#he was the big brother Ashe needed

[tidbi-t-art]

Ashe and Christophe

[hauntingblue]

Toranaga's son is so funny. Failson 🫵🏻

[bi-writes]

i'm a big fan of your writing! can i ask what made simon want to mail order a bride in the first place? thanks <3

mail-order bride

he's tired of staring across his dinner table and seeing nothing but empty space.

it isn't something he had thought about in the before. he's spent a long time shifting between different cots, collecting sand from faraway places and counting the bodies he dropped with tally marks against his boots.

there's a picture he keeps tucked into his vest, but he won't take it out. it sits heavy there, an invisible wall between himself and the outside world, a reality that he chooses not to believe. if he doesn't look at them, he won't think of them, and if he doesn't think of them, maybe he can pretend they were never even real.

they all have something outside of here. his sergeants are too pretty and too outgoing to stick around; they're social butterflies, and simon has seen the shuffle of pictures of some pretty girl that gaz can't stop staring at, and soap never shuts up--whenever they have a signal, he's somehow got a phone call with his cousin's stepfather's little sister, or it's his second cousin's brother-in-law's birthday, and he's got to wish him well since he missed his art exhibition last month.

even price has a pale circular shadow that is stained onto his ring finger.

it's not his fault, is it? it's not his fault he was dealt the worst fucking hand. it wasn't his fault he was born already two feet into the grave; it couldn't have been his fault that he can only get a good night's sleep when there's screaming in one ear or the rattle of a battlefield over his head.

it isn't his fault. it isn't his fault. it isn't his fault.

the cigarettes taste bland today. they're old, stale, and he can taste the bitterness already, but he lights it anyways, flicking ash into the ground, scrunching his nose until he gets used to the bite of it.

there's a shadow at his side, and he turns to snap at them, assuming it's johnny and his incessant nagging, but he holds his tongue when he realizes it's his captain.

he's got a warm cigar in one hand, and he leans against the concrete wall beside him, sighing deep, the kind of pensive weight that only a captain can bear.

price looks tired. he needs to go home.

"boys invited y'out, didn't they?" price asks, and simon chuckles lowly.

"'m olready 'ome," simon murmurs. "'n i can get piss drunk oll on my own 'ere."

price shrugs.

"ya haven't taken leave since you joined my team, simon," he says low. "can't have that. you know it."

simon shrugs.

"can try and make me go," simon tells him. "but y'know i won't leave."

"i'm not asking, simon," price says firmly. "'m telling."

"doesn't matter," simon takes a long drag of the cigarette, holding it in for a second too long before letting it out slow. "got nowhere ta go."

his captain is not blind. simon's on a one-way road, and the end of it stops at the end of someone else's gun. men like simon, the ones who have nothing to lose, they're dangerous. they clear rooms outnumbered thirty to one because no one thinks they can. they hit targets from thousands of yards away because it's the only place that never changes. they kill and sleep peacefully because the blood of a stranger is far cleaner than that of someone they know, of someone they love.

they'll never leave because war is familiar. they don't want to go home because home isn't something they know. they're nomads, taking with them only what they can carry, because the rest is baggage and an emotional weight that they aren't strong enough to carry.

but it doesn't mean men like simon don't want. it doesn't mean they don't wish for more. it doesn't mean they don't think about using their teeth for something other than baring them to show their dominance, their aggression, their insecurity.

simon's a protector. the way he shoves his men behind him says so. the steadiness of his voice over comms when the op goes to shit. the ease of his hand when he ties a tourniquet. the split second that simon never wastes, the way he uses his body as armor and the look he gives his men when they're scared. simon's died twice before, and the look in his eyes tells them that this isn't it, that this isn't death, because he'd fucking know--he'd recognize it if he saw it.

simon's unrelenting. his past, his trauma, it's tried to beat him into a shape that will bend and snap, but its obvious simon is not made of lead--fuck, he's an entire block of unmovable steel. he does not give when compressed, he does not crack when the strength of him is tested. simon's fought too hard to live to let a gun terrify him, he's endured too much torture to flinch when someone sinks a blade into his chest.

but he knows, simon knows, that there is something missing. he fought hard to live, but for what? he's endured, but what the fuck is there when he lays his head down at night?

simon's a lover. he tries so hard to convince himself that he's always been this way--alone, drifting, lost, but it's a lie. simon knows what it's like to want. he knows what it's like to look into a crowd and hope you see a familiar face. he understands wanting to pull that string taut, but he also understands what it can do to you. what it can take from you.

he understands what you can never get back.

he thinks this is a bad idea. he crumples the note paper in his hand that had the address scribbled onto it, tearing it, staring up at the house in front of him. it's quaint, a lovely little house in the outskirts of london, with a red chimney and overturned planters in the yard. there's a weathered wooden door, a porch step that needs fixing, and when he kicks open the door, he grimaces seeing a carpet that need's replacing.

"the fuck am i doin' 'ere?" he whispers to himself, sliding his mask off, running a hand over his face. his heart is pounding, but he's not sure why, but he catches his reflection in the window. what looks back at him terrifies him--he can't do this.

he makes his way back outside, rummaging through his pockets for a cigarette. he takes a seat on the steps, lighting it, and as he takes his first frantic drag, he sees the torn pages of the note still on the ground. he picks up one end of it, running his thumb over the crumpled paper there, smudging the pencil scribble there.

she needs you

it's written in price's ugly handwriting, letters all tilted to the side and barely legible, but he still can read what price didn't write--and you need her.

but simon doesn't need anyone. he barely needs himself, barely can take care of himself. this won't help him--he can't help anyone, he isn't the kind that can be this kind of thing for anyone. he's stayed in the service because at least this way, he can die with honor, he can prove them all wrong, he can at least be remembered for what he could do and not by what was done to him.

his touch is ice. his heart is buried too deep under his ribs; no one has seen it since he could finally register a memory. his face, the skin he wears--he's not a pretty man, he's a forgettable one. he isn't gentle, he isn't capable of it. he can't forgive. he's so quick to anger, likes to snap his teeth, and he cannot be the kind of thing that they all expect him to be.

he does not love himself. he will not love himself. so he cannot love another.

there is a certain kind of satisfaction he feels when he fixes the porch step. once abandoned, once a nuisance, and now it functions as intended. he feels the same kind of thing when he rips up the stained carpet, and he feels it again when he watches the seeds of the thyme leaves grow as they rest in a pot above the sink.

things once forgotten serve a purpose. with effort, they can be used again. they don't have to be replaced, they can be open anew, they can live again and breathe deeper and see through the lens of a different perspective.

when you climb the porch steps the first time, he thinks about the board that doesn't wobble any longer. when the door shuts behind you for the first time and you take off your boots, he thinks about the new carpet that warms your toes now.

and when you lay next to him for the first time, under the covers of the bed he's made, he reaches over and slips a few fingers around your wrist, thumbing at the base of it and swallowing hard when he feels the pulse of your heartbeat. it beats, warm and steady, to a beat familiar, one he knows. his heart has not been hiding under thick bone and the tar of his own blood.

it's here now. under your skin. and now it's home.

[sturnsdarling]

She's the coolest person I know.

fratboy!matt tries to play it cool about him and smartand'mean'!reader spending alot of time together, but fratboy!chris and Nate aren't convinced

vibe check: chris and nate being idiots, nate not knowing what an emo is lol, fratboy!matts version of fluff

1k words

A/N: this concept was born from and is my take on the wonderful, amazing and ridiculously talented @sturnioz fratboy!matt and fratboy!chrisxshy!reader au. THANKYOU SO MUCH FOR ALL OF THE LOVE ON MY TOUGH GIRL FIC OMFG. this is a lil blurb I cooked up as a finishing touch to my contribution to cas' au. also I just love this pairing so much it makes me unwell

love and cigs, merc

Matt quietly shuffled into the front door of his frat house, tucking his car keys in his pocket with as little jingle as possible in hopes of sneaking past Chris and Nate on the sofa. He clicked the door shut and the boys’ ears perked up. 

“Fuck” Matt whispered. 

“Matty boy! You’re back! Where the fuck have you been” Nate craned his neck round, a canon joint hanging from his mouth. 

“He’s been at y/ns house” Chris answered for Matt, turning to smirk at the boy as he shifted his weight between his feet by the entrance of the living room. 

“Y/n? Isn’t that the emo chick that’s best friends with your girl?” Nate asked, pointing to Chris. 

“She’s not emo dickhead, she’s just a bit… grungy” Matt piped up at your defence immediately, knowing Nate meant it as an insult.

“and s!r/n is not my girl” Chris responded to Nate’s accusation 

“She’s totally fuckin emo dude she wears fishnets and walks around lookin’ like she’s gonna kill someone” Nate snickered, “and, she’s definitely your girl” he looked back to Chris who was rolling his eyes. 

“You’re with her like everyday, kid” Matt folded his arms over his chest, taking this perfect opportunity to get the subject off of himself. 

“And you get all gushy over her like she’s some little pretty flower whenever she’s around” Nate laughed, looking to Matt who was nodding his head and joining in the laughter.

“Okay, both of you shut the fuck up, yeah? When did this become about me? Matt's the one sneaking in after spending the last three days with his little pet emo” Chris scoffed, leaning forward to ash his joint in the glass tray before taking a long drag. 

“She’s not fuckin—“ Matt gritted his teeth, “she’s not my pet you freak, we’re just hangin’ out” He shrugged. 

“That’s not what it sounded like the other night” Nate raised his brows at Matt, a childlike laugh erupting from his mouth as he blew weed smoke into the air. 

“UH! FUCK! MATT! YOU’RE SO BIG! UH” Chris moaned, making fake orgasm faces as he shifted his weight so it looked like he was getting fucked. Nate curled over in laughter, slapping his knee with his free hand. 

Arms folded over his chest and eyes firmly rolled to the back of his head in annoyance, Matt felt a vibrating in his pocket, ‘Arabella' by the Arctic Monkeys blared from his phone as he pulled it from his pocket. 

“Both a’you shut the fuck up before I break your fuckin’ jaws” Matt said before quickly answering the phone, your voice like honey on the other end. 

“Hi Matthew” you said, sweetly

“Hey angel, what’s up?” He said, turning away from the boys. 

The sound of the sofa shifting against the floor grabbed his attention back to them, he was met with the sight of Chris pretending to fuck the side of the couch, slapping the leather arm as if it’s an ass and Nate, pretending to give a blowjob to the end of his dying joint.

“You uh, you left your english lit book here, thought you’d wanna know in case you think you lost it or somethin”

“Oh, shit, did I?” Matt asked, leaning down and taking his shoe off, throwing it full force at his idiot brother and best friend making obscene gestures and noises only a few feet away from him, “I’ll come get it now, sweetheart, m’gonna need it” Matt said, his words focused on you but his gaze firmly on the boys as they curled over in laughter, dodging Matts flying trainer. 

“Okay, text me when you’re here, I’ll buzz you in” You responded. 

“Alright angel, I won’t be long” He said, ending the phone and shoving it into his pocket. 

“BYE Y/N” Nate screamed across the living room, giggling and rolling into Chris like a child 

“Are you two finished?” Matt said, kicking off his other shoe and humming it at them, they ducked out the way and their laughter continued, not yet tired of the bit they were doing. 

“You just got home from hers and you’re going back? Kids pussy whipped” Chris said, shaking his head. 

“Y’know what Chris, I think our boy likes her” Nate said, raising his eyebrows a couple times. 

“oh you definitely fuckin’ do! you actually like this girl” Chris responded, turning to Matt who’s cheeks had flushed a bright red 

“So what if I do? Is that a problem?” Matt said, near enough squaring up to the boys. 

“Nah man, it’s cool, she’s cool” Nate shrugged, sensing they may have struck a nerve. 

“Yeah she is fuckin’ cool, she’s cool as fuck actually, probably the smartest person I’ve ever met, on top of being unbelievably fuckin' hot and she’s easy to be around, unlike you two shit talkin' idiots” Matt sounded off, throwing an arm up in frustration. 

“Kids in love” Chris scoffed, cocking his head towards Matt as he looked at Nate 

“For real, he’s obsessed” Nate chuckled, “fuck baby keep doing that, you’re so sexy oh my fucking god” Nate mocked Matt, laying back on the sofa and holding his hands over his crotch, pretending to be holding a girls head there as she sucks him off. 

Chris laughed and smacked Nate’s hands away from his dick, slapping his palm and dapping him up in agreement. 

Matt rolled his eyes and tensed his jaw, shaking his head as he turned to walk towards the front door. 

“When I get back m’gonna kick the shit out’a both of you” Matt said, pushing his feet into his sliders and opening the door in a huff, slamming it behind him, making the whole front room shake. 

“Whatever you say, angel!” Chris said, mimicking Matts nickname for you. 

Matt strode down the path towards his car in a huff, almost ripping his car door off its hinges as he slammed down into the passenger seat, taking a deep and fast breath. After a few short seconds of sitting with closed eyes to ground himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called you.

"how the fuck did you get here so fast?" your voice a soothing balm to his anger on the other end of the phone.

He chuckled, "I haven't even left my driveway yet, angel, just wanted to call you and let you know i'm staying at yours again tonight" he said, putting his keys into the ignition and starting his car.

"okay, s'fine. any particular reason or?" You drew out your final word

"jus' rather be with you than at mine" Matt said, shrugging.

"Awh, Matthew, you're so cringe" your cadence was insulting but Matt could feel your cheesy smile through the phone.

"watch your mouth, tough girl, or i'll fill it" his threatening tone sent a jolt up your spine

"Is that a promise?" you asked, seductively, a quick change in demeanour that Matt adored.

"you're a deviant, y'know that right?" Matt shook his head as he smiled at your response, it was like he built you in a lab.

"Just shut up and get here, I miss you, idiot" you hung up the phone before he could respond, not wanting to face the teasing that would inevitably follow admitting you miss him after barely an hour of being apart.

Matt opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the sound of you hanging up, a grin crawled its way onto his face and he couldn't help but relish in the way you made him feel. He meant what he said to his brother and Nate, you really were the coolest person he knew.

[oneeyedlove]

King of the ashes.

summary | Moons had passed since your last quarrel with your estranged husband, the events of Rook’s Rest bringing you together one more time.

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x oc!reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x oc!reader (platonic).

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! Unprotected sex, PinV, arguing, oral sex (f receiving), mentions of death, Targ!cest, ANGST/little comfort, ooc Aemond (probably). SPOILERS

wordcount | 8.5K - i am so sorry

note | All the valyrian i use comes from a very shady translator so there probably are a lot of mistakes, if you have any input or helpful information pls tell me. I got really excited writing this but I feel the last part is a bit rushed, sorry about that! Any comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated! <3

Find part 1 here

[ gif by @gameofthronesdaily ]

124 AC

The afternoon sun spilled its light upon the tearful eyes of prince Aemond Targaryen, almost if mocking his heartache through its refulgent heat. The young boy sheltered himself in a seemingly abandoned corridor of the Red Keep, seeking solace from the cruel hoax imposed on him during his lessons. He could still hear them, their words — “The Pink Dread”. Such title roared in his ears, humiliation engulfing the silver prince as he forced his cries back into his throat. His mother had failed in her feeble attempts to comfort him, her attention focused solely on punishing his nephews for their so called savagery — even if it was clear this had Aegon’s name written all over it.

The worst part was that she had witnessed it. She hadn’t laughed or joined them in their persecution, but he could not bear the thought of his weakness being exposed before her. Hers was the judgment he feared most after all, she was the only one he could truly call friend.

Aemond hadn’t taken notice of a blue covered figure that watched him until she sat at his side, her weight shifting the cushions of the settee beneath them. His eyes refused to meet hers, hoping to conceal his shame as he hugged his knees against his chest. The girl stared at him in silence, her back resting on the wall whilst her feet dangled over the edge of her seat.

“Aem…” Aelora finally spoke, the softness in her tone melodic as a ballad.

“What do you want?” He asked, his voice lacking its usual warmth.

She had been made aware of Aemond’s displeasure concerning the dearth of a dragon to call his own through countless protests, his state being one of constant anger towards what he deemed his fault. It was also known by her that he would grow to be the most estimable dragonrider of them all, for none were devoted to learning and practicing as he was — it was only a matter of patience. Thus, when Aelora’s eyes caught sight of the swine inside the dragonpit, her brothers knew their mother’s chastening would be nothing compared to hers.

“My brothers are fools, I wish to apologize on their behalf.” She brought her hand to hold his, a gesture of innocent assurance.

“You did not deserve it.”

The boy slowly drifted his eyes from the window to lay his gaze upon her, his heartbeat quavering at her touch. Nevertheless, her kind words couldn’t erase his shortcomings — he couldn’t accept charity for his ridicule, he wouldn’t.

“I… I have no need for your pity.” As much as he tried, he failed to stop woe from consuming his voice, as well as his demeanor.

“I don’t pity you.” Grasping his hand tighter, she looked at him through furrowed brows.

“You shall have a dragon. One even bigger than Sunfyre, I know it! In the meantime you can help me with Lyrrax, even fly with me once she’s big enough!”

It was evident her enthusiasm was a childish one, an effort to install hope over the sorrow that buried his thoughts — but she had no care for it. She noticed as a smile pulled at the corners of his lips, even as he tried to suppress it. She wasn’t the one who owed him an apology, and yet there she was, offering her own dragon for an olive branch. His gaze flickered down at their hands, her smaller one over his, and he intertwined their fingers. The tension in his shoulders visibly eased, for Aelora’s presence was reassuring and tender.

“You truly believe I'll claim one?” He asked, unable to hide the fleeting shadow of optimism that burned in his eyes.

“I am certain of it. We are Targaryens, the blood of the dragon. You just haven’t found the right one for you.” A smile crept its way onto her face, her cheeks rosy and plump with eagerness.

Aemond scanned the girl before him, his expression almost vulnerable. The feeling of indignity was one familiar to the young boy and he had enough of it. He contemplated her words for a moment, and for once allowed himself to consider she might be right.

“Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I lack patience.” He let out a deep breath, as if letting go of the bitterness that had taken hold of him.

“You would do well to remember I’m always right.” The smug grin on her face earned herself only a rolling of eyes in response.

“Come on. I know something that will lift your spirits.”

Her words had barely escaped her lips before she burst through the corridor, tugging the prince’s hand as they ran. Hurried footsteps clashed against cold stone as Aelora strided through the maze of indistinguishable aisles, her gaze occasionally flickering towards the boy behind her. The smile that stubbornly weld itself onto Aemond’s face had transformed into a beaming grin, the sound of her angelic giggles clipping away the sullenness from his features.

A deafening thump alerted the prince of their whereabouts, the wide entry of her bedchamber welcoming him inside. He stepped in and curiously observed as she struggled to close the wooden doors, trapping the pair of them in concealment. The calling gesture of the princess hand woke him from his trance as he marched towards the illustrated wall beside her bed.

“Wait, what are you doing?” His head tilted in confusion whilst he fixated his lilac eyes on her hands. Her palm grazed the intricate designs on the stone, finally encountering the familiar crease on the surface — she pushed it, a dimly lit passageway staring back at him.

“Its Maegor’s secret tunnels!”

Aemond's bewilderment had quickly given way to wonder and awe. The maesters had taught him legends of Maegor's construction schemes, rumored to be an intricate labyrinth hidden beneath the Red Keep, but he never dreamed he would get to see them for himself.

“What?! How in the Seven Hells did you find them?”He asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“A fortunate accident.” She shrugged.

“I was hoping to find the way to your apartments and surprise you but I reckon it cannot be done anymore.”

“You’re mad!” His gaze quickly flickered back to Aelora.

His eyes, violet in the soft daylight that cascaded through the nearby window, studied her almost warily, as if to gauge a reaction from her. He received no such thing. The princess brought her hand to his once again, carefully establishing themselves inside the narrow corridor as the heavy stone shut behind the two. Aemond allowed himself to be pulled along, not even protesting in favour of the tunnel. He observed the strange architecture through their route, the dim light that filtered through small gaps, and the strange cobwebs that had taken form. The limb that remained in hers seemed to squeeze it almost possessively — out of fear, or out of eagerness, Aelora could likely tell.

The hairs atop the young royals’ heads twirled at the light breeze that embraced them, the scent of saltwater filling their nostrils. A moss covered archway revealed a small, damp cavern. As they entered, rugged walls formed by weathered rock surrounded them and an opening that lead directly onto the beach offered a panoramic view of the shoreline and the rolling waves beyond. Beams of sunlight streamed in through gaps, illuminating the cave's interior with a soft, ambient glow. Their feet grazed the sandy floor underneath them, scattered with small shells and pebbles, remnants of the sea's presence. Inside the serene and veiled space, a true connection between land and ocean can be felt — a fitting discovery for a princess of House Velaryon.

Aelora’s brown orbs searched for the boy’s lilac ones, a wide grin spread on her face as she squeezed his hand tenderly.

“So… What do you make of it?”

Aemond was quietly impressed, his head tilting back to look up at the ceiling of the cave, eyes roaming across the stalactites that hanged over them, a small gasp escaping his pink lips. He slowly peeled his hand from the princess, walking over to the opening to look out at the sea.

“How — how did you find this place?” The young prince questioned softly, his head turning back to look at her with an almost admiring gaze.

“It is unimportant. We can confine ourselves here whenever we like! The others do not know about it — I’m halfway certain no one does.”

A small, pleased smile tugged on his features just at the thought of using the cave as a hideaway; a private place, just for himself and Aelora. He hums quietly under his breath, in slight agreement.

“Our secret?” He extend his pinky towards her, indicating for her to do the same.

“Ours.” She smiled as she locked their fingers together in a silent promise.

A silent minute exchanged itself between the pair, the linger of a childish oath tickling their skin. The future memory would cling to their hearts for years to come, a longing fondness drowning them each and every time — except they had no knowledge of it as of the moment, being too focused on the possible amusement that would certainly come from the cavern’s discovery.

“I can best you to the shore!” Aemond wasted no time as he sprinted to approach the broken waves at the end of the beach.

“Wait!” She shouted, avidly picking up her pace to match the boy’s, his long limbs giving him a considerable advantage over the girl behind him.

It had been an entire afternoon of nothing but running, chasing, and exploring together. The young prince had forgotten his troubles and worries completely, instead focusing on the thrill of catching a slippery, wiggling sand crab. The cold feeling of the seawater against his skin didn’t bother him either, nor did the wind whipping at his silver hair as they sat building sandcastles. By the time dusk began to settle, the two children had become completely filthy with sand, mud, and water. Their garments were most likely ruined from the seaweed’s smell, fact that would assuredly earn them serious reprimands from their mothers. Yet, he could not remember a time when he felt so alive.

As they returned to the cave, the sunset’s glow reflected in the wet stones inside, a sense of comfort enveloping the rock-strewn cavity. Aelora’s gaze fell upon the young prince before her, his valyrian grace never yielding to his disheveled appearance. She observed as he bent down, a sharp ore emerging in his hand.

“What are you doing?” She questioned through a mess of rumpled braids.

Aemond glanced up to look at her, smiling softly. With careful movements, the boy carved into the rock, his free hand resting against the stone wall for balance. After a moment, the four letters of their initials were carved into the stone. The scribbles “A.T.” and “A.V.” were jagged and a bit uneven, but still clearly visible.

”Leaving a marking… to remember.”

---

129 AC

Bleeding. Bruised. Brokenhearted. Those were the exact words to describe the state in which princess Aelora Velaryon arrived at Dragonstone. The crimson liquid that gushed out of her right side was courtesy of a Kingsguard during his desperate attempts to put a stop to her fleeing — the remnants of his white cloak hanging from Lyrrax’s teeth were evidence of the retribution he earned. The loyal she-dragon landed crudely, sharp claws sinking in the placid sand as her screeches blended with her rider’s whimpers. The princess could sense the pain inside the beast’s mind, their unbreakable connection making their emotions into one.

Pellets of rain grazed her face as she crawled up the endless stairs towards the peak of the islet, the translucent droplets mixing with tears of her own. The young woman’s sobs were filled with tales of disloyalty. She had betrayed her family, her duty, and worst of all, she had been betrayed by him. The one who stood before the gods of Old Vayria and pledged his unyielding love for her. The one who she had deemed worthy of the deserting of her kin. The one who promised her a future beyond the carnage of war. And yet he was the first to commence bloodshed. Her devotion had not been enough to subdue Aemond’s thirst for revenge — but how she wished that it had.

The mud on the soles of her shoes stuck to the stone floor, leaving behind a trail of shame as she entered the intimidating fortress. Her name and titles thundered inside her ears as the voice of a guard announced her arrival, though she hadn’t actually heard him. Her tormented psyche fevered with dread, fearful of the reactions she would receive due the forsaking of her own blood. All the eyes of her mother’s Small Counsel widened at the sight of the princess, distress and grief scattered across their faces. Her gaze flickered to the silvery locks on Raenyra’s head, the woman’s back turned to the room.

Aelora’s steps were slow and somber, as if her soul had faded and the lifeless carcass of who she was moved against her wishes. She skipped past Daemon at her mother’s side, lacking the nerve to meet his stare. Finally, she reached the bereaved woman before her, brown meeting lilac in a lachrymose gaze. Their pale hands intertwined in haste, and the once composed tears transformed into loud sobs as the young princess collapsed to her knees, begging for Rhaenyra’s forgiveness. Blood and teardrops met in the Black Queen’s dress, staining it as she knelt in front of her daughter. She brought up her palm to caress the side of the young woman’s face, the maternal touch conveying a juvenile yearning in Aelora’s heart.

“Oh my sweet girl.” Her mother whispered as anguish imbued her words.

---

The moons that followed Luke’s death were arduous for the princess, constantly having to prove herself before the family that once accepted her. Rhaena and Rhaenyra had silently recognized Aelora’s circumstances, acknowledging she grieved for a husband as well as a brother. Baela had hesitated in the endorsing of her cousin but surrendered to her pleads nonetheless. Daemon barely addressed his wife’s daughter, his hatred for his nephew fused inside the resentful stares he gave her. Despite her best efforts to cope with her standing, it was Jacaerys’ unyielding disregard for his sister that slayed the woman’s hope of mending their bond. The storm behind the prince’s eyes was well hidden inside his stoic expressions, seemingly unaffected by Aelora’s prayers for his recognition. It was only in the afternoon before their grandmother’s departure for Rook’s Rest that the siblings found each other.

The soft rustle of parchment echoed through the otherwise silent library, a salty breeze infiltrating itself through the window. The princess sat by the unlit fireplace as her gaze swept across the leather-bound books scattered inside the numerous shelves, each and all replete with the history of House Targaryen. The smell of dusty, old tomes was a bitter comfort in the midst of her morose silence. She had accustomed herself to this moments of solitude, seeking solace inside her soul. At heart, her deepest fantasies scampered free, picturing a simpler life as a commoner — untethered by the Targaryen name and relieved from the torment of the constant shadow of war.

Aelora was chased back into reality as Jacaerys’ presence made itself known. The young man invaded the room like a blizzard, his cold glare locking upon her figure as she rested over the armrest of the settee. Her eyes glistened with heartache once she felt how profoundly hostile her brother had become, turning on his heel to abandon her presence. The woman’s voice trembled as she spoke, her words pleading and vulnerable.

"Jacaerys, wait...please."

He halted, his shoulders tense as he looked back at her. The expression on his face was hard to read, a mixture of ire and pain etched into his features.

"What do you want, Aelora?" His voice was cold, the distance between them palpable.

"Have I stooped so low in your graces that my presence offends you? We are family, Jacaerys. Can we not even speak?" Her voice was laced with a hint of desperation as she asked.

"You ask for words as if they could undo what has already been done." His expression hardened, his jaw tightening at her words.

Aelora got to her feet, her legs trembling under her weight. He spoke as if it had been her to murder Luke, not Aemond. Her eyes met his as she stood, her voice wavering with a mix of sorrow and anger.

“Do you truly believe I have not been made aware of that?!”

“Every day of my miserable existence is plagued by guilt. I close my eyes at night yet sleep eludes me, for the ghost of Luke haunts my every thought!” She grew restless at every word, tears forming in her brown orbs as she gestured frantically through phrases.

“I know I failed him, as I failed you and our family… But don't forget I too lost a brother that day.”

Jacaerys stood frozen in place, his grief still bubbling within him and yet his heart ached at the sight of his sister's tears. Her words cut through him like a dagger, his own teardrops threatening to fall.

"Luke is gone, Aelora, and your presence here only serves as a reminder of that fact." He took a step backwards, his jaw clenching as he struggled to control his emotions.

“You cannot blame me for what was not my doing. I was Aemond’s wife, not his conscience — albeit my best efforts.”

"But you married our enemies, sister! Do you truly believe your actions have no consequences?"

"You stood by while they plotted against us and our family. How can I not blame you, when you chose to bind your fate to theirs?" A hint of anger flashed in Jacaerys' mournful eyes as he continued.

“i admit i have made my bed and I must lie in it, but you speak of matters you do not understand.” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could shield herself from his hatred.

“He swore to me…“ Her voice cracked, heartbreak swallowing her words.

“He swore to avoid this — to stop this insane feud. He is an oathbreaker as well as a kinslayer and he made me a fool!”

The room was still tense but as Aelora's sobbing grew heavier, something shifted within Jacaerys. He stepped closer to his sister, and without a word, pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. His body was warm against her chilly frame as he held her close, almost protectively. Their grievances seemed to dissolve in that moment, replaced only by a shared sorrow as her tears dampened his shoulder.

“Do you hold love for him, still?” He whispered.

“Only for the memory of who he used to be.”

The prince held Aelora a little tighter at her admission, his chin resting on the top of her head as they remained locked in their embrace. He could feel the weight of her broken heart and the ache it left her with. His wrath had dimmed, replaced by a sense of care and familial loyalty.

"Memories are not enough… Promise to break him should you get the chance"

“I will.”

Neither of them knew, but she lied.

Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, met her fate by the hands of the newly appointed Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen.

Meleys, The Red Queen, had her head paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

And Aelora, Aemond’s beloved nightmare, sent him a raven.

“We must speak. Find me at ghost’s hour where salt meets memory.

A.V.”

---

The stars twinkled outside the formidable walls of Dragonstone, nightfall enveloping the island in its deep shadows. The approach of ghost’s hour disrupted the princess’ heartbeat inside her chest, her previous conviction giving way to fright as she slithered into the network of caves where the dragons nested. Aelora called out to Lyrrax, her voice wavering with a mixture of stress and uncertainty. As the great beast appeared before her, its wings unfurling, she couldn't help but wonder why she had sent the meeting request at all.

The dragon’s own tension could be felt through her scales as the princess climbed onto its back, the weight of her decision settling on them like a heavy cloak. As they soared through the night sky, Aelora's thoughts were consumed by memories of Aemond and his treachery. The image of him flying over her grandmother’s corpse haunted her mind — the cold, merciless expression he conveyed twisting her guts. She questioned her own judgement in seeking him out, even as her heart yearned for the man who once pledged his undying love and protection. She looked back at Dragonstone, its familiar walls and towers illuminated by the silvery moonlight; she was abandoning her blood for him once again. The princess could only surmise she was either possessed by madness or a true lovelorn fool.

The frigid roar of wind traveled across her face as Lyrrax’s wings scraped over the tide’s surface, saltwater droplets cutting into her skin as well as her pride. She knew her grandmother would never forgive her for this, it was likely none would; she was an idiotic excuse for a Targaryen if she thought seeking the slayer of so many of her kin was justifiable. The burden of loss hung heavily on Aelora's soul as she took in the landscape before her. The faces of Rhaenys and Luke, forever etched in her mind, fueled a mix of anger and trepidation inside the young woman. Her thoughts swirled with a maelstrom of emotions as she soared towards him, recollections of the past playing out like a tragic play as her brown orbs focused upon the once affectionate site of King’s landing.

With practiced grace, Aelora guided the dragon into a smooth descent, its blue wings beating against the air as its claws set down on the shore of Blackwater Bay. The sound of their landing was muffled by the night, its velvety darkness swallowing the pair by the quiet that enveloped the world like a thick, black blanket. The crash of the waves greeted the princess’ ears as she dismounted, struggling to catch her breath and steady her emotions. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the young woman caught sight of the familiar cave that laid ahead, its entrance like a dark maw in the cliffside. The jagged edges were illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon, sending shadows dancing across the rocky surface.

Bittersweetness engulfed Aelora’s frame as the memories memories of her secret rendezvouses with Aemond brimmed in her mind. Every step she took towards the cave was like a blow to her legs, feeling shaky and unsteady. Doubt gnawed at her spirit as if a persistent rat, her stomach flipping with every crunch of the sand beneath her feet. Yet, she pushed forward, determination fueling the princess even as her disheveled heartbeat hammered against her ribcage.

The sight of Aemond standing amongst the shadows caught Aelora off guard, the dim light emanating through the cave's entrance barely illuminating his form — she had thought to be the first to arrive. Before she could stop it, a slight gasp escaped her lips and her eyes widened in disbelief. He looked different, somehow. He seemed further villainous and wearied, the once familiar spark in his eye now replaced by a bold robustness. His sharp and handsome features were now harder, almost rugged, as if her absence had left its mark on him. Swallowing hard, she acknowledged the stark contrast between the nostalgic sentiment that nearly overcame her a moment ago and the tense silence that now enveloped them. They stood opposite each other mutely, both frozen and locked in each other’s gaze.

“Wife.” He greeted, his voice grazing her earlobes like the finest of silks.

“That title does not fit me any longer.” She replied coldly.

His lilac eye examined Aelora’s frame from head to toe, her cloak hiding black leather garments — most likely dragonriding attire. She looked skinnier than he recalled, the shadows only enhancing the redness of her eyes. Aemond could not help but wonder whether she had been weeping during her journey there, grief tackling her psyche as well as her build. The princess demeanor turned stiff, arms crossing as she stood clearly on edge.

“You remain mine, before gods and men.” His gaze flickered with something akin to resentment.

“Kinslaying is a rather suitable ground for an annulment, i should think.” She said, removing the cloak from her head, allowing her braid to cascade over her shoulder.

He froze, the muscles on his neck and jaw tensed. His first reaction is one of anger, clenching his fist as he prepared hateful words inside his throat. But as he looked her in the eye, his wrath melted away into something much more dangerous and devastating — something fragile. All he could see was the girl he grew up with, the girl who stood by him at his boyhood. The woman who whispered sweet nothings amongst the vows of their wedding. The woman who played silly songs on the harp and sang with the loveliest voice he'd ever heard. The wife who's hands he dreamed of at night.

“So eager to rid yourself of the shame affixed to my reputation… And yet, you request my presence with equal vigor.” He stood with his hands behind his back, swallowing any desires that threatened to get the better of him.

“It is my understanding you have become Prince Regent.” She tried to ignore his jabs, the truthfulness they held hitting a sore point inside Aelora.

“The betrayal of your brother becomes you. Yet another broken oath in your conquest for the throne.” She returned his insults, the knowledge of his ambition stirring something within the prince.

“You speak of broken oaths. And what ought I call the oaths you have broken? The promises we made when we married in front of Heleana and the Gods?” His one eye darkened, taking a step forward as he kept his tone controlled.

“Your hypocrisy is staggering.” He shook his head, jaw clenched as he spoke.

“My hypocrisy?!” She could feel the anger boiling her blood, as if fire consuming wood.

“Your sanctimonious preaches fail to erase your true nature, Aemond. Naming yourself Targaryen whilst the sigil of our house is paraded through the streets as if some vainglorious prize of war!” Her voice turned to screeches as it echoed through the stone walls of the cave.

“You may call me a bastard if you wish to, but my blood honors Old Valyria far more than yours.”

Aemond’s hand shot to her wrist, gripping it tight enough to leave marks on the skin underneath. His single eye was wild and livid, the scar around it turning his gaze even more menacing. He moved a step closer, the scent of him overwhelming her — mint and leather mixed with a hint of smoke, the familiar essence blurred her senses in a wave of longing. The princess hid her weakening behind a wrath curtain, the disdain she held for the twisted version of him that now stood before her casting their love aside.

“Watch your tongue, Aelora.”

“Or else? Will your murder me as you did my brother? My grandmother? I can see the conqueror’s dagger in it’s seath, evidence of yet another attempt at fratricide!” She accused him further.

“Have you not done enough? Must you ravage our family and yourself in your thirst for power?”

The hand that gripped her wrist traveled up to the back of her head, grabbing the braided hair. Yanking it softly, he pulled Aelora even closer, his lilac orb flickering over her expression.

“I am Prince Regent as the Gods intended.” He hissed into her ear, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“My reign, unlike that of Aegon, will be glorious — my rule absolute. And you, wife, will be by my side when I sit on the Iron Throne.”

Aelora’s eyes betrayed her as water began to brim in their edges, a horrified gleam passing through her forming tears. A hand cupped his left cheek as she scanned him, a desperate search for the man he once was. The man she longed for each night. The man who was the source of greater heartache than she had ever felt in her life. The man who was also the root of her most joyous moments.

“Your ambition shall be your demise, husband. I was yours before all of this, before your perverseness overcame your affection for me.”

“The crown may sit upon your brow, but i have sufficiently torn my heart to shreads in my attempts to remove you — even if you are my weakness, I will never belong by your side once more.”

”No wrath or cruelty is capable of subduing my craving of you, issa vēzos (my sun).” He leaned into her touch, letting his eye flutter at the feeling of the soft skin of her palm against his cold cheek.

In that moment of contact, he seemed so vulnerable, and much younger than his years. He was weak. A pathetic, love-sick man, and he could not bring himself to care. Aemond leaned his head against hers, their foreheads connecting as his gaze softened.

“I am plagued by thoughts of you and I, each reminiscence a torment to my soul.”

“Come back to me, be my Queen and rule by my side. Our love will be known forever through the Seven Kingdoms, your belly swollen with our child ensuring our line shall never be forgotten.”

There was a moment of silence as Aelora absorbed his words. He was offering her a chance at a life she had dreamed of, one full of passion and legacy as their offspring lived on after them. But it would be an existence consumed by greed, she knew it. There could be no going back after what he had done; Lucerys would never be uncle to her progeny and Rhaenys wouldn’t be there to counsel her through hardships. Their family was torn from the beginning, the tapestry of their lives further lacerated by his actions. And she couldn’t betray her blood again.

“I would do anything for you.” He begged.

“Would your bend the knee to my mother?” Her voice was shaky as the lachrymose gaze she held shattered, its translucent shards falling through her cheeks.

"I will give you anything. Anything within my power to give." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"But not my crown."

“Then there shall be naught left to ask, issa hūra (my moon).” She sent him a smile, albeit a woeful one.

Aemond opened his mouth to protest, but knew it would be in vain. He was so close to her that he could feel her breath on his lips, the feeling slowly driving him mad. He had imagined Aelora’s face, her curves and her voice each night he had been forced to spend alone — and here she was, right before him, but he couldn’t have her. The thought of how this could be the last time he held her without being shoved away made him pull her to him, his arms wrapping around her like vines.

The princess found herself unable to resist as she pressed her head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting presence in the silent cavern. She clung to him tightly, her fingers gripping his clothing like a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea. For a moment, they stood there, holding each other without a word. The moons of distance melted away, replaced by a shared sense of desperate longing to be close again. Despite the comfort and familiarity of his embrace, she knew deep down that he would never surrender — his path set on the course of war and the bloodshed it entailed. The pain and loss they had faced would forever stand between them, but it did not matter tonight. Concealed by shadows inside the stone walls surrounding them, their grievances and broken oaths would dim at the radiance of their burning passion. For a brief moment, the pair would be one once more.

Aelora’s head parted from the warmth of his frame as her gaze followed the line of Aemond's jaw, her brown orbs traveling upward until they reached his mouth. A sharp breath hitched within her throat as she remembered the soft touch of his lips against hers, butterflies rattling in her stomach. In that moment, she was transported back to the blissful months of their marriage, when their intimacies were full of love and promise. The need to feel the familiar touch of his skin against hers consuming every inch of her being.

The prince’s mind and body were on fire. He could feel her gaze raking over him, like a caress to his spirit. The mere sight of his estranged wife in his arms making his heart pound wildly in his chest. His good eye watched her mouth as she swallowed, his one trackmindedness fixated on everything about her. He could see the memories, the same ones he saw every night, flashing through her gaze. His fingers reached up to brush a strand of her brown hair aside, her once perfect braid now half done as the long locks threaten to escape. His hand trembled with how badly he wanted to feel her body, to trace his hands over her curves and kiss her neck, as he had done countless times before.

Aelora's restraint snapped with a sharp tug as she pulled him down towards her, their lips finally meeting in a desperate, ardent kiss. A muffled gasp left her lips at the familiar touch, her body responding instinctively as she pressed herself against him, hungrily devouring his taste. The prince’s sense of control collapsed like a house of cards, his tongue slipping into her mouth as he held her close. He was a man starved, his palms roaming over her frame, as if trying to commit every curve to memory.

Aemond's hands began to roam under her cloak, his fingers tracing over the round hips hidden underneath. He could feel the heat of her desire through the thick fabric, his own body aching to devour her whole. The fingers on his left hand fiddled over the clasp of her mantle, yearning overcoming his senses as he tossed the fabric onto the delicate sand.

Before he was able to protest, Aelora broke their kiss. Her eyes glistened with arousal as she watched his lips, reddened and bruised from the hastiness of their embrace. Her nimble hands found the buckle of her leather doublet, shivering as the absence of the rougher material revealed her chemise underneath. The sheer linen did little to protect the princess’ frame from the cold breeze that made its way through the cave’s entrance, her nipples stiffening at the feeling. The young woman felt no grief for her modesty as Aemond’s eye watched her carefully, a glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. She continued to undress, slender fingers slowly untying the laces on her breeches. Her boots met the rest of her dragonriding garments on the jagged rocks by the cavern’s wall, leaving the princess in only her smallclothes.

The silver prince was left breathless by her actions, completely entranced by the sight of her exposed chest, every contour of her body on display through the translucent fabric. His eye drank in the sight and he could feel his blood rushing to a southernmost point. He wanted to worship her, to kiss and nibble her skin — to make her cry out his name until the only thing she could remember was the feel of him against herself. At this moment, he was no longer Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm; he was a dog at her heel, eager for her calling. His gaze never left hers, staring at her vulnerable state as he mirrored her actions. First he removed his baldric, steel clinking as his dagger and sword fell to the ground. Then, he slowly undid the various buckles on his black jerkin, his breeches following suit. He did not waver as her brown eyes found his stiffened manhood; for he hadn’t cared to remain in concealment as she did.

Aelora’s gaze followed her husband as he approached her again, his hands reaching out and his fingers gently sliding up her bare thigh. She felt him press further into her, his cock pushing itself snugly against her core. He leaned in until his mouth was just beside her ear, his breath warm against her neck as he bit the skin softly. There was no denying she was his, her soul forever branded by his sinful devotion; the princess would never trust a kinslayer twice over, but she couldn’t help but love him.

“Vestragon ao’re ñuhon. (Say you’re mine.)” His voice was barely a whisper but it was as much a command as a plead.

“Vestragon ao’re nykeēdrosa ñuhon, gīda sepār syt kiza bantis. (Say you’re still mine, even just for tonight)”.

“Nyke aōhon. Ēva tubis ōños. (I am yours. Until daylight)”. She answered, lips trembling as the words escaped her.

A primal possessiveness engulfed the one eyed prince, the part that had always longed for her roaring in victory. At that very moment, he felt that there was nothing in this world that he would not do for her. He took her mouth in another kiss, their tongues clashing in a more feral and desperate manner. Aemond lifted her, his calloused hands digging into her plump arse as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her fingers gripped at his silver locks, his sudden responde sending waves of languor across her limbs. He moved her onto the cloak that was on the ground, the velvety sand welcoming her weight over the fabric as he covered her body with his.

Aemond continued his path of kisses down her body, his hands wandering over her breasts and waist and his mouth leaving more marks in its path. He could feel Aelora shudder in anticipation, her hips arching against his as he moved closer to her core, the air heavy with the scent of her nectar. He halted, taking in the sight of her before him. It had been so long — too long — since he had laid eyes upon her like this, and he relished in the way she already looked completely wrecked by his touch alone. The prince finally reached his ultimate goal, his lips finding her mound as he licked a stripe across the sensitive flesh. He let out a low moan at the taste of her sweet ambrosia on his tongue, a loud whimper emanating from her lungs in response.

The young woman’s hair laid carelessly on the ground, grains of sand intertwining into the brown mess as she arched her back in pleasure. She cried out as he grabbed her thighs, spreading her further apart and burying his face between her legs, his tongue exploring her in ways she had missed for many moons. He could not get enough of her, his lips and tongue trailing silent prayers over her most sensitive spot as his name left her lips. She felt her walls clench as he barged inside her cunt with a long finger, adjusting to the once familiar feeling. Shivers ran down her spine in satisfaction as Aemond synchronized his movements, the overwhelming pleasure bringing stars to her eyes.

A lilac eye never left her face, watching every expression that played across her features. Her mouth parted in pleasure, each gasp and moan fueling the fire of the prince’s own arousal. He had longed to see her like this, writhing underneath him, his name on her lips and his touch on her skin. The memories of her had haunted him in his nights alone, but now, in this moment, he was finally able to worship her like the god given treasure that she was.

Aelora's cries grew more intense, her hips bucking against Aemond's skilled mouth as pleasure mounted within her. Her thighs trembled slightly, its muscles tensing in anticipation of the release that was quickly approaching. Each touch and movement only served to bring her closer to the precipice of pleasure.

A loud cry echoed through the cavern as she climaxed, her body shuddering and her fingers digging into the ground in a desperate attempt to anchor herself. As the waves of ecstasy washed over her, she felt as though she had been transported to another realm. The connection between them was somehow stronger than it had ever been before, their souls dancing to a passionate melody.

When Aelora finally gasped for air, the prince slowly moved up from her core, his body hovering over hers. He watched as she recovered from the rapture he had given her with a dark and vainglorious smirk. With his elbow holding himself over her, he pulled her leg to rest on his hip as his eye scanned her features. Her hand moved to cup his cheek, the tip of her finger caressing his reddened scar as she furrowed her brows.

“Nyke gaomagon regret ziry. Skoros nyke vestretan se mōrī jēda. (I do regret it. What I said the last time.)” She apologized, regret brimming in her brown orbs.

Aemond leaned into her touch, his good eye closing at the gentle touch of her hand against his skin, it felt nearly as soothing as a balm to his weary heart. The mention of the title she had bestowed upon him sent a chill through his spine, his monstrous behavior had earned the words even if they had maimed him. His face turned to press a soft kiss into her palm, before opening his eye to look at her again.

“It is of no importance.” His voice was rough and low as he spoke.

Aelora softly tugged at the straps of his eyepatch, earning a trembling exhale from him in response. The touch of her delicate fingers on his malady sent a wave of fear through his spirit. She removed piece of leather, revealing the puckered, scarred skin where his eye had once been. He found himself unable to look at her for a moment, the feeling of vulnerability consuming him in the dim light of the cave. The princess looked deeply into the sapphire gem in his socket, tenderness engulfing the kiss she placed upon it.

Aemond's touch was gentle as he took her lips in his, not waiting for her response as he gripped her hip and turned her on her stomach. His eye roamed over the expanse of her back, tracing his fingers over the smooth surface of her skin, leaving a trail of gentle caresses in its path. It was a stark contrast to the frenzied way he had touched her previously, this touch was far more tender, almost reverent in nature. His body pressed against hers as the length of his manhood rested on the small of her back, buring into her skin. He leaned down, his mouth finding her ear as he moved closer.

“Azantys ñuha sindigho, issa vēzos. (I have missed you desperately, my sun)”. His breath was warm against her skin as he whispered.

Aelora arched her back as she felt the tip of his cock breeching her dampened slit, her knees propping her hip upwards in search of contact. His arm reached under her, squeezing one of her peaks as he fully entered her. The pair let out breathless moans as Aemond moved against her, leaving no time for her adjustment. The sting of pain she felt had been nothing compared to the ecstasy of his length inside her, finding herself unable to focus on anything but the feeling of being around him.

The prince’s thrusts grew harder, his body moving against hers in a rhythm that was both frenzied and yet somehow controlled. Her moans and sighs filled the air, his own breaths coming quick and sharply as he took her with a wild abandon. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the soft flesh as his hands buried into her hips.

“Avy jorrāelan. (I love you)” Aelora murmured between ragged moans, her hand reaching to grasp his hair.

His eye widened slightly at her words, a thrill rushing through him at having heard them coming from her lips once again. His lips found the base of her jawline, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin. His cock kept reaching further into her cunt as their flesh moved together with a rhythmic thrust, like the rise and fall of waves on the shore.

“Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan.” Aemond mumbled repeatedly in between thrusts, his words a fierce declaration of their love. He continued moving inside her, his heart racing in his ribcage as his pleasure overcame physical bounds.

Every thing about this moment was singled out from any other they had shared. The grief, pain and betrayal that coursed through their marriage dissipated amongst the dragon fire that burned within the pair. It all faded away, and all that was left was this, the feel of her skin against his, the sound of his muffled whimpers in her ear, the desperate way he repeated her name over and over. This moment felt like the calm in the middle of a storm, a rustle of the ashes of their love.

Aemond could feel his peak building, his movements becoming more urgent and frantic as he chased the pleasure he sought. His breaths came out in ragged pants, mingling with the sounds of her gasps in the air as his length clashed inside her. Aelora sensed the twitching of his manhood, threatening to spill his release inside her walls. The mere thought tightened the knot that had formed in her belly, reaching the edge of her desire.

Aemond sent a few more thrusts into the brown haired woman underneath him before both found their release simultaneously, their movements slowing as they both rode out of the ecstatic trance that washed over them. The prince’s face was buried in Aelora’s neck, a guttural moan escaping him at the force of his own pleasure. Her body shivered at the feeling of his seed drowning her cunt, pearly tears streaming down her leg as she whimpered.

The lovers stayed silent in an adoring embrace after he disconnected their bodies, a wave of comfort washing over them. For a while they simply laid there, basking in the afterglow of their passion, their frames entwined in a tangle of limbs. It was a strange sort of peace, one that they both knew wouldn't last once the sun rose — but for the moment, they were content. The night stretched on, each hour passing in a blur of whispered words and slow hands. Aemond and Aelora clang to one another, as if they could melt into one if they only held tightly enough. The threat of daylight and the inevitable parting loomed over them like a dark cloud on the horizon, anguish settling inside their hearts.

As the hour of the nightingale approached over their secret sanctuary, the prince and princess began to break away from the blissful haven that enveloped them. There were no words to be spoken as they both dressed silently, the sound of rustling fabric and soft breaths filling the air between them. The weight of war and the knowledge that this moment was fleeting hung heavily in the air. Aemond felt a pang in his chest as he looked towards her, a mute wish in his heart that they could stay like this. To be locked in this moment forever, away from the world that demanded so much from them. But he knew that was not possible. Soon, they would have to return to their duties and obligations — this feeling would become nothing more than a memory.

As they stood before each other fully clothed, their eyes met in a bereaved gaze — sorrow for the love they shared engulfing them. Aelora stepped closer to him, holding his hand softly, almost in a cowardly manner. She had no words for the man who was her everything, the man who had her in every way possible, and she was ashamed of it. His free hand moved hesitantly to hold her cheek, his eye flickering over her face, taking in every feature. He wanted to burn the image of her into his mind, to remember every detail about her, down to the smallest freckle on her nose. His thumb traced her soft skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, as if to say “I will be with you forever”. Tears began to form at the corners of her brown orbs as she abandoned his touch. The sound of the rustling sand underneath her feet echoed through the cave as she reached its entrance, her form never escaping his stare.

She halted at the stone archway, her silhouette framed by the soft silver light of the moon. The night air was cool on her skin as she turned to look back at Aemond, the feel of their passion still lingering in the air. For a moment, they simply stood there, eyes meeting in the darkness. She ached to say something, to find the words to convey the maelstrom of emotions that raged within her. In the end, she simply smiled, bittersweet and knowing.

“Should we meet on the battlefield, I can’t hesitate.” Her voice came out a whisper.

“I won’t hesitate to kill you.” She repeated, to herself or to him — Aemond didn’t know.

The prince’s breath had grown a little shallow at her words, a frown forming on his face. The idea of their next encounter being on the battlefield, facing off against each other like enemies was a thought that pained him, even though he knew it was a possibility. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t hesitate either, that he would fight her with everything he had if they ever met in battle, but the words stuck in his throat. He simply nodded in acknowledgement.

Once again, she left him. Aemond would be a King without a Queen, half of his soul forsaken in his search for power. It had to be worth it.

Bur they wouldn’t meet again, not in the context of war or any other.

She would meet her demise alongside her brother in the Battle of The Gullet. Fighting hard like a Strong, dying besides her dragon like a Targaryen and laying to rest at sea like a Velaryon.

He would grow mad at her perishing, ire overcoming his every sense. And he would eventually be slayed by her stepfather at The Battle Above God’s Eye.

Their love was epic, a fierce tale of forbidden passion that would never be written about inside history books. The only legacy they would leave behind had been scribbled onto a stone wall years before.

A.T. & A.V.

---

Taglist: @onlyrealjoy @siriusblackssun @adombtch

[mischieveousmayhem]

Oh, Mom..

Pairing: Tim Drake x Batmom!Reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Mentions of death

Synopsis: Tim typically snaps back from rough situations. But how is he when he just lost another parent?

THE MASTERLIST

—

He was a mess.

Twitching from the amount of caffeine in his system. He was trying to feel awake, it was hard to sleep.

He knew if his dearest mother was here she would scold the boy for having so much caffeine in his system. Honestly, he might be close to death himself with how much he has drink.

But he didn't care. All he wanted was Y/N. Ever since Bruce brought him home, all she ever did was try to comfort him. He wasn't that young but he was young. He lost both his parents and he had no one, but Y/N, Bruce and his brothers.

Y/N made him cookies along with the rest of his brothers, obviously. But Y/N and Tim had a special relationship. Mind you he isn't that big of a mama's boy like the rest of his brothers. They still loved Bruce but oh lord, she was more favorable than Bruce.

He sat at his laptop watching videos trying to distract himself or maybe trying to make himself fall asleep to them. But it was no use. It was about 5am, obviously he was done with patrol, if he even went. But he needed rest.

He had wounds that were treated by Alfred but not how his mom would take care of them. Batmom would treat them with the proper care, like Alfred, but then she would kiss all his booboos.

She was his world. He wishes she would come back like Jason or Damian did.

On his desk , in his room, he has a jar of her ashes. She was really in there. Gone. Forever.

Oh the poor boy broke down in tears. It was unfair, so unfair. Why did this happen to her? Out of everyone in damned Gotham. Why HIS mom?

Looking at the vase of ashes, "Oh mom..are you actually gone?"

[fangirlingpuggle]

Please tell me more about your au where the twins are billford kids please please please

Hey there haven't been able to stop thinking about AU so here more additional thoughts

Mable and Dipper not knowing about their deal power until later, like Mabel accidentally making deal with Pacifica/challenging her and suddenly her hand is on fire '...that's not good' twins frantically trying to fix everything and now they have a no deals rule.

Well after some experimentation the twins wanted to know what would happen if they tried to make deals with each other... both hands catch on fire and well... Grunkle Stan watching TV and then turning head to see his niece and nephew turned in ash ans still slightly smoldering.

Others slowly finding out about their demon forms, Candy and Grenda they love Mabel's demon form and think it's so cool... they also help her experiment with powers... it usually ends in chaos.

Wendy finding out, realizing these 2 kids have had to live copped up indoors and not do anything like go to school and have friends and is instantly like 'I am going to make sure you 2 have so much fun, you are going to have coolest summer ever!'

Pacifica also finds out, because of demon deal but pretends she doesn't. It's only later she reveals.

Mabel: YOU KNEW IT WAS ME?

Pacifica: YOU WERE STILL WEARING A GIANT SWEATER OF COURSE I KNEW IT WAS YOU!

All the life threatening events are far more less threatening it's less my life is in danger more like I need to blow I'm not human/ I can't let my powers go crazy cause otherwise things are gonna get weird and maybe worse.

Whenever Stan hears the kids voices he automatically looks up he's really used to then kids floating.

Bill finding out he's parent freaking out and the Henchmanics are torn between 'WE'RE HONORARY AUNTS/UNCLES' and... welp fuck probably not gonna be able to make while worlds a party since Bill is already asking about how to baby proof the mindscape.

When Ford comes back it's him that faints this time... everyone else has known about him for ages.

Mable and Dipper have seen journal 1 and then journal 3 after Dipper finds it (Stan is not surprised, kid is so much like Ford of course he's find where the nerd hid it... now they only need the 2nd journal) Mabel's seen the writing about don't trust him about Bill and seeing journal 2 she puts together her parents aren't.... on the best terms. She still is on the matchmaking thing cause she has an ideal dream of 2 happy parents along with her twin, grunkle stan and big brother Soos.

Fiddleford even when meeting twins for first time in human form is terrified of them. He is scared every time and he doesn't know why just instinctual fear.

[henry7931]

Freaky Friday Block Part I

In a quiet neighborhood, 40 individuals one Friday morning all woke up in the wrong body. Although, all of them know each other— none of them are sure how or what happened to cause it. So the mystery begins…

Friday 8:00AM

An alarm starts to sound abruptly.

*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*

Max:

“Ugh… what time is it?”

*Yawns*

“Wait, what the? Where am I?”

This isn’t my room… my feet they look huge….

Who’s bed am I in? And what’s wrong with my feet?

I climb out of bed and feel my weight hit the ground, my stomp sounds heavier.

I look at my arms, my legs, something isn’t right…

I walk to the door of the strange bedroom I’m in and open it. Looking out in the hallway, it starts to look familiar.

“This is Jacob’s house, what am I doing at Jacob’s?”

Wait my voice? It sounds deeper and has this rasp to it.

I walk into Jacob’s bathroom and turn on the light.

“AHHHHHHHHH!!!”

This can’t be possible. How is this possible? Looking at me in the mirror is… Jacob’s dad, Mr. Thomas.

I splash cold water in my face thinking this may all be a dream but I’m still Mr. Thomas.

I pinch his cheek and the feel slight stubble on his face.

My realization starts to stink in that this is in fact not a dream, I am actually my friend’s dad Daniel Thomas.

I stare into his face taking it all in, Mr. Thomas is a handsome man. At least, I’ve always thought he’s attractive. He’s single with two sons and I’ve never seen him with a woman.

I run his fingers down his arms, flexing his muscles a bit which causes me to giggle.

I repeat back into the mirror, “Hi, I’m Dan Thomas.”

It sounds funny hearing my self control such a deeper voice.

I look down at his chest and then my eyes focus in on his boxer briefs.

Curious, I pull down his boxers and Mr. Thomas’s 10 inch semi hard manhood and huge hairy balls is fully exposed.

“Not bad!” I say checking out his junk from every angle.

I turn around and get a glance of his cute hairy butt. I smack it and start laughing again.

Mr. Thomas is such a serious guy and I never see him act goofy. Making him do things so out of character is kind of a turn on.

I had a moment of fun before coming back to reality. I need to figure out what’s going on and why I’m Mr. Thomas.

But who do I even talk to about this? Should I say something to Jacob or is going to think his dad’s gone mad…

Screw it, I’ll knock on his door.

*Knock Knock*

“Hey Jacob, open up it’s uhh… it’s dad!”

Geez, I’m not good at this.

The door doesn’t open but then I hear a door across the hallway open. It’s Jacob’s little brother.

“Hey dad, what’s up?” he says to me.

“Hey Conner, I was trying to your brother up.”

“Conner? Dad did you just call me Conner?”

All of the sudden, Jacob’s door opens and Jacob is standing at the door.

“What’s going on?” he says with a big yawn.

It takes a second for everything to click but both Conner and Jacob scream on the top of their longs.

“Conner?!??”

“Jacob?!???”

“But… but how?”

“Well I have some news boys, I’m not your dad either. It’s me Max.”

“Max??!??”

Well I guess I’m glad I’m not the only one who woke up as someone else this morning.

Meanwhile Two Houses Down, a guy named Ashton is babysitting his nephew Davy.

Davy:

I woke up feeling weird and for some reason why I’m in Uncle Ash’s bed!

“Uncle Ash?”

Wow! My voice sounds funny!!!

I swing my legs out of bed but then I notice something very different….

My feet look like someone else’s!

I stand up and notice I’m so much closer to the ceiling.

I walk out to the hallway and head to the bathroom.

When I turn on the light, I COULD NOT BELIVE WHAT I SAW!!!

IM UNCLE ASH!!!

I looked in the mirror and couldn’t look away. I’m so much more tall! And hairier?

“Wow Uncle Ash had tattoos?? Cool!”

This is amazing!!! All of my friends are going to be so jealous!!

Wait… if I’m uncle Ash, then who’s me???

Across the street another house with college/ graduate students guys starts to wake up.

Kyle:

“Mhmmm… that feels so good….”

Wait…. My dick feels kinda funny….

“Wow what the fuck?”

My body look didn’t and why the hell am I in Skylar’s room?

I hope out of bed and head to the bathroom.

I know us guys partied last night but I didn’t drink that much to fall asleep in Skylar’s bed.

I get the bathroom and open up the door. Only to find Zeek on the floor with his tongue out.

“Zeek you okay?”

“Woof!”

“What the hell?”

I glance into the mirror only for eyes to get bigger. I see Skylar’s good looking face looking back at me.

Across the street from the Thomas’s house.

Daniel Thomas:

*Yawn*

“Boy that was one of the best sleeps I’ve had in awhile.”

“What a sec.. where am I?”

[sassycheesecake]

"Hello everyone, I’m going ta do a -" The young Miya chef starts to speak into a video camera, his black shirt carrying his restaurant logo over his right pec muscle. His black messy hair looks like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago, which he secretly did because Atsumu has shown up at seven in the goddamn morning to remind Osamu of the bet that the younger twin has lost only a month ago.

The Miya twins challenged each other to do the Chubby Bunny challenge and when Osamu was about to win, you came running into the living room in just a towel because you saw a cockroach on the bathroom wall and didn't know that Atsumu came over while you were in the shower. The chef almost choked on the marshmallows when he saw you in a single towel, causing Atsumu to shriek in victory with his mouth full of marshmallows as well. In the end, you had to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on both of them.

Since it’s off-season for the professional volleyball player, he has nothing better to do than bother his younger brother and Osamu‘s pretty partner on a regular Saturday morning.

"You’re not even going to introduce yourself?" You interrupt him with a little laugh behind the counter with the video camera, where you are seated next to Atsumu so you can film your boyfriend.

"I’m Osamu Miya and today-" The ravenette starts again.

"Ya forgot ta mention the great Atsumu Miya's twin brother-" Atsumu adds cheekily, interrupting him yet again.

Osamu can’t stop the highly aggravated sigh escaping from him, and he sends his brother a death glare behind the camera.

“ANYWAY- I am going ta show ya’ll how ta make a simple deep fired shrimp onigiri. Joinin' me today is my beautiful assistant an' partner-in-crime, (Y/N)." The grey-eyed twin looks behind the camera where you are seated.

You look up with a surprised face, clearly not expecting to be helping your boyfriend.

Scooching off the bar stool in front of the counter, you hop down and make your way with slow steps to Osamu who watches you with adoration and fondness in his gray eyes.

"What’s the first step?" You ask excited, almost hopping up and down like an excited puppy.

Osamu gives you one of his rare breathtaking smiles, feeling his heart speed up by the happiness on your face.

"Well first, we need ta make sure we got all the ingredients for makin' this." The black-haired chef explains while the camera zooms out a bit and the viewer is able to see the laid out ingredients for making the dish.

Osamu points to each ingredient, explaining what it is, what you need it for and how much you need of it.

"Looks like we got everythin'. Ya ready?" Osamu leans on the counter as he watches you with a grin.

"Yes, chef." You giggle and roll up your sleeves on your hoodie.

You can hear Atsumu gag behind the camera as he hears your flirting.

"Alright. First, yer gonna crack an egg in a bowl an' whisk it, afterwards yer gonna add the flour an' the cold water. Mix all together. Add some spices so it’s not completely flavorless. Ya followin' so far?" Osamu raises his dark eyebrow as he asks you.

You do as he says, nodding in confirmation.

"Good. Now yer gonna put that off ta the side an' grab the other bowl with the flour innit an' put the shrimp in there."

Grabbing the already peeled shrimp out of the fridge, you dump them in the flour and mix it together, making sure that there are no bare parts left on the shrimp.

"Now what?"

"Now yer gonna dip the shrimp in da batter, hold it by its tail and then dunk it a few times in there. I already prepared da fryin' oil pot but I don’t wantcha ta hurt yerself so please let me do the fryin'." Osamu looks at you with his stunning ash-grey eyes and every time he looks at you with those eyes, it makes you weak in the knees, so all you do is stare at him with big eyes and nod your head.

The chef chuckles at your reaction and those chuckles send shivers down your spine.

"(Y/N), yer startin' ta drool over mah brother. Try ta tame yer thoughts please, I can hear them from here." Atsumu teases you with a mischievous grin.

Feeling your face heat up a thousand degrees, you watch as your boyfriend skillfully puts the shrimp in the frying pot, turning them over occasionally because taking them out to put them on a drying tray.

"Leave mah girl outta this. She just knows that I am a lot hotter than you." Osamu explains as he finishes the last bit of frying the shrimp.

"Yannow, if I'd known ya would be disgustin' like this, I would have stayed at home." Atsumu scrunches up his face.

"Door's right over there." Osamu mentions his head towards his front door, clearly not bothered and more than happy to have some alone time with you.

Atsumu pouts and slumps over the counter.

"(Y/N) do something. Yer ass of a boyfriend wants to kick me out." The Setter looks at you for help, giving you those brown puppy eyes.

Curse twins and their equally good looks.

"We still need Atsumu for making the video. And he can clean up afterwards since we are both cooking." You grin up at the younger twin.

"I ain’t cleanin' shit."

"He’s not gettin' anywhere near my damn kitchen."

The twins say in sync.

You laugh at their words, setting the already cooked sticky rice on the counter next to the shrimp, along with the seaweed strips, salt, water and boiled sauce for dipping the cooked shrimp in, before putting it into the rice onigiri.

The restaurant owner shows you how it’s done step by step, being slow with his movements, so you know how it’s done.

During the trying to copy his movements, the blonde excused himself to use the restroom and Osamu uses the chance to get closer to you.

He stands behind you, putting his giant hand over yours to help you shape the onigiri. He does it on a daily basis and you’re so happy that you are his and he is yours only.

"Try doin' it yerself." The dark-haired man whispers in your ear, sending shivers all over your body and getting goosebumps by his dark voice.

You feel his strong heartbeat against your back and your breathing picks up a bit. Leaning his head next to yours on your shoulder, you feel his smile against your cheek as he watches you try to shape the next onigiri by yourself.

Holding the somewhat triangular-shaped onigiri (it’s more heart shaped actually), you present it to him with an unsure look.

All of sudden, Osamu took a large bite out of it, getting some rice on his lips, shocking you a little bit even though you should have seen this coming, this is Osamu Miya after all.

Humming in bliss, your lover swallows the food before giving you a flirtatious look, turning you around so you’re standing face-to-face.

"Compliments to the chef."

Smiling in delight, the ravenette places a smooth and loving kiss onto your lips, pulling you closer to his body.

You forget the world around you, it’s just you and Osamu. And nothing else matters.

[light-yaers]

tangerine. | part two [carmen berzatto x reader]

Fic Masterpost | AO3

Carmen shows up at your diner after five years, and everything comes flooding back like it was only yesterday.

Warnings: swearing, angst, mature themes [discussions about drugs, workplace abuse, family problems]

Word count: 6k+

PART TWO

You lit your cigarette before the back door even fully shut. You leaned against the wall as you inhaled, and exhaled slowly when you could feel the smoke in your lungs expand. It was a nasty habit, you knew, but it was the only time where you got an ounce of peace at the diner. Two minutes to yourself, not in the cold walk-in, but outside where no one could yell for you, or grab at you, or need you. When you were out here, the chefs and staff alike knew not to bother you. It was just for you. 

Carmen knew that rule well, but that didn’t stop him from following you out the door. He burst through the back door like he was an employee under the diner roof, and found you immediately. You rolled your eyes and turned away from him, not wanting anything to start today. 

You inhaled again, and let out the smoke quickly. “You know you’re not allowed back here–”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he boomed. Sydney’s words from before had completely dissipated in his mind.

You turned back to him, eyes wide, utterly gobsmacked. “With me? Are you fucking joking?”

“What, it’s been five years and not even a fucking hello or a how you doing?–”

“Oh, sorry, Carm,” you said sarcastically. You stepped towards him in anger. “I was under the impression you never wanted to fucking see me again, huh? Isn’t that what you said last time at USC, or did I just make that shit up or something?”

Carmen shut his mouth. You both breathed heavily as the silence descended over you, only broken up by him pulling a pack of cigs from his pocket and plucking a stick from the foil. He slotted the cigarette between his lips, and lit it without a word. As he inhaled, he leaned against the wall next to you. You smoked together, not making a sound, as smoke coiled around your heads and disappeared into the air without a trace. 

You flicked ash on the floor. “What are you doing here, Carm?” you asked. 

He sighed, trying to calm himself down. “Getting ideas.”

“Ideas for what?” you asked, and glanced at the side of his face for just a second. He still looked the same, just a bit older. He had more tattoos on his arms, and a stronger jaw, but he was definitely the same Carmen you’d known once. 

“A restaurant. In Chicago.” 

You finally met his eyes, awestruck. He looked down at you to his left, and all the years came flooding back. Behind your eyes, behind the pain and the shit he’d said last time, was someone who still cared about his endeavours. It was almost too much to bear. 

“You found a place?” you asked. 

Carmen nodded. “The Beef. My brother’s old place,” he said, and scratched his head almost painfully. “He, uh… died, and left it to me. We’re doing it up.”

“We?”

“Me and Syd,” he said, and pointed back at the door. Sydney was still inside, at the table alone. “And, uh, Nat and Richie.”

You exhaled a shaking breath, smoke free. Your fingers started to buzz. You were torn between wanting to congratulate him, and wanting to walk away. This was immense for him, and something you knew he’d been wanting from the very beginning. He’d done it, was doing it, but despite all the time you couldn’t help but think– 

Weren’t we supposed to do this together? 

It didn’t matter now. It had been too long and you’d missed each other, passed by, lost the opportunity. Even so, after all this time, would you even want to go back?

You swallowed away all the words that wanted to pour from your mouth. “Wow,” you said, and it sounded stale. “That’s… that’s big.”

“Yeah,” Carm said.

“When do you open?” you asked. You tried to keep things light. 

“Couple of months. We need to open fast. Faster than we wanted to, so, yeah. It’s a lot.” 

As his words fizzled away, you looked at the ground. The air between you felt thick, heavy, with all of the words that you both wanted to say to the other, but couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Now wasn’t the time to think about what could have been. Maybe, if what happened at USC hadn’t happened, things would have been different. You’d still be friends, have any semblance of a relationship, compared to being almost strangers. 

In fact, you’d pick being strangers with Carm over this. Inside, you still harboured the hurt from those years previous. He’d been so horrible. He’d been so cruel. You wondered if he still remembered all he’d said, or if he had no memory of the way he’d cut you to your core. 

It’d been too long. It didn’t matter. Nothing would change from this. 

“Well.” You sucked in a final pull from your cig, before you flicked it on the ground. You looked him in the eyes as you stood up straight. “Good luck with it all,” you said, before you started towards the door. 

Carm shot up from the wall. “You should come to the opening, in July.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You grabbed the door handle, and Carmen tensed immediately. 

“We’re looking for a front of house manager,” he blurted out. You froze. All the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and you clamped your eyes shut. “I don’t know– if you wanted a change, or something new.”

Your fingers hurt from how hard you held onto the door handle. Your knuckles had turned white. Quickly, you inhaled a sharp breath, turning back to him. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

Carm realised his mistake as soon as you spoke. “Fuck– I just–”

“No, Carm. Think about it. You think that you can come back here after five fucking years, and offer me this like it’s nothing?” You were seething, you were upset. It only cemented that he didn’t realise how bad he’d hurt you, and if he did, then that was even worse. 

He looked around the back of the building, anywhere but at you, trying to find the right words. “I was shitty, I get that.”

“Do you?” You stepped forward once. “Tell me how shitty you were, Carmen.”

“I was– fuck– I shouldn’t have–” he stumbled over his words. 

“You shouldn’t have treated someone– who only fucking cared about you– like that, is that what you were gonna say?” you said over him, and the look on his face told you everything. You knew Carmen well, and you thought that was why he struggled. You could see right through him, especially back then. “You have a habit of pushing away people that give a shit about you.”

He frowned at you in understanding. “Yeah,” he whispered. 

“I hope you grow out of it one day, and realise your worth,” you said, and felt the familiar sting of tears welling in your eyes. 

“That’s what I’m trying to fucking do,” he said, finding his voice. He took a strong step forward, taking you by surprise. “Come and work at the restaurant. You need to give yourself a fucking chance too, not just other people.”

You scoffed at his change of character. “You’re really flipping it this way?”

“Yeah, I am,” he said plainly. “You’ve been here, what, seven years? You know you’re qualified to work in places ten times the level of the diner–”

“God– fuck you!” you burst, ignoring the way your cheeks warmed and your chest stuttered. “You can’t just come back here after all this time and tell me that you give a shit, that you’re living your dream and you finally want me to be a fucking part of it–”

Carmen cut over you. “So only you’re allowed to say I need to know my fucking worth, huh? I can’t say it back to you?”

“I know my worth!” you exclaimed. Carmen sucked in a breath and shut his mouth after, holding his breath. “I’ve known my worth all along, and sure, maybe I’m too good for this fucking place, but it’s my home.” Carmen’s face softened as the words tipped from your mouth. “What worth would I have if I went back to someone who treated me like shit?”

Carmen placed his hands on his hips and looked at the floor. His shoulders were tense as he hung his head in subtle shame. You knew Carmen. You knew he wasn’t like this, not always, which is what made it even harder to say no. 

“This was our dream,” he said gently. 

“It was your dream, Carm,” you said. He caught your eye strongly.

“You were always part of it.” The breath hitched in your throat. “It was always gonna be you and me–”

“Until it wasn’t,” you said over him. There was a finality to your words that Carmen understood wholeheartedly. He’d been too late, left it too long, for you to drop everything and come back now. 

He inhaled deeply, and let his breath out slowly, surely. “I’m sorry,” he said, hitting your eye. “For all of it. The way I acted. Cutting you all out of my life. I’m trying… not to do that anymore.”

You nodded gently, softening your expression. “I’m happy for you,” you said, and you meant it. “I just can’t do it.”

“Okay,” Carmen said. “Okay,” he repeated, trying to get it all to stick.  

You placed your hand on the door handle, and tugged it open. “It was good to see you,” you said. Maybe it was a lie, or maybe it had been nice to see his face after all these years. You just didn’t know yet. 

Carmen nodded. “You too,” he said. You shut the door behind you as you went inside, leaving him out the back with his half smoked cigarette. 

Sydney was amongst the last customers in the restaurant after lunch, and you sighed as you saw her alone. You strolled towards her table, and started picking up empty plates when you approached. “Nice meal?” you asked. 

“Amazing,” Sydney perked up awkwardly. “You were right. Those tangerines are good.”

You smiled. “They’re my favourite, too,” you revealed. 

Sydney rang her hands on the table. “Um, where’s Carmen?”

You kept your face flat, not wanting to show just how erratically your heart was beating after the entire ordeal. “Having a smoke, out the back. You can head out that way, I’ll clear this all up,” you suggested. 

Sydney got up and nodded. “Thank you. It was really nice to meet you,” she said. When you looked at her face, you could tell she was being genuine. “Carmen knows a lot of people in this industry, and most of the places and people aren’t like this, or, uh– like you. It’s a refreshing change.” She smiled. 

You felt bashful at her words, but ignored the warmth that spread to your cheeks. In that moment, you knew that Carmen had found himself a great partner. You just hoped he wouldn’t fuck it all up for her sake. 

Sydney quickly shuffled in her bag, and brought out her wallet. “How much do we owe you?”

“Oh,” you stuttered, before you shook your head. “On the house. How do they say it? No checks.” 

“Oh, no, I insist–”

“So do I. Didn’t you hear Paulie?” you said, stacking a final plate on your arm, as you balanced the rest with ease. “I’m the big boss around here.” 

Sydney smiled marvellously. Her eyes shone when she did. “Okay, okay,” she said, backing off. “Whatever the big boss says, goes, right?”

“Too right,” you said, as you stood up straight and looked at her face-on. “I… I hope everything with the restaurant goes great.”

Sydney nodded, understanding that Carmen must have told you about it outside. “Yeah, me too. You should come by.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her no, so you simply nodded. You stepped back and headed towards the kitchen, but stopped halfway there. “Good luck, Sydney. You’re gonna need it with him,” you said, gesturing towards the back door. Carmen. 

Sydney scoffed, amused. The way her face dropped softly, and her eyes widened gently, made you feel properly seen. Like you were sharing words through looks alone, and absolutely knew what position the other was in, or had been in. “Uh, if you’re ever in Chicago– don’t be a stranger,” she added awkwardly, but you found it incredibly endearing.

You smiled, before you continued to the kitchen. As you did, you hoped it wouldn’t be like what happened to you, for her. 

It was always like this with Carmen. He somehow always found himself next to people like you and Sydney, strong-willed, capable, caring, but almost always fucked it up in some capacity. He’d done it before with you, and others, and neither you–nor Sydney– wanted it to happen again. Not when their restaurant would be on the line.

You dropped off the plates at the sink, and found yourself looking around the empty kitchen. The chefs were out the back, taking their after-lunch break. Sydney had already left through the door at the back of the restaurant, so they’d no doubt all bump into each other before Carmen fully left. 

Gently, you opened the walk-in and pulled the door closed behind you. You ducked down to the lower shelves, at the back, until you found what you were looking for– tangerines. There was a crate of them, some of them fresher than others, but you liked the ones that were almost over-ripe. You grabbed a couple and held them in your hands, before you headed back to the kitchen. 

Grabbing Paulie’s knife, you sliced them into quarters. The insides were the most neon of oranges. Unlike the peels on big oranges, tangerine peels were thinner. You liked it when the colour of the juice was so vibrant that it got stuck behind your eyelids for a moment. You liked it when you picked up a quarter and it almost fell apart. 

You were reminded of a memory then, of the last time you’d seen Carmen before today. Five years ago, when your reservation at Union Square Cafe had finally arrived, Carmen was in the kitchen just like you’d known he would be. 

You arrived on time, dressed in something fancy and upper-class, just to fit in. It’d been ten months since you’d seen him, since he’d left Lucky Strike Diner, and he’d been far too busy to come by. You didn’t blame him. He was finally doing what he’d meant to, and, just as before, you’d been absolutely right– within five months at USC, Carmen Berzatto won the James Beard award. 

You weren’t at the restaurant to tell him I told you so, but you couldn’t deny that you felt powerful about it. You knew Carmen better than he knew himself. But maybe that was more of a curse, than a blessing. 

The hostess sat you down at your table for one, as the restaurant emitted a gentle lull of mutters and chatter. You’d booked a later reservation, nearer to the end of dinner service, and everything was serene as you perused the menu and chose a wine. A few moments later, a waitress brought over your glass, and you sipped at it gently.

This was nice. You could get used to this. Fine dining, putting on a show of excellence. This was so far removed from the world of the diner that you almost felt like a different person. Someone elegant, someone important. Not that you didn’t feel loved or supported at Lucky Strike, but you knew that standards in a place like Union Square Cafe were above and beyond. That’s how they got their stars, and kept them. 

In the kitchen, Carmen worked on an order. He positioned micro basil and other delicate ingredients on the plates, working with immense precision alongside the rest of the kitchen. When he was done, he let out a strong “Hands!” and within moments all the plates had been picked up and whisked from the kitchen. 

He made his way to the expo, banked a few more tickets, before his eye caught something. He stopped– froze, almost– as his gaze fell over your name on the reservations list. 

“Chef,” he said, turning to his front of house manager, who was responsible for calling out orders, and ensuring everything ran smoothly. “This booking, table thirty two– has she ordered yet?” 

“No, Chef. She was still looking the last time a server went to her table.”

Carmen had a thought, and he was going to put it into motion. “Take her menu away. I’ll be cooking for her tonight. Chef’s pick.”

“Yes, Chef,” the manager said, before she quickly fled the kitchen. 

Carmen took in a breath. “I need two veal, four salmon and one beef!”

“Yes, Chef!” the crew boomed in unison. 

You thought you’d decided. The salmon looked appealing, and as soon as you’d picked it was as if a server came over from being summoned. You turned to her, and smiled. “I’m ready to order,” you said. 

“That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” she said softly, as she gently plucked the menu from your hands. “Chef Berzatto is taking care of it for you.”

Chef Berzatto. 

Hearing Carmy’s name in such a way had you downright giddy. You wondered how he’d known, or if he’d been told, or whatever. You knew that top restaurants had a habit of being attentive to the max, so maybe they’d background checked you. Either way, you were excited. 

“Looking forward to it,” you said, accepting the fate of your meal as being in Carmen’s hands. You simply sat back, swilled your wine, and felt at peace. 

As you waited, you peered around the restaurant. Everything was laid out perfectly, had a system that worked, and every couple and group and business party looked catered for. It was an utterly different vibe than the diner. This was a place for another species, not like the locals you knew by name. You’d always assumed that intense and fanciful restaurants like this lacked character, in a way. They chose excellence over warmth, or stars over honest food, but you’d been wrong. 

Already, despite being on your own, you felt like you belonged. Carmen knew you were here, his servers knew you were here, and you knew why you were here. For him. 

A few parties finished up as you waited for your meal. All the while, you were generously topped up on wine from the servers, and positioned right by the kitchen. You could hear the methodical way they spoke to each other, sometimes, and the whoosh of the door every time someone stepped from within back into the restaurant, and vice versa. 

In the kitchen, Carmen finished up preparing your dish. He’d been transported away as he worked, reminded of you with every garnish that he placed and ru that he drizzled. Whenever he saw the colour orange, he thought of you. It was impossible not to, when he’d cut up an uncountable number of tangerines for you during his time at the diner. As he placed the final piece of your dish, he readied himself to yell for hands, but stopped himself.

Instead, he grabbed your plate and approached his front of house manager. “How are we for time?”

“Fine, Chef. We’re in the after dinner lull, only desserts are left. Table thirty-two is the final main of the evening.”

Carmen nodded. “Right.”

“Do you want to take it to her?” she asked knowingly, and Carmen swallowed. “You know her, don’t you? An old friend?”

“Something like that,” he said, not knowing how to even begin to explain you. An ex-work colleague just sounded wrong, but an old friend sounded wrong, too. You’d been so much more than either of those, and still were. You supported his endeavours, and cared beyond belief. 

The kitchen at USC was vastly different from the atmosphere at Lucky Strike. It was robotic, and static, and everyone had their purpose and place. Carmen’s purpose was that of importance, being chef de cuisine, but his superior– the head chef– was not like Paulie used to be. 

Not in the slightest. 

“I’ll take it,” Carmen finally replied. He placed your plate down and straightened out his chef whites. “How do I look?” he asked her. 

She smiled. “Smart,” she said. That was enough. 

As you sipped the last of your glass of red, you tensed when the door to the kitchen burst open. You turned your gaze towards it, and your heart stuttered in your chest. Walking towards you with the speed of a freight train, chef whites donned and clean, hair slicked back, was Carmy. He powered through the restaurant and gained glances of respect from other guests, triggering a small hubbub of chatter from other tables. 

You relaxed even further into your chair, knowing that you didn’t need to perform. You didn’t need to sit up straight, or lean in, or do anything other than smile at him with as much warmth as you could possibly muster. He’d made it, and this was exactly what you’d wanted to witness– you just hadn’t expected him to leave the seclusion of the kitchen just for you. 

Carmen reached your table, and set down your surprise meal. He gently drifted the plate towards you, and leaned down intimately. 

“Your meal this evening is our classic fillet of salmon, with a twist,” he said. You had to stop yourself from laughing. You felt overwhelmed in the best way. 

“A twist, Chef?” you asked. 

“I took the liberty of adding fresh tangerine juice to the jus.” 

Your eyes sparkled as he revealed all. It was very easy to feel special when you were alone with Carm at the diner before, to understand the gravity of his actions when he got past his shyness and opened up more, but this hit it out of the park. Your chest compressed as your heart lurched. Your lungs spluttered as you sucked in a shaking breath. 

The sides of Carmen’s mouth curled almost imperceptibly, but you knew that look from a mile away. That small smile, that warmth, that affection, that he reserved solely for those people that he knew deserved it. That fact you were here, and everything else from before, was reason enough for you to deserve it. Innately, he felt good when he looked at you this way. It made everything clear, wiped the slate clean, made his crumbling chest settle just that tiny bit more. 

Carmen stood up straight, hands behind his back. “I wanted to mention that there’ll be no checks tonight.”

You finally sat up straight, and immediately went to protest. “I–”

“We insist. I insist,” Carm cut you off softly. 

You looked at the perfectly cooked salmon on the table, the bright orange jus, the drops of red wine on the sides of your glass. “Okay,” you said, peering back up at him. 

“Okay,” he repeated, and his smile grew. 

The cogs whirred in his brain, as he became hyper-aware of the other guests around him. He still had dessert orders to fill, and an entire kitchen to break down and clean. As much as he wanted to stay, to sit opposite you, to throw a kitchen towel at your face when you looked at him so deeply and warmly and lovingly, he simply couldn’t. 

He leaned in once more, so much that your hairs stood on edge as he whispered. “I finish just before midnight,” he whispered gently, before pulling away. “Stay.” He swallowed. “Please.” 

“Okay,” you whispered.

You stayed until the restaurant was empty. The hostess at the front folded napkins in the dim light of the deserted bar, but stopped ever so often to fill up your wine glass. She smiled at you every time she did. 

It was a comfortable silence in the empty restaurant, a silence that you knew very well from being at the diner after hours. Inside the kitchen, you knew Carm would be breaking down after service. Cleaning every single surface in sight, scrubbing the floors until they shined, labelling produce with tape that was cut; not ripped. 

Close to midnight, the kitchen door slammed open once more. Carm had stripped off his chef whites, opting for jeans and an old tee. He spotted you from across the restaurant and smiled smally. “Wanna see?” he asked. 

He held the door open for you as you stepped into the kitchen. The sleekness of it all practically took your breath away. Every surface shone, every plate and bowl and mug glimmered. This was such a step up from the diner, one that you’d been expecting, but seeing it in person was far more incredible.

“Fucking hell,” you muttered under your breath. 

Carmen huffed in amusement. “I know.”

“This is… this is insane.” 

He nodded slowly, coming up to stand beside you as the door swayed on its hinges, before settling shut. “It feels like a dream, somedays,” he said, admiring the workspace with you. “And some days, it doesn’t.” 

“I’m so proud of you, Carm.” You smiled. He smiled back, and for just a moment it was as if no time had passed. It was like you were back in the diner, talking about your dreams together. A place to call your own, and all that jazz. Perhaps, those dreams were still there somewhere.

“I’m not sure I deserve that,” he replied, but not quite jokingly enough for your liking.

You sent him a side-eyed stare and caught the look on his face– fear, or perhaps, damage. When he hit your eyes a second later, that look melted away. All you saw then was warmth. Carmen didn’t often show much on his face, but you could see it all. The years you’d spent alongside him had taught you more than how to run a restaurant; you were one of a handful of people that could seamlessly read Carmen like a book. 

That’s why your gut coiled innately. That look wasn’t one that you’d take lightly. 

“How’s it all going?” you asked. 

He let out another huff and shrugged his shoulders, before opting to move away and roam the clean kitchen. “I can’t complain.” He swiped his hand across the stainless steel workbench. 

“And that chef, David or whatever his name is, how is he?”

Carmen froze for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make your hairs stand on end. His arms tensed, until you saw the strength within his veins rise to the surface. He looked up at you sternly, clenching his jaw. “He’s an excellent chef.” 

“Okay,” you said. “That’s great. What about how he manages this place, manages you?”

“What is this, twenty fucking questions?” Carmen let out defensively.

It only cemented that you knew something was wrong. 

“Okay– I’ll pretend you didn’t just snap at me for being interested,” you let out belligerently. “What the hell is it, Carm?”

“Drop it,” he said sternly, moving away from you and over to the enormous shelves of shimmering white plates. “I got a James Beard award, didn’t I? I got everything I fucking wanted here, so just drop it.”

“Listen,” you started, fast walking your way around the central island and closer to him. “I get it, I’m not part of this world– your world– anymore. But I still know a thing or two about chefs and their giant fucking egos. What’s going on?”

Carmen closed his eyes and let out a subtly shaking breath. You were taken aback by this whole conversation, the drastic shift in his mood as soon you’d started asking questions. 

“Carm,” you said softly, dialling things down a little. “Just look at me for a second.” 

His shoulders relaxed, dipping into more of a tired hunch than his previous disposition of a deer in headlights. When his eyes hit yours, your heart lurched in your chest. Those eyes, god– the blue was etched in the corners of your brain. Like a clear sky in summer, or a glittering pool, or a calm ocean. Carmen was many things, but clear, glittering and calm were not traits that most people would pin onto him. 

Not you, though. This was the Carm that dreamt with you. This was the Carm that cut up tangerines into quarters for you whenever you asked, or even when you didn’t. Blue and orange, swirling together like the patterns on peppermint hard-candy or gingham squares on the Lucky Strike tablecloths. Ingrained. Permanent. 

“He’s taught me a lot,” Carmen whispered. 

You knew it wasn’t your place, but red flags popped up in your mind and billowed in the breeze immediately. He looked stripped back, a shell of himself, just for those fleeting seconds, and you fucking hated it. 

“You’ve been here for almost a year,” you said, swallowing away the butterflies that had started crawling up your throat. “Maybe now is a good shot to find something else.” 

Carm’s eyes widened brightly, and you saw all his plans from before; his restaurant, his staff, his food and the like. And then, as if a gust of wind uprooted the largest tree within his mind, that was gone. Replaced by something seething, something angry and not at all kind, Carmen rose. 

“You’re telling me to quit?” 

You took a small step back. “Of course, I’m not–”

“No, no, you fucking are.” He bit down on his tongue, you heard it. “You think being here for a few hours and one meal is enough for you to tell me what the fuck to do?”

“Carmen, what are you talking ab–”

“Fuck!” His shoulders squared off, and suddenly he was a corrugated iron board before you. Immovable, stuck in place. “You came here to tell me I’m strong enough, right? What, you want me to go back to the diner with Paulie and everyone else who’s never had a real fucking goal in their lives?”

“Wow,” you breathed out, laughing a little as a lack of what else to respond. 

You stood your ground, as much as you wanted to scream and yell like a petulant child. The look on his face, the brick wall he’d built so high around himself, was something you’d seen before– self-sabotage, tugging away from everything and everyone that was there to help. A level of acceptance and denial alike was testament alongside situations such as this; abusive situations. 

This Chef David was abusing the shit out of him. And Carmen was deep, way down to the core of it, just trying to get through his days, shift by shift, in any way possible. Even if that meant cutting off those dreams, cutting off people from his past– you. 

“You really think I’d do that?” you said bluntly. “You really think I booked this solo reservation a fucking year ago because I wanted to come and drag you back to the diner?”

Carm’s eyes brightened momentarily. “A year ago?”

You took another step back, careful not to immediately fall into him from the childish bewilderment on his face. It was like he’d never had someone care, but you knew that wasn’t true. He just didn’t know how to spot when someone did, misconstrued it as someone trying to harm him, hurt him, ruin him. 

“I booked to come here a year ago, Carmen,” you started. “I fucking knew you’d make it here. I knew that when I came today, you’d be the one cooking my damn meal. I was fucking right.”

It was his turn to take a step back now, just a little. Perhaps he was overwhelmed because he wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting you to still stay supporting him after he left, or didn’t even want to think about what the guys at the diner might be saying about him after he’d gone. Little did he know, everyone still talked about him with smiles and bright eyes. 

Carmen Berzatto was the only motherfucker out there that didn’t know people supported him wholeheartedly. 

“I’m not telling you to leave, or quit, or whatever else you fucking think I was about to say,” you began again. Carm swallowed nervously. “You can think what the hell you want to think about us at Lucky Strike, but we’re still the same people we’ve always been. I guess that can’t be said about you now, huh?”

Carmen’s anxiety turned to anger in a heartbeat. “What, ‘cause I actually made a name for myself instead of you all staying in the fucking box you planted yourselves in years ago? If that’s why I’ve changed, then I’m fucking glad about it.”

“Fuck– there you go again!” you exclaimed. “You’re talking down to us like we’re pieces of fucking shit on your brand-spanking new shoes!” 

“And you’re looking at me with those fucking baby-eyes like I’m gonna crumble any fucking second!” Carmen screamed. “I can’t fucking stand it.”

You placed your hands on your hips and held your ground again. “He really got to you, didn’t he?” 

Carmen saw red immediately. “If you bring up Chef David one more fucking time, then I’m done.”

“You’re done? Huh, what the hell does that mean?”

“Done with you.” 

Your eyes widened. Bile started to crawl up your oesophagus. In that moment, you’d never felt more like your mother. You knew if you were to talk, you’d adopt her stern accent instantly. You popped your hip out and bent your knee, tired of fucking standing. 

“So, you made it to the big leagues, and now you’re throwing out all your trash. Is that what it is, huh?” You stepped forward once. Carmen stayed where he was. “Look at me right here, Carm.” You pointed to your eyes, not wavering once. “Look at me right here and tell me that you hate me. Do it right now. If you do it right now then I’ll know you fucking mean it. If you do it right now then me, and Paulie, and everyone from the fucking diner will call it quits with you like that.” You snapped your fingers on that. It cemented that you meant it. 

Carmen raised his chin, so close that your noses almost touched. In any other circumstance, maybe you’d have kissed him by now. Maybe you’d have realised that you both liked each other as more, loved each other once, still fucking did. 

But, that wasn’t this reality. 

When he didn’t say anything, you knew you’d won. He stayed as still as he could as adrenaline rushed through his blood. His fingers shook at the end of his arms. His chest thumped incessantly as oxygen tried to tear through his lungs. 

“No?” you asked, almost as a final warning. 

Carm breathed in. “I hate what you represent.”

“And what exactly is it that I represent?” you whispered. 

Suddenly, Carmen dropped his forehead on yours. His hands deposited themselves on either side of your neck warmly, gently. His fingertips set your skin alight. “The one thing I can never fucking have.” 

As much as you wanted tell him to get the fuck off, to stop touching you, your heart melted as soon as your skin felt his. You clamped your eyes shut, leaning into him. Carm let out a pent up breath. His breath was warm as it skimmed your skin. 

“Carmen.” You swallowed. “Please.” You paused. “I– love you,” you stuttered. 

“I know,” he replied. “I know you do.” 

For just a second, you thought he was going to kiss you. It’d be easy to drop his lips onto yours, you were right in front of him. Heads touching, breath mingling, sharing each other’s air like it was the most normal fucking thing to do. 

You wanted him back, it was true. But not like this. Not broken, or bruised, or damaged beyond repair. It wasn’t his fault, you knew that. He’d been moulded this way. But, it was his responsibility to do good for himself. One deep dive into this entire conversation and you knew that it was impossible for him to do that, at least right now. Carmen Berzatto was stuck, and you didn’t want to get yourself stuck in the process of trying to free him. 

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Leave,” was all he said. 

You shook your head slowly, tears welling behind your eyes. “Don’t push me away.”

“Leave,” he repeated, as his hands dropped from your neck to your shoulders. Gently, he started physically pushing you off him. 

“Carmen,” you spluttered. Your eyes opened to see him in pain. God, you fucking hated it. “I won’t come back if you do this. I really fucking won’t.”

He stepped back once, twice, three times. Eyes glued on yours, blue and glassy like a glacier, his heart as cold as one, too. “Good,” he said softly, headed for the door to the kitchen.

“You don’t mean that.” You urged him to stay. 

He only nodded. “I never want to fucking see you again.” 

Carmen left unceremoniously, without another word or glance or care. The kitchen door swung shut, bobbing on its hinges. The only sound you could hear was the buzzing of the refrigerators, and the breaking of your heart strings. 

PART THREE

[yanderestarangel]

HEADCANONS MW3 - "HE TOLD ME TO TAKE CARE OF YOU" | GHOST X READER

TW: spoilers about the canon story of mw3, death, mourning, angst, smut, praise, comfort, care, gn reader, use of medicines, breakdown, ghost soft spot, reader moves on after Mactavish's death, nsfw, reader's mixed emotions and ghost, post death of "soap mactavish" , dark themes.

A/N: People who are fighting in the comments: this is a work of fiction, if you take it seriously just DON'T READ IT.

Your world collapsed after the news that your fiancé "John Mactavish" aka "soap" had died, and what's worse, for Makarov. You felt your feet tremble and your breathing hitch - Price himself gave you this news, making you sob on the phone while Price, Gaz and especially, Ghost, listened to your pain and anger.

Ghost already knew you, he was soap's closest friend, he had been to your house several times and was even going to be best man at your wedding, along with Farah, however, Mactavish's young death took that away from you - and the man felt guilty, maybe if Ghost had been quicker, maybe if he had been close to Price he would have stopped Soap from trying to play the "hero" and getting shot in the head, maybe - Simon's mind was filled with "maybe " mute and would never have an answer.

You couldn't go with Ghost, Gaz and Price to throw Soap's ashes into the sea, you really wanted to - but part of you was paralyzed, as you clung to old photos and videos of Soap, or rather, your boy, your Johnny. Ghost went to your house, carrying the jar - now empty - of your fiance's ashes, he saw how weakened you were, and how quickly you tried to close the door in his face, however, he obviously didn't let you, using one of the hands to stop the blow. "-We need to talk (Y/N)." He just said that, muffled by the skull mask, his hard and cold eyes now carried a dead glow of sadness, anger and concern, Simon entered your house, without even hearing a vocal response from him.

"-I know things can be difficult for you, I know you loved Mactavish... But he asked me to take care of you (Y/N)" he paused significantly, a silence of understanding crossed the small and empty space between the two of you, while Simon squeezed the handle of the suitcase with all his strength, while holding back the single tear that tried to slip from his eye. "-He told me to take care of you if something happened to him and I will keep my word, whether you want my help or not." he added, as the cold gaze returned to you, searching for some kind of understanding on your face, he knew what it was like to lose someone you loved - however - he was focusing on you now, he could handle the pain, but you couldn't.

Then he did something he never did, he let the head of the impetuous and soulless man collapse slightly and letting the suitcase fall to the ground in a light tumble, the sound called you back to reality making you look at the tall and muscular form of Ghost with his arms open to you, while he was teary-eyed but refused to shed any tears, mixed emotions between the two of you, but the same feeling - the pain of sudden loss - you ran into the soldier's warm grip, feeling the smell of clothes wet from the rain and the thick, uncomfortable fabric of his sweatshirt, however, there was a warmth there, a warmth that you needed. You allowed yourself to cry, cry until your throat hurt, Simon's big hands made a pattern on your back and went to the top of your head, he didn't need to say anything at that moment, he just needed to give you the comfort you needed, you felt It allowed you to be taken care of, even if it was by a person you never thought would take care of you.

Simon watched you sleep after crying so much in his arms, lifting you in his arms to the upper staircase and placing you on the double bed, empty, due to the lack of John. He sighed heavily beneath his balaclava as he sat on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. "-I will truly keep my promise, I swear to you my brother..." Ghost whispered as if he was talking to Soap, or, the ghosts that haunted him.

The next few weeks were calm and uneventful, with Simon offering to help you with the household expenses. "-You just took care of the house right? Totally dependent on Soap?" He asked calmly, no judgment reverberated in his voice, just doubts and an attempt to get closer. You nodded silently, as you watched him hand you a notepad and a pen. "-Write down all the groceries you need for the house, I'll buy them, I may not be Johnny, but I'll take care of you just like he did." he said seriously, his penetrating gaze looked at the floor as he rested both hands on his knees, waiting for you to finish the list. You didn't question it, his look was serious, a statement you couldn't deny.

So, slow steps were worked into these daily narratives, with Ghost always checking in on you, whether you were taking your medicines right, whether you were eating right and even whether you were well enough - with rare occasions of you not being able to eat and Simon preparing some soup. for you, ordering you to sit at the table while he himself fed you with a spoon, some small compliments were whispered under the typical skull mask. "-You're doing well (Y/N)." "-I'm glad you're accepting the food I made." "-Just this spoon and you can go rest, ok?" - he wasn't used to being soft with someone, but, besides the promise he made, something about you made him want to see you well, but he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind like many others.

Soon the two of you began to live together more and more, not just polite everyday conversations or routine silent care, but rather, verbalizing some abstract feelings from both your hearts. Some nights Ghost would stay with you in the dimly lit kitchen, a hot coffee in front of you both, the steam dancing between you as you smiled sideways - a sad smile, full of hurt and nostalgia, but still a smile - showing some photos of Soap, some photos of you together traveling the world on the few vacations he had while he was alive. Making him smile beneath the fabric that covered his face. "-Oh, I see... He was really quite an adventurous man." he spoke calmly, seeing your sad look as he ran his finger over the cold screen of his cell phone, so Ghost had the idea of ​​telling some stories he shared as a protagonist with Soap - like the time Captain Price made him and Mactavish clean the entire barracks because caught you both listening behind the meeting door - you smiled, now, genuinely happy, making Simon's heart warm a little, as if he was on a mission and it was finally bearing fruit, your happiness.

He accompanied you to doctor appointments and shopping, he insisted that you should take better care of yourself - Ghost dragged you to an expensive clothing store and gave you permission to spend his money however and on whatever you wanted, you couldn't deny it just nodding and swearing he could see a chaste smile appear slightly on the black fabric he wore. You changed for him, trying out some clothes while he approved them all, making you smile beautifully, questioning him if he was being sincere. Simon just crossed his arms and let out a breath through his nose "-I'm just being honest, you're a beautiful person, any clothes you wear look great on you." he spoke sincerely, not noticing the words slipping off his tongue. You thanked him for the compliment, while selecting the clothes, the two of you heard the attendants talk about what a beautiful couple you made. You didn't say anything and neither did Simon correct them, just holding your shoulders in a gesture of shy affection.

Your feelings were confused, you practically lived with Simon now, even giving yourself the freedom to walk around the house in just a towel, you felt good, good about yourself and the man who took care of you - even if your mind wondered if it was right to accept such intimate contact with your late fiancé's friend -

Questions were also present in Ghost's mind, but he liked to take care of you, it wasn't just an obligation for a promise but for pleasure and self-satisfaction, the two of you now practically lived together - something that happened naturally, over time , just proof of a greater connection that was growing in both of you - soon you found yourself arranging Ghost's clothes, like you did with Soap, taking care of his lunch, even though nothing more intimate had ever happened, nothing more than pleasant conversations and warm touches, but covered by the fabrics of your body and Simon's gloves. The spark that was igniting there transcended any bond he had formed and any morals built during his time with Mactavish. He wondered if it was worth going over everything he believed in and trying something with you, touching your skin, feeling you on his fingertips, seeing your happy face and contorting with pleasure because of him - thoughts he didn't think about. he managed to free himself, after all, no man is hypocritical in his pleasures and desires - and Ghost was one of them.

It didn't take long for it to happen, a few glasses of wine, a few laughs between you like any ordinary weekend you were both having in that routine of caregiver x person who was dying from care. But something shone in both your eyes and his, a look that didn't need words but just actions - when you saw it, you were leaning over the kitchen counter, the taller man's thick cock hitting your holes, the swollen balls of cum hit your skin, leaving your skin red. It had been so long since you felt a cock filling you and Ghost was there, fucking you without much thought, just sweet compliments as he ravished your needy hole against his hard, cold marble on the counter. "-Yes fuck... You look so beautiful like this, take it all baby..." "-Don't be ashamed, just let go, I'm here, you've endured so much, haven't you? Yes, you're so strong... So beautiful... Let me take care of you sweetheart." "-Mmm... Fuck (Y/N)... You're squeezing me so good, keep it up okay? I'm going to make you cum, I'm here for you." He spoke between moans in the air, holding your thighs, you forgot everything, the mourning, the past, who you were, just focusing on the blur with each thick thrust and hoarse praise, full of Simon Riley's accent to you. You two didn't know how you were going to act after that, but it didn't matter about the momentary carnal pleasure.

After the post-orgasmic bliss, you and Simon exchanged more glances. "-Sorry, I just... We can't do that." Ghost spoke first, while he was still physically connected with you, leaving slowly, seeing your satisfied form but full of doubts and guilt, even so he helped you take a shower, the two of you sitting in the same bathtub, just an oral silence and the sound calm of the water filled the air particles. You didn't know how to feel, nor what to say. Ghost agreed with the idea of ​​pretending that nothing had happened between you... And that didn't do anything.

It happened again, it always did, another cold, rainy night, with Ghost above you, Simon's thick hands caressing your thighs, his warm breath on your neck. "-I promised to take care of you, I think... Soap would be happy if I made you happy in other ways too." he whispered against your wet, sweaty skin, pushing the shaft already covered in his semen even deeper, from other times he had cum, and maybe, he was right, Mactavish wanted you happy, and you were happy. He reached out his hand, grabbing yours, as he looked you in the eyes, pushing you to your limit. "-Tell me dear... You want another chance to be happy, right?" he spoke from behind the skull balaclava softly and with expectant eyes, all that was needed was your answer to your future, a future with Simon or, a future trapped in memories of the past.

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023

[artdcnaldson]

so what happens patrick is back from tour and visiting and you're all at his big mansion for a weekend and you're making art absolutely fucking miserable because you keep treading a thin line - flashing your panties to art from behind patrick so he cant see - clinging to arts arm and when patrick asks when you got so close all the sudden you giggle and arts heart nearly drops out of his ass but you just say its because hes been so helpful on campus! he even told off a bully for you! - art could strangle you, you think this is a game like patrick wont literally break his teeth if he finds out and why is that so fucking funny to you?

he ends up cornering you in a moment alone - when you're coming out of the shower and patricks doing something else - he slips into the bathroom - locks it. backs you up against the sink counter when you're in just a towel and you're so excited but art looks furious - and not the horny kind of mad he gets before he caves and touches you - the genuine anger before he cuts deep and you think 'oh shit -' before he lays into you.

Because, what the fuck? Do you think your pussy is more important than his friendship with patrick? Is that it? Are you thinking that if patrick finds out arts gonna pick up his sword and fight for you? Dump patrick for you? Finally date you? Is that the delusional little fantasy you've been cooking in your head?

You aren't the kind of girl he wants to date anyway, he says most painfully. I mean, you let him fuck your ass and slap you around - and throw your pussy at him at every given opportunity. You're not the kind of girl he'd have as a girlfriend. You're the kind of girl guys fuck before they find a woman with some fucking self respect.

It might be the meanest thing he's ever said. Which is why you're both suprised by the slap that rings out - your hand frozen in the air in shock - arts head whipped to the side from the hit, cheek already burning red from your handprint.

You want to say sorry - but art just laughs. Shoves you to your knees - "I'll show you fucking sorry - " and when he fucks your throat you know your tears are from the truth of his words as much as how hard hes hitting the back of your throat.

🥰🌈☀️💐 how life feels when tumblr user poppy-metal in my inbox

It’s two days, but he feels like he’s going insane just one day in. Every single fleeting glance you send his way, he’s sure is going to be the one thing that makes him slip up— that clues Patrick in on every fucked up thing he’s done.

But he gets set off on Saturday night, when the three of you are smoking outside in the garden. It annoys him because it was like he can’t get a fucking second alone with Pat. Like you need to be there to remind him of what a shitty friend he is. Patrick closes his eyes, leans back on a stone bench.

You’re sitting on the fountain with a cigarette dangling from manicured fingers. He sees something dangerous flash in your expression and it makes him sit up straight. You uncross your legs and reveal your bare pussy beneath the little skirt you wear, Art he takes a long drag, but can’t make himself look away like he should.

A strange, mournful tug pulls at his chest when you close your legs, hide away from him again. Your laugh rings through the air when you look at Art, when you feel the palpable want. Patrick sits up, eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny, huh?” Art coughs uncomfortably on his exhale.

You glance over at the blond, duck your head shyly. It’s all a fucking act, Art thinks. He can see you laying out every single clue for Patrick to uncover. It’s fun for you, to make Art squirm, like you have the power. And you do. You could fucking ruin him.

But you just shrug, blow smoke towards Patrick’s face, which makes your brother’s expression wrinkle in annoyance. He ashes his cigarette with a tap of his finger. “You two are pretty close now,” he notes. Not accusatory. Yet. “Do you two have fun at Stanford without me?”

Art opens his mouth to speak, to deny that he spends time with you outside of making sure you don’t get roofied at college parties. But you speak first, your voice ringing out into the air. “Art’s been really good to me at school,” you say, really laying it on thick. “He’s always taking care of me and making sure I’m happy. I can sleep in his room when I’m lonely, and he doesn’t let any guys take advantage of me when we’re at parties. He always keeps me close so nothing bad happens. He actually broke up with his girlfriend because she was being so mean to me.”

Patrick’s jaw ticks slightly, and the brunet forces himself to laugh. Art’s stomach drops, and he takes a drag to distract himself. You fucking bitch. You know exactly what you’re doing, he can read it in the fake, doe-eyed look you wore.

“That’s nice, Donaldson,” Patrick says. “Keeping my little sister happy, huh? Really nice.”

You stand up, like that was your cue to leave. So Patrick could beat Art into a pulp, drown him in the fountain, put out his cigarette on his tongue. It was hard to say. But you just stretched, stubbed out your cigarette on the stone edge of the fountain. “I’m gonna go shower before Daddy smells smoke on me,” you tell Patrick. You ruffle his hair, then turn to face Art. “Goodnight.”

Art is quiet, watches you disappear into the hedges and greenery leading back to the house. The door shuts behind you in the distance like a gunshot, and Patrick glares over at him. “What the fuck, dude?”

Art sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “She’s exaggerating,” he says as calmly as he’s able. He meets Patrick’s gaze, does his best not to wilt. “She’s just trying to convince you that she’s doing fine at school.”

Patrick’s tongue pokes against his jaw, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Whatever,” he says, shaking his head. “I fucking hate this, you know. We’re hardly even talking, but somehow my little sister knows all about your fucking college girlfriend. I didn’t even know you had one, dude.”

Art swallows, nods. “I know, I’ve just been…” He sighs. “Senior year, you know? Things will be different once I graduate and go pro like you.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Whatever, dude. Night.”

Art is left alone in the garden, with the stub of a cigarette burned down to his fingers. He sticks it in a flower pot and bites at his cuticles. They’re practically raw at this point, but he’d already chewed the inside of his lip raw and achy, so he’s running low on things he can use to distract himself.

Once he sees the light in Patrick’s room flick on he stands and walks back to the house. Patrick’s parents were always weird about him wandering the place alone— like he’d steal some random clock that was a gift from a world leader, or something stupid like that. Like his parents weren’t making six figures themselves.

Whatever. You and Patrick are both fucking brats, spoiled and expecting the world to fall at your feet. Expecting him to fall at your feet. Fuck that. Fuck you for screwing up his friendship with Patrick, for making it impossible to talk to his best friend because of the guilt.

Your bathroom door is open to the hallway to let the steam curl out while you get ready for bed. When he walks past, you ignore him entirely, and it snaps something sharp and hard in his chest. He slips in, shuts the door, pins you against the counter.

You’re wearing a robe— leopard print and tacky. It falls open just slightly, and he’s greeted by a glimpse of your tits. You smile up at him, pretty and amused, expecting him to cave, to touch you the way you’ve been needing. But you know Art— you’ve seen most of his expressions at this point. Good, like when he and Patrick won the doubles tournament and you saw joy written in his face. Bad, when you got too handsy at a party and he dragged you away and laid into you.

But he was more than that, he looks scary. Your smile falls and you press yourself back against the counter so it digs into your spine. His eyes follow the line of your throat as you swallow hard, like he can read your dread in every tiny movement. He grabs your wrist, hard enough to make you yelp.

“Art, that hurts,” you whine, trying to wrestle out of his grip.

“Cry to Patrick then,” he says, and you wither. “That’s right. You don’t want Patrick to find out what a disgusting fucking whore you are, do you?” You give a weak shake of your head. “Then shut the fuck up and listen.”

Your pulse is already hammering, he can feel it thrumming where he holds your wrist. You’re all limp and pliant, waiting for the blow to strike.

“You are actually fucking crazy if you think I would ever choose you over Patrick,” he says, and you exhale sharp out of your nose. “And whatever you think is going to happen here is just one of your brainless little fantasies. If Patrick finds out what you’ve been doing, he’s going to fucking kill me. It’s going to be messy, and fucked up, and he’s going to lose his only friend in the entire fucking world. It’s going to crush him. And when that happens, it’s going to be all your fault. And for what?”

You swallow, blinking at him dumbly, unsure of what to say. Were you supposed to talk back? Were you supposed to just stand there and take it?

“I’m never going to fucking date you. You let me fuck your ass, and you suck my dick and let me slap you around, and I bet if I touched you right now you’d be soaked, but it doesn’t change anything. Because guys like me don’t call girls like you their girlfriends or wives. Girls like you are a stopping point on the way to someone better, someone who has some fucking self respect.”

The sound of the slap startles you, even if you were the one to hit him. Your hand stings where it collided with his face, where it left a red mark behind.

“Art—“ you start, eyes wide as you look at him. Your voice is watery, teary and pathetic. “I’m so— I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry, Art. Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sor—“

You whimper as he pushes you hard onto your knees, makes them dig into marble tile. He’s already hard when he pulls down his jeans and boxers, and you feel hot tears slipping down your cheeks.

You’d fucking hit him. You ruined everything, you were always going to ruin everything. You’d fucked him up, you made him twisted and mean and nasty. All your fault. You needed to fix it.

“You’re sorry? Fucking show me then.” He slaps his cock against your cheek, precum smears against the plush skin there. It snaps you back into reality. He rubs his tip against your lips, moves his hand into your hair.

Your heart hurts, actually hurts in a way you’ve never felt before. You wonder if you should go to the hospital, or something, but every cell in your body just says. Show him you’re sorry. Show him you’re sorry. Apologize apologize apologize.

You open your mouth, relax your throat, let him bully his cock inside. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, you try not to need it. Even when he’s slamming into the back of your throat again and again, when you’re gagging and feel drool flooding your mouth and it’s all messy, dripping down your chin.

“That’s it, take this fucking dick—“ His grip on your hair tightens and your cries are muffled around his cock. Your jaw aches from being stretched wide to accommodate him. Your face is smeared with black mascara tears, snot, and sticky spit. You look awful, you feel awful. But Art doesn’t care. He’s getting off on it. “Fucking choke on it. ‘S all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

He pulls you off, slaps you across the cheek. “Isn’t it?”

You sniffle pathetically, nod, and open your mouth wide. Show him you’re sorry. Show him you’re sorry. You let him slide back into your throat until your nose presses firm against the soft curls at his pelvis, until his balls press against your chin and they’re coated in the stringy, slick drool that spills from your lips.

Art grabs your face, holds your nose shut and blocks off your airways. Your throat constricts in panic and you look up at him with wild, frightened eyes. Nails scratching at his thighs as you feel the need for air begin to get to intense.

You can’t breathe. Arts fucking into your throat, and you’re going to puke, and you can’t breathe, and he’s going to just let you black out around him. The tears are flowing hot and fast, you keep pathetically grasping at his thighs. He lets go of your nose, but doesn’t let you pull off of him. He ruts against the back of your throat, and you’re only faintly conscious of something warm and hot shooting down your throat as your body screams for a big gasp of air.

It’s only then that he lets you pull off, with cum dripping from your lips, from your nose. You take large heaving breaths and cry as you try to wipe it all away. It only manages to smear it around your skin.

You feel stupid, but you can’t stop crying. Not because it hurt, not because you were scared and couldn’t breathe. But because what he said fucking stung.

You’re nothing more than a hole for him to use. Worse, you’re nothing to him at all. A stopping point until he gets someone better. He sees you like that, and he treats you like that.

“Stand up,” he says. His cock has hardly even flagged, and you watch him wrap a hand around himself, stroke himself standing above you. “C’mon, I’ll fuck you— I’ll give you what you want. If Patrick’s gonna find out I might as well make it worth it, right?”

You stand and grip the edge of the sink. Your head swims as you look at him. His hand moves between your thighs, probing at your entrance. The first breach of his finger makes you whimper. You’re not wet, not nearly enough.

“Art, stop,” you say, voice wobbly. “I don’t want it.”

“No? You fucking wanted it all semester.” He mouths at your throat, wet and hot, and you shake your head. “Did I hurt your feelings, baby? You need me to lie to you? Does that get you wet?”

Tears well in your eyes again, and you shove at his arm until he pulls his finger out. “Just leave me alone, Art. I won’t bother you anymore. I get it.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He fixes his clothes and slips back into the hallway.

You cry so hard that you throw up. Brush your teeth so hard that they bleed and you spit pink foam into the sink basin. Wash the mess off of your face until it’s stinging and raw.

The rest of the weekend, you rot around in bed. Keep your doors locked, pretend that you have food poisoning. You relish in the solitude and watch Lost on DVD. You make it halfway through the first season before there’s a knock on your door.

“Hey, I have soup,” Patrick calls, muffled through the door. “Doctor’s orders.”

You stand up, pad slowly to the door and let him in. Sure enough, he’s got a little tray for you. Ginger ale, Gatorade, and soup. You want to cry that he cares so much— that he’s such a good brother. He sits the on the foot of your bed and sits against the headboard.

“I’m sick, Pat,” you say once you sit back down, a feeble attempt to be alone.

All he does is shrug, press play on the DVD. “Whatever, it’s food poisoning, right? Not contagious. Lemme watch with you.”

You eat some of the soup, but your appetite isn’t there. You just sit it on the floor and curl up next to Patrick. He wraps his arms around you, lets you lean on his shoulder.

It’s only an episode later that he talks. “Did he do something?”

You freeze a bit, then redirect, gesturing to the screen. “John Locke?”

Patrick sighs, jaw ticking. “You know who I’m talking about. You can tell me.”

“What are you talking about?” You ask, feigning confusion. He gives you a look, exhales sharply. “Art? Did he give me food poisoning?”

You feel stupid protecting him still. After everything. You know where you stand with Art, and it makes you sick. There aren’t any more dreams of somehow convincing him to love you through your cunt, like your pussy is some sort of magic love potion. It feels more like poison. It ruined everything— you and your incessant greed.

But you don’t want to hurt Patrick. Art could hurt you, but he can still be good to Pat. That’s worth something.

“Not the food poisoning, just… anything. Did he do anything to you?”

You meet his gaze, and lie the way you grew up lying to everyone. “Patrick, he didn’t do anything. I don’t even know what you think he would do.“

Patrick nods, but doesn’t say anything else. He stays two more episodes, then leaves.

Art never stops by your room, which is good. You don’t want to see him, because even thinking about it makes you feel sick. You lock your door again and don’t sleep. Art leaves early in the morning to go to the airport, back to Stanford.

You transfer your plane ticket for the next weekend, text classmates to get you notes. You’d be staying home for a while.

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Part VIII

Word count: 3700+

Warnings: mentions of tormenting, burning, swearing

Autumn themed divider by tsunami-of-tears

Part VII | Part IX

"Tie her up to the chair."

Killian's cold voice bounced off the stone walls of dungeons. He hated this place. He felt like vomiting from the smell of urine, blood and death. He didn't have to come down here ever since his father died and how grateful he was for that. However, today he had a job to do here. Someone dared to try to kill a member of his family. It was unforgivable. He wouldn't let it go so easily and make the person pay for it.

He marched down the narrow hallway toward an open cell door. His eyes stopped at the door without grid at the end of the corridor, making the scars on his body itch. He couldn't even count how many days he spent locked there. Or his brothers.

He suppressed the urge to burn this place down and focused on the task at hand. Tied up in the chair sat a lesser faerie with brown skin that looked like fallen leaves, small horns on top of head and black bead eyes. These faeries were harmless and devoid of any significant magical powers. There was no need to use faebane on her.

She hissed at him to which he raised a brow. He had never seen her in the Forest House before. He stopped in front of her with his legs slightly apart and hands behind his back. He had a hard time to control himself. If he could, he would kill her right away and wouldn't waste time with tormenting her. Unfortunately, they needed all information she had because this had to be planned by someone else. Someone enough powerful to get her in.

"Let's start straight away, shall we. You answer my questions and you may live a day or two longer. If you don't answer, well.. I will have a lot of fun with you," he mused and allowed the fire in his veins to reach his eyes, playing with small flames between his long fingers.

Faerie spat on the floor too close to his shoes for his liking. "I won't tell you anything," she laughed.

"Yes, you will," he smirked, pushing off of the wall and stepping closer. Female in the chair frowned in concentration. Before he could put even a finger on her, she flared up like a torch with ear-splitting roar.

Killian tried to put out the fire, but this flames didn't obey him at all. He watched helplessly as she turned into a pile of ashes in a matter of seconds. What the fuck was that?

One of the guards came running with a bucket of water.

"It's too late, idiot," Killian grunted turning to the exit. "Clean it up."

The acrid smell of burnt flesh followed him long after he left the dungeons.

Waking up was like trying to get through too thick layer of ice. At least you finally could breathe even though your throat was sore, the sharp pain shooting in all directions every time you swallowed. You were shivering with terrible cold so much your teeth chattered.

"It's okay. I'm here," a deep voice spoke lowly as a warm, big hand squeezed yours, the other one gently landed on your forehead. The warmth spread to your body in a second. It felt so good that you moaned.

Your eyelids fluttered as you pushed them open. At first you saw nothing but light and shadows dancing around. As things came into focus you recognized your room and Eris leaning over you.

His red hair were messy as if he ran his hands through them at least hundred times, dark circles under worried eyes. He was still wearing the same clothes as at the party, now splashed with droplets of blood.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," he smiled kindly at you. "How do you feel?"

You blinked. How did you feel? You took a moment to check up with your body. You were tired, limbs heavy, but otherwise you were fine.

"I'm just little bit cold," you rasped and frowned.

"It's okay. Your throat will be sensitive for a while. The cold will eventually disappear, too." He helped you to sit up and put the mug with tea to your lips. You took a sip, the hot liquid warmed you from inside.

"What happened to me?"

Eris's features hardened, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes flared up with anger so fierce you jerked.

"Someone tried to poison you," he said after he got his anger under the control.

Everything even your mind silenced for a moment. "Why?"

He shrugged and putting the mug down he looked to the side to the window. "That bitch killed herself before Killian got a single word out of her."

You swallowed heavily and frowned in pain.

"But don't worry. We checked all the staff in the castle and tightened security. It will not happen again."

He cleared his throat and turned back to you. He gave you a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. His hand again found yours as if he needed a physical reminder that you were still alive.

"Lay down. You need to rest. I'll stay here with you."

"I'm sorry.." Your lower lip quivered.

"What?" he looked at you confused.

"I'm so sorry. I ruined the party you prepared-"

He silenced you with one long finger pressed to your lips. "Don't. Don't ever say anything like that. It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong. I should have taken better care of you. If I hadn't momentarily lost you in a crowd, it wouldn't have happened. I'm the only one to be blamed for this outcome."

You shook your head, silver lining your eyes. He took a deep breathe and straightened.

"Let's change topic to something less.. traumatic," he smiled cheerfully and again it didn't reach his eyes. "You didn't even have a chance to open your present. Do you want to do it now?"

You sobbed quietly, but nodded anyway. Eris stood up, went to your vanity and took the small box. Mattress dipped down as he sat on its edge and handed you the present. His hand slightly trembled.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he muttered sadly and kissed the crown of your head.

With trembling fingers you untied the ribbon and opened it. On red velvet pillow rested a necklace with silver pendant of crescent moon with a star in the middle. In the center of the star a stone in the same colour as Eris's eyes flashed in the light. You gasped, tears rolling down your cheeks. I've never got a present yet something so beautiful.

"I saw you watching the night sky and wanted to give you something that would represent your home Court because you brought nothing with you from there. At least nothing nice."

"It's also a reminder of the place my.. happiness is coming from," he added almost inaudibly.

"It's beautiful," you sobbed and reached up for him. He hesitated for a moment, but then leaned in, allowing you to pull him down into a hug. As his head rested over your heart, he let out a contented sigh, squeezing you so firmly it almost hurt. "Thank you. It's the most beautiful gift I've ever got."

"No.. Thank you for staying here.. with me."

After that Eris urged you to take rest and you managed to persuade him to lay down, too, and rest with you.

Even with your fast healing it took a few days until you stopped shivering and were able to stand up from bed. Eris spent most of the time with you as your personal heater, but he couldn't postpone his High Lord duties for too long. When he had to leave, his place took Killian who seemed to feel miserable for what happened to you. It took you three hours to convince him to let it go and his trademark grin finally returned.

Except of the two of them only a healer was allowed to enter your chambers and you dearly missed Irene and Ellen who personally overlooked preparations of every your meal and brought it to you, leaving it in the sitting room.

When you grew enough strong to stand on your own, Eris and Killian returned to their duties and your dear friends were allowed to again take care of you. Their gloomy, worried expressions turned into tears of relief as soon as they stepped into your room. They ran to you and hugging you, swore to never leave your side again.

However after your close encounter with the death, something changed in you and you started to look for ways to get some time alone. Though it was quite a challenge. Eris really didn't lie about the tighter security. Irene and Ellen were practically glued to your side most of the day and guards stood even in the hallways and gardens now.

It was hard to escape them, but years spent in the shadows of Hewn City taught you how to stay unseen and unheard.

When you managed to get away, you looked for remote corners of extensive gardens and grounds around the castle. Grateful for moments spent in silence, you just wandered aimlessly around in the brisk air and enjoyed the bright colours of autumn.

Once you found a hidden path on the edge of the forest that seemingly led to the hills behind the castle. After following it for a while you got to ruins of something that at first glance looked like a temple. Fallen pillars and pieces of sandstone covered with moss and greenery lay scattered on the ground around, remains of marble statues peak from undergrowth. Without thinking about the possible dangers you wandered through the ruins, wondering to what god or goddess this temple used to be dedicated to. Your kind had excessively long lives, yet no one remembered the names of gods your ancestors worshipped. Maybe you could try to look for some information in the library when you would return back.

It was fascinating to watch falling leaves dancing through rays of light at this historic site. It filled your heart with similarly warm feeling you felt every time Eris was around. You stretched out your arms and danced with them, feeling light and laughing merrily for the first time since you were poisoned. You were so enchanted by looking up at that magical beauty that you hadn't even noticed you were surrounded.

A low growl caused your steps faltered and made you look down. A dog like creature blocked your way, showing off its sharp canines. You tried to carefully back out with raised hands, hoping it would let you go when you heard a snarl coming from behind you. You slowly looked over your shoulder just to find another few of them behind you.

You were surrounded by twelve of gray and sleek like smoke hounds that growled and slowly crept toward you enclosing the circle. There was no place you could escape to or climbed at. With racing heart you were counting your last moments in this world when a sound of whistle bounced off the stones. The hounds with pricked ears stilled and then barking dashed running toward the sound.

Relieved they were gone, you fell on your knees and covered your face with trembling hands. "Thank the Mother," you breathed out shakily in a tiny voice.

"Did you miss me, guys? Hm? Did you miss me?" A males voice spoke to them in baby talk.

Your face snapped up in shock. Your eyes met with Eris's and for a moment you gaped at each other. His face turned bright red like a tomato and he pinched the root of his nose, groaning.

"You.. heard it, didn't you."

"I think.. yes, I did."

"Fuck," he swore under his breath. "There.. nobody comes up here. Usually."

"They are yours?" You pointed to the scary creatures.

The hounds were jumping at him like overexcited puppies, asking for his attention.

"Well, yes, they are my smokehounds. This place is enchanted so no one can get to them. How did you break through?" He looked behind you. "And where are your maids? They should keep an eye on you, you know."

"I-I ran away," your shoulders slumped.

He came closer and sat down next you, bumping his shoulder lightly to yours while hounds gave you a questioning look.

"Something happened?" he asked kindly.

"No, not at all. They are great and I like them so much. I just.. sometimes I need a moment or two for myself."

He sighed heavily.

"I understand that, but I'll have to check the security nonetheless. At least guards should know-"

"It isn't their fault," you quickly said, looking at him, panicking that you caused problems for those people. "They are doing their jobs conscientiously."

"Well, apparently not when you manage to sneak out so easily," he raised a brow, amused. He wouldn't hurt them, that was clear.

You bit on your lower lip. "They are quite scary, aren't they," you tried to change topic and to your surprise it worked.

"They are the best hounds in Prythian, of course, they are scary."

"I've never heard about them," you admitted.

"How could you?" Eris snorted. "They are so highly prized that it's forbidden to give or sold them beyond the borders."

"Why? What's so special about them? Except of being scary."

"They are magical," he teased you and again lightly bumped your shoulder. You laughed with him. "That wasn't joke though. They have their own magic. They are extremely fast and can sniff out their prey no matter where it hides. Even on the other side of Prythian. They are beautiful creatures, don't you think?"

You weren't sure what to say. They really were nice hounds and their reaction to Eris was cute, but their strange eyes and the intelligence in them gave you chills. If Eris didn't appear so suddenly, they wouldn't hesitate to kill you.

"Do you want to meet them?"

You breathed in sharply. "I-.."

"Come! They won't hurt you, I promise." He helped you to stand up. Playful flames danced in his amber eyes as he took your hand and gently squeezed it, smiling like a small boy who was about to show you his biggest treasure.

Eris took out small silver whistle from his pocket and whistled long tone. The hounds lined up and sitting down waited for next command.

"See? I trained them myself. This is Egon," he started with the closest hound. "He comes from a bloodline that our family owns for generations. Birdie loves birds, preferably for lunch. Pilot usually takes the lead and Kama loves snuggles. She is like a mother of the whole pack. Ivory has the smoothest fur. Badger is a brawler and causes the most of the troubles. Takeo here is a real warrior. He once even engaged in fight with naga. Saved my ass, honestly. I was still too young and stupid back then. Greystone is.. simply Greystone. Ketch loves to play fetch. Lightening is the fastest of them. Patience is obviously the most patient one and Scotch ends any fight Badger starts."

Eris named hounds one by one, scratching every hound between ears as he introduced them. He was completely relaxed, unguarded. You'd never thought that grown male over 500 could be so carefree, boyish and playful. You tried to pay attention to his words, but his expression captivated you and in the end you couldn't take your eyes off of him.

"Good guys," he praised them and took out a bag of dog treats, giving one to each of the hounds.

"And now listen carefully." The hounds stilled, all eyes on him. "This is my wife, Y/N. You must not hurt her. Do you hear me? She is important." The hounds eyed you for a moment and sniffed the air. Then they barked once as if in agreement. You had to scoff at the absurdity of this dog's army. If you hadn't witnessed it, you wouldn't believe something like this is possible.

Eris laughed out at your reaction. Then as if he got some exciting idea, his lips twisted into wolfish grin. "Do you want to touch them?"

"I'm not sure..," you stuttered and took a step back, but his hand didn't allow you to get too far.

"It's fine. Kama, come here." One of the hounds separated from the pack and came closer, panting.

"Go on," Eris challenged you.

You couldn't and didn't want to tell him no. Slowly you crouched down until you were on a same eye-level with the strange creature. Hound's icy coloured eyes watched you, calculating. It was nerve wrecking. You slowly reached out but didn't touch her yet. The hound called Kama sniffed your fingers curiously and then snuggled to your hand. You hesitantly petted her. Kama stepped closer resting head on your skirt. Before you knew, you were surrounded by twelve hounds that pushed and snarled at each other just to get scratched between ears by you. You giggled petting as many heads as you could reach in that chaos.

Eris was watching you with an affection and a wide smile on his lips. He seemed to be mesmerized by the picture of you surrounded by his pets. After a while he searched his pockets and took out old looking ball. The hounds were immediately at his legs, jumping up to get to the ball. He threw it into the ruins and they dashed after it.

"I always have one with me just in case," he blushed. He took a step towards the ruins and you followed him.

"What is this place?"

Eris shrugged. "I'm not sure, but it looks like temple, don't you think? I found it by accident when I got lost as a child. Ever since then, I like to come here when I need to think or just to be alone. That's why I keep my hounds here, too."

"It's magical."

Eris just nodded. "I started to feel some kind of ancient energy here when I got older. I guess that's what attracts me to this place so much. But since I've became a High Lord, I feel that energy even more intensively. It literally pulses through the ground under our feet. I wish you could feel it, too. It's like..," he shook his head and sighed. "There aren't words that could describe that feeling."

You could feel the magic that he spoke about. You didn't know if it was the exactly same thing as he felt, but it was like walking in a stream of fresh mountain water. It flowed through ground and the remaining stone, vibrating and pulling you deeper to the ruins. Hand in hand you followed it, occasionally disturbed by the hounds with their ball.

You took turns throwing the ball to them, wandering through the ruins. Words weren't important. It was pleasantly spent time and exactly what you needed the most. Eris wasn't trying to pull you to conversation, seemingly enjoying the silence and your company as much as you did. As sun started to set to the horizont he sighed heavily.

"We should head back. It's getting late."

He apparently didn't want to go back nor did you. You loved to spend time with him in general, but this afternoon was even more precious to you. Eris was himself here. No masks, no pretending, no holding back. You could see his real self and hated the idea it should be again hidden somewhere where you couldn't even catch a glimpse of it. You wished this moment would never end.

Maybe that was the reason why you dared to step to him and embrace him, resting your face on his chest. He stiffened, even his heart fell out of its rhythm. But when he finally moved, his arms squeezed you so firmly you couldn't move even if you wanted to. His head fell forward, resting on top of yours. As if it was meant to be like this all the time, it felt so right that it drew a moan from the both of you in the same moment. His fingers entwined with your hair, holding your head from behind and tugging you even closer. Meanwhile your hand rubbed up and down his back in a lazy circles.

When you at last pulled away enough to look into each other's eyes, he breathed in shakily.

"There's something I-," his mouth moved without a sound. It seemed that he desperately needed to tell you whatever he had on tip of his tongue, but instead he only pressed his lips together, jaw tightening and shook his head. "No, that's nothing."

"What is it?" You pressed him, wanting to hear it. He only shook his head again.

"Maybe some other time."

His lips pulled into a sad smile. Taking your hand he led you down the secret path to the gardens. Near the closest castle gates he halted, remembering something important and turned to you. He was about to speak when a servant dashed from the castle, running to you.

"Your Lordship, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but they are looking for you. It's urgent." He came closer and whispered something to Eris who frowned.

"My apologies, but I have to go now. Go straight inside, no more walks today." And he was gone. Sighing you followed after him and went looking for your maids.

The very next day in the morning Irene and Ellen burst into Eris's office, the tears staining their faces.

"My Lord! She is gone," they sobbed.

"What? Who?" frowning he looked up from the documents, confused.

"Y/N! We went out for a walk as every morning."

"We just stopped to pick up some of her favourite flowers for bouquet to her room and she was gone. We looked everywhere, but no one seems to catch even glimpse of her." They cried one over the other.

Pale Eris was at once on his legs, hand already on handle. "Show me where it happened! Quickly!"

On the way out he almost knocked down Killian who was about to open the doors. The papers he held flew into the air, floating to the ground all around them, but nobody cared about it at the moment.

"Y/N is gone! I want every man out looking for her," he shouted at surprised Killian and dashed off with maids at his heels.

[simplyafountainpen]

Phantom Filled Nights

{𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼}: Ciel Phantomhive x Older!Brother!Reader x Sebastian Michaelis

{𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷}: Life has finally caught up with (Y/n) but he refuses to break down. Ciel and Sebastian help him realize that even Guard Dogs need a break.

{𝓣𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓼}: Huge amount of angst, fluffy ending, familial reconciliation, Reader has extreme burn scars, Reader is implied to be heavily disfigured, Reader uses cane and has prosthetic, Reader implied to have PTSD to some degree, Reader goes through traumatic flashback (described to the best of my ability)

{𝓡𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽}: ❝I'm always shy when I make a ask, but i'll try. It's about black butler. I was thinking about a reader who is Ciel's big brother, like 3 years more older than ciel (u can choose) Like, male reader is overloaded with something (work or psychological things), you could put sebastian and the rest of them. I'm sorry for my bad English, im trying to not use the translator… i love your writing, btw❤❞ - Sasattan (@sasattan)

When your little brothers disappeared, you were alone. No matter what anyone said or did, you refused to believe that they were dead. And so you waited. You never listened to your Aunt claiming it was time to move on, because how could you when they were still out there, holding on? You had to keep going, keep believing, not letting any lick of hope slip past your fingertips because the day when your two baby brothers would return was soon, you could feel it.

But as you eagerly awaited their return, time passed. And you grew older. And older. And older still. A mere two weeks passed and suddenly, you officially took the title as the Earl of Phantomhive, and the Queen’s Guard Dog. At fourteen years old, you bore responsibilities no child should ever have to.

And you had just turned fifteen years old when only one of your younger brothers returned, with that hellish butler of his.

·:¨༺ ♱✮¨:·ᨐฅ ᨐᵐᵉᵒʷ·:¨✮♱ ༻¨:·˚─── ⋆⋅⛥⋅⋆ ──

Owls cried beyond the window behind you as candle light washed the room you were in with a golden glow. The sound of a pen dashing across pages also filled the room. You sighed, deep and filled with melancholy, as you pushed a stack of pages by another - a finished pile - and grabbed another and quickly began to work. You knew it was long past midnight, all the servants in their quarters asleep.

And hopefully, Ciel as well. You had only just gotten him back a few months back. He had been painfully thin, eyes sunken into his skull and hair ridiculously thin when he returned. No matter how you or your Aunt pried and asked, Ciel wouldn’t answer where he’d been all that time. That one, God awful month of painful waiting. Your one birthday wish - a direct month after the manor burned - was that they would return.

And there Ciel would stand before his tomb. A ghost of the past returned to you in the most awful of ways.

Being the Guard Dog came with the side effect of witnessing the underbelly and gore of an England that worked under the cover of night, drenched in ash and blood. But what that eye held as he stared, limp and lifeless at you as that man, if you even dared call that beast a man, stood behind him smiling like he had won something. It would haunt you.

The pen dropped from your hand and your face fell forward onto the mahogany, falling to the side of the paper you had just been working on with a resounding ‘thump’ that echoed off the walls and reverberated in your ears. No matter how much you asked, or rather, begged him to let you in, to let his walls down and allow you the great pleasure of helping him work through whatever hell he evidently faced in such a long-feeling-yet-short amount of time, he refused. He’d look at you in a way you couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend, and mutter some ‘it wouldn’t matter’ under his breath and walk off with that dark thing following behind him.

Your head raised slowly and stared into the fire that crackled wildly with passion, focusing on your breathing so you didn’t spiral. You’d been stressed as of late, working on a particularly hard case while trying your best to be the shoulder Ciel so evidently needed to cry on. Endless amounts of paperwork had been forced on your shoulders and for some unspoken reason Funtom had suddenly taken a hit from a competitor, and working on a new product was sucking the absolute life out of you.

Your eyes were naturally drawn to the fire, gazing at the flickers of light and the bursts of cinder that would fall to the hearth and ignite in a final moment of flame before being silenced forever. Your eyes closed as the fire grew louder and you focused, brows furrowing as the world grew silent except for the growing roars of flame, ash and soot. The air seemed to grow heavy, mixing with a scent you hated but knew oh so intimately.

The case you had been handling lately involved the serial burnings of homes, each with families inside. The fires would always be set at midnight, and the homes were usually those of a wealthier lot. Nothing like an Earl or a Duke, but people with money nonetheless. The families always consisted of a mother, father, and at least one son, the most being quadruplets, never a daughter however. After the burning, the family would be confirmed dead by the suspect or suspects - you assumed it may be either a duo or a team - usually by caving heads and chests. The worst one so far had been a family where the father had just received a raise from his occupation - a butchers assistant - and all had died not a day later. What made it so bad was that fact that the twins burned in the fire were infants. Just barely two months old.

The remaining smell singed your nostrils and made your eyes water but you could not tear your eyes away from the group. The mother and father lying over the boys cradle, holding them in their arms.

You couldn’t help it. Shaking in your chair as your grit your teeth, trying to remove yourself from the thoughts that would replace that family with your own, hearing the panicked cries of your little brothers as fire consumed the walls and stairs, making escape nigh impossible.

You couldn’t help it as one of your hands trailed up your body, filled with blotches of burned flesh and stitches, gross and red and raised, that textured your skin under your bandages and thick, heavy clothes. It was sensitive. It was numb. You could feel the flames licking your skin as the crackling grew louder, breathing becoming harsh as hands raced to protect your face when the flames climbed the walls in your bedroom, making you scream.

You fell from your bed, night shirt clinging to your chest as sweat poured from your skin, crawling across your floor, which burned across your being, and pulled yourself up to wretch your door open, crumbling into the hall as you shouted for your family. You shuffled through the halls as servants ran about, screaming and crying. The smoke and heat stung at your eyes but you pushed forward, desperately calling for your mother and father. You collapsed into a wall, going low to take a deep breath and wheezing at the smoke you inhaled instead. You coughed, falling to the floor once more but continued to crawl, your calls much weaker than before.

Suddenly you were in the doorway of the study that held your family as fire burned through everything around you. It roared, forcing you back as you saw them huddled together, mother and father above your brothers. They screamed at you to stay back but you, ever the brash child, jumped through the flames to reach them, only for the floor to give out beneath you, leaving you trapped in the middle of the flames. It quickly ate away at you, nightshirt burning away and your skin blackening and peeling, your screams echoing across the home, actively being the loudest amongst the chaos. You struggled and cried, tears quickly drying up and evaporating, hands clawing at everything they could reach to pull yourself from the pain.

Hands wrapped around you, strong and safe, pulling on you. Unfortunately your leg took the brunt of the damage, snapping as you were pulled up from the ground. You cried, leg jutting at a horrible angle as you were rushed into the embrace of your mother, father cursing as he rushed back to the group. Your brothers clung to you, and you didn’t care as their nails dug into the fresh burns, stinging and bleeding. You looked up at your parents who were talking before your father spoke.

His voice was muffled, drowned out by the noise of the fire, and the group shuffled close to a window you hadn’t noticed, moving inch by inch in case any more floorboards were lose or weak. Your arms were tight around your brothers, hushing and shushing them, kissing their foreheads and patting their hair in attempts to comfort them. You all were as low to the ground as possible, the heat seeping into your bones and scorching your soul.

As soon as you all made it to the window, the fire had claimed over half the room and was right on your heels, its light blinding you. The adrenalin was the only thing keeping you from passing out from pain, mother's grip growing tighter as father rushed to the window and forced it open, eventually punching through the glass and lifting it that way, the noise imprinting itself in your brain.

You were torn from your brothers, a scream immediately shredding itself from your throat. Thrashing to the best of your ability, you were only calmed by your father’s hands on your shoulders. He glanced outside - to see if it was safe to jump you assumed - and leaned in close, pressing many kisses to your head. You looked back and saw your mother, who was still holding your brothers, smiling at you.

“You are the most injured of all of us. You need to go first.” Your father began. You immediately shook your head, pointing to your brothers but father shushed you.

“No. They’ll be out right behind you, I promise. I love you, so so much, and so does your mother. Please.” You looked back at the fire that was consuming the floors and walls at a rapid pace, creeping closer to your family. You sniffled, nodding, and hugged your father. He hugged you back, lifting you and carrying you to the window, mindful of the glass.

“Aim for the bushes, my little soldier. They’ll cushion your landing.” You nodded again. Before he dropped you, you turned to your father and family.

“I love you all.” You whispered. And you were met with declarations of love back. Then, the wind whipped wildly around you as you fell.

You didn’t know what happened, what changed your trajectory, why you were suddenly in so much pain.

… Your lower back hurt. Bad.

Something crashed above you and your saw the window you just fell out of grow dark, as though something fell in front of it inside, then flame burst forth from remains, glass raining down over your withered form, that of which screamed and cried.

You were never very religious. Church was not something your family partook in to often, but in that moment you preyed. Clasped your hands above your head and preyed, cried, and screamed. Your eyes were clouded with tears, and noticed that a red blob followed by several other blobs raced towards you, scream-like-noises emitting around you.

Voices sounding like they were calling from the bottom of the sea rung in your skull and made you cry more, hands coming to your ears as your vision darkened around the edges.

“BROTHER!!”

You didn’t react, covering your ears with both hands, begging that the noises and the lights would go away. Your leg, you couldn’t feel it. The damn thing felt like lead weight attached to you, the burns were itchy and your fingers raced to scratch at them, the heat of the flames making everything unbearable.

You started stripping, if just to cool off the tiniest bit, but something stopped you. A hand, it seemed. Before you could scream again you were sat up against a wall, figures dancing in your corroded sight. Your face, tainted as it was with scars, was wet with tears - bloody tears mind you - and drool from your stuck-open mouth, moaning and gasping and sobbing.

Your entire body shook as someone sat beside you, not saying anything for a moment. Finally, you heard a choked cry that wasn’t your own from that shadow beside you.

“What’s wrong..?” It whispered. The voice was soft and scratchy, as though it hadn’t been used in a long while. You sobbed again as the flames licked your terrorized flesh.

“The fire…” you murmured. Though before it could speak again you spoke more. “It took them from me… it burns… everything hurts… my leg…” your voice grew ever quieter as you strained, double vision making it hard to see your lap as you looked down and towards the leg that burned oh so painfully. In a moment of agonizing pain, your hands wrapped around the dead weight of your leg, teeth grinding together as you pulled at it. The voice gasped as you screamed out, the leg finally being torn from your body and launched across the field of grass you lay on. You cried harder as it flew and clattered against the dirt, the pain only getting worse. The voice was silent for only a moment more before speaking again.

“What do you need me to do?” It whispered, and you screamed. “MAKE IT STOP!.. MAKE THE FIRE STOP OH PLEASE!! IT BURNS LIKE HELL I CAN’T TAKE IT!!!” Your cries echoed as you slid on the wall until you were curled in a sideways fetal position, face pressed against the grass as you hiccupped.

More muddled voices filled your hearing as your vision blurred and danced, making the world spin and leap, disorienting you further. You pushed your head into your leg, sobbing even louder still. It stayed silent for a bit longer but the presence came closer and began breathing loudly, holding his breath for a couple seconds and exhaling just as loud. He did this a couple times and you couldn't help to copy, your breathing slowly matching that of the other's. Your tears still fell, but the shuddering came to a halt.

"(Y/n), where are you right now?" He questioned. You kept breathing, thinking with your eyes closed.

"I'm outside. T-the manor is on fire and... and uhm-" "Breathe." You nodded, stopping to breathe. The person beside you also kept breathing with you, emphasizing the deep breaths and long exhales.

"You're not outside, (Y/n). You're in a hallway inside the manor." Your breath shuttered and his breathing immediately got louder and you followed. "That night was a few month ago. The manor is fully rebuilt. You're in a hallway just outside the study. It's around... one? One AM, I believe." You nodded, still in fetal position. You whined, and curled a bit further into yourself. The other sighed and scooted closer.

"(Y/n)... can you look at me please?" You shivered, but nodded again. It took you a few seconds but eventually you were able to sit yourself back up and looked over, meeting the teary eyes of Ciel. You blinked, staring at him. It took you a moment, really taking in the fact that he was before you, not in the manor? You finally began looking around, breathing growing heavy again as tears welled up in your eyes.

"(Y/n)! (Y/n), look at me. You need to keep breathing." You nodded but kept looking around. You sniffed, rubbing at your face and eyes and itching at any burns on your face. "(Y/n), can you stop scratching please?" You huffed, and didn't comply. In fact, you scratched a little harder, skin braking and breathing a bit harder. You heard Ciel shuffle around, before appearing before you. He stared into your eyes, then raised his hands slowly. They slowly moved to your wrists, but you flinched back, thus making Ciel flinch. He kept looking you in the eye, an unspoken staring contest sparking between you. He broke it first, sighing.

"(Y/n), may I touch you?" You jumped, staying silent. You continued to stare, breathing deeply more. You nodded. He nodded as well, once more moving slowly and steadily to gently grip your wrists, pulling them from your face. You looked down as he muttered something about needing to bandage the wounds.

"Sebastian in going through the house and putting out all the fireplaces." Ciel suddenly mentioned. You looked up, still allowing him to hold onto you - which was now him holding your hands in his lap - and tilted your head, silently asking him what he meant.

"Earlier you said something about fire," he was purposely omitting what you said, you noticed, "So I sent him off. To put out all the fires in the manor, I mean." You got the double meaning relatively fast. He understood the man made you remarkably uncomfortable, and sent him away before you could even recognize he was there. You nodded again, acknowledging his statement.

“Do you want me to bring you your leg?” He asked. You squinted and he sighed. “I meant- Your prosthetic. Would you like me to bring your prosthetic leg to you? As well as your cane?” Your head rapidly shook and you shrunk into yourself.

“Do you want to go to your bedroom? Or office?” He looked confused, which was fair as you shook your head again. “Do you want to… stay here?” Finally you sighed. Ciel continued to sit before you, taking in the sight of such a shaken version you.

You looked so tired, eyes sunken and sweat rolling down your forehead. Your scarred and heavily bandaged face still had tear tracks, and the bandages trailed beneath the collar of your shirt and traced your arms and - assumedly - your remaining leg. You still shook a little, though much less than earlier. Your hair was a mess of fly-away’s and frizz, some even stuck to your cheek from when you collapsed in your office.

Both you and Ciel stared at each other, taking each other in. The signs of trauma literally stamped themselves all across you both, tailing each of you with a scent of death that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard you scrubbed at your skin. For a moment, both your breaths stilled. Then you started crying again.

Your head curled towards your chest, hands rushing to your face. Ciel immediately went to comfort you, but your head was then thrown back, knocking back on the wall, though that didn’t deter your laughter. A wide grin had found with way onto your face, eyes closed and tears streaming down your cheeks. Both your hands quickly found their way around Ciel’s shoulders, drawing him into a tight hug. Your head rested on his, sobbing into his hair.

Ciel sat there, gobsmacked, but finally leaned into your touch, his arms embracing you and nuzzled into your chest, tears finally finding their way into his eyes, and a muffled wail made its way from his throat.

“You’re here with me..! I... I can feel you! Don’t leave, okay? P-promise me you won’t leave..!” You cried. Ciel was pulled firmly into your lap so you could fully wrap around him, entirely engulfing him in your embrace. Both of you continued to hold each other, sobbing and laughing and crying. Everything seemed to piece together as you held each other, finally having your little brother in your arms. He hadn’t been this emotionally available since he returned, and work had kept you from interacting to much with him, so this? Feeling him against you when both of you were long past the line of breaking, it was nice.

Being here, with him, in this moment of weakness, was nice.

·:¨༺ ♱✮¨:·ᨐฅ ᨐᵐᵉᵒʷ·:¨✮♱ ༻¨:·˚─── ⋆⋅⛥⋅⋆ ──

{𝓝𝓸 𝓞𝓷𝓮'𝓼 𝓟.𝓞.𝓥}

Sebastian walked through the halls lit only by the candle in his grip after extinguishing every single fire place in the manor. He walked back to the last place he’d seen his young Master, that being with his older brother in a hall as said brother had an attack.

Sebastian would be a liar to say he hadn’t wanted to be there and “help” - he just wanted to see what that kind of attack was like, really - but unfortunately, he’d been sent off to make the teenager much more comfortable, even if he couldn’t see the fires in other rooms.

Something about “being able to be assured it won’t happen again” or whatever his Master had said.

His eyes stalked the halls, the candle nothing more than a formality as to not scare the children when he would find them, a dull smile plastered on his face. He truly wanted nothing more than to go back to his room and enjoy the latest cat he had stole- adopted.

His brisk pace paused as his gaze finally landed on the intertwined bodies of the two remaining Phantomhive children, (Y/n)’s body enveloping Ciel’s in a firm embrace, the duo sound asleep against the floor. (Y/n)’s leg was a length away, and the candle Ciel had was little more that a nub surrounded by wax. Ciel’s head was cushioned by (Y/n)’s hand, the elders own body being the thing the majority of Ciel’s own body rested on.

Sebastian stared at them for a moment, simply taking in the view, and walked towards them, slipping a hand under (Y/n) and balancing Ciel on top of him, walking them both towards the Earl’s bedroom. The walking seemingly jostled them a bit, as (Y/n) groaned and hugged Ciel tighter. One of his eyes peaked open, looking at Sebastian who kept his eyes forward.

His eyes stayed on the older’s face, trained on his features. Sebastian ignored the look and kept pressing forward through the cold halls, candle somehow still balanced in his hand but far enough to not distress the drowsy boy anymore for the night.

“… Thank you.” (Y/n) muttered, eye closing back and falling back into sleep. Sebastian finally eyed him as the boy snuggled Ciel closer, who only grunted into his chest. The rocking motion led (Y/n) back into slumber, evident by the deep breathing and the most relaxed expression Sebastian had seen on his face.

The Demon only huffed, a ghost of a smile on his face. He walked them to (Y/n)'s bedroom, pulling back the sheets of the bed and laying them both down. He didn't even try to separate them, knowing that it would be useless to even try with them both in the emotional state they were in, even if in sleep.

Sebastian pulled the covers over them, running a hand through both heads of hair. With candle still in hand, he walked out the room, closing the door till a crack, staring at the two children who pulled the other impossibly closer. Something deep in the man's eyes shined, though it was nothing but a dull glimmer.

"Goodnight, Young Masters." He breathed. He gently closed the door behind him, leaving the two to dream the night away.

The moon danced over their sleeping forms, the cloudless night offering stars to light their paths deeper into the realm of sleep. Both subconsciously reaching out to their sibling to calm their troubled minds and finally find some semblance of sleep for the first time in weeks.

Finally reunited, though with much work of reconciliation ahead of them, was nice.

Being together, holding each other; knowing the other was there, safe and sound, was nice.

This first moment of true calm mental silence, was nice.

{𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓼}: I hope this pleases, because for some reason this was incredibly difficult to write. I did, however, give it my all and push through so that I may deliver. Again, I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

-🖋️

All publishings on this account belong to @fountain-pen-anon. I do not authorize my fics being altered, translated, stolen or published/reposted to other sites, thank you.

© fountain-pen-anon - all rights reserved

[umemiyan]

𝙒𝘼𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝘽𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙀𝙍.

𝗛𝗔𝗝𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗨𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗜𝗬𝗔 𝗫 𝗙!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. ⌇ 18+ only, mdni / sibling incest / one brief instance of physical violence (from reader) / use of “pretty girl” + “good girl” / unprotected sex / 1k words

i'm very new to wind breaker but the idea of big brother!umemiya has completely consumed me within the last 24hrs. i'm still getting to know him, so i apologize for any injustices to his character, but i simply needed to get this out of my system. i hope you understand 🙏🏻

“Fuck me, Hajime,” you breathe. It’s a demand, not a request.

Driven by a flame of intensity that you can no longer contain within your own body, you assault his lips with your own. It rips and burns through you, turning your veins to ash and inhibitions to dust, every heavy, fiery emotion making you into a walking fever. 

You need your big brother to burn with you. It urges you to take dominion over his lap where he sits, pressing your bodies closer together than they ever should be while stealing open-mouthed kisses from him that he fails to return in full.

Hajime steadies your hips with his hands upon instinct, moves his mouth against yours for pacification’s sake, but he’s still not ready to be consumed by your flame. He puts distance between your lips so that he can say, “Let’s settle down first, okay? You’re worked up—”

Boiling, you react with a sharp slap to his face before he can even finish. You don’t want him to dote and coo—you want him to stretch you out like you know he can so well, to fan the flame of anger caused by whatever it is that brought you here to him in the first place. But you should’ve known that your brother was a cool stream of mending water, whether it be to a potted plant or your heated passion.

With a red cheek, turned head, and a few out-of-place white strands, Hajime takes your abuse in stride—stone-like, seemingly unaffected. He knows you don’t mean it. Not really.

“Alright,” he says evenly after a good few moments, yielding. 

Your hand stings from the impact, your heart thumping with a mixture of frustration and regret. Why is he always so goddamned unbreakable?

Hajime sets aside the ongoing moral dilemma in his head in favor of cupping your cheek and offering you a kiss. He shivers with a deep-seated guilt, but is ultimately more satisfied with how you arch into his willing affection, enthralled by the chance to get what you want.

But he has no true intention of fanning your flame. Even as he kisses your neck and peels the shirt from your body with haste, Hajime aims to soothe.

When you’re finally seated on his cock, eyes rolling back with the pleasure of being filled, you have the innate urge to devour. You want to bounce on every inch, feel it push the intensity up into your throat until you’re choking on it. You drive yourself on him until you’re coated with sweat in record time, your insides churned by the force of your conquest.

Juxtaposed, Hajime’s loving smile beams up at you with adoration and a touch of… pity? melancholy? as you repeatedly sheath him. 

“You need big brother’s cock to help make it okay? Hm?” He forces your gaze with a sincere blue one and a voice to match. You abhor how he refuses to stoop to your level, saccharine even as he impales you. “Yeah, alright then. My pretty girl…” his fingers brush at your hair and lips suckle on your neck as he accepts his fate as your healer.

It isn’t long before the muscles in your thighs are trembling and he’s more or less maintaining the pace by lifting you up and down his length. You’ve burned bright and quickly, and while he was willing to entertain it for perhaps a moment or two longer, this now gives Hajime the opportunity to gradually slow things down to his liking—to what he knows will be best for you in the end.

He kisses you through it, injecting you with the easygoing syrup on his lips until you’ve nearly stopped your movements. “Shh, shh… relax. There we go. Just feel it.” he gives you a series of shushes and forces you to slow yourself, to feel his cock reach every part of your insides. He accentuates it with a hand on your lower belly.

Hajime leans forward and presses his forehead to yours, closes his eyes, takes a deep inhale and prompts you to follow his lead. Without even thinking of refusing, you mirror him as the blaze within you begins to die out. Breathing so deeply makes you feel as though he resides somewhere deep in your soul, penetrating via the most intimate part of your body—stretched, filled, whole. You belong to each other for better or for worse.

“Good girl,” he praises softly, pleased with your efforts and the snug feeling of your cunt as it flutters around him. “I want you to cum for me, okay?” it’s a gentle proposal as though he isn’t asking for something despicable; but it isn’t so despicable to Hajime in this moment, not when it comes to seeing that you are tended to, fulfilled.

He aids you in rolling your hips slowly and easily into his, pulling you in until your clit brushes against his pelvis with each languid motion. He likes it better like this: sensual with your heart soaring, breaths laced with genuine pleasure and satisfaction. You find peace in finally succumbing to his consoling, and so does he.

“Haji—” you moan, and he threads your fingers together like puzzle pieces made to fit. Your musical whimpers mixed with the sound of his name and slick heat of your cunt send him over the edge with a grunt, cock pulsing streams of hot seed against your womb. 

But even as he breaches ecstasy, Hajime doesn’t stop you—not until you’ve used what’s left of him to stumble over the edge yourself, crying into his shoulder with relief once you do. He holds your head there with a comforting hand, feels you tense and tremble until you eventually go slack and begin to leak with his spend.

Hajime strokes your hair, and you are no longer angry. Your fire has been doused, contained, eliminated for the time being. This pleases him beyond words.

“I’m sorry,” you admit softly against his skin, tucked into his neck with shame. All he does in return is take your face in his palms and bring your forehead to his lips for a series of silent, tender kisses as if to say, “I know. It’s okay.”

Somehow, he will always understand. And he will always be there to wash over you with his gracious, healing waters.

[wtfwriter]

I Promise - Clarisse La Rue x F!Reader

Reader Age: 16-17

Reader Godly Parent: Poseidon

Synopsis: Reader has just returned from the Labyrinth onto a battlefield. In an adaptation of the Battle of the Labyrinth, the Reader is faced with their own internal battle and wonders if keeping their relationship with Clarisse a secret is truly worth it, as well as facing the realities of war and its implications for their little brother.

Word Count: 3197 (I had thoughts and suddenly there were words on a google document. I had nothing to do with this.)

Preface:

Some of the lines and dialogue are written directly or slightly changed lines from Rick Riordian’s novel “Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Battle of the Labyrinth.” Not all of this story is originally from me. Majority of these events happen in the order that they occur in the book with some minor tweaks

Also don’t ask me how the prophecy works here okay. I just think Percy deserves a big sister idk

I'm not 100% sure what age Clarisse is in this book, but google says she's about 16-17, so keep that in mind

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Even if pegasi are like neutral territory between Zeus and Poseidon, I never would fully relax while flying on the back of one. I held on tightly to my pegasus the entire time, muttering apologies for my grip to her the whole time. It’s alright, boss, she told me. If you could just let up on my skin, that would be great. 

Once we landed in Camp Half-Blood, I dismounted, petting my pegasus’ snout and apologizing again until she turned with the rest of her friends back towards the stables. Once I turned towards everyone else, Percy seemed to have already shared our story with Chiron and Silenus was arguing with Grover about Pan.

I didn’t pay much attention to this. Not because I didn’t care, but because the lines of half-bloods around Zeus’ fist caught my eye first. I watched as every single half-blood seemed to fall into place, with the Hephaestus cabin maintaining their traps, Apollo and Hermes’ cabins ready with bows in the trees, and Aphrodite kids running around combing people’s hair and straightening their armor.

What I was truly looking for, however, was the Ares cabin, which I found exactly where I knew they would be: the front lines. I surveyed for the girl I had been aching to see since I had left camp, a time that seemed much longer than it probably was. My eyes eventually found her, barking orders at her siblings.

I watched Clarisse move across the lines, prepared for battle and preparing those that stood with her. My eyes moved wherever she moved, never letting up, as if they were people who had finally gotten their first sip of water after years in a desert. I was so focused on her movements, I barely noticed when she finally looked at me.

I wondered if anyone else was following her line of sight, or mine. I wondered if we held the same expressions on our faces. I wondered if anyone could figure out what we were saying.

I love you. I’m sorry we can’t talk right now. Not with what’s happening. Not with this many people around. I will find you after all of this is over.

I promise.

We nodded at each other, faces determined, before we both turned back to our respective duties. I watched as each of my friends dispersed to do what they had to: Annabeth with her siblings, Tyson with the Hephaestus kids, and Grover went over to Juniper.

“Both of you, stay with me,” Chiron spoke. “I want you to wait so we know what we are dealing with. You must go where we need reinforcements.”

Percy and I nodded at him. “I saw Kronos,” Percy suddenly said. “It was Luke.. but he wasn’t…”

“He had golden eyes, yes? To merge with a mortal body would be… arduous. I’m not sure how he could have merged with Luke’s form without it burning into ash,” Chiron wondered aloud.

I chimed in, “Kronos said he had prepared the body.”

“I fear what that can mean. Perhaps it will limit his power, being in a mortal form.”

“Chiron,” Percy’s voice was laced with worry. “What if Kronos is leading this attack?”

“He is not,” Chiron replied, incredibly sure. “I would sense if he was drawing near. I believe you have… inconvenienced him when you two pulled his throne room on top of him.” He paused. “You two and your friend Nico, son of Hades.”

Percy looked down at the ground as I spoke. “We know we should’ve told you. It’s just—”

“I understand why you did not tell me. You felt responsible. You sought to protect him. However, if we are to survive this, we must be able to trust each other. We must —”

Chiron was cut off by the sudden wavering of the Earth. I heard Clarisse yell, “Lock shields!”

Then the Titan Army was upon us.

At first, all I saw was the Laistrygonians. Beckendorf yelled orders to fire the catapults, one of which fired a boulder that took one of them down. Arrows flew through the air. Campers gathered to bring down the remaining giants. I watched as Clarisse yelled even more orders.

Just when it seemed we were winning, another wave came out of the Labyrinth, this time of dracaenae. They were completely covered with battle armor, carrying nets and spears. I watched as some fell into traps while others were battling with campers. I looked for Clarisse again, finding her in a locked fight with one of the reptilian women.

I thought about how unfair this all was. How we were all just kids. How we were forced into this war. How all of this hate and pain was caused by hunger for power. 

I thought about how badly I wanted to take Percy away from all of this. How every day I wanted to get him away from his prophecy. How I wanted more than anything for him to be a little kid again.

I thought about how much I wanted to do with Clarisse. How beautiful she was. How she never failed to be the person I could always return to. How she promised me the world and I promised her the universe and it was still less than the both of us deserved.

I thought about how different my life could be if we were brave enough to change it. Maybe being a half-blood wasn’t something we wanted or something we could change. But, we didn’t need to be hiding anymore. It all seemed so stupid now, in the face of life and death,

Suddenly, a hellhound burst out of the opening and Chiron was yelling. “GO!”

Percy and I ran towards the hellhound. All I could see was horrifically clear images in the midst of a blur. Past friends and siblings fighting on opposing sides. Monsters disintegrating whilst others yelled triumphantly. I watched as Nico summoned a dozen undead warriors in various army attire before crumbling to the floor.

“Nico!” I yelled.

“Go! I’ll get the hellhound. You make sure he’s okay!” Percy yelled, running off as I slowed down. I pivoted to Nico, getting on my knees beside him.

“You okay?” I yelled over the commotion of battle.

“Yeah…” he panted. “Go, there’s more of them. You need to help.”

I looked up and got my first full look at everything that was happening. At the gruesome sights of battle. I watched as campers defended their home, the one place they were meant to be safe. I nodded to Nico before getting up.

I almost started to run back where Percy had gone when I heard Grover. He and Juniper were desperately trying to stop a fire that was getting dangerously close to Juniper’s tree. I rushed over, seeing Percy do the same.

I wasn’t sure what to do and by the look on his face, Percy didn’t either. The closest water source was nearly half a mile away, and we didn’t have petrified seashells here. All we could do was concentrate, praying to Poseidon, until I felt a pull in my gut. Suddenly, a wall of water appeared through the trees, dousing the fire. I sighed in relief, glad at least one crisis was averted.

Suddenly, a screech filled the air, followed by the sound of loud flapping wings. Kampê shot into the sky from the labyrinth entrance. Her right hand carried Ariadne’s string until her belt of animal heads rotated to the lion. She stuck the string into the lion’s maw. Safe keeping, I suppose.

Kampê drew her twin swords, which seemed to be dripping with poison. Chiron sent an arrow through the sky towards her, which she sensed as she moved at the last moment. Campers started to run away in fear.

“No! Stay and fight!” Tyson yelled, before being promptly slammed to the ground by a hellhound. They went rolling away.

Kampê landed on the Athena tent and Percy and I ran after her. Annabeth appeared on Percy’s side.

“This might be it,” she said.

“Could be,” Percy replied.

“Okay… morbid,” I muttered under my breath, but neither of them seemed to hear me, or acted like they didn’t.

“Nice fighting with you, seaweed brain.”

“Ditto.”

We all rushed towards Kampê, who lashed at us with her swords. My eyes burned from the poison lacing the blades. My lungs couldn’t seem to fully fill with air.

“We need help!” I yelled.

But there was no one to help. Either each half-blood was locked in their own fight or was too afraid to move towards us.

“Now!” Annabeth yelled, and all three of us rushed in at different angles. But it wasn’t enough. Kampê’s belt of animals snapped at me and I went back trying to not get bitten. 

Suddenly, I was on my back, ears ringing and head spinning. I couldn’t breathe due to a heavy weight. I opened my eyes to see Kampê’s leg on my chest, Percy pinned under the other, and Annabeth thrown off to the side, dazed and not getting up. Kampê raised her sword and I realized this was it. I prayed that Percy would get a fair judgement from the council in the Underworld, that they hadn’t all been bought out by Kronos.

Suddenly, a whirl of black pounced onto Kampê, throwing her off of us and I gasped for air.

“Good girl!” Daedalus called after her. I turned my head and watched as he slashed down monsters, followed closely behind by a friendly face… and many hands.

“Briares!” Tyson called excitedly.

“Hail, little brother!” Briares bellowed back. “Stand firm!”

Briares took up a boulder in nearly each hand, throwing them at Kampê, piling them around her. She was encased within her own makeshift monument taller than Zeus’ fist. By the time he was done, the only evidence that there was an ancient monster inside was from the twin swords still poking out between the stones.

The rocks shifted slightly, slotting into place.

Before I could celebrate that victory, I heard commotion over to the side. I turned just in time to watch Chiron get knocked down from his hind legs, laying on his side. I tried my best to get up, ignoring the ache in my chest from Kampê’s attack. 

As suddenly as I had gotten up to start running towards Chiron, I was back on my knees, covering my ears. The shrill sound seemed to come out of nowhere until I looked over at Grover. His mouth open wide, he seemed to have infinite lung capacity as the sound continued.

The enemies seemed to think better than to stick around after that. I watched dracaenae put down their weapons and sprint towards the labyrinth entrance. I watch laestrygonians rush towards the entrance right after them. More and more of the armies retreated until eventually they all seemed to have gone back underground.

Once the screeching had stopped, the sudden stillness in the air was agonizing. All I could hear was my own breathing as I heaved, still trying to recover from the previous heaviness crushing my lungs. I eventually pushed myself up and grabbed one of Annabeth’s arms with Percy.

I ran with the other two over to Chiron and kneeled in front of him.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“Nothing. This is embarrassing,” Chiron chuckled. “Thankfully, we don’t shoot centaurs with broken legs. I’ll be alright eventually.”

“Let me get someone from the medic tent,” Annabeth rushed, already standing up before Chiron stopped her.

“No need, Annabeth. There are far more severe injuries.”

“Guys!” I whipped my head to look for the source of the voice. “Come quick! It’s Nico.”

I shot up, running over to the black heap on the floor. I’d forgotten about him after the intense battle. Dammit.

I got down next to him, looking at his sweaty face. I grabbed his ice cold hands for a pulse.

“He needs nectar! Quickly!” Percy yelled. One of the Ares campers quickly came over with the bottle as I propped Nico up as best as I could onto my knee. Percy dribbled some of the liquid into his mouth. I let out a sigh of relief as he stirred.

“Gods, Nico. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

The boy coughed slightly before nodding. “Never tried to summon so many at once before. I’ll be okay.” He turned his head to look beside me. “Daedalus.”

I looked over at the man as Mrs. O’Leary loomed behind him, licking his wounds that were leaking oil. Freaky.

Percy and Daedalus spoke as I tried to convince Nico to rest for a moment. Of course, he refused. I shook my head at him. “One day, you'll have to stop being so stubborn,” I told him.

He rolled his eyes, but smiled slightly. “Bianca would say the same thing. I’ll stop when it doesn’t work for me anymore.”

“But Daedalus,” Percy said. “Even without the string, Kronos’ army still has a way into camp.”

“You’re right,” Daedalus sighed. “As long as the Labyrinth is here, your enemies can use it. And so, the labyrinth can no longer continue.”

Annabeth stepped forward. “But, you said the Labyrinth was connected to you. If the labyrinth’s gone –”

“Yes, Annabeth. I too will be gone. And so, I have a present for you.”

Daedalus removed his satchel from his back and pulled out his laptop, engraved with a greek delta, and handed it to Annabeth. “That holds several designs of mine. Some unfinished, some I think you’ll find interesting, others I felt could never be in the mortal world. I'm positive you will find some things useful there.”

Annabeth was speechless. “This… This is priceless. And you’re just giving this to me?”

“It is less than you deserve. Less than I should do to atone for my mistakes.”

As Daedalus spoke of his time coming to an end and accepting whatever punishment he will be given from his judgment in the Underworld, I came to realize just how small we all are. Just how little we are meant to live. How many regrets we still have over such little time.

I looked around at all of the half-bloods scattered around. I saw some over at the medical tent, others scattered just hugging their friends and siblings, some sitting by the ones we lost who had been covered by thin fabrics.

I questioned my own mortality, and Percy’s. We weren’t meant to live forever. We were never going to. But with the little amount of time we both had, how many regrets would we hold with us?

I thought of Clarisse. I thought of how I hadn’t gone up to her before the battle. How I’d always regret that. I thought of how we both decided to keep our relationship a secret. How that was something I didn’t want to do anymore if it meant having to live with regrets. I thought about how I hadn’t seen her since I had joined the battle.

I looked back at the scene before me as Nico pulled out his sword and stepped before Daedalus. After being zoned out for a second, it freaked me out, until I realized Nico wasn’t raising it.

“Your time has long since come. Be released and rest.”

The relief in Daedalus’ eyes was freeing for us all. Knowing that he was truly ready brought us all some consolation. We watched as his body turned to dust.

I took Percy’s hand in mine and gave him a small smile. “I know there’s a lot to do, but there's something I have to do first.”

Percy nodded. “I know,” he said, and for some odd reason, I knew that he fully did, even though he didn’t say it. I looked down as he continued to speak. “You really didn’t have to hide it from me, you know? I was a bit upset about it at first but I think I was more… sad that you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

I looked back into his eyes and breathed out through my nose, smiling softly. “I just didn’t want you to hate me for this. More than just the ‘Clarisse’ part.”

“Oh, well, that part I might hold a bit of a grudge about,” he smiled at me in a way that told me he was joking. “But otherwise, all I care about is that you’re happy.”

We smiled at each other before Percy suddenly wrapped his arms around my waist. It felt like he was just a little kid again, like he was just my little brother, nothing more. It felt like we suddenly weren’t in the middle of a battlefield and there was an ancient monster buried in rubble just a few feet over. It felt like I was back home. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.

“I will kill her if she makes you cry.”

We laughed harder than we should have.

He pulls away first, telling me to “get my girl.” I don’t even think twice before turning and starting to run through the battlefield.

I frantically looked around for Clarisse, hoping and praying to every single god that she was okay. I was so frantic that I nearly missed her over by the Ares station, seeming to be ignoring something her brother was saying in favor of looking out at all of the other half-bloods.

I didn’t even think before my feet were moving. Clarisse started to walk around, looking for something. It wasn’t until we made eye contact that I realized it was me she was looking for, when her eyes softened in the way they always seemed to whenever she looked at me, like she was letting go of the anger embedded within her skin and cooling off just a bit.

It didn’t matter to me that we were surrounded by people, and Clarisse made no complaints when my left hand cupped her cheek and my lips met hers. Her arms held my waist as my right arm circled around to hold the back of her neck. I could feel the sweat that was dripping down from the battle and the adrenaline that was just beginning to crash.

I didn’t realize she was crying until I tasted the saltiness. I withdrew slightly before pecking her lips once more. The thumb of my left hand moved to her cheek and under her eye to wipe the tears.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Clarisse’s left hand left my waist to wipe the tears on the right side of my face. We both laughed slightly, bringing our foreheads together and closing our eyes. I angled my head to kiss her one more time before hugging her properly. She buried her face into my neck and I laughed at how it tickled.

“Gods, we both smell horrible.”

“I know.”

We didn’t speak for a while, soaking up each other, but it still didn't feel like enough.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

It didn’t matter that everyone at camp could see us and Clarisse didn’t seem to mind it either. There were more important things than reputation right now.