning it, of bringing it back to life. It seemed a fitting metaphor for what he needed himself, a realignment, a correction of the discord that had crept into his own life and art.

As Aemond's fingers wandered across the piano keys, his thoughts meandered back to the pianist from the opposing school. She had described music as a living entity, one that breathed and moved, pulsating with the emotions of its player. This concept lingered in his mind as he contemplated the neglected piano before him. He wondered how she would react to such a forlorn instrument. Would she feel compelled to restore it, to draw breath back into its worn frame and let it sing once more? 

Just as he secretly hoped she might rekindle something within him, a spark long subdued under the weight of discipline and expectation.

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[justcallmesakira]

"Bittersweet lovebites"

Sypnosis: In which two people who were meant to be enemies, are deeply engraved in each other's hearts....

Dazai x pm!reader

Warnings: lots of suggestive jokes, half teaspoon of angst

Genre: heavily suggestive, romance

A/N: this is a fic heavily inspired by "cigarettes out the windows" and dangerously yours, the movie. The angst will come but for now it will be sweet romance stuff

Listen to! : Lovers rock -TV girl, Always forever -Cults, I wanna be yours -The arctic monkeys, Not allowed -TV girl, Better in the dark -Jordan, TV girl etc.

Dazai didn't thought he'd have to wait this long in the torture chambers for this long if anything he can always plan an easy escape. However this time it's different he was waiting for a certain someone.

A clack of heavy boots could be heard from that empty room of terror and long forgotten screams, not that it bothered the former executive. "What a place to meet up, isn't it" the husky voice teases "Dazai". The man's face lit up slightly with a smirk at the call of his name "Well well, belladonna! You really took the time to meet with your one and only love of your life!" he teasingly jokes with a small grin on his face as the silhouette of your body finally walked in the room where dazai was chained up to the wall. You stood in front of him with your hefty coat dangling on your shoulders.

"Love of my life? Oh please as if!" the woman in front of him laughs out, whether she meant it as a joke or whether they were words half from the heart, it really was a mystery since the remark was ignored. "Say say, do you enjoy seeing me in such a helpless way?" Dazai ultimately ignores your remark while grinning cheekily at your approach upon him. You were quite used to his dirty jokes, that's was one of the things anyone should get accustomed to if they really wanna be a part of this man's life. You snickered "I wonder if I do like seeing my dearest in such a way" you smirked with slight malice in which the man in front you just smiled. He was always like this--mysterious, one might say he's a simple cheery man but what goes on his mind stays there.

"It would be much much better if we switch places don't you think?" Dazai spurted out with a dirty look on his face which slightly shocked you but you kept it in with yourself. "The real question is if you can catch an executive like me. You may always have plans but I am an executive for a reason you know?" you said in contrast to his flirt or what you counted as one, right now it seemed like a competition on who can flirt the most."The let's try it here then!" you almost choked "Dazai, what the heck?! Absolutely not, being executed today for dating someone from an enemy organization is not on my schedule today!!" you were slightly paranoid about this which only made dazai laugh lightheartedly."Would you do it if you didn't have your 'precious title' and was just a simple mafio-" before he could go further you shouted but a bit quietly so no one knows about this dirty talk between you two "NO!"

You sighed and turned around to leave "I am sure you can leave without my help" you said with your back turned against the former executive.

"Boss will probably come here to persuade you to join back" you said with a more serious tone, you never knew why mori had such an obesesion with the brown haired man but you always tried keeping him away from mori,it was the last thing you persnally wanted to do. Dazai had a small smile on his face "I remember your teary face from the night I left,," memories flash through your mind for a second, those bittersweet flashbacks of you, Dazai and chuuya back in the mafia when you were teens "I barely cried that time you know, though I won't deny it did quite made me distraught,,," you say the last word quietly even though he was right.

"That's okay, I got to see your teary face on that specific night" you choked on your spit by his words, he really had to ruin those memories by his dirty jokes. The executive turn around with a face mixed with disgust and embarrassment. "Dazai I swear to god-anyways I have work to do" you uttered out to him, turning your head around him again to the staircase as you heard a click from the back your eyes glanced back, of course he unlocked the chains bounding him against the wall, those chains were nothing to the chains you bounded in his heart in those 2 empty years of his life.

As the man rotates his wrists you only sigh in his antics but then walk toward him with a darkened expression. "Hm? Already mis--"

Before he could tease further your lips clash against his, the tension which was in the room before now replacing with the astonished man melting in your sweet kiss, oh god he could taste a nice arousing smell in your mouth, something sweeter then chocolate.

You only grinned at his shocked face, you loved it when you caught him off guard. Dazai's face returned to normal instantly, he can't be vulnerable In front his lovely `enemy' can he?

"Now come on, I know a passage which leads all the way to the outside" you break the mini silence between the two of you as time was running short. Mori could come any time now.

Dazai ran with you while looking at you with a cheeky smile which you suddenly realized "Hey what's with t-that smile" laugh "No reason" you only sighed as you showed him the tunnel, looking here and there to check if there's anyone.

"Oh! by the way,, belladonna, remember once I make a remark I always accomplish it. So be careful when you enter home today!"

A/N: This will be a long FANFIC!! Hurray get down all comfy! guys bcs the next chaps will be long with slight suggestive themes and oh hohoho LOADS of Cigarettes out the windows angst!

Divider crds: @v6que , @chachachannah on Tumblr!

Reblogs and like are very much appreciated!

[pathological-runaway]

But if winter comes, will it ever end? Or will the world be lost forever to the eternal cold? “You really should stop doing this,” the figure adds, “no one’s coming.” “We’ll see,” the child responds without looking. Their tired eyes are fixed on the horizon, an unlit candle clenched in their hands.

the fic can be found here or below the cut

The sun goes down once again, the reds and the yellows of the sky bleaker than the day before. There is no wind, and the silence is more frightening than any sound could ever dare be.

Darkness is even more frightening. Everybody knows that when the morning comes — if it does — darkness will have invaded the least illuminated parts of the buildings, creeping into every corner and destroying every obstacle it encounters on its way.

Last week, all the darkness born during the night could be burnt with ease. This morning, the plants were so numerous that it was impossible to access the concert hall even after hours of trying and a dozen precious candles wasted in the process.

They left the cellist’s favourite flowers at the entrance. A bouquet of dead plants for a dead musician.

The pianist’s lips quiver and their eyes are dull, but it will not bring their partner back.

The villagers have not been able to reach Prairie in days now, perhaps because the windpaths were damaged, possibly because there is no one left in Prairie to read the letters. Probably both. With the last supplier of light gone, the wax and the candles that the village has in store will be inevitably depleted soon.

“It’s freezing out here,” the figure wearing glasses says, shivering and hiding their face in their scarf. The nights are getting colder and colder, and the days are growing shorter and shorter, like in autumn. Except it is summer. At least it was supposed to be, when things were alright.

But if winter comes, will it ever end? Or will the world be lost forever to the eternal cold?

“You really should stop doing this,” the figure adds, “no one’s coming.”

“We’ll see,” the child responds without looking. Their tired eyes are fixed on the horizon, an unlit candle clenched in their hands.

The other sighs and tucks a stray hair behind the child’s ear. They do not flinch as the coarse fabric of the glove makes contact with bare skin.

“How are they?” the kid asks, and the carpenter wishes they did not know who they are talking about. Sadly, they do.

“They didn’t eat.”

The child stands in silence for a while, their body motionless, eyes shining with determination but dulled by sleepless nights and restless days. Yet, they refuse to succumb to exhaustion.

“Make them hot cocoa,” they reply simply.

“What? But the wood-“

“They like hot cocoa.”

The gloved figure wants both to laugh and to cry.

“It’ll make them happy.”

“It’ll shorten our lifespans!” the carpenter cries in despair.

Silence follows. But not for long.

“It’ll extend theirs.”

There is nothing to argue with here. The child is right, even if it would be easier if they were not. Even if these words feel like a sharp knife.

“Please go and get some sleep tonight,” the carpenter asks — almost pleas, — their hands on the child’s shoulders to keep them warm, “nobody will come while you’re resting. Please go to bed.”

“I will,” they say like they do every day. And it is not a lie. But it is not entirely true, either.

“Just give me a little time. Until the sun sets.”

There is a soft press of lips on their forehead. It is a ritual now: they stand at the gates, as the night approaches, waiting in case a boat or a manta in search of shelter appears in the skies, then someone walks up to coax them into going home. This time, it is the carpenter. Yesterday, it was the musician. The day before, the enchanter. Many give them a kiss on the forehead, or on the cheek, or pat them on the head. Most walk away worried or sad. But not numb. Never numb.

The figure sighs and turns away. Knowing that there is no use trying to change their mind is also part of the ritual.

“I’m going to light some candles at your place. Be careful.”

“I will.”

“See you tomorrow,” their voice is shaky despite their efforts to keep it steady. There is no guarantee both of them will still be there when the dawn breaks. There is no guarantee either of them will.

Steps grow quieter as the figure walks away. The sky is darkening, but the child at the gate does not leave just yet.

“Don’t lose hope. We need you.”

The carpenter freezes in place, the words breaking something in them they were not sure was even there. And it hurts. But it also makes them feel warmer than they have in weeks.

“Don’t you lose hope,” they reply as their vision starts getting blurry, “we need you, too.”

“Don’t worry,” the child says as a crow croaks and a bell announces the advent of the night, “I have enough for all of us. I can share.”

They can. They do.

The village is engulfed in darkness when they go.