#he should have written “i do not like them in a house NOR with a mouse etc etc

[edenemy-art]

quick English writing crash course (from an advanced english student)

neither —> nor

either —> or

examples: “I am either going to do this or that”

“I am neither going to do this nor that.”

nor is for negatives, or is for decisions.

“I don’t want to go there nor here.”

“Should we go here or there?”

with nor, you’ve already decided what to do. With or, you’re in the act of deciding.

my teachers only taught me the “neither —> nor/either —> or” part. had to figure the rest out on my own 🤧

So I hope this is helpful to someone!!

[hyukascampfire]

𝓖INGER & 𝓢NAP ` ꕀ. k.th

you were the last person taehyun expected to appear on his doorstep. sweet and fluffy and oh-so-proper; he never thought he’d see you again. but... there you stand. and, much to his own chagrin, he fears that nobody else could get him more bothered. ׄ ⋆ ִ

་༘ ՚՚ ꒰ 🪵 ꒱ ･ 7.9k

ρairings gingerbread!taehyun x frosty puff!reader

𝒢 ‧̥ smut, fantasy, strawberry shortcake au

⍵arnings brat taming, brat tamer!taehyun & brat!reader, his cum is frosting, creampie, ofc no sex ed in strawberryland, thigh riding, oral m!receiving, cumming into mouth, cum eating, corruption of innocence & innocent!reader, banter, chubby!reader and buff!taehyun, manhandling, he throws her around a bit and she's so into it, they don't like each other but also def do, he likes to teach her manners, reader is also spoiled & rich and taehyun is not, hair pulling, he gets mean, no protectiom, let me know if i missed some!

✎୭ ashlynn's note this collab has been seriously so fun. writing fics is fun, but there's something about talking your friends and scheming all the yummy ways you can incorporate certain things into your fic. @thetxtdevil mae baby, thank you so much for being the best and even coming up with this idea. your mind amazes me... like actually. everybody did so unbelievably good, and i'm blessed to have been a part of it. now... let's get foody and smutty lol. some of this was written in a benadryl haze, but that's the fun part. i'm sorry mine came out a lil later than everybody else's, but hopefully it's still fun!

... back to the masterlist ⌇ back to strawberryland

Raising your fist to the door, your knuckles rap against it with a few thick knocks. The door is frosted around the edges in little swirling white puffs of icing, framing the gingerbread door. It’s the same all around his house: gumdrops and candy canes and the like, all twinkling with sugar crystals.

It’s all so sweet—unbelievably so. The man that calls it home is the very antithesis of sweet. He does not take after the gumdrop, nor the sweetness of the icing, and most definitely not the brown sugar and molasses of the gingerbread. Taehyun is the quick snapping of a leg, or the sharpness on your tongue when you get to the cinnamon and nutmeg. 

You loathe it. Even being stood here, knocking at his door, you hate. He is everything uncouth and abrasive—he is everything you should not entertain. 

Here you are, entertaining it. The door swings open. Your fingers and toes have begun to slow with the cold, like frosty-whip in the fridge. Through the forest, stepping over sugar bushes and cocoa streams, you had fought the bite. Why did he have to live all the way out here? Secluded, as though the rest of Strawberryland were beneath his meddling. You know why: it’s that he believes it. He is exactly as your parents told you he’d be, all those years ago. Of course, they were right. They always are.

When he catches sight of you at his door, his distant eyes morph, and his lip tugs into a scowl. The rise of his brows ruffles your feathers with an infuriating ease. “Is there something you want?” he asks. His tone is infuriating, too. It’s the kind of question that means much more beyond the words said. You catch exactly what he means—how he intends to get under your skin.

Hidden behind the door, he has one hand on the handle. It's an unspoken thing, too. He wants you to remember that he could close it. You can’t let him, or else you’ll have drug your pretty new furry winter boots through the powdered snow for him to slam a door in your face. “Yeah, actually. There is.” You run preening fingers through the ends of your hair. “We’re partners for the bake-off.”

“I don’t do the bake-off,” he says. His eyes would be chocolate and smooth if it weren’t for the way he wields them sharp. “Sorry. You’re gonna have to find somebody more your speed for that.”

Barking an incredulous, perhaps even snobby, laugh, you look around. Snow comes down on the ground, sweet and creamy. It’d been enough of a battle to come here. If you were going to give up so easily, you would’ve turned your little bottom around perhaps two hours ago. Does he think you hadn’t considered that? It was a long walk; you had plenty of time to mull over the many things he might do. Sometimes, you imagined him diplomatic and affable. You stomped those wispy thoughts out. Perhaps it’s been years since you’ve spoken with him, and perhaps what happened between the two of you is dusted over, but you know better. Here he stands in front of you: bitter as ever. 

“You’re just gonna leave me without a partner?” you say. Your jaw trembles, seized finally by the cold. “Everybody is already paired up. Literally everybody.”

Shrugging, he says, “I don’t see how that’s my problem. I didn’t sign up for it.”

Your brows knit. That means somebody else had signed him up. You have a sneaking suspicion who might’ve—Blueberry Kai always tells you that he just feels excluded. It’s hard not to laugh when he does. Taehyun? Excluded?  He is exactly where he wants to be. Where most are sweet in Strawberryland, the snappy gingerbread finds it easier to justify his bitterness when he lives off in his little gingerbread home, out and away in his own neck of the forest only to be found by a winding gumdrop road, where he can pretend he’s above it all.

It’s entirely ironic. Him, better than you? Gingerbread, and all his ruggedness? His unpolished edges? Once, you’d believed that the two of you weren’t so different. That you could be friends, even. Seeing what he’s grown to be, you think you understand why your parents stepped in. Back then, though, as just that soft little girl who followed the charismatic boy around with crystal stars in your eyes, it had been the worst thing to ever happen to you. He had been so gravity-defying, moving through the soft, marshmallow edges and the sugar-whipped reality of Strawberryland as something different.

No. Not gravity-defying. Rather, in the powdery and sweet sweet Strawberryland, you think that he is the only thing with gravity.

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” he echoes, letting a little patronizing laugh out along with it. “That’s sweet.”

It’s hard not to shift or cross your arms over your chest, abraded by the dripping sneer.

“What? It’s not. It’s not fair that, just because you don’t want to at least give it a try, I can’t participate,” you say. Really, you should just crawl back home and beg to join somebody’s duo, but you can’t lose like that. You can’t lose to him. If you leave it like this, then he’ll have gotten the better of you. 

“Can’t get everything we want, huh?” he says, straightening up and taking the door in his hand once more. “Just because everybody else has bent backward to give you what you want doesn’t mean that I will.”

“Wait,” you say, sighing in a white swirl. “Don’t close the door. Don’t you know your manners? It’s rude. You’re just going to let me freeze out here? I walked all the way out here, and even got snow all over my new boots, just for this, just for you to slam a door in my face? I mean, a gentleman would at least invite me in to warm me up.”

Lips twitching into a laugh and his eyes suddenly alight, he says, “A gentleman, huh?” He pulls the door open a little further. The warmth from his home, warm and spiced and oh-so-inviting like oven-warmed gingerbread, brushes over your twinkling skin. “Sure. Show me your manners, then. I want you to ask me nicely.”

Your jaw tightens. Sending him a once over, sharpening your eyes, you decide to just do it. His tone is nasty, but you don’t want to be disqualified for not having a partner. Even if he’s the worst you could’ve been paired with in all of Strawberryland. Or maybe the best, because it’s a gingerbread house competition this year. “Will you just do it?”

“I said ask nicely. Say please.” 

He wears a mean smile—he’s having fun watching you squirm. So, you make a conscious effort to straighten up. “Will you please be my partner for the competition?” you say, making your voice sugary and batting your eyelashes in an overdone way. He thinks he’s funny.

Stepping out of the doorway, he motions you inside. It might look gentlemanly if it weren't for the sting in his eyes. You swallow down petty words and push through, your arms full with supplies. Arms aching, you finally let them clatter down over the countertop. The inside of his home is fresh-baked and spiced, aromatic like a true gingerbread cookie straight from the oven. You’re sure the glowing fire helps carry the smell in warm air. It wraps your cold bones up and smooths over some of the frayed edges. You’d been out there for so long… Nobody else had to walk that far for their partner.

Better just to get this done as quickly as you can. You just have to put up with him today, and you’ll be done, and then you can have fun with the competition. He won’t even show up for it; you’re sure. 

“I’ll do it all if it’s that big of a deal,” you tell him, laying out the walls and warming the icing between your palms. “You can put the peppermint on, I guess. So then we can say we both worked on it.”

Hair the fluffy brown of true gingerbread and dusted with snowflakes like powdered sugar. Taehyun shakes his head, and it moves with him. “No,” he says, the corners of his lips still turned up as though he knows something you don’t. He rolls the sleeves of his gaudy, knitted Christmas sweater up to his elbows. The corded muscle there, flickering with movement, catches you off guard. Gingerbread, built like that? Tearing your eyes off him with the effort of metal tearing itself from a magnet, you watch him approach the kitchen counters. “I’ll help. We’re partners, right?”

No matter what he says, there’s a twist of something sparkling in those sharp eyes that has you watching him closer—has you trying to gauge exactly what he’s playing at. “Uh… Yeah. Sure. If you want to, I guess.” You gesture at the walls. “Two for us, and ten for display. Can you start the walls?”

“Ten?” he says. “We’re making twelve gingerbread houses?”

With your lips pulled taut, you say, “Yeah… Twelve. Is that too much? I didn’t think any amount of gingerbread houses would be too much for you. That’s a little ironic.” Everything is warm in his home—even when you look down at your own hands to tug off your white woolen gloves, your skin that usually sparkles like frost rests just beneath the surface is tinged with the warmth.

“I can handle it just fine,” he says, taking the wall and base sections of one. “Just wouldn’t want you to ruin your pretty outfit. Twelve is a lot of icing.” He spits the word pretty out like it tastes bad. On his tongue, you’re sure it does. He never cared for pretty things the way you do. Your mommy always said that he was just jealous, but when the both of you were little, before your parents’ meddling, you learned that it was just a different lifestyle. One that you don’t understand, perhaps. Who doesn’t enjoy dressing themselves in lush furs and sugar crystals over their necks? 

“I’ll be fine,” you say, snipping the tip of the piping bag open. “I wore these knowing they’d get dirty. They’re my baking clothes. My boots already got all messed up…” 

“Oh,” he says. “You put on cashmere knowing you’ll get it dirty. Mommy and daddy paid a pretty penny for that, huh? And it’s your throwaway outfit?”

“Look. If you like it so much, I’ll let you have it when we’re done, yeah? Maybe you’ll make a pretty penny off selling it.” You ice a warm white line down the length of a wall. “Can you hurry? I’m already icing. I don’t want to be here all day.”

There’s  a few long, thrumming moments of quiet, where only the sound of your piping back crackling fills his home. Finishing a wall, you tear yourself away from your work to spare a glance his way.

Taehyun’s jaw is tight, a muscle flickering where he grits his jaw in the low light that washes over him. There’s a fire blazing in his eyes, and though he doesn’t turn them on you, the smoke rolling from them is enough to make your skin warm. You’d successfully gotten under his skin. Why stop here, when seeing that look on his face is so fun? He looks as sour as an apple; as spiced as cinnamon. “Wall?” you say, sharp and haughty as you offer your hand out to him in an impatient demand.

Snapping his head up, he hands you a wall with the heat of a thousand ovens in his face. You feel the scald he intends for you with it, and you revel in it.

You bark commands at him, watching his shoulders grow tense and his lips twitch with each. Crush the candy canes, you tell him. Melt the icing. Sprinkle these over that. Soon enough, you’re sitting back and watching him work more than anything.

He doesn’t say a word. You see them brimming in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them burst out all venomous like you know he wants to. It’s quite the show. 

“Would you at least help me hold this up?” he says, holding the walls of a house together with one hand. His hands are a mess of runny sugar and powdered sugar for snow, and yours are perfectly clean. You can at least help a little bit if you want to claim any part in the competition. 

You reach for the piping bag, fat with the sweet sweet icing, and straighten a wall up. You trace the seams with it, thick and like glue. With a bit too much pressure, the side of the bag bursts. White rivulets of slow icing run down your fingers and over the table. You curse, dropping it to the counter. That’s all of your icing, flopped down and deflating over the surface all sad-like. It’d been so much, that you thought it would last you each house and then some. Of course, you hadn’t brought extra.

Bringing your sticky fingers up to your mouth, you suckle the mess off. It’s so very sweet—warm and weeping, nutty and spiced with something like nutmeg. It’s Taehyun: the smell of it, the way it spreads over your tongue… You stick your tongue out to catch it where some drips down your forearm. “Mmm,” you say, sticky-armed. “Tastes good.” That’ll be good on the gingerbread houses; maybe the two of you do have a chance at winning. 

When you look up to Taehyun, he stands frozen in place, his hands still holding up a half-constructed gingerbread house. His eyes are different. It’s a look you don’t recognize—a look you’ve never seen before. Rather than deep and warm, his eyes are blackish and heavy. A swallow goes down his throat; a tense, barely contained thing.

 You frown, your lips still a sugary mess. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. Sorry. I’ll clean it up…”

Clearing his throat, Taehyun says, “Yeah…”

He watches you clean the counters, where the icing had pooled, and now the bag is empty, with the same intensity. You can feel it on your skin in a foreign, itching way. You swipe and scoop and work at the spill, and still, he watches. He does not speak. 

You survey the houses you’ve managed to finish. They’re pretty, and absolutely competition ready: looping swirls of icing like shingles on the roofs, peppermint chunks all red and white catching light where you’d sprinkled them into the frosting, gumdrops lining the paths true to Taehyun’s own home, and powdered sugar sifted over the entirety of it like snowfall. It’s all great, but there are only four.  “What are we supposed to do now?” you say, lips pouty. “That’s all the icing I brought. We literally can’t make any more.” You wipe at a smear on your cheek. How’d that get there? “I think I’m gonna have to come back tomorrow… Can you hold on to the houses for me?”

“Yeah—yeah, sure. Tomorrow,” he says, blinking something away. He straightens. “It’s a long walk. I think you should get going.”

You want to say something snarky or ask him why he wants you out of the house so fast, but it’s true. Night’s creeping over Strawberryland, and you have no icing, and tomorrow’s the last day before the bake-off. If the two of you don’t work harder tomorrow than you did today, then you won’t even make qualifications. You’ll lose before even starting.

You never lose. Not like this, and certainly not to the man standing before you. 

ꕀ

“C’mon. You can do better than that, can’t you?” Taehyun says, drooping icing from rooftops like icicles as you sprinkle crushed candies over the top. 

You grit your teeth. If he’d been snappy yesterday, he’s made it his mission to be your worst nightmare today. You think it’s his sort of revenge for ordering him around how you did. “What would you like, then?” you say. Maybe it’s feeding right into what he wants, but your life has lent you a short fuse. “You don’t even care about winning. Why does it matter? Let me do it how I want.”

He’s in another sweater. The sleeves are bunched up to the elbow just like yesterday, but you think he’s making a point with it this time. The shifting of his muscles is a bit too intense for piping icing. You’d made it through three more houses, wrangling your inner demons with each passing snide remark or nasty smile the whole time. It doesn’t help that he keeps his home terribly toasty, and you run cold down to the core. You melt and melt until all that is left of your temper is a puddle on the floor beneath you. Gone. 

“We’re partners, remember?” he says. He doesn’t even look at you as he says it. “I don’t do things half-assed, Frosty.” 

You’re sent reeling with the old nickname. It’d been sweet then, back when it was just the two of you against the world, but now it’s gone sour like milk. It even comes from his mouth soured. It’s something that you thought you’d left a million lifetimes ago, never to hear again. With Taehyun, though, it’s hard to pretend that you are no longer that. 

He will not let you forget that, at one point, the two of you were friends. An unlikely pair, especially looking at you now. You thought it was all nothing to you, but seeing him has kicked up dust. 

“You don’t?” you say, shooting him a quick glare from the side of your eye. “That’s funny.”

Strong brows shooting up, Taehyun quits mid-piping to look at you. “Funny? What’s funny about it to you?”

You can’t settle the obnoxious smile that curls at the edges of your mouth, mean and taunting and falsely sweet. “Oh, nothing.” You shake a sifter full of powder against your palm. It falls like true snow down over the house. 

“No, tell me,” he says, his eyes trained and heavy on your dismissive shrug. “Tell me what you think of me. I wanna hear it.”

Oh, this will be good.

“It’s just that,” you say, “you’re not really known for doing things the best way, you know? Living all the way out here, an ass when anybody tries to talk to you… Well, really, it’s just that nobody likes you. But, don’t worry! I’m sure there’s at least somebody that does.”

His face falls, the twinkle of delight at taunting you that he’d been holding in his eyes gone away. All that’s left is the peaking of something deeper and roiling from out of the cracks. You get the funny feeling that maybe you’ve taken it a step too far.

But, you never lose.

“Is that what it is?” he says. “I work for my shit. You? Everything you’ve ever had has been handed to you.” He measures his words delicately. Like a measuring cup full over the top, he cuts the excess words and coarseness off. He doesn’t say all that he thinks, but you see all he leaves unsaid toiling furiously behind his eyes. 

His eyes. They’re clear and, sharp as they are, they pin you. It’s a reflection of that look he gave you yesterday: deep and swirling and wild. It’s more than that, this time, though. It’s laced with anger and bursting at the seams of him. You’re not sure he’ll be able to hold back whatever it is that storms just beneath his skin, this time.

“It is,” you say, punctuation your words concisely. “It’s exactly why my parents said I shouldn’t hang out with you. They said that I’m above… all this.”

Oh, you’ve absolutely taken it too far now. You don’t really mean it. Sure, that’s what they told you, but you don’t really believe it. For some time, you did, but not now. It’s too late for sorries, though. Taehyun’s jaw goes tense.

For a long, awful moment, you just stand there and burn in his silence. It’s worse than any words he might spit. It’s hot—hot, hot, hot, and you turn liquid in it.

In a blink, nothing more, you collide against his countertop. Something clatters and thuds behind you. The gingerbread houses? That doesn’t matter right now—all that your dizzy mind can manage is his body crushing you and his fingers biting into the plush of your cheeks.

Where he had fractured, like true gingerbread, he snaps. You can see it in his eyes; even you know when you’ve pushed too far. Perhaps you ought to have seen this coming.

His knuckles curl white around the edge of the counter beside you, and his fingers dig deeper into your face. He’s oh-so-hot up against you. “I’m sick of your fucking mouth,” he snarls. His breath is hot as it fans over your face, too. “Someone needs to put you in your place. Where are your goddamn manners?”

Your heart thrums in your chest, and your pulse goes wild in your neck. You can’t form the words to answer him.

“Quiet now, huh?” he says. The husk in it makes the place between your thighs feel weird. You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

He shut you up real quick. You’ll give him that.

That funny feeling does flips, roaring to life when his fingers hook under the waistband of your bottoms. “That’s your problem.” His eyes send a chill up and down your spine. “You’ve never been told no. You’ve always gotten what you wanted.” Peeling down all the layers, he tugs your knitted stockings and your little fur skirt, and your sweet frosty panties, too. They bunch at your feet. Between your thighs, right where those foreign, throbbing waves reign, cool air laps at a wetness there. The hair all over your body rises. You’ve never felt anything like it. “Not with me. I'll set you straight. I don’t put up with spoiled brats.”

“I’m not a brat,” you say. “You’re just an ass.” They’re the first words that come to you. Damn your temper.

With the same hand he’d been holding your face in place with, he curls his fingers right into your scalp and yanks hard, baring your neck to him. You lose a strained squeak, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the sting. If your heart had been racing before, it runs wild, now. You strain your eyes to look at him and his curled lips. Painted with a sneer, he says, “Watch your mouth.”

A swallow goes down your throat hard. It’s all unfamiliar: the aching between your thighs, the burning in your blood, and the dazing of your thoughts. “Taehyun, I… I feel weird. It feels weird.”

Something knowing passes over him. “Yeah?” he says. “Show me where. I can help.”

Show him? You hesitate, searching his eyes for an ounce of joke or aversion. You find none, and that pounding is syrupy-sweet, and he says he can help. That’s all you want; all you need. Taking a trembling hand, you bring it down your body, running the palm down the planes of your belly and resting it just over the spot where the lower bit gives way to the apex of your thighs. Going any further—the thought tightens your throat and pinkens your cheeks the color of strawberry frosting. “There. It feels weird there.”

Taehyun smiles a snappy, spiced smile. He likes that. “Want me to make it feel better?”

Your thoughts feel replaced by something powdery and weightless. You give him a dumb nod.

“Say please.”

Something bratty crawls up your throat, but you want help, and he’s the one who will give it to you. He’d meant that: teaching you a lesson. Melted around the edges already, you say, “Please, help make it feel better.” Your voice wavers.

“There we go. That’s how good girls talk. That’s how you ask to get what you want.” He nudges your thighs apart with a knee and slots it between them, pressed right up against that coolness. Right up against that need. “Grind down on it.”

Neck aching at the angle, you say, “Grind?”

He brushes his clothed thigh right up against you. The friction is delicious—sweet and melty and just what you need. It shoots yellow sparks throughout you.

It feels so good. Your mouth waters in anticipation.

“Grind,” he says. It’s harder, this time. Not a sweet suggestion.

You bring yourself back down on it, gasping at the contact, and you do. You grind, tummy tightening at every brush of the fabric hard and delicious. Your chest constricts, one hand flying up to dig your fingers into his shoulder and the other fighting the hand he has still in your hair. It aches and hurts, and so does the friction as you grow more gaspy and frantic. 

It feels so, so good. You want more—you want him to touch you there and everywhere else. He smells just right all over you, nutty and musky like a gingerbread twist. “Taeh—hyun,” you mewl. It burns, but something slick eases the burn a little bit. Just enough for you to enjoy that burn.

“That’s it,” he coos. It’s not a sweet coo; it’s the type of sound one might make when you play right into their mean game. It’s mean. “Make yourself a mess on my thigh. I don’t even have to touch you. What would mommy and daddy think of you now, huh? What would they think if they saw their precious princess fucking herself on my thigh?”

No. That would be the end of you. You whine, thighs twitching. Something twists in your center, scary and foreboding, and still you chase it. None of your thoughts are solid enough to stop. Each time he flexes a muscled thigh or presses it harder into you, you shudder and curl your fingers into his shirt harder. 

“Don’t like that, huh?” he laughs. “Then you haven’t learned your lesson. You’re no better than me; I mean, look at you.”

You want to cry when he pins your hips back to the counter, stilling your wild bucking. Squeezing your eyes shut, you claw and reach for that wave, even as it recedes from you. “Why?” you say, voice thin. It’d been so yummy—the sweetness still rests on your tongue. Your heart thumps hard, longing for it.

“I said, look at yourself,” he growls, taking his hold on your hair to crank your head down.

Right where you’d been on his thigh, there’s a sticky, marshmallowy mess. Your mess. 

Taehyun releasing his grip on your hair is almost a relief, but he doesn’t even give you time to relish it. The walls of his house blur around you. All that you register in between the motions is his shoulder in your belly and your limbs dangling from you. You dig your hands into his back to balance yourself, but he’s got you.

He has you slung over his shoulder. He’s carrying you like you weigh nothing at all. That place between your thighs flutters anew. In all your life, you never worried too much about the plushness of your belly or your thighs. It is who you are; all mallow and soft around the edges and starkly sweet. But you did get nervous when somebody tried picking you up. Usually, you protest and giggle it off. Watching somebody strain to pick you up when they lift other girls like sacks of flour is just something that makes you feel a little strange.

But, Taehyun does not strain. He doesn’t huff; he carries you right down the hallway and into his room, and he even manhandles you down onto the bed with a bounce without so much as a sound. He is a solid pillar beneath you, and then he is a solid, muscled chest above you. With strong fingers, he pins your hands to the mattress above you. With the other, he leads your shirt up.

He’s so warm against your cold skin. His breath like waves from the oven over your mouth, he says, “You think you’re so much better than me because you have all this?” Curling his fingers around a necklace circling your throat, he tears it off with a clattering of a few snow-drop beads.

 You gasp, glaring right into his eyes. “What the hell?” you hiss, arching your chest to wiggle beneath him. Your necklace. Who does he think he is, breaking your stuff? That was one of your favorite necklaces, and now it lies all over his floor. Still, your center pounds and longs for the return of his touch. Everything about him just calls for more from you. You don’t know how you went so long without him, or how you made yourself forget just how drawn you are to his magnetism. Maybe he is just what your parents turn their nose up at, and you too, but that does not make him any less a powerful personality. 

He knows exactly who he is and what he wants, as solid as the gingerbread cookie. And you, plush and impressionable as whipped marshmallows, take to him just right. It’s something you once knew, but the sneered words of adults obscured that memory.

“Don’t whine,” he says. “I want to see your pretty neck without all that shit. That’s your problem: you’re spoiled.” He reaches down to mess with his pants.

His length springs free. Cheeks flushing, you take it in. You can’t look away, even as embarrassment crawls spindly legs over your skin at the interest you take in the sight. You’ve never seen anything like it—long and hot and weeping something thick and white from the slit at the pinkish tip. A pearl of it dribbles down, landing on your belly in a string where he holds it.

Taehyun collects that wetness and then urges more from the tip with a few drags down the length of it. Wrapping his fingers around it, he begins to slowly work his fist up and down it. It’s nothing short of impossible to tear your sights off it—it’s another thing that inexplicably fans the flames of something roaring in your center. “Do you want to touch it?” he says, watching your tongue dart out to wet your lips. 

The sight of him growing restless over his pumping fist is enough to get you nodding. 

“Fuck,” he says, sharp and under his breath. He lets his hand off it. “Go ahead. Touch it. I won’t tell anybody you did.”

When he frees your pinned wrists, you reach out a slow hand. You curl your fingers around it the way he had. Your fingers don’t even touch around jt. The weight and warmth of him in your palm makes your blood tingle. Looking up, you search for guidance in those intelligent, swirling eyes. His bangs hang over his eyes as he watches.

Placing his hand over yours, he drags it up and down his rigid length the way he had been doing a few beats ago. “Like that,” he says. “Just like that.”

You pump your closed fist up and down him, encouraged to squeeze harder and flick your wrist faster with each tight breath he lets slip. The skin of your palm gets stickier and stickier, the slick sounds sending your ears and core burning just the same. You like that it makes him feel good—that he’s making those noises just for you. 

He twitches under your fingers. “Feels just like I thought your pretty hands would…�� he says, stomach tight. “See—what happens when you give up that bratty fucking act? Shit… harder—give it to me harder, Frosty…” Shivering at the name, you oblige him. You reach your thumb up and collect more of that beaded liquid from the slit, and you work your arm harder. Faster. Your forearm begins to burn, but you don’t let it slow you. All you want is more of this; more of him. Finally, he lets sounds out from his chest freely. He grunts and hisses through his teeth, letting his head fall back. “Holy shit. I’m gonna—gonna ice your face, okay?” he says. “You said you liked the taste, huh? Wanna taste it again? Give me your tongue…”

Whatever that means, you push yourself up and situate your face in front of his length, your tongue out. Taehyun’s sounds tighten, and his hips begin to stutter and chase your hand. He picks his head back up to look down at you half-lidded—to watch. With only a few last runs of your palm down his length, skin so slick that your hand just slips and slides up him, he growls through gritted teeth. The weight of him in your working hand twitches once more, and from that weeping tip he shoots dancing ribbons of white. It lands on your tongue hot and sweet, melting out all spiced and snappy.

Snappy like gingerbread. Like gingerbread icing. Swallowing it down, you meet his gaze. He pants, chest rising and falling, but there’s something clear and knowing in his heavy eyes when you do. You think you know now, why he’d been so dazed as you made a show of licking that same sticky icing off your hands and said how good it tasted. 

When you release him from your palm, it glistens with his sweet essence. He softens in front of your eyes just the littlest bit.

Eyes just as hungry and still catching his breath, Taehyun says, “Open your mouth. I wanna see your tongue.”

Belly doing wicked twists, you do. You stick your tongue out for him, still laden with the headiness of his taste. He does taste good. 

“Swallowed it all down?” he says, eating the sight of you with your mouth dropped open up. “You really are so nasty. They all think you’re so sweet—you think you’ve got them all wrapped around your finger.” He pushes you back down to the bed with a palm. “Well, not me. I know that you’re just as filthy as you are spoiled. Somebody had to deal with you.”

Like always, snarky words swirl in your mouth. All it would take is letting them fall off your tongue. But you don’t—not with the feeling between your thighs, and not with the way your blood, frost turned to snowmelt, begs for him to fix it. Not when you know that all it will get you is more of Taehyun’s wrath. 

It’s not like what he says is true, or anything. That’s what you tell yourself anyway.

“Taehyun, please. I need it…” He takes a marshmallow thigh of yours, pressing it up so that it melds with your belly. Cool air reminds you once more of that strange wetness between them.

Dark, blown eyes catching the sight of it, his lips quirk into a scoff. “Need what?” he says, reaching a hand down. At the contact of his fingers, just as they had against his thigh, your hips jolt and an explosion like the breaking of sugar glass shoots down the muscles of your thighs. He scoops that stickiness up from its source, bringing the soft cream up to his mouth. Tongue darting out, he has a taste of you just as you had tasted him. “Shit—you taste good too, frosty. You’re so sweet, how’d you turn out like this? That’s okay. I’ll deal with you, and then you’ll be just as sweet as you taste.” That fat tip of him presses flush to the source of all your want. “I’ll straighten you out.”

You don’t know what that means, and you are absolutely sure that you don’t deserve it, but any sass is staunched with the utter sweetness of the stretch in your center. Taehyun presses his hips up into you, slowly and internalizing the dropping open of your mouth, the pinching of your brows into a worrying line, and the press of your palms to his broad chest. He takes it and metabolizes it down like cream cake or the plumpest fruits, and he gives you more. More, all the way up until there is no length of him left to give, and nowhere else for him to go.

You feel so, so full. No amount of twinkling jewels or new skirts hold a candle to this. You don’t know what it is, and you don’t know why Taehyun knows, but whatever. Who cares? Breathing out a shudder, you squirm beneath him to search for that dazzling feeling he’d made you feel earlier.

“Stay still,” he barks, steadying himself beside your head with a sturdy, powerful arm. When had he lost his sweater? You don’t know. You might drool over the definition and warm skin there if he didn’t pull the length of him out until just the tip of him threatens to pop out, and then drive right back in before you could. A gaspy breath falls from your mouth, devolving into mewls and whimpers when he does the same over and over and over again, quick with snapping hips and the smacking of his skin against the soft skin of your bottom. Your thigh quivers in his hold, his fingers digging into the fluff of your thigh as he holds you into it. 

Each and every time he slides up against something inside you that makes you feel different. Different from what you felt when you were on his thigh, and different from anything else you’ve felt in the entirety of your life. It’s deeper, right at the very bottom of your belly, sending your veins lazy and your hips twitchy. You want to chase it as much as you want to hide from its power, so all you do is stay in a hazy limbo of sharp gasps and long, drawn out mewls for more.

“No,” he says, his face right in yours. The smell of him, manly and so very sweet like oven-warmed gingerbread, settles over your bones and wiggles its way through your thoughts. It does something to your melted mind, planting a need to cling to him right in the center. Your hands perch all over him: the hair at the back of his head, his working waist, his biceps that flex and strain with his effort, and finally around him so that you can push your cheek to his chest and feel his heart racing there. “You’ll take exactly what I give, and thank me for it. You don’t get to ask for more; not with your mouth.”

“Why?” you say, whining. “I want it—so bad. Please? I’ll be so… so good…” Your voice bounces with each collision of your bodies, and your toes flex and curl at the twisting in your core. Nonetheless, you want more. Whatever this is—this syrupy, pure goodness—Taehyun has shown you something that you will never be whole without again. He has bloomed a flower right in the chest of you, something hungry that will want and want this, and you fear that he will be the only one able to satiate it. 

The thought of the smile he’ll wear, should you come crawling back to his doorstep just for this… 

Taehyun stops, pushing off you with a curled lip. “What will it take to get you to fucking listen?” he says. He pulls himself from you, leaving you to whine and long for that feeling once more. You want to complain and pull him back over you, but with the fire churning in his dark gaze and the sight of his length, covered in that same white, whipped stuff you’d left all over his thigh. 

You’d made a sticky, frosty, frothed mess all over him once again. Really, what would people think of you now? Your mom? Your dad? 

Manhandling you again, he flips you onto your hands and knees and shoves your face into the bed. Any yelp or gasp that tears from your chest is muffled into the sheets. Taking the swell of your hips, his fingers like bites against the powdery, soft skin there, his voice comes from behind you. “Won’t you just listen to me? If you’re gonna be mine, you’re gonna have to start learning how to hear no.” Curling your hair up and pulling it like a handle, he snaps your head back into another stinging, awful tug. It turns the arch of your back into something that you can imagine is a sight to be seen. If the burning where you feel his eyes raking down the curve of it has something to speak of it, that is. You squeeze your eyes shut as if that’ll help you any. “You don’t get everything you want. That’s not how this works.”

You don’t say anything. You have nothing good or sweet left to say.

“Say thank you, and I’ll give it to you good, okay?” he says, running a flattened hand down your spine. “That’s all I want to hear. Show me you can be good.”

The last thing you want to do is to thank him. That would mean admitting that you’ve lost, and that ruffles your preening feathers. But you want that goodness back, you want his hips snapping into you and that tight knot back in your belly. You’d do anything for it; even forget your ego.

Your mind is gone, anyway. Whatever your rational self would do, it doesn’t matter. There’s one thing that you want right now, and getting it is so easy. “Thank you, Taehyun. Thank you so much… I’m sorry I’ve been a brat, and I’m sorry about what I said to you. Please, just… help me. Please, I need you so bad.”

You? Sorry? It’s absurd, and yet, you entirely mean it. Maybe it’s your lazy brain talking, or maybe he really has won.

“See? So sweet when you act right,” he says. “Let me show you what happens when you do.”

You could cry real tears when he sets that same pace, his hands bracing on your hips to pull you deeper into each thrust and the front of your body bouncing against the sheets with each. Your cries grow hoarse and beyond needy, and your insides twist and turn even more dangerously.

You are on the brink of something divine. Something that will melt down so well, good on the tongue and as smooth as chocolate, but as sharp as the snapping of gingerbread.

And, snap, he has.

“Yes!” you cry, straining your shoulders as you reach behind you and curl your fingers around the place where he meets your skin. “S..So good! Right there—thank you, Taehyun!”

He doubles down on you. His length hits a spongy spot in your core, pounding up against the walls there and turning your insides against you. It’s almost too good. “There we go,” he says, voice shaking with a growl. The delivery of his thrusts grows sloppy. You think he feels just as good as you do. “That’s what—” Falling over you, he supports himself with each strong arm dug into the mattress beside your head, his solid front melded to your soft back. “That’s what I like to hear. Here you go—fuck, I’m gonna give you what good girls get, okay?”

You hope it’s more of that melty icing he shot from his length earlier. The knot in your belly tightens, just on the brink of a glittery, bright explosion. “Mhm!” you say, your voice cracking. You want it—you want it so bad. The intensity of it, turning over in your veins and rendering your thighs jelly, sings in your ears. It’s a frightening greatness, but you rage against the urge to drop your hips into the mattress and run from it. You need to finally taste what you’ve been chasing. “Taehyun! Right there—please, don’t stop!”

You were demanding more from him again, but Taehyun didn’t stop this time. Not when his growls and whines against your shoulder tell you enough about how he’s feeling. He tongues and nips at your shoulders, the only sounds echoing off the walls of his room, the hollow smack of his hips against your bottom, and the only smell of the sweet mingling of his gingerbread sharpness against your heady marshmallow. It’s good enough to eat.

Crying out with a frantic whine, the feeling deep in your belly changes once more, and you’re writhing and squirming against him. Your hips buck and chase and run, wild and just as explosively as the tightness shooting down your thighs and up through your lower back.

Everywhere. You feel it everywhere. It’s in the continued bouncing of your body, in each nudge of his tip to a sweet, spongecake spot deep inside you, in his breathless pants into your skin, and in the curling of his fingers into your hair when he releases a hip to do so, and in your pleads when he chases his own delicious release. Your throat tightens, and suddenly the sheets are all too warm around you, and you realize with blistering intensity that another one of those knots builds up in your belly. It’s quicker, short, and bright. You’ve barely even made it through the last, but still, it comes.

“Holy shit,” he growls, hips stuttering and then stilling. He reaches a hand down between your thighs and finds a very sweet button. The breath in your throat catches, and in nothing more than a blink of an eye, you crash again, and then your bodies are two twitching, elated things. He presses himself impossibly deeper into you before shooting that same hotness, sweet ropes of sugary icing right into you, and your fluttering insides hold him tight and eat it up. Your heart pounds in your chest, running amok in your ears and your neck, and you try to catch running breaths to no avail.

Occasionally grinding up into you, though there is hardly any space between your joined bodies to do so, Taehyun shoots more lazy spurts for a few long moments. His breaths slow against your skin, and yours do in your chest. Slowly, you recover as two entangled bodies, all clammy and melted like left in the oven for a bit too long.

Pressing hot, wet kisses to the back of your neck, and then down your spine when he pushes off you and pulls himself out, his tongue darting out against your skin for some, he says, “Taste so good… So sweet, even on your skin…” He brushes the wild tangles of hair from your face and adds, “I wonder if you’ve gone all sweet inside, too? You look like it…” The mess of you, your thick creaminess staining your thighs and his runny load pooling from your hole, is all over. It even makes the sheets beneath you dirty with dribbles of his release as it drips. “I told you I’d get you sweet.”

If that sluggish, sugary thing moving through your veins is sweetness taking over you from the inside, perhaps you have gone sweet. Or, perhaps you now have every reason to become his worst nightmare—just if it gets you this.

You’ll play sweet for now. The softer kisses he seasons your skin with are no less enthralling than the delightful goodness still ebbing away between your thighs. You think that, for the first time, you have lost. 

And, to your very own dismay, it tastes so very sweet. 

... back to the masterlist ⌇ back to strawberryland

✎୭ ashlynn's note BRAT TAMER TAEHUN, amirite?

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[prettyboykatsuki]

I can just imagine fujo neet reader practicing different sex position with rin to make sure she gets the proportions right.

✮ tags ; fem!reader, sexual tension, rin's pov, RIN IS KIND OF MEAN TO HER BUT HE WANTS HER SO BAD FDKJJS, reader is a fujoshi and bl mangaka, pre-relationship, they work together, part of a ficverse i haven't written yet Sorry, ONE JOKE ABOUT RIN WANTING TO OFF HIMSELF, SUPER SUGGESTIVE LOL 18+

✮ wc ; 3.5k (WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!)

✮ a/n ; i had to do this for my sanity. i promise i will write them a proper fic with them i promise.

You never text Rin.

Not really. Not first at least. It's a new... friendship. Kind of. Sort of. Most of your communication thus far has been through meetings and random in-person chance encounters. Outside of that, Rin will call you since it's faster. If you do "text", it's mostly through twitter DM's.

There's a discord server your fans run, and you pop in there often enough. He's had the invitation extended but declined unilaterally, since he'd rather not see himself fucking Isagi anymore than he already has in his short, miserable career.

It surprised him this morning, seeing your message flash across the top of his screen. Asking, specifically, for him to come over and help you with something related to the new manga you were writing. He had it in his right mind to decline, but after learning it wasn't a doujin for him, he semi-reluctantly agreed.

Rin doesn't know when exactly your relationship to him grew this...comfortable. Inviting him over to your house, begging him for favors, not wincing every time he talks to you. Rin isn't an extrovert but compared to you he's a social butterfly. And your aversion to people in general, Rin thought, would prevent you from doing anything more than squeak at him forever just like you did when he met you.

(Though nothing in his life has been normal since your arrival in it. He's not sure why you would remain unchanged when he certainly hasn't.)

He doesn't know what to feel when you ask him for a favor, and he doesn't know what force of nature compels him to go. If it's morbid curiosity or annoyance or something else even worse.

It was compelling enough to take the train all the way out to Machida - an hour long trip from his own place. His manager hounded him to take you something, so he has a bag of ginseng energy drinks and snacks with him as a gift. He took the bus with his mask on, and then walked all the way to your building.

Your apartment is tucked somewhere classically suburban - attached at the far end of a residential street and behind concrete support beams for a highway just overhead. Cherry blossom trees and other shades of white flowers grow around it in thick patches, making the entrance hard to find. Rin would've had trouble if you didn’t give him details on exactly where to go.

It's an older building, stone walls worn and grass-stained from age. At the gate are groups of old people talking amongst each other as they sort through recycling and trash. All visor hats and sunspots, they fawn over Rin for a long while before he goes in and interrogates him with questions. None of them know him, which is relieving. It quickly graduates to them asking who he's there to visit, if he has a girlfriend or not.

All of them ooh and aah when he mentions your name, say something about being relieved she's found a man so handsome and that Rin should marry you because even though you're a little strange you're a good girl. Rin does not have the time nor energy to correct them - only nods and bows his head and leaves.

On the elevator ride up to your floor, he can't help but think repeatedly that this isn't the kind of place he'd expect you to live. He thought it'd be out in the middle of nowhere, maybe in a damp and broken building.

But this is a nice place with nice people, vibrant and colorful. Totally opposite from what he considers your personality.

Suitable or not, Rin manages to make it to your floor without a hitch.

He finds you, then, as he'd expect. Down a long hall, behind an unassuming white door. When you open it, you're a mess. Your hair completely unkempt, face greasy, a wild look in your eyes and complete surprise in your expression as if you didn't invite him over. You do, however, manage to invite him in without stuttering or stumbling over your words foolishly like you did the first time you spoke to him.

Another surprise is how... clean your living room is. It's lived in but he was expecting more mess in there. Your bedroom is in a similar state, undoubtedly messy but not terrible. Your NEET tendencies finally end up showing when you drag Rin into your office where you draw your manga.

It's not dirty but it's cluttered. There's a pull out sofa on one wall, with a blanket and pillow littered about and pages upon pages of paper sheets with scrapped panels about the floor. One wall has a bunch of post-its with several notes in both English and Japanese, and another has tacked up pieces of art. Both yours and other peoples. He chooses to ignore the ones of him and Isagi, The walls themselves are cream colored and uninteresting and the wood floors are slippery. At the far end of the room is a spread of desks, a PC set-up and a professional looking tablet among various art supplies in stacked boxes.

It's this room you bring Rin into without explaining yourself at all, mumbling and muttering as you give him a place to sit and go back to your work for fifteen silent minutes.

When you're finally finished doing whatever the fuck you were doing, you turn yourself back towards Rin. Bluelight glasses fall down the bridge of your nose as you swivel around in your chair - your sweatpants half pulled up your leg with the other pulled down. You're wearing fuzzy socks with Naruto characters on them.

You stare at him, pulling your glasses off and rubbing your eyes - dark circles under them.

"Uhm," Your voice is clipped and thick with exhaustion. "You came."

Rin deadpans. "You asked me to come."

"I thought you'd say no."

He did too. He doesn't respond back. You chew your lips, already anxious and Rin resists the urge to say something about it.

"Okay. Uhm. Please don't get mad," You start with and then explain, looking away. Your hands pull your sleeves over your palms. "So. Like. For my new series, I'm finally getting to the sex scene but I've never drawn characters with an intense height difference like this. And I need... new reference photos.... and uhm," You rub your feet together on your chair where you sit "Well our height differences and size is the exact one my characters have. So."

Rin stares at you. "So?"

"SoIwaswonderingifyou'dtakereferenceimagesforsexpositionswithme,"

Rin feels his jaw lock. "Slower."

You frown and look away, tucking your chin with embarrassment. "I was uhm, like, wondering if you'd take... take the uhm, sex position reference photos with me, please."

"What?"

You clasp your hands together, immediately prostrating yourself by throwing yourself down the ground. He flinches back, wondering if you're gonna hold onto his leg next.

"Please, please help me. You're the exact height of my seme and you uhm have similar builds and he's doing the most of the legwork. The poses are a little bit hard but I want them to look good or Minami-san will eat me and I'm scared of her, please help me."

"Who is Minami-san?"

You sniffle, on the verge of tears just thinking about it. "My editor. She used to be my fan. She's scary. Please, Rin-kun, please."

"What the hell did you do before?"

You frown at him, big wet puppy-dog eyes.

"It was hard. Sometimes I'd pose with my big stuffed animals and make up the proportions. Oh and usually watched porn and stuff. Sometimes I'd get lucky with stockphotos. But I don’t get the angle exactly right unless I have good references."

Rin wonders if anything you have ever said has processed in your mind before saying it. He doubts it for some reason.

"So," Rin pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes the image of you humping your stuffed animals out of his head. "You're asking me to.. pose with you?"

You nod and chew your lip. "Please, I promise I'd never ask you for this if I wasn't s-scared of Minami-san! Please?"

"I should make you pay me for this," He sneers. You flinch back and close your eyes.

"I'm sorry." You whine wetly, but then open your eyes again anyway. "Please help me."

Rin doesn't know why he helps you. Maybe you're just too pathetic for him to ignore. Maybe he's a masochist. Maybe inhaling the same air as Bachira last week turned him stupid.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Fine."

__

If Rin didn't believe you before when you told him you make your own references, he'd definitely believe you after you take him to your bedroom.

Your bed is in the center of your room, instead of being pushed against a wall. Large stuffed animals laid in one corner. On both sides of the room, are makeshift digital camera stands and remote-controlled lighting among another remote for said cameras. There's about 4-6 angles from what you explained to Rin, and a few adjustable lights. It's an elaborate set-up and takes the kind of dedication Rin can only imagine a hardcore fujoshi freak like yourself thinking up.

All of this to mostly draw porn of him and his rival. He tries not to think about it too hard because he thinks it's going to give him an aneurysm. Rin sits at the edge of your bed as you adjust each of the cameras individually.

"What do you do if it's not on a bed?"

You flinch like you aren't expecting him to talk. "Uhm. I either simulate as best I can o-or move my things and bed around. It's why I moved my desk to my office."

Rin stares at you. "You take it seriously."

You nod meekly. "Producing high-quality doujin is what made me money, so I have to work hard. Being poor is tough."

If Rin didn't find you so unbearable he might find that awe-inspiring in his own fucked up way.

"Okay. Everything is set-up. Now for the poses," You say, suddenly sparking back to life. Rin sits and watches. "They're having sex on a public beach so the bed and the way the seme sort of sinks into the sand will be good... I think the bridge one is the one we'll do first."

"The bridge?"

You nod, talking in short sentences. But Rin can tell this is where you're comfortable, doing things for this... hobby. Your usual constant embarrassment and shame seem to disappear when it comes to it. It's fascinating like a car crash. "Uhm. You have to stand on your knees and then, I'll lay on my back and arch my back up to meet your... y'know. It'll emphasize the height difference."

Rin stares at you agape. You take the remote control for your cameras in your hands and look at him expectantly.

Rin doesn't know whats wrong with him. Why the hell did he agree to this?

"Do you want me to take my jacket off?"

You nod, surprised. He shrugs the thing off of his shoulders and tosses it onto the floor.

Rin, per your instruction, gets into the position in the middle of the bed. He stands on his knees waiting for you. You join him a minute after, squinting at your phone screen beforehand. He isn't sure what he's expecting as a result of your ask, but he sure is shocked when he finds you placing your feet flat on the bed next to his knees and pushing yourself up for your crotch to meet his.

He knows that’s what you said but your shamelessness proves to be… shocking.

He tries not to let it show. His jaw ticks. His face feels warm but his expression remains neutral all the same. You shift and adjust and don't seem concerned at all - like it doesn't occur to you that this is in any way socially unacceptable. Or it's unfathomable Rin would take advantage of this. That this is weird, or could be interpreted in less than innocent ways. Rin knows you're so out of touch that it probably isn't. That this is, to you, just considered a favor which is partially why he even agrees.

But you're mid-brushing up against his bulge. The angle of your back forms a triangle, your arms laid flat at your sides as you squirm and push. And your expression shifts, deep in thought.

"Uhm, like, would you mind p-putting your hands on my hips? Kind of squeezing tight like it's," You flush this time, but Rin harbors doubt it's about him. "Like it feels good I guess? Like hard, and stuff so you can see the indent."

He's so astonished, he does it on autopilot. Neutral and even. He lets his hands grab your hips and holds tight just as you ask. Your long, loose sweatshirt falls down revealing the soft skin of your tummy. He can see the tops of your underwear, the thin cotton kind that come in 6-packs with a single bow in the middle in a grey color.

You don't seem to care about it. Rin shouldn't either, but his body does seem to care. His brain does. Something is happening in his gut. Anger maybe. Some cheap, frustrated desire to make fun of you.

Instead the words he's been wanting to ask since you proposed this tumble out of his mouth. He stares at you.

"Is this the first time someone's done this with you?"

You jump with a start, but remain in position. You take the pictures first, six clicks in a row before answering.

"H-huh? Why-why are you asking that?"

He doesn't know. Really. And he knows how it sounds. Rin doesn't say anything and you fold under the immense pressure of his gaze.

"S-stop staring," You say, and take a few more pictures, lowering your back just a little but still staying up right. "And no. No one tall enough or with the right physique."

There is another gnawing question, another burning curiosity. He makes his voice as even and unaffected and apathetic as he can. As mean as possible.

"Have you ever even had sex?"

Your eyes blow wide, but you seem to fall for the persona of apathy, curious boredom and cruelty. Worse, you seem a little used to it. You squirm this time and Rin holds you firmly in place. Your voice is small.

"Uhm, like, once I guess. I-it was with a guy, I didn't really date him but he seemed interested in me and I didn't think I'd ever have the opportunity again s-so I did it and I didn't uhm, it wasn't very good or anything." You reply, and he can feel your toes curl in your socks next to him and his brain feels like it'll melt from out of his ears. "Sorry, I don't-don't think you care about that, just uhm, felt like I should explain."

"Yeah," Rin feels dizzy. "Do you need another pose?"

You blink and then nod. "Yeah! Another one kind of like this, but with the legs like uhm, on your chest and my feet closer to your head. With you leaned back a little. Does that make sense? The butterfly position, I think."

Rin swallows something at the back of throat.

He nods, pulling you into position so easily he can heard you gasp. Your legs straighten against his clothed chest, and your sweatshirt falls far enough to let him see your bra. A fabric sports kind, a little worn - just the logo visible. He doesn't say anything about it, your feet resting near his neck. You make a little soft noise.

"This feels a little difficult to be in. Poor uke. Sorry if this one is kind of weird, but can you put your hands, I dunno, on my ass, I guess? I know that's probably too much but I think it'll be a good detail, so please? I'll pay you"

Rin stares at you, teeth gritting so hard he feels the back of his skull throb. "Fine."

Rin, per your request, puts his hands on your ass. It's easy enough, and he doesn't hold too tight. But it's too intimate, too stupidly fucking intimate, and he can feel you. You're hardly paying attention, caught up in your own head with whatever else. Rin is paying too much attention. Like how your sweatpants aren't thick enough to cover the outline of your frumpy cotton panties and how your soft all over. He's going to kill someone. Maybe himself.

Six more clicks and a little noise of satisfaction.

"Okay!!! I think these will turn out so great, and I can use them later too. Just one more. I have a lot of refs for this position, but uhm - I want to see if I can get the proportions correct, so if you'd please lay down," You tell him with such genuine excitement he can't find it in himself to say anything horribly cruel. "I'll be doing most of the work this time. I just-just need to see how uke will compare..."

You mutter something to yourself as Rin lets you down and lays himself down on your bed. You sit next to him for a long while, squinting at your phone. Rin stares at you as you. Wonders if he's gone completely insane, and tries to ignore the doom of the impending hard-on cozying itself in his pants.

Unceremoniously, you find yourself perching over Rin's lap. Not bothering to give him any pretense, it's the one thing about today that's really getting him.

"Oh, I need my hands for this," You give him the remote and stare down at him wide-eyed, over his lap. This has to be hell. "Could you take the photos this time?"

He closes his eyes and counts to ten and wonders if a concussion has made him insane. "Hm."

You brighten and Rin feels his chest go tight. "Thanks!"

Rin just nods, his mouth drying as you start to move and pose. A picture with your hands next to his head, and anothe r where you're sat up - your hands at your sides. Rin obediently takes pictures when you ask, his entire body tensing every single time you move.

"Okay, last one," You say. This time, you put your hands on his chest. Just the one. You must have something specific in your head that you're wanting to recreate. You bend down close, looking down at him as you do - your other hand clenched.

Rin looks up at you. He should not be thinking about you in any way. He's looking at the way your lips curve and plump and at your bare skin and your dark circles and your stupid licensed anime hoodie. He just gapes at you in confusion and mystique. He's around so many weirdos. It's not like there's anything special about you. You’re just another freak who makes porn of him. Plenty of people do that.

A loser and an idiot with no sense of self-preservation. There's nothing special about this, but Rin hasn’t been able to convince himself of that.

You stare down at him.

"Take a picture?"

Rin looks at you. Studies your expression. You seem like you're thinking. It's the only oppurtunity he has to pry.

"Did you want to ask something?" He says first. “You’re not hard to read.”

You startle, then nod. Your hand is on his chest. It's warm, and smaller than his.

"Oh, I-I guess I was wondering about what you asked me earlier. And uhm, like, I don't know. If you ever did anything. Your relationships aren't in the media and fans speculate but," You fall flat on your words. "I guess I was just curious."

Rin hates this question. It's why he never answers it. Why he hates being called a hearthrob, always too shallow and too personal for his taste.

"Nothing long term or serious. It was most for physical relief." Rin says, almost on autopilot. “Not that’d you know what that’s like.”

Your eyes widen. Rin feels his hands twitch, watching your expression finally grown conscious of him. Lust spreads through you like honey and Rin can see it in how you look. You squirm in his lap. He's not usually so aggressive, not usually one to care about sex in any important way. Not one to brag about something so unbelievably inane and trivial.

But it's bothering him, just how much he's fighting the urge to pin you down and fuck you. You of all people. It's not like him. Rough sex is whatever, but it's bothering him how little any of it seems to register in your head anymore like it once did. You could barely breathe the first time you met.

He doesn't know why he cares that you don’t anymore. He doesn’t give a shit about anything related to you

But the thought nothing seems to bother you anymore bothers him.

"Oh... I see. That's uhm, interesting. I b-bet you have a lot more experience than me. Maybe it'd be a good thing to keep you around for that kind of refernce too," You joke.

Rin lets his hand slip up to your hips without asking, not bothering to hide it anymore. His head feels with nothing but stupid useless thoughts. Thoughts of fucking you in your old, worn clothes and stained shirts and comfortable cotton underwear. Thoughts of your hands clutching at his shoulder all weepy with desire and need and stupidity - your big wide eyes bleary and sensitive. It's cruel how relentlessly he thinks about taking advantage of all your differences. Of how unathletic and awkward and unused to everything you are.

It's horrible just how much he's staving off his own arousal about it. Maybe you're strange habits are infecting him, making him strange too strange. All Rin can think about uselessly is how easily he could put you in your place. Fix you in some strange way. You’d be his to fix and you’d cry and weep and want to run away. Rin wouldn’t let you, keep you pinned and caged like an animal.

His throat feels tight. What is fucking wrong with him today?

Is he that pent up? He stares at you, and gets some passing feeling that there is more to it than that. He closes his eyes.

"Whatever," He says, letting go. You don't seem to notice it again, how thick his voice is getting "Are you almost done?"

You nod and smile. "Yes. Thank you."

Rin feels his heart tug and seethes. “You're welcome."

[erinwantstowrite]

What do you think about Jason and Tim relationship? I know that fans are split between hatred for each other or the best brothers. But what do you think?

i fully believe that the writers dropped the ball on what to do with them.

i disagree with what they did with Jason coming back- they didn't have any direction for his character besides that they wanted a huge dramatic twist and Jason has stagnated because of it. him coming back as pretty much nothing like himself but then having zero good writing to convince me of his tragedy?? it's why a lot of people just ignore canon. if they were gonna bring him back, they should have gone in another direction.

if i HAD to keep jason as an anti hero, i would have written him to have a compulsion to protect Robin. a deep rooted fear where he projects his own time, experience, and feelings as Robin onto Tim (and even Stephanie!!) because of the damage that was done to him mentally. jason had long lasting brain damage. he was in a coma for months after he was suddenly revived, he was catatonic when Talia was taking care of him. the Lazarus pit might have healed that, but there would still be residual affects. Jason would feel younger than he is, he'd feel like a stranger in his own body. add on to that with severe cpstd, and you have a recipe for a kid (he was what, 18? 19? physically? when he got to Gotham?) who has a warped perception of his life and relationships. he would have memories that were forgotten to him, not just in his recovery stage but in the time before he died. he would have the feelings of a kid who wanted his dad to save him, who was angry at his mom for hurting him, who now has to struggle with why he ever came back at all. i'm sure he would be angry at everyone. he'd be confused and hurt and he wouldn't have a means to understanding his own feelings. but at his heart, jason was always a good kid, and he protected people, especially people who couldn't protect themselves

it makes no sense that jason came back wanting to hurt robin

so yeah, i'd have written him to be angry and volatile like a teen lashing out at a safe parent to be angry with, but when Tim or Steph were there, he'd dial it back immediately. at first it would be about not wanting to scare them, wanting to keep them safe as a way to help the kid that did die in that costume, somehow and someway. but eventually it would be about Jason seeing them, seeing how capable they are, and feeling protective over them, not just Robin.

but that isn't what happened, because the writers couldn't care less about how trauma actually effects people. they had him attack tim and become basically a sociopath and it felt like a cheap "gotcha!" twist that no one asked for

that being said, their canon relationship isn't terrible. in the beginning they didn't get along at all, obviously. but now, they have a respect for each other. they act like siblings. Tim has said multiple times that he doesn't hate Jason nor holds a grudge. Jason said that he should, but Tim didn't care. sometimes when I read them, I think about how well they might have gotten along if Jason never died. because let's be real, Tim was always headed for the Batfam with or without Jason's death. that's why fics where he's adopted earlier and Jason doesn't die are pretty popular. though in my opinion, they often overshadow that Dick and Tim are also brothers

i think they have a complicated history and relationship but they are siblings. they aren't texting each other everything (Dick and Tim, i fear) or having emotional conversations more than once every seven months but they'll play video games with each other, drop by unannounced to the other's house to eat their food and complain about something, and they work together well. they have a lot in common and they're both previously only children who became second children and eventually middle children. they both experienced neglect though it was very different versions.

in one universe where Tim had died, Jason mourned him. i think that says a lot about how they care about each other

if only the writers would let it STAY that way and not have Jason regress over and over just because they're terrified of character development

[alphajocklover]

AirBoyfriendNBoyfriend

**based off an ask I accidentally deleted, but had already written a story for. I don't remember the exact words, but I'll do my best to paraphrase. Was written with the help of my friend, editor and beta reader, @innermostthoughtsartappreciation **

'My 2 straight friends and I are going on vacation together. We went to our AirBnB but things have been weird since we got here. One of my friends seems more muscular than usual? He was already pretty tall but not he's really built. And last night I swear I heard my friends talking about sex in the other room or something? And this morning I woke up with a ring on my finger? Whats happening?'

You say this all started because you and your two friends went to an Airbnb? And you woke up with a ring on your finger?

In this case, what's happening isn’t some sort of elaborate conspiracy conducted by a shadowy cabal, nor is it some nefarious scheme by one of your friends/enemies to transform you to their liking, nor is it anything else of that sort. What happened here is very simple: you guys used the wrong AirBnB.

No doubt you all know that I’ve talked about EB Jewelry before. You know the jewelry company that transforms people using their products. They’re one of, if not, the biggest name in the transformation business. Still, there are plenty of other companies out there that use transformation devices and items. Most are much smaller than EB Jewelry and try to fly under the radar when it comes to being able to transform people, but they are still out there. Including the very AirBnB that you and your friends signed up for. Air-Boyfriend-and-Boyfriend. Usually only referred to as simply AirBFnBF by those who use it, they’re often mistaken for AirBnB. You probably think they should be sued for copyright infringement, but you are entirely wrong. It is shockingly near impossible to sue a company that uses magic, and not as shockingly completely not worth the hassle and complications it would cause. For a $70 billion company like the real AirBnB to sue.

Despite their similar-sounding names and acronyms, the two companies do wildly different things and cater to a rather starkly different clientele. Airbnb lets you rent different houses for short periods and market themselves for all people to use, while AirBFnBF lets you rent out different relationships for however you wish to be in them, and usually exclusively caters their services to gay men.

Here's how it works. Just like with Airbnb, you go into the app or on their website and you choose the place you want to stay at during the duration of your trip from the list of vacant places. Unlike AirBnB however, you also get to choose the people you want to become during your trip. You can customize whoever each party member becomes, and your relationship to and with each other. It’s a way for groups of people, though usually a couple, to try out different fantasies and sexual scenarios together.

What I believe must have happened was that one of your friends earnestly mistook the AirBFnBF app for the AirBnB app, and skipped the relationship settings page entirely because he didn’t understand what it was for what it was supposed to mean. Therefore, if he did do that, the app would have gone to a random fixed preset, which there aren’t a lot of for a group of three men.

I have a friend who works for AirBFnBF, and they told me you guys have probably been randomly assigned their most popular thresome preset: A Newlywed Throuple: consisting of a Hunk, a Muscle Daddy, and a Twunk. I know it sounds strangely specific, but you’d be surprised by just how many people love to use this one Throuple in particular.

You’re going to be in for a lot of surprises during these next two weeks. Including a new body, new memories, and a ludicrous amount of hot & steamy sex with your two new husbands. None of you will remember your true- selves until the two-week vacation rental is over. So until then, enjoy yourself!

That's what you’re supposed to do on a honeymoon after all. Your friends will probably be very confused when these two weeks are over. However, on the off chance they or you all enjoy being big gay hunks and having tons of hot & steamy sex with you or together, there is a permanent settlement option you can invoke. It cost a small fortune, but with how happy, hot, and horny the three of you are all acting together now, I'd bet anything you guys will make your money back in no time

[jedimaesteryoda]

Every once in a while on Twitter (not X, Elon can go screw himself), someone circulates a complaint about A Song of Ice and Fire that is basically some version of "GRRM's series is nihilistic where everyone is gray, there are no heroes and villains, or heroes die and villains win compared to Tolkien's magnum opus where there are clear heroes and villains with the heroes being upright and good always wins."

It's written by people who either never read nor understood the series nor understands the author.

Firstly, Martin himself is a fan of Tolkien stating "I revere Lord of the Rings, I reread it every few years, it had an enormous effect on me as a kid," and is such a huge fan of Tolkien he complains of "Tolkien imitators" who "cheapened it. The audience were being sold degraded goods. I thought: 'This is not how it should be done.' "

Tolkien was a clear inspiration for Martin's magnum opus given in the same interview he stated "I wanted to combine the wonder and image of Tolkien fantasy with the gloom of historical fiction." You can even find nods to Tolkien throughout the series from names like "Oakenshield" to a dwarven heir to a mighty mountain fastness filled with gold. Underneath the gloom on the surface, there is a layer of Tolkien-esque romanticism.

ASOIAF isn't nihilistic. No one would call characters like war criminal and murderer-rapists like Gregor Clegane, Ramsay Bolton and Euron Greyjoy or the vivisectionist and torturer Qyburn morally grey. There are heroes like Brienne of Tarth who risked her life in a hopeless fight to save an inn full of orphans, Sam who stayed with Gilly and her babe beyond the Wall in a forest filled with wights and Dunk who defended a puppeteer from a prince. Then, there is Daenerys whose experience as a domestic abuse victim and child bride lead her to put her plan to take back the Iron Throne on hold to liberate slaves.

My own heroes are the dreamers, those men and women who tried to make the world a better place than when they found it, whether in small ways or great ones. Some succeeded, some failed, most had mixed results… but it is the effort that’s heroic, as I see it. Win or lose, I admire those who fight the good fight. -George R.R. Martin

These characters go out of their way to help others and live up to their ideals in a world they know won't reward them for it. That's what helps to make their actions truly heroic. In the end, it's their striving that sets them apart.

The ones who are villains don't seem to win in the end. Tywin was killed by his own abused son on the privy over his mistreatment of a peasant girl, and his legacy is already crumbling. Jaime lost his sword hand and is becoming increasingly disillusioned with his house, slowly realizing that they're not the good guys. The Boltons are facing a rebellion and their new bannermen don't want Ramsay as their liege lord. More Freys have been killed as a result of the Red Wedding than fighting for Robb, and they're being overextended. Not to mention, one of their victims has come back from the dead to enact vengeance on their house. House Greyjoy is destined to fall to ruin as the Greyjoys suffer and die in their fruitless pursuits for crowns.

It's also a superficial reading of Tolkien. Tolkien has moments in his series where heroes fail like Isildur, the guy who slew Sauron, failing to do the one thing he needed to do to end the threat for all time by keeping the One Ring, and Frodo, the purported hero of the series, doing the same thing at the end. Thorin Oakenshield refused to provide money to the people of Lake-town over the destruction of their city at Smaug's hands as a result of his party's actions. There's also plenty of stories of heroes failing in The Silmarillion like Turin.

Both are great series in their own right, and if you don't like Martin's series, that's okay, no series is for everyone. But don't mischaracterize it and pit it against a dumbed down, mischaracterized version of Tolkien's work.

[kazutora-kurokawa]

Hello! how are you? im here again heheh well, i recently had a thought✨ i've seen so many post about Mickey and Smiley being the "worst boyfriend(s)", but on those post i haven't seen a Reader who ends the relationship in a "Mature way". Like: "I know we both are young, but i can't be with someone who is not serious in a relatioship. You're not romantic, nor make details for the two of us, not even hang out with me, you prefer to hang out with you gang friends... I guess you're not ready for a relationshi, it doesn't matter what i do, you don colaborate with me" and then, break up :) how would the react to that situation? would they be mad? they'll change? or regret all the things they did? (you could add any other character you want beside mickey and Smiley) Thnks you so much <3 and sorry for my lowprice enlish

How They React When You Break Up With Them For Being Immature

Characters: Mikey, Nahoya, Takemichi

♡ SFW, angst, gn reader, break ups, crying, cursing, possessiveness ♡

note: thanks for requesting 💗 I haven't written anything that wasn't school related in a while and college is kicking my brain's ass, so excuse me if I'm a little rusty lol

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Mikey

💙 Unbothered at first because he thinks you're overreacting

💙 Goes to Draken for advice and freaks out when he realizes that he's been essentially ignoring your existence

"Why didn't you tell me sooner Ken-Chin?!"

"Why should I have to tell you what you're doing, dumbass!"

💙 He tries to make up for it by being more present and carving out time for you (he shows up at your house in the wee hours of the morning until you let him in and forgive him)

Nahoya

🧡 Break up? That's not in his vocabulary babes

"Fuck you mean break up? You stuck with me." 😁

🧡 He's not letting you out of his life, so he'll get his shit together real quick

🧡 Pretends you never tried to break up with him, in his mind it never happened and he'll get embarrassed if you mention it in front of other people

Takemichi

☘️ In fucking tears, literally on the ground begging for forgiveness

"Y/n please, I'm so so so sorry baby. Don't leave, I'll change, I'll leave the gang if that's what you want!"

☘️ Obviously that's not what you want, you just want some time alone with him and you let him know that

☘️ He starts ditching gang meetings to take you out on dates more often, Mikey doesn't seem to mind, as long as Takemichi brings him some snacks back

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Taglist

@arlerts-angel @i-literally-cant-with-this @trevengersprincess @giugiette @katkusuo @happy-trenchcoated-impala @drunkcheesecake @darkstarlight82 @reiners-milkbiddies @manji-hoe @southside-otaku @xxchthonicreaturexx @evergreen-endo @hanmaslilslut @dystop4in14nd @mysouleaten @mdsbabygirl

[abigmessofablog]

I'm sure I'm probably not the first person to note this but the reason so many works derivative of The Hobbit and The Lord of The Rings fails to capture the magic of those works is the lack of the hobbityness

Tolkien was, obviously, entirely aware of he common fantasy and fairytale tropes he was playing off of and they're present in his work (placing the proper king on the throne, elves and dwarves, main character who's hesitant to start his heros journey, dragons, ext) but if need be, these elements will be sidelined to emphasize the Hobbitish philosophy about the importance of comfort and good food and so on and so forth. (Thorin's death speech, Frodo's "I can't recall the taste of food, nor the touch of grass" ext)

Warning; super long, barely readable meta rant written at 2AM below

I've seen people say in any other story, Aragorn would be the main character of LOTR and I can agree with that but I'd argue you can kinda say the same thing about Thorin. Aragorn has his whole "rightful king" plot not dissimilar to how Thorin has his "reclaim the homeland, fight the dragon" plot. In the movies our emotional involvement in Aragorn and Thorin gets beefed up a little as they get some more brooding to the both of them. Aragorn gets his angst over his ancestry, Thorin is taken more seriously (ie: his updated, much more dramatic introduction giving him an air of mystery vs his book introduction, movie Balin's speech about his loyalty to Thorin, the treatment of the whole "gold sickness" thing, Thorin's speeches being taken seriously rather than being lovingly made fun of by the narration, ext) You can easily see a version of these stories where these two kings are the main characters of the story but they aren't! but neither of these characters are our main characters. Frodo and Bilbo are, respectively. And Frodo and Bilbo are simple hobbits with simple likes and the desire to live their simple shire life before getting dragged into adventure by the narrative.

I do genuinely like that in the Hobbit movies Bilbo gets to decide to go on the adventure by himself instead of getting unceremoniously shoved out of the house by Gandalf. It gives him more agency and we get the fun adventure that is supposed to take Bilbo out of his shell. Thats the message most people took from the story (ie "the world is not in your books..." I love this message/interpretation as much as anyone to be clear. I'm very guilty of loving my "Bilbo stays in Erebor" fanworks) but it is worth noting that Bilbo returns back to the Shire after his adventure and he gets the big speech about how more people should value the simple things in life before Thorin dies. Bilbo positions himself as sort of an unconventional hero by modern standards. Bilbo gets out of his situations more often than not through his wit and cleverly talking his way out of it rather than any displays of strength. He talks his way around Smaug, he cheats at his game of riddles with Gollum, he stalls the trolls. Bilbo wasn't even awake for the big climatic battle that gets turned into a climax for one of the movies. Bilbo, while getting braver more capable and more accepting of the situation, is still a hobbit! He wants his home and hearth and if he is dragged on an adventure, he will very loudly let you know about it. Frodo is similar in the sense that his strength doesn't come from any physical strength but from his ability to shoulder the horrors™ and then accept help from the people around him (mainly Sam) because he shouldn't have to shoulder the horrors™ alone. Again, the entire time Frodo is going on his adventure he's thinking about how much he'd rather be home. Sam sort of acts like this beacon of what the home represents and he’s the only thing keeping him emotionally stable and tries to comfort him through keeping him tethered to those memories of home. There’s the obvious scenes where Sam straight up tells Frodo to imagine home but there’s also just things like Sam cooking and insisting on making sure Frodo is fed (please note that sharing food is basically the universal signal for closeness, domesticity and the idea of a family unit. Think Norman Rockwell) or them turning their traumatic events into stories that they (again mostly Sam) expect to tell to their family and friends in a very domestic setting and then have those stories be passed down in the “Samwise the brave”, “Frodo wouldn’t have made it far without Sam” scene

You can also use this theme to sort of track the change in tone between the two stories. Bilbo's craving for the simple comforts of a warm meal, his bookshelves and a comfortable are played for jokes a few times, it's ultimately validated by the narrative. Frodo's drive to get back home is ultimately very melancholic and downright heartwrenching and when he can finally go home, it's not the same. In Bilbos case this change is sort of implied through the way Bilbo is treated very differently and treated like the neighborhood crazy guy by his peers post-adventure and this is played for laughs mostly but with Frodo it's outright stated and it is played completely straight. He's been so traumatized, so changed by his journey that he's simply not the same person he was when he left and he struggles to enjoy the aspects of the home that were previously used as an attempt to comfort him. Hence, “the Shire has been saved, but not for me." And he ends up leaving the Shire for good. As much as we know Tolkien hated the war allegory, it does bring to mind a soldier coming back home with severe trauma.

I feel like so much of this is lost in works that try to emulate LOTR and The Hobbit because of the simple fact that action sells much better. I mean, that's why the third hobbit movie is called "The Battle of The Five Armies" isn't it? There's also the want for grimmer, darker stories, since so many people view those as more "realistic" Maybe it's just the result of more cynical creators and audiences who want to watch more of the killing the dragon and cool battles with the big armies and less of the writing about trees and the value of home. I dunno I'm tired

[thesirencult]

PICK A CARD : FIRST NIGHT WITH YOUR FUTURE SPOUSE

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Disclaimer : Α tarot reading should never be used in place of professional counselling. Your reading cannot offer legal, medical, business, or financial advice nor does any portion of your reading herein purport to. You should not rely on a tarot reading to make any decision that would affect your legal, financial, or medical condition. If your inquiry involves the law, finance, or medicine, then you should seek the advice of a licensed or qualified legal, financial, or medical professional. Also, tarot reading cannot replace qualified mental health care. A tarot reading can only facilitate how you cope spiritually with a given situation.

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Pile 1

This person is very masculine in nature. They will want to penetrate your heart and soul until you reach your climax. This is a satisfier AND provider.

I'm getting that your ACTUAL first time may happen during the day and this is the first night that you spend at their house.

You will be teasing them all day long and it will drive them crazy.

There might be some chasing around the house and when they finish with you it will be apparent that you will need some support to get around *wink,wink*.

Your FS will tire you out ! I would work on my stamina if I was in your shoes as this person can last for a VERY long time !

They will be honest and sincere with you, so believe whatever they say during the act. They may have a hard time expressing themselves in general but during doing the deed they will express their love and adoration to you.

Pile 2

Your FS is very tender. They have been wishing for someone like you. As soon as they see you everything will fall into place. Their fantasies now have a face.

They don't need words, your eyes are enough. They want to kiss you until your lips are ble*ding. They are is a sense of breaking you down and guiding you towards your limit. They want you to do the same to them. Very fluid energy. They might be a switch.

Sleeping with them will be dangerous. Both of you will feel like playing with fire whenever you touch. Your love making will be awfully raw. You will not be able to escape their energy and I get the feeling there will be "reminders" of the night on your bodies the next morning.

This person is obsessive. They will feel you are tempting them and that they have fallen hopeless under your spell.

Pile 3

You have been waiting a very long time for this. The first night with your future spouse is going to come after a period of celibacy.

The masculine will be staring into the feminines eyes and he will feel like he has known her for an eternity. Your first night will seal your fate as a couple. Your union will also help both of you "manifest" a better future through the power of the big O.

Everything will feel like it was written in the stars and supposed to happen this way. Very emotional and dreamy. Your FS will make love to you while staring deep into your eyes. This person will be fascinated by you and they won't be able to look away from your face.

Things will be boiling under the surface for a while. Passion can not be contained that long and there will be some "spillage".

You will crave each other's touch so much before your first night together, that the release will be powerful. Like an itch you desperately need to scratch and they definitely know which buttons to press.

[kckt88]

A Heartbeat Between Us VIII

Summary:

As things start to improve between Y.N and Aemond, Alys reveals her true intentions, and as Y.N turns to Aegon for support the brothers come to blows.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Fluff, Tension, Swearing, Idiocy, Miscommunication, Misunderstanding, Jealousy, Violence, Fighting,

AEMOND x Y.N

Word Count: 7770

A.N - Most of the story is already written, as I start a new job on Saturday :-)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @toodlesxcuddles @mamawiggers1980 @minttea07 @nommingonfood

Aemond woke with a start, his arm stretching across the bed to where Y.N. should have been, but the space beside him was cold and empty.

A sinking feeling gripped him as he sat up, glancing around the room in confusion. Throwing on his discarded clothes from the night before, he hurried down the hallway to Jack’s room. The sight of the empty cot made his heart race, panic flooding his chest.

“Y.N.?” he called out, but there was no answer.

Aemond tried to remain calm, his fingers fumbling for his phone. He rang her, but it went straight to voicemail. He tried again and again, the same result. Frustration and fear mounted with each passing second.

He paced the living room, running through his contacts, ringing Helaena, Daeron, and even Aegon, asking if they had seen her or heard from her. The answer was always the same: no.

His chest tightened. Had she really left him? After last night? Aemond’s gaze darted around the penthouse, and he realized that her things were still there.

The suitcase she had packed in a fury the night before was still there, laying where it had fallen on the floor during their vigorous sex session.

Relief washed over him, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. If she hadn’t left, where was she?

Just as he contemplated going out to search for her, the sound of the door opening made him freeze. Y.N. stepped inside, pushing Jack’s pram.

Aemond rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her without a second thought.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion as he unbuckled Jack from the pram and lifted him into his arms, holding him close. "I was worried."

Y.N. gave him a small, tired smile. "I went to the doctor," she said, her tone matter of fact. "Since we didn’t take any precautions last night, I needed to get the morning-after pill."

Aemond’s breath hitched. "Oh," he said softly, watching as Y.N. reached into her bag and pulled out a small box.

She read the instructions on the back, popped out the pill, and swallowed it with a glass of water.

"I also decided that I’m going to start taking the contraceptive pill," she added. "Just to be safe."

Aemond nodded slowly, his gaze following her movements. He put Jack down on his play mat, the soft jingling of toys filling the room. He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts.

“About last night-” he started, his voice hesitant. “-I don’t know what came over me. If I was too rough—if I hurt you—”

Y.N. shook her head, cutting him off. "Don’t apologize," she said softly. “I liked it.”

Her words stirred something inside him, but Aemond knew there was more to say, more to confront. He couldn’t keep avoiding it. Turning to face her fully, he took a deep breath.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice steady but serious. "About us."

Y.N. finished her water and leaned against the counter, arms folded across her chest. She nodded, her expression unreadable. Aemond took a step closer.

“For a start,” he continued, “-There is no us. But don’t you think there should be?”

Y.N. hesitated for a moment, chewing her lip as she considered his words. "I guess things weren’t working out the way they were."

“No, they weren’t,” Aemond agreed. “But we already have a child. We live together, we have sex and we love each other Why can’t we explore a relationship? Properly.”

Y.N. raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with scepticism. "What about Alys?"

Aemond sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I swear, there’s nothing there with her. Not anymore. I know I shouldn’t have let her in, but I feel like I owe her-for the way things ended."

Y.N. narrowed her eyes, clearly still not convinced. "I don’t trust her, Aemond. Not one bit."

“I know you don’t like her,” he replied. “But I promise, it’s just business. There’s nothing else between us.”

Y.N. looked at him, her gaze searching his face for the truth. “Is this really what you want?” she asked quietly. “To be with me?”

Aemond stepped forward, his eye never leaving hers. “It is. I’ve been a fool to wait this long to ask you.”

She chuckled lightly, some of the tension easing between them. "Why did you wait?" she teased, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Aemond smirked, rolling his eye. "Fear, mostly. Fear that you didn’t feel the same way. Fear of ruining what we had."

Y.N. let out a soft laugh. “If you really mean it-I want you to ask me properly.”

Aemond’s smirk widened, and he crossed his arms. “So, regularly sticking you with my cock isn’t asking properly?”

She laughed again, shaking her head. "No, it’s not the same thing."

He let out a deep breath, taking her hand in his. “Y.N.,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Y.N. smiled, a bright, genuine smile that lit up her whole face. “Yes,” she said, her voice filled with warmth. “I will be your girlfriend.”

Aemond grinned, his heart swelling with joy as he leaned in and kissed her, softly at first, then with more passion.

When they finally pulled apart, Y.N. excused herself to the bathroom, leaving Aemond standing there, his mind racing with relief and happiness.

Finally, she was his.

Aemond sat with Aegon and Daeron at their usual table in the club, the neon lights casting a soft glow over them.

The atmosphere was buzzing, and as they ordered their drinks, Daeron’s eyes zeroed in on the mark on Aemond's neck. He sniggered, pointing at it with a raised eyebrow.

"Who's responsible for that?" Daeron asked, barely hiding his smirk.

Aegon snorted, taking a sip of his beer. "Alys?"

Aemond glared at him. "Absolutely not. It was my girlfriend."

Aegon’s laugh echoed over the thumping music. “So, you finally grew some balls and asked Y.N. out?”

Aemond scowled at him but didn’t deny it, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

Daeron shook his head in amusement. “About time. By the way, did you ever find out where she went the other day? You were freaking out."

Aemond sighed, swirling his whiskey. "She went to the doctor. Got the morning-after pill."

Aegon rolled his eyes dramatically. "Seriously, do you have some kind of aversion to condoms or what?"

"My mind was on other things at the time,” Aemond muttered defensively, taking a long drink. “But she’s on the pill now.”

Daeron chuckled. “At least she’s taking responsibility.”

Aemond hummed in agreement before dropping a bombshell. “Alys stopped by the penthouse.”

Aegon nearly choked on his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You what? You let her in? Are you an idiot?”

Daeron looked equally stunned. “What were you thinking?”

“I-feel like I owe her,” Aemond admitted, though his voice lacked conviction.

“For what?” Aegon demanded.

Aemond leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly “-For cheating on her”

Aegon scoffed “The two of you were living completely separate lives before you dipped your wick in Y.N”

“Maybe I still feel like I owe her something for the way things ended”

Aegon rolled his eyes. “Please. Alys was in the relationship for herself, and you know it.”

Aemond shook his head, staring into his glass. “Maybe toward the end, but at the beginning-”

Daeron cut him off. “Beginning, middle, or end—it’s irrelevant now. You don’t owe Alys a damn thing.”

Aegon raised his beer. “Here, here. Come on, brother. Drink up—we’re celebrating tonight!”

Aemond arched an eyebrow. “Celebrating what?”

Aegon grinned wide. “You finally getting the girl.”

Later that night, after far too many drinks, Aemond stumbled down the hallway to his penthouse.

His fingers fumbled with the key, and in his drunken state, he cursed under his breath.

"Who's moving this damned lock?" he groaned, leaning against the door for support.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Aemond went flying into the penthouse, landing ungracefully on the floor.

He blinked up at Y.N., who stood above him, arms crossed but an amused smile playing on her lips.

“Hello,” he slurred, sprawled on the floor.

Y.N. knelt down, a mix of amusement and concern on her face. “Did you have a good night?”

Aemond clumsily tried to get to his knees, swaying slightly. “I had a few beers,” he mumbled.

Y.N. quirked an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve had more than a few,” she remarked, closing the door behind him and locking it.

Aemond groaned, rubbing his forehead. “I’m bit tired.”

“Let’s get you to bed, then,” Y.N. said, helping him to his feet. He stumbled slightly, and she all but dragged him towards the bedroom.

On the way, Aemond suddenly stopped, looking serious. “I have a girlfriend,” he said, as if making a grand declaration.

Y.N. stifled a laugh. “I’m sure your girlfriend will understand.”

Aemond looked up at her, his drunken expression deadly serious. “My girlfriend is my girlfriend, and she had a baby-my baby-”

“How nice,” Y.N. laughed, guiding him to the edge of the bed. She sat him down and began pulling off his shoes and socks.

As she worked, Aemond’s eye fluttered, his head lolling. “You smell nice,” he murmured, slurring slightly.

Y.N. laughed again, shaking her head as she took off his coat and removed his eyepatch. She was careful, knowing how vulnerable he felt without it.

Aemond squinted up at her. “Are you trying to get me naked?” he asked, a lopsided grin on his face.

Y.N. rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to get you comfortable.”

Aemond’s hands found their way to her waist, his forehead resting against her stomach as he clung to her. “I love you,” he mumbled, his voice softer now. “I do. So much. Please don’t leave me.”

Her heart clenched at his words. “I’m not leaving. Now, come on—lie down and go to sleep.”

With her gentle urging, Aemond finally lay back against the pillows, his body relaxing almost instantly. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out cold, his breathing deep and steady.

Y.N. stood there for a moment, watching him sleep, her hand brushing through his hair. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but smile.

Aemond woke up the next morning face down, groaning at the pounding in his skull.

His mouth felt like sandpaper, and the faint light filtering through the curtains only worsened his throbbing headache.

He groaned and muttered to himself, "Never drinking again."

Slowly, he pushed himself up, feeling like every bone in his body ached from his night of excess. Shakily, he stood and stumbled toward the bathroom, catching a glimpse of his dishevelled reflection.

His hair was a mess, and the faint smell of stale alcohol clung to his skin. “Gods, I reek,” he muttered, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the shower.

The hot water didn’t do much to ease his hangover, but at least it helped him feel a little more human. After drying off, he threw on a clean shirt and sweatpants before heading to the kitchen, still rubbing his temples.

When he entered the kitchen, the smell of sizzling bacon hit him, making his stomach growl loudly. Y.N. stood at the stove, flipping over sausages and eggs, while a platter of crispy bacon sat on the counter.

“What's all this?” Aemond asked, his voice hoarse from last night.

Y.N. looked over her shoulder with a small smile. “Bacon, eggs, sausages—best hangover cure there is.”

Aemond could practically taste the food already, his stomach growling in anticipation. “You're a lifesaver.”

Before sitting down, he wandered into the living room to check on Jack. His son was on his playmat, gurgling happily and kicking his legs in the air.

Aemond’s heart softened instantly as he crouched down, brushing his hand over Jack’s soft hair. "Good morning, little man," he murmured.

Y.N.’s voice called from the kitchen. “Aemond, come sit down. Food’s ready.”

Reluctantly leaving Jack, Aemond joined her at the table and sat down. The plate in front of him was piled with food—golden eggs, perfectly crisp bacon, sausages cooked to perfection.

He didn’t waste time, diving in hungrily. Every bite seemed to ease the ache in his head a little more.

After finishing his breakfast, Y.N. handed him a glass of water and some painkillers. "Thought you might need these," she said with a teasing smile.

Aemond sighed in relief, taking the painkillers gratefully. “You’re a saint,” he muttered, washing them down.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of laziness. Aemond spent most of it sprawled out on the sofa, watching Jack play nearby, occasionally dozing off.

At one point, he even found himself napping with Jack snuggled up against him on the couch, the baby’s soft breaths helping him relax despite his headache.

But his peaceful nap was interrupted by a loud knock on the door, startling him awake. Jack stirred but didn’t cry, and Aemond gently laid him back on the playmat before sitting up groggily.

Y.N. was already answering the door when two men entered, their arms laden with large boxes, making quite a racket as they brought them inside.

Y.N. signed for the delivery, thanking them before they left. She turned toward the boxes with a curious look, wiping her hands on a towel as she approached them.

"What’s all this?" Aemond asked, still feeling groggy as he watched her tear open the packaging.

“It’s a delivery from the museum,” Y.N. explained, pulling away the bubble wrap to reveal two statues inside, both looking worse for wear. The stone was chipped in several places, and the detail on their surfaces was faded and worn down.

Aemond stepped closer, peering at the statues. “Think you can fix them?”

Y.N. smiled confidently, her fingers running over the smooth, cold surface of one of the statues. “Absolutely. They’ve seen better days, but I’ve handled worse. I’ll have them looking good as new soon.”

Aemond nodded, impressed as always with her skill. He watched her work for a moment, feeling a surge of pride in her abilities. “You’re really amazing, you know that?”

Y.N. looked up from the statue, a soft blush colouring her cheeks. “Thanks,” she said quietly before turning back to her workbench.

For the next couple of months, Y.N. worked diligently on the two statues that had been delivered from the museum.

She had printed pictures of what the statues originally looked like and pinned them to the walls of her workspace for reference.

Each day was a careful, deliberate process—she spent hours gently cleaning the weathered stone, ensuring that every inch was properly prepped before moving on to repairs.

When the cleaning was complete, Y.N. mixed plaster to the perfect consistency, using it to patch up the chips and cracks that marred the statues.

She took her time, delicately applying the mixture before using a fine-grain sandpaper to smooth out any unevenness. Every touch required precision, and the smallest mistake could ruin weeks of progress.

After the repairs were done, she moved on to the final stages: painting and applying a special wax that not only enhanced the statues' details but also provided an extra layer of protection.

It was a painstakingly slow process, but Y.N. found it rewarding. Still, the work had taken longer than anticipated due to balancing her time between the restoration and caring for Jack.

Once the statues were fully restored, they were carefully boxed up in layers of protective material and sent back to the museum.

As much as Y.N. loved her work, she felt a sense of relief when the project was completed. She had poured so much energy into the restoration that, despite her passion, it left her feeling drained.

But knowing that she had done justice to the pieces, especially with Jack in tow, made the reward even sweeter.

One afternoon, feeling a little freer after finishing the statues, Y.N. decided to surprise Aemond at work.

She stopped by a local café to grab them some dinner and pushed Jack in his pram as she made her way to Targaryen Inc.

As she entered the sleek lobby, she was startled to hear someone call her name. She turned to see Jacaerys waving at her from across the room.

They hadn’t seen each other since the heated argument in the café months ago, and Y.N. hesitated for a moment before waving back.

Jace quickly crossed the room to meet her. "Hey," he said, a bit of uncertainty in his voice. "How have you been?"

Y.N. smiled, adjusting her grip on Jack's pram. "I've been fine. You?"

Jace glanced down at Jack, his expression softening. "Wow, he really looks like Aemond."

Y.N. smiled fondly at her son. "Yeah, he does."

After a beat, Jace rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Look, I wanted to apologize for how I spoke to you in the café. I was angry, and I lashed out. But I shouldn’t have said those things."

Y.N. took a deep breath, remembering how hurtful that encounter had been.

But seeing Jace now, visibly regretful, she nodded. "It’s okay. I probably should have told you from the start that Aemond was Jack’s father. I understand why you were upset."

Jace gave her a sad smile. "How are things with my uncle? My mother said you two are dating now."

Y.N. felt a warmth spread through her at the thought of Aemond. "They’re good. I know we did things a little backward—baby first, then the relationship—but we’re happy."

Jace nodded, but his smile was tinged with sadness. "I'm glad to hear that," he said quietly.

For a few moments, they stood there in silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them.

Then Jace cleared his throat and glanced at the time. "I should get going. I told my mother I'd only be five minutes."

Y.N. smiled. "Of course. It was nice seeing you, Jace."

He hesitated for a second, then quickly stepped forward and hugged her.

It was brief but sincere. "Take care, Y.N.," he said as he pulled away, rushing off before either of them could dwell on the moment.

Y.N. watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of relief and nostalgia. She took a deep breath, then turned back toward the lift.

Pressing the button, she smiled at Jack, ready to surprise Aemond with their impromptu visit.

Y.N. stepped out of the lift, pushing Jack's pram ahead of her, feeling a surge of excitement at the idea of surprising Aemond.

The office was quiet, and she noticed Aemond’s assistant wasn’t at her desk.

Smiling down at Jack, who gave her a gummy grin in response, she whispered, “Let’s surprise Daddy, shall we?”

She quietly pushed open the door to Aemond’s office, but the sight that greeted her made her stop in her tracks.

Alys was sitting close to Aemond on the leather sofa.

Aemond shot up from his seat the moment he saw Y.N. walk in, looking slightly startled.

"Y.N.," he said, with a forced smile, quickly crossing the room to kiss her head. "This is a nice surprise."

Y.N. fought the wave of anger surging through her but forced a smile. "I was taking a walk with Jack," she said, her voice tight, "and thought I’d bring you something for dinner since you've been working hard lately."

Aemond’s face softened. "That was thoughtful of you," he said, reaching into the pram to lift Jack out. He held his son close, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek. “Daddy's missed you.”

Y.N. watched, her stomach churning as Alys rose gracefully from the sofa and walked over to stand beside Aemond.

"He’s gotten bigger-" Alys said with a sweet smile, looking at Jack. "Can I hold him?"

"No," Y.N. snapped, before she could stop herself. She quickly reached for Jack, putting him back into the pram and turning him away from Alys.

There was a tension in the air that no one could ignore as Alys stepped back, her smirk barely hidden.

Y.N. turned to Aemond, her voice sharp. "What is she doing here?"

Aemond leaned in close, whispering hurriedly, "I didn’t know she was coming. She just turned up."

Y.N. narrowed her eyes, her anger boiling over. "Then you should’ve thrown her old arse out."

Aemond sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I’m just helping her get established with her business. That’s all."

Y.N. scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "The only business she’s after is in your pants."

"You're being ridiculous," Aemond muttered, trying to keep his voice low.

Y.N. caught a glimpse of Alys standing by the desk, the smug smirk on her face as if she were relishing the tension in the room.

That was it. She couldn’t take it anymore.

Without a second thought, Y.N. grabbed the bag of food she had brought for Aemond and threw it at him.

The containers hit his chest and fell to the floor, spilling sandwiches and chips across the carpet.

“Here,” she spat, her voice seething with anger. “I hope you both fucking choke”

Ignoring Aemond’s frantic calls of her name, she turned on her heel, pushing Jack’s pram out of the office as fast as she could, her heart pounding with fury.

Aemond stood in the middle of his office, wiping the food off his shirt with quick, agitated movements.

His eye flicked to the mess on the floor, the sandwiches and chips scattered across the carpet. Frustration gnawed at him, but before he could act on it, Alys approached, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“Aemond—” she began, her tone soft, but he immediately snatched his arm away, his patience frayed.

"Don't," he snapped, his voice cold and sharp. He moved quickly to grab his jacket from the back of his chair, already making his way toward the door.

Alys’s voice followed him, laced with confusion—or perhaps something more manipulative. "Where are you going?"

"After Y.N.," Aemond responded, his tone clipped. "I need to talk to her. I need to explain."

"Explain what?" Alys asked, her voice turning smug. "We were only talking."

Aemond halted, turning to face her fully, his eye narrowing with irritation.

"What are you even doing here, Alys? The clients I recommended to you are more than capable of keeping you busy. You don’t need my help anymore."

Alys smirked, a dangerous glint in her eye. "You’re right. I don’t need your help," she admitted, stepping closer. "I never really did"

Aemond’s frustration shifted into suspicion. His voice turned demanding. "What do you want, Alys?"

She gave him a slow, calculated smile. "I want you."

Aemond froze, his gaze hardening. "What?"

"I wasn’t lying when I said I missed you," Alys said, her voice sultry, as she moved closer to him, her hands grazing his chest.

“I’m not interested” snapped Aemond.

"I remember when you used to be interested."

Aemond immediately removed her hands from him. "That was then," he said firmly, stepping back. "This is now."

Alys wasn’t deterred. She leaned in, trying to kiss him, but Aemond pushed her away, more forcefully this time.

"I just want it to be the way it was," she said, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.

"It will never be the way it was," Aemond said through clenched teeth, his temper rising. He couldn’t believe she had the nerve to push this after everything. "It’s over, Alys."

Still, Alys persisted. "We could be good together again, you know that. You felt it once—"

"Enough!" Aemond shouted, his voice booming with frustration. "Get it through your head—I don’t fucking want you. What we had is over." His words cut like a knife, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Alys’s face twisted in anger. "So, you're choosing Y.N over me?"

"Yes," Aemond said, his voice steady and final. "I choose her. I will always choose her. Because I love her"

There was no hesitation in his answer, and that seemed to anger Alys further. She glared at him, her face contorting with bitter jealousy.

"Fine," she said, grabbing her coat with sharp, angry movements. "But that’s too bad. We could’ve had something special."

Aemond scoffed, crossing his arms. "I already have something special with Y.N. and Jack."

Alys moved toward the door, her expression icy. Just before she left, she turned to him, her voice low and venomous. "Not anymore, you don’t."

With that, she slammed the door behind her, leaving Aemond standing alone in his office, her final words lingering like a dark cloud.

As Y.N rushed out of Targaryen Inc, her vision blurred by tears, she barely noticed the world around her. Each breath felt heavy with the weight of betrayal.

She had wanted to surprise Aemond with something thoughtful, but instead, she’d walked into a scene that made her stomach turn. Alys, sitting close to him—too close. Her heart ached, and all she wanted was to escape.

By the time she reached the penthouse, Y.N was shaking. She hastily left a note and packed a bag for herself and Jack, not entirely sure where she was going, but desperate to leave.

With Jack bundled up and strapped into his pram, she left the penthouse, wandering the city streets. She hopped onto a bus without thinking, letting the rhythmic rocking carry her away from her thoughts, until she stood before a familiar black door.

The sound of music leaked through the walls, and she hesitated for a moment before ringing the doorbell.

The music paused, and moments later, the door swung open to reveal Aegon, shirtless and slightly dishevelled, clearly caught off guard.

“Y.N.,” he said, surprised to see her standing there.

Behind him, a girl lounged lazily on the sofa, eyeing Y.N. with vague curiosity.

Embarrassed and feeling out of place, Y.N. tearfully apologized, backing away. "I’m sorry for disturbing you. I should go—"

Aegon quickly stepped forward, gently catching her arm. "Hey, wait—what’s wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowed in concern as he quickly pulled on a T-shirt.

"It doesn’t matter," Y.N. muttered, tears threatening to spill again.

"It does matter," Aegon insisted, his voice firm yet kind. He turned to the girl on the sofa, gesturing toward the door. “You need to leave.”

The girl huffed, gathering her clothes and glaring at Y.N. as she passed by.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Y.N. broke down, the sobs she had been holding back finally spilling out.

Aegon didn’t hesitate—he pulled her into a comforting hug, hushing her softly as she cried into his chest.

“What happened?” he asked gently, rubbing her back as she tried to calm down.

Y.N. took a shaky breath, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I went to surprise Aemond at work-and Alys was there.” Her voice broke, and Aegon cursed under his breath.

“That fucking idiot,” Aegon muttered, holding her tighter. He didn’t press her for more details, just let her cry it out until the storm of emotions passed.

“Can Jack and I stay here tonight?” Y.N. asked after a moment, her voice soft and uncertain. “I don’t want to go back. But he’ll come looking for me-”

Aegon quickly nodded. “Of course, you can stay. Don’t worry about him. If he comes round here, I’ll tell him you’re not here. And when Daeron gets home from work, I’ll make sure he keeps his mouth shut, too.”

Y.N. managed a small, grateful smile through her tears. “Thank you-and I’m sorry, again. I feel like I’m imposing.”

Aegon shook his head, giving her a comforting smile. “Stop apologizing. You’re not the one in the wrong—Aemond is. What the hell is he thinking?”

Just then, Jack’s soft cries filled the room, and Aegon released Y.N. so she could tend to him. She reached into the pram, but Aegon quickly offered to take the baby. “Here, let me.”

Y.N. handed Jack over, and Aegon rocked him gently, his touch surprisingly tender. “My brother needs to open his eye and see that harpy for who she really is,” Aegon muttered, rolling his eyes.

Y.N. let out a small laugh, despite herself. “You’re not wrong there.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow and grinned. “I’m serious. I’ve never liked her, and you know if I don’t like a woman, that’s a red flag. I mean, I love the ladies.”

Y.N. laughed again, this time a little more genuinely. “I know. Especially the married ones.”

Aegon shrugged with a playful smirk. “Of course. But Alys-she’s different. In all honesty I never really liked looking directly at her.”

“She’s not Medusa” Y.N. said, shaking her head.

“She might as well be,” Aegon shot back with a mock shiver.

After a few more moments, Aegon smiled and said, “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll sort us something to eat.”

Y.N. raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

“I don’t,” Aegon admitted with a grin. “I’m ordering takeout. Will pizza be okay?”

Y.N. nodded, grateful to be here in this moment, with someone who had her back when she needed it most.

Y.N gently bathed Jack in Aegon’s bathroom, the warm water soothing her nerves as much as it did Jack’s.

He splashed playfully, his little hands reaching for her as she carefully washed him, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the heaviness in her chest.

After drying him off, she dressed him in his soft, blue pyjamas, his eyes beginning to droop as she cradled him in her arms. She fed him, rocking slowly, humming a quiet tune until his soft, rhythmic breathing told her he had drifted off to sleep.

She laid him in the middle of Aegon’s bed, arranging pillows around him carefully, making sure he was safe and comfortable.

The door remained slightly ajar, just enough for her to hear him in case he woke up. Stepping back into the living room, she felt a pang of guilt.

"I feel terrible for kicking you out of your own bed," Y.N. said, biting her lip.

Aegon waved a hand dismissively. "Don’t worry about it. I offered. Besides, I’m not exactly known for my chivalry—this is a rare moment for me, let’s not ruin it."

Y.N. chuckled weakly but appreciated the levity. She sank onto the couch, pulling out her phone.

Her breath hitched as she saw the screen flooded with notifications—30 missed calls from Aemond, and numerous text messages.

She scrolled through them, her heart twisting at the range of emotions. Messages declaring his undying love, apologizing profusely, followed by angry ones accusing her of taking Jack from him without any right.

The whirlwind of his emotions matched her own confusion.

"What are you going to do tomorrow?" Daeron asked, sitting down beside her.

Y.N. sighed, putting the phone down. "I don’t know. I really don’t. Part of me wants to talk to him, but after what happened today, I don’t even know where to start."

"You can stay here as long as you need," Daeron reassured her. "But-you know Aemond’s going to find out eventually that we’ve lied to him. And when he does, he won’t be happy."

Y.N. rubbed her temples, feeling the weight of it all crashing down on her. "I’m sorry to drag you both into this. I just needed to get away, and I didn’t know where else to go."

Aegon scoffed, lounging on the other end of the couch. "Screw him. We’ve all tried telling him about that bitch, but noooo-Aemond thinks he knows better. Now look where we are."

Daeron, ever the peacemaker, leaned forward. "Not to defend Aemond too much, but maybe he thought he was helping Alys out of some twisted sense of guilt—like making up for cheating on her."

Aegon rolled his eyes, his frustration palpable. "The guy’s an idiot. He’s letting this mess get in the way of what really matters”

Y.N. suddenly feeling overwhelmed, stood up "I’m going to bed," she murmured, offering them both a tired smile. "Goodnight."

“Night-” said Aegon and Daeron in unison.

Y.N. walked down the hallway, her heart heavy. She peeked into the bedroom, watching Jack sleep peacefully, oblivious to the storm swirling around them.

As she lay down beside him, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold everything together for just a little while longer.

The next morning, Y.N. woke early, fed Jack, and packed their things. As she stood by the door, she turned to Aegon and Daeron, offering a grateful smile.

"Thank you, both of you, for letting us stay over. But I think it’s time we head back to the penthouse. I’m going to take Jack for a walk in the park first, clear my head before I see Aemond."

Aegon, still lounging lazily in his chair, got up and walked over to her, pulling her into a hug. "You’re always welcome here, you know that" he said, giving her a wink. "But if you ever come back, I won’t give up my bed again. We’ll just have to share."

Daeron rolled his eyes. "Ignore him and regardless of what happens, we’ll still be there for you and Jack”

Y.N. gave a soft laugh and nodded. "Thanks again, really." She checked the straps in Jack’s pram and then wheeled it towards the door. "Goodbye, and take care."

As she left, the door clicked shut behind her, leaving Aegon and Daeron in the apartment.

Not long after, Daeron furrowed his brow and turned to Aegon. "Oh no, she forgot one of Jack’s toys."

Aegon picked up the small plush from the table, examining it.

"What the hell is this thing?" he muttered, turning the soft rabbit-like toy over in his hands. The ears crinkled when he squeezed them, making an odd sound.

"I don’t know," Daeron shrugged. "Right, I’ve gotta head to work. You good?"

"Yeah, yeah," Aegon waved, still scrutinizing the toy as if it held the answers to life. "See you later."

Just as Daeron grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, it swung open again—this time revealing Aemond, standing in the doorway.

His eye narrowed when he saw Jack’s toy in Aegon’s hand.

Aegon tried to hide it behind his back, but it was too late.

"Where did you get that?" Aemond asked, his voice tight.

Aegon stuttered, "Well, you see—"

"Was Y.N. and Jack here?" Aemond cut him off, his tone dark.

Aegon sighed. "Yeah, they were, but they left a little while ago. She didn’t know where else to go."

Aemond's expression turned furious. "When I rang you last night and asked if you'd seen her, and you said no—was she here?"

Aegon swallowed, glancing at the floor. "Yes, she was here. She slept in my bed—"

That was all Aemond needed to hear. Without warning, he punched Aegon in the face.

Aegon stumbled backward, landing hard on the floor, clutching his nose as blood began to flow.

"Did you fuck her?" Aemond bellowed, his voice full of rage.

Aegon groaned, sitting up slowly, blood dripping between his fingers. "No! I stayed on the sofa, you fucking arsehole-"

Aemond began pacing around the apartment, his hands running through his hair in frustration.

Aegon stood up, wincing as he gingerly touched his nose. He grabbed a nearby towel, pressing it to his face.

"You have no right to be angry," Aegon spat. "You’re the one who’s been hanging around with your bitch of an ex."

Aemond stopped pacing, his face tightening. "I was just trying to make up for what I did. But it was a mistake—a massive one. Alys-she tried to kiss me."

Aegon’s expression hardened, and without a second thought, he punched Aemond in the mouth.

Aemond stumbled back, stunned, as blood began to trickle from his lip.

"You moron," Aegon growled. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Aemond wiped the blood from his mouth, still in shock from Aegon’s punch. "She tried to kiss me, and I pushed her away. I didn’t let it happen."

Aegon shook his head, disappointment clear on his face as he went to the freezer to grab some ice.

"You’re such an idiot. I’ve been telling you for years what she’s like"

Aemond stood there, blood staining his lips. "I know," he said quietly. "I know now that it was all a manipulation. She didn’t need my help with her business. She just—"

"—wanted to get back into your pants," Aegon finished for him. He shook his head, pressing the towel full of ice cubes against his bruised nose. "You only lost one eye, brother. How could you be so blind?"

Aemond’s shoulders slumped as he sat down heavily on the edge of the couch. "I’m an idiot ok" he admitted, voice hoarse. "I let her in when I should’ve known better."

"You’re damn right you’re an idiot," Aegon said with a bitter laugh. "You let that old bint back into your life when we all tried to warn you. And now, you’ve potentially lost the best thing that’s ever happened to you all because of your own stupidity."

Aemond closed his eye, running his hands through his hair again. He knew Aegon was right. And now, he didn’t know how to fix it.

As Aemond sat on the couch, staring down at the toy he had snatched from Aegon’s hand, a heavy silence settled between them.

Aegon, still pressing the towel full of ice to his swollen nose, finally broke the quiet.

"You know, I’m jealous of you," Aegon muttered, his voice low but steady.

Aemond frowned and looked up. "Jealous? Of me? Why?"

Aegon let out a tired chuckle. "Because of Y.N."

Aemond's expression darkened, and his jaw clenched. "What are you saying?"

Aegon raised his free hand, waving off his brother’s suspicions. "No-I’m not into her like that. It's the way she loves you, Aemond." He looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "The way she looks at you-it’s something else. I’d give anything for a woman to look at me the way she looks at you. There’s this—" He struggled to find the right words, "—devotion in her eyes. And she brings out the best in you, even if you’re too blind to see it."

Aemond’s face softened slightly, and he allowed a faint smile to tug at his lips. "Maybe if you stopped chasing unavailable women, you'd find someone like that."

Aegon huffed a laugh. "Yeah, maybe. I was actually trying to get with someone last night, if you must know. But then Y.N. came over and interrupted." He shrugged, the corners of his mouth lifting in amusement.

"And you helped her instead," Aemond remarked, his tone shifting to something more serious.

"Of course I did," Aegon said, looking at his brother with a surprising sincerity. "I like her—no, not in that way. But I wanted to make sure both her and Jack were safe”.

Aemond sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Thank you, Aegon."

Aegon nodded, leaning back against the counter. "You’re welcome. But I don’t care what you have to do. You better make it up to her. She’s good for you, Aemond. You two belong together. Don’t be the fool who throws it all away."

Aemond stood, taking a deep breath. "You’re right. I need to fix this." He paused, glancing at the door.

"Yeah," Aegon replied, standing straighter. "She mentioned she was taking Jack for a walk in the park and then heading back to the penthouse”.

Aemond started towards the door, but Aegon called out to him. "Hey, one more thing."

Aemond stopped and turned, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

Aegon smirked, his usual playful self returning. "You should ask her to marry you."

Aemond froze for a moment, considering the weight of Aegon’s words.

Slowly, he nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Maybe I will."

Aegon grinned, his smirk widening into a mischievous grin. "Because then she’d definitely shag me."

Aemond took a deep breath before he charged at his brother. Aegon dodged out of the way, laughing loudly as Aemond began chasing him around the table.

"You little—!" Aemond shouted, but despite his frustration, there was a smile creeping onto his face as Aegon kept laughing, the tension between the brothers momentarily broken by their banter.

"Too slow!" Aegon called out, still running, a cheeky grin plastered on his face.

For just a moment, the heaviness that had hung over them lifted, and despite the mess Aemond needed to fix, he felt a flicker of hope. He wasn’t going to let Y.N. slip away—no matter what it took.

Aemond wandered through the quiet streets, his mind racing. He desperately wanted to see Y.N. and Jack, to hold them both close and promise he would never let his stupidity come between them again.

But he knew he had to give her time—to get back to the penthouse, to settle Jack, and most of all, to calm down. As much as he wanted to rush to her side, he knew that right now, patience was key.

She was the love of his life, and the thought that he might have jeopardized everything made his chest tighten.

How had he let it get this far? It was easy to blame Alys, to paint her as the villain in his mind, but deep down, Aemond knew the truth—it was his own fault.

His misguided sense of duty, his foolish belief that he could make up for his past mistakes by helping her, had led him down this path. He should have left the past buried.

As soon as Alys had reached out, he should have told her to get lost. Instead, he had let her manipulate him, and now Y.N. and Jack were suffering the consequences.

He clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists as he walked. Alys’s motives were clear from the beginning, and he cursed himself for not seeing them.

But the damage had been done. Now, all he could do was hope—pray, even—that Y.N. would give him the chance to make things right.

He loved her, more than he had ever loved anyone, and the thought of losing her, of losing their life together, sent a sharp pain through his chest.

As he rounded a corner, his steps slowed when he came to a stop in front of a jewellery shop. His eye caught on the glittering rings displayed in the window, and for a moment, he allowed himself to close his eye and imagine.

He pictured Y.N. in a beautiful wedding dress, walking towards him with that radiant smile she always wore when she looked at him. His hand reaching for hers as they exchanged vows, their kiss sealing their promises as they became husband and wife.

But was that future even possible now? Or had he ruined it beyond repair?

Aemond let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his silver hair. He had thought about proposing to her before, but now-was it even right to consider it?

Would she still want a life with him after everything that had happened? After the hurt he had caused?

He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing—he had to try. He couldn’t give up on them, not when he loved her with every fibre of his being.

Aemond stepped into the penthouse, his heart immediately dropping at the sight of a suitcase by the front door. Jack was fast asleep in his pram, his small chest rising and falling peacefully.

Aemond's gaze shifted from his son to Y.N., who sat on the sofa, nervously fiddling with her fingers, her face pale and her eyes distant.

His voice cracked as he asked, "Are you leaving me?"

Y.N. looked up at him, her expression torn. She took a deep breath and nodded slowly. "I think it's for the best”.

The words pierced through him like a blade, and Aemond felt his knees weaken. In an instant, he was in front of her, kneeling on the floor with his head resting in her lap, his body shaking with quiet sobs.

 "Please don’t leave me," he choked out, his voice thick with desperation. "I’m so sorry, Y.N. I thought I owed it to Alys, after everything that happened, but I was wrong. I see that now. I made a terrible mistake, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please, please don’t go."

Y.N. hesitated, her hands trembling as she slowly stroked his hair. But then, gently, she removed him from her lap and stood up, forcing a shaky breath as she wiped her eyes.

"I need to think, Aemond. I need to figure out what’s best for me and for Jack."

Aemond rose to his feet, his desperation mounting as he cupped her face in his hands, peppering soft, frantic kisses across her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. "I love you," he whispered, again and again between kisses. "I love you more than anything. Please, just—just stay. Let’s work this out."

Y.N. closed her eyes, letting her forehead rest against his for a moment as the pain of the situation overwhelmed her.

"I love you too, Aemond," she whispered, her voice heavy with emotion. "But I need space. I need to think about what I really want”

Aemond’s breath hitched, but he nodded, knowing he couldn’t push her any further. He backed away slightly, his eye red and pained.

He turned to Jack, still peacefully sleeping in his pram, and pressed a tender kiss to his son’s forehead.

"Be good for your mummy," he whispered softly, brushing a finger over Jack’s tiny hand.

With that, Aemond walked to the door and held it open, his heart breaking with every passing second.

Y.N. pushed the pram through the door and glanced back at him one last time, her suitcase in hand, her eyes filled with sadness and uncertainty.

“Goodbye Aemond-”

As soon as the door clicked shut, Aemond collapsed against it, sliding down to the floor until he was sitting with his back against the wood.

His head fell into his hands as the weight of it all came crashing down. Silent sobs wracked his body.

He had lost them both—And it was his own fault.

TBC

[infamousbrad]

Biden's "Dean Scream"?

A week and a half ago, I was convinced that "Biden had one bad debate performance" was going to be a 3-day story. But now I see why it wasn't. (I mean, aside from the fact that summer is Silly Season in US journalism.) How well do you remember Howard Dean's final run for the Democratic nomination?

Howard Dean was a "progressive" by the standards of his time, that is to say, slightly to the left of, say, Richard Nixon at a time when the post-Bill-Clinton center-right wing of the Democratic Party totally controlled the nomination process, and he was running on an FDR-liberal type platform.

And the press spent the whole time he was in the race asking him the same question over and over again, "Does this mean that you're angry at the 'Third Way' Democrats? I'll bet you're angry at Bill Clinton and the 'Third Way' Democrats? Governor Dean, why don't you say a word about how angry you are?" Because if he was still running against "militant centrism" in a post-liberal party, he must be angry, right?

But he really wasn't. I never saw him actually get angry that whole campaign. He was happy to have inspired so many volunteers, and proud of his plan to rejuvenate the state-party apparatuses in written-off "red states," and never not happy to talk to a reporter, any reporter. Which was all the proof they needed to show that he was not only angry, he was nefarious. Because they couldn't imagine any plausible reason why anybody would go to as much effort as he did unless they were genuinely angry.

After the New Hampshire primary, he stood up in front of a group of his campaign volunteers to cheer them on, and they handed him a defective microphone. So he screamed his cheers into the dead microphone, so the volunteers in the back could hear him over the din. But the press microphones? Worked. And he didn't sound excited, he sounded deranged. And I swear to God, 100% of the political press reported it as "Howard Dean finally reveals his inner anger," even though the video shows him grinning and smiling like a child on Christmas.

Why could nothing disprove the "Howard Dean is the Angry Candidate" theory before, why was evidence to the contrary taken as proof it was true?

Because it fit the pre-existing narrative.

Look, we have never not known that Biden's age was going to be a problem. Even as he was sweeping the primaries in 2020, it came up. That's where the "he knows he's too old, he's just reassuring older voters that the party is normal, he's going to step aside for Kamala Harris" rumor got started, remember that? No matter how many times Biden himself denied it?

And if there was any truth to it, there's no point to it now. She hasn't gotten any better at either of the president's jobs, not at public speaking nor at shepherding legislation, so unsurprisingly she polls even worse than Biden.

Should Biden be replaced because he's getting slower and more mumbly as he ages? Did Reagan? He sailed to easy re-election despite the fact he was visibly declining by the end of his first term, way faster than Biden is now. His White House Chief of Staff, Howard Baker, was, by all accounts, acting president for at least three years, making sure that the last person to talk to Reagan before he had to make a decision was the person Baker thought that Reagan would have agreed with if he could remember anything that was happening around him.

(It's not even the most extreme example in US national politics: look up stories about Strom Thurmond's last term in the Senate, which was full-on "Weekend at Bernie's.")

An entirely senile top official who put a good team into place before he sundowned can do a perfectly good job. And trying to replace him would just hand the election to Trump. So no, even if he were as tired and confused as the press and jealous Democrats are painting him, that wouldn't be a good reason to replace him, not at this late of a date.

(If the entire party apparatus had discussed this behind closed doors and agreed to set up, say, Michigan's governor Whitmer or Pennsylvania's governor Shapiro as an agreed-upon backup candidate in case something like this happened, and gotten it done no later than, say, spring of '23, we'd have a minimally plausible option. But we didn't, so we don't. The choice isn't Biden or someone better, it's Biden vs Trump or Trump unopposed.)

But even given how weak-sauce the argument that a few verbal slips and mutters mean that Biden can't perform the duties of the president is, I suddenly realize now why it wasn't a three-day story. Just like the Dean Scream, he handed them the proof they needed of something they've been saying for four years, long before it was true, and everybody loves being "proved" right. Because, as I always say:

Confirmation bias is a hell of a drug.

[wonder-mei]

The days to come are ours ( Honkai : Star Rail’s Sunday)

@Taogg_collect on X

Thanks for the voting this as the top 1 in the poll! I'm so happy with this one-shot, probably my most favorite!

Reminder : I do not write accurately to the lore of the world I am writing. I write whenever there’s an idea

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

‘The universe is a void,

Every souls has been plotted,

It is the soul need to discover, 

And my soul seek for answer,

I am seeking for…” 

The grayish-blue haired man lays down his pen with a sigh. Sunday did not finish this poem for hours, he was fine upon hours; excited to be finally alone after long weeks but he received a letter from a pigeon through his office. He was half way finishing the poem but the letter. The letter stops it all. The time, the emotions, his heart.

His yellow eyes drift to the torn white envelope. The card decorated with flowers behind and front made his eye hurt from the absurd decoration. The front card is laid on the desk hidden from his view but his mind wants to read back to re-read if what was written true at the first time reading them. His fingers tremble, reaching the card, he closes his eyes tightly lifting and flipping the card. 

Upon opening his eyes. The context is the same as before. Her name is matched with another man. The word ‘You are invited to our another chapter of love. We are excited to invite you to our lovely wedding’. 

‘Wedding’, Our and her name shouldn’t be in the same sentence. Not without his name in them. This shouldn’t happen at all. Call him selfish but this really should not happen. But it is happening and will happen if he likes it or not. Sunday slumps into his chair letting the card fall to the ground. He doesn’t know what to think. Should he be happy that she is getting married? He should, right? That is what a sane person should do when someone is going to be married. But he is not a sane person if he doesn’t do that.

Sunday rubs his face out of frustration. Then his eyes fall onto the frames on his desk that have been there forever. Pictures of her together with him and Robin when little. Then three of them went to school. And lastly the picture only shows the two of them together; dressed in a gown and suit for playing Romeo and Juliette at a school play. 

“Do I look pretty?”

“Of course you are! Always pretty!” 

“When we get married. I want to wear this dress. You promised to marry me right?”

“You know I won't break a promise. I will marry you when we are older!”

“I will be waiting for you,Sunday!”

People said kids do not know what the world is. All they know is when they are older everything they dreamed of will come true. It’s like they all will magically happen without any effort. Now that they are all adults. The dream is still there but the only thing stopping it from coming true is the effort. 

Everything was fine. They start to understand love between two people. They cherish each other’s love and effort but something happened that made them dull. It wasn’t her fault at all. He knows she tried to make it work but his family situation made him cut everything off with her.

“Sunday, we can make this work. I know your family makes you frustrated but– we still love each other right?.... You do love me,.....right?”

Her red eyes from crying begs Sunday to say anything. To say ‘Yes, I still love you’ came out from his mouth. But nothing happened. Only the wind fills the silent void between them “Say something please…” 

“....There is nothing more to say. I have important things to do. My family wants me to take over the business. I don’t want any distraction…. We have to stop seeing each other”

With no empathy nor giving her a chance to say anything. He left

They never speak to each other after that. His sister is still friends with her, which is why the letter came to his house. It is for Robin. He wasn’t supposed to receive it but that dumb pigeon has bad navigation. 

“Here” Sunday lift up the envelope to Robin in the living room watching the TV 

“Thanks”, when she holds it she knows he already opened it from the envelope is not tightly glued “Oh my” Robin gasps reading the card “Brother–”

Sunday lifts his hand, stopping her to say anything further “Don’t say anything. You can go if you want”. He turns to leave but Robin grabs his wrist.

“Brother, you can stop this!”,Sunday doesn’t even turn around to face his sister. Then she continued “I know you still love her. And she still loves you,brother. She’s waiting for you even until now… You can stop this. She doesn’t even love the groom. This marriage was arranged”

“She is a grown woman. She can just refuse” With that cold response. Sunday pulls his hand away from Robin’s grip and leaves.

Robin knows Sunday and her is still madly in love. A love where that will last forever. A love where they are meant to be but with the stubbornness of her brother, it creates a barrier between the two lovers. Robin sighs. Her sad eyes read the card. She dislikes that her name is matched with another man. She has to do something. To make her own brother to take courage to sweep her friend’s away from this marriage. She can’t convince him too because her words will be meaningless in his eyes. She needs to have a plan. She has a few weeks to make this happen. To reunite them both once again and tie them together forever. 

✦·┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈·✦

“Please,brother! I need to give her that present! Pleeease come and drop it here!”Robin begs again on Sunday on her phone. She has left the wedding present in the living room “I was so rushed because the taxi arrived! Please come!”

Sunday sighs in annoyance “I’ll be there”, he ends the call slumping in his chair “You gotta be kidding me,Robin”. He then opens his closet to look for a dress that is appropriate to church. His fingers stop on a new tailored white attire that Robin gave him as a gift the other day. He thought for a minute hesitate to wear it but eventually he made up his mind that he should wear it. 

The weather was nice today; not too hot or cold. Sunday has stood at the church gates for 5 minutes. Robin is probably inside due to her not being in sight outside. He enters the building, the church is well designed. He looks around admiring every carving and painting. The ceremony hasn’t not started because of the lack of people and few staff still decorating. But Robin is still not found, she also hasn’t replied to his text asking her whereabouts. 

He doesn’t know anyone here. Everyone seems busy with chatting and decorating, it is up to himself to find his sister. He went to the back opening each door to find Robin, nowhere to be found. But there is one room left at the end of the hallway. Maybe she is in there. 

Sunday grip tightly on the knob. Why is he feeling nervous suddenly? He twisted the knob, opening the door widely “Oh…” his yellow eyes widened seeing her standing alone in front of a big mirror in the middle of the room. After years of avoiding her. She looks so beautiful in white. She always does… “My apologies. I’m looking for Robin… Is she here?”

Her eyes never left him. She stands up straight making her veil fly gracefully that makes Sunday’s heart beat more intensely “Robin??? She hasn’t arrived yet”

“When i get you,Robin–” 

“Ah” Sunday holds the gift tightly “She said to give you this” he lifted up the pink wrapped gift “She left it at home… Where do I place this?” 

“There” she points at a long table full of gifts and flowers that is placed near her. Sunday hesitated at first for being near her but he has to do it to end this quickly. With shaky legs he approaches the table and drops the gift. So near, so close to her. The sunlight that enters the room shines perfectly on her glittering her white dress

“You look…beautiful”, Sunday gasps himself not realizing he thought out loud “Sorry” 

“It is fine” 

“Congratulations. I am praying for your—” he stops mid sentence. The word ‘for happiness with him’ stuck in his throat “Congratulations on your marriage”

“Thank you” She has been staring on the floor emotionlessly “I’m glad you came” her eyes lays on him. Those eyes. He knows she is in sorrow. “It is nice to see you after a long time. You being this healthy already makes me so happy,Sunday”

His heartache upon hearing she calls him by his stage name. She used to call him by his real name. This tells him he has broken his trust. Lost her love. “I—” he says her name “Are you…happy with him?” 

The question shocked her. Is she? 

She turns around hiding her face “Of— of course I am. I’m finally getting married… I do am happy” 

Sunday frowns, she wiped her tears hiding her sadness “Are you sure?--”

She face him again “I—” 

The door swings open and interrupts them. Her confession “The groom is ready,miss!” the dresser and her assistant approaches her tidying the bride “Oh you are crying! No need to worry. I cried out of joy at my wedding too!” 

Sunday stares at her. It is time for him to leave. Letting her get what she always wanted. Each step leaves the room. Leaving her again but this time forever feels like he is walking in a mud screaming for him to stop and think. He glances at her. Their eyes finally meet, now her eyes speak words that he understands. With a deep breath, he walks out the church in a rush. 

With the bells ringing, the wedding has started “I’m so excited! Come, it is time” 

“Can you give me some space for a minute?”

The dresser and her assistant look at her then smiles “Sure, you are nervous. We’ll be outside” 

With a nod from both of them, they gave the bride some space to calm down. After a few minutes, they both open the door again.

Every wedding guest has arrived and sat excitedly in their chairs as the wedding has started. The groom has already arrived near the altar waiting for his bride. The heavy running echoes the hall to spread the news;-

“The bride! The bride is missing!” The news made everyone gasp. The groom took the news heavily. His heart stops suddenly and he doesn't know how to breathe. Her family ran to the room where she was getting ready and to be greeted with nothingness other than the window was wide open.

Wheres and whys question fills in the building trying to grasp the reason the bride has run away. But only one person isn’t shocked at this news. Robin sits calmly in the long chair smiling. She knows the why and where the bride- her friend is. 

The moment she was left alone. She stands in front of the window, as her heart told her so. There he was. The man who has had her heart since they were children. The man who made a promise for their happiness together finally kept his promise and now he wants to make it come true after years of denial. 

The frowness from her finally smiles in joy seeing him waiting for her. The bride jumped down from the two storey building and he caught her. Without wasting time, he carries her to the car he brought. 

The bride at last finally feels the emotion of getting married. The joy,the happiness, the love she was supposed to feel when with true love finally ignited. As the car drives further and further leaving everything behind for their new chapter together. Holding hand to hand as they leave the city where they grew up and to leave to seek new adventures together. 

At sunset, the sun witnesses their vows together. They finally get the kiss they’ve been craving for. And finally get the touch they’ve been desiring for. 

“I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart for leaving you. Now I won't do that again. I’m stuck with you as you are stuck with me. The eons has made us together, to love and to cherish together until the end”

“And i love you too” the moment she spoke his real name fluttered his heart. It is what was before and what was meant to be. Sunday now has completed the poem he had troubled with finishing; 

My soul has been sewed to you,

Since the birth of me and you,

With the blessing from divinity,

We are bound for eternity.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You can just imagine they did the boombayah in the car, You are welcome. I listened to Call out my name for 3 hours on loop for this

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Be my escape

Written for the @steddiemicrofic challenge, January 2024 edition

Prompt: hole, 404 words

Rated: M

Tags: Fantasy AU, Magic AU, Guard!Steve, Thief!Eddie, Imprisonment, Claustrophobia, Eddie Munson whump, Referenced sex

Notes: Set in the same universe as this one.

People call it the Hole.

That's not its actual name, of course. Steve thinks it fits, though.

He still remembers his last visit. He was just a boy, but his father - newly appointed Captain of the Royal Guard - insisted he come.

The journey was long and tedious, giant waves battering at their boat. When they reached the steel platform far off the coast, he was freezing and nauseous. And then came the descent.

He recalls the warden's boasts as the cage slid into the depths. The magic crystals keeping the structure deep under the ocean from caving in on itself. The intricate enchantments sealing away the inmates’ magic.

What he recalls even better is the moisture and the despair hanging in the stale air. The mounting pressure inside his skull the further down they went.

Today, he's Captain of the Guard himself, but the dread crawling up his spine as he glides downwards is still the same.

The name fits perfectly. This place is a hole. A hole under the sea where families like the Harringtons and the Carvers throw their enemies to rot.

Enemies like Eddie Munson.

As he stalks down the corridors, he wonders what he's doing. He should be glad Eddie got caught. The man is a criminal. A thief. The insufferable bane of his existence.

Didn't find him so insufferable the other night, a voice at the back of his mind gloats. Nor the way his body fit against yours, or the way his mouth felt on your-

He tells it to shut up. He doesn’t have time for this.

The inside of the cell is dark. A figure stirs upright on the metal cot against the wall.

“Finally,” croaks a voice. “Are you the manager of this fine establishment? I have a complaint. The room service sucks and I think there's rats in-"

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Steve sets down his lantern and drops to his knees. “Shut up, will you?”

Silence.

Then …

“Stevie?”

A whisper, a plea.

“Told you not to call me that,” he huffs, already unlocking the shackles around too-skinny wrists. The second they fall away, there's hands in his hair, tracing the shape of his face.

“Shit,” Eddie breathes. “Why- Are you a dream?”

Steve snorts, pulls them both to their feet.

“Sure hope not. Imagine that'd make it difficult to bust you outta here. C'mon, we have no time to lose.”

⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️

Part 3

So I texted @house-of-the-moving-image if I should write more Phantom Thief for this prompt, and they were like "funny you should ask, I just had this idea about a magic high-security prison called The Hole". 🤣

We've got the next bit all figured out already, but this was all I could fit into 404 words.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Garden of Secrets [32] - Viscaria

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and support my loves, it made my whole week, you’re amazing!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Thanks so much to @theskytraveler​ for helping me with the chapter!

Summary: Honesty makes bonds stronger. 

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms, mentions of trauma and violence.

Word Count: 4000

Series Masterlist

The following week was very chaotic, and that was saying something considering what this whole season had been like so far.

Daphne was back from her honeymoon and had a lot of things to share with you, and you weren’t sure if you were ever going to be able to recover from that conversation. It was one thing to know and hear that nightly activities were -as Daphne had called them- pleasurable beyond words and it was another to know despite they were pleasurable beyond words, you still hadn’t…

Consummated.

Because Benedict had told you once that he would only touch you when you fell in love with him and you were not going to get rejected again.

The other thing was that Anthony had tempted fate that night apparently, because now everyone was talking about Colin and Marina. As Lady Whistledown had written on her society paper, Marina was pregnant from another man and she had been since she had got to London. Once the news had broken out, her courtship with Colin was brought to an end immediately and she was sent away from London by the Featheringtons to the countryside and as far as you had heard from Eloise, she was to marry the brother of the baby’s father, since the father was dead.

You shuddered to think what that poor girl was going through.

Colin was quite heartbroken but as Benedict had told you, he was slowly getting better. He and Marina had had the chance to talk before she had left for the countryside, so you figured that had to have cleared out the air at least a little.

Not for the ton, of course. That scandal was to keep them busy for at least a month if you had to guess.

As if all that wasn’t chaotic enough, both Bess and your aunt had decided that they would throw balls back to back; Bess’ ball was tonight while your aunt’s was next week, and you had spent the last week rushing from her house to Bess’s to make sure everything was going smoothly.

“I have a question for you,” Lottie said as she flung herself next to you. You still had hours until you would all go to Bess’ ball, so you had decided to relax in the park a bit. Though you were supposed to focus on your book away from the crowd under a tree, you couldn’t help but steal glances at Benedict who was in a deep conversation with Margery and Henry before you frowned and turned to see Lottie better.

“Yes?”

“So you know how everyone is talking about Marina being…” she lowered her voice, “pregnant out of wedlock.”

“Hasn’t escaped my notice.”

“But how?”

“Sorry?”

“I thought one was supposed to be married to become with child.”

You blinked a couple of times. “Well not—not necessarily,” you managed to say and she took a deep breath.

“I asked mama.”

“Oh dear God.”

“And she says it is an act full of love and desire that should only happen once you’re married.”

“Uh huh,” you said, looking around in an attempt to distract yourself. “Oh look at that, a butterfly—”

“What act?” she cut you off and you let out a whine.

“Lottie.”

“What happens when you’re married?”

“You know what, that’s a really good question,” you pointed out. “And the better question is; why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you’re married,” she answered. “Not to mention, even before you got married you and Benny have been…”

“Debauched?”

“Full of desire,” she whispered and you felt your cheeks burn. “Even before your wedding, you two—”

You cut her off, careful to keep it quiet. “We didn’t do anything before the wedding!”

Nor after, now that you thought about it.

She lowered her voice. “But you kissed.”

“Nothing more!” you whispered back in a haste. “And you’re telling me you and Anthony did not?”

She repressed a proud grin, trying to keep a straight face.

“Perhaps.”

“There you go!”

“But that’s not our subject right now,” she said. “I forgave you after lying to me for months and you will keep it from me?”

“Lottie…”

“My two best friends and the love of my life lied to me, and now you keep another thing from me.”

“You’re devious,” you pointed at her, causing her to smile at you sweetly. “You really are.”

“I’m just hungry for knowledge.”

“You and I seem to have that in common,” you murmured. “Lottie, it’s just…it’s a pleasurable act.”

“That causes one to be pregnant?”

“Not always,” you said. “Marina’s was just bad luck I’d say. It’s only on specific times if you do that act that you become pregnant, it’s a mystery. I heard people say there are ways to prevent it as well, she must have not known.”

“And?”

“And,” you cleared your throat. “When you’re in love, and you desire that person and they desire you back…It’s—well, it’s divine.”

Or so I heard.

She thought for a moment.

“And you knew all this when you married Benny?”

“I didn’t grow up in the ton,” you said. “People talk about it more back in the countryside.”

“And Benny knew as well?”

“…Mm hm,” you pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing but she still saw the look of amusement on your face.

“What does that mean?”

“He’s very well practiced, and that’s the only thing I’ll say about it.”

“You know,” she mused. “There was a lady and one of Benny’s friends during my debut two years ago who were caught in an inappropriate situation at night in her bedchambers, and at their wedding breakfast I asked Benny what that situation was and he only laughed and told me I’d learn after I got married.”

“Wise words from the ton’s horizontal refreshment,” you muttered and she tilted her head.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

“So it’s pleasurable then?” she insisted. “If it is with the one you love?”

“Not to quote Benedict, but you’ll find out soon enough,” you said with a small grin. “Anthony and you will be married before the season is over, you know it as well as I do.”

A bright smile curled her lips, then she took a deep breath.

“I still haven’t forgiven him.”

“How much longer are you planning on making him suffer?”

She let out a giggle. “I would never make him suffer,” she said. “My heart is his completely.”

Your grin slowly faded when your gaze drifted to Benedict chuckling at something Margery had said, then joked back, making Margery laugh. Henry had to have walked away so it was just the two of them, and you felt the bitter taste of jealousy burn your throat before you looked at Lottie.

“So um—are you going to forgive him then?”

“I’m hoping to talk to him tonight at the ball,” she said. “He is coming as well, no?”

“Oh all of them will,” you said. “Even Colin, apparently. Benedict is dragging him there.”

Lottie nodded slowly, then stood up.

“I’d better see if my siblings are up to something, excuse me,” she said and walked away from you. Benedict saw her out of the corner of his eye, then said something to Margery before rushing after Lottie, no doubt to try to talk to her considering she hadn’t forgiven him yet either. Margery looked around, then waved at you and approached you.

“Well hello there,” she said and you offered her a smile.

“Hello.”

“Riveting read?”

“Not quite, but it’s a good excuse to keep myself busy,” you said and she shot you a smile.

“Understandable,” she said. “Can I join you?”

“Sure,” you said and scooted over so that she could sit down.

“We missed you at the party last week,” she said. “Why didn’t you come with Benedict?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I was quite busy,” you said. “At the ball. But he says it was very much fun.”

“Oh it was!” she said, pressing a hand over her chest. “You really should’ve been there Y/N. Jane throws wonderful parties, you simply must come to the next one, I insist.”

“I will,” you said. “And are you coming to the ball tonight?”

“Absolutely,” she said and let out a laugh. “Benedict was just joking about how he has never seen me dance and he has this theory I’m terrible at it. He says he will see at tonight’s ball.”

You could feel your stomach doing a flip. It didn’t really mean anything, nor was it something that was ought to make you feel this jealous but—

Alright, this was ridiculous.

They were friends after all, so of course they were to joke around, there was nothing for you to feel bad about. You cleared your throat and smiled.

“Does he?”

“My mother used to give me these endless lessons until my dancing was perfect,” she made a face. “I hated it, but I do admit it comes handy at the balls.”

“Things we do for the ton,” you said as your eyes fell on Benedict who was making his way to you and Margery stood up.

“I should leave you two be.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to—”

“No no, it’s no issue,” she said. “I should find Lucy anyway. See you tonight Y/N.”

“See you,” you said as she walked away, and you watched Benedict come closer to you.

“The ton’s horizontal refreshment?” he asked and you repressed a laugh at the look of complete puzzlement on his face.

“You talked to Lottie?”

“Talked at her before she—did you seriously call me the ton’s horizontal refreshment?”

You shrugged your shoulders, adapting a look of complete innocence.

“I could’ve called you the town harlot,” you pointed out. “But I’m nicer than that.”

A laugh escaped from his lips and he motioned at your side. “May I?”

“Of course,” you said and he sat down beside you, making your heart skip a beat.

“So what brought that on, exactly?”

“She was curious about what happens when one gets married,” you said. “You know, with the Marina scandal and everything.”

“Ah,” he said and paused for a moment. “And what did you say?”

“Well I certainly didn’t say she would learn after getting married, which is more information that you gave her,” you pointed out. “Hypocrite.”

“It was not my place to inform her on that,” he defended himself and turned to look at you. “Please tell me you didn’t tell her it’s unpleasant.”

“Wh- of course I did not!” you said in a haste. “Everything aside, I don’t want to listen to Anthony whining about it.”

Benedict made a face. “Let’s just stop talking about that because I do not want that picture in my mind.”

You hummed. “How is Colin?”

“He’s heartbroken but he will pull himself together,” he said. “I’m not sure if Anthony will though. Third scandal involving our family in one season.”

You shrugged. “So far.”

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I honestly think that he might have a heart attack if another scandal happens, and I do not want to be a Viscount.”

You grinned at him before you saw Margery and Lucy walking by the park out of the corner of your eye, and lowered your glances to your book, smoothing out the corner of the page. Benedict frowned.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?” you asked, lifting your head. “Oh yeah, sure. Just thinking about tonight’s ball, Bess put so much effort into it so I hope it goes well.”  

“I’m sure it will.”

“And uh—Margery is coming as well?”

“They all are,” Benedict said. “Should be fun.”

You tried to smile, then nodded your head.

“Yeah,” you said. “Should be fun.”

                                      *

In all honesty, it really was a fun ball. Bess was a wonderful host, albeit a busy one because you hadn’t had any chance to talk to her or Josie or Andrew for that matter. You had hoped to talk to Lottie but you barely had the chance to see her before she had excused herself from the ball after one dance, saying she was still tired from the park. Anthony had left around five minutes after Lottie had, but they were the only ones because every other guest seemed to be having so much fun.

Felix had somehow convinced you into being a part of the next dance which required you to switch partners every once in a while, and you were now paired with him while Lucy danced with Henry and Benedict danced with Margery. You let out a laugh and let him turn you as the dance required.

“An artist and a good dancer,” you said, taking a step forward with him. “Full of surprises, are you not?”

“I hope my art skills are better than my dancing skills,” he said with a smile and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I’m not complaining,” you said. “Any new paintings you have been working on?”

“Just drawings,” he said. “And you? Have you discovered a new flower yet?”

You scoffed a laugh, “Mm hm, I’ll name it Felix,” you said. “And when will I see the drawings? Or does that privilege only belong to my brother-in-law?”

He suppressed a smile and stole a look at the dancing couples, and you winked at him.

“You two are such close friends after all,” you said airily as he held out his arm and you put your hand on it. Felix grinned.

“We talk a lot about art,” he played along. “He has many interesting ideas. It’s quite inspiring.”

“I’m sure it is,” you said, still smirking and clapped your hands together along with other couples, then switched partners and Henry smiled at you.

“Mrs. Bridgerton.”

“Sir Granville,” you greeted Henry and put your hand on his shoulder. “Having fun?”

“Quite so, you must give my gratitude to Lady Hadfield,” he said. “A wonderfully planned ball.”

“There’s nothing Bess can’t do wonderfully, except for keeping her plants alive,” you commented and let him twirl you before you took a step.

“Our lovesick couple is back in the honeymoon phase then?” he asked and you shot him a lighthearted glare.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

“No?”

“Not at all,” you said with a smirk, stealing a look at Lucy who was now dancing with Benedict, “We were simply enjoying the fresh air.”

Henry chuckled, then you both clapped your hands and switched partners, Benedict grabbing you by the hand to twirl you, making you giggle.

“Hello Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Hello to you too Mrs. Bridgerton,” he grinned at you, “How are you on this fine evening?”

“Enjoying the ball, and yourself?”

“Enjoying the sight of the most beautiful lady at the ball as we speak,” he said and you scrunched up your nose at him, ignoring the burning in your cheeks.

“Ever the romantic,” you teased him. “I should write you a sonnet or something, to pay back the favor. Can’t have you covering that whole front.”

He let out a laugh and you both circled each other as the dance required.

“A sonnet,” he said. “That sounds lovely. Will you carve it on a stone with a knife or something?”

“That does sound romantic now that you mention it,” you said. “And a stone can be a weapon as well, so you would have a sonnet you can actually use if need be.”

“Ever the practical,” he teased you back and you both clapped hands along with other couples, the music coming to a stop. Laughter and chattering filled the dance floor as you dropped a curtsy and Benedict bowed.

“Come on, let’s grab drinks,” he said and offered you his arm, and you put your hand over it so that you both could walk away from the dance floor. Benedict grabbed two glasses from the tray, then gave one to you.

“Is Lottie alright, do you think?” you asked and he nodded.

“She said she was, before reminding me she still wasn’t talking to me.”

You repressed a laugh and stole a look at Colin who was talking to Penelope by the corner.

“And Colin?”

“Pen will make him snap out of it,” he said. “Being around her always makes him feel better. Look at him, smiling already.”

You tilted your head, turning to glance at them but before you could comment on it, someone touched your back, making you look behind you.

“Andrew,” you said, turning around to see him better. “This is a good surprise after what, two weeks?”

“I know,” he said, giving you an apologetic smile. “I have been busy. Hello Benedict.”

“Hello Andrew.”

“Busy with a certain artist?”

“Maybe,” he winked at you. “Where is he anyway?”

“He was just on the dance floor,” you said and Andrew looked through the crowd, then nodded.

“Alright, I’ll be back but before I forget,” he said. “Y/N, Josie says you’ve been worried about the letter from your father and I get that but trust me, even if they do come here there’s no—” he stopped talking as your eyes widened, your heart dropping to your stomach. Benedict slowly turned to look at you before turning to Andrew with a frown and Andrew glanced between you, then hissed in a breath.

“And you haven’t had the chance to tell him,” he muttered. “Damn it. Sorry, I thought…”

“Your parents are coming here?” Benedict asked you and you pursed your lips together, then cleared your throat.

“Andrew, do you mind?”

“Yeah I’ll just—” he motioned at the other side of the ballroom. “Go and mess up another couple’s relationship on my way there so that you won’t feel alone. Sure.”

“Great, you do that,” you said and he squeezed at your arm in an assuring manner before walking away from you. You took a deep breath, your heart beating in your throat before you nodded at Benedict.

“Come with me?” you asked and made your way through the crowd with Benedict following you. You both left the ballroom and you climbed the stairs, then turned left and opened the first door which turned out to be one of the guest rooms. Benedict stepped inside after you, then closed the door behind him and put his hands in his pockets after a pause, clearing his throat.

“So?” he said, his voice completely calm. “What is happening?”

You heaved a sigh and ran a hand over your face.

“My uh…my father sent a letter,” you managed to say and Benedict frowned.

“To you?”

“No, to my uncle,” you motioned outside vaguely. “He talks about wanting to host Teddy for the rest of the season, which will not happen by the way, over my dead body,” you added in a haste. “It’s just a trick to ask for more money from my uncle, at least that’s what he says.”

Benedict nodded. “And they’re coming here?”

“It was implied on the letter,” you murmured, biting inside your cheek. “But my uncle thinks they won’t.”

“And you?”

You could feel your whole body stiffening and it was so familiar to you that it made you scoff, then you shrugged your shoulders.

“I don’t know,” you said curtly. “Father didn’t send another letter.”

“But why wouldn’t you tell me earlier? When did—” he stopped talking as a look of realization dawned on his face, making you shift your weight.

“That’s what you were going to tell me,” he said slowly. “Earlier.”

You pressed your lips together, fixing your gaze on the wall as you crossed your arms.

“That’s why you…” Benedict let out a breath, nodding his head. “Now it makes sense. You wanted to tell me, and I was at a party.”

That familiar feeling of defenselessness sent a shiver down your spine, making you frown before you cleared your throat.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said almost stoically. “It’s fine.”  

“Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“No need to be,” you cut him off, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sinking in your stomach as you rubbed at your wrist, his eyes following your movements. “We don’t even need to talk about this really.”

“I think we do.”

“We do not.” You shook your head, your mouth dry all of a sudden. “I’m fine.”

“If they come here—”

“I can handle it,” you interrupted him again and rolled your shoulders back. “It’s fine. I don’t need—I can handle it, even if they do come here. I don’t need anyone’s help, I’m fine.”

That soft light appeared in his eyes and he stepped closer to you to pull you into his arms, heaving a sigh.

“Oh my stubborn girl…” he murmured into your hair, his hand cradling the back of your head as you rested your forehead on his chest. His other arm snaked around your waist and you felt the stiffness of your muscles relax slowly, almost melting into his touch. The music coming from downstairs slowly washed away from your ears as your hearing became muffled and you felt the tears rushing to your eyes, making your whole body tense up again. You took a shaky breath and pulled away from him even if you wanted nothing more than just stay there in his embrace forever, then you ran a hand over your face.

“Are you alright?” his voice was gentle and you nodded.

“Yeah I just don’t—I don’t do that anymore.”

“Do what?”

“That whole crying nonsense,” you rasped out, blinking back the tears as you went to sit down on the bed. A silence fell upon the room before he approached you, and crouched down to look at you while you played with the ring around your finger, your gaze growing distant as you found yourself lost in thought until you heard his voice.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“Why not tell me afterwards?”

You shrugged your shoulders, nibbling on your lip.

“We weren’t on best terms,” you muttered. “I could not.”

A gentle smile curled his lips and he entwined his fingers with yours, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb as if trying to assure you.

“No matter what happens between us,” he insisted. “No matter what, I will always protect you. Nothing could change that.”

It felt as if someone was squeezing at your heart inside your chest but you managed to find your voice.

“Benedict, if they do come here…” you trailed off and he shook his head.

“Even if they do, nothing will happen,” he said, his voice determined. “I promised you, remember? No one will touch a hair on your head, ever.”

You dragged your gaze to his as you swallowed thickly, then nodded. For a moment, the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat, the desire rushing through you. If you leaned in just a little to brush your lips against his, you could—

Your head whipped around as the sound of what was probably a vase falling down to floor and smashing reached inside and you heard Andrew’s laugh and Felix shushing him before someone slammed a door down the hallway. That was enough to snap you out of the haze you were in and you pulled back, blinking a couple of times to focus.

“Can we, um…” you muttered and Benedict seemed to understand what you were going to ask.

“Back home or back to the ball?”

“It’d be rude to Bess if we went home, we must stay,” you said as he stood up but you didn’t let go of his hand and stood up as well. You gave him a small smile, swinging your hands absentmindedly and Benedict raised your hand to press a chaste kiss on it, then shot you that lopsided grin of his.

“Would you spare me another dance, Mrs. Bridgerton?”  

The simple joke made you feel as if that heaviness in your chest was lifted off, letting you breathe again. A giggle escaped from your lips and before you fixed a serious expression on your face, pretending to consider it for a second.

“I suppose I can,” you mused in an airy manner and tugged at his hand to lead him to the door. “You are quite easy on the eye after all.”

Chapter 33

[roseglazedlens]

⦑ THE FUCKING DEAD ⦒ RESOLUTION [PART 5]

➠ series masterlist | ⏪part 4 | ⏩part 6 |

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓┇𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑┇𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐅𝐈𝐂┇𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 LEON S. KENNEDY / CARLOS OLIVEIRA / JILL VALENTINE / ADA WONG X AFAB GN! READER As the rescue team retraces footsteps of their MIA agents, they find out the virus is more than what it appears. Waiting to be opened like a pandora's box inside this eerie mansion. NOTES: 🔞18+ READERS ONLY - NO MINORS🔞 descriptions of blood, zombies, injuries, death, realistic dolls, virus, fire weapons, rotten food, and mould. mentioned pegging. many action elements, a little closer to the plot reveal. includes two minor oc's in the unit. written in chris and rebecca's pov (reader is mentioned, not present). 8.7 k words | reblogs appreciated!

EMPLOYEE QUARTERS – 3:02 AM.

Who knows since when, the front door entered by the last squad is bolted shut, windows on the first and second floor barred. Inspection around the perimeter reports none of the side doors can be budged. Except one, secretly veiled away through a narrow, overgrown path only accessible from the backstreet.

An inconspicuous door can be found at the end of the passage, made of the same stone brick wall attached onto the thick mahogany door, vines enshrouding the exterior.

Presumably, this is the employee’s entrance. Much less glorious than the fountain driveway view where an imaginary doorman invites you into the residence by the ten-feet-tall double doors. This entry desperately needs weeding; the door is worn, rusted metal handles and weak hinges signal negligence in maintenance for years.

Chris, leading in first with his impromptu rescue squad of six, pushes down the copper handle, and lets it swing out. Wood squeaks slowly until the hinges fully extend, thudding serenely to a stop.

From within, a hollow void. Not a sound, nor a creak to be heard from the blackness of the echo chamber besides the six footsteps. A cold chill like a woman’s breath blows onto their necks from the outside, slowly swallowed by the thick odour of mildew and mould.

Someone rummages for a light switch, clicks it, and clicks it the other way again. Power’s out, of course. Chris presses on his earpiece, and just as he thought, communication to the outside is already fizzing into distortions. There will be no one from the outside to rescue them once they venture into the thick of this freak house.

They turn on the flashlight attachment on their rifles for convenience. It’s going to be difficult navigating through the dark, and vital for the unit to err on the side of caution. Who knows what ambushes Arias had conjured for an unwelcomed surprise, knowing his guarded nature.

“Agent Chambers. Do we have location?” Chris asks.

“I can’t track our exact location until the GPS is fixed. But I can tell you that the unit should be around south-east of the mansion according to their last known coordinates, which is approximately… that way.” Rebecca draws out an old-school compass from her pouch and points towards the left side of the hallway according to her device.

“Thank you, Chambers.” Chris states blankly. Rebecca taps her head down to acknowledge once. The air is damp with bitterness, only felt between them.

The front of the entrance invites them to a mudroom with a wide nook sweeping along the broads of the wall. The inner wood panel is enveloped by speckles of mould; more than half of the hangers are still occupied. Chris traces a thin sheet of dust along a puffer jacket.

“Captain, take a look at this.” A thick Hispanic accent gravels out. The figure behind Chris is almost as tall as himself. His face concealed but his personality undeniable focused and direct. Chris vaguely remembers the man’s name through a rushed introduction, Gabriel, sent by B.S.A.A.’s South American branch as a gesture of goodwill.

Gabriel points to the vague darkness behind himself. Chris turns away from the racks, directed into the lounge room around the corner. It is adorned with modest furniture: a few couches, a television, openly connected to the kitchen, and long dining table.

Above the table, there lies a bitten sandwich with splotches of green mould, mugs drank only halfway and meals abandoned before they were done. Leaving the uncut vegetables, dairy, raw beef, as they were for the inhabitation of fungi.

Everyone in the room right now is grateful for Rebecca’s last-minute idea for the masks to give them some coverage for the stench.

“November 19. Tch, all the food had expired five months ago. What a waste, tch.” This voice is deeper in timbre than Gabriel’s with a tendency to click his tongue at any inconvenience. He must be the other assigned unit, Miguel.

“That week was the first A-Virus attack in the world.” Rebecca comments solemnly. Can there be such a coincidence?

“Whatever they had to do, they left in a hurry.” Chris glances around the room once more. What business could they have to evacuate so suddenly?

“A-Are they going to be o-okay?” Nerves are getting a hold of the rookie; the flashlight circle from Johnny’s rifle is visibly shuddering. “What if those m-m-monsters got to them?”

“Can’t be since there’s no struggle. Like they’d blipped in time.” Mike suggests the possibility by recreating the events with his free hand, even uttering a fainted pooof! drifting into the silence for sound effect.

“Nothing had been in and out of this place for a week. Whoever’s left might be starving.” Unless all the employees had left way earlier. But there is an aching dread in Chris’ gut that fears this may not be the case. Just like the other MIA agents who are somewhere in this lodging. There must be more to this story.

“Search for any survivors in the area and stay in line of sight. Don’t ever split up.” Chris orders, looking directly into the darkness of the narrow hallway beyond.

“Yes, Captain!” Five voices bark in response.

- - -

It feels like they had walked for an eternity, through a series of sharp turns, with no visual signs of the end, only mould growing thicker and thicker the further they venture. It was the same portrait, same console table, decorated by the same damned tablecloth over and over again.

On top of the white laced cloth, there is always a baby, barely three months old.

It shook Rebecca in the beginning until she notices the infant is completely still. It’s only a doll. A very realistic one at that, dressed from head to toe in pink and frills.

After what seems like the tenth doll, the discomfort in her brews whenever Rebecca passes by. She can’t help but notice how glassy their eyes, how those irises and pupils look too damn realistic. Like real human eyes, staring. Like it can cry. Every time light hits those pearly beads, whatever light the darkness can spare anyway, Rebecca swears the doll is looking directly at her each time. She wonders if she had gone crazy.

Perhaps it was one of Arias’ secret hobbies… like Arias’ pegging fetish she unfortunately discovered in the depths of a gossip forum. Hey, it’s not her place to say what a billionaire can or can’t do for recreation if it isn’t harming anyone… besides his own crack, maybe.

That took her mind off the creepy temporarily. Nobody else seem to mind, or if they did, they didn’t say a thing. Chris in particular—his mind never left the objective.

“Anyone home? This is B.S.A.A. We’re looking for survivors. Any survivors? Survivors, please show yourself.” Chris announces their presence at every door that meets him along the corridor, bellowing out to make survivors known of their rescue.

But only the echo of himself returns his call, corridor after corridor, room after room, in the humble living quarters that is nothing more than a bunk bed and two desks. Not a soul nor a zombie in sight. But they haven’t given up yet. There is still plenty of the mansion unexplored.

The next door they encounter is different, standing out prominently against the rest with its steel surface, while the rest mahogany wood. And despite this whole area already zoned off from general access, a sinister sign on top warns that this place is off limits to even most employees.

The six of them look at each other and decide silently in unison to investigate inside.

LABORATORY – 3:17 AM

Chris is the first to enter the laboratory, stepping inside the darkness without hesitation to encourage his subordinates to follow suit without fear. Some sticky sensation is caught between their soles, leaving their every footstep. Mike notices first, and he aims his flashlight onto the ground.

Blood red pools, splattered across the bleached tiles in trails like spider lilies, painted across white coats of motionless bodies only several feet away from them… fifty of them. Beyond that, a daring splash of struggle across the mighty propane tank hulking over the centre of the laboratory.

Rebecca winces at the sight; her first time witnessing such a bloodshed. Chris notices, bringing a step forward to shield her from the sight.

“What the fuck happened here…” Chris growls. Before he can take another bloodied step, he hears someone making a retched groan.

It was Johnny, tightening his vocals to hold back a scream, but instead, it erupts into a high pitch shriek of fear instead.

The bodies react to the sound, starting to move. At first, only slight like the trick of an eye. Then, the torsos rise in isolation, head turning slow almost 180 degrees, eyes affixed on the intruders. Their skin ashen grey, veins and arteries pop out freshly, where the stench is the most putrid here.

All six soldiers ready their rifles. Avoiding big movements, slowing their limbs backwards to the way out. The zombie hoard of many dozens in front of them matches their pace, unsure whether friend or enemy.

Something falls. Slipping away from Rebecca’s back pocket, a metallic cylinder case—long and thin, that a ballpoint pen will fit perfectly inside. It crashes onto the floor, a light thud. But in the quiet room with nothing but hostile hisses and crackling of bones, the zombies pounce at the same time at the sign of confirmation.

Gunshots fire, without restraint, bullets whizzing across the room, taking aim. Shots pierce into the desaturated skin, but no blood manifests from those wounds. The water source that pumps into their hearts had dried up a long time ago. Even bullets hitting directly into the skull merely stuns them temporarily, and they rise back onto their feet in no time.

The unit is very effective and spares little ammunition for the unnecessary—but they are solely six humans in an army of undead. They can’t hold them off forever. If they are cornered, that’s it.

Rebecca, however, has her eyes set on something else instead of the massacre in front of her.

My case…. Where is my case! She thinks as her eyes dart around the ground in desperation, between legs and fallen bodies. Something shiny under a chair peeks out in the corner of her eye.

There it is! Despite every fibre of her gut opposing her, Rebecca advances further inside to retrieve it at all costs. She doesn’t dare to stray her eyes away from the container, fearing it will escape her again. Someone kicks it; the metal leaps and rolls near the lab console next to the large cylinder tank.

She makes her way over and tries to lay her rifle on top of the console. It slides due to its slanted surface, so she leans her rifle against the tank for support.

Some of Rebecca’s right palm brushes the metal sheet, and immediately, a stinging heat like a million thorns set her hand ablaze. She flings her arm away, winces, and notes the parts of skin that contacted the tank is patched red with small cysts forming.

The propane tank can easily fit 200 gallons inside. With closer observation, she can hear the flow of water bubbling, churning in its mechanism, pushing out steaming sounds. Rebecca notes that the tank is connected by ductwork.

“What’re you doing, Rebecca!?” Chris explodes, and Rebecca jolts in place, bringing her consciousness back to the present where she remembers they are amid a zombie attack.

She plants her entire body flat onto the ground, detecting the cylinder stuck under the console through a thin gap. The console isn’t secured to the floor, so Rebecca tries budging it to no avail. It’s too heavy.

Rebecca shoves her arm into the gap; her fingers slid in successfully, but it’s stuck on the protruding bone of her wrist. She outstretches her fingers, the tip of it almost reaching the roundness she is seeking. She just needs a bit more distance.

“Rebecca! Out, now!” She can hear Chris warn from afar. “This is an order!”

“One second!” Rebecca thrusts in a bit harder, and a bit more of her wrist enters at the cost of rough friction scratching her wrist bone. Her nail catches it, and she rolls it underneath the pads of her fingers. Now she just needs to lea…

……Wait. Wait, wait, wait. She can’t leave. Her wrist is jammed. Rebecca can’t take it out even if she uses her entire body weight to lean against the pull. Her face is still planted and vulnerable.

Danger is advancing ever the closer. She can hear it even if she can’t see it. The irregular beats of staggering footsteps increase in volume, snarls getting curious. It won’t be long before she is discovered. But what other choice does Rebecca have now?

As if a sign from above, dim light starts to creep under the table as it lifts, freeing her wrist. Rebecca grabs the case securely into her hand and pulls it back.

Right behind her is Chris, forearm muscles pulsing in tension as he hoists the entire console, slamming it face first onto the two zombies eyeing at them both. They tumble backwards and groans.

Chris’ face darkens with rage, grabbing Rebecca’s shoulder around his arm as if to caution her reckless behaviours, and commands: “You. With me. Now.”

Rebecca, simply glad that she is still alive, nods and lets Chris pull her up in one forceful motion. As soon as Rebecca’s weight is back on her feet, he pushes her along with both arms, propping the rifle under his right arm, tunnelling his vision to the exit. But zombies are visible from all four corners. They are surrounded.

Abruptly, a cold arm wraps Chris from behind, ensnaring the captain in place to serve him on a platter to its zombie friends. Chris squeezes the rifle closer to his sides, and with the strength of his entire triceps, thrust the blunt edge of his bump stock into his assaulter’s torso. He can hear bones cracking, weakening, enough to free Chris of its tight grasp.

With practised ease, Chris adjusts his finger swiftly to the trigger; other hand over the handle in under a full second and fires at the next target leaping his way.

Rebecca wants to help Chris too. She presses down an empty space on her back. She had left her rifle next to the tank still. And now, the HK416 is idly resting behind five limping enemies with no intentions of letting her pass by.

That rifle is practically gone as far as she knows, so she unholsters her back-up pistol, her trusty Samurai’s Edge, tailored to her own needs and got her through thick and thin.

Rebecca knows she isn’t as much of a good shot as Chris is, lacking in almost a decade of combat experience behind Chris, but she kept up a fair deal of gun training and hand to hand combat during her research years for emergency purposes. And now, those skills are coming in handy.

Her shots are careful, only decisive ones of enemies that come between her way to the exit. Always looking over her blind spots in wariness because Rebecca knows one bite from a zombie is all it needs to take her out. She can’t be messing around here.

A zombie leaps directly into Rebecca as she heads checks, baring its fangs and curling its squirming fingers. Too close for a shot, she raises her arms to a block, tossing them aside when the pale hands advance closer to her neck. The nails are sharp, clawing into Rebecca’s skin as she shoves them away. Rebecca front kicks the thing away, and while it stumbles, gave her the perfect opportunity to take out its head in a burst shot.

But no matter how many enemies the two fended off, the path becomes more and more obscured by zombie heads and limbs, leaving no room for breath besides defending their own.

Gunshots other than their own starts firing around them. The other four comrades are clearing the way while guarding the exits.

“Captain! Rebecca!” Mike cries out.  

For a brief second, a window of opportunity surfaces, and their eyes catch sight of the clear line of exit between them and the zombies.

“Run! Just run!” Chris’ voice thunders over the gnarly crew of zombies.

But Rebecca didn’t need instructions for this one. They dash straight for the door, and when they passed, they didn’t stop either.

The others did a head start, already racing away; Chris and Rebecca eventually joining them at the end of the line, with Chris slamming the steel door in their enemies’ faces before he leaves. It will slow them briefly, but that won’t last forever.

The six of them sprint along the corridor, and a loud clang penetrates the air. Zombies had destroyed the entire metal door itself, following right behind, trying to overtake each other, despite the narrow width of the hallway that fits only two people side by side.

The hoard collides and tramples on each other, but their chase is relentless, showing no mercy until each and every one of their prey is devoured. Closing in distance, an inch at a time, but slowly and surely catching up to inevitable fatigued limbs of humans.

“W-We’re not going to make it, Ca-” Johnny, coming first in the sprint, sobs, but he isn’t allowed to slow down no matter even if his heavy backpack weighs him down, no matter how deep his leg sores. The sudden brake will trip everyone behind him, toppling his captain and colleagues together. And it will be all because of him. He can’t stop.

Chris can hear the stomping footsteps grow louder; he can feel it on the floor too, the wooden boards quaking in fury from withholding such strength and speed in the tight path. He turns his head, and the outreached arms of the zombies are within a few feet away from his own neck.

Chris had to think fast—no, don’t think. More time thinking means less action. They’re quickly approaching the end of the hallway several yards away, and beyond that darkness. It can be a dead end too, what then?

Till he hears a chime.

Tick, tick, tick.

He sees it. A grandfather clock propping up on the side of the wall, right before the cloud of darkness. Chris can use that.

First, it was Johnny who made it to the other side of the clock. Then Miguel, Gabriel. Then Rebecca. Then Mike. And when it was Chris turn, he spins his body 180 degrees, meeting the hoard eye to eye.

He claws all ten of his fingernails onto the intricate engravings into the heavy wood. With a heavy shove, pulls the entire seven feet tall clock sideways to barricade the corridor.

All can hear the break of the bell when it crashes and the mechanism within fails. The hourly melody starts playing abruptly in malfunction, failing its fundamental ability to read the current time. Only the crooked and solemn tone resonates throughout the hollow vicinity.

That won’t be enough. They can still crawl underneath, between and over the gaps of the wood. Chris readies aim between the gaps, waiting for the zombies to peek through.

But Chris can’t see any heads. Or any movement, matter of fact. They freeze at the call of the chimes, and after a few seconds, their bodies retreat. Over the gap, Chris can see zombies with their backs turned, returning into the darkness of the hallway once more like they were never there in the first place.

There is a moment of silence, first. A moment to catch their breath. But this moment doesn’t last when Chris storms towards Rebecca, grabbing her forearm, forcing her to take a backwards a step.

“What the fuck were you thinking? You coulda died!” Chris seethes with a face of pure rage; everyone clenches their fists in fear.

“C’mon now, Capt. Go easy on her.” Mike tries to stand between Chris and Rebecca, a valiant attempt to diffuse Chris’ temper, but is unsuccessful.

“No. There’s no need.” Rebecca assures him. This is something between her and her captain. Her own accountability she had decided to take on herself.

“Would you like to explain yourself?” Chris asks, his tone abrasive.

“It was important.” She tries to brush aside the issue. Rebecca can’t tell her about the metal case, not yet. He will be too protective about it.

Chris takes one big step to close the gap, she can feel the heat from his eyes scorching her.

“Chris! I need you to trust me on this!” Rebecca pleads, though it doesn’t provide the clarification Chris wanted at all.

“That’s Captain Redfield to you!” Chris roars, and all sounds turn still.

He pauses, immediately regretting his words and tone. Once again, Chris gazes directly into her eyes that displayed only sincerity. This isn’t like the open book personality Chris knows of her. Something is up. Something Rebecca doesn’t want to share. He can’t push her—what kind of person will that make him?

Only his final thought reaches her ears. “More important than your own life?”

The room turns silent. Rebecca’s answer says a lot without saying anything at all.

The grip tightens on her arm, and Rebecca flinches. This is when Chris sees the state of the arm he is grabbing—secondary burns, bruised wrist, and strips of fresh blood free-flowing from both arms.

“…Get her fixed up.” Chris releases the arm gently, so it doesn’t fall too hard, releasing out a heavy sigh that sounds older than his years.

“Roger, Captain.” Johnny lets down the backpack of supplies with relief.

“Anyone else injured?” Chris queries the group, significantly calmer since his reflection. He casts his eyes over everyone, deliberately avoiding Rebecca’s.

“I think I broke my foot.” Gabriel was running fine before, but after the adrenaline had died down, he begins to feel every pain on his leg. He now staggers and the injured foot is hovered slightly.

“Let me have a look.” Rebecca gets down onto her knees to examine the foot. She advises him to roll up his pant leg. The spot is swollen red and soft, and it flinches when touched. Rebecca asks him to move his ankle: he can’t.

“It’s a fracture. You might not be able to move your leg for a while.” Rebecca pats herself up. “Ice would be ideal here but nothing we can do now. There are some bandages in the first aid. That should help with the swelling.”

“Alrighty, I needa resupply anyway! Those zombies took quite a few mags.” Mike is already three magazines down in his front pouch.

Rebecca needs a resupply too; there should be spare rifle in there for emergencies. Her Samurai’s Edge is reliable, but she needs something stronger if she wants to survive the rest of this journey. She can’t risk turning back and aggravating the zombie hoard once more.

The fresh face unzips the backpack, reaching in. Initially, puzzled, then slowly morphs into the face of horror. His calm searching turns into frustrated shuffling, emptying out the contents of the bag one by one.

Lying on the ground are bags after bags of military rations, counting to fifty bags. After a while, he gives up. Everyone is fully aware now of his royal fuck up. Johnny had picked up the wrong backpack on his way in.

“Come on, rookie! You had one job!” Gabriel starts yelling, losing whatever composure he had just a moment ago.

“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, sir!” repeats Johnny’s brittle apologies, fists trembling.

“Qué pinche pendejo eres… tch.” Miguel grumbles to himself, and as an act of self-comfort, massages his hand with each other and feeling the wedding ring on his hand.

“You motherfucker!” Gabriel tries to rise, and almost trips over his broken ankle when he finds it unsteady. Johnny rushes in to support him.

“Mind ya business!” Gabriel flails his arms at the poor child, before lowering himself down slowly through a strained grunt. “I’ve got a fucking broken leg here ‘cause of you! You shoulda be glad I can’t whoop your ass right now! Once this foot is working again, you’ll be sorry!”

“It’s not that bad, really…” Mike tries to console, but this time, it’s more a desperate attempt for self-reassurance.

“Stay out of this, American.” Gabriel snaps back.

“Enough. Both of you. We’ll find a way out of this.” Chris interrupts before things escalate too far.

“Tch. And what do you suggest, Captain?” Miguel scoffs.

There’s no point in changing what can’t be changed. They can only adapt to what they have not. Be it without supplies or ammo. There is always a way around, if it means taking things slow or conserving ammo for their future fights. However…

Chris peeks at Rebecca’s arm. Her skin is turning white from blood loss. She needs first aid, ASAP.

“Let’s look around. Maybe there are supplies.” Chris says.

“There better be. This leg’s not gonna fix itself.”

KITCHEN / LAUNDRY – 3:39 AM.

Johnny had offered to carry Gabriel, but he refused without sparing a glance at the rookie’s face. But he didn’t complain when Miguel haul him instead, all whilst announcing their passive aggression about incompetent American soldiers and how they can only trust each other.

Meanwhile, Chris is focused on getting problems solved than whining about them. There must be a weaponry, maybe medical supplies somewhere in this damn fancy house. If only he can figure out how this foreign layout works.

The end of the corridor spreads out into a large open space, giving them much needed room to explore and not bump into each other shoulder to shoulder. There is a kitchen if they continue straight, enough to fit an army of private chefs with a glass room of wine display proudly to the side.

And towards the right, there is a laundry room. Beside it, a door that hangs a sign: [STORAGE AREA]

Hopefully they will find what they need here.

STORAGE ROOM – 3:41 AM.

For a storage room, it is quite spacious. Cardboard boxes stack high to the ceiling around the room, labelled with its contained items: [CLEANING], [MEDICAL], [AMMUNITION]. They look around potential hiding spots for zombies: there is none. It seems like they are safe for now. And for that, the unit is relieved.

“Alright. Let’s get you fixed up.” Rebecca immediately starts rummaging through the medical drawer. Miguel carries and rests the injured onto a large cardboard box for his treatment, then finds himself in the ammunition box.

This detour is much welcomed by everyone. After restocking what they need, hope has returned—whatever they can afford in the present state of things—uncoiling the tension brewing inside each of the soldiers. Chris can even hear Mike’s good-humoured banter ripples a warm laugh through Gabriel and Miguel. And Johnny is chattering next to them.

Chris relaxes his guard too, finally, for the first time today. As captain, he is always expected to be one to straighten his subordinates. And he does. Sometimes even at the cost of having his emotions get to him. Like just now, with Rebecca.

Sometimes, what the team needs is not just a guy yelling at their faces, but rather someone with Mike’s charm, or Rebecca’s friendliness to light up the room and boost squad morale.

Which Chris appreciated them for—doing the things he can’t do as captain. As captain, he must always remain a respectful distance from his team. He is the most senior member of the squad and must act that way even when situations are dire.

That got him thinking about his old team, still nowhere to be found, where their long history of acquaintance allows the lines of authority to blur. Many of those missions with them are often exchanged with laughs…

Chris bumps his arm onto a table beside him. Atop lays a vintage typewriter, a piece of paper is stuck to it.

It has been an unspoken protocol between S.T.A.R.S to document their adventures on the go, in case an accident occurs, so their stories are remembered and not forgotten. That ritual followed Chris and his team into B.S.A.A. He picks up the note; the ink is still very faintly lukewarm.

To whoever is reading this,

There is something really creepy about this mansion. It’s just too dang quiet. Where on earth is everyone? I know that Arias should be on a plane to a different continent now, so nobody’s home but—

“…Ch-.” A voice can be heard in the air while he reads; he pushes the sound out to focus.

…But I feel a chill down my back. If you’re in this room now, ge—

A heavy hand slams onto the table, winces, then goes back on the table again. The entire forearm is bandaged, and the palm is wrapped in some translucent cling film.

“Chris! I’m talking to you.” Rebecca taps her foot impatiently.

“And I heard you. You don’t have to say my name twice.” Chris looks at her for a second and brings his eyes down back to paper, reading between the blurred lines. “I saw you were tending to Gabriel when you were in a much worse state. You should prioritise yourself first.”

“I actually called you three times!” Rebecca clicks her tongue, crossing her arms now.

Chris shrugs. Rebecca continues when she realises he isn’t going to say anything else.

“I can take care of myself, don’t worry, captain.” She utters the word captain with much disdain that it irks his eyebrow slightly.

“Suit yourself.” Chris pretends to read, but Rebecca is still staring intently, so he asks: “How can I help you, Chambers?”

She picks the paper out of his hands, and declares: “Maybe we should address the elephant in the room.”

“There is nothing to discuss.” Chrisfolds his arms to match hers.

“Clearly there is. Or you wouldn’t be ignoring me.” Rebecca’s voice comes out a little louder than it should, sounding throughout the room as everyone peeks at the duo. Chris doesn’t need an audience for their petty drama, lest appearing unprofessional to his own personnel.

“Let’s talk outside.”

The two promptly walk to the exit, with Rebecca behind Chris so he can’t escape. They leave the room, facing the wet laundry, as Chris closes the door behind him to avoid prying ears.

“Alright, talk then.” He begins, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.For a man like Chris, he can be cold when he is upset. Even among his close ones. But there is still a bit of warmth in his voice, a bit of unspoken openness to listen. But for Chris to be convinced, it is still highly dependent on what Rebecca says next.

“Hey- I just want to say.” All of a sudden not knowing where to start, or when. After trying to get Chris to make peace with her all day, she finally has his attention. But when the moment comes, Rebecca is lost for words. Stuck behind her throat and tongue ice frozen.

“I know you don’t want me here. Putting my life in danger.” says Rebecca quietly.

“Like I said, you are free to do what you want.” Chris deadpans. “…And you did. What’s done is done.”

“Hey, don’t give me that. C’mon, Chris. You know it would be better if I was here. I know this virus better than you do. I’ve been researching this for months, and- and- you know my radio won’t reach you in here with the signal jammed.”

“Everything beyond these doors are unknown territory. Did you forget five of our best agents went MIA here?” Chris releases one long, arduous breath.

Rebecca is silent. She hasn’t forgotten, will never forget if the agents are dead—but doing anything is better than doing nothing. She will rather put her life at risk than the waiting game just to be told her friends are dead. “Yes. I know that. But you need me here.”

“And what I need most, is for you to be safe.” Chris places both hands firmly on her shoulders, sighs, and lets go.

Chris admits; there is truth in her words. The virus is alive, a living subject. They must tread carefully. And who else knows about this virus better than Rebecca? She may be the means of life or death.

“We are still a team. We watch each other’s back. We trust each other.” Rebecca hesitates for a moment, then continues. “…Just like S.T.A.R.S, the good old days.”

Chris tries to push away the betrayal from the back of his mind and focus only on the good parts of the memories. But it didn’t work. The clockwork of life kept running, wondering if the same fate will happen to him once more.

Trust? How long has Chris trusted someone? Put his life on the line of other people’s desires, capabilities? How many people have died trying? When has that ever worked out for Chris? He knows that the only person he can rely on saving himself and others is his own self.

Abruptly, his thought process is interrupted by cheers cascading from the other side of the door. Chris opens the door, and Rebecca’s curiosity peeks inside.

The crowd is cheering at Miguel, passing around bottled water around the circle. In this house trapped with years’ worth of heat, rotted smell preserved in humidity, water is a found treasure to these men. Especially after the laborious sprint earlier, they can feel half of their bodies’ liquid lost, throat turning dry and lips crackling.

Rebecca recalls her discovery about the water supply. She remembers warning the crew about this. Yet through the corner of her eyes, she sees Gabriel cracking open the bottle seal, shimmying his mask out the way, his lips touching the lip of the plastic bottle.

“DON’T DRINK THAT!” She yelps, as loud as she can possibly muster.

And everything happened all at once.

STORAGE ROOM – 3:57 AM

Gas starts to sizzle into the room through tightened air pressure, escaping rapidly into the space. Engulfed in smoke, Rebecca clutches onto her mask, hoping that the cheap material will be sufficient. At the minimum providing a bit of resistance before they remove themselves from the smoke-filled room.  

“Squad! Make your way to the exit!” Chris orders.

Chris and Rebecca guide the team out one by one. Individuals start shuffling out of the mist from within. Johnny comes through first, then Mike, Miguel, and Johnny.

“Captain!” Johnny cries, pointing a wobbly finger into the puffs of smoke. “He’s still…”

Faintly from the haze, a figure manifests, sprawling on the floor. It grunts in fear, choking and coughing with arms extended.

“I… I can’t move! My… my leg…” His facial features slowly uncover from the smoke, and there is Gabriel desperately dragging along his broken foot towards the door. The injured had completely slipped Chris’ mind. He needs to get him out of there, now.

Chris pushes himself inside, but Mike grabs him before his foot makes its way in. Mike utters in grave realisation: “He’s unmasked.”

“I swear to god I’m alright! I swear on my life!” Gabriel cries even louder, swallowing a lump of smoke into his chest, and he chokes. “I didn’t drink the water!”

“Captain… what do we do?” asks Miguel, voice softening in desperation. He knows the answer to that question, but Miguel refutes that option, denying it like a child in the face of loss. “Captain! What do I do?”

Chris does not say a thing, nor it is his place. This farewell is reserved between him and his friend. Then afterwards, Chris must do what must be done.

“Miguel… ¡No me dejes aquí!” They can barely hear Gabriel’s sobs over the continuous hissing, louder through time, breaking free of the closed room to contaminate the air outside too.

That is, until Rebecca cuts in: “It’s not too late. The gas is useless by itself, as long as he didn’t drink the water. He’s going to be fine. But we shouldn’t risk it… Just in case.”

“Fuck this, I’m not leaving him there.” Miguel sprints past Chris and Mike into the white without looking back. They try to grab hold of him before he does anything reckless, but Miguel flings them away. “I’m not leaving him behind. We grew up in the same town. Enlisted together. Same squad for years. I’m not letting him go now.”  

Miguel searches inside the fog, and finding the lightly conscioused Gabriel quivering with his chest on the floor. Miguel hauls Gabriel’s body weight onto his own.

“We’re getting out of here alive, Gabito.” Miguel swings an arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling Gabriel’s feeble foot upwards and lets his torso limp over himself.

“Tch c’mon, haven’t we been through everything already? I’ve seen you worse when you broke your arm and ribs.”

“I remember that. You carried me all the way back to camp just like this.” Gabriel speaks with a mellow voice in reminiscence. Miguel can hear something clicking its throat, sinisterly gargling the air. Miguel pauses to look around, there is no other presence. Right, he already checked the room. It’s safe. So, he continues forward.

“And we will get through this one too. Your abuelita will be heartbroken if you’re gone. I can’t do that to her.” They are approaching closer to the ray of light at the end of the door. Gabriel falls to his side.  

“Hang on, man! I’ll get you out of here. You can trus—”

Rebecca hears a clack, the sound she recognises to be bones snapping in half. She can’t see where Gabriel and Miguel are, with the fog blurring her sight. The vague silhouettes that can be seen before are now gone.

She leans in, peeking into fuzziness, but Chris’ arm moves in front of her, blocking her from getting any closer. He, too, is cautious of the sound.

“What’s taking them so long?” Mike calls out their names but there is no response from the other end. “That’s it, I’m heading in.”

“Mike, wait!” cries Chris.

Mike steps inside, warily inspecting. When he lifts the other foot, he almost trips. “What the—?” He shifts his leg around some more.

“I can’t move my foot!!” Mike’s shrieks are like little girl squeals throwing a tantrum. He wiggles back and forth to readjust balance with all his might. “Eek! Some slimy shit’s holding me down!!”

“Get it off me, get it off me!” The three of them attempt to pull Mike out and the foot lifts into the air. As if noticing the traction, the mist yanks Mike’s leg backwards. “Fuck shit fuck fuck!! Lord have mercy!!”

What is this power? How can it be this strong? There shouldn’t be anyone else in the room, Chris had already done all the check spots. The only people still in the room are just Gabriel and Miguel. What happened to the two of them anyway?

Mike had enough; he pulls out his handgun and shoots at the general direction of the force. The strength loosens, and they can see the whole foot now and the mysterious force dragging him back.

A bloody hand fastens around Mike’s ankle, fingers tightening sturdily around the soft skin. Another hand appears abruptly and secures right above the other hand. It has a different complexion, a silver coated wedding band over its ring finger. This is Miguel’s ring.

Something can be heard from within the fog, distinctly Gabriel’s voice.

“Mike… we’re having a party in here. Come join us!” The cheerful tone sends goosebumps rushing down Mike’s back.

“Shit! It can talk!?” Chris tries to pull the leg again, but it’s planted to the floor.

“It’s okay, Mike. Let’s have a lot of fun!” This doesn’t even sound like Miguel, but it is his voice.

There’s a bullet hole through its palm from Mike’s shot. It bleeds all over the other hand, still able to grab persistently despite suffering from such a wound.

“No, no, no! This… This isn’t supposed to happen!!” It shouldn’t be possible for the virus to activate only on gas alone, Rebecca was confident about this. It was one of the key implementations of this virus for its remote activation.  

Yet the impossible is right there in front of her, the evidence of the vein-popping, skin-crackling bloody hand lay bare contradicting her every hypothesis.

Mike’s foot stumble further backwards, his hamstring swallowed now. The shrieks are turning into despair, losing his childish tone, becoming more pleading, demanding.

Chris draws his dagger from his holster and stabs straight down into the mist, briefly missing Mike’s foot and directly into both palms, skewering the two hands together. Both hands let go simultaneously, withdrawing into the white once more.

“Now!” Chris orders, and the four of them backs away from the entrance, with Chris slamming the door shut behind. He secures the door with his entire back, feeling the full force of banging. He growls out: “Barricade!”

Rebecca, Mike and Johnny shuffle around, dragging a table, cabinets, chairs—anything heavy to prop in front of the door. Chris stuffs the tiny door gap with vintage draperies to confine the poisonous air, taken directly from the curtain racks itself.

Whatever that is left of Gabriel and Miguel can still be heard snarling, clicking their throats, gargling air beyond the closed door. Occasionally muttering to themselves, pleading the rest on the other side to open the door ever so slightly with their gentle persuasion.

LAUNDRY – 4:06 AM

“I thought I was dead meat for sure.” Mike leans against the other side of the wall, checking his own foot. There is a purple bruise on his skin, but his ankle moves freely. All his joints are fine; nothing is twisted. “Thanks, you guys.”

Rebecca and Chris nods.

“So we lost two, huh…” Mike dry laughs at the situation, even when there is nothing funny going on right now.

There is another moment of silence as each of them thinks about their own fate in this mansion. With their numbers dropped by a third, their chance of survival is looking rather slim.

“Hey, if it helps, I never like those two anyway.” Mike tries to break the suffocating atmosphere with some humour, before a voice that had been quiet for a while suddenly speaks up.

“Gabriel and Miguel wouldn’t have died if he didn’t get false info.” utters Johnny.

“You, rookie?” Mike stops to eye Johnny up and down, who is currently sitting right next to him, with his hands and definitely his ass clenched too. “Defending the guys who yelled at your face?”

“It was ‘cause of my own fuck-up.” Johnny clenches his own fist, guilt dripping through every word. “They shouldn’t have died regardless.”

“In this line of work, people die.” Chris states. It’s a matter of fact. They all knew what they signed up for. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Even so… If they did know about the gas, they would have been alive. At least, Miguel would have been!” Johnny stares directly at Rebecca for responsibility.

When confronted directly, Rebecca hesitates, she knows the blood is in her hands. “This… This is also news to me too… I have read the reports multiple times, there is no mention that A-Virus is capable of such transmission. It doesn’t match up to the research.”

“What if the report was a plant?” Johnny asks. “Arias sent fake data to your email.”

“It can’t be. Each transaction requires a single use security token to grant access to my private cloud storage. This token can only be authenticated via fingerprint recognition. So Leon must have sent the files himself.” Rebecca clarifies. In her mind, her system is impenetrable, mostly…

“And what if he’s dead? Or held hostage? Arias could force his thumb to send whatever he wants.”

Rebecca pauses, then she speaks: “That is a possibility.”

“Clearly, you have not thought of everything.” Johnny leans back.

If Johnny’s theories are right... Rebecca instinctually pats down her back pocket, feeling the cylinder case she tried so hard to save in the laboratory room... then this would have been a waste.

“You—” Chris grabs Johnny on the arm in an uncomfortable angle, squeezing it hard for a lesson. “Enough, kid. I don’t need you going around insulting the best B.O.W. tech I know. She’s doing everything she can. So zip it, focus on your own shit, and follow my orders as I tell you. And I’m ordering you to be quiet.”

“Fine, fine. I got it.” Johnny shrugs off Chris’ hand and rises. “Where’s that same energy to the doctor, huh?” He walks towards a pillar far from the three of them but still within sight.

Chris considered raising his voice, but he drops the idea. Instead, he plops down onto the ground next to Rebecca, patting on her head like he would to his own sister. “Never mind that guy. He’ll lose that attitude real soon. I remember I used to be the same rookie who would talk back to my captain too. Got my ass whooped. Never did that again. At least, not in front of their faces. Maybe I’m going too easy on these fresh ones, who knows…”

A rare moment of gratitude flashes across Rebecca’s eyes; Chris simply dismisses it with a wave. It’s his job to ensure they focus on the present of objective. Not their past, nor their failures. Moreover, B.O.W. techs are more valuable than brawny field soldiers like himself by the hundreds.

Rebecca reaches for something in her bag, and a paper floats to the floor, crumpled from action.

“It’s the letter I took from you.” She should give this back.

He refuses, instead says: “Let’s read it together.”

Trust is rebuilding again, brick by brick.

Chris whistles at the other two and Mike carries himself towards them. Johnny does not move, hand on cheek looking at everything but them even if he did hear the captain. Mike and Rebecca exchange a ‘just let him be’ glance with Chris.

So, Chris unfolds the paper, and reads it out loud, from the part he left off in the storage room.

Get out of there this instant. We think the storage room is booby trapped. I thought the gas was going to turn all of us, but I feel fine. Carlos and Jill though…are off. I accidentally brushed against them, and they felt… cold. When I try talking to them, they seem distracted for a split second. Far off.

Or it could be a false alarm. We don’t know yet. We decided to split into teams for efficiency: Jill and Ada to retrieve the sample while Leon, Carlos shall investigate the pipes. And for me… we’ll see. Once we’re done, we will meet up and get the fuck out of here. I trust Rebecca and the team; we would get through this. We always find a way.

If this is you reading, Arias, get shit on, sucker! The sample will be ours, good riddance to your little game! Justice prevails once more!

There is a hand drawn winky face next to it. Chris and Rebecca scoffs, that optimistic trusting behaviour. So typical of you. And oh, so wrong you were about everything.

“So, the lab, huh? That’s the one by the corridor?” asks Mike.

“Most likely. I know three people was last seen on the ground floor, the others on the top floor. And it’s likely Carlos and Jill to be turned first, according to Leon.” answers Rebecca.

“Could they have split up to divide numbers so they can infect them?” asks Chris.

“That explains why they went MIA. Either infected, or worse, dead.” Mike comments, but none of this is looking too favourable on their side right now.

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t think it’ll be so easy. I know these guys. They’re not the kind to give up without a fight. And these guys are some great fighters.”

Rebecca nods reluctantly. “True—That is, if they know a zombie is among them. These zombies can fucking talk. They wouldn’t have seen it coming. And from what we saw today, they can blend in and entice with their human speech. We have to be very careful.”

What’s to say one of them is not between them now? But she seals her tongue from making such bold statement. Rebecca eyes over a suspicious glance at everyone, including Johnny, checking for any irregularities. None she can notice from a fair distance away.

“But how does the infection work then? Was Gabriel bitten?” Mike asks.

“No, it was only a fracture. The bite marks would be distinct. He only made contact with the ga—” Rebecca pauses.

Her brain starts chugging, like a cogwheel in a complicated mechanism with fragments of facts. Neither of the boys dare to interrupt Rebecca from her thoughts. When she is in the zone, nothing anyone say will get into her head. And it clicks.

“Arias, you sneaky bastard…” She grins. She would kiss her brain right now if she could.

Chris and Mike look at each other in confusion.

“The poisoned water is all around us. It’s the air.” Rebecca elaborates, smiling wide the entire time after her newfound discovery. 

“The air?” Chris and Mike gasps in unison.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that when you stepped inside the house, it’s musty?” She pauses to let the boys think. “But the outside, it’s cool.”  

“Well, there must have been residual heat from the day still trapped in the house.” Mike comments. It seems abandoned for a long time after all.

“What residual heat during April? It should still be dry season in Querétaro. It’s the humidity! Arias had been pumping up the humidity in the house, that’s why mould is everywhere.”

“And how does that tie to—” Halfway through Mike’s sentence, he snaps his fingers. “Oh.”

“The water supply in the humidifier, of course.” Chris grins, nodding his head in approval.

“The bottled water in the storage is bait. It never had anything to do with the virus.” Rebecca points at Chris and does an a-ha! sound. “The tank in the laboratory is actually just a large-scale humidifier, sending the virus through water vapours in the air. All around us. That’s what those employees were guarding.”

“Gabriel was the only one who took off his mask.” Mike hits his palm with a fist. “And Miguel was infected by being bitten. Then why was Carlos and Jill the ones infected?”

“They had all been infected since the beginning.” Rebecca says, which is the scariest part about this whole operation. What would have happened if Rebecca never suggested the masks?

She continues: “How it activates, I have no clue. The speed of activation drastically varies from person to person so far. The A-Virus attacks always happen either immediately, or up to an hour. I wonder if it’s individual resistance to the virus.”

“Regardless! That’s a major discovery!” Mike launches himself up in joy. “My lord, you’re a genius, Rebecca!”

“As long as we keep our masks on, we should be fine.” Rebecca states, for real this time.

“I’ll let Johnny know the good news.” Mike scoots off. It’s just Rebecca and Chris alone now.

Rebecca takes in a nervous gulp now they are alone. She had forgotten to tell him the most important thing. Rebecca owes him that at least. “Hey, Chris… About the metal case…”

“It’s okay, Becca.” Chris shakes his head understandingly. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Only if you want to. Only when you’re ready. Because we’re going to see this to the end.”

“The both of us?” Rebecca suggests with much confidence.

“With everyone. I’ll make sure we all get back home.” Chris reassures, and this time, he can see clearly what lies at the end of the rainbow.

But what they didn’t know, is that during their heartfelt revelation, Johnny had let a tear fall in private, lifting his mask ever so slightly to wipe the wateriness from his cheek.

TFD SERIES MASTERLIST // RESIDENT EVIL MASTERLIST

MY BELOVED BETAS: @scar-crossedlvrs @jellybonbons the plot really boggle my brain i made so many changes last min. my first longfic so forgive me. on the bright side, we're so close to the finale omg!! the next chapter will take me a while, just a heads up! whoever is still reading this, i appreciate you guys for still staying tuned and from the bottom of my heart, thank you for still believing in me. i love you all sm.

TAGLIST:

@jellybonbons @ovaryacted @daydreamrot @madcap-riflette @access--granted

@obsolescent @briermelli @secretiveauthor @ghosty-frog @navstuffs

@slowcryinginthedark @rentaldarling @lesbntired @redvleanli @vinsiliors

@whoisgami @gaylorvader @wxwieeee @eddsthemunson

[ravenelyx]

Meanderings and Boats - Sebastian Sallow

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x GN!Reader

Words: 0.5k

Chapter Warnings: angst and bitterweet comfort, Sebastian needs a hug, Sebastian is also sad, sad date, House or gender is not specified, (implied) established relationship, use of 2nd person for the reader

Summary: Sebastian has lost too many people, and he thinks it's all he deserves. So what authority does he have to hope for better treatment?

A/N: Haven't written anything in a while.

Masterlist

you can find the whole fic on ao3 as well <3

-

It instilled in him, a sense of duty chaining around his chest. First thing in the morning, he searches for you to assure himself you haven't taken off.

He knows you would, without telling him, too. It had always been your nature to explore and loiter around the Highlands: that's how you manage that beautiful vivarium he loves so much.

But he's tired. He wants you with him. He wants to be enough.

Sebastian can't wrap his brain around your preference for the Highlands. You're his first thought when he wakes up, but he isn't yours. You're the face he wishes to see at lunch, while you're eating a sandwich somewhere in the grass.

He makes up little things to make you stay: he buys you flowers, but you forget to water them; he waits awake for you in the Room of Requirement when night had descended on his droopy eyelids; he plans dates you don't show up to.

The small boat sways on the gentle, wet waves of the lake, coronated by wet little sloshes. Not of the shore, no.

He moves his fingers to his eyes and dries them momentarily, leading way to fresher waterfalls. He doesn't know why he keeps perking his ears, loath to accept the inevitable proof of your absence in the mere hoots of faraway birds. Their companionship in the owlery, their duty of bringing two people together by words, a mockery.

He blames them for the lost letter he sent you.

A hand weights suddenly on his shoulder and his heart jumps up, inevitably. A broken, bleeding, warm traitor. He turns, because forgiveness belongs to him only when it comes to you.

"I'm a bit late, aren't I?" you say sheepishly, and he can't be mad. Because, after all, you showed up.

He moves to wipe dirt from your cheek. "Not at all... here."

Sebastian gives you his seat, he holds your hand as you cross the water with a hop, and holds you when you lose balance.

"Had business in Aranshire. I found myself there and had to free a house from spiders," you say. It's not a justification, nor an apology. It just is what it is, and it's not enough for Sebastian but he accepts it anyway.

"I waited for you this morning..." he blurts out, a complain, inequivocally embarassed like he'd do you a disservice.

"I'm sorry." Your eyes turn sympathetic and you move to hold his hand. And just like that, he thinks it's not that bad. Because despite everything, you stayed when no one did, and that should be enough.

"It's alright."

"You can aways tell me if you need something... I'm new to this." You gesture towards the both of you and he nods.

It was new to him, too, and he'd give up his soul to keep it. But parts of him had started to crumble and he needed you to patch him up best you could.

"I need you to water the flowers..." he mumbles and you agree.

"I'll put them in the vivarium."

And just like that, you cage it away. Lock it somwhere he can't reach or see, where he can only trust that you would care for it, where he has no access.

Sebastian will just wait for spring, when he can buy flowers again.