#i honestly have a hunch that i know vaguely who it is

[gigarat]

So, someone out there has at least sent an anon to two people. Maybe more. Asking where I am or whatever. Which, first off, if you can't find me that's a you problem. Asking a bunch of strangers where I am is honestly a bit odd especially since chances are I probably blocked you, since I'm still here obviously, and I don't have any of my search things turned off or whatever. I'm fully discoverable basically.

So, even though I know that this person will likely never see this post, I just wanted to say. Stop? If I blocked you, that's not my problem? I don't know who you are or why you've been super obsessed with trying to find me now that you can't?

I got an email notification saying I was tagged by a new blog, from this person stating they were asking and looking for me and can't find me. My guess is you at some point send me anons and I blocked the anon, granted idk how blocking anons works but I've heard it IP blocks someone. Not sure if that's true but if it is there's your answer.

Frankly I do find it a bit creepy that this person has at least asked a couple people and has tried to make a whole blog just to get ahold of me, specifically this blog, considering I don't really post any original content on this blog in particular.

Anyways, I am sorry if you've had someone in your inbox asking where I've gone or anything. I have no clue who they are or what their deal is but you can probably just ignore them. Or if you want to answer just tell them to stop. I don't really care either way.

I might delete this later tbh. I just wanted to say something because I got that email notif and it kinda honestly bothered me a lot because. Stop. If you can't find me there's probably a reason for that.

[stsgooo]

Clumsiness.

✩࿐ summary: maomao notices that the eunuch's behavior is odd recently. she's set on discovering the root of the cause.

warning(s): idiots in love, slight angst, mentions of bullying, fluffy, maomao pov. wc; 3.1k

pairing(s): jinshi/fem!reader

a/n: binge watched all of tad last night and wanted to write smth for jinshi just because i have my weaknesses. i don't know exactly what this is except random rambles. anywayyy, i haven't read the manga yet so please no spoilers :3

m.list ao3

THERE'S VARIOUS THINGS THAT MAOMAO SIMPLY DOESN'T CARE FOR. The uncomfortable mornings where it's too chilly, the work she catches after one of the servants loves her ideas, and idle chatter that comes with silence. However, the thing she doesn't care for the most is when Eunuch Jinshi decides to make his random and surprise appearances.

It usually brought trouble and a headache for her. His smiles and violet eyes staring into her very soul. She never looked forward to them as it always accompanied some random job in another part of the palace she simple didn't like. Or he would ask of her some impossible task that not even the gods could grant him. Maomao could do without Jinshi's behavior.

However, she could easily recognize when he wasn't acting himself. On this day particularly, she was especially aware of Jinshi's lack of excitement.

She was called and pulled aside from her duty's in the Jade Pavilion to report to Jinshi's quarters. She was quick and made little pause in her stride over. A simple routine that they both silently agreed to. He would call and she would make her way over as quickly as possible.

It was when she arrived, she realized things were not to routine.

Jinshi was laying face flat against his desk, unmoving except for his breathing. Usually, he'd be sat up, smirk on his lips, and his legs crossed as he regarded her smugly. But now, it was like she wasn't even in the room as he made small groaning sounds of disdain, his fingers tangled into his tresses as he gripped his scalp.

He was definitely not acting like himself from the bat.

"Xiaomao, thank you for coming on such short notice." Gaoshun greeted her with a small bow, offering her a sympathetic glance as he turned his attention to Jinshi. "Jinshi-sama had a matter he'd like you to take care of."

Maomao raised her eyebrows, eyes cutting back to Jinshi who remained unmoved. Is he going to present the matter himself? She thought, watching as Gaoshun inched closer, nudging the younger man's shoulder with his elbow. He seems quite the mess.

"Apothecary," Jinshi's voice was muffled as he spoke, his head still tucked into his arms. Maomao looked to Gaoshun who just sighed heavily, ducking his head. "A servant from the Garnet Pavilion has fallen ill, I'd like for you to help her feel better."

"What's her symptoms?" Maomao asked, eyes watching the pathetic man flatly.

He tensed, his head moving to peek at her from between his arms. "I fear this is more a matter of the mind."

She frowned. "I can't cure the mind, Jinshi-sama."

He finally pushed himself to sit up, an indignant pout on his lips. "I thought you could do anything." He retorted smartly.

"I never said that."

Honestly, this man asked too much of her too quickly. It was enough that he asked her to solve murders of high ranking military officials, but it felt a little much to ask her to cure some girl's mental ailments. A random girl who had probably contributed to the near death of Lady Lihua at that. Maomao already felt a vague frustration fill her at the thought. Maybe it was one of the girls she had the pleasure intimidating.

She was going to decline when she spotted the look in his eyes. Not the flirtatious or rather perverted glint it usually had, but a desperate one.

"Can you at least try?" He almost sounded defeated, his shoulders hunched and eye bags heavy.

Maomao still felt the overwhelming urge to give him a hard time. "Try what, exactly?"

He released a frustrated grumble, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe lend an ear, or offer some type of comfort? Anything that will possibly ease her nerves." He waved a flippant hand around, eyebrows knitted together. "It's making me wo... it's making Lady Lihua unsettled."

Maomao couldn't help the interest that came with his unspoken words. He was worried? It wasn't uncommon, nor did it seem that he would hide his concern for others. But the mere fact that he had corrected himself and tried to cover it up, piqued her curiosity and interest.

Either way, she had no choice.

Maomao tucked her hands into her sleeves, bowing. "I can make an attempt. Now, if you'll excuse me." She turned away, barely missing Jinshi's hopeful and beaming expression. She was about to exit when she happened to glance towards the sitting area, where a tea set sat, broken and contents seeping into the floor. Her eyebrows raised. "You'll carpet is going to stain."

She paid no mind to the loud groan and thud of Jinshi's head as she exited.

It took Maomao a while to find the girl that had Jinshi worried and she had learned quite a bit about the worrisome girl while on her search.

She had been in the palace for a long time, since she was a young child. Her work had mostly consisted of cleaning clothes and mending. Until she had caught the attention of Lady Lihua a few months ago while she was in recovery. Supposedly, she had started to bring an arrangement of flowers whenever she brought clothes. The kindness hadn't gone unnoticed. She had supposedly been accepted into Lady Lihua's personal servants. Much to the chagrin of the other servants.

It didn't take a genius to detect the disdain and disgust in the servants voices when Maomao had inquired about her.

She talks to herself more than anyone else, stated one with an eyeroll.

Her routine is more important than Lady Lihua's wishes. Our poor lady. Mourned another.

She's so on edge, it's really easy to get her worked up. It's not our fault if she breaks something. Snapped another.

General consensus, this servant was a problem.

However, it was what Lady Lihua said herself that caught Maomao's attention.

She had stumbled across the concubine during her search, the woman flanked by two of her servants. She looked to enjoying a pleasant day and appeared slightly happy to see Maomao, going as far to inquire what she was doing over in her pavilion. When Maomao informed her of her task, she was interested to see the small pinch between her brow.

Ah, Y/N, I haven't seen her much today. I sent her to help with mending clothes. She's kind, just... I hope.... Well, I hope you can find her and bring her back. Lady Lihua offered little else to guide Maomao, but she could see the vague concern, the worry in the woman's eyes. She also saw that disgust in her companions eyes.

Who exactly was this servant?

Maomao found herself in the washing area. It was mostly silent, most of the girls either having dinner, or in bed. She made her way to the back where one of the few stragglers sat alone, sniffling as she scrubbed away at a stained robe...

A robe that looked oddly similar to Jinshi's.

In all honesty, she wasn't sure how to approach this. As she spotted the red shamed cheeks and the tears that silently and boldly made their way down the woman's cheeks, Maomao usually had something psychical to cure. An aliment that weighed heavily on their health, that was life or death. She could make a medicine for that. A drink, a food, a cream-- something that would satisfy the monster resting in someone's body.

The mind, though, the mind simply was a territory that Maomao never touched. Much too difficult, much too complicated, it was unknown territory. She couldn't see things from their point of view.

Just try lending an ear.

Maomao cleared her throat, feeling a speck of sympathy as she watched the girl tense, head snapping over to stare back with wide eyes. "Hi, are you the servant from the Garnet Pavilion?"

If possible, her eyes widened more, her hands clutching the robe to her chest. "Y-Yes..." she uttered, watching Maomao closely. "You're that apothecary everyone's been talking about..."

Not a question, but an observation.

Said apothecary nodded in return, "Yes."

The girl shook her head, "I'm not injured! I swear, I-I was foolish and if I was injured, then I would surely deserve it!" Her face was a deep crimson, her lips trembling, and eyes watering. It was obvious she was attempting desperately to push down the tears, but failing miserably. "I-I'm quite alright!"

"You don't look it." Maomao responded back flatly. "Jinshi-sama sent me."

The girl looked appalled, her back straightening and the tears falling freely now. "J-Jinshi?!" She exclaimed, clutching the stained robe against her chest, aghast and sickly looking as she panted. "O-Oh, I've done it now. I've humiliated myself! I'm going to be punished! Jinshi didn't deserve that! I'm so sorry."

Maomao blinked at her, eyebrows raised high at the reaction. She didn't entirely blame the girl for reacting so brashly at the mention of Jinshi. She would probably do the same if she was having a horrible day and he'd been brought up. Possibly the only person she wouldn't want to hear about as she's actively in the throes of a breakdown of some sort.

She walked forward, sitting down beside her as the girl seemed to continue her one sided conversation with herself. Her eyes wide and unrelenting as she stared at the ground below. Maomao watched her with a dent between her brow, vaguely fascinated by the panic and mostly disturbed by the anger towards herself. The mini glare not directed to anyone except herself.

She'd seen women be harsh on themselves. Seen what it could do to a person. Maomao could see it in the girl beside her now. The edge of a line that she wasn't sure if she should cross.

"I-I just...." The poor girl trailed off, her hands falling back to her lap as she stared at the robe. "I'm so clumsy.... and terribly embarrassing.... and I-I was just trying to pour some tea, then...oh, how pathetic."

"It was an accident, wasn't it?" Maomao asked softly, watching the girl's reaction closely.

She seemed to remember Maomao was with her, blinking, her face growing a shade darker. "What?"

"Whatever you did, it was an accident, wasn't it?" She repeated.

The girl clenched her jaw, looking away once again. "It's always an accident. I never do anything right. The Emperor is bound to notice and then I'll be punished because I'm so--"

"Jinshi-sama didn't send me to punish you or to check if you should be." The girl blinked, staring at her with wide eyes now. Maomao could see the barely concealed shock in her eyes, the way she seemed to relax slightly. The apothecary sighed heavily, turning her attention elsewhere. "He doesn't seem the type to punish anyone for a little mistake. Especially, when he's the same..."

The last part was uttered to herself and the girl didn't seem to pick it up as she pressed her lips together. A contemplative look on her expression. "I-I know, but.... still, I feel so guilty. I've put such a heavy burden onto Jinshi, convincing Lihua-sama to take me in... to not complain too harshly... I never wanted this..."

Maomao wouldn't even try to understand the broken speech, instead her mind was focused on that little slip. Jinshi convinced Lady Lihua to take this girl in? A extreme kindness. A extreme kindness that would allow this girl to make mistakes, to try her hardest and fail, and not suffer extreme consequences. Maomao couldn't help the suspicious kick in her chest. As she stared at the rambling girl. Why would Jinshi do that for her as an eunuch? How did he have that type of pull? Or, more correctly, what did he have over Lady Lihua to pull something like this off?

Her attention diverted to the robe and she huffed-- it's was Jinshi's. She was the cause of the tea mess. The cause of Jinshi's red face, his low mood, and the worry on his face.

Could he, perhaps..... Oh, what a development for a eunuch.

"Are they cruel to you?" Maomao cut into her rambles once again.

"Who?"

"The other servants. They can be cruel."

There was a prolonged silence. Maomao didn't dare interfere or break with the concentration. Her thoughts were wild and she was trying to grasp one that would benefit exactly what the apothecary was searching for. A string of thought that was sensical and helpful.

"Yes... so cruel," her lips wobbled again, she sniffled and tried to push the emotions away. "I didn't even do anything and they were so cruel. I tried telling Jinshi, but he's done... done so much for me, I can't throw that away. I can't take advantage of his kindness."

"Even if it was kindness now, how is feeling like this any type of comfort? Or kindness?" Maomao stood up, waving a hand. "You don't have to feel like this. Like you have to suffer for his feelings. If you're close, tell him that you liked your prior job, or ask for another."

The girl blinked slowly, lazily, a new exhaustion in her eyes as she regarded the other. "W-What's your name?"

She straightened. "Maomao." She bowed.

The girl stood, her hands tucked into her sleeves, she bowed in return. "Thank you, Maomao. It's been my pleasure to meet you."

Things seemed to return to normal, the routine was back in place, and Maomao hadn't been tasked with taking care of crying servants. Her conversation with Jinshi afterwards had been short and straight to the point.

Did you speak with her? Jinshi had been sitting at his desk pleasantly, ignoring the overwrought expression on Gaoshun's face.

Yes. Maomao had answered, eyeing Gaoshun oddly as he shook his head.

Jinshi perked up, And? What did she say?

I believe she's going to speak to you directly when she has the chance, Jinshi-sama. She informed him instantly.

Jinshi had beamed in a way that made Maomao weary, watching as he happily threw himself from his chair and up, already walking towards the door. Well, I'll just find her myself! Thank you, Apothecary!

She didn't get to say anything in return as he vanished around the door. Gaoshun offered his sympathies before running to follow the man out.

Maomao was just glad to have things back to normal. That's what she thought about as she approached Jinshi's quarters. Normalcy was welcomed and her heart was happy to return to things she knew. Medicine and the frolicking in the mini patches of growth she could take herbs from. Things were normal.

As Maomao approached, she was skeptical to enter as she heard a crash.

Okay, maybe not entirely normal.

She knocked on the door, hoping to hear that Jinshi was busy, but the door was opened and Gaoshun stood there with a thin smile.

"Xiaomao, thank you for coming." He bowed and stepped aside to let her inside.

When Maomao entered, she was half tempted to turn back around and leave.

Jinshi's face was stuck in a frozen state of shock, a crimson shade and his jaw dropped. He was sitting on the couch and his hands were up. In front of him, on her knees, was Y/N, frantically rubbing at his robe while apologizing profusely. She didn't sound like she was crying, but still sounded extremely embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry, Jinshi! My shoes are a tad big-- No, I'm not making an excuse!" She frantically tried to explain, pulling back to stare up at Jinshi with wide eyes. He remained unmoved, just making small noises of distress. "Jinshi, are you alright...?"

"I-I..I..." Jinshi just blinked at the wall across from him.

Maomao turned to Gaoshun, expression flat, "Can I come back later?"

Gaoshun looked ready to respond when Y/N spun around, her expression pulled up with delight and a beaming smile on her face. "Maomao!" She left Jinshi to his shock to wrap her arms around the younger girl (by one year). A tight hug that was unrelenting and conveying her exact emotions of pure elation. "My savior!"

Savior? Maomao thought as she blinked, arms stuck at her side. What is she even doing here?

She pulled back, placing her hands on her shoulder's, squeezing. "Thank you so much, Maomao! If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be blessed!" She continued on with her delight.

"Blessed?" Maomao audibly questioned, eyebrows furrowed and raised.

She nodded in response, smiling happily as she clutched onto Maomao's hands. "Yes! You gave me the confidence to tell Jinshi about my unhappiness! He's allowing me to work at his attending maid." She informed gracefully, sounding more happy and carefree than she had in the washing area the weeks prior.

Maomao wouldn't admit it, but it made her lips twitch upwards.

Y/N suddenly paled, turning back around. "Oh, Jinshi, I'll get something to clean up with!" And she darted out the room before Jinshi could give any type of response.

Maomao turned her attention to Jinshi with a tilted head, finding great amusement in his embarrassment. "You must be really fond of her if you gave her a job here." She observed.

If possible, Jinshi's complexion darkened further, his posture straightening. "Pardon?" He squawked, eyes wide as they stared at the younger girl.

She didn't understand why he was acting like she had said something scandalous. It wasn't uncommon for someone to grow fond of another's presence. Even if they were stripped of their manhood and promised to the Emperor for life. Y/N was kind enough and Maomao assumed they were friends of some kind to have Jinshi calling in favors of some kind.

Still... his reaction...

"You two seem like good friends." Maomao clarified.

A weight seemed to lift of his shoulders as he leaned back into the couch. "Yes, I suppose we are." His voice was a mere utter, soft and distant. It appeared that he was contemplating something forgotten or something that he often thought about but pushed into the back of his mind.

Y/N reentered with a cloth and small basin of water. She returned to Jinshi's side who stared at her with a blush and wide eyes. The attention he gave her was close and unwavering. No type of falter and no distraction that could possibly take away his attention. She appeared completely oblivious as she scrubbed away at the stain on his robe resting on his thigh.

Maomao narrowed her eyes on the glitter in Jinshi's eye, ready to make a comment, when Gaoshun placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll inform you of the favor, Xiaomao." And he tugged her away.

However, Maomao thought endlessly about the expression on Jinshi's face. The kindness he exhibited for the girl much too clumsy for her own good. The tenderness he regarded her with. It was almost as if... Well, that couldn't be right.

It was almost as if Jinshi liked Y/N. In a more than friendly way.

Maomao scoffed at the thought, laying down in her bed. Her pa always said she was too speculative. Much too whimsical.

The man was an eunuch after all.

[lucrativesoul]

The Assistant

summary: you have been promoted within the police headquarters, and your new position is the assistant of none other than Leon S. Kennedy. the ever alluring man has you weak in the knees.

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

word count: 9.9k

warnings: smut, boss x employee, very brief mention of smoking, very vague drug mention.

a/n: yay i'm posting it :3 using this photo cause i couldn't stop thinking of noir leon while writing this (brainrot) i didn't originally intend for this to be so long but here we are... this was different than what i'm used to writing but it was so much fun! already in the process of a second fic! enjoy yall

“So… I’m not fired?” 

Standing in front of your boss’ desk, you were genuinely surprised by the words out of her mouth. For some reason, for the last few weeks, you had a hunch that you were about to get sacked. The office had been slowly getting emptied out, of boxes full of documents, of equipment, hell, even of people, and you were positive you were next. 

She had just called out into her office, a mere twenty steps away from your desk where you worked, or used to work, now, in the dingy yellow room with foggy windows and no working AC. You took a deep breath, thinking this was it, getting ready to add this to the list of ‘Previous Employment’ on your resume, when all she had simply told you was that you were going upstairs.

She laughed curtly. “No, you aren’t. They need you upstairs. You’ll be better off up there.”

You slowly nodded your head, trying to keep most of the confusion off of your face. “So, sorry to ask, but, what about down here?”

You had been here for just shy of a year at this point, and they placed you in one of the ground floor offices of the five story buildings sorting out random court documents, for whatever reason, they were always needed for something incomprehensible. You didn’t question it, you just did it, because you got paid to. Yes, the fluorescents gave you occasional migraines and stepping into the fresh air at the end of the day made you feel reborn, but it was just busy work, and there were much worse jobs to do.

“They’re cleaning us out. We’re all still here, just… relocated.” You nodded, at least relieved to know that your old deskmates weren’t ruthlessly fired. She handed a manila folder over to you, and when you flipped it open, there was only one piece of paper inside. You’ve learned to not be surprised by confusing things such as this. “Mr. Anderson of the top floor has recently been relieved of his position.” Ouch, you thought. Poor soul. “His position had been freed and with no new applicants, they were looking inward. I appreciate your work here and your employment history shows some experience in the assistance department, so I suggested you as a candidate. They want you up there.” 

Your stomach sank, and your best friend’s voice rang out through your head. “You can’t lie about past employment, idiot! They can check!” Well, you held back a sigh, they definitely didn’t check.

“Wow, I… Thank you. But, sorry. That I’m leaving.”

She merely shook her head. “Still here. This office will be gone soon enough. Between us, I’ve been praying for this day.” With that, she dismissed you, and after swiping the few personal items off your desk and into your bag, you headed home.

This single paper had stumped you all night. You sat at your table after eating (barely, you were too nervous about starting a basically new job the next day), and decided to review the content of it before retiring for the night. It was quite simple: it listed the job description, ‘Executive Assistant’, it listed the location, ‘5F, 505’, and your new boss’ name, ‘Leon S. Kennedy, Exec. Agent’.

You had honestly not heard this name before. You should know everyone who works there, considering the nature of the police headquarters, but you were often forgotten down in the basement, no one too important worked down there, besides your boss, or old boss now, who had connections to all other departments. Everyone got there before you and left after you. Could be at the same time, but you often tuned it out, needing the sweet release of your home. You wondered why she volunteered you up for this. Maybe she was sympathetic about the setting you had to work in for someone your age.

You went to bed after deciding there was no hidden detail in the few lines of script on the sheet. You would just have to wait and see.

Figuring the gray dress pants and white, long sleeve mock neck that you threw on this morning were good enough, you left the house early enough to prepare by buying a coffee. Being stuffed into the basement had its perks, eventually everyone had caught on to the idea that they just needed you guys down there to do what they didn’t want upstairs, and you and your coworkers had found the thin cracks in which you could push the dress code a little. No, leggings weren’t permitted, but they were on the days your slacks were dirty and when you put a dress shirt and sweater on over it. You were sure your boss noticed, but said nothing anyway. Clearly, it didn't put a dent in what she thought of you.

You had to at least try today though, as you had no idea what it would be like to work on the top floor. You had no idea what kind of a person Agent Kennedy was, and you weren’t going to chance anything on the first day. You had played it safe when you first started here and it paid off, so fingers crossed it could pay off again.

After a few deep breaths, you popped the door open and headed into the building. Usually, you could park in the back and take the lower level entrance, which was essentially the one and only way into the basement that wasn’t from the service elevator, but you went in through the front today. You ignored the tightening of your stomach and climbed the stairs. 

“Can I help you?” A man stood from the front desk at your arrival. You started reaching for the ID card you carried on a lanyard, stuffed into your pocket.

“Yes, I work here.” He reached out for your ID, not believing your truth.

He raised an eyebrow. “The basement entrance is in the back of the building.” He handed it back and went to sit down.

“Yes, I know, I was moved. I’m going upstairs.” You handed him the manila folder before he could ignore you further. He raised an eyebrow again after looking at the small paper.

“Alright, Anderson’s replacement. Fifth floor, to the right.” He motioned to his left to the elevator, and only then did you let him sit back down. 

You took the walk to the elevator as a chance to survey the room. You hadn’t been over here very often. You made a few trips up here a few months ago, but you didn’t look around much, only headed to the confidential files room to move information. The floor was a sleek black tile, shiny as ever, and the room was lit well due to the large windows at the front of the building. It didn't look like a headquarters building. You told yourself it wasn’t to calm your nerves.

Swallowing the last of the anxiety, you stepped out onto the fifth floor. It was simply a hallway, all black, but the windows at the end made the space seem larger, and not so dark. To the right, you remember the man telling you. Your footsteps were reverberating off of the walls, matched with the pounding of your blood flow in your ears.

The corridor opened up to a wider room, inhabited by a handful of other people. One of them spotted your arrival, and walked over.

“Good morning, I’m–”

“Yes, right over here. Glad to see you.” You were taken aback for a moment, They already know me? You thought, as you followed the young man to a large desk on the left side of the wall, facing inward to the foyer. You were sitting in front of floor to ceiling windows, across the room was the same setup with a few smaller desks, people scuttling back and forth on their own side. You turned back to thank the man, when your heart fluttered in relief.

“Thank you,-- Oh, my gosh, Brett, you work up here now?” Brett was an old deskmate that had left the small office three months ago. You didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, but the last day that you saw him you remember eating lunch on his desk with another coworker who sat in front of you two. You were saddened by his loss, but now absolutely relieved to have a familiar face.

“I know, right? They said you were coming. I’m glad you got out next. It’s better up here.” He let you put your stuff down and get settled, before telling you what your next moves should be. “He’s in a meeting right now, but he wanted to meet you once you got here. Don’t be nervous, but brace yourself. He’s serious. Mostly. I’ve seen him smile once, but he’s nice to the rest of us. Hopefully more to you.”

After a few more minutes of small talk, he left you on your own, and you passed the time getting used to the surroundings while waiting for your new boss to be out of his meeting. Early for a meeting, you thought, but then again, it didn’t take a whole team for one person to make a conference call. 

There was a momentary beep sound that came from Brett’s desk, and he picked up the phone. He said one thing into it before hanging up. He turned to you. “He’s ready.”

The nerves came back, but at the comforting thought that there was at least one person you knew out here, you tried your best to look forward to just sitting back down at your desk.

You were about to knock, but figured otherwise since he had directly asked for your presence. You walked up to the large double doors, and pulled them open.

His back was to you when you closed the door behind you. Walking closer, you stopped a few paces away, observing him for a brief second. He had a white dress shirt on and a gray vest. He looked quite large from where you stood, and you were sure that he was at least 6 feet tall, probably taller. He was messing with some papers on his desk, and you took a quick breath before speaking.

“Good morning, sir.” You stood tall, shoulders back, hands clasped behind yourself. Don’t cross your arms in front of you, you recall trying to retrain your habits, you look insecure. He turned around.

You swallowed hard. Jesus Christ, there were no tips on that blog on what to do when your boss is straight out of People Magazine’s sexiest men alive. His ash blonde hair was pushed back off of his forehead, showcasing his sturdy bone structure, a deep, furrowed brow that lacked any wrinkles, and high cheekbones with a sharp jawline. Straight nose, strong chin, and shoulders the size of, well, you. Maintaining eye contact was a challenge. 

You saw him give you a quick once over, all the way down and back up your body again, so brief like it never happened at all. You were itching to pull your arms back in front of yourself.

“Good morning.” He took one step closer to you, held out his hand, and you gingerly took it. His hand was rough, yet the handshake was gentle. “Agent Leon Kennedy.” He lowered his hand and put it in his pocket. His other hand was holding a file. “I hope once you are comfortable here we will work well together.”

You gave a tight smile, forcing your face to make it look natural. You were sure it didn’t. “I look forward to working with you.” Your voice was a lot breathier than intended. 

The corner of his mouth twitched in a hidden smirk. Leon could definitely tell you were nervous. It was a big part of his job, after all. He handed the file over to you. “Just run these for a while. Find me when you finish them.” You took the folder. He stood there momentarily, watching you. “You can relax a little. I’m not going to kill you.” He stalked back over to his desk and sat down, attention still on you. 

You mumbled while flipping through the file. Attempting to lighten the mood, “I would, but smoking is not allowed in the building.”

“That will kill you, you know.” His voice was light. He took the joke well.

You closed it and looked back up at him, a small smile playing on your lips. “Would you prefer if I drank myself stupid, then?” He said nothing, and just smiled at you. Yours grew wider. “I’ll see you soon with this, sir.” You turned and left.

The day passed with ease. It was no difficult task to focus, now that the nerves were buried and you knew what it was that you had to be doing. Lunch with the others came and went, and it took you a fair chunk of your day to run the files he handed over. It was similar to what they had you doing in the basement, but the addition of sunlight unobstructed by dirty windows made it seem like a fun job.

You had attempted humor with Leon within the first few minutes of meeting him. You probably shouldn’t have, but no one in your life could force you to give up making jokes in serious situations. That’s just how you operated. Leon didn’t seem to care. He actually smiled. Brett had told you he rarely does that, and you made him after only a minute. It honestly had your heart racing all day.

With only an hour left in the day, you packed up the papers Leon had given you along with some new printed ones. You knocked on the door this time, and opened it when he beckoned you in.

“Sorry it took me so long. Little more labor intensive than I’m used to.” He took the file you were handing over, and put it on his desk without looking inside. He was sitting turned toward the computer on his desk, and though he told you to come in, you hoped you weren’t interrupting anything. 

“Thank you. No more of that librarian sorting you were all doing down there.” So, he knows. It was no secret you were sure, but you were still surprised that he knew you worked in the building at all. Leon turned his attention back to his desk for a moment, and you stood there, head tilted slightly to view what he was looking at. He turned back to you, and your head snapped up to make eye contact. “I have nothing else for you right now. Boring day for you to start. You can go home. Tomorrow, if you don’t mind, I’m going to have you review some portfolios and slides I have, so you can become familiar with the content. I have some meetings coming up later in the week, or next, there's a good chance you’ll be coming with me.” he swiveled himself around and grabbed a stack of papers sitting on top of a file cabinet, held together with a paperclip. “Just put this on your desk for now, for the morning.” It was something along the lines of criminal justice and related business strategies. This would be a doozy.

“Of course, sir. As you wish.” You took a step back to leave. “Thanks for the early day.” You sent a halfhearted smile his way. He didn’t reflect it, but his eyes were soft.

After a few seconds of holding your stare, he said, “Already better than Anderson. I like you.”

Your stomach tightened, and you had to force yourself to breathe normally. “I hope I can continue to please, then.” You felt his stare hot on your back as you left, but you remained composed. Once, and only once, the doors were shut, you shakily exhaled, and quickly packed up to leave.

The week went by with a pace you were never used to with your job. You found yourself excited to come to work, excited to see Leon. If you had known you worked in the same building this whole time, you would have been begging your old boss to get moved.

It was a rather tame week, and you weren't sure if it was because there was no work, or this is just what the workload was always like here. It was now Friday, you sat at your desk going through a database page for the assignment you had to review before the meeting Leon had said you were attending. It definitely made you nervous, this was past your parameters and you hadn’t had any sort of experience with something this serious. At least, that’s what you thought it would be. You needed to be prepared for that so you didn’t look incompetent for this job that you only just got. 

Resting your chin on your hand with the other slowly scrolling through the page with the mouse, you cocked your head and looked up when Leon suddenly appeared in front of you. You shot a smile at him.

“Were you in a meeting?” He stood so tall from this angle with you sitting down, and your neck almost hurt looking up at him. 

“Yeah, light work though.” He held onto a file with his left hand. The right was in his pocket. He turned briefly to look behind him at the others who worked in the small lobby. “So, about that meeting next week,” you nodded, shifting your posture now. “It’s Monday morning. I just need you to be there to help with any outside communications like other appointments since it might be a while. I sent this to you–” He motioned to your computer, which was the PDF you had been reading from his email. “In case something happened to mine for whatever reason. God forbid...” He mumbled, partially rolling his eyes. You chuckled. “Good for you to know it though.”

“I figured. This is also light work.” You cocked a smile, and he repeated the action. “As long as I’m not being expected to execute the whole presentation, I think I can serve well to take calls for you.”

A quiet laugh rumbled out from him. “That’s all I need you for. It’s not here,” He leaned onto your desk with one arm, and you had to desperately peel your eyes away from the way his veins flexed in his forearm. The image was already burned into your brain. “It’s in the branch a couple cities over, so… If you would like to meet me somewhere over here,” You tried to swallow at the implication, but your throat was suddenly so dry. “You know, to make it easier.”

You drew in a breath. “Of course,” You put your hands into your lap so he wouldn't see you nervously wringing your fingers together. “How did you know about my minor driving anxiety?” You playfully quirked an eyebrow at him. 

He smiled. “Intuition. Or my job training.” He stood up straight now. You found yourself wishing he wouldn't leave. “You can leave at three with the rest of them today. I’ll see you on Monday.” You only released the breath you were holding when he was safely behind the confines of his office doors.

The weekend allowed a little relaxing, but mostly anxiety the close it came to Monday. You were finding it increasingly difficult to stop thinking about Leon. This whole week felt like a dream. Your body felt hot anytime you were alone in his office, or anytime he merely stopped at your desk to drop something off. You felt so small next to him, and almost struggled to form coherent thoughts when you had to speak to him. Your eyes thoroughly raked his body up and down when he was turned, his broad expanse of back and shoulders nearly turned your brain to slush. He always smelled like crisp cologne, something expensive, it had to be. 

You found yourself thinking too often about the way he looked at you. It was a stare that wasn't something you were used to receiving on a daily basis. There was something else… His gaze was dark and luring. Like he knew what you were thinking. Like when you two made eye contact, he knew he was the object of your fantasy. 

Which, yes, it had only been a week, but you had to admit, you had never seen anyone this attractive before. And here you were, working for him. It only made your skin heat up more at the knowledge that it was forbidden. It heightened the experience every time you had to see him. That was your boss, and he sure did have that power over you. The conversations you had with him bordered on strictly work, but you were dying to see another side of him. The smirk he gave you when you made him laugh had your stomach twisting in a way that lasted long after the interaction was over. Every time you said something that gave him that reaction, you needed to make it happen again. It felt like a new addiction that developed way too fast. You wondered if he could tell. You at least tried to be subtle about it. 

A shiver raked through your body as you stood outside of your car early that Monday morning. It wasn’t that cold, but you didn't think the weather was the reason you were shivering. You had arrived at headquarters to meet with Leon, as he offered to take you over to another city's department for his meeting. The aforementioned shiver happened immediately after turning and seeing Leon in the same outfit as you saw when you first met him.

His button down shirt strained on his biceps when he moved, and the gray vest sat perfectly on his waist, making you realize exactly how his frame would look underneath his clothes. You had to push this aside as he motioned you to come over to his car.

It was a sleek black sedan, which made sense for who he was. You felt shielded from the world as you closed the door, the tint locking you in next to your boss, who was insanely close to you, and you feared could hear your frantic heartbeat. 

He placed a few files on your lap and you let them sit there for the time being. “I was going to get you coffee, but I didn't know how you would take it.”

You held back a smile at the thought of Leon thinking of you this morning. “It’s okay, but thanks. I already had some.” You saw Leon nod out of your peripheral, and you could only look forward, knowing you might stare if you turned your head. 

“But you take…” Leon prompted. He’s curious anyway? Is he expecting to do it in the future? You could have exploded. 

After rattling off the basics of what you drink, he replied, “Sounds very sweet.” You laughed and nodded. “I don't know about all that. Maybe I’ll try it out.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to be into sweet things.” You risked a look over, and when you did, he mirrored the action with a grin on his face.

“You’d be surprised.”

Thankfully, you were very relieved at the end of the day when the meeting went by with minimal interaction on your part. You were introduced to some of the other important players in the legal game that knew Leon, and sat off to the side with one of the files he handed you. Despite most of the information going over your head, you still paid attention, at least to make Leon look good and show that you were a competent assistant. 

The sun was close to setting by the time you filed back out into the lot, trailing right behind Leon. Slipping into his passenger’s seat, he followed a second after, and you felt your body physically relax knowing the stressor of the week was now defeated.

“Not so bad, right?” He spoke without looking over, shifting gear and taking off.

“Are they always this long? Maybe I should plan ahead and bring multiple drinks with me.” 

He chuckled. “Only sometimes. This one was important, that’s why. They usually aren’t outside the city either so… consider this an introduction to the team.”

You rolled your eyes and looked over. “Do you keep forgetting that I already worked here before this?” You heard the smile through your own voice, and saw one creep on his face as he kept his eyes on the road. Your heart felt light. 

“No, absolutely not. The pace you work at is evident enough of that. It’s just a different type of job, I’m sure. I don’t really know what goes on down there.”

With the smile still on your face, you let your eyes linger on him for a moment more. His hair, which was pushed on top of his head, was starting to fall, and a strand fell onto his forehead. The past week, he had worn it down a couple of times, and you honestly didn't know which one you preferred.

You rolled your head over to the side, watching the passing cars go by. The radio was on, but at the lowest volume, merely for ambiance. Your hand brushed over the files on your lap, that you had taken back from Leon upon leaving so he could shake hands with whoever he needed to, and pried open one of them.

Before your eyes could even properly latch onto any words, Leon’s hand reached over and gently pushed the top of the file closed, and you looked over at him.

“That’s confidential, you know.” He looked over at you for a brief second, but you could see he wasn’t mad. 

“Sorry. I was just sitting through that whole thing, though, in case you forgot.” You looked back down at your lap and noticed Leon’s hand was still on the file, the weight of it heavy on your thighs.

“No, I didn’t forget. I don’t know how much of it was digestible to you.” He barely lifted his hand off of the file folder, pulling it sideways, landing it on your thigh for a second. His hand was big enough to wrap around the side, and a split second later, he dragged it off, and your skin burned with the track it traced. Breathing became hard suddenly, and you had to turn your head to the window and focus on the outside world.

You arrived back at headquarters thirty minutes later, and the fresh air felt incredible on your flushed skin. It wasn’t even that warm in the car, but you couldn't stop thinking about the way Leon’s hand felt on your thigh. It was like he never lifted his hand at all, you could still feel the contact lingering, the way his fingers grazed your leg, the immediate warmth you felt, not only on your thigh, but in your stomach. You wished you could have taken your jacket off in the car.

Before you could get any words out, Leon said, “Come up to the office for a second. I left something up there.”

You said nothing, simply followed him up. The parking lot was nearly deserted, save for the few officers doing a detail whom you greeted when the both of you walked in. You fiddled with the edges of the files you were still holding, not trying to look in any of them in case Leon were to reprimand you for it again. You were almost tempted to, just to see his reaction. That thought made your knees weak.

You followed him out of the elevator into the office. As expected, the lobby was empty. Leon made his way over to his desk, pulling open a file cabinet, and started sifting around. You stood there, then walked over and dropped what you were holding onto his desk. You looked around the office, it was as wide as the lobby was, and large windows spanned the walls. It was simplistic. His desk was in the middle, file cabinets behind him, multiple monitors, a few chairs in front of his desk, some  round black ottomans in front of a black leather couch to the left. There were more files open on top of one of the ottomans. 

You stalked over to it, leaned down and picked one up. It looked like what he had given you the other day–

“You must be a glutton for punishment.” You jumped slightly when Leon spoke from directly behind you and grabbed the file from your hands. You spun around. “You shouldn’t be rifling through random documents, you know.” 

You sighed, not wanting to make eye contact, but knowing not doing it would look bad. You kept your arms to your side despite wanting to cross them. His eyes were dark. You couldn't tell what type of reaction this was.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make a severe mental note of that.” He said nothing in return, simply looking down at you. The peaks of his bone structure highlighted by the distant street lamps and the glow of the moon outside the windows. It made the shadows look all that much darker. You felt a shiver crawl up your spine.

He hummed, a low, throaty sound. “My new assistant, just so nosy.” His voice was low, and you gulped, trying to blink through your emotions normally, but you knew it looked anything but. 

“Dare I say it’s in my job description.” You mirrored his low tone, mentally relieved it wasn’t as weary as you expected it to sound. You tilted your head up to his, as a small gesture of challenge.

He nodded his head, as if to consider your words. “Dare you do.” He backed up, placed the file on his desk, then came right back to his spot in front of you. You didn’t know what to do, so you stayed still. It was most likely the better option anyway, who knows if your limbs could even move properly right now. You felt bare in this position, your cotton top feeling too warm where it overlapped with your jacket, and though your legs were on display under your skirt, they, too, were burning up. Your heart was hammering, but Leon kept talking. “What do you think about this job so far, hm? Does it live up to expectations?”

You had to take a steady breath before answering. “I think this surpasses any expectation I could have ever set.”

“Good answer.” You maintained eye contact with the man in front of you, surprising yourself with how well you were holding it. He seemed unfazed at all. He was probably reading you like a book right now. “You know, I love having new recruits start here. They’re so unaware of their surroundings. It almost makes a fun game for myself. They think they are so secretive, but after a while I can tell whatever it is they don't want anyone else to know.” You felt your breath catch in your throat. You had a feeling you knew where this was going. “I know Breanna across the lobby from you doesn’t like her desk mate despite buying her coffee three times a week.” Checks out, I can tell, too. “I know Brett does things to stay awake during his shifts that he shouldn’t be doing within a 50 foot radius of a cop.” Ouch. That’s also true, but he only told me during a hard come down. “And, I know how nervous you are to be around me, and you don’t know what to do with yourself whenever I’m in the room.”

You made no moves now. How did he know? Surely you weren’t that obvious with it. It had been one week, and yes Leon called you into his office quite a bit during those five days, but he had work to hand off to you every time. It’s not like he was doing it on purpose. 

But now, standing under his hard gaze, nowhere to go, you weren’t so sure it was accidental. 

Your jaw tightened. “How can you be so sure?” Now, you could hear the waviness in your voice. A smirk blossomed on his handsome face. 

“I can see how you look at me. Usually these things take time to figure out, but you…” He took a step closer, and you took a half step back. It’s not like you didn’t want to be close to him, but now he was donning a persona that made you shrink into yourself. You knew you liked it by the heat spreading inside. “You, dear, are like looking through a window.”

“So… you tested it out earlier?” It felt like a pathetic question, but you needed an answer for why he put his hand on your thigh earlier. Compared to this current position, that seemed so tame.

He tilted his head slightly. “I’m pretty sure I was, but… I had to make sure I was gauging the situation correctly.” He looked you up and down, your hands had made their way to clasp behind your back, still fighting the habit to cross them across your chest. Your breathing felt erratic. “I would have left it there, but I couldn’t make too much of a scene. Not yet.”

You simply stared at each other. You could tell that he knew he had the upper hand, solely because he was correct. Everything he was saying was right. Damn that detective training, nothing was getting past him. The room was sweltering now, but maybe you were the only one that felt it. 

One last burst of confidence had you muttering, “You do this to all your new assistants?”

In one swift action, he had a hand over your waist and pulled you close to him. Bodies touching, heat feeling like a fire between you, he lowered his face so it was centimeters away from yours. The glisten of his eyes were the only thing you could see, and if you weren’t running on pure adrenaline right now, you probably would have collapsed. You felt the vibrations from his chest when he spoke.

“Only the ones I intend to hang on to. And I can’t say I’ve had multiple of those.” You gulped, and when you didn't reply, he continued, “Did I gauge the situation correctly?”

“Yes,” You whispered, and his mouth was on yours. 

His kiss was intense, and you felt now like your body might give out. Your hands found their way to make contact with him, one grasping the wrist that was holding your waist and the other to the side of Leon’s face, and you felt his other hand close in on your hips.

It was like nothing you had experienced before. The kiss was hot and messy, you let his tongue in easily, and you couldn't help the small sighs that escaped whenever he leaned in to deepen the exchange. You felt his nose press into your face, your foreheads pushed together and your bodies entirely too close you felt like one entity. The hand that was caressing his face snaked to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and your knees finally buckled when he gave a low growl in response to you tugging his locks. 

The kiss broke for a second as you lost balance, but he was not thrown off course. Hands still grasping your body, he found the couch that you were only a step in front of, and he lowered you on it, still connecting your lips together fiercely. Both of your hands now in his hair as your back hit the cushions, and you felt the dips next to you where he was kneeling over you. One of his hands let go of you and supported himself next to your head, but you craved the contact again.

He took your chin in his thumb and index finger and tilted your head slightly to the right, and broke the kiss, but his lips stayed on your burning skin as they traced down your jaw bone, biting into the flesh, and his tongue marked a path down your neck, and it was insanely hard to breathe. 

One of your hands found solace on his thick shoulder while he was still making work of the soft skin on your neck. The hand of his that wasn't on your chin still traced its way from your hip up to your chest, and he squeezed one of your breasts in sync with a bite to the neck. Your head pressed harder into the couch underneath you.

“Leon, please…” You gasped out, unsure if you even said it out loud, surprised you even had the energy to speak. You felt him lift his lips off of your skin a second later and his fingers moved your chin again to make you face him.

“What is it, hm? What do you need?” He dipped down to kiss you again, and you wished he would have stayed there so you wouldn't need to verbally answer him. 

“I… I don’t…” I don’t know, I need you. You barely had the breath to speak anymore, and though you knew Leon knew exactly what you were trying to say, he feigned confusion, and looked at you from under his furrowed brow. It was so obnoxious, it ignited the flame inside you even more. 

“Come on, baby, I can’t hear you.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and your vision went blurry with lust. You ground your jaw and swallowed your pride. 

“I need you.” You gasped out finally, your lungs deflating. Your hand was fisting the material over his shoulder, and you noticed through your haze that he wasn’t wearing the vest anymore. When did he take it off? Before you came up to the office? While you had your back turned? It didn’t matter, it was now one less thing you needed to rip off of him. 

“Is that so?” He went back to biting at your neck, and at this rate you didn’t care what state he was going to leave it in. You whined at his lack of response to your plea, feeling frustration and desire bounding up inside of you, needing an outlet to release it.

“Leon, fuck, please…” You weakly tried to push him back but he wouldn’t budge. He reconnected your lips again, and that you greatly accepted, pulling him closer now so he would continue kissing you with fervor. The hand that was on your chin finally left, and he replaced it on your wrist, and suddenly, he was hauling you up.

He pulled back from the kiss just as quickly as he was pulling you to sit upright, and he swiftly maneuvered you so that when he fell backwards to sit on the couch, you were pulled right on top of him, straddling his thick thighs. You couldn’t even imagine how you looked right now, it was out of your mind for now as you looked down at the man under you, his hands on your waist. His shirt was wrinkled and slowly being pulled out from where it was tucked into his pants. His tie was being loosened and the top two buttons had come undone, exposing the smooth expanse of skin over his collarbones and chest. As you let your weight settle onto your legs, and his, you lowered directly onto his growing erection, and he squeezed his hands over your torso and scrunched his face. With a heavy breath, he pulled his head forward and stared at you.

“Did you think I was just going to give it to you?” His voice was gravelly, and it almost made you whimper. His hands dropped to your thighs, which were now incredibly exposed due to the position of your skirt hiking up, and Leon probably had a view of the black panties you had on. You didn’t care. Let him see. You needed him to take them off.

You shook your head. “You can’t be nice to me?” Your hands came up to his chest, it was firm and sturdy, and you were dying to see it bare. You fumbled with the buttons, and Leon had been at least gracious enough to loosen the tie and throw it over his head onto the floor. 

Leon laughed. You felt it under your palms. “Darling,” You looked up to make eye contact with him at the mention of the pet name. “This is me being nice to you.” 

You barely had time to register his words, and the way it made your stomach turn before he had a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you forward to another intense kiss. You could barely breathe, your limbs were all pins and needles and your skin was alight with a burning ember, fueled only by Leon, but you loved it.

In the midst of the kiss, wet and slick and tongue heavy, your hands were needlessly prying the buttons open at the top of Leon’s shirt. His hands were traveling under your clothes, palms gripping your thighs, and you found yourself grinding down into Leon’s lap subconsciously, but kept going when it resulted in him groaning into the kiss.

You pulled back suddenly at the victory of pulling the last few buttons open, and Leon immediately caught your stare, but you dropped it to look down at the open expanse of skin and muscle that he had been hiding. A strong chest gave way to flexing ab muscles as he writhed under you, probably trying to gain your attention or to show off, and sturdy hip muscles abducted into V lines that disappeared under the waistline of his pants. You couldn’t help it, you reached out to drag your hands along the smooth skin, every second of contact adding to the pooling happening between your legs, where you were also very conscious of the fact that Leon’s hands were dangerously close to. 

“Do you want this to happen today, or do you want to keep staring?” Leon prodded at you jokingly, and when you looked up, a grin was plastered on his face, and his eyes were still dark. You felt the tightness arise again at just the sight of his expression paired with his upper body on display for you.

“You’re sounding more eager than me, now…” You breathily replied, overwhelmed with all of the emotions coursing you at once. 

Leon breathed a brief laugh before raising an eyebrow with his response. “I can show you eager.”

At once, his hand reached up in between your legs and you felt one of his fingers dance across the hem of your panties, and your grip tightened where your hand landed on his bicep. He gave you no warning when you felt him pull it aside, drag his finger downwards and raked his knuckle through your wetness, earning a sharp gasp from you in return, and you nearly fell forward onto his chest as the feeling sent sparks soaring through you. 

“Calling me eager…” The sound of his voice paired with the feeling of his fingers on you was far too much to handle. “Yet it feels like you must have been wet all night…” He dragged his finger back up to the top where he maneuvered his hand so the pad of his thumb pressed heavily on your clit, and you nearly screamed, but all sound was trapped in your throat as you lost function of your body.

He ripped his hand out of your underwear and it moved around to find the zipper in the back of your skirt. “Take that shirt off,” He ordered, and you obeyed as best you could through your stiff limbs. 

You peeled it off from the bottom, feeling the fabric stick to your moist skin, and Leon’s eyes heavy on you as you finally got it over your head and on the floor. Your lingerie choice was nothing phenomenal, for the expected business meeting at least, but you could tell by his gaze that it really didn't make a difference in what he was thinking right now. Seconds after you dropped your hands back to your sides, he flipped you once again, back on the couch and him hovering over you, pulling the skirt that he had unzipped down your legs, and into the pile of your shirt and his tie somewhere behind you.

Your breathing was erratic as you watched him intently, his lust-filled eyes on your body and his hand running lengths up and down your torso, legs, back up to your chest, and neck, and landing on your bra strap that he pulled down, and wasted no time in attaching his mouth your hot skin. Your hand gripped his elbow as he bit the tender flesh of your breast, he sucked on it harshly once, twice, before lifting and wrapping his lips over your nipple, which had your back arching and a string of soft moans pouring out. 

You felt an aching cramp in your core, the pleasure was insurmountable and you needed him to do something about it, but you knew he was buying time to rile you up as much as possible before doing so. You knew he was straining with his own pleasure and you were desperate to tear apart his belt and pants and take his girth into your hands, to feel it, to taste it, you wanted to choke on it, but you knew he wouldn’t let you do that. If not in the span of a few minutes, maybe not tonight at all. You were submitting your control, and you had to let him do what he wanted.

He finally let go of your nipple, and the air felt cold with the layer of saliva he left behind, and even though you were basically naked save for undergarments, you still felt too covered. You reached up to pull at Leon’s shirt, fully unbuttoned and untucked, and he leaned back on his knees to pry it off of himself. You could see his skin glistening with sweat as he moved, and so badly you wanted to reach out and touch him, run your hands over his skin, all of his muscles, pull him close so you could feel his chest on your own. 

Your eyes fell to his pants, and the tent that was present had your mouth watering, you needed him to pull it out, and now. 

Of course, Leon being ever so sharp, didn’t miss this. “We’ll get there. Don’t worry.” Without looking up, you could hear the cockiness in his voice, but you didn’t care anymore, you couldn't move your eyes from where they landed, trying to imagine his cock in its glory, how long and thick, how he would use it and how it would feel. You felt like you were melting.

Unmoving from where he was propped up in front of you, his hands traveled down the expanse of your legs, dragging his fingers underneath your thighs where it was sensitive, making you jump with the contact. His hands came around to the top of your knees, where he pushed your legs apart and lowered himself in between them. Even just the sight of him doing so had you whimpering, and when he pressed his thumb into your clothed clit, you bucked up, but he was quick to hold you down.

Keeping his thumb centered on your clit, he continued to apply pressure, using his middle and index finger to stroke up and down on the outside of your panties, which you were sure were soaked by now. Throwing your head back into the couch, one hand gripping onto the wrist that was holding Leon up and the other was clawing into the cushion, you were dying for him to do something. 

He was getting too used to teasing you now. He had you right where he wanted, half naked on the couch in his office after hours, so close to practically coming untouched at this point, and while you wanted to fight him on this, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. The mixture of the pleasure and mental ecstasy you were feeling had you forfeiting any sense of control now, and you just watched him, as he watched you.

All at once, you felt the cold air hit your core as your underwear was peeled away from you, but the sensation didn't last long as a hot, wet tongue was pressed into your heat, and you nearly screamed at the sudden contact.

His mouth was all you could focus on in that moment, you could feel every movement his tongue made, and your body reacted viscerally to it. Your hand flew out and grabbed onto Leon’s hair, which incited him to only keep going, and to be ruthless. His hands were digging into your thighs where he was spreading them apart, fighting against you wanting to close them in reaction to pleasure he was sending shooting through your body. 

One long, painfully slow lick from top to bottom ended at your clit where he latched on, tongue pressing in and teeth gently making an appearance, and your grip in his hair became even stronger when he pushed two fingers into you, your vision going blurry, and there was no filter left to stop any thoughts from pouring out over your lips. 

“Oh my god… Leon…” You were whining now, moaning in between deep breaths and gasps, feeling his fingers pump in and out all while his tongue was relentless on you. 

His mouth disappeared but his thumb took its place, and you felt him kissing, licking, sucking his way up your torso, chest, neck, until he was seated next to your ears, groaning into them as you dug your nails into his skin.

“Oh my god, what, huh? You like the way I make you feel?” All you could do was gasp out a ‘yes’ in response to his question, he wasn’t giving you any liberty to be coherent. “You probably thought about this all day…” A bite below your ear followed the sentence. “That pussy was so wet… you probably wanted this since the first day…”

And you did. How could you not have thought about this at the sight of your insanely attractive boss? Wouldn’t it be so hot to be banging your model-status boss, having to hide it from your coworkers, going in his office to sneak touches while no one outside those doors knew? Yes, of course you thought about it. It had your heart racing, and now you would stop at nothing to make those fantasies real.

“You feel so good, I can’t wait to be inside you.” With one last soft bite to the jaw, he pulled his fingers out of you, and involuntarily you whimpered, but he shut you up by pressing a kiss into your lips, which you greatly accepted. His kiss was harsh yet soft at the same time, you felt a passion behind it while also letting his tongue sweep over yours, tasting yourself on him, sighing into it, feeling like you could kiss him forever.

His hands left you, now feeling bare, you gripped his shoulders hard as you heard him undoing his own belt. As much as you wanted to do it yourself and be right in front when you pulled his hard cock out of his pants, you didn’t have it in you to attempt to move yourself, and with Leon on top of you, he was sure to stop any feeble move you made to do so.

HIs lips left yours once more and reattached to the side of your throat, biting down harder than before, but it only made you moan, arch harder into him, and sent a flurry of hot tingles into your pussy, aching for more action from him.

Leon pushed himself off of you, his warm mouth off of you and leaned back, staring at you panting, and of course, his dick in his hands was impossible to ignore. Just seeing it was almost bliss, and now you were desperate for him to use it as you lay there, being scrutinized under your boss’ gaze, and while you felt so tiny, just the sight of how hard he was made you feel so powerful.

He took a deep breath in, taking in the sight of you, before lowering himself again, lining up with your gaze so you looked him directly in the eye. You felt his forehead press into yours, his hand lingered around your underwear again, pushing it aside, and after just another moment of silence, another deep kiss, his bare chest met yours and you felt the tip of his dick push into you, past the entrance, into the warmth. 

You sighed so loud, followed by a moan, hands still gripping his shoulders, listening to him groan in tandem with you as he slowly bottomed out. His pelvis pushed against you, your legs coming up to wrap around him, and you felt his hands pull your bra down so he could cup your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, adding to the pleasure. 

“You feel so fucking good… Fuck…” He was groaning, he hadn’t even started moving yet, and you were dying for him to start. He sat still in you, lapping at the skin between your jaw and neck, positive he could feel the vibrations on his lips of your moans.

“Please, Leon, move… Please,” Your nails were surely digging red streaks into the skin of his back by now, but he barely even seemed to notice, rather, you thought he might have loved the feeling of it instead. You felt the pressure of him lying on top of you, paired with the pressure building in between your legs, your thighs beginning to shake, having to hold onto Leon tighter to steady them.

Finally, he slowly started to pull out, and you could barely breathe at the sensation it left behind. He kept his face buried in your neck, you could feel his ragged, heavy breathing and you could hear his groaning which was only making you wetter. 

His hips snapped forward, no regard to what pace you had wanted to set, not like it mattered, you probably would have told him quick and rough anyway if he asked. You almost screamed out at the feeling of him slamming into you, you could only throw your head back onto the couch cushion and rake your hands over his skin, into his hair. Leon licked a long stripe up your neck to your jaw, gently biting on your bottom lip before kissing you again. 

You kept kissing him hard in between his thrusts, with him pulling away for only a second at a time, both of you breathing hard, your hands traveling down to grip his biceps, and you could feel them flexing with his movement. 

“Shit,” He said over you, you could feel his breath on your lips. “So fucking tight,” One of his hands went down to grab onto one of your legs that you had thrown over him. “So fucking good.” He practically growled as he continued the assault on you, his hips showing no mercy, and his hand sure to leave a bruise on your thigh from his grip.

Leon pushed himself up, still inside of you, leaving you lying down. His skin was slick with his sweat, and maybe yours as well from being pressed against you. His hair was falling down over his forehead, and god he looked so good right now, if you weren’t already in the act of getting the shit fucked out of you, you would want to fuck him all over again. His hands adjusted their position to rest on your hips, pulling you up so he can fuck you from his kneeling position.

This new angle was hitting every spot perfectly, allowing him to go deeper than he was from just above you. The intense stretch his cock was delivering paired with the way he was holding onto your hips with such ferocity, all of it together was too much, and you were becoming unwound. 

“Leon… Leon, fuck…” You gasped out, barely able to finish your sentence, but Leon understood well enough. He slowed his pace only a beat, but it was enough to have you straining, desperate for him to go faster to allow you to finish. He kept up with the slower pace, watching you as you whined under him, begging him to go faster.

“Please, Leon…” You looked up at him through half lidded eyes, barely able to keep them open. Through them, you could see him looking at you, brows furrowed in exertion, mouth open, chest rising and falling with rapid breathing.

“Please what?” Leon growled. You whined again, knowing he wasn’t going to make this easy for you. “Say it.”

You couldn’t breathe, but you had to give him what he wanted so he could give you what you wanted. “Leon, please, I’m going to cum… please…” 

He leaned in again, still holding your hips up, his pace even slower now, and you could feel the heat bundling up, bringing tears to your eyes at the lack of relief. His face was inches away from yours. “Please, what?” 

You choked out a sob, mixed with a groan at the slightest movement he made inside of you. “Please let me cum Leon, please,” You had no voice at this point, the words coming out in a whisper, loud enough for him to hear, but he probably would have anyway. 

“That’s right.” He backed up now, and resumed his previous position. “Good girls get what they want when they ask.” Your eyes closed in bliss when he picked up his pace, the weight of his words hanging heavy in your head, adding to the ecstasy he was giving you right now. He was slamming into you again, steadying himself on your hips while also pulling them forward to meet his thrusts. You had no breath left to spare on words anymore, and fruitless moans spilled from your lips focusing the energy on bringing your orgasm to close. 

You tried to call out his name as best as you could, but all you heard were moans as the heat inside you came to a roaring burst, and you felt your legs tighten around Leon, his grip steadying you, your hands clawing at the cushion, at his wrists where they held onto you. 

Your heartbeat was crazy at this point, and you couldn't even hold your eyes open as you rode out your orgasm, his hands smoothing over your skin, and you used the sensation to come back to reality. He had momentarily stilled his movements again, and you felt his lips on your neck, none of the roughness there now. You rolled your head over to the side to face him, and when you did he attached his lips to yours, a passionate kiss, his hands feeling like heaven on your body. 

You pulled away and stared at him for a moment. His eyes were soft, but his face was still contorted in concentration.

“I hope you don’t think we’re done here, darling.” You breathed out a sigh, collecting yourself, a smile creeping onto your face.

You kissed him, and whispered into his lips, “Show me what you got left, then.”

[almondmilktargaryen]

Duty & Sacrifice (Part Two)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Fem!Reader

Category: Flangst

Content: Memories of sexual trauma. Violence, violence, violence. Trying to refrain from spoilers but the degree of violence is referenced in part one, so please take this vague warning seriously and be cautious if you still choose to read. Please be kind as I'm very nervous as to how this will be received. Aemond's hubris will be his downfall and I mean it.

Word count: 7.4k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three ✍️ | Part four ✍️

A/N: Okay, I caved. I’ve written a part two to Duty & Sacrifice AND have a part three on the way (maybe a part four). Tagged everyone who asked about a part two so you all can find it :))

Also we're going to pretend Chataya and Alayaya were around 200 years before they were for the sake of the story ✨

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Criston hisses. The heat of his anger billows from him like smoke from Vhagar’s nostrils. Aemond feels it against his back as they walk (Criston almost stomping) across the cobblestone paths. He wears the same old brown wool cloak and hat as he had when they were last here, before the Dance.

“I know,” Aemond responds plainly.

“I expected this from Aegon. As would anyone. But you, Aemond.” Criston staggers as he lectures. After years of reflection and buckets of blood on his hands, his anger still gets the best of him, even in the smallest of ways. “Honestly, what would your mother say about all this?”

“She’s gone, Cole.” That’s all he can say. She was taken by the winter fever shortly after Aegon’s second coronation and Helaena’s suicide. Aemond suffered plenty in all three areas. Criston saw. And he was there when Aemond still needed a parent; helping him through his losses and the choices his brother made as king. It is why Criston volunteered to help with the City Watch while also remaining on the Kingsguard to help him. He became a father to Aemond.

And fathers asking their children what their mothers might think of their wrongdoings is supposed to add an extra dose of shame. Aemond learns, despite assuming otherwise, that he is not an exception to this. He feels the shame, like whenever his nephews knocked him to the ground and snickered or when Alicent slapped him after confessing what happened at Storm’s End. He remembers how he couldn’t sleep for days.

There was no way he could sleep tonight, either. The possibility that something could happen to his family while he remained safe in the Red Keep is a burden he could not bear after seeing Alyssa. The gods sewed in the inevitable, and it’s his turn to unlace it. So he focuses on his route as Criston lingers behind, keeping up with the sharp turns and secret alleyways. Aemond recalls the moment he left. All three of them were safe. They were in tears on the cot, but they were safe. He let the image settle in his mind. They were safe. Spotting the door once again, he’ll guarantee it. He avoids glancing down the alley, hoping to forget that.

But Criston does glance. “Was that one of Aegon’s—”

“We’re here,” Aemond says. His fingers wrap around the handle, jiggling the iron to find it locked. Good. Then he knocks three times, then two, then one.

“You actually have a special knock?”

“Not important.”

The bolt shifted behind the wood, and the open door bloomed with light once more. Aemond squinted at the starkness, but he could see that she was alright. She was standing, hunching slightly, and smiling. She stepped aside to let them both in. Aemond spotted the girls on the cot, quiet.

She shut the door with a thud. “You came back!”

“Like I said I would,” Aemond replies. He was hesitant to hug her, but she took the choice away when she instantly wrapped her arms around his neck. He took the opportunity and held her gently, burying his nose in her thick hair. It smelled of sweat and dirt, and he inhaled deeply before letting go. “This is Criston Cole. He’s going to help us. It’s cold out, so you’ll need this.” He takes the spare cloak Criston has and asks her to hold her hair.

“I know how to put on a cloak, Aemond.”

He hesitates to object. The cloak matches her eyes. He notices when she turns and takes it from him. She handles it well enough, so Aemond squeezes by to reach the cot. He sits close to the babes’ feet. They were sleeping. All he could do was whisper “sorry” repeatedly as he picked up Alisha first. She only cooed, not fully awake. He stood slowly to hand her over. “Here. Put her under the cloak.”

“What did you think I was going to do?” She asked.

“I know, I know. I just... have to say it aloud.”

Then came Alyssa. She only squirmed as he picked her up, and Aemond wondered what she could be dreaming about. He stands straight before covering her. He brushed her ginger hair.

“Do you want to see her?” She holds Alisha closer to Criston. She smiles brightly when she turns Alisha’s face toward him. And despite his objections during the entire walk here, he reaches out to hold her little hand, noting how her fingernails are no bigger than grains of rice. He breaks into a grin when he says hello. His palm brushes her hair, and the grin fades as he looks closer—the transition from brushing the whole of her head to examining individual strands. Aemond does not expect them to be noticed at such a late hour, but Criston’s eyebrows go straight as he stares at him.

Aemond only stared back, bringing the other half of his cloak over Alyssa’s face.

“What’s the plan?”

“To find them safety,” Aemond replies. “A better home.”

“Surely you have a more detailed idea than that.”

“Where are the apartments? The ones where you kept that girl from Lys?”

Criston’s hard expression changed. “What are you talking about?”

Then it was Aemond’s turn to stare in disappointment. The disappointment that Criston thought he would never notice the obvious. Celibacy among the Kingsguard has not been as enforced under Aegon’s reign, and Criston is not the only one to take advantage of this, especially for any woman who looks like Rhaenyra.

“Over by the Old Gate,” he caves. “I arranged the rent and servants with Chataya. Her brothel isn’t far from here.”

“Then we’ll go to Chataya’s. We’ll take the Street of Silk. It should be faster.”

“Aemond.”

“Darling, we don’t have a choice. Here.” Aemond traces the loops of his belt, pulling out a dagger. “Take this.” The ripple of Valyrian steel sheens in his hand.

“I-I can’t.”

“You can and you will.” His face softens. “Just in case I’m not close enough.”

She’s hesitant, but takes it anyway, shoving it in one of the cloak pockets.

Alyssa fusses, as if she’s protesting herself now that she’s fully awake. He’s familiar with this one, and she does not let up when he tries to shush her, so he sticks his free hand inside and searches for her mouth. He gently puts his finger in, letting her tiny lips and hands wrap around it like a bottle.

“She’s hungry,” Aemond reluctantly admits.

“I can feed her. Quickly.”

“No. The faster we move, the better.”

“But I—”

“He’s right, ma’am,” Criston says.

Aemond can see the uneasiness reveal itself once more. It’s the remnants of fear sticking around before he left, as the possibilities outside that door (good or otherwise) are closer than ever. So Aemond stepped closer while her eyes glowed wet in the dwindling candlelight. A kiss, another hug, perhaps, or some sort of reassurance that it would be alright could help. But as his arms cradle Alyssa (and Criston waits when there’s no time), Aemond instead presses his forehead against hers. He keeps his eye on her, and her smile is small. It was good enough.

“Let’s go.”

Men in rags stay close to the walls, under torchlights. Some with their selection of whores, others looking to wait their turn. The streets are less congested by stone walls, so pathways are more open, with no carts or livestock blocking the way. They can all step aside and not disturb each other. 

Her cloak shielded her arms as Alisha fussed more. She stuck close to Aemond as Criston took the lead this time, many paces ahead. Aemond could hear the speed of her breathing and see the fog rolling from her lips.

“Walk with purpose,” Aemond tells her. “Eyes forward. Do not look afraid.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I’m here. Lean on me if you have to.”

“No. It’s not the time to look weak.”

That damned cot. Sleeping, the pregnancy, and birthing twins on that cot took its toll. Her body has grown weak. Her stubbornness, though, remains unmoved. It’s why Aemond never bought her a new bed. She would cunningly lead him to the floor, so they would lose the topic (as well as the night) before they slept.

Her stubbornness persists all the same as her body struggles with the walk, one step to the other as Aemond continues to be their eyes, centering on Criston (and the men who stare too long). The path is straight and simple. But Alisha still whimpers. Her arms shift under the cloth, muffling her upset, a finger in her mouth. But her adamancy follows through mother and daughter. “Why does this work for you and not me?”

Aemond smirks. “Magic touch.”

She scoffed, nudging him. Aemond responded similarly, planting a kiss in her hair in the safety of darkness. The frizz tickled his nose, and for a moment, Aemond felt peace. A rare thing he relished with his mother or his sister. It’s something he hasn’t felt since the Dance. But even on this road and in the cold, it ruminates over his whole body.

But as quick as that peace washed over him like a bath of sacred waters, he got pulled out. He’s reminded of his thirteenth name day when her blue eyes lock onto his. Aemond turns his eye to Criston once again. He didn’t turn around, but Aemond focused, blinking out the memories.

“Found a replacement, have you?” She stands at the entrance to that brothel all the same as before, when Aemond and Criston were looking for Aegon. She leans casually against the doorway as they pass, and the smirk makes Aemond’s stomach turn.

She turns around, but Aemond pulls her by the arm. “Focus.”

“Was she speaking to you?”

“Focus.”

“Oh… Aemond. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says with an even breath. He pulls her closer, arm and arm, cloth and cloth. “We’ll get there soon.” Criston is still ahead, and Aemond remembers to breathe.

“Perhaps we should stop.”

“No.” His eye darts at the surrounding men. Most didn’t look at him, and the ones who did offered only a glance. None remember when he was ten and three, despite what his thoughts are saying. The walls are not closing in, and Criston is still well ahead. “We need to catch up.” He pulls her by the arm, and she does her best to keep up.

If it was not the location of Chataya’s that spoke of their expensive price range, it was the perfumes. He recognized the scents of Day’s Dawn and Ginger Palm, authentic from the Summer Isles, along with the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg. Scarlet lamps gave low lighting, but Aemond still kept his head down. He blocked all bodies he noted in the alcove as the lights bled patterns of their shades on the floors and small tables.

“Welcome, sirs,” a woman says. Aemond still keeps his head down.

“Alayaya, hello,” Criston says. “Is your mother around?”

“Always. But I can help you as well.”

“I have a specific request that requires her… connections.”

“There are plenty of specific requests we can and have fulfilled, Ser Cole. Not just my mother.” With her voice alone, Aemond can see her smile: coy and showing teeth, a light accent honeyed with playfulness. All the signs say she doesn’t know this situation is serious.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we specifically need your mother,” Criston says as he gently puts a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. Aemond forces himself to take a breath before looking up. When he does, he doesn’t let his eye linger out of concern that anyone else in this place would recognize him.

Aemond watches the recollection color her face, her dark eyes widening upon the sight of his. There was no fear in sight, but the realization that she was in over her head (Aemond saw that look a lot during the Dance). She picks at the gold rings in one of her braids as her eyes trail over to her persistently rocking Alisha. Alayaya steps back. “I’ll go get my mother.”

Chataya does not take long to arrive. Aemond spotted the book and quill in her hands before he put his head back down. “I’ll speak with her,” Criston tells Aemond.

“Alright,” he mumbles.

Criston squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll be close by.”

Aemond nods.

She was further away than they were on the street, just an arm’s length away. Alisha whimpers under her cloak, and Aemond cannot afford to spare her a glance, let alone help. Criston isn’t the only one who chooses places like Chataya’s. Non-Westerosi women have a higher price range, which means her customers have likely been in the Red Keep, possibly even invited. Which means they just need to meet his eye once.

It kills him. His stress only heightens when she fiddles with her cloak to find Alisha’s mouth. Nothing. She tries rocking her gently, but she only grows more demanding with each sway. Meanwhile, Alyssa remains quiet somehow, Aemond’s finger still in her mouth, but she stopped suckling minutes ago.

“Gods! Quiet the thing!” Aemond hears from the alcove. The man’s voice is deep in his chest.

“Sorry,” she squeaks. She does what she can, but Alisha does not let up. She’s very hungry.

Aemond sees a woman fall to the floor, just in his limited view. Alayaya helps her up. He sees calf-skin boots come and go out of his sight.

“Lord Baratheon.”

Aemond freezes.

Chataya’s voice is smooth as she remains assertive. “You do not throw my girls around as such.”

“This is not an establishment for children. So she should take the child outside so I can enjoy the experience I paid good money for.”

Alisha is hungry. Aemond thinks about that as he remembers Lord Borros’ funeral after the Battle of the Kingsroad. After that, they acknowledged Royce Baratheon as Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond married his sister two days later.

“Or if you just whip out your tit and feed it, it might—oh.” The gruffness dissipates, and Aemond questions his perspective for a moment. No one is in front of him.

“I remember you.”

“No,” she muttered. “Forgive me, sir. I don’t recognize you.”

“Yes, you do.” Royce drags out the last syllable. It sounded like Baelon insisting on a later bedtime or going hunting with Royce after Aemond and Floris agreed he was too young. Except Royce adds a disgusting singsong tone to it. “Redheads stand out on their own already. With big doe eyes like yours. Baratheons know how to spot that.”

“Sir, please.”

“Lord Baratheon,” Chataya calls.

Aemond has to keep still.

“You remember my cousin. I see it in your eyes. Of course you do. He loved redheads.”

Aemond’s heart pounds in his chest so fast that he’s surprised that Alyssa remains undisturbed. Royce’s voice only grew more heated. He’s drunk. And he’s quick to anger when drunk, remembering Lord Lorren Lannister running into him at the reception. Maesters tended to him while guards carried Royce to bed. Not long after, Floris pulled Aemond aside and asked him to fly to King’s Landing out of sheer embarrassment.

“I wasn’t—”

“But you just couldn’t let him have you, could you? Too good for a Baratheon, are ya?” He curdles a spit and hacks it on her shoes.

Aemond has to stay still. He keeps his palms flat, despite the instinct to clench them. Alisha’s crying continues, and it doesn’t help.

“He followed me to my room. I was not working then.”

“Whores are whores no matter the hour of the day. They bend over when a man tells them to.”

“Only when they pay for it. Your cousin was too frugal for me.”

Aemond didn’t know what would burst first: the vein in his forehead or his lips from the pressure of keeping them closed with his teeth. The desperation to keep his family safe stared him down from all angles. In his mind, he pictures Baelon and Daeron sound asleep. While adjusting to her growing front, he thinks of Floris kissing them goodnight as she stands up. He thinks of something happening to his girls and can feel the fabric of Alyssa’s cloth as he grips her tighter. He thinks of how disappointed his mother would be.

Alyssa fusses. Aemond eases his hold and his teeth.

Alisha wails.

“Is that a hungry bastard of someone who paid?”

“Yes,” Aemond says. He spots her sandals and the reflection of spit already seeping between her toes. Royce is not one to take directions the first time, and Aemond’s instincts smack his meaty fingers away before he’s given the chance to realize he was reaching for her cloak.

Alyssa’s cry leans into a bawl. Aemond’s hand is hesitant to slip back in.

Royce laughs, a small one from the belly. “Oh, I see. It explains the hips she’s got on her now. But if this doting father has his hands full with another bastard, then what will he do to stop me?”

“Then I will be the one you deal with instead.” Criston steps in front of Aemond. “Man on man. Sword and sword.”

“Ser Criston.” The joy depleted from his voice. Normally, Aemond would enjoy it, but Criston is the Kingsguard, the City Watch, part of the royal family. “The king requires escorts of many kinds, huh?”

“If the king or any member of the Targaryen family were here right now, you would bow accordingly. As is your place as a lord and as a Green.”

“My father would spit on the Greens if he were alive today. My youngest nephew doesn’t get to see his future land of Storm’s End because his pompous Targaryen father thinks he’s better than us. He’d rather both of them fly their winged beasts than hunt for game in the woods.”

Criston was silent for a long time. And for a moment, it was strange to find Royce was as well. He didn’t even digest Royce’s insult because Aemond couldn’t believe Criston was using one of his parenting tactics: letting the boy sit in silence with his own words so he could feel the weight of them. The longer they are quiet, the more they understand thinking before speaking.

“If you wish to keep your tongue, Lord Royce, you will keep it safe in your mouth by not speaking further insults about your brother-by-law.”

“Ma’am, sir, you can come with me!” Alayaya calls. “You can feed the babes back here.”

No one moves for what feels like hours, but Aemond follows her out, still looking straight at the floor and hoping to the gods there were no stairs. The gods blessed him as he passed through a beaded curtain Alayaya held open for them. They paused in place and let her lead the way. There were only a few paces before they stopped, Aemond nearly clashing Alyssa into her mother.

“You can look up, my prince,” she whispers. “No one will see you here.”

Aemond hesitates to do so, but the aching in his neck was tempting enough to believe her—a narrow hallway lined with crimson doors and elaborately patterned tapestries crowding corners and windows. Aemond looks back to see the beaded curtain Alayaya held for him, still clicking against itself before stilling, finding no one in his line of sight. No Criston either.

Alayaya pulls out a dull brass skeleton key that matches the door handle. She twists it, and a bolt shifts on the other side. She holds the door once again, waiting patiently for them to enter and settle in. Except this time, they don’t move. It is as if, in silence, without a single glance toward each other, they waited for something else to happen, as if Royce (or someone else) was about to stampede in and finally ruin everything.

But no one does; no one enters or leaves the hallway. A body does not enter or exit any of the surrounding doors. There are no people for Aemond to stare down at as they pass; there is no one here to remember when he was ten and three.

They found more tapestries and scarlet lamps in the bedroom. They also noticed a silk bed that looked untouched, with plenty of pillows that matched the sheets resting against the headboard. Neither of them said anything. Aemond looks back at Alayaya.

“I’ll tell Ser Criston where you are,” she says while looking at Aemond. Then she turns to her. Aemond follows. “You are safe here, ma’am.”

All she can do is nod. It’s good enough since Alayaya shuts the door. And it’s at the sound of the lock sliding into place that they deflate, a long-awaited exhale finally escaping their lungs. They release their arms from under their cloaks to place the babes at the foot of the bed, rolling out their shoulders and stretching their backs.

Then, after a moment of rest, they look at each other. They wasted no time closing the gap, wrapping each other in an embrace. Nothing sensual like this place would inspire, nothing romantic or yearning. Only love. The desperation to hold her was overwhelming, as it was proof that she was still here, present, alive, and safe. Aemond puts one hand atop her tangled curls and the other at her back, gripping her tighter and tighter like he expected her to become glued to his skin. He knows she can hear how incessant his heartbeat is, his ribs barely a cage enough to contain it. Aemond inhales the sweat and dirt, eye closed.

“You were scared too?” Her palms were flat around his waist and shoulder.

“Of course I was,” he admits. It was a simple thing to admit to her. “But you handled yourself so well.”

“He recognized me so fast.”

“And you handled yourself so well, darling.” He pushes the curls that cover her forehead back to kiss her on the skin, hot from stress. “You stood up for yourself, and I’m so proud of you.”

Aemond is present enough to let his heart calm. And once he feels the steady decline, he moves his hands but doesn’t let her go. Instead, he holds her face, kissing her forehead again, then her cheeks, then her lips. He brushes the tops of her hair back as he looks into her eyes. “I love you,” he tells her. “Don’t ever forget that.”

Her smile was small, yet such a wash of relief at the sight alone. The smile of contentment. “I love you too,” she tells him, and it’s a warmth that spreads through him like tea. And he looked at her for a long time. The mother of his daughters, a woman he never thought could love him the way he needed.

Her hands soon travel from his back to his wrists as she keeps her gaze on him. “I need to feed the girls.”

Aemond nods. “I’ll help you.”

“You should rest while you can, Aemond.”

“I’ll rest when you do.”

She does not argue further. She settled with Aemond helping her remove her cloak. He saw the way she was still shivering, but reminded himself that they were almost there. He doesn’t mention it. She instead settles on the bed, only wearing the dirty white cotton nightgown she often wore. It was the only one that had a stretchable collar. It was easier than getting undressed just to breastfeed the babes. She shimmies one sleeve down before bringing Alisha back into her arms. Aemond knows her breasts are still swollen with milk, and she has been in pain since the girls made their hunger known. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for her to latch, and she eats away.

Aemond keeps one palm on Alyssa in the swaddle as he watches. He moves her hair away from her chest, avoiding any mess. The copper spirals end at the middle of her back. She never wore it down when he first knew her. She had stringy pieces in her face that were too short to stay in the unkempt braid, which she only unraveled when the money was in her hand.

“What?” She turned to Aemond.

“Your cousin was too frugal for me,” he repeated in her earlier jab.

“Well,” she shrugs, “he was. Whores require payment, simple as that. Even the drunkest fools would toss coins at me when they were done.”

“I didn’t.”

She snorts with a laugh. “You’re a fool, but you’ve never been a drunken one. You paid me just to sit in my room and talk.”

“You intrigued me.” Aemond kissed her cheek. “Is that so bad?”

“It was daunting at first. You killed your cousin two days prior.”

“He was a cousin by marriage, dear.”

“You know what I mean, then.”

“Well, I didn’t know he was a cousin. It’s not like Royce was around.”

She scoffs lightly before changing her position, trying to sit as upright as she can, like Aemond. “Give me Alyssa,” she tells him.

“We have time. Just take the moment and be with your youngest.”

“Leave it to the youngest to be the most vocal.” She laughs at her joke.

Aemond does too, but he can tell she’s still rattled. “Look at me.” He gently puts his palm around her forearm, gesturing towards his chest, and then up as he inhales, guiding her to do the same. They exhale at the same time once more. “Perfect.”

“Gods, I was so scared.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Do you think your wife knows her brother is in the city?”

“We need to be informed in advance about any visitors to the Red Keep. She was probably waiting to tell me when it was closer to his visit. She knows I don’t care for him.”

“Do you think he recognized you?”

“No. He spat out what he did, but they’re the words of a sober man’s thoughts. Nothing more.”

They remained quiet until Alisha was done. Aemond keeps her hair out of the way as she burps their daughter. There was only minimal spit up—nothing a towelette couldn’t solve. He took the same towelette to wipe between her toes. They then switched out the twins quickly. She pulls the other sleeve down, and Alyssa latches while Aemond swaddles Alisha back up. It’s easy to remember: fold under the arms, across the chest, tuck behind the back, take the bottom, and meet the back. It’s effortless after four kids. Aemond holds her close, watching her eyelids grow heavy from the delightful consequences of a full stomach.

After a moment, he scoots closer to her, looking just over her shoulder as Alyssa eats. Her lids are becoming lazy as well, but Aemond can just make out her purple eye. The right one, just like his. It was something he once saw as a sense of pride. He felt the rush when he held Baelon, clean from the afterbirth, and nothing but a squishy being of joy. Daeron too. With his girl, his oldest girl, it was impossible to sit with that same storm in his blood without being reminded of the tragedies to come. The potential tragedies to come. It is why they’re here—to stop all potential tragedies from destroying his family.

She burps Alyssa. Spit up, as expected. It was more than Alisha, but Aemond wiped it up without hesitation. He dabbed her little plush lips for good measure, smiling at his baby. He swore he saw them curl.

Criston knocked at the door. Aemond knew because he copied his knock: three, two, then one. Aemond still gets up carefully as she watches him. Meanwhile, Alisha is out cold—not a peep. Aemond still keeps her out of view, cracking the door to just see half of Criston’s face. He doesn’t find any bruises, cuts, or a spot of blood anywhere on his clothes. Not even a wave of his hair was out of place. But the bulb in his throat bobs, something he remembers from the Dance. The audible dry swallow was never a good sign. “Royce is gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. He left just now.”

“We should leave.”

“Yes.”

They nod to each other before Aemond shuts the door. He looks over at her, and she’s already trying to bring her nightgown back over her chest and shoulders, frantic as Alyssa falls asleep.

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” Aemond crouches down, pulling gently at the sleeve with one hand and pulling it over her breast.

“We have to go,” she said.

“Yes, but let me help. Breathe. And hold her. Be with your daughter.”

She inhales, pauses, and exhales on her own as Aemond pulls up the other sleeve. She brushes Alyssa’s cheek, cooing and kissing the air softly. Aemond drank in the sight as he brought the neckline closer to her clavicle. Then he took her cloak, leaning on the bed, and wrapped it around her until it met in the middle. She shook out her hair as she clasped the cloak shut. Aemond then hides Alisha again as Criston knocks with the same pattern, politely urging them to hurry.

Criston leads them further down the hallway. “Alayaya is waiting for us in the back.” The three hurried down the hall, nearly hand in hand with how close they were. Aemond’s heart raced in rhythm with their hectic footsteps. The narrow halls felt like an endless stretch as he waited for a single door to burst open and finally catch them. With every corner turned, that similar surge came back in full swing, his grip only tightening on Alisha as they rushed to the exit.

Then he spotted Alayaya over Criston’s shoulder, her hand firmly on the knob. She was ready to free them like frantic animals, but she stopped Criston with a polite palm to the chest first. “This leads to an alleyway. Go right, then left out of it. Follow the street until you reach the Old Gate. Make your way across the path, and the building will be on the corner. The top floor.”

As she opens the door, they all nod, and then they feel their feet touch an evenly paved cobblestone as darkness engulfs them once again. Silhouettes of ivy cling to the stone walls of looming buildings. Not a person in sight, not a (visible) Targaryen child in sight. Almost there. It was all Aemond could think of. Criston is ahead again, but he looks back. “Come here,” he says to Aemond. He recognizes the tone when he’s overtaxed. Aemond then looks back at her before approaching his side.

Criston pulls out a skeleton key, a similar brass shade to Alayaya’s. “Yours now. Chataya said she would send you the bill at the end of the month.”

Aemond takes the key, shoving it in his cloak pocket. His dry throat swallows as he feels the heaviness in the air—the shame. His mother’s shame Aemond could outrun for as long as he still breathed. The gods were kind enough to give them time together after the war and cruel enough to take her so soon after he found Helaena on the spikes. The idea  of Criston’s shame lingering in his eyes during every small council meeting, every year on any of his children’s name days, every glance in his direction was something he couldn’t tolerate. He did not want to lose more family.

“Thank you for this,” he eventually said. “It means a lot. Truly.”

Criston looks at him, but only briefly. “Don’t mention it.”

“I should, though. You went out of your way for me again. I am grateful for that... beyond words.”

Criston turns back to Aemond. His dark eyes, even in the starless night, softened quickly. “It’s my job to go out of my way for you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches.

“I know you know what I mean.”

He gazes down at the hidden (finally asleep) mass in his arms. He knows.

“Aemond!”

His instinct takes over again, and he doesn’t remember turning around just as he doesn’t hear Criston draw his sword. His eye rests on the blade against her throat. Royce. Aemond makes out the Baratheon sigil on his chest as she struggles against his hold on her waist, despite not making any difference.

Aemond, however, cannot move. Not because he’s frozen with indecision, but because of the realization that there is no move that isn’t obvious. He is just in need to kill as he needs to protect Alisha. He cannot simply pass her off to Criston. Not even if his hands were free; they are too far away to make any difference. Royce could slice them both before Aemond would even be in reach.

So he is still by force and keeps his eye on her. She’s as fierce as she is terrified.

Royce’s face, however, is puffy from too much ale. And his beard glistens with grease. He chuckles. “So this is what you’re doing when you’re not making heirs with my sister, huh? We went to war—my father died—so you could make your own bastards with a Flea Bottom whore?”

“You will let them go,” Criston orders.

“Targaryen bastards line plenty of alleyways. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t slaughter this one in her arms and bring it to my sister. Have the entire city on the hunt for Prince Aemond Targaryen’s hidden bastard.”

“Royce,” Aemond says through his teeth. “Don’t.”

“Oh. You care about these. The prince I rode with in the Riverlands, he didn’t care for the bastards he slaughtered. He made them dragon dinner.”

“And I will slaughter you before feeding you to Vhagar all the same.”

Royce laughs. “If you cared for your brother’s kingdom at all, you’d drop the babe and hope the stone splits her head open.”

Aemond only holds Alisha tighter. She whimpers as she wakes up.

“I guess we have different priorities.” Then Royce moves the blade from her neck and shoves her into the wall, her back colliding with the stone. She yelped as she landed on the ground. Royce then snatches Alyssa from her hold before she can grip her tighter.

Alyssa whimpers with Alisha as she hangs in the air. Her weight dropped in the swaddle, but she didn’t fall. Her whimpers morphed into panic. His purple tint in her eye gleamed even in the minimal light, and he didn’t know if he could keep his eye open as he watched her kick her little feet in the cocoon, completely helpless.

Then the metal of Royce’s blade came into his sight. “She has your... eye.”

Alyssa was quiet because her mother’s screams pierced Aemond’s ears like blades themselves, digging into the canals. It’s all that forces him to look away from the aftermath, a word that was so easy to use when speaking about a mass of dead soldiers. Dead villagers and dead bastards as well. But seeing Alyssa on the ground, inky liquid pooling around her, it makes everything move slowly. Royce was even slower to stop her from digging Aemond’s dagger into his calf. Royce collapses, and the dagger ascends his body, cutting up his skin and fat like she was climbing a mountain, until Royce gurgles, desperate to keep speaking as his body convulses. When she is on top of him, she digs the blade into his chest. Repeatedly. Until only the hilt is visible

Aemond stays still, watching the twitching in Royce’s ankles. Criston is in his peripheral, his blade sheathed again. It’s her wailing and her rapid breaths in the dark that snap him into motion.

He hands Alisha off to Criston, double-checking that she is secure in his arms as she cries to herself. Aemond scrambles to her, nearly tripping over his own feet as he slides to the ground. His knees are wet as they press into the stone, and he can’t think about who it might be. Aemond finds his blade in the dark and slips it back into one of his belt loops.

Aemond’s throat is tight as he feels around for her, finding her back and the crooks of her knees. But there were small fists pounding against his shoulders and chest as she strained her voice.

“It’s just me,” he says.

“No!”

“Can you walk?”

“No!” She continues beating on his chest. “No, no! Where’s Alyssa? I want to see Alyssa!”

Aemond doesn’t listen, eventually feeling around (and finding more blood drenching her nightgown) until he finds her legs. He pulls her up as he attempts to stand on his own; the realization taking hold as she writhes against him.

“I want my baby!”

Aemond ignores her, spotting Criston and bolting past him before he says anything. He knows where to go just as well as Aemond. From the alleyway, he remembers to exit left. He keeps the image of the Old Gate in his mind as he charges.

The lavishness of the apartment was reminiscent of Chataya’s, with multiple rooms, silks, and warm colors throughout on top of the beautiful view of the city. The same scarlet lamps reflect on the stone floor, almost hiding the blood staining the entryway. Servants lined the archway into the first sitting room. That was until Aemond ordered them out, as they both collapsed to the ground upon unlocking the door.

Aemond’s lungs burned, like dry heat in his chest, as he heaved. When he eventually tried to stand (with great pain), he tried picking her up as well. She smacked his hand away. He understood. He deserved it. She did her best to get up on her own. And though Aemond could hear the struggle in (what remained) of her voice, he didn’t interfere. It was not his place. He stood against the nearest wall like the servants did moments ago. Except that his body lost all posture and royal propriety. He could barely feel his legs, let alone any sign of a heartbeat in his chest. As she stands, snotty inhales as she sees the blood across her body, red and shining even in the dim light. It nearly brings her back down.

That was nearly the case until her eyes locked on Aemond. He watched the surge pulse through her body as she brought herself to her feet with ease. Aemond doesn’t resist when she stomps across the floor toward him. The rage is in her eyes—a fire he never thought would burn so instantly inside her.

And it was his fault.

Her fists collide with the bones in his chest, some catching strands of his hair and yanking them out as she only screams in his face. Aemond doesn’t stop her. It doesn’t hurt. He can’t feel anything.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually says. A single tear streaks down his face. It was cooling as it slid down to his chin, following another. “I’m so sorry, darling.”

“I said you couldn’t do it!” She kept beating him as he remained still. “But you wouldn’t listen to me! If you left us in Flea Bottom, where we were fine, if you weren’t so fucking stubborn, I’d still have my babes!” The last word snapped her back as she looked around. “Where’s Alisha?”

“With Cole.”

“Where is he?” Her eyes flare.

“He’s following us.”

“You mean you don’t know!”

“It hasn’t been long.”

She hits him with a blow to the chest that he actually feels, winding him. “It didn’t take long for Alyssa to die either!”

The blood from her hands stains his tunic. Her punches become weaker as she looks back down at her hands. And she turns around before bursting into sobs again. She runs to the nearest back room, away from Aemond. She looks around at each flat surface, like she hoped she simply misplaced the girls. It’s not Royce’s blood that bothers her. She doesn’t have the girls to hold. Not even one of them—something she hasn’t experienced in three months. The whimpers and cracks in her voice are all that carry when Aemond can’t see her anymore.

Aemond returns to the ground, sliding down the granite wall. He was a pathetic guard for a woman who has every reason to hate him. The numbing stage of his heartbreak will surely pass and descend into the next stage, as will the weighing guilt of his actions. These were his actions. One of his girls died from his mistake. Because he, once again, assumed he was an exception to the rules, to the gods and their wrath.

Three knocks, then two, then one. 

Aemond doesn’t have the strength to stand. “Cole,” he says.

Criston opens the door, heavy wood with creaking metal hinges. He looks around the place, spotting the blood on the floor. His arms are cradling Alisha as he crouches to Aemond’s side. He doesn’t see a fleck of disappointment, only wide-eyed concern. “Are you alright?” He feels around his cloak and tunic for a wound.

Aemond shakes his head. “Not mine,” he says. His eye points to the archway on the other side of the room. “She’s over there.”

Criston looks over, her wails trailing out of the room just loud enough to overhear. He’s gentle when showing him Alisha. “She’s safe,” he says. “I only just got her to calm down.”

Aemond’s chest shutters, as though his ribs had finally given in and dissolved inside him. She matched her mother’s big eyes; the whites of them were pink, and her cheeks were red with grief. Aemond is hesitant to touch her, not just because of the blood drying on his fingertips, but also because of the fear of damning his only living daughter with his touch alone. He looked at Alisha as if he were suddenly the Stranger embodied, like one fingertip to her soft ginger hair would eliminate his purpose in doing all of this and destroy any sense of Targaryen exceptionalism he thought he possessed.

He hesitates but forces himself to reach out and touch her, as it may be the last time he’s ever given the chance. There’s a part of him that feels filled (if not partially) when she looks at him, recognizing him as a remedy for his pain and not the cause yet. He brushes the flesh on her cheek before letting his head fall back against the granite. “She needs her more. Go.”

Criston hesitates to leave. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Go.”

“I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Aemond watches Criston disappear behind the curtains lining the archway, and his eye rests on the ceiling. He looked up like he was looking at the gods in the sept, the grand marble statues that surrounded him when he prayed. Helaena and Jaehaerys’ ashes in the sept came to mind, resting in silence after she screamed and held his headless nephew. The sound was no different from the mother of his children just in the next room, the sound of her heart shattering in front of him—a pain he didn’t have the strength to voice in himself. He didn’t think his heart could break the way it did upon seeing his corpse, wrapped in gilded cloth, like he was only in a deep sleep. He thought about the pieces of Arrax falling from the clouds at Storm’s End, with no sign of Lucerys’ body in the mix. All of them, his fault.

There’s no world where the gods would allow all of Aemond’s children to live when he helped kill two others because of his stupidity. His stupidity bested him again by making him think otherwise.

Criston came back. Alisha wasn’t in his arms, but a bucket and a rag hung off of him. He sets them close to Aemond as he gets comfortable on the floor, inches away. Criston dips the rag into the bucket, wringing out the excess water before taking it to Aemond’s cloak and chest. He doesn’t speak a word as he pushes Aemond’s long hair to his back, preventing any curling.

Aemond’s voice is weak. “Why are you doing this, Cole?”

“We need to clean you up,” he says.

Aemond takes a gentle hold of his arm and pushes him away. “She needs this more than me. Save the water for her.”

“There’s plenty left.”

“Why for me, then?”

Criston sighs. “It’s late in the night, Aemond. The hour? I’m not sure.”

Aemond doesn’t understand.

“Your wife is likely expecting you.”

Taglist: @paprikaquinn @immyowndefender @teal-anchor @dixie-elocin

[green-sky-smoke]

Reader asks Husk about his ideal date. (~1300 words)

"My ideal date, huh? The one where i win all your money in poker." He laughs, and smiles at you firmly, his eyes pierce at you warmly, like he was looking at nostalgic show, on old, thick tv screen, in worst quality possible. "Bring me cards, hun, i shall do a little," he waves palms happily, "magic! Watch future, how good your chances are." He laughs purringly. Then his smile and cheerful look dissolves. He's never like this for long. "But if you don't plan it... Honestly, i'm not really used to dates. I'm not interested in flowers and fancy dinners, i saw enough of them. I am a man of simple pleasures. I have booze here, why don't just stay where we are?" he tilts his head a little, with catlike grace and elegance, expecting you to nod. And then you both hear something heavy, loudly falling on the floor, and a lot of swears and arguing. His ears press on his head from the sudden noise.

"Well. That's why. We may go somewhere." He sights, annoyed. Husk is frowning, looking in almost empty bottle, like lines of light and reflections on emerald glass will say something his drunk brain stubbornly refuses. He tries very hard to think it out, but he got solid brain fog.

"How about... Well..." he is really lost in his own thoughts. You can almost see how his neurons try to reach one another, but fail miserably, and pain gently swipes them away. "How about... About..."

No. Date isn't a game, it's when you entertained enough being with someone. Not a game. You did games everyday, Husk, what make date unique if it just another playful robbery? Date is not another gambling game, loss of big money and property. Especially not of someone who you like. Maybe you can both play and share loss, or win, playing together and not against each other... But against anyone else? Hm. Would be nice to offer it later, if he won't forget.

He hasn't had any sugarcoated romantic fantasies in a long time, and his brain rejected him creating some now, when he got someone interesting enough. The most interesting thing was just looking at your confused, annoyed face, and just any negative emotion. He felt better sometimes, seeing unhappy faces, when he is himself aren't happy at all about where it all ended for him. Husk hunched over the table, puzzled. Looks like he completely zoned out.

Most of all, he enjoys spending time together, calmly, not in a fight. Table games where he can bluff and laugh at someone's bad strategies and skill, or hand motorics. Magic tricks and spectacular shows. Gently massages and some cuddling. Sleeping and resting, doing nothing. He doesn't like very pricy places, or sports. He isn't most complex person, so it's quite a mystery for him why you would have interest in alcoholic with ludomania who likes to mock you lovingly, or insult. It's kinda easy when he presented with people insecurities every day, every year, when they can't shut up about it, and any anecdotes happening. He could write dissertation about it.

"Cheap, and funny." He chuckled, as your face becomes a little disappointed. "What? Not the answer you wanted?" He smiled, a bit smug. He enjoys your confusion, and how you try to think of questions to to clarify exactly what he wants, when you know that he won't reply long, he mostly gives you very vague answers that tells nothing at most.

"Let me tell you a thing, boo... Planning perfect dates is the most useless thing to do. Life is always unpredictable, chaotic, troubled and hard in hell. Situations always change, your mood, your tastes, you never the same person as day, or hour ago. You never know. If you hunt perfection, perfect place, perfect person, perfect reaction, day and time, you will end up miserable. And... You can try small things and be happy with surprises from this chaotic universe we live in, being constantly amazed how bad you are at fortune-telling!" He spreads his arms with enthusiasm, and then puts them down, waving one. He takes an indifferent sip of alcohol. "Or whatever. I don't care." He for a moment forgets what he wanted to add. Seems like he forgets that you're here too, too entertained with looking at same bottles, as if he was in an elite art gallery. His head migraine felt as if brain is expanding like the universe, right in his skull, and it is about to crack, while he won't be able to say anything intelligible or catch a coherent thought. He needs time to frown. You just look at him, wanting to stroke him. He looks so soft and fluffy, but you can't tell a moment you can do it.

"There isn't such a thing i would call a 'perfect date'. But there is 'it wasn't so bad as i expected'." he says before another long pause. He is clearly thinking hard, trying to scratch words off the walls of the skull, that hit him with an electric shock for any touch. His body was sometimes a real prison, making him worse person, who can really, really never leave for long.

"There may be all things i can enjoy to a point of addiction, but i would just act as grumpy ass until you take me there, waving booze, fists, threats, and i would know how enjoyable this is only after." He smiles and cackles, a bit annoyed and a bit self-ironic. He knows his brain and mood tricks pretty well, but believes he don't really need or can change a thing. He hates it, but he wouldn't wish to be anyone else. "It all seem too boring, overrated, overpriced and annoying to me when i think about it. I can find all reasons to not go anywhere and not move at all. Im in the point of life where it's really hard to find joy and eagerly seek things. You know?" He shrugs. "Go on, i don't mind, if you can bear with me constantly rejecting anything im not used to, and being grumpy old growler. It may at some point end as perfect date i would be sad to forget." He looks at you, like he doesn't really believe it, but willing to let you try. It doesn't matter to him, he will suffer each way in same amount, you wouldn't make it much worse than Alastor. " ...Or not. Who the hell knows. Maybe you will have patience to make some use of such boring, forever grudging and mean demon. Im not the best choice, and it will only make you pathetic to try make impossible work." You smile, finally out of confusion. He just invited you to annoy him, how sweet. You bend over to him and hold out your hand. He doesn't understand your gesture, so he just hand you some heavy bottle of some sweet, sparkling tonic for cocktails. You move the bottle to the table, and you put your hand on his. It suprised him, but he smiled at this micro-miscommunication, and places other hand over your. Old cats are playful too. And no cat will reject some good, pricy food and quiet place to see all things, not just hear behind the bar table. "Well, you are the strongest creative source of new things in my life for now." He smiles faintly. Maybe he was completely sarcastic. "So, take care of yourself. I can't appreciate you most times, but it would be loss for all hell. And i think you didn't drink in a while, so you need some liquid more than hold my hand, dumdum." He gets his hand out of your warm touch, and moves the bottle almost in your face. "Or shall I shake it for you?" He laughs. Husk believes you totally can use some foam of wrath in your face too.

[h-harleybaby]

Ignore this if you’ve done it but matching costumes with the boys… what do YOU think they’d wear as couple costumes with reader

~🍋

STOOOOP THAT WOULD BE ADORABLE AHHHH

I doing the main 4 + Butters because you didn’t specify them :)

Cartman

• Would absolutely suggest doing something vaguely racist, but dw y’all don’t… even if you have to physically shove Cartman into the bathroom to change. He’s probably pissed about it the whole night tbh

• Probably makes you go as a KFC chicken bucket while he’s the Colonel Sanders because he genuinely will not shut the fuck up until you agree to it. It was so stupidly embarrassing

• He would most definitely force you to go to a party so he could show everyone y’alls costumes before dragging you out to go do other things. He really just wanted to brag and embarrass you

• Cartman will absolutely make you go trick or treating with him despite y’alls ages, and y’all stay out sooooo late that people aren’t even out anymore. He refuses to end the night until he hits up everyone’s house and demands all the candy they have

• At the end of the night you guys stop by the dollar and grocery stores to buy all the cheap Halloween candy that’s on sale. Don’t worry you’ll get your cut on the candy too, it’s just a bit… smaller than his cut

Stan

• Stan doesn’t really care enough about Halloween to plan to dress up or literally anything, but if you insist he’ll probably throw something together quickly

• You guys go as Sally and Jack but his part of it is really half assed, he still looks good tho!! It’s just, a lot people couldn’t tell who he was as at first. He probably got so drunk he couldn’t even remember

• Speaking of getting drunk, he throws a costume party because you insisted on doing something for Halloween. You asked, he delivers! Everyone’s there, even people from straight up other neighboring towns. People hear alcohol and and will do whatever to get it

• An almost concerning rowdy party and it wasn’t even from the party goers! It was from Randy swinging on the Chandelier and supplying all the alcohol. Overall a really memorable night… well to most of the people who went

• Like father like son, neither Stan or Randy could remember anything from last night but regardless, they had an unspoken agreement. Never tell Sharon and never speak of it ever again, the night never happened. Well, the pictures you took definitely say otherwise

Kyle

• Sheila insists on buying y’all’s costumes and she gets y’all some peanut butter and jelly costume. Kyle absolutely hates it but he would never tell his mother, thank god he has a job so he could buy something else and just change when you guys leave

• Y’all actually end up going as Morticia and Gomez Addams even though Kyle in general looks a little too colorful to be Gomez cough cough GINGER cough cough but regardless, he tries his best to slick his hair back and hunch over more so he could be shorter than you. It doesn’t work but it’s the thought that counts right?

• Half way through the night hall switched costumes because you didn’t wanna wear heels too long and he wouldn’t have to because of how tall he is. Shelley let him use her hair straightener and you’re pretty sure you burnt off some of his hair but it’s tooooootally fine, absolutely fine (he doesn’t know)

• Kyle was honestly kind of miserable the whole night, he didn’t really WANT to be there but you begged him to do something with you and Halloween and Stan would’ve dragged him to the party regardless if you asked him to go or not

• Though I suppose you asking really did help, he might’ve just bailed when he heard there was alcohol. Despite everything… he makes a really good Morticia but that was mainly because he was tall and would do the tango with you if you asked

Kenny

• KEN AND BARBIE YOU SAY? I THINK SO!!!!!!! It’s hard to find something in his closet but he ends up trying to spray paint his parka bright pink and writing “I am Kenough” in black sharpie. Oh that poor, poor parka

• You had to physically force him not to try throwing together some haphazard dick costume that he wanted to use soooo bad. He tried to hard to convince you that you guys should go as a dick and sperm

• Thank god you guys didn’t, y’all ended up taking Karen trick or treating for a couple hours and she went dressed as a lil skeleton!!! It was the cutest thing ever, kinda stuff to make your heart melt

• After Karen got tuckered out y’all went to the party, might I add just in time to watch Randy scream and hang from the chandelier in only underwear. Honestly it was a lot funnier than it should’ve been, the man was stuck up there the rest of the night with you both passing up bottles of liquor to him

• Very memorable night for everyone involved, and somehow everyone knew what you guys were dressed as!! I suppose the bright pink and “I’m Kenough” really helped

Butters

• Would also suggest something racist but he doesn’t really know it, at least you give him better ideas so y’all don’t end up coming off weird

• Y’all would totally end up going as Joker and Harley Quinn, it’s completely overdone and cringe but y’all still go as them. Green hair and shirtless and EVERYTHING! His parents don’t like it at all and he ended up getting grounded later

• God you guys are sooooo cringe together, like y’all quote Harley Quinn and Joker stuff the whole night if y’all go to a Halloween/costume party. Multiple people will gag and throw up in their mouths. Multiple

• He’s the type to go to the party with you and almost have a heart attack because of the music, he would be paranoid that his parents would ground him for hearing such music. Somehow they did and they weren’t even there to hear it 😭

• You suggested going trick or treating but Butters was convinced he’s too old for it and his parents would def ground him for being out too late with someone as pretty as you. After a lot of convincing you got him to hit up a couple houses with you before you guys went home, the old people were very confused

[starsoftheeye]

TMagP Live Reaction Ep 30

Finale Spoilers!!!!

Ahhhhh I am so scared. samalicelia my loves please live. also the episode title is worrying me

Pre-Statement

train time train time

sam open your damn messages alice is the designated "would survive a horror podcast" friend

celias just like me fr I'm the designated painkiller friend

... that is a worrying cough

celia being wonderfully vague and suspicious as always I love you girl

ohhh just wait til the last season sam that's when the apocalypse gets you

"we're safe here" jon watching them from the next carriage like 👀

call him a bitch alice it's okay he's earned it

ah yes, ticket prices, the real horror

COLIN HI BUDDY

oh no colin what did you do

are there people in the computer colin

welp he's probably dead

oooooh gwen meets the consequences of her actions this is gonna go brilliantly

lena also being suspicious and vague I love you too girlie

honestly iconic of her. you go lena ily

ah yes, the laugh of someone who should be in charge of a government office

celia don't act like you don't know what you're looking for

the way she said that makes it sound like they did think it was there

oh I'm sure it has its ways to get round transportation

"call it a hunch" girl you are not subtle

honestly ever since getting braces that's what I think dentists are like these days, there's no way they don't have ulterior motives

woohoo footsteps

celia "knows what genre she's in" ripley

WHOS THIS I PAUSED TO WRITE THAT LAST ONE

"that's one hell of a reflex!" scottish voice acting I love you so much. also who's this guy I love him already

oooooh scottish guy what do you know

I love him so much he's so real

LMAO I would also give up client confidentiality for 50 quid

*one normal night* begins playing

oooooh scottish guy who are youuuuu

is this a statement I hear?

Statement

STATEMENT TIME

oh god it's being pulled from him

hmmmm I wonder who this boss is

mmm lovely

oooh is it like a siren shop

HILL TOP TRAVELLERS

oooh people mannequins love that

oh god he has a daughter

woooo the boss is dead good

job so bad that it haunts your worst nightmares

hello?

HELLO? SCOTTISH GUY??? SCOTTISH GUY NOOOOOO

I'm so sorry I have no idea what you're saying my guy I'll need to consult the transcripts for this one

Post-Statement

okay sam at that point you need to call her back you can't hide from consequences forever

girlboss and malewife

ooooh what do you seeeeee

almost???

yeah what does that mean????

ah yes, they finally have the argument

tell himmmmm tell him celia

YESSS CELIA BACKSTORY

oh yeah she doesn't know that the eyepocalypse is over does she. she probably thinks she's gonna go ba k to another fear domain. I don't blame her tbh

is she gonna send him to the tma universe. IS SHE GONNA SEND HIM TO THE TMA UNIVERSE

welp. samcelia was cute while it lasted folks

AHHHHH CELIA STATEMENT

... I am taking that "get away from her" as a final samcelia crumb

...uh oh that's not good

ooh alice is gonna be pissed

oh hey scottish rock guy how's it going

ah hi gwen. it's good to see all the girlboss villain arcs starting

everyone wishing gwen luck really bodes well for her /s

THATS HOW IT ENDS???? OH MY GOD SAM NO

boy everyone's dealing with consequences now

I am not ready for the break between seasons I need more already

hey at least no ones confirmed dead. also I support celia 100% I still love her and I will continue to be a samalicelia truther despite recent events

[eldritch-spouse]

Giving Mother Miara a titjob while you're lactating...

I shall return with more profound wisdom soon

[Hhhhhh anon, your brain is so wrinkly and pretty. Fem reader.]

TW: Unrealistic lactation (no pregnancy); Cultish/religious themes; Mild exhibitionism.

It was all new.

This entire dynamic. This world you had been thrust into. From leading such an ordinary way of life to becoming an actual goddess'... What did he call you again?

Chosen? Yes, Jonesy says that word a lot. You're Miara's chosen. Chosen something. You're not too sure what you are to her yet, which should be more worrying than it is honestly. Even more worrying is the way your memory seems to fail you when you try to recall certain aspects of your life before... All this, really. She's always there to tell you it doesn't matter, that you're overthinking what's natural.

You're her charm, and that's all there is to it.

See, your current place of residence is, for lack of a better word, an island. Fairly secluded, Miara raised it herself. This is, as far as you can tell, her home here on Earth. And it looks nothing short of a fairytale, you'll have to admit. It's always mildly sunny. That type of morning warmth you can feel on your skin when you step outside to catch some air before getting ready for the day. Harmless, elegant greenery sprouts everywhere, though neatly enough to never touch paved paths and only ever coil cozily over rudimentary infrastructures. Wildlife is scarce for now, but Mother says that is something to dwell on later. That's fine, you don't mind the silence, it's comforting for once, you feel coddled here, safe, wanted.

The residents, apart from yourself and the Lady, are almost entirely comprised of angels who come and go. Celestials of the three casts as she has told you before, workers, warriors and worshipers. One such worshiper, the one you'd consider to be Miara's right hand -More of a shoulder parrot really- is Jonesy, a somewhat insufferable stickler of a throne that's often in charge of ensuring you're "properly taken care of" in Mother's absence. You're very glad he's occupied right now.

In fact- You rise from your squat over the petunias, glancing up to check if he remains where he was. Yep, still a far distance away, you can vaguely trace the angel's figure, playing a harp for a group of lower-rank angels and one or two monsters, rare sights around here. Satisfied, you resume perching over the plants.

Having been stripped of addictive commodities, such as your phone for example, you don't have too much to busy yourself with nowadays. Miara oftentimes will refuse your requests to work with the low-rank angels who usually do maintenance around the island, insisting you remain well-rested and find graceful hobbies. Problem is, you like working, you enjoy getting your hands dirty every now and then. And, with enough pestering as well as some choice words, you've gained the ability to work on the Lady's main garden, the one surrounding an altar made mostly of marble. You're no grade-A gardener, and some guardians definitely seemed to pale a bit once they witnessed you work, but you know this is a skill you can master if you put your mind to it!

And really, with nothing better to do these days, that's mostly what your mind is on anyway.

Alright. You think you've trimmed more than enough right now. Plus, your back is starting to hurt. Groaning, you set down the shears and stretch onto the very tip of your toes, arms to the sky as your spine pops pleasantly.

It wouldn't be so tiring to hunch if your breasts weren't always so full.

You still remember how light they felt on your first few weeks here, how normal they were. You're not even too sure what compelled you to accept when Miara suggested you begin lactating. Maybe it was her reassuring tone, or the way she described the many uses it could have, it could have just been the way she almost huffed luridly when describing how safe the procedure would be, how you'd always be tended to.

You know this is a thing for Miara.

Siadar, the former gods of humanity, do have kinks. You'd say you're surprised, but if humans are creations made ever so vaguely in their image, then it only makes sense. Sins of the father, or so they say. There's more nuance to this, you know you can pick it apart further, but you'd rather not go mad any time soon. It's imperative your frail mortal mind stay untouched right now, or rather, minimally unmolested- Because you're well aware you've already suffered changes. Nonetheless, the Lady decidedly enjoys the sight of your chest swollen with milk. You're very sure this isn't the standard rhythmn of milk production for a pregnant woman, but then again, you've never been pregnant before- And you've never induced this process for the sake of it... Still, you don't want to believe this is what moms have to endure. It feels like it's too much.

Feels like she wants it to be too much.

You remember having asked the goddess about it once. You were peeved at her, for a multitude of reasons, but mainly the recurring one, that you're not allowed to leave the island. Jonesy was helping you drain your breasts, something that was initially very humiliating for you but eventually became trivial. The irritation and desire to lash out manifested in a very petty question- Why don't you have tits, you remember snarking bitterly.

Jonesy immediately gave you a terrifying glare, but Miara sat next to you as calm and jubilant as she's always been. Laughed even, as if your question was so frivolous that it shouldn't be dignified with any offense. In retrospect, she might get that question a lot from humans.

Breasts are for lessers, she simply said, and the subject was left at that. Who are you to question a goddess... But then, does that mean none of them have breasts? You find that a bit improbable. It can just be a matter of pref-

" Haven't you worked enough? "

ACK-!

Humans aren't capable of flight, but you sure jumped a good distance in the air. Ow. The ensuing bounce of your boobs is thoroughly unpleasant.

Miara stands beside you, height dramatically decreased. She still towers above all others in this form, but less jarringly so. You could even take her for a particularly tall monster. It always bothers you how she can just appear. No warning, no sound, one blink and she is physically present. Unnerving.

" M-Mother... "

The siadar observes your work, something about her gaze is superficial, dismissive almost. Her arms are crossed in front of her robes and she looks placid enough to be mistaken for a classic painting.

" I think you have, charm. "

You're not even sure what she's talking about. " Well I- I like to keep busy, y'know? " She does.

The goddess finally deems it time to glance at you, once warm eyes becoming very intense. You don't like it, you hate the burning pressure of those golden colors, how the radiating shapes around her irises swirl with focus- It's as if you're getting sucked into a blinding heat and it's dissolving you inside out, demanding your full regard, your everything.

Horrific.

" You require draining. " She comments after a bit.

Looking down, you note the small yet nonetheless present stains of milk on your gown. You hadn't even felt it, you could have sworn it was dry seconds ago. Your arms raise to cover the mess, defensive maybe, or just ashamed of being in this state in front of a being like her. The goddess frowns, it's an alien expression for her perfect face.

" Did Joakeel not- "

" I told him I didn't need to. "

It was the truth.

You don't want strangers touching your body at her behest. It makes you feel... Dehumanized. You already allow Jonesy to do far too much for you, and with this permissiveness comes the feeling of uselessness, the biting lack of autonomy, and a sense of loss. Loss of skill perhaps. What if you stop being able to take care of yourself because you're used to having everything be done for you at the drop of a hat?! You need moments of insignificant defiance, if only just to feel like a tenth of a normal person. It's already concerning that you feel bad when Miara is away. This strange sentiment of... Longing. You miss her. You miss her warmth and her voice and you feel like a puppy wagging its tail as soon as she comes back. When the Lady is away, you find yourself falling into foul moods, and it's possible that you've been taking it out on the poor throne lately.

He doesn't deserve your attitude, he's just doing what he's told to, he doesn't know better. You're not going to fuck him over further and claim the angel simply didn't show up to drain your breasts at the exact same time he does everyday. Not that she'd buy it anyway.

Silence rules all for a couple of seconds, even the petunias appear to stop swaying softly in the wind. It's hard to read her face, until she cracks that same old smile.

" I see, you would rather I do it... That pleases me. "

That wasn't... Well, it's not a baseless assumption, but.

" I- N-No, my Lady- " You're not sure how to de-escalate the awkwardness that just rose from the dead.

The creator tuts. " Lying doesn't suit you. " For some reason, even if you know damn well that wasn't the point you were trying to make, you still feel bad for disappointing her. " Besides, I just cannot let you roam freely in that miserable state, dear. "

" It- It's fine, I can- "

" It tempts me. "

The thoughts in your mind evaporate, the first instinct is to look down from Miara's face. Your eyes bulge, but not nearly as much as her robes.

Oh.

O-Oh.

This isn't exactly entirely new to you. There have been a handful of tense, sensual episodes between yourself and the goddess- She's touched you before, made you feel heights of ecstasy that rendered you dysfunctional for entire days, and you've seen her bare as well. Had the privilege to place your hands upon a body never meant to be yours to know. You've brought an entity older than you can guess to orgasm.

And it was nothing short of gorgeous.

But it's never gone further than that. Miara never made attempts to sheathe herself in you, even if it was the only thing going through your mind when she had you ride her hand like a feral creature. You're not sure whether to be glad or frustrated- Because every interaction that's mildly sexual between you two is forever marked by that ever elusive "what if...?". What if it'll go further today? What if she decides now is the occasion to go all the way? What will happen to your mind when your brain is flooded by an avalanche of pleasure it can't hope to ever process?

You're distracted again by the twitch of her cock beneath the pink fabric of her outfit.

" I'm... Sorry? " Lame. Lamest thing you could have said, but you're getting sweaty and you can't bare to look at her face, not after you've been caught gawking.

" Do something for me, my chosen. "

Oh fuck, come on, did she have to use that tone?

" ... Yes? " Your face heats up.

" Oh come closer, when have I sought to hurt you? "

Perhaps not physically, but you've gone through a myriad of emotions in her care. It's oftentimes hard to tell if you're truly happy here or just repressing distaste. Eitherway, you do as she says, fiddling with handfuls of your light white gown in suspense. Miara's hands, more akin to paws given how warm and big they are compared to you, fall onto your hair. She strokes strands away lovingly, sliding some behind your ears and humming at the sight of you.

You can tell she's happy, because Miara's joy always spreads to the world around her, colors become more vibrant, the sun shines brighter, and there's always that signature warmth as if you're being held from all sides. It makes you want to keep her happy, do anything in your power to please. Is this what angels feel?

" My lovely, stunning little charm. " She purrs. " Take your gown off. "

There's nothing beneath it. You both know this. In your moment of hesitation, you stretch once more to look beyond Miara, in the direction where you had last spotted Jonesy, and- He's still there. However, you're fairly certain he's observing you two, the crowd previously hearing his performance now absorbed with what appears to be light conversation. That unwavering eyeball sees all, fixed on you and the creator.

Your chin is guided back to Mother with a harmless claw. " I am here. "

" Forgive me, it's just- "

" Observation doesn't mean judgement, dear. " She cautions, as if reading your mind. " Now, bare yourself. "

And you do, with no real attempt at being seductive. Part of you wants to check if the throne is still watching, but you've already been warned once. So, all you do is step out of the cloth pooling around your feet, somewhat put off by the way you're still leaking, slowly. Gross.

The goddess seems to think differently of the sight however, an audible sort of swoon leaving her. When you dare meet her hues again, she's lifting her robes, heavy garbs dragging on an impressive length that pops free much too close to your person. She's... Well, perhaps massive is a bit of grotesque adjective, but you have no other way to describe it. Miara is hung, -Which you suppose is fitting for someone as connected to fertility as she is- And pretty, and every single time you glance at that girth you can feel yourself biting your own lip with a fervor, salivating. But also eerily humanoid.

You're willing to bet that's a modification she applied to her own genitals, though it boggles you why Mother would want a phallus like that of a human's. Is that not... Inferior, by siadar standards?

" Am I really that much of a conundrum to you? "

Ah, caught again. You must be really easy to read for her. " Well, a bit. " You figure honesty can't hurt that much.

The siadar nods. " Dwelling on it will do you no good. You're not here to unveil mysteries, my sweetest dove. "

It's hard to care about the nature of her words when she makes you feel so wanted. Maybe being wanted by a goddess is more important than anything else human society has told you should be prioritized. Maybe your core values are nothing but rubbish that this holy entity will now replace, correct.

Maybe you have to stop thinking so much.

So, when a pale finger curls invitingly, you get even closer to the huge being, coming almost face to face with the pallid thing standing at attention this whole time. Oh, she definitely calculated her height for this. No doubt.

Your tits are held up, and before you can ask what's happening, her cock slides between them, tip parked right at your chin. The position is lurid enough to have you stunned in silence, allowing Miara a couple of quick, experimental rocks. She squeezes your breasts greedily and you moan, pain turning to mild relief, milk drooling between you and onto her twitching length.

This shouldn't be as hot as it is.

" Hold still for me. " Miara murmurs.

Flustered beyond measure, all you can do is nod and stand slightly on your toes to accommodate the goddess' grasp of your oversensitive breasts. At the very least, she's always considerate with you, starting slowly. With each grind of that oddly hot girth, the Lady rolls your tits generously, draining them at the same time that she squeezes herself. The sensation of her dragging against your skin sends shivers to all the wrong places, your hairs stand on end and you pant quietly, noises overshadowed by your Lady's own melodious ones.

Some gross side of you is taking immense enjoyment out of this. A petty, validation-craving voice that claims you're special, this proves you're the best- Because, if a god tittyfucks you, then clearly you must be doing something right, no? The fact that she seeks you out, takes pleasure from you, tells you how good you feel, they're all indicators that you're cherished and loved and so much more than just a regular Joe. You love that. Silently, but you do.

The more milk she pulls from you, the louder each slap of flesh on flesh becomes. Lurid, gross plaps ringing amidst irregular breathing. Droplets of your own extract slide down your front, tickling your arousal when they pool between your legs, teasing. With a more slippery surface come harder, longer strokes. You're almost jostled by the motions of Mother's hips, a milk-coated cock knocking into your chin awkwardly.

You don't know what- Oh, who are you kidding? You know exactly why you're going to do what you're about to. It's because you want her to praise you, to tell you how good you are and how proud she is of her little lesser. So, leaning your head back a bit, you allow your lips to brush against the tip of her dick on its trip back forward.

Miara looks thrilled by the initiative, eyes widening for a brief moment, before she lids them and huffs, nodding at you in silent encouragement. Enjoying her approval way more than you'd care to admit, your lips part, allowing a small tongue to sample her glans from time to time, swirling beneath it, teasing the giantess. You can taste your own milk on it, mingled with the intense flavor of her precum, it's a foreign, lewd mix that'll imprint itself into your mind forever.

You really, really don't have the guts to meet her intense gaze, but her smile- That pretty, glowing grin... The tint on her cheeks. It makes you so happy in an almost instinctual way. You want to do more, trying to catch her tip between your lips. Unfortunately, she pistons too fast and ends up dragging herself across your cheek. It's like trying not to drop soap in the shower, you miss again.

Embarrassing.

Joyous, amused laughter rings from above- And even though you were considering crawling into a hole mere seconds ago, you find yourself giggling quietly as well now.

" Try again, charm. Slower. " She cautions.

To her credit, Miara helps by sedating her pace as well, allowing you to finally pop as much of her as you can into your mouth. There's too much of your own milk coating her to be sure, but there's something almost sweet about her taste. You find yourself swirling your short tongue all around, trying to sink onto her further in this awkward position, feeling her balls knock against your upper body- Her growled, unintelligible expletive is thrilling.

A groan of disappointment almost makes its way past your lips when she retreats, sliding out of your warmth with a loud pop.

Drunk from your own arousal, you attempt to slide the goddess' hands off your soaked tits, she gives you a mildly ponderous look before allowing it, that dark grin stretching up pale cheeks, unfiltered glee that you're now willingly kneading your breasts against her length. One paw reaches for the back of your head, gently edging it forward on her next thrust.

Miara vastly stops moving after that, panting in place, throbbing in your mouth while you do your best to vigorously titfuck her- Moaning around her cock with your eyes closed. Some part of you knows this probably constitutes as worship. Mother says she doesn't care much for it anymore, but it definitely still pleases her. You wonder why, a mystery for another time...

Nonetheless, the realization makes the act a lot more intimate than it already was.

You've never really declared love to Miara, while the goddess has been nothing but affectionate to you. While you never did tell her off either, you never returned that fervor. Never dignified her with those three little words Jonesy tries to coax you into admitting.

You wonder if that hurts her.

Ultimately, it's not something you want to simmer in with Miara's dick sitting hot on your tongue, so you focus on sucking her off while she grinds lightly. You know she's getting close, the odd whispered murmurs, the way her head cranes to the side, spare hand rising, finger caught between teeth- They're all signs. You glance up, finally meeting her blazing golden hues.

" Beautiful, precious darling- I knew you'd come around for me. We can be so happy together. " She huffs.

It's hard to resist.

It's so hard to resist.

" ... I- I love you. " You say, near soundless in your timidity, not even sure if you mean it. But it feels like the right thing to say here, now.

And she comes.

Jarringly fast, with a snarled cry, an ugly face full of fervor and triumph, almost smug. Ropes of pearly cum hit your face before you have the composure to suck on her again, dripping down your chin in hot, gross globs. You can't even try to swallow everything, it's pooling back around her flexing cock in mere moments. Her load is always heavy and generous, too much and too soon.

Miara pulls back slightly, you're coated in whiteness, unsure how much of it is milk or her seed. Does it matter? You're too focused hearing her sing in orgasm, milking -Hah, the irony- Her dry.

Several silent seconds pass as your motions slow to a crawl, the siadar catching her breath. You're not sure if you should say something, standing there feeling like a melting wax candle, but oddly content. Mother smiles lovingly at you, then rolls her eyes.

" Jonesy, do come out of the bushes now... "

A sweaty-looking throne scrambles out of- OH COME ON, you spent all morning working on those!

[flowwochair]

Doves and their Peculiar Taste (Aimevout) - Prologue

After much debate (and because apparently I have to wait to make an AO3 account????) I decided to post the prologue to the fic I have been working on here, depending on how long AO3 takes to release me from purgatory I might just go ahead and post the chapters I have so far on here too. NOTE: The fanfic starts with Aimée's engagement to Lannes and is meant to end with her wedding to Davout following her as she becomes disillusioned with Lannes and falls in love with Davout, who she meets by chance at an event hosted by her brother, the prologue is set before this. Although I tried to stick as much as possible to historical accuracy here there will most likely be bits that are not as accurate. I attempted to be as accurate as I could be to Aimée's initial engagement to Lannes and how things were going back then but I don't have a lot of specific info on that and the specific circumstances she was in and this fic is largely my own creative take on how the engagement was dissolved and how Davout and Aimée met. In reality, I don't even know if Davout and Aimée had met at all prior to their wedding, let alone have a soapy lovey dovey will they won't they slowburn romance develop between them. Likewise, I did my own take in characterization to some extent, I wrote the characters involved the way I see them/think of them, but some of them will change throughout the fic (notably Lannes, Davout, and Aimée). I apologize for any historical inaccuracies, like I said this is my own creative take about a very specific situation which I don't have a lot of insight on :((( . TLDR: there will probably be some historical inaccuracies here and there PLEASE dont be mean to me about it or I'm gonna cry and show up in your living room and throw up on your carpet, thank you. Anyways, enjoy.

Prologue – Scene 1

“An illegitimate child with another man?”

The words slapped Lannes back into consciousness as they left Bonaparte’s mouth.

“I find I should be concerned myself, my situation is not much better than yours, but, how do you feel?”

Lannes realized he had been venting to Napoleon without a second thought, and only then did the reality hit him. What now? Well, Napoleon was the best person to ask wasn’t he? “What now?” Lannes looked up at Bonaparte with a puzzled look, seeming almost as if half awake. “I guess I need a new wife”. Bonaparte could see his sorrow being converted into anger, typical for Lannes given his nature, “And have you thought of someone?” he asked, to which he earned  a quick reply from Lannes’s increasing frustration “Fuck no.”

Bonaparte reclined on his chair, staring down at Lannes who sat on a camp bed, his back hunched, his eyes on the floor. “Lannes,” as Bonaparte called, he looked up, eyebrows still furrowed, “You’ve become a close friend to me… and what do we want in life if not to see our friends cared for?”. Lannes’s expression changed to one of confusion, “What? Do you have someone in mind?”, he didn’t like it when Napoleon was vague with him. “I have already sought connections for my sisters, they are cared for, however, they themselves have connections which aren’t.”

“Well honestly I’m not sure if I wanna think about women at all right now.” Lannes hastily got up as he spoke, grabbing his hat in the process and turning towards the tent’s opening, until Napoleon stood up and grabbed him by the arm, “God, listen to me won’t you” with a movement of his chin he gestured towards he chair he previously occupied, “Sit.”

“Fine”, Lannes sat “Hurry up.” “My sister, Pauline, is married to Charles Leclerc, you know him do you not?” “Yeah whatever I think so”, Lannes gestured vaguely. “Leclerc has unmarried sisters, one in particular who is at proper age, Louise-Aimée-Julie Leclerc.” “I never met this girl.” “I have heard and read snippets of her character here and there, she seems like a docile girl, well behaved, just a bit shy but perfect for marriage, especially as a rebound after something like this. Not to mention, by marrying her, you would be brought into my family through her connection to my sister. You would be cared for in being provided with a good loving wife, a wealthy familial connection to the Leclercs, and a connection to me.” He spoke more as if he were pitching a business deal than as if he were pitching a marriage.

Lannes still looked at him, but this time with some interest. It would seem the ‘sales’ pitch may have been successful at hooking him in. Access to wealth… a connection to Napoleon… a docile wife who would not give him a bastard child. “Huh… What does she look like?”.

“Brunette, brown eyes, small stature, she is quite petite.” Bonaparte replied, still in the tone of someone selling furniture. “Well you know how I am-“ “I do and I am hoping you would not take such a style with her.” Bonaparte replied sternly, “Her brother is quite protective of her Lannes, you should treat her as a crystal if anything.” “Sure… well, fine, let’s give it a shot.” Lannes said, standing up once again, this time with a much more interested expression. “Great.” Napoleon stood up as well, extending his hand towards Lannes, “I will propose the idea to Leclerc tomorrow, he has been looking for a suitor to his sister, surely he will be pleased.” Lannes shook his hand “Surely”, he said with a smirk.

Lannes, having put his hat back on, then left Napoleon’s tent, as Napoleon sought an aide to write a letter to Leclerc on his behalf.

Prologue – Scene 2 Egypt had been hell for everyone involved, by then the campaign was falling apart and if anyone knew this for certain it was its leader, Napoleon Bonaparte, his return to France was already in plans. One of the many men condemned to stay in the hellish uncaring desert was one Louis Nicolas Davout. In a situation not too dissimilar from that of Lannes, having recently divorced his wife for an incident of a similar nature, he was down on his luck, one of the few things which at the very least kept him alive was his friendship to one Louis Desaix. “Davout?”, Desaix whispered, entering Davout’s messy tent, a stained jacket sat in rough shape on a chair near his bed, where Davout himself was sitting, staring at his glasses, the left lens badly shattered.

“Still awake hm?” Desaix sat on the chair facing him, his eyes attempting to meet Davout’s downward gaze. “Mhm.” He didn’t speak much, he never did, even to his closest friends, but still Desaix could read him so well, and he knew Davout was tired, he had been for a while. Desaix gently took the pair of glasses from Davout’s hands, which made Davout look up at him, “I’ll get take these with me, and send you a brand new pair from France! Whaddya think?” Desaix smiled at him. Although his expression did not change, Desaix could tell Davout’s mood had lightened slightly at the interaction. “Have you thought about what I said to you?”, Desaix kept his eyes fixed on Davout, concentrating in reading his expression. Davout looked down again, making Desaix concerned. “I don’t see the point. I tried once, it did not go well, why should I try again? I doubt it would result in success, besides I don’t have much to offer, it would simply be a pointless transaction on both ends.” Davout answered in a matter-of-fact manner, he looked up at Desaix once more with a straight expression. “You just haven’t met the right girl yet, you’ll see”, Desaix had been insisting a similar plea to Davout for long now, it wasn’t the first time Davout had heard him say this. “I am to return soon… I could… I could sneak you, yes, in the ship back to France, and-“ “General Bonaparte would never-“ “I don’t care what he has to say! I’ll sneak you in, I’ll take you to France, maybe you’ll meet someone there! Maybe at least you’ll change your mind, I could-“ “Desaix.” At this point, Davout was looking at him with concern. Desaix realized he was failing at hiding his distress. “I’m sorry.” He realized he had lifted off the chair towards Davout when he was speaking, he sat back down. “I worry about leaving you alone, I really do.” He placed his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his knuckles. There was silence between them for a little while.

“I’ll be fine,” Davout spoke, as he did Desaix looked up at him, his smile slowly reappearing. “I suppose as long as I am alive I am fine”, Davout shrugged. “Surely”, Desaix chuckled. Hesitantly, he stood up. “Keep me informed Davout, we should meet as soon as you yourself return to France, which I am hoping will be soon.” “I’ll try to remember to write to you, but you should write to me when you get there.” Davout responded, Desaix laughed at his response much to Davout’s confusion. “I will, have a good night Davout, I hope you’ll be at the port before I leave.” “I am hoping you do not intend to-“ “I won’t sneak you into the ship I swear! I just want to say my goodbyes that’s all” Desaix spoke honestly. “I’ll be there.” In a rare sight, Davout smiled at Desaix.  “See you.” Desaix gave Davout a pat on the shoulder before leaving his tent, still holding Davout’s glasses in his left hand. Not long after, Davout blew the only lit candle inside the tent, and tried his best to fall asleep.

Surely I’ll be fine.

[sesamestreep]

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 6

Write about a blackout (from this list) ➸ totally cheating once again and using this as a one-word prompt instead of probably how it was intended??? oh well. have some canon-verse angst and I’m sorry…

“Do you want to know the stupidest part?”

Foggy looks over at Matt, who’s hunched over his drink like someone might steal it from him. Then again, the fake IDs that got them into this bar were honestly not the highest quality, so it’s not an entirely baseless fear.

“Granted you’ve told me like three details total about what happened between you and Elektra, I will take any additional information you want to divulge, stupid or otherwise.”

Matt blinks at him with hollow eyes. “You just said a lot of words to me.”

Foggy sighs. “What’s the stupidest part, Matt?”

“I thought—it’s just—you’re going to think I’m a moron.”

“I won’t,” Foggy says, grabbing his shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. “I think you’re extremely smart, buddy. You might be the smartest person I know, okay? Just tell me. I promise I won’t judge.”

Matt looks so utterly fragile and lost in that moment that Foggy honestly doesn’t want to hear what’s going to come out of his mouth next, because he just knows it will break his heart. It’s been hard seeing Matt in such bad shape and to know almost nothing about what happened between him and his girlfriend after he’d disappeared with her for two weeks. Foggy had been a wreck about it, beside himself with worry and yet without a legitimate reason to excuse himself from classes and responsibilities, so he’d walked around for those two weeks like a shell, keeping up appearances, until Matt came back. His relief at his reappearance was quickly replaced by a new kind of worry, when he saw how miserable and unstable Matt was in the wake of…whatever happened. Matt still couldn’t be induced by any means to give Foggy a straight answer on that count.

“I thought I was going to marry her,” Matt says, quietly. If Foggy hadn’t been actively trying to hear him, that statement would have been lost to the noise of the bar.

“That’s not stupid at all,” Foggy says, allowing the hand on Matt’s shoulder to slip over to rub his back between his shoulder blades.

“I thought she was my soulmate,” Matt adds, with some vitriol, in the direction of his drink, like he wants to spit the words in there to drown them.

“She wasn’t,” Foggy replies, firmly, because it seems like the right thing to say up until Matt’s face crumples.

“I think she was,” he says, miserably, as he buries his face in his hands. “I think she was and she left anyway and that’s it for me.”

“I don’t—hey, listen, Matt,” Foggy says, shifting his chair over so he can wrap his arms around Matt’s shoulders completely. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I said she—I didn’t know her that well. Maybe she was your soulmate. I don’t know! I’m not convinced that’s anything but a nice story we like to tell ourselves to make life more bearable or to impose meaning on random events.”

“This pep talk sucks,” Matt says, in the vicinity of Foggy’s collar. Foggy can feel his breath on his neck and it’s weird but not enough to get him to move away.

“Sorry. What I mean to say is, if soulmates are real, and Elektra was yours, then it’s not over yet. Maybe you’ll meet again someday.”

“I hope not,” Matt says, darkly.

Foggy resists the urge to roll his eyes at yet another vague but still concerning allusion to this terrible breakup. He’s trying to be sympathetic but Matt’s whole Catholic guilt lone wolf shit does test him sometimes, if he’s being honest. Still, one look at Matt’s pale, sorrowful face in the neon lights of this dive bar is enough to remind Foggy what they’re doing here.

“I think it’s much more likely that, if we have soulmates at all, we probably get more than one,” Foggy continues, hoping that if he just muses vaguely enough, he’ll stumble on something that makes Matt feel better. “So, you’ll get another chance to—”

“You mean like you and me?” Matt asks, and Foggy’s brain does a full factory reset as he tries to parse that question. He can’t possibly mean…

“Oh, like—yeah, you and me and, well, everybody could have more than one soulmate. Exactly.”

“No, that’s not—” Matt shakes his head, which, given his current position, is functionally just nuzzling his face into Foggy’s neck. “I mean, how you and me are soulmates. Kind of.”

“You and me?” Foggy asks, casually despite not feeling casual at all. “You think so?”

“You’re—yeah. I mean, you’re basically—you’re family to me but…also more than that. If that makes sense.”

It doesn’t and Foggy’s been holding himself back from drinking too much tonight because he wants to be able to get Matt home safely, but he does feel like he might throw up on this table right now. He tucked away the part of him that found Matt attractive somewhere deep and secret and well-fortified in his soul a long time ago, in the interest of not fucking things up with his best friend in the entire world, and he certainly can’t trust anything Matt says now when he’s drunk and lonely and heartbroken. But he’s never loved anyone as completely as he loves Matt and it’s such a pathetic, hopeless situation that he doesn’t let himself think about it except on really special occasions when he wants to feel bad.

“I’m not sure anybody has ever loved me as much as you do,” Matt says, like it’s not a crazy thing to say, here in a shitty bar near campus, after a breakup with his girlfriend, to someone he’s never even kissed.

“I doubt that,” Foggy says, even as he, selfishly, wants to claim it, even as he knows it to be true. “You’re very lovable.”

“We should get married.”

Foggy laughs, because what else can he do, under the circumstances. “Now? It’s pretty late. The courthouse won’t even be open.”

“No, I mean, we should get married someday,” Matt says, petulant like Foggy’s the one being ridiculous here for not following his thought process. “When we’re older. If we haven’t met anybody else.”

That last condition is enough to break Foggy’s heart all over again, but he does an admirable job hiding it, he thinks. Matt’s drunk and very distracted, and more importantly doesn’t know anything about how Foggy feels, really, despite his proclamations on the subject a moment ago, so it feels safe to assume he won’t notice any signs of disappointment or hurt in this split second before Foggy swallows those feelings and pretends to be his usual upbeat self. That’s who Matt really needs right now, and so that’s who he’ll be.

“How much older?” Foggy asks.

“Old,” Matt says. “Like, thirty.”

“Okay,” Foggy nods, already able to find this funny. Matt won’t still be single by the time they’re both thirty. He’ll be married by the time they graduate law school, most likely, so it won’t be an issue. Foggy doesn’t like to think about it, but he knows it’s true.

“You’ll do it?”

“Maybe,” Foggy says. “Ask me again when you’re not blackout drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Matt objects. “I’m not blackout. Not even close.”

“Then we can pick this conversation up in the morning, no problem!”

Matt nods, drunkenly. “Absolutely.”

Matt doesn’t bring it up in the morning, of course. Foggy never really expected he would, either, and doesn’t permit himself to be disappointed about it, no matter how much he would like to.

[writermask-0807-backupblog]

TOSHINORI YAGI X READER {TRISTIS OCULIS." or: "YOU HAVE SAD EYES," }

A/N: It's Writermask, and it's my first post as the ✨BaCkUp bLoG✨!!! I officially got permission by Mod Eve (once-upon-a-scenario, you should really check them out if u already don't follow them), and am so happy!!! 😊this is a new writing s t y l e I've tried, and I hope u enjoy!!

Warnings: ooc Toshinori, mentions of blood, implications of abuse and depression.

HIS eyes are blue. 

They're the most bluest you've ever seen- bright, bright sapphire hues, the rich spill of azure and cerulean over the black of the canvas, a slice of cloudless skies, the crystalline haze of the ocean. 

And because you can recognize and dissect the character of a person through the shapes and colors of their eyes, (you know that sounds weird, and vaguely disturbing, even inside your head)- you know his eyes are the eyes of someone trustworthy, the eyes of a caring, friendly person- not the usually jaded, maybe even angry individual you usually encounter on these late night shifts.

(It's… refreshing, in a sense. Sort of, anyway. At least he's not glaring at you, impatiently grinding his teeth as you check his things out, or radiating the stifling aura of someone intimidating and not to be trifled with (like that Yakuza man with the cold, golden eyes that you met last week, but you digress), like the usual pew of customers that trickle in at this time of the night. 

Instead, this man just looks… incredibly tired even as he manages a polite, feeble smile for you, and his skinny, frail-looking frame slumps with fatigue, like he's particularly world-weary today- as though the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders, heavy with a burden no-one but himself could possibly bear. 

There are purple shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks are sunken in, and there's a certain hollowness to the way his sunflower-hued bangs veils his thin, tired face, a certain resignation to the way the sharp planes of his shoulders are hunched together, as he droops tiredly, looking like he's about to black out at any given moment.) 

His eyes- those bright forget-me-not blues- they're the eyes of someone bright and cheerful (just… not right now), the eyes of a soft, caring person. They hold true kindness in them- the rare sort of kindness that's genuinely heartfelt, and you can already tell that this tall, lanky skeleton of a man has a big, big heart, and honestly, you have a shrewd feeling that he offers this silent gift of kindness- this unaffordable, rich gift of anyone and everyone who needs it. 

And without even knowing this stranger, you just know he's the type of person who'd make a good hero. (Or maybe, the sort of person who's already a great hero, in his own way.) But despite all that, you glimpse something below that bottomless blue of his empty gaze, something hollow and empty, almost like… 

Melancholy. Loneliness. Sadness. 

And it’s contagious, somehow, in some way or another, and your heart aches for him- because you know that feeling all too well to not be acquainted with its presence, to the agony and inner turmoil that ensues with its touch. 

The wilting look of frailty, of fragility in his lowered eyes reminds you of your own dark days- (of spending time curled in on yourself, of the constant hunger roaring through your stomach, of the gaping void of loss in your heart, the wet feel of metal flooding your mouth, of screaming and screaming and screaming for a help that never came-!) 

You blink back the sudden bitter sting of memories flooding your mind, and you stare absently at him- at this poor, broken ghost of a man and wonder if this is how you once looked- once upon a time when you lost everything and everyone and had no more purpose to live, and his items suddenly goes limp in your hand as you lower them to the surface of the counter. The words spill out before you can stop them- hold them back, and for some reason, they taste sour on your tongue as you unconsciously murmur them out loud. 

"Tristis Oculis."

The blonde startles at the sound of your voice slicing the silence apart, as though he's forgotten your presence for a moment, and then he straightens immediately, hands clenching into fists at his sides, as he goes stiff-shouldered and rigid-spined, like he's ready to be attacked. Despite the cordial smile that's still twisting his thin lips as he realizes there's only you- the entranced cashier behind the counter, there's a wary look in those tundra blue eyes as he tiredly meets your flustered gaze, but there's also confusion veiled behind the fatigue, curiosity laced behind the wariness. 

"Sorry?"

He asks mildly, and you falter, breath hitching in your chest, eyes widening in absolute horror, as you realize that you've just voiced your musings aloud, and you slap your exasperated palms over your mouth, petrified at your blunder. 

Pure and absolute mortification and embarrassment dawns on you as you realize what you'd just spoken, and you bow immediately, a hurricane of apologies falling uncontrollably from your lips, as shame weighs heavily in your chest, accompanied by the familiar stitch of gnawing guilt knitting your insides together into an uncomfortable, anxiety-induced bunch. You can feel heat rush to your face as your cheeks ignite in a wild, brilliant shade of ashamed scarlet. 

You truly are sorry sorry sorry, you really hadn't meant to offend him any sort of way, you hadn't even meant to mutter that phrase aloud, you just-... You're awkward, and not really good at this, and you're deeply sorry, you really are. Sorry sorry sorry. 

You tell him as much, your arm flailing about in wild, panicked gestures as you scrabble to bow even more deeply for apology, and you're pretty sure you've confused the poor man even more, as now he's blushing heavily too, wheezing something along the lines of "No, no, there's no need to apologize, really, it's fine!" as he forces a strained, awkward smile for your sake- an effort that doesn't go unnoticed by you, despite the terror clutching at your chest and the panic flooding your veins. 

(Really, he's too kind-hearted.)

"But really, what did you mean by that phrase? I'm not… exactly familiar with it. "

The man says, when your panic finally dies down and all formal apologies has been exchanged between the somewhat exasperated him and your horrified self, tilting his head curiously, the corners of his mouth dipping down in a small, curious frown, and despite the blush of embarrassment coloring the apples of your cheeks, you can't help but compare him to an eager puppy. An eager, adorable puppy. 

As soon as the thought forms, you snuff it out defiantly, cheeks are flaming even brighter at the- the audacity of it! He's your customer, for God's sake! 

(But really, overlooking the momentarily halted drowsiness in his lanky, skeletal limbs, the fatigue sagging his shoulders and tiredness creasing his gaunt face, he really looks… cute. Not that he doesn't look cute regardless, but that's not the point!) 

You startle nervously when you realize he's still looking at you, with those intensely blue, blue eyes, steady gaze a relentless blizzard, and you wring your hands together in a nervous tick as you begin to explain your… strangeness. 

"T-tristis Oculis. It's um," You smile awkwardly at him, hoping to ease the storm of tension rolling thickly through the atmosphere, (that apparently only you seemed to detect, as the blonde seemed too preoccupied with searching your eyes for an answer.) "It's a- um, a Latin saying. It, uh, it means sad eyes." 

You answer, stuttering around the dryness in your mouth, and you tongue feels like a heavy, unmoving weight in your mouth as you reply, fingers flexing tightly as you fist the fabric of your shirt in your clenched palms, to soothe your forever worsening anxiety, and you can feel the flush on your cheeks sear even hotter.

He stays silent, unreadable, (you get the feeling that he's normally a very expressive person, but just… not right now. Maybe you hit a nerve, or finally offended him in some way?) and you begin to panic once more. You fumble to say something, to break the awkward, heavy silence but you fail for the proper words as your mind blanks of all coherent thoughts, meek voice withering at the back of your throat as you desperately try to breathe around the knot of panic squeezing your chest, and your heart lodges in your throat, hammering wildly. 

Before you can say anything, however, he speaks first, shattering the pregnant silence, and his voice is an incredibly, deceptively soft whisper, like he's on the verge of breaking down. 

"How do you perceive my eyes as sad?"

His cobalt gaze is steady and hard- unlike the barely concealed tremors in his voice, and it pierces right through you, and as you try your very best not to shrink and fidget under the heavy weight of his gaze, you get washed by a sudden, strange sensation that feels odd in the most strangest of ways- like he's peering right into your soul. 

(But despite the firmness in his stare, you see the minute shifts, see the way he falters, the smallest of breaths hitching in his chest, the slight widening of those powder blue eyes, the edges of darkness licking at his vision. Honestly, it's tragic, in a sense, because it's like looking into a shattered mirror and seeing what had once been yourself.) 

Your heart stutters and throttles in your heaving chest, and you swallow thickly, unsure as to how to answer properly, feeling as though you're treading on very thin ice. It doesn't feel like he’s going to hurt you, however. More like how you were going to hurt him, instead. 

You're seized by a sudden melancholy, somber feeling, and you feel the embarrassment ebbing away as you meet the crystal blue of his gaze, and you feel like you're sharing something of a very private, intimate moment, despite both of you barely knowing each other at all.

You decide not to lie. This moment feels too intimate, too precious for you to do so. 

The truth is heavy and bittersweet on your tongue as you voice it aloud, and there's still a bashfulness in the way you fiddle with the hem of your shirt as you reply, cheeks flooding with crimson. (You're pretty sure you resemble nothing short of a very red tomato at this point.)

There's a note of strength, a wavering finality in your tone, however- one that leaves no room for argument. 

"You- your eyes looked sad. And I- I know it's probably offensive and probably not my place, but, um, you look like someone that's normally really happy and bright, but- just, just very tired right now. Like you're afraid and broken and you want to be helped, but there's no-one for you to call out for… "

And indeed, despite the genuine friendliness and kindness and care that's thinly veiled behind the tire brimming in the ocean blue of his gaze, he has the saddest eyes you've ever seen- like he's breathed the air of war, tasted the bitterness of death and rot- like he's lost too many people and he's afraid and too broken to lose anymore. 

(Like he's been strong for too long.) 

(There's something unsaid crossing your tongue, and despite the fact that you don't speak it out loud, you know the both of you can hear it's silent voice- because you're both survivors, and you both can recognize and understand each other's pain, hear the desperation better than anyone else ever will. 

"I know that look, because I've been there before- in that dark, dreary place you're in right now.") 

When you finally muster enough strength to raise your heavy gaze and meet his blistering stare (it's softened considerably), there's a pearlescent liquid collecting at the corners of his eyes, something raw and painful and filled with pure, unadulterated hurt smoldering in his eyes, and it makes your own eyes water with white-hot emotion.

(Because you know exactly how this feels- know how much relief and liberation fills you when someone recognizes your torment and offers help- no matter how meager it is, when your cracks are allowed to mend, when the agony lessens even if it is only by the mercy of some kind words and a gentle smile.)

And as the late evening light of the dying sun spills through the windows, the filter of waning sunlight silhouettes his sharp, lanky (not-so-stiff) profile in spools of molten gold and honey, highlighting the honeycomb color of his wild, wild mane of a hair, and his eyes, those bright, bright sapphire hues gleam like freshly cut gemstones, forget-me-not blues so very vivid and glimmering with a renewed  color and life that wasn't there before. 

He's smiling through the tears as he lifts a palm to rub at the corners of his eyes, and it's a tender, soft sort of smile, not quite as bright and cheerful as he might've wanted it to be, all sweet and appreciative and gentle as the corners of his eyes crease into half-moons with the force of it. 

(And your heart skips a beat as it lurches forward in your chest, and your breath halts, sitting still in your lungs, and your eyes widen, because his smile is so, so beautiful.) 

You suddenly realize that nobody else has noticed his pain, tried to heal his hurt the way you have, and the revelation makes your own heart ache for him in the most bittersweetest of ways, and you welcome the pain that follows. 

"And the part- the part where you said I'd make a good hero?" 

He asks, and there's sort of a hesitation- a tone of rippling hope and childish innocence in his voice that would make anyone buckle at the knees and coo at him, and you feel your cheeks flush scarlet once again. Had you mentioned that part out loud too? Gosh, you're really awkward, aren't you?

His eyes are blue, and they're brimming with a sort of childish inquisition and the rim of tears and hope that you absolutely cannot bear to crush. 

So- bearing your broadest, most brightest grin, you answer honestly, and you can't help but love the way those deep forget-me-not blues seem to light up from the inside out. 

"I fully believe it."

{BONUS}:-

(And maybe, you'll never learn the secret that the man you would come to know as Toshinori Yagi, and eventually to your best friend and then to your lover, was really the Number One Hero All Might himself, and that on that day, and many days after that, you would be his hero- the person who'd seen him at his lowest and help him climb back onto his feet once again.) 

FIN - 

[randomwriteronline]

@fraymotiif fo yo fren

At first, the twins alternated between following him everywhere like Duckletts that accidentally imprinted on a Seadra and skittishly disappearing behind walls or corners the moment he tried to turn towards them.

Figuring out the steps of the dance they were tentatively leading around him was proving to be a bit of a careful balancing act, one he wasn’t quite used to - at least not to this degree. Marshal had been awfully frightened by him when he’d first met him too, after all, but he was three years old; the boys were fifteen, almost sixteen by now, and yet they still behaved like toddlers interacting with someone they know only vaguely.

Touch was far from a problem, that was certain: as soon as they’d figured out they could lean onto him whenever they wanted they had no trouble holding onto his arms or bumping into him so that he’d ruffle their hair.

The trouble seemed to start from their room.

They were horribly nervous about anything and everything that could have been inside of it - although he knew it couldn’t be much, let alone anything to be embarassed or secretive about, since most of their belongings he’d already seen when they’d emptied their backpacks and they’d really been barely more than the bare necessities.

Drayden knew better than to snoop around in a Dragon’s den uninvited, so he would let them sit there for hours on their own, doing who knew what.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. But he couldn’t really just ask them.

He’d tried!

The answer had been a couple uncoordinated shrugs and a quick ‘nothing’ meant to distance him.

In the end, he supposed the only way to find that out would have been for them to decide to make him participant to whatever they did back in there and simply tell him upfront by themselves.

“You can’t!”

“Why not? What’s so wrong about it?”

“You can’t! You can’t!”

Or for them to argue loud enough, that too.

“If you just repeat that I can’t understand what the wrong part is!” this was Ingo.

“You can’t!” and this was Emmet. “It messes it up! Messes everything up!”

“What does it mess up?”

“Eelektrik!”

Ah - that explained why he was so upset; he loved that levitating lamprey almost as much as his brother, or trains. He adored parading it over his shoulders like a sentient scarf, and once or twice Drayden had even seen him fearlessly hold that terrible mouth close to his face as he slept, without a single worry.

“Oh, well, of course it messes him up. That’s the point.”

“You can’t do that!”

It seemed weird that Ingo would want to hurt his younger twin’s ace, though.

Unless it was a matter of battling, in which case he would have definitely run that poor thing over without hesitation or second thoughts.

“Yes I can!”

“You can’t! You can’t!”

“Yes I can! It’s a strategy like any other!”

“It’s not! It’s not! This one it’s not!”

“You just say that because it's really powerful and it neutralizes your favorite!”

“Yes!”

Drayden’s citrine eyes fell through the crack of the slightly opened door: he caught a glimpse of the heavily scribbled page of a notebook, red and green ink all over the paper, upon a stark white black-lined background between folded legs that were clearly getting more and more agitated as the squabble went on.

“Something the matter, boys?” he asked as he knocked gently.

The door slid open a little bit at that. He barely had the time to peek through that the notebook was gone, spirited away with a slight of hand that maybe wasn’t particularly graceful but certainly honed by practice.

Both twins, sitting half hunched and crosslegged on the beds they’d pushed together as they often did, turned to him with near matching innocent expressions, honestly surprised by his appearance but feigning ignorance. They raised their chins at him in tandem in a silent candid question.

“Thought I’d heard you arguing,” Drayden explained.

Emmet shrugged - a fluid motion that shook his arms outwards.

“We were just reading,” Ingo replied, straining his voice into sounding calm as he patted a large book of their on the history of trains in Sinnoh.

Hm. They probably used that as a desk.

The man shook his head lightly, playing a little into their pantomime: “Then I must be getting old and hearing things. You sounded like you were discussing battle strategies,” and before they could startle he changed his tone to reassure them of whatever they were worried about: “If that were the case, I would have been happy to help you figure them out.”

He looked at the twins a little longer, waiting as it dawned on them that he was, indeed, a Gym Leader, and asking him for help on the topic would have, indeed, made sense, while hiding it away from him very much did not.

They retreated a little sheepish into their own shoulders.

Finally the eldest shyly pulled out the battered notebook from beneath himself and presented it to their uncle, who carefully entered their domain to take a seat by them in the way one tiptoes their uninvited way through the den of a very disgruntled mothering Hydreigon.

“We were, uhm... We were planning our teams,” the boy showed him, pointing at his narrow red calligraphy and his twin’s blockier green handwriting.

Two mirrored columns divided in six rows were compiled with a few Pokémon names, other spaces instead left blank; two more had a label above them which read ‘type’, followed by another couple labeled as ‘ability’, then another pair bearing the sign of ‘item’, and finally much larger two meant to house the party member’s moveset. It was an incredibly meticulous job, Drayden noted with his fair share of marvel.

“You’re real thorough,” he nodded thoughtfully.

Emmet smiled, very much proud of their work; Ingo cleared his throat, adjusting his seat a little to try and not let his fluster show: “And we - and we got to, to this point here - see? This slot here. I was - I thought, I wanted to get - uhm...”

“Earthquake,” Drayden read aloud: “A powerful move.”

Embarassed by his stuttering, Ingo just nodded.

“Paired with... Mold Breaker? For an ability?” his uncle continued with an encouraging tone: “That’s a very good combination.”

“He can’t use it,” Emmet instantly butted in, very piqued.

His brother snapped out of his mortification to glare daggers at him: “Yes I can,” he rebutted.

“No!” and he threw a pen at the elder.

Drayden caught it inn midair without thinking, handing it back over to Emmet: “And why can’t he?”

“Because he can’t!”

“He’s just mad that it would put Eelektrik on the ground to get quaked.”

"Eelektrik has no weaknesses! I want him to keep having no weaknesses!”

“An opponent with Gastro Acid could do the same thing,” their uncle noted.

“But they’d waste a turn!” the younger whined: “Maybe they wouldn’t have Ground moves. Or Eelektrik could paralyze them. Or K.O. them. Mold Breaker is instant! It’s not fair.”

“It’s plenty fair!” Ingo argued.

“It’s cheap!”

“No it’s not, it’s a good strategy!”

“Cheap!”

“Boys.”

They both immediately fell quiet.

He ruffled their hair to reassure them he was not mad at them; they leaned against his palms.

“There’s surely plenty of ways to counter that, or at least minimize the damage,” Drayden said, watching Emmet pout and huff as he validated the fairness of Ingo’s plan. “I should have a Fraxure around your partners’ level who’s just the gal for this. We can try out some counters with her right now, how’s that sound?”

“Oh!” the eldest startled a little. He searched for his brother’s matching surprised eyes: “Right - right now?”

“I mean, if you have time.”

“No, it’s--”

“We need to plan,” the youngest explained.

Their uncle furrowed his brows, puzzled: “Plan what?”

“Counters!”

“We can’t battle if we - if we don’t figure out how to do something first.”

“We need to plan.”

“Otherwise we’ll end up failing and losing, and we’d have to start over again.”

“Yup.”

“It’s to save time.”

“Yup.”

Save time... Save time...

Drayden tilted his head: “Save time for what?”

“For battling.” Emmet repeated.

Ingo twisted the pen in his hand: “We don’t get many occasions.”

Well... As open-minded as he might have been, that sounded a little silly.

It really wasn’t the hardest thing in the world, trying to find someone to train with. There were plenty of over-enthusiastic juvenile trainers running about cities and routes, anxious for any chance at a good battle against anybody who happened to meet their impatient eyes - as a matter of fact, he was fairly certain that if they’d taken a stroll down the park instead of staying cooped up in their room it wouldn’t have taken long at all for them to find an opponent each. Hell, if they spent just thirty minutes there they would probably get their schedules all filled out with battledates from other eager kids.

Were they scared of something? Or were they just particularly sore losers? The younger might have, with how fussy about Eelektrik he was. He could understand not wanting to see a favorite defeated, but acting like that wasn’t going to do him any favours if he was looking to become a gym leader.

Why would he want to be a gym leader. He never mentioned anything about wanting to be a gym leader. Why did he think that. This wasn’t the time to think about successors. Stop that. Bad Drayden. Bad.

“So you two haven’t found a moment to practice at all till now?” he asked.

The twins held his gaze for a moment as their heads timidly retreated into their shoulders like those of Tirtougas before their eyes fell on the bedsheets.

It took him another moment for it to click.

Ah.

His sister had always been fairly irritable when it came to battling, after all.

Of course she’d dictate whether or not they’d be allowed to best her.

Or even at least try to.

And he didn’t really know what that hack of her husband was like, but certainly he wasn’t a shining example of fairness either.

He clapped his wide hands gently, quietly, just to get the boys’ attention back on himself: “Well,” he commented in a jovial tone, “I reckon you should have all the time you might need to do what you want nowadays, wouldn’t you say?”

He looked at the words being processed in real time on the twins’ faces.

A moment more...

Oh.

Oh! Yes.

Yes, they did.

They could practice, now.

Whenever they wanted. Or almost, at least - there would be times when they wouldn’t, due to force majeure, like homework or meals or sleeping or other things, but - they could practice. They could train.

Whenever they wanted.

“You should get some exercise yourselves too,” Drayden noted, “You’re all skin and bones, poor knuckerlings. But nothing some wrassling and good food can’t fix. I can help with that too, don’t worry.”

“Too?” Ingo repeated. “As- as in you - we can, we could train our Pokémon with you? Too?”

“Wrassle?” echoes instead Emmet. “We wrassle?”

“Yes one and yes two.”

If they’d been a little meatier, they would have tackled him right off the bed and into a possible concussion on the floor with that hug. So on one hand, good; on the other, since he barely even budged, he needed to start scheduling regular sessions for them as soon as possible. With the first one today, hopefully.

He picked them both up effortlessly, their langly legs dangling a few inches from the floor: “So! You wanna try out some of those counters now?”

His ears rung for a hot second from their response.

“And then we wrassle you?” the younger insisted.

“Sweet Dragons, not me! I’d knock you clean out!” their uncle replied, hoisting them up on his shoulders like sacks of flour so he could fetch their notebook and Pokéballs while they dangled up there safe from danger: “Fraxure’s gonna show you the basics!”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” the eldest argued.

“If it were, I don’t think the Lophiris family would’ve survived as long as we did!”

[nancydrewwouldnever]

And yet he's back in the panel q&a with the vague ideas of the work he still wants to do again. And, honestly, I think once the SAG strike is over he'll jump at the first movie he gets offered, just a hunch. He strikes me as possibly being one of those people who desperately want to change their lives but, because they have no concrete ideas of what they want to change it to, they just continue on with what they already know.//

Dhdjsjdjs hey I felt called out, but Im in my mid-twenties so I guess is normal.... 😪

Yes, that's completely normal in your mid-20s. You're still figuring your life and your self out. You're just out of college and getting your first good/serious job. It's a time of general change and you should be taking different opportunities to learn and grow as a person. If you feel a bit at loose ends, then try making some personal goal lists of things you want to get done within a year, from both work and personal aspects. I find sometimes setting short term goals helps me figure out the longer term goals. Also, remember - life doesn't really have a timeline. Things happen when they happen, and we have to be open to our lives possibly turning out nothing like what we imagined.

[ithebookhoarder]

hello! if requests are open, could you write something about Benedict Bridgerton with a lover who is a poet/writer, in the same way as he is an artist? this is vague, but I trust you with the details! thank you! ❤

Benedict with a Poet/Writer for a S/O:

A/N: Thank you, I’m honestly so flattered. Hopefully I did this justice as this is my new favourite idea. I’m obsessed 💕 I just love this adorable artistic bisexual idiot.

Masterlist:

Benedict is very used to the artistic temperament given the circles he runs in both at Lord Granville’s parties and at the academy. He knows all too well the sudden urge to put instrument to paper, to capture whatever stroke of genius has suddenly popped into your head. 

It’s why he always carries a spare pencil in his pocket at all times, and a notebook, for both of you to capture thoughts when out and about. It has amused Eloise on many occasions when you have suddenly reached into his coat pocket at some formal gathering, only to pluck out the book to jot down something or other - regardless of present company.

Speaking of company, Benedict would be more than happy to expand your joint circle of friends to include artists of all types. He loves being introduced to your fellow literary enthusiasts, and is all too keen to engage them in debates about the latest and greatest works of the English language. 

Less keen on your endeavours are your poor household staff, who are all-too used to removing ink and paint from your clothes at this point. 

Between you and Benedict you get through far too many shirts, skirts, and gloves - which is why you both much prefer to stick to simple garb at home, and even sans clothing if alone in your bedroom. 

“It’s simply common sense,” he teases, reaching for the ties on the back of your dress. 

You may or may not have also shown up to dinner once or twice with ink smudged on your cheek after leaning your head on your hand (Benedict swears he’s never seen anything half as adorable).

Expect him to indulge you in every way, whether it be buying you all the books your heart desires, or carving out a large portion of your household budget for ink, pencils, and paper. 

Just as he is often shy to let others see whatever he is working on, he respects you may not be that comfortable letting him see whatever project you are working on. 

He understands if you refuse, but he’ll still ask, or even try and sneak a peak when he thinks you aren't looking. 

He never judges or mocks you and your ideas. If anything he thinks you’re better than Lord Byron, John Keats, and Shakespeare all rolled in to one - something he proudly declares at every opportunity, much to your embarrassment.  

He is also the first to suggest publishing your work (which you are quick to point out is ironic, considering he hates whenever you try to get him to display his work in collections or exhibitions).

Benedict is also always willing to provide an ear for you, and has often enjoyed listening to you reading aloud as he sketches or paints at his easel. (He has also come up with a few lines of merit himself - which earned him a desperate kiss of gratitude after days of writer’s block.) 

He loves watching when you when you’re writing, often curled up by the window with a steaming cup of tea nearby - the way your nose scrunches when you re-read a line, the way you mutter softly to yourself, the way you bite on the end of the pen before furiously crossing sections out - he loves it all. 

He has pages of sketches dedicated to capturing you and your creative process. 

Has often carried you to bed after finding you asleep, hunched over your work at your desk. 

He’s also pretty good at knowing when you need to take a break. 

"Darling, perhaps we should go for a walk." Benedict smiles as speaks, and you know it’s more of an order than a request. He has a habit of doing that when it comes to your welfare and taking care of you. Still, you’re grateful for the excuse to put down your pen for a minute and look at anything other than pages of ink scribbles before you - they didn't even look like words anymore, you're so tired. 

You nod, holding your hand out to him in invitation - one he was only too eager to accept. 

You don't know how Benedict had got so good at massaging, but you instantly melt into his touch every time he begins to rub and knead your aching fingers and joints.

"I know. I know,” you sigh. “I should've stopped earlier but-"

"-you had to finish or you would lose the words forever. I know," he teases. 

He kisses your hand, a gesture you’re very familiar with at this point as you turn your palm to rest it against his cheek.

"Thank you, my love," you hum as he leans into your touch.

The kiss he presses to your hand says it all. "Anytime." 

[jmrothwell]

"It's not that I don't believe in love, I just don't think it's for me." for whatever character you want to make aromantic, because that is what this prompt screams to me.

Carrie was only moderately surprised to find Luke hidden away in a back corner of the library, hunched over a notebook looking like he was trying to focus on what he was working on. She’d seen him too many times now when he actually was in writing mode and could tell he wasn’t. Far too stiff, pencil twirling too much in his hand. 

“Hey,” Carrie said as she sat down at the table across from him. He merely grunted, “You know your friends are trying to find you, right?”

“That why you’re here?” He muttered around a disinterested laugh that got Carrie bristling. 

“Yes it is. You’ve got Julie and Reggie so upset that Flynn and Alex are both torn about if they want to kill you.” 

Luke groaned as he dropped his head into his hands, roughly combing through his hair. “I didn’t mean to worry them.”

“Then maybe answer your phone.” Carrie said and didn’t hide her own derisive sigh as he frantically dug through his pockets and apparently coming up empty. 

“Honestly.” Carrie quietly said as she sent off texts on his behalf letting everyone know she’d found him, though she kept his whereabouts secret for now. “So any reason you’re hiding?”

He hesitated, pencil twirling in his fingers again. “Amber asked me out.”

“Wait.” Carrie blinked at the space above Luke’s head, vaguely recalling Amber saying she was going to finally try asking out someone who she thought she didn’t have a chance with. “Amber from Dirty Candi? My Amber?”

Luke nodded, eyes glue to the notebook page filled with scribbles in front of him, looking guilty as hell now that Carrie thought about it. 

“What’d you say?”

“I turned her down.” 

“What? She not good enough for you?”

“No. No, I mean.” Luke rushed to say, still not looking at her. “I’m sure she’s great, Carrie but I don’t think any relationship would be for me.”

“Really? “ Carrie glared at him, her nails digging into her bicep. 

“It’s not that I don’t believe in love,” Luke said around the pencil now in his mouth. “I just don’t think it’s for me.” 

“What? Like you're cursed or something?” Carrie did her best to not roll her eyes.

He shrugged as he finally glanced up at her, leaning onto the table. “I used to think that, it’s certainly what it seemed like. 

“Like no matter how hard I tried to follow the steps I could never get the romance thing right. Not that I didn’t care about Alex, or Julie, or even Reggie but I could tell it wasn’t the same. At first I thought I just hadn’t found the right person or maybe, I dunno, the timing wasn’t right but eventually.”

Carrie nodded along as he spoke, thinking about the on and off again nature of her relationship with Nick and despite herself cut in. How she kept trying to convince him, and herself, that they were meant for each other, because he was the closest she ever felt comfortable dating anyone. “But eventually you started to wonder if you were the one who was broken.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair, looking to the ceiling. “Flynn and Willie keep telling me I’m not, but it’s hard to believe when I don’t fit into the world like everyone else does.”

“Not that you’re asking me, but they’re right.” Carrie said ignoring Luke’s bewildered look, because if he was broken that meant she was. And she sure as hell wasn’t broken. She stood and gestured for him to follow. “Come on, let’s go. Everyone else is only going to wait so long before they come looking for you again.”

Luke didn’t need much more convincing than that, the two of them falling into step. Carrie knew he was on autopilot back to the studio, and she was more than happy to follow. Maybe once they were there, they could have a more in depth conversation with Flynn and Willie.

[schrijverr]

Robin's Friend Steve

When Robin comes back from summer break in ‘85, she keeps talking about her friend Steve. At first Casey doesn’t believe her, however, over time she observes the strange duo, who are attached at the hip.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: some of the girls are mean, like behind Robin's back

~~~~~~~~~

Casey has never been friends with Robin, no one really has. She’s too loud and talks too much and is just weird overall. There’s nothing wrong with her per se, she just doesn’t fit in. There is something different about her.

However the two have been in band together since middle school and are friendly in the halls. And sometimes she even sits with Casey’s group during lunch.

Robin is nice, everyone gets along with Robin, she just doesn’t tend to stick.

Honestly, Casey feels kind of bad for her, but she is awkward during sleep over games and can never gossip along, preferring to talk about her book than the cute boys in their school.

That is all to say that it is very weird when Robin joins them again for lunch, first day back senior year, and seems different in an unknown way. None of them can place a finger on it. It’s Jessica, who opens her mouth first asking: “Did you have a good summer, Robin?”

“Yeah,” Robin grins, oblivious to the stares send her ways. “I spend most of it with Steve, worked as an ice cream scooper together. It was fun, besides the whole mall burning down thing. He’s my schmuck, my dingus, you know. We watch movies together. He dropped me off at school this morning.”

“Steve?” Jessica asks, obviously as intrigued as Casey about this boy, the first one Robin has ever mentioned.

“He’s a bit of a goof, but he makes up for it,” Robin informs them happily and obliviously. “He doesn’t go here anymore, though.”

That makes a lot more sense to Casey, a stab of pitying sympathy going through her, Robin has made up a friend – a boyfriend maybe even – to fit in. There are a lot of boys named Steve who graduate each year, so it’s vague enough. It’s honestly a miracle she didn’t say he went to a different school and she met him on holiday.

More people seem to connect the same dots Casey has, because they smile at her awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Luckily Amy changes the topic, before it can get too awkward. She says: “You worked at the mall? Were you there when it burned down?”

It’s definitely more interesting than Robin’s made up friend, so they all lean in curiously. Everyone has heard of the tragedy, the rumors still churning the mills endlessly even if it has been almost two months ago. To hear a first hand account would make them a big player in the talks about it.

However, Robin stills, hunching into herself, before she swallows her bite. All the goofy playfulness is gone from her face and she nods: “Yeah, I was there.”

“What was it like?” Casey finds herself asking, practically holding her breath with the excitement at the admission.

��A lot more yelling than you’d expect,” Robin says tersely. “It was horrible.” At that she looks up, her face look a little haunted, making all of them wince back, unable to meet those eyes.

Robin takes a deep breath, then gets up and goes to sit at another a table. It houses the people who run the Hawkins High newspaper, but Robin doesn’t interact with any of them, except giving a small nod to Nancy Wheeler, before focusing on her meal.

The message is received by those in the band: Robin does not want to talk about the mall fire. She will actively walk away if you ask, as if it had been terrible, which does nothing to quell the rumors it brings with it.

Another weird facet to Robin Buckley.

Still, the first part of the conversation would likely have been forgotten due to the weirdness of the second part, were it not for the fact that Robin keeps mentioning her new friend, Steve. She brings him up whenever she can and it’s like they’ve moved in together with how much she knows about him and talks with and about him. If he’s even real that is.

Casey honestly doesn’t believe he is for a while. No one talks this much to one person. It’s weird to never spend time with anyone else. Even Jessica, who is now dating Micheal spends more time with other people.

“She makes up everything he says to fit in,” Jessica rolls her eyes when Casey expresses this. “She wants to have someone to mention like we do, but she doesn’t. She can know all those things about him, because she is the one coming up with it.”

“That’s kind of sad,” Amy comments. “I would rather just be alone than do such a thing.”

“I mean, I guess,” Casey says, she thought that too at first, but- “It’s just- She’s so consistent, you know? It always matches up.”

“God, do you think she has a notebook?” Amy giggles, Jessica joins in and that is the end of that conversation.

However, next band practice it happens again. They’re discussing The Breakfast Club and Robin interjects: “I liked Allison the best, but Steve liked Bender the best, which doesn’t even make sense, because he’s such a jock,” she wrinkles her nose. “I thought he would find solace in Andrew. He did, but he likes Bender better.”

And Casey can’t help, but think it’s weird Robin made up a person with such different hobbies to hers. She would think Robin would claim to have found someone like her, but instead she never seems to agree with his movie opinions or jocky-ness.

“What sports does Steve play?” Casey asks Robin, which gets her a few looks and some giggles, they probably think she is about to call Robin out on her made up friend, but she is genuinely curious what sort of person might befriend Robin.

“Well, he doesn’t do sport anymore, he graduated,” Robin starts. “But I think he still goes running, which is like insane. What kind of person even likes running? You get all sweaty. But I think he was on, like, every sports team before. He loves sports. He tries to explain, but I can never get it, you know? I only know basketball and swimming for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was more, the jock.” She fake shudders with a grin.

“Of course,” Casey smiles, the gesture feeling awkward and fake, though Robin doesn’t seem to notice. A guy who did every sport, yeah, right.

“Truly, it’s horrible,” Robin continues on, oblivious. “He tells me the scores of the game each morning. I guess it’s fair, because he watches my art house movies. He claims that they are at least, most of them are just classics and he’s uncultured. I mean, I love him to bits, but who hasn’t seen Citizen Kane?”

Casey herself hasn’t seen Citizen Kane either and wants to avoid getting a detailed explanation about it, so she cuts Robin off. She asks: “Why are you friends with this Steve if you have nothing in common?”

Robin pauses and looks at her like she is the crazy one, as if she suddenly has two heads. She answers: “Because he’s great,” like that is obvious information.

“Oh my god,” Jessica exclaims gleefully, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Robin, do you like Steve?”

If she’s honest, Robin kind of looks like she has never considered the possibility, however before Casey can be sure, the look is gone, replaced by a blush. “I- I mean, he is attractive,” she stutters and Casey can barely believe it.

Some rumors are going around about Robin and why she might never talk about a boy, but here she is, blushing about a boy.

It doesn’t occur to Casey that Robin might be embarrassed by the question, flushing under the sudden attention. She doesn’t think that Robin is stuttering, because she has to find an answer to protect herself, mentally bracing herself for the minefield she found herself in without warning.

“Tell me more,” Jessica demands.

“His, uhm- His hair is floppy and nice,” Robin starts, everyone oblivious that she is thinking off what all the girls said when Steve was in the back room when they worked at Scoops Ahoy. “And he’s nice.”

Casey almost can’t believe her ears as she pounces on the topic with Amy and Jessica, sadly interrupted by the teacher, who cuts the conversation short, before they can truly get into it. Robin slinking away.

After that, she avoids them, however the curiosity of Casey and the others has been sparked and they discuss it later.

“This makes so much sense,” Jessica exclaims. “She didn’t make him up, but she isn’t friends with this guy! She just imagines she is, because she likes him.”

“Which Steve do you think it is?” Casey wonders, able to picture what Jessica is sketching, feeling bad for Robin.

“Oh my god, do you think it’s Steve Harrington,” Amy exclaims. “I think my sister said he works at Family Video now, doesn’t Robin work there too?”

“He totally does,” Jessica agrees, looking like someone gave her a goldmine. “I can’t believe Buckley has a crush on king Steve.”

“She did seem obsessed with him, remember, when they shared Mrs. Click’s class,” Casey brings up, having also been in that class.

“Exactly,” Jessica agrees, excitedly.

“That’s so sad,” Amy says, not sounding like she pities Robin much. “That she makes up that he is friends with her.”

Casey feels a little uncomfortable at the comment, it sounds a bit too mean. Especially when Jessica adds: “Yeah, at that point go all in and say you’re dating.”

“Maybe she’s friendly with him, if they work together,” Casey says. “She might have exaggerated a bit, but it’s not too out there.”

“Come on, Casey,” Amy rolls her eyes. “She claims he drives her to school every morning. You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I guess not,” Casey says, not wanting to be excluded from their group. She is a band nerd, she knows to be happy with the friends she has, okay.

However, the next morning, before band practice, they all linger outside, instead of waiting inside with the rest. Robin is hardly ever late, so they don’t really worry. They’re just curious why Robin thinks she can keep up the lie when anyone can just check in the morning.

The car that rolls up is quite obviously not Steve Harrington’s. It’s a bit beat up and behind the wheel is an older man with glasses. Robin says goodbye to the man, stumbling out.

As to not look conspicuous, Jessica light a cigarette and waits until Robin is nearby, before she says: “I didn’t know your dad’s name is Steve, Robin.”

Casey cringes at the faux-sweet tone that Robin doesn’t pick up. Her heart plummeting when she replies: “It isn’t, his name is Frank. Truly an old man name in my opinion, like, who names their kid Frank, honestly. Steve was busy,” without seeing the trap.

“Really?” Jessica asks, faking interest. “What was he doing?”

“Oh,” Robin says surprised and shifts her eyes away. She shrugs: “I don’t know, I don’t live in his pocket, you know.”

The whole thing feels like a lie, because it is. Robin knows exactly where Steve is. His parents are home, so he has to play house with them. He hates it and she isn’t about to tell some random people that, there’s a besties code. Plus, she doesn’t want to fake a crush on Steve. Iew.

Of course, Casey doesn’t know this and winces, knowing what sort of rumors will be circulating about Robin by the time lunch period arrives.

“Just thought you would,” Jessica shrugs, like she actually was and stubs the cigarette. “Walk to practice together?”

“Sure,” Robin smiles, seemingly relieved the conversation is over and not seeing the look Amy and Jessica share. Casey keeps her eyes on the ground, not wanting to be in on the look. Robin seems a lot nicer than her own friends.

Indeed, rumors circulate about Robin. About how she’s making up being friends with Steve Harrington, like a sad weirdo.

And Robin remains painfully oblivious. She still talks about Steve daily, brings him up at practice or during lunch. Sometimes however, she falter as she does, glancing around. It makes Casey feel like she does know that she isn’t believed. In those moments, she can’t look Robin in her eyes, guilt eating at her.

It feels a bit like passive aggressive warfare. Robin’s ability to bring Steve into every conversation she has vs. the ability of the other to not snap that she should stop lying. Tensions that are rising and bound to break.

However, before they can, the impossible happens.

It’s an after school practice and Robin is doing that thing she does when she’s anxious when she’s unable to stand still. Casey notes she doesn’t have her trumpet with her.

“Where is your trumpet?” Vickie asks. Casey doesn’t really talk to Vickie, but she seems nice enough and her words stop Robin’s nervous fiddling, which Casey is grateful for. It can be really distracting.

“I, uh- I forgot it,” Robin squeaks.

Vickie frowns for a second, then smiles, putting an arm on her shoulder as she says: “I’m sure there is a spare. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” Robin stutters, now blushing. She must be embarrassed at being called out like that, Casey thinks. Then Robin finds her footing again: “That is really nice, but it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine that I forgot, because I need it, so that sucks. I’m always forgetting stuff when I shouldn’t and it’s annoying, so I know it’s not fine. Sorry, what I’m trying to say, it’s- I called Steve, he’s bringing it over.”

Silence.

Now, it is up to Vickie, whether she will go along with it, or tell Robin that she can’t rely on her imaginary friend to bring her stuff. Casey thinks Vickie will go along with it, never one to believe rumors. However that still leaves everyone in proxy, who heard.

Before anyone can make a decision, a different voice calls out: “Oi, Robbie, come get your flute thingy.”

Robin’s head whips around, big smile on her face, though she complains: “It’s not a flute thingy, dingus, you know that. It’s a trumpet. A glorious instrument that should be honored by all-”

“Yeah, yeah.” She is cut off, at the door stands none other than Steve Harrington. His hair is perfectly coiffed and his muscles bulge under his polo. He waves Robin’s rambling away, but he’s giving her an equally big grin. “If it’s such a glorious instrument, you shouldn’t leave it in my car like you do with all your other shit.”

Casey honestly can’t quite believe it. No one there can. It is actual king Steve, who took time out of his day to bring Robin her trumpet. The trumpet she left in his car. She hasn’t been lying. Robin Buckley is friends with Steve Harrington.

“You love all my shit. Besides, it’s not that bad,” Robin argues, taking the trumpet and pulling Steve into a hug.

“Yes, it is that bad,” Steve protests as he hugs Robin back, head resting on hers. “I don’t even know why you own that many hair ties, you don’t even have hair.”

Offended Robin pulls back and says: “I have hair, you’ve braided it. Just because I’m not like you, Mr. Hair, doesn’t mean you can insult my locks.”

In turn Steve sticks out his tongue and they continue to bicker. The rest of band just watches the duo, unsure of what to think. Ever since that first hug, they haven’t let go of each other, arms looped around waists even as they argue about Robin’s hair tie habits and Steve’s nickpicky-ness surrounding his car.

They look comfortable, so intertwined together, Casey thinks. However, she isn’t reminded of Jessica, who is often disgustingly wrapped up in Micheal, instead she is more reminded of her two baby cousins. Twins. They never leave each other alone. Robin and Steve look like them as they talk.

The duo is cut off by the teacher, who comes in and calls out: “Everyone get ready. Yes, that includes you, Buckley. Say bye to your boyfriend.”

Steve and Robin share a look, before they burst into giggles. Steve plants a kiss on Robin’s forehead, Robin leaves one on his cheek. Then she’s walking back to her spot, though she keeps hold of Steve’s hand until he is too far to keep a hold off. They keep waving until the door is closed and Steve leaves, practice beginning.

After that, different rumors pop up. These spread further than band, being deemed more juicy than a delusional girl.

Because that girl isn’t delusional. She is friends with Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins High, even if he lost that throne to Billy in the end. Steve has befriended someone, who no one would have ever thought. Of course people want to know.

Amy and Jessica enjoy the attention, however, Casey feels uncomfortable. They hadn’t believed Robin and now they were talking about her and what she told them like they always had. Just to be popular.

Casey doesn’t want to be an outcast, she wants to fit in and have an okay high school experience before she can get out of Hawkins and move to college. Amy and Jessica have always been her friends and she doesn’t want to give that up.

However, she finds herself sitting with Vickie during lunch more and more often as her friends parade around the tables with the more popular kids.

Robin has taken to sitting with Nancy during lunch. The friendship stirring more rumors, since Nancy is Steve’s ex and Robin is either Steve’s girlfriend or illicit sibling if you want to believe what people say.

Not only that, but it seems that with the conformation, Casey sees the duo everywhere.

She is out to buy some ice cream, the last of the nice days of the year and there is Steve, Robin hanging off him as a little black girl who’s with them says: “You made a deal, sailor. I want four scoops.”

“You never finish four scoops,” Steve protests. “Plus, all that sugar is horrible for your teeth, your mom will kill me. You can have two. I’m serious, Erica.”

Erica turns to Robin, lifting an eyebrow as she asks: “Do you know something about honoring of contracts or do you need me to pull out the constitution?”

“I don’t know, do you want me to explain to him that contracts with minors aren’t upheld by most courts?” Robin counters. “Just let him pay for the two.”

“Fine,” Erica says after a moment, throwing up her hands.

“Thanks, Rob,” Steve tells her, nuzzling his face into her neck.

“Course, dingus,” Robin smiles back, ruffling his hair, a thing that seems illegal to Casey. Though the whole interaction in front of her already seems like something from another dimension.

Casey also spots Robin getting out of the very recognizable car that Steve owns at the drop off each morning. Sometimes they’re joined by a Freshman, but often it is just the two of them. Whenever she goes, she gives Steve this big hug that he returns, the two of them clinging to each other as if they’re afraid to let go.

And every time Casey sees them, they look happy. They have lively conversations, hold hands, give each other big grins.

At some point Casey sees them walk on a cold day. Robin is inside Steve’s coat, the two of them sharing it as they awkwardly hobble along. She hears Robin loudly say: “This sucks. It’s almost as cold as that bunker.”

“That wasn’t this bad, you just don’t know how to dress for the weather,” Steve protests.

“I do, the weatherman just lied to me,” Robin pouts. Whatever Steve replies to that is lost as the distance between the duo and Casey grows bigger.

If Casey is honest, she is quite jealous of the easy friendship the two seem to share. Amy and Jessica always make Casey feel like there are wrong answers or if she can do the wrong thing and be dropped. Steve and Robin seem to just like each other, even if they disagree on things. Though, Casey suspects they just like debating over random things.

She wonders what it is like to have a friend like that, but she doesn’t dare approach Robin. A part of her still wants to get out of high school semi-normally and befriending Robin is counterproductive in that. So, she just watches from the sidelines.

They go together to homecoming, both in suits and dancing like idiots. Neither of them seem to care about the stares, wrapped up in their own worlds.

Robin briefly shows up to a Halloween party, has one drink, then disappears into a toilet. Steve later shows up, uninvited and picks her up. She looks shaken and clings to him as he soothes her. Casey wonders what happened, but doesn’t dare to ask. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have been told about a bunker under the ground and cold needles.

Over winter break, they’re everywhere together as well, even if they’re not working. Casey is reminded of what she thought when Robin was lying, about how they must have moved in together with how much she seems to know about him. Looking at them sharing a scarf that doesn’t seem so far fetched.

Of course after winter break, school truly takes off. They’re all drowning in acceptance essays, mock exams and stress. No one is immune.

Casey looses sight of Robin and Steve, the odd duo not important enough for her as she tries to get into a good college with her grades.

Amy and Jessica barely hang out with her anymore. She stopped seeking them out a while ago and they haven’t cared to reach out to her again. It’s a bit lonely, she’ll admit, but she can use the time to study and do volunteer work that’ll look good on her college applications. Besides, she has been feeling better about herself without her old friends.

1986 is shaping up to be a pretty good year with the Hawkin’s Tigers going to the championships for the first time in years. This obviously means that band is there as well for the prep rally. Casey isn’t in the same section as Robin, but she’s close enough.

She isn’t sure if she should be surprised that Steve is also there and the two manage to make jokes through the National Anthem. However, she can’t help but note that Steve keeps ignoring his date to make faces at Robin. How he seems to have changed from when he was in school.

They have become part of her scenery over the past half year, she realizes. The duo has been popping up everywhere and she quite likes observing their weirdly close antics. When asked if they were dating, Robin denied it and she looked genuine. Casey believes her, unable to shake the twins from her mind when she looks at them.

A part of her wonders what made the two so close after the summer, when before then they had seemingly never interacted. Another part of her is resigned to it remaining a mystery, the odd duo continuing to be odd to the end.

However, they are blasted out of her mind when the news of Chrissy’s death hits the news. The whole town is on edge, looking for the unfamiliar. If Casey would have thought about Steve and Robin, she only would have noticed that the two seemed to have disappeared from the streets, likely in hiding as so many other that were afraid.

Casey herself is very afraid. She kind of looks like Chrissy and while the other two targets were boys, she can’t help but fear he has a type. That she’ll be a target.

It is almost funny how quickly worrying about a murderer can be overshadowed by something bigger. Way bigger. Hawkins splitting open kind of bigger.

She is lucky that her house has survived. Still, her parents are taking her a few towns over to where her grandma lives, hoping to let Casey graduate there on time, since Hawkins High now functions as shelter. They’re not yet selling the house, it’s worth less that its mortgage now and both her mother and father hope to return. Both grew up there and both wish to stay.

Right now Casey is delivering some stuff to the shelter, everyone wants to help those less fortunate after the earthquake and her mother has been planning on doing a deep clean anyway. All the clothes Casey has outgrown can be used by someone else.

And it is not until she is on her way to bring the clothes to the folding table that she remembers the duo, because Steve is folding clothes.

The moment she sees him – she knows Robin must be okay too, a stab of guilt for not worrying about her earlier going through her – because there is no way Steve could look like that if Robin had been hurt. Not even if the world got flipped upside down. Those are a package deal.

Indeed as she gets closer, she spots Robin at a table with Vickie, the two of them laughing as they make sandwiches. They look happy despite it all and Casey feels a little bit of jealousy in her bones as she watches.

Casey has never been friends with Robin, but when she sees the people she has befriended, she wishes she had. Robin loves them loudly and wholly and that seems like a nice thing to have, people who care. It’s different than what Casey knows.

She stays a few minutes, sees Vickie say goodbye, before Robin makes big eyes at Steve and runs to him, jumping on his back. Steve catches her like this is routine, swinging her around, before setting her down.

There’s a lot of tragedy in this town, but they have found happiness in the other.

~~

A/N:

I hate all the girls I made up so much!!! It was so hard to write them, bc I keep wanting to fight them ://// (I couldn’t keep writing this and have Casey be too mean, lmao, I had to make her a little bit nicer to not throw this out omg)

Also Robin is at that intersection where she doesn’t notice the indirect digs at her, but she knows that she is being excluded in some way and sometimes she chooses to ignore it, trust me, she’s aware :(

But I hope this came across well enough with the outsiders POV! Steve and Robin are besties, always together and a little odd and I love that for them <3