#i refuse to give this flat up but i'm stressed

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Part Three

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | The music blares and everyone’s out of it, but she turns and sees him. Detached from it all, Aemond stands on the balcony with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips - watching the party unfold, watching her. The realization hits her as their eyes meet.

It’s him. It’s always been him. 

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Non-Con and Violence Elements; Use of Substances and Alcohol; Complicated Relationship Dynamics.

PAIRINGS | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader [MAIN]; Modern!Daeron Targaryen x Reader

WORD COUNT | 24.5k [I'M SORRY]

Check out the art created for this fic by the lovely, talented and so very kind @azperja here!  

A/N | By now it's obvious. I really don't beta read things -_-

She starts with small changes. 

She takes different routes around campus, chooses study spots on the opposite end of the library, and declines any parties where she might run into him. They’re usually in different parts of the campus anyway, so avoiding him should be easy. But it isn’t. They run in the same circles, and all her friends know him. She has to be mindful, strategic, careful not to linger in places where their paths might cross.

The one shared class they have is her biggest challenge. She slips into the lecture hall just as the professor begins, taking a seat in the back, hidden among the sea of students. She keeps her head down, her attention fixed on her notes, refusing to let her eyes wander to where she knows he’s sitting.

But she feels his presence, even without looking. She can sense the way his gaze lingers on her, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. It takes every ounce of her willpower to ignore it, to pretend she doesn’t notice, that she isn’t affected by it. She keeps her mouth shut, barely even acknowledging the professor, just so Aemond won’t have a reason to notice her.

But he’s seen her. She knows he has. And yet, he hasn’t made any attempt to approach her. He hasn’t tried to talk to her after class, hasn’t texted, hasn’t even sent a cryptic message through a mutual friend.

The silence from him is both a relief and a torment. On one hand, she’s grateful that he’s giving her space, that he’s not forcing her to confront what happened. But on the other, she can’t help but wonder why. Why hasn’t he reached out? Does he understand that she needs space, or is he simply indifferent?

The conflicting thoughts whirl around her mind, making it impossible to focus. She’s avoiding him, yet she can’t stop thinking about him. She wonders if he’s reached the same conclusion she has - that whatever happened between them was a mistake. Or maybe… maybe the girl he’s seeing is back, and he’s realized that what they had was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment that he regrets.

The thought makes her skin crawl.

It stings more than she’d like to admit. It’s ridiculous, she tells herself. She should be glad that he’s keeping his distance. It’s what she wanted, after all. But the doubts creep in, feeding the anxiety that’s been gnawing at her ever since that night.

Her finals don’t help either. The pressure to perform well, to maintain her grades, is a vice around her chest. She spends long hours in the library, her nose buried in textbooks, trying to drown out her thoughts with the relentless march of deadlines and exam schedules. But he is a constant presence at the back of her mind, and she cannot shake him off.

The final exam of the semester passes in a blur, each answer she scribbles onto the paper feeling more mechanical than the last. When it’s over, she walks out of the exam hall with a numbness that clings to her. The weight of the past weeks - the stress, the sleepless nights, the constant battle to keep her emotions in check - finally catches up with her.

She spends the entire day holed up in her flat, the blinds drawn to keep out the bright summer light. The silence is thick, the hours stretching on as she flits from one distraction to another. She tries reading, but the words blur together on the page. She turns on the laptop, but the shows barely hold her attention. Even scrolling through her phone feels empty.

As the afternoon fades into evening, a slow realization dawns on her: she can’t keep hiding forever. The exams were a temporary distraction, an excuse to avoid dealing with everything she’s been running from. But now that they’re over, she’s left with nothing but her thoughts - and the gnawing certainty that she can’t keep avoiding Aemond.

He’s likely finished his exams too, probably somewhere out there, living his life as if nothing’s changed. The thought brings a fresh wave of frustration. He hasn’t reached out to her, hasn’t made the slightest effort to clear the air.

It’s almost as if he’s content to let things remain as they are. But she's not.

The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that waiting for him to make the first move is futile. He’s not going to reach out, not after the way she’s been avoiding him. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing - that she doesn’t want to see him, that she’s already moved on.

The idea of confronting him terrifies her, but the thought of continuing on like this - of pretending that she can keep dodging him forever - is worse. She can’t live in this self-imposed exile, trapped by her own fears and doubts. If there’s any hope of moving past this, of getting closure, she needs to take the first step.

With a deep breath, she makes up her mind. The decision brings a strange sense of calm, like a weight being lifted from her chest. She can’t predict how it will go, but at least she’ll be taking control, no longer at the mercy of her own avoidance.

The evening sky outside her window is turning shades of pink and orange, and for the first time in days, she feels a spark of determination. She’s not going home for the summer, and neither, as far as she knows, is he.

There’s no more running, no more hiding.

Her eyes settle on Aemond - sprawled across his bed, completely at ease, as if he’s got not a care in the world.

The familiar scent hits her first - weed, strong and pungent, curling through the air and invading her senses. She pauses at the threshold, taking it in, before leaning against the doorway.

He doesn’t notice her at first. He’s too absorbed in the book he’s holding, his fingers lazily turning a page. She can’t make out the title, but she recognizes the Valyrian text on the cover, the ancient script curling elegantly along the spine.

For a moment, she watches him. There’s a strange, almost surreal quality to the scene - like she’s an outsider looking in on his life. His face is calm, his expression softened in the dim light, but there’s a tension in his posture, a quiet restlessness that she can’t quite place.

“So this is what you do when you’re high? Read Valyrian books?”

“They’re interesting,” he replies, his voice casual, detached. He doesn’t look at her, his eye still roving over the page, words spilling out as if she wasn’t there. Almost as if they hadn’t been icing each other out for weeks.

She doesn’t know what to say. The weight of their silence presses heavily down on her chest. She hesitates, her mind racing, but before she can form a coherent thought, he gestures toward her, a lazy wave of his hand as he adjusts himself on the bed.

“Come here.”

It’s not a request; it’s a command, spoken with the kind of casual authority that’s so inherently him. She swallows hard, the tension in her stomach coiling tighter. Part of her wants to resist, to stay rooted in place, but there’s another part of her - smaller, more vulnerable - that aches for the familiarity of being close to him again.

She pushes off the doorway, her steps slow and hesitant as she crosses the room. The air feels warmer near him, the scent of weed and smoke mingling with the faint smell of his cologne, a combination that’s both comforting and disorienting. When she reaches the bed, she pauses, unsure of what to do, where to sit, what to say.

Aemond looks up at her then, his gaze locking onto hers. There’s something different in his eye now, something softer, more aware. It’s like he’s really seeing her for the first time since she walked in.

He nods and she gives in, sitting down beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. There’s a tension between them, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment, but for now, it holds.

She hesitates for a moment, then slowly lies down next to him, feeling the warmth of his body radiate through the thin fabric of her shirt. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to make room for her, and as she curls into the mattress, he slips an arm around her waist, pulling her in closer.

His hand rests on her side, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on her skin through the fabric, the movement steady and soothing. She feels his breath against her hair, steady and calm, and for a moment, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to melt into him.

She takes her time, letting her gaze drift over him, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The book is still in his other hand, balanced carefully as he continues to read, the pages illuminated by the dim light of the bedside lamp. He’s so absorbed in it, yet his hold on her is firm, as if he’s anchoring both of them to this moment, this shared silence.

She shifts slightly, her head resting on his shoulder as she glances at the book in his hand. “What are you reading?”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers stilling on the page as he looks down at her. “It’s called The Last Embrace.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a romantic.”

He chuckles softly at her remark, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through his chest. "It’s a Valyrian classic," he says. “I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies.”

“Hm.” She moves into him, and his hand roves over her clothed back, warmth seeping through. She nestles against him, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. “Read to me?” She asks softly, almost shyly, as if the request might shatter her pride.

He considers her for a moment, then gently adjusts his position, making sure she’s comfortable as he continues from where he left off. With his arm still wrapped around her, holding her close, he begins to read. The words flow from his lips - his voice deep and rich as it carries and fills the quiet space between them. She listens, captivated by the way he brings the story to life.

One word in particular catches her attention, its lilting syllables intriguing. She stops him, her gaze curious. “What does that mean?”

He looks down at her, his gaze tender and slightly dazed. “Gevie means ‘beautiful,’” he explains, his tone mellowed by a subtle high. She repeats the word, her attempt tentative. “Gevie.” Her pronunciation falters, and he gently corrects her, his voice a soothing murmur. “Gevie,” he reiterates, his lips curving into a soft smile.

She tries again, her voice more confident, “Gevie,” and he nods in approval, his hand squeezing lightly on her arm, a touch that sends a shiver down her spine.

The reading continues, and she’s captivated by another word. 

“Jorrāelagon,” she asks. “And this one?”

“It means ‘love.’” He replies, his eyes soft and hazy, the high giving his voice a languid quality that almost lulls her to sleep. She echoes. “Jorrāelagon,” but her pronunciation is awkward at the first try. He guides her gently, his voice dropping as he enunciates the word.

 “Jorrāelagon.”

She repeats the word again, and he nods, pleased. She doesn’t want to dwell on how pleasing him feels.

When they reach 'Vūjigon', she leans in closer, her curiosity and desire blending seamlessly. “What does this one mean?”

“To kiss,” he murmurs, his gaze growing more intense. She wonders if she’s seeing the slight red on his cheeks, or if it’s actually there. She repeats, “Vūjigon,” her pronunciation faltering again. He corrects her, his voice a velvety whisper.

As she practices the word, the anticipation builds between them. Her body shifts, aligning with his, and she straddles him, her movements deliberate and sensual. The mattress dips under her weight, and she feels the heat of his body radiate through the thin fabric of their clothes. His hands find her sides, gripping firmly but tenderly, his touch sending electric currents through her skin. She leans in closer, their foreheads touching, and she inhales deeply. The scent of his cologne mixes with the distinct smell of the weed. The high he's on adds a dream-like quality to his touch and his gaze, making every sensation more vivid and intense.

“Vūjigon,” she whispers, her voice husky with desire. The correct pronunciation flows from her lips, and the air between them is heated and heavy.

His eye darkens with desire as he gazes at her, the effect of the high amplifying his senses. He responds to her unspoken invitation, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that is both urgent and tender. The kiss deepens quickly as his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, the heat of his touch igniting a fire within her.

His hands tighten on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she can feel the hard line of his desire pressing against her. The sensation sends a shudder through her, a wave of heat that pools low in her belly.

This is happening, this is truly happening-

His kisses are a heady mix of passion and need, his tongue exploring her mouth with a fervor that leaves her breathless. She responds in kind, her own desire spiraling out of control as her fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as she presses herself against him. The weight of him beneath her, the feel of his body so close, so real, is intoxicating.

With a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, he flips them over, his body covering hers, pressing her into the mattress. His hands are everywhere - roaming her sides, cupping her breasts, sliding down to grip her hips. The urgency of his movements is matched by the haze of the high, adding a surreal, almost dream-like quality to the moment.

She arches into him, her back curving as she seeks more of his touch, more of the heat that’s building between them. His mouth leaves hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, until he’s tugging her shirt aside, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath. Every touch, every kiss, feels amplified, the high making her hyper-aware of every sensation.

He’s moving with purpose now, his hands tugging at the waistband of her pants, sliding them down her hips with a practiced ease. She helps him, kicking them off, leaving her bare beneath him. He follows quickly, discarding his own clothes until there’s nothing between them but heated skin.

His hands are back on her, rough and gentle all at once as he positions himself between her thighs. She feels the blunt pressure of him at her entrance, the anticipation so sharp it almost hurts. She meets his gaze, his eyes dark and blown with lust, the effect of the high making them seem even more intense. He pauses, just for a moment, his breath ragged. “I’m on the pill,” she murmurs, as if sensing his hesitation.

He thrusts into her with a single, powerful stroke.

The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that has her gasping, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he fills her completely. He stills for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead pressing against hers as he takes a shuddering breath.

Then he’s moving, his hips snapping against hers in a rhythm that’s fast and unrelenting. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through her, the friction, the heat, the intensity of it all pushing her closer to the edge. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her own hips meeting his in a desperate attempt to keep up with the pace he’s set.

His breathing is ragged in her ear, a rough counterpoint to the smoothness of his movements. She can feel him tensing, the way his thrusts grow more erratic, more desperate, as he nears his own release. His hand moves between them, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, precise circles, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

With a low growl, he slams into her one last time, his body tensing as he comes hard, the force of his orgasm shaking him. He rides it out, his hips still moving in shallow thrusts as he chases the last remnants of pleasure.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his breathing slows, his hands remain on her, one sliding down her body until his fingers are slipping between her folds, finding the wet heat there. He pulls out of her slowly, and she whimpers at the loss, but the sound quickly turns to a moan as his head dips between her thighs.

His mouth finds her, his tongue licking a slow, teasing stripe up her center before his lips close around her clit. He sucks gently, his fingers pressing inside her, filling her again as he works her with a relentless, skillful rhythm. She’s already so close, her body still buzzing from the intensity of what they’ve just done, and it doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build again, fast and unstoppable.

As his mouth works her, his tongue drawing her closer and closer to the edge, he lifts his head just enough to murmur against her skin, “Gevie… ao gevie issi, jorrāelagon.”

His voice is thick with desire, the words rolling off his tongue with a reverence that sends shivers down her spine. She’s too far gone to try and grasp the meaning, her mind clouded with the overwhelming pleasure he’s giving her. But something about the way he says it, the heat in his voice, makes her gasp.

“What… what does that mean?” she manages to ask between moans, her voice breathless, shaky.

He doesn’t answer right away, his mouth returning to her with renewed focus, his fingers curling inside her in just the right way. The pleasure is dizzying, her body trembling as she’s pushed closer to the brink. When he finally speaks again, his words are low and guttural, vibrating against her skin.

“Gevie… beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with lust as he looks up at her, his eye dark and filled with heat. “Jorrāelagon… love.” His hand moves in sync with his words, drawing more moans from her lips, her mind barely able to process the translations as the pleasure intensifies.

Her body arches into him, desperate for more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his fingers working her relentlessly. She’s on the edge, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, when he murmurs one last word against her skin.

“Vūjigon,” he says, the word slipping from his lips like a caress, his voice deeper, rougher, as he lifts his head to look at her, his gaze burning into hers.

“Kiss,” she breathes, finally understanding, the realization sending a fresh wave of desire crashing over her. Her body moves of its own accord, her hips grinding against his fingers as she chases the release that’s just out of reach.

He doesn’t give her time to dwell on it, his mouth returning to her with a fervor that’s almost too much to bear. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and need that builds and builds until she’s teetering on the edge, her mind a haze. Her hips lift off the mattress, seeking more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect harmony until she’s falling over the edge, her orgasm crashing over her in waves. She cries out, her hands fisting in his hair as he pushes her through it, his mouth never leaving her until she’s trembling with the aftershocks, her body spent and sated.

When he lays back down and his lips meet hers, she thinks there could be no better feeling than being held in his arms.

The fact that he may still have another woman in his life slips her mind completely.

Tonight, he is hers.

The morning after, he's gone off for an early class, leaving her to rest. She finds The Last Embrace on his nightstand and picks it up, her nimble fingers turning the pages as she scans his notes scattered throughout the book.

Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for.

It’s the kind of observation she can easily imagine him making aloud, his voice detached yet tinged with a subtle irony. She almost pictures him writing it, pausing to consider the implications of the passage before inscribing his thoughts with careful precision. It’s a stark reminder of how his mind works - always a step removed, always observing from a distance, even when he’s most deeply involved.

It’s so very Aemond, the way he can reduce something as chaotic and overwhelming as love to a mere intellectual curiosity, and yet, in doing so, reveal more about himself than any grand declaration ever could.

A small smile plays on her lips as she closes the book, gently smoothing the folded corner.

She least expects it, but it hits her with the force of a brick wall when it does.

She finds herself at Aemond's apartment again, perched on the familiar countertop in his kitchen, picking at a bowl of leftover pasta he’d casually reheated for her. Aemond stands at the stove, his attention focused on a kettle of water beginning to steam. He moves with his usual grace, every action deliberate and precise, but there’s something slightly different about him today—a subtle energy that she can’t quite place.

Almost offhandedly as he reaches for a mug, he speaks. “I might not be around tomorrow night. I’ve got…plans.”

He says it so casually, the words slipping out as though they’re of no consequence. But there’s a flicker of something in his tone, something that makes her glance up from her bowl, her curiosity piqued.

“Plans?” she echoes, trying to keep her voice light, nonchalant, though a strange tightness begins to form in her chest.

“Yeah,” he continues, filling the mug with hot water before turning back to her, his expression as composed as ever. “Dinner, actually. With someone.”

The way he says it - "with someone" - is so deliberately vague, so carefully chosen, that it sends a chill through her, the pieces beginning to fall into place. The quiet confidence in his voice, the way he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t feel the need to explain. It’s a subtle giveaway, but one she can’t ignore.

“Oh,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping back to her bowl, her appetite suddenly fading. She forces herself to take another bite, though it tastes like ash in her mouth. “That sounds…nice.”

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone so matter-of-fact, so indifferent, that it stings more than anything else. “It should be.”

For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say, the silence between them suddenly feeling heavier, more oppressive. The realization settles in slowly, a painful clarity that makes her heart ache. To him, what they have is just…convenient.

He isn’t even trying to hide it. The ease with which he mentions his plans, the lack of any concern for how she might feel about it—it all points to one thing. 

Casual. Non-exclusive.

Then again, he made no promises.

The realization - reminder, if she was being practical - is a bitter pill to swallow, and she fights to keep her expression neutral, not wanting to betray the sadness that’s creeping into her. She allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to this. But now, sitting there on his countertop, she sees it for what it truly is.

“Enjoy your dinner,” she says, her voice sounding distant to her own ears as she pushes the half-eaten bowl away and slides off the counter. She offers him a small, strained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Thanks,” he replies, his gaze flicking over her briefly before returning to the kettle, as if her words are of no particular importance.

As she moves to grab her bag, her movements slow and deliberate, Aemond turns to look at her. The casual indifference that colored his words just moments before falters when he sees the expression on her face - something distant, guarded, as though she’s trying to shield herself from the truth that’s just settled between them.

“You’re upset,” he says, not as a question but as a statement, his tone flat. He’s always so direct, so infuriatingly precise in his observations, as if everything in the world can be neatly cataloged and understood.

She hesitates, her back to him as she reaches for her bag, fingers brushing over the strap, but she doesn’t pick it up right away. She can feel his gaze on her, sharp and assessing, waiting for her to respond.

“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, even though the words feel like they’re sticking in her throat. “Just…you could’ve mentioned it before.”

There’s a beat of silence, the air between them taut with unspoken things. She knows he’s searching for the right words, something that won’t sound like an admission but also won’t deny the reality she’s trying to ignore.

“You always knew there was someone else,” he says finally, his voice low, almost gentle, as if that can soften the blow.

She swallows hard, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag as the truth of his words settles in. Of course, she knows. There’s always been something in the way he holds himself slightly apart from her, something that hinted at the boundaries she was never meant to cross. And yet, she crossed them anyway, hoping—foolishly—that maybe he would meet her halfway.

“Did I?” she asks quietly, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. She turns to face him then, her eyes searching his, looking for something - anything - that will contradict what he’s just said. But there’s nothing. His expression is calm, measured, as though they’re discussing something inconsequential.

He doesn’t answer, but the silence that follows is more telling than anything he could say. She can see it now, how he’s always been careful with her, careful not to let things go too far, careful not to give her any false hope.

But he never really needed to, did he? Because she already knew, deep down, that whatever they had was just a small part of his life - a convenience, a passing thing that will end the moment someone else comes along. Someone more important, more permanent.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the sound heavy in the quiet of the kitchen. “Right,” she says, nodding to herself as if that will help make sense of everything. “I guess I did know.”

She hesitates, the words tasting bitter on her tongue as she adds, almost too casually, “Daeron texted about coming to Oldtown over the weekend. I probably have plans with him anyway.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, and when she dares to meet his gaze, she catches the subtle shift in his expression - a small, almost amused curl of his lips. It’s as if he can see right through her, peeling back the flimsy layers she’s tried to build around herself. The realization that he sees her so clearly, that he understands her attempts to guard herself, makes her feel smaller, more exposed than she ever intended.

His smile fades, replaced by something darker, more contemplative, and the weight of his gaze makes her want to shrink away, to hide from the way he’s dissecting her. He steps closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing as his presence looms large, overwhelming. She feels like she’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that could shatter her if she’s not careful. But she doesn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his gaze, by the way he’s looking at her like he’s trying to decide if she’s worth the effort of breaking down completely.

The resignation in her voice must cut through him because he shifts, leaning back against the counter, his eyes never leaving hers. But he doesn’t move toward her, doesn’t try to reach out. It’s as if he knows that any attempt to comfort her now would only be hollow, empty of meaning.

She can smell the faint scent of the coffee still lingering on him, mixing with his cologne, and it makes her head swim, makes the room feel smaller, more suffocating. Everything feels too close, too real, and she needs to leave before she says something she can’t take back.

“Look, it’s fine,” she says quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I should get going anyway. I’ve got things to do.”

He doesn’t stop her. He just watches as she slings the bag over her shoulder, his gaze cool and detached, like he’s studying her, trying to understand why she’s making such a big deal out of something they both knew had an expiration date.

But just as she turns to leave, he reaches out, taking hold of her hand. The contact is brief, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to make her pause. There’s something in his touch—something that feels more like pity than affection. It twists in her chest, making her feel even smaller, more exposed.

“Take care,” he says, his voice polite, almost distant, as if the gesture was merely obligatory.

The words sting, made worse by the way he immediately lets go, his hand slipping away as if it never held hers at all. She walks away.

She pauses for a moment, hand on the doorknob, before glancing back at him. There’s so much she wants to say, but she knows it will all sound pathetic and desperate, and she refuses to let him see her like that.

“Yeah,” she replies softly, her heart aching in a way that feels almost physical. “You too.”

She sits on the edge of her sofa, her fingers idly tracing the patterns on the faded fabric. 

She stares at the shadows, feeling them stretch and distort, like her own thoughts, twisted and knotted.

The apartment is a mess - books splayed open, cold coffee mugs scattered about, and a half-burnt vanilla scented candle that hasn’t seen use in days. The quiet hum of the city outside the window is distant, almost surreal, as if it belongs to another world entirely. Inside, it’s as if time has stopped, leaving her in a stagnant pool of self-pity that she hates like nothing else.

Her mind drifts to Aemond. She can’t shake the image of him talking with his date. The warmth of his voice, the way his eyes subtly light up - it all feels so tangible, yet so out of reach. She imagines him in those moments of connection, and each thought pulls her deeper into the mire of her own emotions. The more she dwells on it, the more isolated she feels.

The room feels colder now, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. She wraps her blanket tighter, but it doesn’t offer much comfort. Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, jolting her out of her reverie. She hesitates, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling inside her. It’s probably not Aemond, she tells herself, but she can’t help the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, it is.

She reaches for the phone, her hand trembling slightly. The screen lights up with Daeron’s name. She swipes to open it, her heart pounding as she sees the photo he’s sent. It’s Daeron at Oldtown Airport, his face lit up with a smile that seems to brighten the whole frame. A text follows.

Lunch tomorrow?

She smiles.

She waits outside Moonbloom, the café's warm, inviting light spilling onto the pavement. She watches as people bustle by, each face a fleeting moment in the urban blur. Her nerves are a tight knot, and she checks her phone for the umpteenth time, though she already knows Daeron will be on time. She hears his voice before she sees him.

"Hey," Daeron says, a smile tugging at his lips as he approaches. His eyes, as familiar as they are, carry a weight that wasn’t there before. They embrace awkwardly, and it makes her bristle.

Inside, the café is bustling with midday energy. They choose a corner table, its cozy atmosphere offering some solace from the crowd. Daeron settles into his seat, his movements slightly hesitant. She follows suit, their conversation initially faltering as they tiptoe around the more profound emotions that linger between them.

“So, um,” she begins, fidgeting with the menu, “have you been to this place before?”

“Not really,” Daeron replies, his fingers tapping nervously on his coffee cup. “I mean, I’ve passed by, but I’ve never actually been in. It’s...nice.”

“I love the way they’ve decorated it.”

Daeron looks around, taking in the mismatched furniture and the array of quirky knick-knacks. “Definitely. It’s kind of...charming. I guess I didn’t expect it to be this warm.”

She smiles, relieved to have found a neutral topic. “Yeah, it’s cozy. I come here when I need to get away from everything for a bit.”

“Sounds like it’s a good spot for that,” Daeron says, his voice warming slightly. “I could use a little escape myself.”

They both pause, a slight awkwardness settling over them. The menu sits between them, a practical distraction from the underlying tension. Daeron glances at it, his brow furrowing as he tries to decide.

“So, have you tried anything here that’s a must-have?” Daeron asks, attempting to steer the conversation back to safe ground.

She looks at the menu thoughtfully. “The avocado toast is really good, and the latte is pretty great too. It’s one of those places where you can’t go wrong with pretty much anything. Oh and they have a really good cheesecake!”

“Sounds good,” Daeron says, nodding as if making a mental note. “I’ll have to try both then.”

She chuckles softly, trying to ease the nervous energy between them. “You won’t regret it.”

The menu arrives, and they both laugh over the choices—an easy distraction from the real conversation they know is coming. They talk about trivial things first: the new book she’s reading, Daeron’s latest coffee obsession. The conversation is light, almost too light, as if they’re both waiting for the right moment to dive into the deeper waters.

As their meals arrive, Daeron takes a deep breath, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his coffee cup. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this. You.”

She looks up, surprised by the shift in tone. “Yeah, moving away does that to you.” 

Daeron’s gaze meets hers, a mixture of nostalgia and hesitation in his eyes. “It’s like, I’ve been so caught up in trying to manage everything that I forgot to appreciate these simpler things. I’ve been trying to figure out what really matters, and I think...I think that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

Her curiosity is piqued, the earlier awkwardness giving way to a more genuine connection. “What do you mean?”

Daeron hesitates, fiddling with the edge of his napkin as he searches for the right words. “Floris and me. You know, things seemed okay, but I was always looking for the next problem, the next thing that might go wrong. I never really stopped to appreciate what we had, or how well things were actually working.”

She listens intently, her eyes softening as she senses the depth of his struggle. “And?”

Daeron sighs, his gaze meeting hers with a sincerity that tugs at her heart. “I’ve realized that I need to take a step back and figure things out. It’s why I came to stay here for the next month. It’s not just about getting away from everything. It’s more about taking the time to understand myself better. I want to be in a better place for her - when I go back, I want to be someone who’s really ready.”

The café hums around them, the sounds of chatter and clinking cutlery providing a gentle backdrop to their conversation. She absorbs his words, feeling a mix of sadness and a surprising sense of relief. “You’re actually going to do this?” she asks quietly.

Daeron nods, a small, hopeful smile touching his lips. “Yeah, I think it’s what I need. Just some time to be with myself, to figure out what really matters. I want to make sure I’m not just rushing through life, looking for the next thing. I want to be present for her, for myself. You know?”

There’s something endearing about Daeron, who he’s grown into, and his willingness to admit he needs to take time for himself. It is eons ahead of the boy she knew. For a brief moment, she sees Aemond in him, and she takes a deep breath before she lets her thoughts carry her away.

“I think that’s really brave,” she says softly. “It’s not easy to take a step back and admit you need to sort things out.”

She wonders if her words are for him, or herself.

Your Starry Sept postcards are at my place.

The afternoon sun hits just right as they walk through the market with their condensing iced coffee cups in hand. The stalls around them are alive with the scent of fresh bread, spices and flowers. It’s been days since she’s seen Aemond, and she ignores his texts and any chance to see him like the plague.

They sip their coffee, exchanging easy smiles as they pass by vendors selling everything from handmade jewelry to antique trinkets. The atmosphere is relaxed, yet a tension lingers beneath the surface. Daeron, seemingly content, glances at her and notices a shift in her demeanor as they approach an antique store.

“What’s up with you?” he asks, his tone light. “You’ve been a bit...off today.”

Now more than ever, she hates how well the Targaryen brothers know her. Her heart skips a beat.

“Uh, it’s nothing,” she says, her voice a bit too high-pitched, betraying herself. “Just...a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Daeron raises an eyebrow, his concern deepening. “Come on… We’ve known each other long enough. You can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

She looks away, her eyes darting over the colorful array of vintage items displayed in the store’s window. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The prospect of confessing her recent history with Aemond is daunting, especially since she had poured out her feelings to Daeron not so long ago.

If anything, it makes it all feel a lot less valid if she thinks of it that way.

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

The question hangs in the air, and Wylde feels a lump form in her throat. She swallows hard, weighing the consequences of her next words. She recalls the emotional turmoil she experienced when she admitted her feelings for Daeron and how vulnerable she felt. The idea of now revealing that she’s been seeing Aemond—his brother, no less—feels like an insurmountable hurdle.

She takes another sip of her coffee, trying to buy time. “It’s just...I don’t know how to explain it. There’s been some...changes, you know?”

Daeron looks at her intently, sensing her hesitation. “Look, if you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s okay.” Her heart aches at his genuine concern. She knows she should be honest, but the fear of how Daeron will react clouds her judgment. She finally meets his gaze, the weight of her secret pressing heavily on her shoulders.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s...complicated.”

Daeron’s expression shifts from concern to confusion. “Someone? Who?” She sees his frown lift into a smile.

“Who… that’s not relevant.” 

Before he can interrupt and charm Aemond’s identity out of her, she continues. “He was already with someone, but I caught feelings for him anyway. Then we hooked up, and I worry that I just…”

“You worry that you’ve made a mistake.”

“Among other things. I…” She sighs. “I just want someone that’s mine, you know? It is a bit of a shame that the boys I like always belong to someone else.”

He chuckles. “I’m going to ask you to think well and be honest. Do you know him well enough?”

“Very well.”

“Do you think he’s the type to cheat?”

“Definitely not.”

“And did you ask him about this? What he wants from you, and what his situation with the other person is like?”

“I guess.”

“And what did he say?”

“He made no promises. He said I always knew there was someone else. I… I messed up. I shouldn’t have encouraged him, to be frank. He always knew what it was. He always knew, and I… did too. Just took a while for it to sink in. And… I was slightly foolish in hoping that he’d be just for me… for a while there it felt like… the last few months, it was all building up to it.”

“And you’re sure a fling is what he wants?”

“He went out for dinner with this other girl yesterday. Safe to assume.”

“I guess the question is…” He sighs. “Having as little of him as he can give you… is that something you’re willing to have? Because if not, you’ll have to push him away entirely. Protect yourself.”

She closes her eyes and brings a hand up to her mouth in resignation. “I feel so stupid.”

Daeron places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it takes two to make something work. Don’t beat yourself up if he isn’t.”

When she walks back to her flat that night, Daeron’s words echo through her mind like a fast growing wildfire.

Is he worth it? 

She knows the answer long before she even ponders on the question. It is simply a question of whether or not she can handle it.

There’s more cheesecake in the fridge.

She avoids Aemond and his texts for the next few days, her thoughts spiraling as she wonders what he really wants from her if he’s seeing someone else. Every time her phone buzzes, she tenses, half-hoping, half-dreading it’s him. 

Of course he won’t say he misses her. He won’t say he wants to see her. That’s just not his style.

She stares at the screen for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard before she decides to leave him on read. Her heart pounds, but she doesn't know how to respond. It’s easier to focus on Daeron, easier to avoid the growing confusion that Aemond has brought into her life.

They lie on the blanket, the sound of waves crashing below the cliffs filling the comfortable silence between them. The sky above them shifts in shades of pink and orange as the sun inches closer to the horizon. It’s a scene that could easily be romantic if things had turned out differently between them.

“You know,” Daeron starts, his voice light but thoughtful, “we’re pretty compatible.”

She turns her head to look at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, we are. It’s kind of a shame things didn’t… I don’t know, grow between us the way they could’ve.”

“Yeah,” he echoes, his tone carrying a hint of wistfulness. “It just never… happened.”

With you, she wants to add. I loved you for so long, you just didn’t love me back.

They both know there’s no regret in those words, just a shared acknowledgment of something that could have been but never was.

“I remember the first time I realized I had feelings for you,” she says, her voice softer now as she gazes out at the sea. “I was probably eight years old. That day on the school grounds, when you and Luke fought because he was bothering me. In my defense, I was eight years old and that was the most romantic thing ever.”

Daeron laughs, a genuine sound that makes her smile. “Eight years old, huh? Wow, I didn’t know I was such a charmer back then.”

“You weren’t. I was just an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, you had your moments,” she teases, nudging him with her shoulder. “But really, it was just a silly crush. I got over it eventually. Wasn’t great, but I managed it somehow.” The gravity of underselling her feelings hits her, but she’s not quite upset about it anymore. Daeron is a thing of her past - how much power can feelings from the past hold anyway?

“It all seems silly to me now.”

Daeron nods, understanding. “I get that. I always thought you’d make an awesome girlfriend, though.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

“You’re cool and smart, and we always have a good time together. But I just… never felt much more than that. I do love you, just…”

“You’re not in love with me. I don’t blame you.” She sighs. “At least, not anymore.”

“You know what I mean,” Daeron says, chuckling. “We were close, and it always felt like we could’ve been something more, but it never felt… right. I think I just always saw you as my best friend.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re practically perfect for each other in so many ways, but the spark was never really there. No matter how much I used to want it.”

“Practically perfect,” Daeron agrees, smiling as he echoes her words. “Maybe we’re too practical.”

“Or maybe too perfect.” She grins, looking at him through her sunglasses.

“On paper, definitely.” They both laugh, the sound mingling with the crashing waves. They’re not sad about what could have been; they’re content with what they have.

She realizes she quite likes it this way.

“Hey, you know what?” Daeron says, his tone suddenly playful. “If we’re both still single at forty, we should just get married.”

She snorts, covering her mouth as she laughs. “Seriously?”

“Why not?” he says, grinning. “We’d make a pretty awesome couple, don’t you think?”

She looks at him, pretending to consider it. “Yeah, perfect on paper.”

“Come on, indulge me.”

“Fuck no. What if I’m actually single at forty and have to follow through?”

“It won’t be so bad, I promise.”

“If I’m still single by forty, I’d rather throw myself off this cliff.”

“Be a little brave for once. It’s just a far off possibility.”

“Ugh, fine. You have a deal.” Just as she says it, she extends her hand to him.

“Deal.” He laughs, and the realization is devoid of any pesky feelings as she thinks this is the best laugh she knows.

Hearty, boyish and pure.

Came by the flat, it’s locked. Tell me you’re okay. It’s been more than a week.

I’m fine.

She doesn’t want to see him till she knows exactly what she wants to say. He’s made his stance very clear - that this is very casual to him, and that he doesn’t take what they have as seriously as she thought. She envies him, in all honesty. Why can’t her heart be as straightforward as his?

Daeron had met Aemond and their uncle Gwayne for a game of tennis at the Hightower Townhouse and invited her - but she refused politely and chose to not dwell. A few days later, he takes the private jet to Essos to visit Helaena during her exchange year and she clings to him in a tight hug before letting him go.

Like Daeron, who has chosen to relax this summer, she knows that first-year internships aren't mandatory. If she wanted one, she could easily get it - her name carries significant weight in the world of art and history. Her great-great-great-great-grandmother, Coryanne Wylde, left an indelible mark on the Westerosi art scene with her scandalous and groundbreaking series of erotic paintings titled A Caution for Young Girls. The collection - now cared for at the Citadel in Oldtown - is notorious for its bold sexual depictions, and is considered a turning point in the history of Westerosi art. That, coupled with her family’s considerable wealth - she has the luxury to forgo work during the first year holidays and focus solely on herself.

This summer, she’s embracing that privilege fully. Her days are spent immersed in books, wandering through museums, and exploring the city. She takes day trips to quaint coastal towns, armed with her sketchbook and ready to draw.

Summer will come to a close in less than a fortnight, and she’s grateful for the rest. As much as she loves studying art history, it does take a lot of energy out of her to channel that interest into wading through a structured syllabus that doesn’t run on her own time or pace.

Mornings begin with walks through the city, sketchbook always in hand, capturing the delicate lines of the older architecture or the vibrant chaos of modern installations. She takes her camera too, and each photograph she takes feels like a small rebellion against the uncertainty that has plagued her thoughts.

Afternoons are reserved for exploring the smaller towns along the coastline. She finds solace in the simplicity of these places—the way the sea breeze carries the scent of salt and wildflowers, the way cobblestone streets wind past charming cafes and artisan shops. She sits by the harbor, sketching boats bobbing gently on the waves, or wanders through quaint markets, photographing the scenes. She lets the local old women near the port weave flowers and shells into her hair, and wears loose fitting bright gowns that she finds in smaller stalls.

As the weeks pass, Aemond’s messages become sparse. When the texts stop altogether, she feels a pang of guilt she can’t quite shake. She knows it’s probably for the best, that she needs the space to sort out what she wants from him, but the silence echoes in her mind, leaving her to wonder what she might have done differently.

In every possibility, she realizes she wants him. But she never dwells in her thoughts long enough to understand what that means for them.

One evening, a few days before the next semester is set to begin, she finds herself at the Quill and Tankard, a charming little pub nestled in a cozy corner of the city. The warm, dimly lit space is filled with the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. She orders a drink, the amber liquid swirling in her glass, and settles into a secluded booth. The conversations around her blur into a comforting background noise as she sips her drink, the alcohol loosening the tight knot of anxiety in her chest.

As the night wears on, her thoughts drift back to Aemond. She has tried so hard to avoid him, to drown out the questions and doubts he has stirred within her. But here in the pub, the memories feel sharper, more insistent. She glances around the room, watching other couples laugh and share stories, and wonders why her own connections feel so fraught with uncertainty.

Her phone buzzes on the table, a reminder of the texts that have long ceased. She glances at it, feeling a pang of longing and frustration. The lack of communication from Aemond leaves her with unanswered questions and unresolved feelings. She takes another sip of her drink, the warmth spreading through her, and feels a surge of impulse.

With a deep breath, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for a moment, trembling slightly. She knows she shouldn’t be doing this, that reaching out might only reopen wounds she isn’t ready to face. But the need for some semblance of understanding is too strong to ignore.

Finally, she presses the call button and holds the phone to her ear. The familiar ringtone feels both comforting and jarring in the quiet of the pub. She takes another sip, steeling herself for whatever comes next.

"Hey, can I come over?”

Despite living a stone’s throw away from each other, she hasn’t seen him in a month - and the moment she lays eyes on him again, she’s struck by how effortlessly captivating he is. Aemond sits at his desk, a stack of papers spread out before him, his focus completely absorbed by whatever it is he’s reading. The dim white light from his half-open laptop casts a soft glow on his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the intensity in his expression. He’s in his element, completely at ease in the quiet of his own space.

She realizes, not for the first time, that it’s easy to stare at Aemond. Easy, because he’s always so absorbed in whatever task demands his attention. His head is often down, his gaze fixed on the papers, books, or screens in front of him, making it simple for her to observe him without the risk of getting caught. But more than that, it’s easy to stare at Aemond because there’s something about him that draws her in. He doesn’t have the easy, effortless charm of Daeron or the overwhelming presence of Aegon, but his appeal lies in the subtleties.

There’s a sharper, quieter beauty in Aemond that reveals itself in the smallest of ways. The way his brow furrows slightly when he’s deep in thought, the almost imperceptible lift of his lips when something amuses him. His beauty isn’t meant to be obvious or attention grabbing; it’s there for those who take the time to notice, for those who can appreciate the details that make him who he is. It’s the kind of beauty that makes her wonder about the thoughts that flicker behind his stormy eye, those that he keeps so carefully guarded.

In many ways, Helaena is much the same. There’s a quiet elegance to her, a softness that’s easy to overlook but impossible to forget once you’ve seen it. The two of them, siblings with such contrasting temperaments, share this unspoken, understated allure. They leave a lasting impression, like a delicate piece of art that grows more intricate the longer you look at it.

She stands there for a moment longer, taking him in - the way his long fingers trace the edge of the paper, the way a few stray strands of hair fall across his forehead. The familiarity of this scene almost comforts her as she leans into the doorway, unsure if she’s ready for this confrontation, but knowing it’s inevitable.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she murmurs, the words slipping out like a secret, barely more than a breath. They drift into the space between them, fragile and hesitant.

“I told you to,” he replies, his voice steady, almost indifferent. His eyes remain fixed on the papers before him, the rustling of the sheets filling the silence between them.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “What are you working on?”

“Going through some numbers, drafting reports for Otto,” he answers, still without looking up.

“Did you work with your grandfather? For the summer?” she asks, grasping at the small talk like a lifeline.

“Yes, father wanted me to train with him.”

“Hm.”

The conversation stalls, and she moves away from the doorway, retreating to the kitchen as if the physical distance might help her regain her composure. She rifles through his fridge, finding a slice of cheesecake and brewing a pot of coffee. The mundane actions feel almost grounding, but the tension remains, coiled tight in her chest.

As she watches the coffee drip, her mind races. She’s tense at his curtness, but a part of her knows she deserves it after avoiding him for so long. Still, she can’t help the anger simmering beneath the surface. She left to protect herself, but he’s acting as if her absence was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

She walks back into the room, determined now. She nudges herself between him and his work desk, leaning back with her palms pressing against the surface. He finally looks up, his gaze sweeping over her from top to bottom, assessing. His hand rests over his lips, elbows braced on the armrests of his chair. The quiet intensity of his stare sends a shiver down her spine, but she doesn’t back down.

“What are we doing?” she asks, her voice low but firm.

“You disappeared for weeks on end, and now you’re back,” he responds, his tone maddeningly calm, as if nothing has happened.

Her nostrils flare in irritation. “What were we doing before I left?” She’s not letting him off that easily.

“Hm.” He takes a deep, audible breath, the kind that makes her want to scream. “We slept together, and you walked away to sort yourself out.”

���Are you serious right now?” she scoffs, her voice rising in disbelief. “I left because we slept together, and then you told me you were still seeing someone else! Something I asked you about, and you never bothered addressing!”

The frustration bubbling inside her threatens to spill over. She feels like a petulant child, but she knows she’s not entirely in the wrong. Yet his infuriatingly level-headed tone only makes her feel more on edge.

Without warning, he stands up, looming over her like a dark shadow. His presence is overwhelming, and when he steps closer, she can feel the heat radiating from him. His hands slam down on the table on either side of her, caging her in. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them, and she refuses to break eye contact, challenging him with every ounce of defiance she has left.

“Did you, for once, consider that I may not have wanted to wreck whatever it is you have with this other girl you’ve been seeing? For more than a year too, if I might add?” Her voice is laced with bitterness, but there’s an edge of vulnerability there too, one she can’t quite hide.

“Hm.”

His nonchalant response is the final straw. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” she nearly pleads, her tone wavering. It’s borderline pathetic, and the entire situation feels far messier than she can handle. “You blindsided me.”

He watches her for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he finally speaks. “Do you regret it?”

Despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her, that answer is easy. “I probably should, but no.”

Her words hang between them, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand brushes against hers where it rests on the table. It’s a tentative touch, the barest graze of his fingers, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through her. She inhales sharply, her breath catching in her throat.

He leans in closer, the distance between them shrinking to nothing. She can feel the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the tension thickens, wrapping around them like a vise. His gaze drops to her lips, and she feels her resolve weakening, her anger melting away into something far more dangerous.

“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice trembling.

He tilts his head slightly, his lips almost brushing against hers. “Wylde,” he murmurs, the sound of her name on his lips making her heart stutter. His eyes darken, and she knows there’s no going back now.

She can feel the tension, heavy and palpable. And then, without another word, he closes the final gap between them, capturing her lips with his in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. 

It’s messy, complicated, and far from perfect, but at this moment, he is all that matters.

His lips find the tender skin of her neck, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone. The wet warmth of his mouth sends shivers down her spine, his breath hot against her skin. His hands are everywhere - exploring, claiming, running up and down her sides under her shirt, fingers pressing into her flesh as if trying to memorize the feel of her.

“Been too fucking long,” he murmurs, the words flowing like water.

She pulls his head up, capturing his lips with hers in a fierce kiss, a desperate melding of mouths that leaves them both breathless. They move together with a practiced urgency, her shirt sliding over her head, his following a second later. Her bra is discarded just as quickly, tossed aside without a second thought, as their bodies come together, skin to skin, the heat between them searing.

But when she reaches out, shifting his papers aside to sit on the edge of the desk, he laughs quietly, a low rumble that sends a thrill through her. He shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, and lifts her effortlessly, his hands strong and steady beneath her. Her legs instinctively wrap around his waist, holding on tight as he carries her toward the bed.

“Those papers took me a while to organize,” he murmurs sharply, his tone laced with mock seriousness. If she didn’t know him better, she might think he was truly annoyed.

But she does know him, knows the way his eyes glint with barely concealed mirth as he lowers her onto the bed. The cool sheets contrast with the heat of their bodies, and she arches up into him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulls him down for another kiss. 

Aemond’s hands trail down her body, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants as he pulls away slightly, eyes dark and intent. She watches him, breathless, as he slides her pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, the cool air hitting her skin making her shiver.

He kisses his way down her body, lingering at her hips before settling between her thighs. The anticipation coils tight in her belly, her breath hitching as he looks up at her, his expression unreadable but undeniably hungry. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she feels the tension in her body build with each brush of his lips against her skin.

When he finally touches her where she needs him most, she gasps, her hips arching off the bed in response. He holds her down gently, his strong hands firm on her thighs as his mouth moves with skillful precision. The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve ending alive and thrumming with pleasure as he takes his time, drawing out every gasp and moan that slips from her lips.

She threads her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly as she loses herself in the feeling, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His name slips past her lips, a breathless plea that only seems to spur him on, his tongue and lips working in tandem to push her closer and closer to the edge.

It’s a slow build, a steady climb toward something that feels almost too intense to bear. 

When she finally falls over the edge, it’s like the world shatters around her, a white-hot burst of pleasure that leaves her breathless and shaking, her hands gripping his hair tightly as she rides out the waves of her release. He stays with her through it all, his mouth still moving against her until the sensation becomes too much and she gently pulls him up to her, needing to feel his lips on hers, to ground herself in the warmth of his kiss.

Her breath is still uneven as she pulls him closer, her hand sliding down his chest, tracing the hard lines of his torso. She meets his gaze, eyes dark with desire, and murmurs, “I need you.”

Without breaking eye contact, her hand slips into his slacks, finding him already hard and straining against the fabric. He hisses at the contact, his jaw tightening as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking slowly, deliberately.

But it doesn’t last long. With a low growl, he pulls her hand away and stands up, quickly shedding his slacks and boxers, the clothing falling to the floor in a heap. The sight of him, fully bared to her, sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through her.

He’s back on her in an instant, his mouth on hers, urgent and demanding, as he positions himself between her legs. She wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and when he enters her in one smooth thrust, eliciting a gasp from them both.

He stills for a moment, buried deep inside her, his breath hot against her neck. Then, with a groan, he starts to move, slow at first, each thrust measured and deliberate, as if he’s savoring the way her body reacts to him. It doesn’t take long for the pace to quicken, the room filling with the sounds of their bodies moving together, the bed creaking beneath them.

She clings to him, her nails digging into his back as he drives into her, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. His grip on her hips is firm, his movements powerful and unrelenting, as if he’s intent on losing himself in her.

“Ae-mond…”

Their breaths mingle, their bodies slick with sweat as they move together, the world outside fading away until all that exists is this. A conversation is due and far from over, but her mind is clouded by thoughts of him, him, him-

She breaks the kiss, her head falling back as her body tightens around him, pulling him deeper as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. He buries his face in her neck, his breath ragged against her skin, and with one final, languid thrust, he comes in pleasure as he moans into her skin.

For a moment, they remain tangled together, their breaths harsh and uneven, the aftermath of their release leaving them both dazed and spent. He stays inside her as long as he can, as if reluctant to break the connection, before finally pulling away and collapsing beside her, pulling her into his arms.

Her head rests on his chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm beneath her ear. His arm is draped over her back, holding her close as if to keep the world at bay for just a little longer.

But as the silence stretches on, the reality of their situation begins to creep back in, and she feels the familiar weight of her thoughts clouding her mind. What are they really doing here? What does any of this mean? The questions swirl in her head, tugging her back to the uncertainty she’s been trying to avoid.

He notices the change in her immediately. The way her body tenses slightly, the furrow that forms between her brows. He’s seen this look before - when she’s lost in thought, when something’s weighing heavily on her. His grip tightens around her, and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, trying to anchor her in the present.

She tilts her head up, meeting his gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes, a tenderness that makes her chest tighten. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the air thick. His hand comes up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering on her cheek.

Her heart skips a beat as she tries to find the words to express the tangle of emotions inside her. But before she can speak, he abruptly breaks the silence.

“It’s never going to be exclusive or long-term with her. That’s not what we have.” he says, his voice steady but laced with something she can’t quite place. “You’re not destroying anything.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and final. He’s said them almost as if to preempt whatever she was going to say, as if to take away the guilt and confusion that’s been gnawing at her since this all began. His eyes search hers, gauging her reaction.

She blinks, trying to process what he’s just said. The admission should bring some relief, should ease the turmoil inside her, but instead, it leaves her feeling more conflicted. The clarity she sought doesn’t come; instead, she’s left with a hollowness that only deepens the questions she’s been grappling with.

“You think saying that makes this easier?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m saying it because I don’t want you to feel guilty,” he replies, his tone firm but not unkind. “This—whatever this is—doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be just us, without any strings attached.”

She bites her lip, the words sinking in. He’s offering her an out, a way to keep whatever they have without the burden of labels or expectations. But is that really what she wants?

Especially now that her heart skips a beat whenever he comes around? 

“You were in love with him for a long time. This is what you need. Something that won’t trouble you.” His hand trails down her arm, grounding her in the moment. “You don’t have to overthink it,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “We want each other.”

She likes him. More than she should, if a fling with her is all he wants. But she can't bring herself to push him away.

“We can just be.”

She looks up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but there’s none. He’s being honest with her, laying it all out so she can make her own choice.

“You're saying you've been seeing a girl for more than a year, but she's alright with you sleeping with me?”

“Think that's how an open relationship works. Don't you?”

She wants to ask who it is, but she has a feeling that's more trouble than it's worth.

“And what if I don't want this?”

“You can stop anytime. But you won't.”

His functional eye narrows and there's knots of muscle in both corners of his jaw, a slight twitch of the eyebrow. She likes him when he's like this.

She likes when he knows her. She likes that he's indispensable to her. She likes that he knows that too.

She kisses him and goes to sleep in his arms.

Does any of it matter if she gets to have him like this?

The room is quiet except for the faint rustle of pages as Aemond flips through her sketchbook, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders. She traces absent-minded patterns on his chest, the tip of her finger skimming over the faint lines of his muscles, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The dim light filters in through the curtains, casting a soft glow over them, highlighting the contentment on her face. Her head rests against him, hair fanned out over the pillow as she relaxes into the moment, her mind drifting aimlessly. 

Aemond’s fingers lazily flip through the pages filled with rough pencil strokes, some finished, others abandoned halfway. His gaze pauses on one drawing in particular - a silhouette of a woman standing at the edge of the sea, her figure gazing out toward the endless horizon.

He runs his thumb over the page, his voice low. “What’s this one?”

She turns her head, glancing at the sketch. Her lips curve into a small smile, though her mind drifts back to the scene that had inspired it. “I was hanging out at the Sunset Sea for a few days. I’d been studying Jaeron of Lys in my class with Professor Rivers, you know, the old painter?” He shifts slightly, and she shifts along with him. “His work was all about those distant, far-off humans in his portraits, always framed by these huge, sweeping landscapes.” 

Aemond listens intently, his fingers still resting on the paper as she speaks. He turns his head slightly toward her, encouraging her to continue.

“It’s why his work is so widely discussed. The people in his paintings are always so still. Silent. You barely notice them at first, almost like they’re not even the focus. But the longer you look, the more you wonder what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling. He made the audience do the work to comprehend them.”

Aemond’s brow furrows slightly, intrigued by the thought. “I’ve seen some of his work in the books. There’s this tension in it, like the figures are waiting for something, even though the rest of the world moves on around them.”

She nods. “Exactly. That tension is what makes it brilliant. What’s even more tragic, though, is what happened to him.” Her voice softens, the weight of the story pulling her deeper into it.

“Jaeron went blind in his later years. He couldn’t paint, couldn’t create for years. The grief of not being able to see art, beauty… it destroyed him. He never touched a brush again, not until he was on his deathbed. And even then, he wished for one last chance to paint.”

Aemond turns fully to face her now, propping his head on his hand, captivated by the story. “And did he?”

She nods, her gaze distant as she recalls the details from her class. “He did. Blind and frail, he recreated his first-ever painting—a woman looking into the sea. It was perfect, down to the smallest detail. His final masterpiece.”

“The class was about muscle memory in art,” she continues softly. “How creativity, no matter how burnt out you feel, is what makes you… you. Even after all that time, even when he couldn’t see, his body remembered. His hands knew the strokes, the curves, like he’d never left it.”

“Hm.” Aemond’s noncommittal sound hums through the air as she turns her head, her eyes searching his face. “It is,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I think about that sometimes - how you can leave something behind, but when you pick it back up… it’s like it never left you either. You just know.”

His thumb traces slow, soothing circles over her hand, his attention fully on her as she sighs, lost in thought.

“A lot of it translates into real life,” she continues, her voice softer now. “Like cycling, or swimming… even driving. Things that require focus and rhythm.”

She pauses, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It’s like learning to be in sync with something, or someone.”

Aemond’s eyebrow quirks up slightly at her words, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze as she drops her eyes, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek. She presses on, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Like how we didn’t see each other for the entire summer,” she says, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin, “but when we came back together… the chemistry, whatever it is. It was there. You didn’t forget what I liked, and I didn’t forget either.”

Her words hang in the air, the silence stretching. She feels a pang of doubt, wondering if her attempt at lightness had been too blunt, too revealing, too… stupid. She glances up at him, ready to brush it off, but Aemond is staring straight ahead, his fingers threading gently through her hair, the weight of his thoughts visible. She can see the wheels turn in his head.

“I wouldn’t want to forget anything about you,” he says. His voice settles deep within her chest.

Her breath catches, and for a moment, she’s at a loss for words, the intensity of his statement catching her off guard. A flush creeps up her neck, coloring her cheeks, and she feels the fluttering in her chest threaten to overwhelm her.

Desperate to lighten the mood, to distract herself from the way his words made her feel, she lets out a shaky laugh, trying to mask her flustered mind. “You’re being fucking pretentious now,” she jokes, but her voice betrays her, a bit too breathless, a bit too forced.

Why say things like that if you don't mean them?

Aemond doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze steady on hers. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, just keeps looking at her with a quiet intensity that makes her heart race. The flutter in her chest doesn’t fade, and the realization hits her, taking her down with the force of a well-aimed punch to the gut.

He’s seen right through her.

When she wakes, she glances at the clock—her classes start in an hour or so, but Aemond's are earlier, and he’s already gone. The quiet of the apartment feels warm, almost comforting.

She heads to the bathroom and steps into the shower. As the steam fogs up the glass, she notices faint traces of where his fingers must have absently brushed across the condensation, drawing random patterns. 

Proof that this isn’t a dream, he was hers last night.

After her shower, she rummages through his cupboard to find something to wear, but instead finds a shirt she left behind long ago, forgotten until now. She pulls it on, feeling the fabric cling to her still-damp skin, and shimmies into the same pants from yesterday. The hunger hits her suddenly, and she practically inhales the toast, eggs and coffee, savoring every bite.

As she prepares to leave, she looks for the keys to lock the apartment. By the keystand, a small note catches her eye. She picks it up, her heart giving a small flutter as she reads the familiar handwriting.

Remember your postcards.

She finds the small stack right next to the note and smiles. She picks it up and almost walks out, before she walks back in and takes the note along with her too.

They sit across from each other at one of the long, narrow tables, the polished wood catching the golden hour light filtering through the tall windows.

Months have passed, and classes have begun again. Their time together has been good, even great, filled with moments that make her heart flutter more often than she’d care to admit. But with each passing day, a nagging feeling settles deeper in her chest - a constant reminder that they’re not dating, that her feelings for him shouldn’t matter. It’s something she has to tell herself over and over, especially when he does something that makes her smile in his own subtle way.

She’s focused on her laptop, typing away at her latest assignment, but her concentration wavers every now and then. She can’t help but sneak glances at Aemond, who’s engrossed in one of his textbooks, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that tugs at something deep within her.

Every so often, his foot nudges hers lightly under the table, a small gesture that sends a tingling sensation up her spine. It’s almost as if he does it without thinking, but the effect on her is anything but casual. She tries to keep her mind on her work, but the reminders keep coming - small touches that feel too intimate, like the brush of his hand against hers when they both reach for their coffee, or the way he sometimes squeezes her knee under the table, just for a moment, before going back to his reading as if nothing happened.

The thoughts swirl in her mind, making it harder and harder to focus. She needs a break, something to pull her away from these confusing feelings. So, she stands up, mumbling about needing a book for her research. Aemond doesn’t look up, but she can feel his presence, his quiet attention, as she walks away from the table.

She wanders through the rows of books, her fingers brushing along the spines as she tries to steady her thoughts. The library’s quiet, the only sounds the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of conversation. She’s been walking for a few minutes when she suddenly stops, feeling a familiar presence behind her.

His shadow falls over her, unmistakable in its solidity, in the way it looms, tall and certain. Even without turning, she knows it’s Aemond. There’s something about the way he stands, the way his silhouette feels different from anyone else’s—broader, more composed, with an intensity that seems to fill the space around him.

She senses him draw closer, the warmth of his body pressing gently against her back. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels his hand brush her hair aside, the strands falling softly over her shoulder. Aemond’s fingers graze the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. He leans in, his lips just barely touching her skin, teasing her with featherlight kisses that make her knees go weak.

“Hi,” she faintly murmurs. He grumbles just slightly, his voice low and rough in her ear, laced with a quiet amusement that makes her heart skip a beat. His breath is hot against her skin, and she can feel the faint rumble of his laugh as his lips travel along the curve of her neck.

Her breath catches as one of his hands slides under her skirt, fingers brushing over the curve of her ass, squeezing lightly before venturing lower, teasing the sensitive skin at the top of her thigh. The other hand moves up, slipping beneath her shirt. His touch is firm, confident, as his fingers trace over the fabric of her bra, finding the sensitive peaks of her nipples. He brushes over them, his touch sending a shudder through her that she can’t hide.

“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice a mix of plea and warning, but it only makes him smile against her skin.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says softly, his voice full of a challenge she’s not sure she can meet. His fingers pinch lightly, just enough to make her gasp, the sound swallowed by his quiet groan of approval.

But she doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, she leans back into him, her body betraying her mind as it seeks more of his touch. His hand on her ass tightens, pulling her against him, and she feels the heat of him, the way he presses against her as if he can’t get close enough.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, his lips trailing back up to her ear, nipping lightly at the lobe. “You know that, right?”

She nods, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as his hand beneath her shirt continues its slow, deliberate torment.

“Say the word,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that makes her insides twist with want. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”

But the words won’t come. Instead, she turns her head slightly, catching his gaze out of the corner of her eye, the intensity there stealing whatever resolve she thought she had. His eyes are dark, filled with something deep and consuming, and it’s in that moment she knows she’s lost.

“Aemond…” she breathes again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s an invitation, and he knows it. His hand leaves her ass, sliding around to her front, pulling her even closer, and she feels the low, satisfied hum in his chest as he kisses the side of her neck, harder this time, more insistent.

The hand slides further down, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. His fingers move with agonizing slowness, tracing the curve of her before dipping into the heat between her thighs. She bites down on her lip, trying to stifle the gasp that escapes her as his fingers brush over her entrance.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs against her ear, his voice thick with desire. His fingers start to move in slow, deliberate circles, teasing and tormenting her with a touch that’s just enough to make her want more but not enough to satisfy the growing ache inside her.

She grips the edge of the bookshelf in front of her, knuckles turning white as she tries to stay quiet, but every slow, precise movement of his fingers makes it harder. Her breath hitches in her throat as he presses harder, moving against her in a way that makes her whole body tense with need.

“Please, Aemond,” she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she’s feeling. She wants more, needs more, and she knows he can give it to her.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest as he withdraws his hand, making her whimper at the loss. But before she can protest, he’s turning her around, his movements quick and deliberate, as if he’s been waiting for this just as much as she has.

He pushes her back against the shelves, his body pressing into hers, trapping her between the cool wood and his heat. His mouth is on hers before she can say anything else, kissing her hard and deep, swallowing the moan that escapes her as he reaches between them to tug her panties down. His fingers work deftly, the fabric falling to the floor around her ankles as he frees himself from his pants.

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze dark and filled with something primal. “It’s a shame,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I quite like it when you scream.”

Her breath catches at his words, the anticipation tightening in her stomach as he leans in, his lips brushing against her ear. “But you’re going to have to be quiet, or they’ll hear you.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s lifting her leg, wrapping it around his waist as he guides himself to her entrance. She gasps as he pushes into her slowly, stretching her inch by inch in a way that feels both torturous and utterly perfect.

She bites down on her lip to keep from crying out, the intensity of the sensation almost too much to bear as he fills her completely. His hand slides under her shirt again, pushing the fabric up and palming her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple in a way that makes her arch against him, her body desperate for more of his touch.

He begins to move, thrusting into her with a slow, steady rhythm that has her head spinning. Each movement is deliberate, controlled, as if he’s savoring every moment, every sound she makes. She can’t help the small moans that escape her, each one muffled against his shoulder as she clings to him, her body trembling with the force of her need.

But even her attempts to stay quiet aren’t enough to satisfy him. He kisses her again, harder this time, swallowing her cries as he picks up the pace, his hips snapping against hers with a force that makes the bookshelf behind her rattle. The sounds of the library fade away, leaving only the echo of their ragged breaths and the wet, slick sounds of their bodies moving together.

“So fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips brushing against her ear as he pounds into her, each thrust hitting deeper, harder.

She can feel the tension building inside her, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. Her fingers dig into his back, holding on to him like he’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.

“I need you,” she gasps, her voice a desperate whisper against his neck. “Please, Aemond… don’t stop.” The thrill of being caught only seems to make her want more.

His response is a low, guttural sound that sends shivers down her spine. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to hit that perfect spot inside her, and suddenly she’s teetering on the edge, every nerve in her body alight with sensation.

“Come for me,” he whispers, his voice a dark command that she can’t resist.

And she does. Her body shatters around him, her release crashing over her in waves that leave her trembling and breathless. He kisses her again, swallowing her cries as he thrusts into her harder, faster, riding out her orgasm until she’s nothing but a quivering mess in his arms.

Aemond isn’t far behind. With a few more powerful thrusts, he buries himself deep inside her, his body going rigid as he finds his own release, groaning her name against her lips as he spills into her.

They stay like that for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their bodies pressed together as they come down from the high. He kisses her softly, his lips lingering on hers as if he’s reluctant to pull away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them, lost in the aftermath of what they’ve just shared.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes that she can’t quite place, something intense and raw that makes her heart skip a beat. He smooths her hair back, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before helping her adjust her clothes, his touch now tender, almost reverent.

When she’s done with adjusting herself, she brings her hands over her mouth and lets out a long, shuddering breath - disbelief, over what they’d just done. He seems quite unfazed, almost as if he constantly engages in semi-public sex and she can’t help but wonder.

Has he done this with her too?

When he pulls her into his chest with an arm over her shoulder, she smiles. She smiles and smiles and smiles until her lips go taut and her dimples are seemingly permanent.

Aemond pushes open the door to her room, stepping inside with a quiet creak of the hinges. He pauses, his gaze taking in the chaos that greets him: clothes scattered across the floor, stacks of books and sketch pads teetering on the edge of her desk, and an assortment of half-packed bags and boxes cluttering every available surface. 

Raising an eyebrow, he surveys the scene with amusement. “You’ve been busy,” he says, his tone both teasing and intrigued.

She glances up from where she is hunched over a suitcase, her hands busy stuffing garments into it with an absentminded efficiency. “I am,” she says with a sigh, straightening up and brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m packing to go back home next week. One of my older half-brothers is launching his business, and my dad called me today. He’s got plane tickets for me, so I thought I’d just stay at King’s Landing until the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”

Her eyes flicker over to him, a hint of apology in them as if she were embarrassed by the state of her room. “I’m taking my classes online while I’m there.”

Aemond hums, his gaze drifting to the cluttered bed as he sits at the edge. He runs a hand through his hair, still processing her news. “You’ll be gone for three weeks.”

She leaves the mess behind and stands in front of him, between his legs. Almost as though it’s second nature, she straddles him, her legs wrapping around his waist. His hands settle on her hips, holding her in place, and she smiles. “Yes, whatever will you do without me?”

Aemond’s grip tightens around her hips as she straddles him. He lifts a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender. Without a word, she leans down, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

It’s gentle at first. His hands roam up her back, steadying her against him, while her fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the sharp angles beneath her touch. She melts into him, savoring the warmth of his chest and the familiar feel of his arms around her.

Her mind betrays her, hitting her with the sudden realization of how much she cares for him - how her feelings have resurfaced in full force despite everything. She told herself before that this was casual, but now, pressed against him, it's impossible to ignore the tenderness of the moment, how much it means to her.

Just as she's about to lose herself entirely, Aemond pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks softly. “Come with me… to the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”

She blinks, his words cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “What?”

He meets her eyes, his thumb stroking her side. “Come with me.”

“As your date?” She raises her eyebrows, knowing very well that going with him to public events is probably not a safe bet to make.

“As whatever you’d like.”

Her heart skips a beat, the invitation sending a flutter through her chest. For a moment, she hesitates, her mind whirling. She can see herself there, on his arm, but doubt quickly gnaws at her. What about the other woman? The one she knows he’s seeing? Wouldn't that complicate things further?

But she pushes the thoughts aside, smiling softly at him as she whispers, “Okay.”

Before she can overthink it, she leans down and kisses him again, her lips urgent against his, as though trying to drown out the uncertainty lingering in her mind. But as the kiss deepens, the doubt creeps back in. Can she really be the girl on his arm without stirring up more trouble? Will his other entanglements only complicate things further? What are they even doing?

She can’t shake the feeling that it’s not as simple as he makes it sound.

Pulling back from the kiss, her breath still mingling with his, her fingers still on his chest. The question that’s been nagging at the back of her mind breaks through, and she can’t keep it at bay any longer. “What about her?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “The girl you’re seeing… is that not going to be a problem?”

Aemond’s expression shifts ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. He sighs, his hands resting lightly on her hips as he looks down, avoiding her eyes for a moment. “It’s not what we do,” he says, his voice soft but edged with a weight that makes her heart sink. “We don’t… go out.”

There’s a heaviness to his words, something almost resigned in the way he says them. It breaks her heart just slightly, the realization that this other girl—whoever she is— isn’t someone he even takes out in public. But why? Why would he hide someone if she wasn’t important to him in some way? Why come to her if she was important?

Her brows knitted together as she looked at him, searching his face for answers. “Why?” she asked softly, the question slipping out before she could stop herself. “Why hide her if she’s not…?”

He met her gaze then, his expression hard to read. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, as if weighing his response. “It’s complicated,” he finally said, his voice low, almost distant. “It’s not what we do. We can’t… it’s not what we do.”

The way he said it, the way the words hung between them, sent a pang through her chest. She had no idea what he was dealing with, but it was clear that whatever this was with the other woman wasn’t as simple as she’d imagined. Still, it left her wondering if she’d ever really have him, all of him, or if he was always going to be torn between worlds she couldn’t fully understand.

She looked away, trying to process it all. The warmth of his body against hers, the comfort of his arms around her—none of it could quiet the confusion that swirled in her mind. Aemond’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on her hips as he noticed the way her expression shifted, the light in her eyes dimming.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost pleading. He lifted a hand to cup her face, gently turning her head so she’d look at him. His thumb brushed lightly over her cheek. “It’s not what you think.”

She held his gaze for a moment, her expression guarded, but the doubt lingered in her eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Aemond exhaled, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. “It’s not like that with her,” he said, his voice low, steady. “She won’t mind.”

She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t-

Her time with him was all because this other girl did not mind. And if she did? What then?

The words echoed in her mind, reverberating off every wall of her thoughts until they drowned out the sound of Aemond’s voice, the warmth of his touch. She won’t mind. It burned into her, the reality she had been pushing aside - her time with him, their moments together, the intimacy they shared, all hinged on the indifference of another woman. Her existence in his life was allowed because someone else didn’t care enough to stop it.

But what if she did? What if this other woman, whoever she was, suddenly decided she did care? What if, one day, Aemond had to choose? She already knew the answer, and it made her stomach twist painfully.

Her mind raced, flicking through every moment they’d shared - every touch, every kiss, every lingering glance - and she saw it clearly now. This arrangement, whatever it was, wasn’t the casual thing she had imagined. It was precarious, temporary, held together by his convenience and Aemond’s careful balancing act between her and someone else. And if that balance tipped? If the other girl did mind?

The thought is ugly, but she can’t help it.

She’ll be the one left behind, a brief chapter in his life, an afterthought in the wake of his real relationship. The thought makes her sick. She doesn’t want to be with someone who can’t put her first, who keeps her around because it’s easy and doesn’t disrupt his life. She doesn’t want to be the girl waiting in the wings, always wondering when it’ll end, when she’ll be discarded because something else took precedence.

Aemond’s touch no longer feels like a comfort. His words, however sweet, now seem hollow. She wants him, yes—wants him desperately, but not like this. She doesn’t need him. Not so much that she would destroy herself, let herself be diminished, just to be with him.

She doesn’t want to help him keep up his image while he spends the entire night waiting to go back to her.

The realization hits her like a wave, flooding her with a clarity she hasn’t grasped before. She’s been clinging to him, holding on to the fragments of what they have because she thought she couldn’t let go. But now, she sees it for what it is. She deserves more than being someone’s second choice, someone’s convenience.

She exhales softly and looks at him, really looks at him. His sharp features, silver hair falling slightly into his eyes, his expression holding mild confusion as he notices her shift. He’s beautiful, enigmatic, the kind of person who draws you in without even trying. And she loves him. That much is clear. But she loves herself, too. And this—this isn’t good for her.

For a long moment, she stays silent, her heart thudding in her chest as she gathers the courage to say what she knows has to be said. Her eyes search his face, memorizing him, this moment. Because after this, everything will change. There will be no going back.

All of this is happening on borrowed time - she deserves more.

Before she can fully process her resolve, Aemond moves. In one swift motion, he lifts her effortlessly, a startled gasp escaping her lips as he throws her back onto the bed. Her body bounces lightly against the sheets, her heart pounding as she looks up at him. He looms above her, a quiet intensity in his eyes, and for a second, everything else fades away - there’s only him.

His thumb grazes her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, as if he’s committing the feel of her to memory. She can’t tear her gaze away, her breath hitching when he leans down, pressing his forehead against hers. The warmth of his skin, the closeness of his breath - it’s intoxicating, and despite everything, despite her earlier resolve, she feels herself crumbling.

“Come with me.” His voice is low, a quiet plea she can't resist. Their foreheads press together, breath mingling, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath.

Her heart wavers, but the word slips out before she can stop it. “Okay.”

And then he's on her, kissing her with an intensity that steals her breath. His hands roam her body, rough yet tender, like he can't get enough of her. She melts beneath him, her hands tangling in his silver hair, pulling him closer, deeper.

Their bodies move together, a rhythm they know too well. He pushes into her slowly at first, drawing out her pleasure until she's arching into him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hands grip her hips, holding her steady as his thrusts become more urgent, more insistent.

She moans, her nails digging into his back under his shirt as she rides the waves of her release, trembling beneath him. But he isn’t done.

Before she can catch her breath, Aemond flips her over, positioning her on all fours. The cool air hits her back, sharp against the heat of his touch, and she shivers. His lips trace her spine with sweet kisses before he grips her hips again, pulling her back towards him.

Without warning, he thrusts into her hard and deep, and she cries out, her fingers clenching the sheets as he fills her completely. His movements are rough, every thrust powerful, almost desperate, as he chases his own pleasure. She can feel the tension in his body, the way his fingers dig into her skin, the low growl escaping his lips as he loses himself in her.

Each thrust sends her reeling, her body arching as he pounds into her, the bed creaking beneath them. The pressure builds again, her senses overwhelmed by the roughness of his touch, the way his body dominates hers. It’s primal, raw, and she gives in to it, letting the pleasure wash over her once more.

He moves faster, harder, his breaths ragged as he pushes them both to the edge. His fingers tighten on her hips, pulling her back into him with each powerful thrust, his control slipping. She feels him tense behind her, his rhythm faltering as he reaches his peak, his final thrusts erratic and frantic.

With one final, forceful push, he groans, his body trembling as he spills into her, his grip tightening as he holds her close. She gasps, her own body quivering from the intensity of it all, pleasure mingling with the rawness of what they’ve just shared.

Aemond shifts beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pulls her into his chest. His warmth envelops her, the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothing against her skin. She nestles closer, feeling the way his body fits perfectly around hers, his arm draped possessively over her stomach.

The room is quiet, just the sound of their breathing filling the space. She stares at the wall, her mind still spinning from everything—the way he held her, the feel of his body against hers. It feels so real, so perfect, and it terrifies her.

"I'm hungry," she whines.

And then, he laughs. It’s quiet, just a low chuckle, but she feels his whole body move behind her, his chest pressing into her back as his shoulders shake slightly. She doesn’t need to see his face to know how he looks when he laughs - his lips upturned slightly, the sound soft but genuine, his whole body leaning forward with it. It’s rare, but she cherishes it every time.

She smiles to herself, her heart swelling in her chest. She likes him too much, more than she ever thought she would. Maybe she even loves him. The thought sends a pang through her, bittersweet and undeniable. Loving him wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this, but it’s too late to deny it.

But she’ll leave soon. And when she comes back, she’ll tell him the truth. She needs to know if there’s space for her in his life, or if the woman he guards so fiercely already holds that place.

Her chest tightens at the thought. She wants to be the one he turns to, the one he holds like this, the one he laughs with. But she can’t let herself be second. Not again.

She closes her eyes, breathing in the moment, memorizing how it feels to be wrapped in his arms. Because when she returns, everything will change.

One way or another.

She sits cross-legged on Arianne’s living room floor, nursing a glass of wine as she absentmindedly swirls the deep red liquid around in her glass. The cozy, dimly lit flat is filled with the soft sounds of an old record playing in the background, casting a nostalgic haze over the room. Arianne, always effortlessly composed, lounges on the couch, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she watches her with a knowing look in her eyes.

"You sneaky little bitch," Arianne says, narrowing her eyes playfully, lips curving into a teasing smirk. She exaggerates a cross-eyed look, making her wince and laugh in guilt.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner,” she mumbles, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass.

“Yeah, you should have,” Arianne huffs, tossing a pillow at her. “I would’ve liked to know you were fucking Aemond Targaryen, for gods’ sake! Girl, you should have told me!”

She winces again, guilt gnawing at her. “I’m sor—"

“Aemond. Fucking. Targaryen of all people,” Arianne says, incredulous, her eyes wide as she takes a gulp of her wine. “He doesn’t seem like your type, though. What’s going on there?”

She blinks, a little taken aback by that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Arianne begins, leaning back into the couch with a lazy smile, “he’s Aemond Targaryen. The man calls Facebook ‘Book of the Face,’ for crying out loud. Posh, arrogant prick.”

“He’s posh? You’re a bloody Martell!” She retorts, raising her glass to her lips. “And for the record, he’s not even on Facebook.”

Arianne rolls her eyes dramatically. “Weird. I’d have thought the youngest one, Daeron, would’ve been more your type. The life of the party, you know?”

Of course, she’d say that. Arianne has known the Targaryens for most of her life. The Martells, like the Targaryens, are part of Westeros' seven most prominent families—the others being the Starks, Lannisters, Tullys, Tyrells, and Baratheons. In these circles, it’s not just about wealth or influence; it's about legacy. Apart from the reclusive Starks, the children of these families grow up in each other's orbits, attending the same elite schools, galas, and events that reinforce their status at the top.

Wherever life takes them, they find one another, keeping close within their exclusive, almost impenetrable social circle. Friendships and rivalries are passed down from generation to generation, their connections as powerful as the fortunes they control. She understands this better than anyone. Her family, after all, has sat on the board of Targaryen Consolidated for generations, their fates intertwined with the silver-haired dynasty. It’s a world where the personal and professional are inseparable, where trust is as valuable as the wealth that surrounds them.

She shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, Daeron’s... charming in his own way, but he’s basically Aegon if he wasn’t trying to screw anything in a dress.”

Arianne bursts into laughter, loud and unfiltered, leaning her head back. “Aegon’s fun though! I’ve hooked up with him a couple of times, and the sex was goo-ood!”

She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Ew, stop!”

“I’m just saying,” Arianne continues, completely unbothered. “Aegon may be a bit of a mess, but at least he knows how to have a good time. Aemond, on the other hand…” She trails off, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by the whole situation. “I can’t believe you’re with him.”

She rolls her eyes, though a small smile tugs at her lips. “It’s not like that. Not really.”

Arianne scoots closer, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”

She sighs, taking a deep breath before the words tumble out. “I think I’m falling for him, Ari. But... It's so confusing. I mean, I was in love with Daeron not even a year ago. How does that even look? Like I’m hopping from one brother to the other.”

Arianne’s teasing expression softens at that, and she reaches out, placing a hand on her knee. “You…” she says gently, her voice lacking its usual playful edge. “You’re not hopping from one brother to the next. You’re figuring out what you want. It’s okay to change, to grow. And it’s okay to love someone new.”

Arianne tilts her head, considering her words carefully. “Look, if Aemond thought you were confused, he wouldn’t be spending all this time with you. He’s smart—too smart to waste his time on something that doesn’t matter to him. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like he does care about you.”

She lets the words sink in, her chest tightening. “But it’s so much more complicated. He’s seeing someone—or was seeing someone. I don’t even know. He says it’s not serious, but…”

Arianne lets out a sympathetic sigh, pulling her into a side hug. “You need to talk to him. Really talk to him. Figure out where you both stand.”

She leans into her, resting her head on Arianne’s shoulder. “I’m scared. What if telling him ruins everything?”

Arianne rubs her back gently. “And what if it doesn’t? What if this is exactly what you both need to figure out where you’re going? You can’t keep avoiding it.”

She takes a deep breath, nodding. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him when I get back.”

“And if it’s real,” Arianne adds softly, “you won’t lose him. But if it’s not... you’ll be okay. I think you deserve better anyway.”

“Stop!” She whines. She then smiles, feeling lighter. “Thanks, Ari.”

“Anytime,” Arianne grins, nudging her playfully. “Now, can we please watch something trashy and stop talking about your Targaryen boys? My brain needs a break from all this drama.”

She laughs, grateful for the distraction. “I brought soda and chips!”

Arianne cheers, grabbing the remote. “You know just how to spoil me.”

“Ae-mond, please…”

On their last night before her flight back to King's Landing, they move slowly together, every touch deliberate and heavy. Their bodies come together with a fervor that’s almost desperate, as if they’re trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through their fingers.

Each kiss feels like a search, an attempt to erase the lingering traces of someone else’s touch from his skin. She wonders if she’ll ever fully wash away the imprint of another’s fingertips, or if she’s merely adding her own layer to him. Every caress, every kiss is an exercise in forensics, a quest to mark him with her own brand, hoping that her touch will replace any remnants of someone else.

As he presses into her with a familiar, almost instinctive harshness, she can’t help but wonder if the other girl’s body was fuller, more curvaceous. The way he handles her, the way he’s rough and gentle all at once, speaks of an experience that goes beyond her. His touch is meticulous, as if he’s dedicated to exploring every contour of her body with a reverence she feels he must have practiced before.

She’s acutely aware that he isn’t new to the art of adoration. His hands, his lips, his entire presence seem to carry a certain expertise—each stroke, each touch is a testament to a history of worshiping a woman’s body with precision and care. He seems to know exactly where to touch, how to press, as if he’s memorized the map of desire and is determined to chart every inch of her.

With every touch, she is reminded that there is someone else. It breaks her like nothing else.

Aemond’s hands roam with purpose, tracing every curve, every hollow with a skill that leaves her breathless. She can’t shake the thought that this is a ritual of sorts, a final act of devotion before she departs. Each touch, each kiss feels like an affirmation of what they’ve shared, an attempt to seal their moments together into something tangible, something she can carry with her.

As she nears her release, her body arches and shudders beneath him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He follows soon after, his movements urgent and final, his breath ragged against her skin.

Afterward, they lie together in the dim room, the sounds of crickets chirping softly through the open window.

“How are you getting to the airport?” His voice is soft in a way that she wishes she can bottle up and take with her.

“Dad’s sending a car to the flat,” she replies, her voice muffled by the pillow and his embrace.

The room is filled with the subtle buzz of the lamp and the gentle rustling of the curtains in the night breeze. Aemond pulls her close, his arms wrapping around her as he kisses her shoulder tenderly.

When they wake, he says nothing as she takes a shower in a hurry to leave. He cooks a quick breakfast for them both with whatever he could find in her fridge, and she eats like a woman starved. He kisses her gently before he lets her go, and she cannot help but think.

She’s leaving every inch of Aemond to another woman exclusively for three weeks. What if he decides he does not want her when she comes back?

Then the thought at the back of her mind resurfaces - that she’s the other woman. No matter what Aemond says, she knows that much to be true.

“Aemond…?” She murmurs, quickly debating whether or not she should tell him now, if only so that he’d be tempted to not push her aside completely in her absence.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” 

The words die on her tongue, just like a piece of her heart does when she gets on the plane.

The weeks pass by in a blur, and soon she finds herself standing in a crowded event hall, meeting her half-siblings after what feels like an eternity. Two of them are launching their new venture in the city, and the occasion has brought them all together. She interacts with them as much as she can, offering polite conversation and smiles, but she can’t help but feel a quiet astonishment at how little she truly knows about them. Despite the shared blood, they seem like strangers bound only by a distant connection.

It isn’t surprising, really. Jasper Wylde’s five children by his first wife had been adults long before he met her mother, and by the time she was born, the youngest of them was just leaving for college. The age gap, the separate lives - they had grown up worlds apart. There’s only so much they could have in common, and that knowledge weighs heavily on her as she exchanges pleasantries with them, feeling the disconnect more keenly with each passing moment.

She watches them closely - the way they move through the crowd, how they speak to each other with an ease that she’s never known with them. They have their own inside jokes, shared memories, and a rhythm that she’s never been a part of. It’s like watching a family dynamic she can’t quite break into, one she’s always been on the outskirts of. Even as they make small talk, she feels the invisible walls between them, the years of absence and unfamiliarity creating a distance that no amount of cordiality can erase.

But she plays her part—engages when they speak to her, listens as they recount their stories, and smiles when it’s appropriate. Yet all the while, she feels that sense of being on the outside looking in. They talk about their father, Jasper, with a familiarity that she can’t match, their experiences with him vastly different from her own. It’s clear that, in many ways, they had a father she never really knew.

What amazes her most, though, is how much closer she feels to the Targaryens than to her own blood. The realization strikes her with a quiet weight as she stands among her half-siblings, exchanging polite words, but never quite connecting. With the Targaryens, everything feels different—natural, easy, as though she belongs in their orbit in a way she never has with her own family.

With the Targaryens, she doesn’t feel like she’s on the outside looking in. She belongs. In their world, she’s more than just the youngest child of a man with a complicated past - she’s someone who matters.

Being home has made her feel strangely untethered. It’s not that she isn’t used to it—this distance from Aemond—but somehow, this time it feels different. Maybe it’s because she knows she’ll see him again soon, in just a matter of weeks, but it feels like the days are dragging by, each one marked by the weight of missing him.

She lies in bed late one evening, her phone resting on the pillow next to her, waiting for the familiar buzz. It’s become a routine—Aemond calling just before she falls asleep, his voice the last thing she hears at night. When the phone finally lights up with his name, she answers without hesitation.

"Hey," she says, trying to keep her voice casual, but her heart picks up the pace as soon as she hears his breath on the other end.

"Hey," he replies softly. There’s a brief pause, and she can hear the faint sounds of his apartment in the background—the muffled hum of traffic, the creak of his chair. "How’s home?"

"Fine, I guess. Quiet." She smiles a little, thinking of how everything feels slower here. "I saw my half-siblings today, for the launch thing."

"How was that?" His tone is neutral, but she knows he’s asking because he cares, not out of mere politeness.

"It was... weird. I don’t know, I barely know them. I guess I’m just realizing how distant we are." She pauses, feeling the words settle in the quiet between them. "I feel closer to your family than to mine. Maybe because yours is the better family. Although, I do have the better father."

He’s quiet for a moment, and she imagines him leaning back in his chair, considering her words. “I can assure you, your family is just fine. You don’t want mine.”

She laughs, a little caught off guard by the softness in his voice. "Yeah, maybe."

They fall into an easy rhythm after that, talking about nothing in particular—work, the weather, what he had for dinner. It’s all so simple, so familiar, and yet she finds herself hanging on every word, savoring the sound of his voice, the way he says her name. It’s the closest she can get to him right now, and it isn’t enough.

There’s a pause, and then Aemond asks, "So, how long now? Two weeks?"

She bites her lip, her heart skipping a beat. "Yeah, just about."

"You’re counting the days?"

She can hear the smile in his voice, and she feels her cheeks flush despite herself. "Maybe."

"You miss me," he says, his voice gentle, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, and it lands with a weight that she can feel in her chest.

"Maybe I do," she admits quietly, her heart pounding. There’s a moment of silence, and in that space, the truth presses at the edges of her thoughts, threatening to spill out.

When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more serious. "Aemond, we need to talk.”

She hears him shift on the other end, a subtle rustling of fabric. "What is it?"

She hesitates, not ready to say it yet. "A conversation best had in person."

"Alright," he says, his voice low, almost tender. 

She hangs up, her heart racing, her fingers still gripping the phone tightly. The warmth of his words lingers, solidifying her resolve. When she sees him again, she’ll tell him. She’ll tell him everything.

The event takes place in a grand hall, tucked away in the heart of the city but worlds apart from the modern, bustling life outside. The walls are lined with rich mahogany wood, centuries-old oil portraits of stern ancestors in gilded frames, and shelves stacked high with leather-bound books whose spines are worn with age. 

She steps inside and is immediately enveloped in the hushed murmurs of conversation, the gentle clinking of crystal glasses, and the soft rustle of fabric as guests move gracefully through the dimly lit space. Despite the outward calm, there’s an electric tension in the air as the auctioneer lifts the gavel to announce each winning bid. There’s a certain satisfaction, almost smug, in the faces of those who come away with a prized possession, as if they’ve secured another piece of their heritage. For the others, there’s no outward disappointment—just a cool, composed silence, knowing there will be another opportunity to prove their worth.

She sits back, observing it all, feeling both a part of this world and strangely removed from it. The dark paneling on the walls, the rich smell of leather and smoke, the soft glow of the fireplace at the far end of the room - it’s all familiar, yet there’s something about it that feels performative, as if the evening is a carefully constructed illusion. The charity, the good intentions, seem secondary to the ritual of it all. As the final item is brought out - a centuries-old manuscript in a glass case - the room stills. In the end, the manuscript is sold for an astronomical price. The gavel falls with a sharp crack, and polite applause ripples through the crowd, though it’s more a gesture of respect than enthusiasm.

As the final round of applause fades, the grand oak doors at the back of the room swing open, and Viserys Targaryen steps forward. His presence is immediately felt, even if he looks frail and thinner than ever before. She heard from Aemond that he’d taken up residence at Dragonstone now, having bought an apartment for himself to stay after his parents' secret, unofficial separation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice is smooth, warm, and commanding all at once, carrying easily over the subdued murmur of the crowd. "What a night this has been. I’m not sure what’s more impressive - the art we’ve auctioned off or the fact that some of you managed to keep your bids as discreet as you did. Subtlety, after all, is an art in itself," he says with a slight chuckle, eliciting polite laughter from the audience.

"Your generosity tonight is overwhelming," he continues, his tone shifting to one of sincere gratitude. "These contributions will go a long way in supporting the causes we hold dear, ensuring that history is preserved for future generations to appreciate - something I think we all understand better than most."

"And now," Viserys adds with a glint of amusement, "I know you’ve all been quite serious about your bidding, but it's time to relax a little." The room hums in agreement.

"Please," he gestures toward the doors leading to the adjoining ballroom, "join me for a night of music, dancing, and, of course, more wine. I think we’ve all earned it after such a spectacular evening."

With a final smile, Viserys steps down from the podium, the soft clapping of the crowd filling the room as guests begin to rise from their seats, gathering their evening coats and handbags. The heavy double doors to the ballroom swing open, revealing a space even grander than the auction hall. The light spills out, golden and inviting, as the soft strains of a string quartet begin to play from within.

She takes her father’s hand and walks in with him, their pace in tandem with each other. 

Do you think we’ll make it through this evening without someone bringing up a new investment opportunity?" she murmurs, her voice laced with dry amusement, eyes scanning the sea of chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and finely dressed people mingling as they enter the ballroom.

Jasper Wylde glances down at her with a half-smile. "Doubt it," he says. "There’s always someone with a 'brilliant' idea that just needs a little backing."

She lets out a soft chuckle. "Maybe we should place bets on who brings it up first."

"Ten crowns on Lord Massey," he says, his tone casual, but the glint in his eye betrays his amusement. "He’s been circling us all night."

"You're on," she replies, feeling lighter as they reach the grand archway leading into the ballroom. The gentle strains of the string quartet swirl around them, and she allows herself to soak in the surroundings.

Their moment of ease is brief. As soon as they step fully into the room, a cohort of middle-aged men in dark suits, all clutching glasses of whiskey, make their approach, their faces lighting up at the sight of her father. She can see the shift in his demeanor - the casualness dropping ever so slightly, replaced by a more guarded, professional air.

"Ah, here we go," Jasper mutters under his breath. 

One of the men, a stocky figure with graying hair and a booming voice, claps her father on the shoulder. "Ironrod, just the man we were looking for!" he says, raising his glass. "We were just discussing the latest venture down in Storm’s End. Care to weigh in?"

Her father gives her a rueful look, the corner of his mouth quirking as if to say I told you so. "Duty calls," he says softly to her, before turning to the group with a more affable expression. "Gentlemen, lead the way."

And just like that, he’s swept up into the conversation, nodding and exchanging knowing glances with the men as they disappear into a corner of the ballroom. Before she can fully orient herself, Daeron appears at her side, his usual easy grin plastered across his face.

"Well, look who it is," he says warmly, pulling her into a quick embrace. "I thought I'd have to search the entire ballroom to find you."

She laughs lightly. "I wasn’t hiding, just waiting for you to make your grand entrance. How was Essos?"

Daeron’s face lights up, and he launches into a recount of his summer abroad with Helaena, his energy infectious. "It was wild. Good time with Hel, she took me along to the coastline and we went around looking for almost-extinct bugs in Lys." He rolls his eyes but there’s fondness in his voice.

She smiles at the thought of Helaena. "Sounds like her. Where is she tonight?"

"With our grandfather and Aemond, somewhere over there," Daeron says, nodding toward a nearby cluster of people. Sure enough, she spots Helaena waving enthusiastically, her face alight with joy as she talks to Otto. Aemond, standing next to her, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod when their eyes meet. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should, and her heart stirs in response.

She can’t help but smile softly, and, on a whim, she winks at him. She’s had a bad feeling about this night ever since she woke, but it all dissipates massively the moment his gaze meets hers. He doesn’t react outwardly, but there’s something in his posture that shifts ever so slightly, a subtle acknowledgment.

Daeron catches the exchange but remains oblivious, laughing as he gestures to the ballroom. "Come on, let’s take a look around. It's the same as always, but a little darker, don't you think?"

“Perhaps,” she remarks dryly, glancing around at the decadent decor.

As they stroll through the room, their eyes catch Will Tyrell, who is deep in conversation with an older man near the far end of the ballroom.

"Ah, Will," Daeron says, grinning as he gestures toward him. "His father's expanding their business, you know. Will's been training to take over soon. Everyone's talking about it."

"I’ve seen him around campus," she replies, keeping her voice casual. "We almost hooked up once, actually."

Daeron raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Really? What happened?"

Her stomach twists at the memory, a flash of the panic that had overwhelmed her that night. She remembers calling Aemond, his voice steadying her over the phone as she told him where she was. He’d picked her up, no questions asked. The bitterness that rises in her throat is unexpected, but it’s there, sharp and real.

"Don’t even ask," she mutters, her voice tight as she glances away, trying to shake off the heaviness of the memory.

Daeron, sensing her shift in mood, just nods, his usual carefree demeanor faltering slightly. He doesn’t push for details, instead flashing her a soft smile as they continue to walk through the room, the tension between them dissipating into the hum of the ballroom.

"Oh look, it’s the little runts," Aegon drawls, his speech a bit slurred. He saunters toward them, an empty champagne flute dangling from his fingers, Sara Snow by his side. She’s looking slightly amused, though there’s a softness in her expression that suggests she's trying to rein him in.

"Aegon," Daeron greets him with mock surprise, a grin spreading across his face. “Dude you’re already drunk, mum’s going to kill you.”

"Give it time," Aegon quips with a lazy smirk. "The night’s still young, brother."

Sara stifles a laugh, though her eyes are warm as she glances up at Aegon. "I’m doing my best to make sure he behaves," she says, her voice carrying a playful edge.

"Oh, please," Daeron rolls his eyes. "Aegon behaving is like...what, dragons coming back to life?”

"Exactly," Aegon retorts. "No fun at all."

"Yeah, you're all fun and no taste," Daeron jabs back. "In...well, pretty much everything."

Aegon dramatically clutches his chest as if wounded. "Excuse you, I happen to have impeccable taste."

"Oh really?" she chimes in, unable to resist the tease. "Let's not forget the time you tried to convince everyone that that neon green sports car was ‘classy.’ Or when you spent a fortune on that God-awful abstract painting that looked like a child had spilled paint on a canvas."

Aegon raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. "Hey, that car is an acquired taste, and the painting? It’s avant-garde. You wouldn’t get it."

Daeron bursts out laughing, shaking his head. "Right, keep telling yourself that."

But before anyone else can jump in, she adds with a smirk, "To be fair, Aegon has great taste in women."

Sara, who had been quietly listening, suddenly blushes furiously, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. She ducks her head, trying to hide her smile, but it’s clear she’s both flattered and embarrassed by the comment.

Aegon, however, grins wickedly. "Ah, finally, someone recognizes my true genius," he says, draping an arm around Sara, who shoots him a look but doesn’t pull away.

"Yeah, genius is the word I’d use," Daeron deadpans, earning another round of laughter from the group.

Aegon, noticeably tipsy and grinning like a Cheshire cat, leans in close to Sara, his words slightly garbled. "You know, Sara, I just remembered I left something...um, somewhere. How about we go find it together?"

Sara looks at him with a mixture of amusement and mild concern, but before she can respond, Aegon takes her hand and starts to guide her toward the door.

"Careful with that one," Daeron calls out, his tone light and teasing. "I’ve seen him turn a charity event into a rave before."

"Ah, don’t worry," she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of laughter. "I think he’s already got plans for a private after-party."

With a final chuckle, Daeron watches as they exit, the door closing behind them.

She turns back to Daeron, her gaze thoughtful. "By the way, what’s up with Floris? I haven’t seen her around tonight."

Daeron’s expression shifts, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. "Oh, um, we broke up," he says quietly, almost as if he’s still coming to terms with it.

Her heart twinges with genuine sympathy. "I’m really sorry to hear that. I hope you’re okay."

Daeron nods, managing a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks. It’s been...a lot. But I’ll be fine."

"Where is she, then? At the event, I presume?"

"Yeah, she’s here," Daeron confirms. "Probably with her parents and sisters. It was a bit weird to be honest.”

“I can imagine.” Just then, a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes comes by. They each take one, and Daeron is about to take a sip when he is called away by Otto Hightower.

As Daeron makes his way through the crowd, she turns to find Arianne Martell approaching her, her presence immediately drawing attention with her striking elegance. “You look amazing, Ari!”

Arianne’s eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief as she greets her. “So do you. But let’s cut to the chase. That’s not the Targaryen I was expecting to see you with tonight.”

“I haven’t told him yet. The time isn’t right. Soon though.”

“You mean you keep putting it off.”

“No, I just… I don’t know.”

“Look around you, babe. Half of these people are on the lookout - and those Targaryen kids? All their mothers are training their girls to get one. If my father had his way, I’d be throwing myself at Aegon!”

“Ari! Don’t be so crude.”

“I’m being realistic. Make your move.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your best friend.” 

As they talk, she feels a strange unease settling in her stomach. Her gaze drifts across the room, taking in the opulence and the perfectly polished ambiance of the ballroom. Something about it all feels off, like there’s an underlying current she can’t quite grasp.

Noticing her silence and distant look, Arianne asks, “Is everything okay? You seem a bit… off.”

She hesitates for a moment before responding, “I don’t know. It’s just… something feels off. I have this gut feeling, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere. Everything is so perfect, almost too perfect.”

Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s just me being paranoid or if there’s actually something going on.”

Arianne nods, her expression thoughtful. “It’s in your head babe. Calm down alright? You’ll be fine!”

Aemond finds them, cutting through the crowd with an ease that only someone accustomed to these events could manage. His presence alone seems to command attention, and she feels her heart flutter as he approaches. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, his breath warm and comforting. “You look pretty,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine.

Her eyes follow him as he straightens, unable to help herself from shamelessly ogling him. The way his dark suit fits him so perfectly, the sharp cut of his jaw, the glint of his eyes—it’s all so striking that she finds it hard to look away. He’s right in front of her, and yet he feels like a distant star that she can’t quite reach, but desperately wants to.

Arianne, ever perceptive, catches the look on her face and raises an eyebrow with a playful smirk. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, her tone dripping with teasing. “You know, give you some space.”

She winks at them both before wiggling her eyebrows suggestively and slipping away into the crowd. Her departure leaves a space between them that feels both comforting yet like too much. “You look very nice,” she says.

Aemond’s lips curl into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he replies, his tone a mix of aloofness and affection that she finds utterly endearing. “Though I must say, I’m quite taken with how you look tonight.”

She catches his gaze, her smile widening. “Well, I’m glad I managed to impress you.”

His eyes twinkle with mischief. “You always manage to.”

There’s a pause, a moment of quiet intimacy, as their eyes lock. Aemond’s hand on her back feels reassuring, grounding her in the present. He then wordlessly gives her his hand, and she takes it. She always will, she is his.

With a gentle but purposeful tug, Aemond guides her through the maze of the ballroom, leading her into the darker, quieter corridors of the estate. The soft hum of distant conversations and the clinking of glasses fade as they move further from the main event.

Eventually, they reach a secluded room, dimly lit and private. Aemond closes the door behind them, cutting off the noise from the outside world. Without a word, he steps closer, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens. Aemond’s hands find her waist, his grip firm and possessive. 

His lips are demanding, their kisses fiery and passionate. She responds with equal fervor, her hands sliding up his chest to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. The connection between them is raw, almost desperate, as if they’re trying to make up for lost time with every touch.

Aemond’s hands roam over her back, his fingers pressing firmly against her skin, as if he’s trying to imprint her presence into his memory. She can feel the heat of his body through the fabric of their clothes, the tension in his muscles as he holds her tightly.

She gasps into his mouth as he pulls her even closer, his touch igniting a fire within her. His hands travel down to her waist, pulling her flush against him, his lips trailing hot, urgent kisses along her jawline and down her neck. She arches into his touch, her fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him back to her lips with a desperate hunger.

Gods, she likes him too much for her own good.

Finally, their lips part, and they break away, both gasping for breath. The room is filled with a lingering tension, the air heavy with the intensity of their embrace. They take a moment to collect themselves, their faces flushed and eyes still locked in a shared, heated gaze.

Aemond gently brushes a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender despite the fervor of their earlier kisses. “I have to go shake more hands,” he says, his voice reluctant. He offers a small, apologetic smile, his knuckles lingering on her cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away. “I’ll find you later.”

She nods, her heart still racing from their encounter. “Okay,” she replies softly, her voice a touch breathless. She watches as he turns to leave, and the moment he does - the feeling of unease comes back.

She walks back into the ballroom, smoothing down her dress and taking a deep breath to calm the rapid beat of her heart. The lingering warmth from Aemond’s touch is still on her skin, but the feeling of unease that had vanished in his presence now returns in full force.

As she steps further into the room, she spots a familiar face from across the crowd - one of the curators from the Westeros National Museum. He strides toward her with a knowing smile, gesturing to a nearby exhibit of her ancestor Coryanne Wylde’s paintings. “I was just about to ask if you’d seen these,” he says as they exchange pleasantries. “It’s rare to come across someone with a direct connection to the artist.” She smiles in response.

The curator nods in appreciation, and together, they walk over to the group of art enthusiasts who are gathered around the paintings. As they approach, she immediately recognizes someone else among them: her professor Alys Rivers. The professor’s sharp gaze softens slightly when she spots her, clearly surprised to see her here.

“Professor! So good to see you here, I wasn’t expecting you! Are you with someone?”

Alys chuckles lightly, offering a polite smile and points her finger beyond her shoulder. “That’s my brother.” She raises her eyebrows as she follows her gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Your brother’s Headmaster Strong?”

“My half-brother, yes. Which explains the different surnames.”

“Wow, small world.”

“We were just discussing some of the first-edition Volantene classics that we’ve been trying to source for the museum,” one of the curators says, a note of excitement in his voice. “A few Valyrian classics as well. It’s been quite the hunt.”

Her interest piques at the mention of Valyrian literature. The conversation drifts toward a particular Valyrian classic, The Last Embrace, and her attention locks in immediately, memories of Aemond reading it to her still vivid in her mind. One of the curators leans forward, adjusting his glasses.

“It’s such a beautiful work,” he says. “That passage where they talk about love being both a gift and a curse? The language is so intricate, it’s no wonder it’s one of the rarest Valyrian texts we’ve managed to preserve.”

Another curator nods in agreement. “Yes, I believe the exact line is something about love being a disease, but one we choose to suffer from?”

Before Wylde can speak, Professor Rivers steps in, her voice measured and calm. “Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for. It’s one of the most poignant lines in the entire text.”

Wylde's breath catches at the familiarity of the words. It was the same phrase he had marked, tracing the words as he read.

“That line,” Professor Rivers continues, “it’s always struck me. The complexity of love in Valyrian culture—how it could be both destructive and profound at the same time.”

The first curator smiles thoughtfully. “It’s fascinating how much depth there is in just one sentence. That’s what makes it a masterpiece. We’ve been trying to source a first-edition copy for years now.”

Rivers nods. “It’s difficult to find. I was lucky enough to own one of the first editions. Loaned it to someone close a while back, actually.”

Her chest tightens. The same line. The same book. She tries to push the thought away, but it grips her, the unease from earlier settling deep in her bones.

I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies, he had said.

But she doesn’t even teach him. And he’s Aemond Targaryen - he probably knows a hundred people of resource who can find him all the books he wants.

But there’s only three known copies of the first print in Westeros…

The feeling of unease that she had pushed aside the entire night comes back in full force - she doesn’t know why. It is a nagging feeling that refuses to go away, and she does not know what she’ll do about it.

Before she can dwell on it further, an attendant addresses her. He tells her that her father is asking for her from across the room. She excuses herself, turning away from the group with a polite smile. As she moves, she catches a fleeting glimpse of Professor Rivers’ necklace, the light glinting off the familiar design. Her breath falters.

She recognizes it.

A few months ago, she had seen that very necklace at Aemond’s apartment. She remembers asking him about it, how he had alluded to it belonging to a woman that he’s seeing. At the time, she hadn’t pressed him, unsure if she even wanted to know the details.

One of the curators points out the necklace, commenting on its unique craftsmanship. “That’s a Strong family heirloom, isn’t it?” he asks with admiration. “Quite the rare piece. One of a kind, if I’m not mistaken.”

Alys smiles, her hand brushing over the pendant. “Yes, it is. Passed down through generations. Only one of a kind.”

She feels like the ground is shifting beneath her feet. She can’t stop the flood of thoughts now, the connections falling into place. Her chest tightens as she pulls away from the group, her steps unsteady, her mind whirling with possibilities she doesn’t want to entertain.

No. It’s not what you think. It can’t be.

“It’s very beautiful, professor,” she says. “It was… uhm… it was nice to see you here. I’m going back to… my father’s expecting me.” The torrid nature of her thoughts shows on her face, and she can feel her palms sweating as the music and the crowd threaten to overwhelm her.

“Are you alright, Ms Wylde? You seem quite disoriented,” her professor says. She holds her onto her elbow to help steady her even if she hasn’t quite careened to the floor yet. Her skin burns where she holds her, and she wonders if she knows.

She looks her professor straight in her eyes, hoping to find any recognition. Then again, she doesn’t want to know too. 

“No, just… you know how these things can be. They tire you out quickly I suppose. I’m just going to…” 

She walks out of the ballroom and into the vast expanse of open gardens. She breathes and breathes and breathes.

It can’t be.

MASTERLIST

NO TAG LIST. PLEASE FOLLOW AND TURN ON POST NOTIFS FOR @randomdragonfics for fic updates!

[beomiracles]

hellos would you like to write a fic abt stylist reader x member (beomgyu??) the white deja vu outfits got my mind running LIKE HOW DO THE STYLISTS JUST….put the outfits on them wo dying fhfbdbhd

「 just once more 」

DREAM RECALL sleeping with him as his stylist? very wrong. but it was just once and you were ready to forget about it. though, could just once more be so bad?

pairings idol!beomgyu x stylist!afab!reader warnings unprotected sex, creampie, fingering.

wc 1.3k

#serene adds ✎... I know these were probably not the outfits you were referring to but I literally HAD to use them @.@ this is also not proofread and I'm very tired so mind the whole thing eheh !! I've also noticed you in my notifications a lot and I was so happy when I saw that you made a request eek :3

"I don't know how to tie this", Beomgyu calls out from his dressing room. You throw an impatient glance toward the watch on your wrist. "Just pull it on and I can come in and help you", you groan as you lean against the door.

He had been in there for what felt like hours, and while the other stylists had already began touching up on both makeup and hair, you had gotten nowhere.

Soft rustling sounds can be heard on the other side of the door before Beomgyu gives you the go-ahead to enter. Swinging the door open you run a mildly stressed hand through your hair.

"Listen we've only got fifteen minutes left and I have yet to touch up on your makeup and─" "Why aren't you dressed?".

Your eyes widen as they travel across Beomgyu's very much naked torso. His hands grasp the white fabric of his shirt and corset as he shifts on the spot.

"Told ya, I don't know how to tie it", he shrugs as he throws the shirt at you. Barely managing to catch the garment you shoot him a glare. "You could've at least had the decency to cover yourself", you mutter as you fiddle with the strings on the corset, undoing them.

"Why?" Beomgyu steps forward as a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. "Nothing you haven't seen before, love", he says as he tilts his head down, bringing your faces closer.

Shoving the piece of clothing back into his hands, you push him back. "And I am trying my best to forget about it", you say as you instruct for him to pull the shirt on.

"Careful, you might hurt my feelings", he grins as he pulls the shirt over his head. "What feelings?" you scoff as you adjust the corset around his pretty waist.

Beomgyu pouts as he grabs ahold of your wrist. Pressing your palm flat against his chest he tilts his head to the side, "these?".

Rolling your eyes you withdraw your hand as you begin tying the corset. "Feelings or not, you know you liked it", he then says, grunting as you pull the corset tighter.

"Maybe", you mutter as you busy yourself with the strings, refusing to look him in the eyes. "But it can never happen again", you state.

Three weeks and four days ago you had made a mistake, a slip up, if you will. You had been in a vulnerable state of mind, you weren't thinking straight, and Beomgyu who was never thinking straight, well it wasn't very hard to guess where it had led you.

"Don't be such a bore", he whines as his hands caress your hip and waist. You glare up at him, "keep your hands where I can see them", you retort, "and I'm not a bore", you then add.

Beomgyu smirk's "then c'mon", his fingers trace your collarbone and lower neck. "No", you promptly say as you take a step back. Beomgyu frowns as his hand falls to his side.

"Give me one good reason", he then says, intent on getting his way. "Just one?" you scoff and Beomgyu nods. There was a whole list of wrongs, longer than you'd like to admit.

"Because it is unprofessional", you fold your arms across your chest, "and I could lose my job". Beomgyu takes a step closer and you falter backward once more, thighs hitting the makeup desk behind you.

"You really think I'd make you lose your job?" he questions as his thumb drags along your lower lip. Sighing you look up at him, "it's not that simple Beomgyu, maybe for you, but for me...", you shake your head.

"It happened once, and it never should have", you state as you move his hand from your face. "It can never happen again", you say as your eyes seek Beomgyu's dark ones.

"Never?" he whispers, leaning dangerously close. You nod, "never". A pout forms on his oh─so kissable lips as his brows furrows together. "Not even once more?" his lips ghost over your own and you let out a short breath.

Unable to form a reply your eyes travel from his own eyes to his lips before returning back up again. "Just once more", he whispers, almost pleadingly. "Need to taste you once more", he murmurs as he carefully seals your lips in a soft kiss.

You first instinct is to pull away. Stop him, move, do something. But it's almost impossible. You find yourself wanting─ craving, more. Just once, one more time. It couldn't hurt.

Feverish hands push you up on his makeup desk as Beomgyu makes room for himself between your thighs. Fuck, you were supposed to be touching up his makeup right now, if anything you were ruining it further.

Beomgyu breaks off the kiss hastily as he looks at you with lustful eyes, "how much time did you say we had again?" he pants and you throw a glance at your watch.

"Eleven minutes and─"

"Enough time for now", he mutters as he reconnects your lips, hands finding their way under your loose skirt and quickly pushing your panties aside. You get no chance to question what he had meant with 'for now' before Beomgyu pushes two fingers deep inside your cunt.

"F-fuck", you cry out as your hand on the nape of his neck tightens. One of his hands come up to seal your mouth shut as he flashes you a smirk, "thought you wanted to keep your job?".

You shoot him a glare but Beomgyu's smirk only widens as he thrusts his fingers through your cunt. When he pulls them out he's quick to shove them in his mouth, a groan leaving his lips as he tastes you. "You've gotten even sweeter", he comments as his other hand unzips his pants.

Barely even registering his words, you grip onto his shoulders tightly as the head of Beomgyu's cock is pushed inside of you. Biting down on your bottom lip, attempting to suppress the sinful noises threatening to spill from you .

Beomgyu's head buries in the crook of your neck as he groans into your sweaty skin. Teeth grazing along your collarbone as he presses open mouthed kisses along it, leaving a trail of saliva in his wake.

Glancing up to be met by his own reflection in the mirror behind you his smirk grows. "Fuck you should see yourself like this", he murmurs as his lips drag along your shoulder toward your neck.

His eyes wander toward the discarded makeup supplies on the vanity. He picks a brush up, shoving it in your hand, eyes glinting in an ever so 'Beomgyu way' when you give him a confused look.

"Why don't you get started on my makeup? save some time", he says and if he wasn't fucking you so good right now you would've plucked his eyes out by this point.

Yet you reach for a small palette with shaking hands as you carefully dust the brush onto it. Your strokes are uneven and shaky as you apply blush to his already flushed cheeks.

Beomgyu doesn't make it any easier on you, fingers easily finding your clit as he rubs and pinches it between them, making you squirm.

One hand on his shoulder as the other one messily reapplies eyeshadow, Beomgyu's sudden question catches you off guard. "Can I come inside?" he breathes out and you almost finish at the thought.

Biting your bottom lip you nod, "it's only once", you whisper and he groans as his lips finds your once more. "Only once", he breathes out as his hand rests on the base of your neck.

The warm sensation of Beomgyu finishing deep inside your throbbing cunt has you clenching around him as your cries of pleasure are swallowed by his hungry lips.

As he pulls out you watch how the essence of the two of you mix together in one, slowly seeping down your thighs and onto the otherwise clean vanity.

Glancing up at him you sigh, "this can never happen again". Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, "so same time next Tuesday?".

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[http-paprika]

BLUE / simon riley

my very, very late submission for @glitterypirateduck simon "ghost" riley challenge. this was heavily inspired by the new billie eilish song of the same title because I thought it fit him so well. i used the prompts "face touching", "the heat goes out and it's freezing", and "a confession is made"

simon ghost riley x female reader / 1106 words / contains angst, alcohol, and smoking

WITH every patron that hurried into the bar, cold and snow blew in with them—leaving those even in the darkest corners of the bar chilled and draining down more liquor. The drink spilled through her veins, warm and potent as she waited another hour, shrunk away in the shadows with her cost pulled tight. Simon wasn't coming, she knew better than to keep waiting for him. 

 Finishing her glass of whiskey, she lets it sting her throat the same way the tears in her eyes did. With remorse, she sets the glass down and rises from her chair. Through the crowded bar of happy couples and friends, someone's celebrating a birthday, another girl is sobbing in the corner with her friends trying their best to comfort her. The whole room pulses with life, feelings, love, and hate and she can't seem to find herself amongst the crush of emotions. Dull, apathetic, and removed as she slinks out of the door and into the blue moon night. 

 Winter still holds a fierce grip over Manchester, spilling white flurries in the air as she walks down the quiet streets with a cigarette to warm her from the cold. If he were there, they'd be sharing the smoke and she'd be warmed by the blushed haze that always befell her when their hands brushed exchanging the cigarette. 

 Her hand fumbles with her phone, the bright, blue light warning her of how late it was. But even with the early shift she had in the morning, she loiters along her route imagining he’ll be waiting by her flat like Simon would sometimes do. Giving her the delusion that he cared enough to come looking for her, even if he couldn't be bothered to grab drinks with her. 

 Despite all logic telling her not to bother with a call, she finds the number that she's left a hundred voicemails for. Sounding desperate and pathetic with every call as she tries to convince him into calling her back. 

 “Hi, Simon. It's me… again. I'm just calling to check in, I haven't heard from you in a week and I just want to make sure you're alright. Okay, I'm going to go, I'm at my flat. Call me, please.” The sound of the voicemail being replayed causes her to cringe, maybe he'd never hear it like he never hears the rest. Maybe he's got a new number, that was the type of thing someone as shifty as Simon would do. But she can't find reason in his sudden absence, no foreseen notice of a deployment or mission. No text to tell her he'd be unavailable. Nothing. 

 When she rounds the gate into her apartment complex, she can see in the low light of the second-floor walk, the lone figure waiting in front of her door even though he had the keys. Burly hands shoved into the worn pockets of his jacket with head tilted down as she climbed the stairs to join him. 

 She didn't need to see Simon’s face to know that he was thinking. Always thinking about the past he refused to tell her about. One that she could only dream up, trying to picture what had happened to turn him into the man he was. The man who she desperately tried to get over, but couldn't move on from. 

“I waited for you. It's the third Wednesday of the month, or did you just forget?” She asks, stubbing out the cigarette on the melt railing. The frame creaks as her fist tightens around it in frustration. “Simon?” 

 “Was busy with work, forgot to call.” He shrugs, pushing his hood back and shaking out his dark blond curls. A rough, wartorn face that she'd memorized like the back of her hand. It was so enticing to her, mesmerizing with his pale lashes and dark haunted eyes. The type of man that kept her safe at the bar and kept her up at night in stress. 

 “You're always busy.” She holds back a scoff, knowing arguing never got anywhere with Simon. He'd go silent with every accusation she'd throw, leaving her intimidated and guilty for yelling. Even if she knew he deserved it. 

 “It can't be helped. Times are tough.” Simon responds, his eyes trailing over her as she moves to unlock the flat. Fumbling with the lock like she did with the phone until his hand reached out and steadied her grasp. He leads her into the apartment like it was his own, with an empty place on the coat rack for his jacket, and a spot next to all of her shoes for his boots. An indent left throughout her home for whenever he'd find it in him to return.

 “Would you like a drink?” She asks, still feeling the need to play hostess as if he were a stranger visiting for the first time. At the edge of her seat waiting expectantly for a response and reaction. 

 “Sure.” He shrugs, pulling off the cloth mask as she shuffles into the small kitchen. Tiny enough that when he joins her there's tension as she tries not to bump into him. Pretending like she wasn't up the night before craving the warmth he gave, the firm touch of his hands, when her space heater died. 

 “I am sorry, love. I'll be there next time, I promise.” Simon apologizes, watching as avoids his presence like the plague. She chewed the inside of her cheek, knowing that she'd accept this apology like she'd done before. Knowing full well he never changed, and she’d never ask him to. 

 He reached out, sensing her indifference, and cupped her cheek in his calloused hands. That touch always turned her into mush, clay for him to mold to his will and whims. She knew it was pathetic how easily she swayed for him, knew that her friends always criticized her for being so weak-willed. But how could she possibly say no to him when he always came back, even if it was days late? Wasn’t she better off with him than trying to find someone else to love, wasn’t the heartache worth it? 

“You could do so much better than me, sweet girl. Sometimes I wish you would.” Simon confesses, his voice low and full of regrets. He turns his head down towards her, wrapping her close in his arms, taking the glass of water out of her hand, and setting it down. 

Her mouth opens to speak, but no words form when she realizes she’s just as guilty as him. She’d never change, he’d never change. Together, they’d stay unmoving, frozen in the longest, blue winter.

[starlight-writer]

Fighting

A)n: Heyyyy... I'm back :)

Warning: none, angst, yelling, arguing

Gn reader Masterlist

Steven

He doesn’t yell

But it’s that exactly that makes it worse

He refuses to yell, but he’ll be a sarcastic little shit

“Oh really? How lovely.”

“Oh my dearest apologies, my liege, I didn’t realize I had to agree with everything you had to say.”

Steven won’t back down, he’ll keep this energy until he’s done talking about it and then he’ll ignore you

He won’t ask how your day's been, he won't hug you, he won't even look at you

And it’ll drive you crazy

The only reason this started was because Steven missed a date and didn’t acknowledge that he would be late or wanted to cancel

He was working late for Donna again, but this time it just set off something in his head

Normally you wouldn’t be too upset about him missing a date, seeing as he’s got other people to take care of and he’s got a shitty boss, but when you asked him about the date, he blew up

“God, it was one date, why do you have to nag me about it?”

“Excuse me? I wasn’t trying to nag you, Steven, I just wanted to know what happened.”

“You’re not my bloody parent, you don’t need to know!”

“Take that back.”

“No.”

And now you're in your room and Steven's sleeping on the couch

That night will give him time to realize he was in the wrong and he'll feel super guilty

When he wakes up with a stiff back and sore neck, he'll think he deserves it

He'll wait until you come out to get up

And then he's following you around like a lost puppy

He won't say anything, but he'll look so sad and just be following you everywhere you go

It would be cute if you weren't upset with him

You'll have to be the one to start a conversation, but as soon as you say a single word to him, Steven's apologizing faster than you can process

"Love, I'm so so sorry. I was an absolute knob, I was so stressed and upset yesterday and I know that's not a reason to treat you so terribly, but it was such a bad day. I promise I'll make it up with 3, no, 5 dates! We can do whatever you want today and tomorrow and all week! Please forgive me, darling. I know I don't deserve it, but please just give me another chance."

He looks like he's about to burst into tears and kneel for you

(Which would be hot in a different setting)

Depending on how passionate you feel about this, it might take some time to forgive him, but he's there every second of the day

Or if you want him to leave you alone, he'll respect that

You'll find little notes of lovey poems around the flat and your favorite snacks littered around the living room

He honestly feels like a terrible partner so when you do decide to forgive him, just give him a kiss and hug him

He'll cry and apologize a bunch more so just pet his head and tell him it's ok

He'll genuinely sit you down and ask if there's something he can do to get his 'anger issues' under control

Poor baby doesn't have anger issues, he just has a shitty boss <3

Marc

He yells

He yells loud and painful things

He doesn’t care, he can’t bother to care

He’s angry and that’s all he feels

He can’t think past it, it’s like he sees red

He’ll shout until his throat is raw, but he’ll get as many insults and sarcastic comments he can before that happens

He knows what he’s doing is wrong, he knows the only reason you’re arguing is because of him

But he’s not backing down

He wants to hurt you and he does

And it makes everything worse for at least a week

Marc came home absolutely wreaked from a fight and refused your help, preferring to drink and just sit there

If you weren’t so upset at the fact he refused your help and instead wanted the help of alcohol, you’d yell at him about staining the couch with his blood

You’ll either have to deal with Marc breaking out into an argument after the initial one, or leave to stay somewhere else

If you come back the next day, Marc will still be upset

He won’t start yelling at you again, but he’ll ignore you

And it really just stops there

It’s the silent treatment for a week

He'll make dinner for you and all that, but he won't talk to you

He'll stare at you, wondering if you'll be the one to apologize

Or he'll be staring at you to see if you're watching him

You're not

He'll stay silent for an entire week, festering in his anger and guilt until it overflows

And when you come back home from work or being out late, he's waiting for you

And he looks like a kicked puppy

It was no surprise Marc had no idea how to apologize and admit/accept his feelings but at this moment, none of that mattered

His guilt and the feeling of missing you outweighed his discomfort of voicing his feelings

He'll start with an apology, saying how sorry he was and how terrible he felt

He didn't give any excuse or reason for his anger, he just apologized and stood there

He expects you to yell at him, leave him, insult him

Just gently take him in your arms and kiss his cheek

You don't even have to tell him anything, he'll promise to never yell at you like that again

"If I do, you can hit me as hard as you want."

Marc will say, though if you did actually hit him, he'd probably cry

He'll be so genuine with his words and.the nail in the coffin was the fact that he promised

Marc never makes promises, even if he knows he can fulfill them

But he swears up and down that he will never yell at you again

And he does everything in his power to reverse or heal the damage his words did to you

Even going out of his comfort zone

He loves you so much and he doesn't understand why you're still with him, but he thanks every God and Goddess that you are

Jake

He’s dangerously silent

He’ll stand there completely blanked face, eyes set in a slight glare as you argue about something that was definitely his fault

Maybe he missed a date and didn’t bother to let you know he wasn’t coming or wrote off your worry about a few injuries and called you ‘clingy’ and ‘overbearing’

Either way, he doesn’t respond to your anger, just standing there like he didn’t care

And it hurt

Once you were done explaining how you felt or what Jake did wrong, he’ll roll his eyes, pull out a cigarette and sit in the couch

He’ll play the baseball game he may have missed or just watch the news to really set in that something that boring was more interesting than your feelings

“Do you seriously find the news more important than our relationship?”

He won’t look at you

“I can’t believe this. If you care so fucking little, then why are you still here?”

“This is my house.”

“Then maybe I should go if it’s just your house.”

“You should.”

And you do

You go to a friends house, or a hotel, somewhere that you can rest for the night because you’re obviously not going to get anywhere with Jake and you can’t stand his attitude

The second you’re out of the room, Jake curses and throws the tv remote at the wall

He throws everything that he can without any worry of breaking something or getting a noise complaint

He'll throw bottles, plates, pillows, books

Once he's run out of steam, he'll shamefully clean up everything, throwing glass away and putting pillows back

That's give him the time he needs to realize 'oh shit, I fucked up'

He won't come out and admit it instantly, no

He'll fester in his guilt and figure out what exactly he should say

He'll even plan out when he should breathe during his apology

And when you get home, no matter when that is, Jake it waiting patiently with breakfast, lunch, or dinner

He'll give a nervous smile and walk up to you, giving you a hesitant kiss on your cheek before pulling you to the living room couch

Your plate of food is already made and somehow still warm despite Jake no knowing when you'd be back

He'll give an awkward apology, explaining how he's still not used to being something more than a protector for Marc and Steven, how he's still learning to let people in, how he loves you with all his heart despite being such a monster

He might start crying, but he'll try not to show you

He doesn't want to show vulnerability, but he knows it's important in a relationship

So he'll just ask very quietly if he can hug you

Is you say no, he'll nod in understanding as tears fall into his lap

He'll quietly mutter another apology and just sit there, unsure as to what to do

If you say yes, however, he'll gently wrap his arms around your waist and bury his head in your neck

He'll silently cry, muttering 'i love you' over and over again until you say it back

Just rub his back and kiss his head, tell him you forgive him or need time to forgive him and he'll understand either way

He loves you with his entire being, almost like he lives off of loving you

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Okay here's one. I really dont think I'm the asshole but my ex sure does.

AITA for refusing to buy my partner a jar of pickles?

So this story has like, a little background and some confounding factors i think but i really could go both ways on whether i was the asshole.

Ill start with both my ex (21nb) and i (23f) had severe mental health issues and were working on treatment when we were together. Theyd been in and out of inpatient stays throughout our three year relationship. Towards the Day of Pickles, i had my first inpatient stay where i got help i desperately needed to keep myself safe. This happened to be about a week after my 23rd birthday, but about two and a half weeks before their 21st birthday.

Anyway, at that time i had just gotten out of the hospital and started a new job at Joanns Fabrics (i outlived that retail fucker and im proud of it). I had been unemployed for the previous year and a half because of the pandemic and so the retail job was really my saving grace to have some sort of income to buy gas and groceries. My parents let me live rent free with them in their basement but i spent a LOT of time essentially squatting at my ex's dorm because my situation with my parents was not great.

Now my ex was also being financially abused by their mom so they had a monthly "allowance" of 200$ (of their own money they made at their on campus job) and no access to their bank statements. So i spent a lot of my own money on gas and groceries for both of us, and anything we wanted to do for fun, like visit the city. Without an income, this was SUPER stressful for me and i spiraled pretty hard with feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness. Supporting two people, even minimal living expenses, on an income of exactly 0$ is the WORST.

Anyway, i got out of the hospital and pretty much immediately went back to picking up as many shifts as i could at work because id been on staff for all of two weeks before hospitalization. Knowing retail, i was probably on the precipice of losing hours or being fired altogether.

My ex wanted me to take time off to celebrate their 21st birthday (they didnt celebrate my birthday that year) and travel to see their family and drink etc. I got scheduled for an inconvenient time. I would have to miss their birthday if i didnt find someone to cover. I managed to switch shifts with another coworker who was nice enough to let me have her morning shift, so i was able to at least travel separately and be a little late to dinner.

The night of their birthday my ex wanted to get drunk and so we went to the liquor store. Now im generally pretty picky about alcohol but if i get anything special i always get enough to share. Mysteriously, no one ever offers to share the expense or pay me back. So with all of 150$ in my account, i purchased enough alcohol for myself and the rest of the party, and a bottle of (cheap af) liquor for myself. I was broke af until my next paycheck and was pretty much planning on giving up meals and staying at home because the commute to work was shorter and meant less gas.

My ex picked out a jar of boozy pickles and asked if i would get it for them for their birthday. I should note that with all the stress i was under i had found a birthday present for them but hadnt actually placed the order (was waiting to get paid). I also didnt lie to them about this and had told them that i hadnt gotten their birthday present yet. They were upset by this and told me they felt like i didnt care about them, to which i snapped and raised my voice a little.

I gave them a bit of a reality check. I told them in no uncertain terms that i was under a lot of stress, from nearly killing myself to being flat broke with little to no help from my family other than a conditional roof over my head, ordering their birthday present wasnt super high on my list of things to do and that i knew what i was going to get them and that i intended to order it as soon as i had the money to do so. After years of the sole attention being focused on keeping them alive, i needed some support and acting like i didnt care completely ignored EVERYTHING i did to keep us both afloat.They cried and played the victim as they tended to do and i was too stressed to do anything but be angry.

So when they asked for the pickles i told them no. I have NOTHING left in my bank account, and anything that was in my account was already allocated for something else.

They told me i was being selfish for buying myself alcohol on THEIR birthday, not even getting them a present, yelling at them, and then refusing to buy the one thing they asked for, especially after i refused to take off work the day before to hang out with them and their family. In front of our friends.

I told them that i was purchasing the alcohol for the whole party, that the present had slipped my mind, and that they were accusing me of not caring about them when i snapped. Then i walked out.

My bff went outside to help me cool down and i told him what was going on and how stressed i was and he said that he agreed with me, it was childish to expect me to pay for everything with no help from anyone and then act like im unreasonable for having to put limits on what i can purchase.

My ex ended up getting so pissed by all of this they broke up with me two days later, saying that their birthday was the final straw for them after I'd been so codependent and relying on them too much to survive.

I think its all ridiculous given all of the stress factors i was dealing with at the time. I feel like we're all entitled to the occasional emotional outburst/bouts of forgetfulness when we're stressed. But my ex seems to think im a selfish asshole. We've been no contact for the last two years so this isnt like a pressing concern or anything but it does make me roll my eyes occasionally.

So tumblr, aita?

(Btw im also much more financially stable now that I'm fully and properly medicated and away from them.)

[the-s1lly-corner]

Sorry I'm lazy also starving for this material your serving up here but may I be served... a TADC cast X Food themed reader like they look like food and smell great. If you don't feel like doing the whole cast just serve me up Caine.

Thank you ♡ Sleep well hun

U(•ㅅ•)U

Caine, Jax, and Kinger x food!themed reader!

was originally going to do the entire cast but i only have ideas for a few soooooooo you're getting caine and a few others! reader is going to be a different food only because i got ideas for specific treats for each character!

CAINE:

youre cotton candy! the classic pink one! i mean thats like. one of the top circus foods, i think? popcorn is another option, though.... hmm... both could work! if you smell nice i think he would make a few comments on it, perhaps even lolling his tongue out to really sell the point. though, i dont think caine would be bold enough to pick a part of you off and eat it.... though he has been tempted... of course, this is assuming you can regenerate your pieces and its not painful, if it is hes not going to even think about it... will eat if you offer, though. i DO think hes going to have to guard you from bubble though, so theres that to look out for... if we're going with the cotton candy theme, he makes sure to avoid IHAs that involve water, and carries an umbrella over you whenever theres water... not because you would melt... no thats too morbid, though i can see it happening... no more so admins idea is just that you get sticky

JAX:

sour candy, no specific one but personally the first one that comes to mind is something like sour patch kids.... reason i picked this is because jax is an absolute FIEND for sour candy imo and i think it would be funny. if you have detachable parts like zooble, and if you can regenerate unlike zooble, just know hes probably going to pluck a piece of you off and eat you. i just imagine like how princess bubble gum was taking scoops from that ice cream lady in the episode the lich was first introduced, or how she can just rip parts of her body off with ease. thats... actually kind of how im imagining the reader, just sour candy instead of bubblegum! must admit, admin hardly ever gets sour candies so hes unsure of what they smell like, but if youre fruit scented i think jax would mess with you by taking comically large whiffs around you just because he thinks the look you give him is funny

KINGER:

youre theme is oranges. for multiple reasons. 1, admin loves the smell of citrus. but also oranges help with anxiety and stress, at least according to admins brief google search (and the internet wouldnt lie!!!!!!!/j), and it sounds more appealing than avocados and oysters...... moving on, i think this pairs well with kinger because this man is absolutely riddled with anxiety and stress, so having you around with your smell does good for him! the thought of consuming or tasting you never crosses his mind, oddly enough.. kind of pauses when you offer to give him something, even reassuring him that it doesnt hurt and you'll regenerate... i think he would flat out refuse, though.. mix of "im not going to eat you" and "i dont want you to give yourself up for me, metaphorically AND literally"

shrugs.. likes nuzzling into you when you guys nap together

[luveline]

congrats on 31k jade!!!

could i request someone spiked the punch and candy apples with either james or remus?? maybe rockstar au??? i’d love to see what rockstar!james is like 👀

join luveline's halloween party ♡

thank you!!! friends to lovers fluff with rockstar!james x fem!reader

Being friends with a rockstar is hardwork. It feels ridiculous to voice it aloud, how James' fame, his new influence, new money, new house makes your life hard — how could any of that be hard?

James' life has elevated to a different kind of worrying, a more peaceful life for sure if you can behave and reap the benefits.

But James Potter cannot behave.

"Stop telling people I'm your girlfriend," you demand.

James laughs. It's a crackly sound over the speaker. You know he can't see you but you glare at the sound anyway.

"Now who's said that?" James asks.

"Today Magazine."

There's a silence, long and full of your rage, and then the buzzer sounds to let you in. "Dickhead," you grumble.

The stairs up to his flat are familiar. You know every door along the way and every rug outside of them. Your eyes skip over the skid marks on the second floor, the scorch mark on the fifth.

James' door is propped open by a leaning tower of brown moving boxes. You weave past them and find the boy in question leaning back against his countertop with a cup of coffee. You're super mad at him for spreading untruths about you over the Internet but he's a good friend who gives great hugs, so when he quickly puts down his mug and opens his arms you let him wrap them around you.

You squeeze until he winces.

"What's wrong with you?" you grumble, less mad and more desperate. Why does he keep telling people you're together? Doesn't he know people don't understand sarcasm?

"I can't help myself."

You peel away from him and take his mug as punishment. Your tongue melts in your mouth at the heat but you refuse to wince, lest he think he's beaten you in any way today.

"Start to help yourself!" You kick a random throw cushion on the ground.

"You try saying no to them!"

"I do," you say, scowling. "I was apprehended," — he giggles like an idiot — "outside of Tesco's yesterday morning. I was wearing a pajama top."

"By who?"

"Is that important?"

James' expression says no. "...Maybe."

"It was some girl for her blog trying to get an 'inside scoop' on our relationship, Jamie. She pushed her phone in my face and kept asking me all these questions and she wouldn't leave me alone."

This catches his attention, a more serious look overtaking his humorous grin. "What?"

You squeeze his coffee cup between two hands.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asks worriedly.

His hair curls under his ears like two tiny hooks. You don't know why you notice it or why now of all times, but you do, and you can't stop looking at them.

James steps forward and curls his hands over the crooks of your elbows. "Shortcake, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen."

"What did you think was gonna happen, Jamie?" You're not especially annoyed or upset or anything like that, more genuinely curious as to what his motives are. Your stress ticks down to a mild annoyance, his hands on your skin like two warm tethers. "You're famous now."

"I'm not famous," he says with a laugh.

"You're not exactly playing at weddings anymore."

"I could play at weddings."

You shake your head at him and sigh. "Here," you say, offering his coffee back.

He takes the mug from your hands, your forgiveness far from lost on him. "I really am sorry, about the supermarket. I can- I can get you security-"

"Security."

"-if you like. Yeah, like a bodyguard. Or..." He puts his coffee on the counter. It all but sinks into the clutter, neatly hidden away by tea towels and cutlery in seconds. "I could be your bodyguard."

You snort. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Seriously! I could follow you around all day with an earpiece and a radio clipped to my shoulder. You'd barely know I was there, 'cause I'd be stealthy, and I'd beat off all your suitors with a baton."

"There are so many things wrong with that sentence."

"Like what?"

"Like what, huh? Let's see. Firstly, you've never been stealthy a day in your life, I think your mam's telling the truth when she says you were born with a drum stick in hand. And as for suitors, they aren't suitors at all. They're your fans. Because you're not a bodyguard, you're-"

You shriek as James rugby tackles you. Arms around your waist, your elbow digging into his neck as he tries to force you to the floor. You're compelled to laugh even as you lose, grabbing uselessly at his legs as you're torn swiftly away from them and lain out flat on your back, your head shy of his coffee table.

"Get off of me!" you demand.

James pins your thighs with one calf and holds your hands above your head on the floor. "See? I could totally be your bodyguard. What was that, three seconds?"

His hair tickles your forehead as he leans close, his curls deceptively long.

You try not to think about his weight all over you.

"You cheated."

"How?" he asks incredulously.

"I wasn't ready."

"I don't think that changes much."

You flex your hands in his grip experimentally. "God, I forget how strong you are sometimes."

James laughs giddily and drops his nose until it touches yours. "Charmer," he murmurs, exhale warm over your lips.

"Jamie, get off. My legs are going dead."

He pulls back with a very affronted gawp, sliding his leg back onto the floor and loosening his grip on your arms. You pull yourself into a sitting position beside his kneeling figure and huff exaggeratedly, arms to your chest. "Ow..." you moan half-heartedly. "You've maimed me."

"They were like that before, I swear."

You hum a happy sound and crawl up, stopping to dot a kiss on his warm cheek as you do. "Stop telling people I'm your girlfriend," you say, brushing your fingers through the ends of his hair lightly before standing properly.

You focus your sights on his messy kitchen, intending on cleaning his awful mess.

"I'll think about it," James says.

You snort. "You do that, loverboy."

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Reminder [Tim Rockford x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Merge Mansion ad (can't fucking believe this...)

Pairing: Detective Tim Rockford x you/cishet f!reader

Tags/Warnings: reader wears sexy lingerie but no description of body type, blowjob, deepthroating, workplace sex.

Summary: Tim Rockford works too hard, and too late. You have to remind him of what's waiting for him at home.

Words: 2,165

A/N: Y'all I am adding a new character to my menagerie of Pascal men! Dunno if I get Tim Rockford but I've been thinking about sucking his dick since I first saw him. He just has that vibe about him. Enjoy.

He is sitting astride a chair in front of a huge notice board filled with photos, notes, clippings, clues pinned to it, connected by red twine. The white shirt is straining to reach across his broad upper body. You remember a time when it had the shape of a V, now it's more of a U before connecting with the still narrow hips and flat ass.

You nod a thanks to the officer who let you in, and when he closes the door behind him, you lock it.

"Detective," you quip teasingly, but there's no response except a neck roll. He sighs deeply as he rubs his neck.

He's been working around the clock on this case. You avoid looking at the notice board, the pictures of bloody crime scenes, as you walk up to the chair.

"Tim," you speak softly, your hand landing on his shoulder. Tim twitches and looks up at you. It takes him a moment to recalibrate his brain to reality.

"What are you doing here? It must be like ten o'clock."

"It's past midnight, actually," you correct him with a wry little smile. He sighs again and takes your hand away from his shoulder, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

"I'm sorry, my love, I'm gonna pull an all-nighter again."

You grunt. He knows what it means. You've been over this before.

He rises from the chair, moves it away before turning to you. He smells of stress and determination: smells that you know well. He's always like this when he's working a case. You don't like it, but you've grown to accept it.

He pulls you in for a hug, so fast that you almost stumble into him. His broad chest, the soft stomach with the buttons ready to pop. He refuses to go up a size for some reason. The shoulder holster, the gun at his side. Your hand slides away from it, not wanting anything to do with it, only wanting your soft man.

"I'll come home in the morning for a shower," he promises in a low whisper against your hair. "Have breakfast with you."

"No, you won't," you calmly point out. "You'll get terrible coffee and a bagel from the diner around the corner, and your stomach will be a mess by the time this case is solved."

Tim chuckles a little at that before seeking out your lips. He tastes of stale coffee, and sweet and sour pork; the flavors of a murder case unsolved.

"Go home, get some sleep," he tells you gently. "I'll call when I leave."

"Aren't you wondering what I'm doing here, at this hour?"

He blinks, like he's only now realizing what time it is, and that you're actually here.

"Is everything okay?" His hands come to your cheeks, and he searches your face. You cover his hands with yours, lowering them as you smile reassuringly.

"I'm good, Tim, nothing's wrong. But I knew you'd be working all night, and I wanted to bring you something."

His brows draw together when he waits for you to elaborate. You untie the belt around your waist, and button open your trench coat. His nostrils flare and his eyes widen when you reveal yourself to him.

You're only wearing a bra, lace panties, and stockings underneath. It's cheesy, but he likes it.

"I came to make sure you were okay," you purr, smiling at how he swallows hard, his glassy stare.

"Baby..."

"Just let me give this to you."

You undo his belt, knuckles brushing against the soft fat of his tummy. Tim exhales in a low sigh when the belt releases its hold of him. With heavy-lidded eyes, he gazes adoringly at you as you unzip his pants. Softly, he trails his hands along your sides, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. Your nipples knit, and his gaze drop to the stiff pebbles showing through the lace fabric of the bra.

"You're too good to me, baby," he sighs, and then his eyes fall shut as you slide your hand inside his pants. "Oh."

You cup his still soft cock through the underwear, stroke in carefully as you lean in to kiss him. His lips betray a hurry that's he's loath to rein in, but when his tongue tries to pry in between your lips, you pull away with a smile. Tim doesn't smile back, but stares at you with a drunkenness in his eyes, mouth open and begging to be kissed again. You lean back in and nibble at his full lower lip, cup his cheek with your free hand, and stroke your thumb over his mustache. His cock hardens against your other palm, and you encourage it with a firmer touch.

"Tease," he groans, hands landing on your hips, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties. A shiver runs through you.

"Takes one to know one."

You press your lips to his anew, and now your hand slips in under the worn elastic of the waistband. His cock jumps at the direct contact and your feel a patch of wet rub off on your hand. Your fingers close loosely around his cock, thumb smearing out the precum as your tongue plunges into his mouth for a hungry kiss. Tim's strong arms wrap around you, the smell of his sweaty pits hitting your nose but not in a repulsive way, instead you feel the crotch of your panties get wet, and your kiss turns more insistent. You suck his lower lip between your teeth, pull it out, and release it with a pop. Still holding his cock, you step back, pulling him gently but firmly to make him follow you. And Tim follows, hands reaching all over you, eyes burning with desire, lips swollen with kisses. You direct him to his desk and pull down his pants and underwear before giving him a little push to make him sit down. His cock is now as stiff as it can be, and you separate his legs, keeping eye contact as you kneel between his thighs.

"Oh, baby..." he sighs, surrendering to you with a pleading look on his face. "Baby, you're so good to me..."

"You deserve it," you purr as you nuzzle his cock, kissing its length, flicking your tongue at it. "You work so hard, you deserve to relax a little."

He moans again when you hand closes around the thick root of his cock. You trail your tongue up his length, ending with a soft swirl around the head, the glistening precum bringing a sharp taste to your mouth.

A few night shift officers pass by the door, but apart from that you can only hear the drone of the air conditioning, and Tim's heavy breathing which turns into an audible gasp bordering on a moan when you open your mouth and take his cock into your mouth. He breathes your name, looks down on you as you smile up at him, his cock in your mouth, one of your hands wrapped around the root, the other cupping his balls. He draws his fingers through his hair before dropping both hands to your head, petting it softly as you pop his cock out of your mouth and proceed to licking and stroking it. The low lights are casting shadows over Tim's face, but you can see his eyes, half closed and staring down at you in complete surrender. You squeeze the root of his balls firmly and are rewarded with a sharp hiss as Tim draws in breath.

"Sweet baby..."

Your cunt is heavy and warm, and your arousal starts to drip into your panties. The mossy, heavy scent rises to tickle your nose through the musk of your man, and you moan low as you suck the head of his cock before flicking your tongue at the frenulum.

"Fuck, oh God..."

Second that. You enjoy sucking his dick, always have. The different textures, the scent, the way it makes him twitch and curse and finally beg you. The sloppiness of it when you drool, the rush of adrenaline when you manage to take all of him, the tip bumping down your throat, Tim losing it when you massage his balls while letting him fuck your throat.

You draw a deep breath and swallow all of him, balls deep. Your lips shielding your teeth from grazing him, you immediately start to salivate, the pressure against your throat almost too much. You will yourself to calm down, to breathe through your nose as you know you can, and start to fuck him with your mouth. Your eyes fill with tears, and when you look up Tim, he brings a trembling hand to wipe away the first one that falls. You pull back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock, and lean into his palm cupping your cheek.

"Don't hurt yourself, sweetness," he mumbles hoarsely. "You're doing so good."

"I can do it," you promise him.

"I know you can."

You devour him again, tongue pressing flat against the veiny underside of his cock, your eyes falling shut as you focus on the act, on breathing, on controlling your gag reflex. Tim's breaths come in choked groans above you, his fingers tangle into your hair, petting and gently pulling while he showers you with gratitude and praise. The cold linoleum floor is hard on your knees, but you don't let that hold you back as you do your best to blow Tim’s mind. The taste of cum grows stronger, and you press your fingers against his taint while still fondling his balls. That's his undoing: his balls twitch and you feel the length of his cock pulsate as he shoots his cum down your throat. You almost choke, so you pull back, coughing as the last of his cum splatters your chin and chest. He crouches in front of you, wobbles like his legs don't carry him, panting like he just ran a marathon, but still searches your face as you fight to find your breath through the coughing.

"I'm good, I'm good," you wheeze, but Tim doesn't stop his scrutiny of you until you've found your breath.

"Okay?"

"Okay," you nod, smiling breathlessly. He smiles back then, and heaves a big sigh.

"Goddammit, woman..."

"What?" You bat your eyelashes innocently.

"Look at the state of you. A pornographic mess."

He wipes his thumb over your slick chin and closes his eye with a deep exhale when you grab his hand and bring the thumb to your mouth, sucking hard.

"You'll be the death of me."

"What a way to go, huh?"

His chestnut eyes are warm when he opens them anew.

"I'd prefer to live for as long as I can, as long as you're in my life."

"I'm here," you reassure him, your hand coming up to his cheek, which has not seen a razor in days. He leans in for a kiss, licks at your lips and into your mouth where you share his taste with him.

He finally helps you up and tuck himself in before grabbing a couple of tissues for you from his desk. You wipe yourself clean, but when you're about to wrap the coat around you again, Tim stops you.

"What about you?" His eyes are like molten chocolate when he slides his hand inside your coat and brings you snug against him.

"What about me?"

"You're so wet I can see it through your trench coat, honey."

You chuckle. You should have known.

"Sweetheart," you tell him, languidly wrapping your arms around his neck. "If you wish to pleasure me, you have to come home."

"Oh, so only you can do dirty things to me in my place of work?" he grins, hands sliding down to your ass cheeks, barely covered by the lace.

"That's right, detective." You kiss the tip of his nose. "Gotta have something to bring you home."

"I do have that," he replies softly, touching his lips to your forehead. "I'll come home in the morning, I promise."

Before you can answer, there is a hard bang on the door, followed by a call:

"Rockford, we brought in your suspect!"

His countenance changes: his eyes turn sharp, his lips austere, his shoulders squared. He is no longer your Tim; now he's Detective Rockford.

"I'm sorry, I gotta go - "

" - and you won't be home for breakfast," you finish his sentence with a practical shrug as you straighten out his tie for him. "I know. Go do your thing."

He dips his face down to kiss you.

"I'll be home," he renews his promise. "And I'll bring bread rolls from that place you like."

You smile against his lips, his warmth spreading through your body, your cunt bottoming out at the thought of a slow morning with him.

"I'll hold you to that, Tim."

He brushes his lips over your cheek, his breath warm when he whispers:

"Keep that underwear on."

[2af-afterdark]

If We Cannot Keep

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Non-Con/Rape Category: F/M Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Relationships: MC/Satan+Asmodeus+Beelzebub+Belphegor Characters: Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, Main Character Additional Tags: afab!mc (they/them), noncon/rape, breeding, pregnancy, somnophilia, yandere Summary: The brothers refuse to give up the person they love the most. They will do whatever it takes to keep ahold of them. A/N: The ask leads to this post. Since it was not my original idea, I am also posting 🍋 anon's consent to make this a fic. Sorry, but adding all the brothers is really hard, so only some are getting explicit moments. Word Count: 2161

The sun poured through the slits in their blinds and they woke up to that blinding light feeling like they hadn't gotten a minute of rest. It had been like that the last month or so, but recently they'd also started developing an ache in their hips and a throbbing in their head to go with it.

The mornings were pure torture as they went about the house searching for clothing in their stupor. Perhaps it was due to their still exhausted state or maybe it was the way the light played against the walls as it worked its way into their flat, but they swore they saw something darting back and forth in the corner of their eye. Though, when they turned their head nothing was there.

They were probably just anxious for today.

When was the last time they'd seen their partner in person? At least a few days. Between finals and papers and other miscellaneous bullshit, they hadn't had time for personal matters. Today was different. Today was all about showing their partner a good time.

As they finished putting themselves together and started to head out the door, their phone started to ring. They fished it out, noting that it was an interdimensional call from Beel and chuckling quietly to themselves before picking it up.

"Hello?"

"He-"

"Darling!" Asmo cut in and nearly blew out their eardrum.

"Hey, Asmo. What's up?"

"Well, Beel said he was calling you and I didn't want to be left out, especially because you're feeling so good right now."

"Is it that obvious?" They didn't know their emotions reached that far across dimensions when it came to the demons they shared a pact with.

"Why are you so happy?" Beel asked and they could hear him chewing something on the other end.

"Oh, well…" Their face felt like it was burning up. "I have a date today."

The other end went silent for what seemed like an entire minute before Asmo finally chirped up, "Look at you~ Getting lucky so soon after turning someone else down."

"Asmo…" Beel warned faintly over the receiver.

"Are you still upset about that?" They didn't mean to hurt their precious demons, but they also couldn't lie and say they felt that way about them.

"Of course not~" He whined as if insulted. "I'm just happy that you're happy."

"Thanks. I'm actually heading out now, so I have to go. Talk to you both later?"

"Always, Darling."

"See you later," Beel said just before ending the call.

They walked out of their house, tumbler of coffee in hand to fight off the tiredness that wouldn't leave their bones. By the time they showed up at the meeting spot, the entire container was long gone.

They planned the entire day together: movie, the park, dinner at a nice place. It was going to be wonderful.

Unfortunately, they could barely stay awake through the movie and dozed off against their partner's shoulder at the park. It was hard to stay awake and focused for some reason.

By the end of the day, they sat down with their partner at the restaurant. They reached across the table to hold their hands. They ordered dinner, selecting something they usually wouldn't glance twice at. Their partner made a joke about pickles and ice cream, and they grimaced. It wasn't funny.

Actually, now that they were together… their partner was worried. They'd been different lately. It was probably stress or something, but they were clearly out of it. They loved going on dates, but maybe it was better in the meantime to focus on themselves. They needed to ensure they were taking care of themselves.

As much as they didn't want to do that, they agreed. Maybe a small break was best for them. Although, when they got home home they couldn't help but flop into their bed and cry themselves to sleep.

It was the dead of night. Their eyes fluttered open slowly, groggily blinking as their consciousness drifted just out of reach. Everything felt stiff; their joints, head, arms, legs. It was like their muscles refused to work. Even so, it felt like their body was on fire as heat pooled in their stomach and spread outward.

The more they started to awaken, the more things they slowly started to notice were out of place than just their muscles. There were strange noises in the darkness; growling, muttering, creaking, and wet slapping. 

Dancing in the blurry haze of their opening eyes were strange shapes that slowly came more into view as their mind began to wake up. The shapes blended together against the black backdrop of their room, but they could clearly make out that one of them – broader than the others – was moving above them.

"Hungh?" They groaned. "Wha-?"

"Oh no," someone muttered at the edge of their consciousness. "They're waking up. Put them back under."

"I'm trying." Someone else muttered and their head began to pound and ache.

"They got tighter…"

"Are you bragging?"

They knew those voices and the shape of those shadows; Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Belphegor. Their head was lying in Belphegor's lap as he rested his hands on either side of it. Satan and Asmodeus were on either side of them. Beelzebub was more difficult to see but they swore he was in front of them.

"What are… you doing here?" They didn't remember summoning them.

"Shit," Belphegor swore and their head pounded again. "Go back to sleep."

Why couldn't they understand what was happening? Everything took so much effort and felt so difficult. It was like their entire body was made of stone.

All they knew was that something felt off.

They let their eyes wander downward toward where it felt warm. Beelzebub was anchored between their legs, large hands pressing against the back of their knees as he forced them against their chest, lips shimmering in the darkness as they dripped with an unknown liquid, and hips snapping forward with a grunt.

The scene didn't make sense at first, but when it finally clicked all the drowsiness washed away instantly. Their body still felt heavy, but their mind finally understood the horror of what was happening.

"Oh dear, you caught us," Asmodeus sighed. "And it was all going so well, too."

They were struck with terror. Even as a sickening feeling joined that heat building up inside of them, they couldn't look away. "Wh-what are you-?"

"So sorry, Darling. You usually sleep through this." 

"Belphie!" Satan snapped.

The youngest of them rolled his eyes. "You try to keep them under when it's Beel's turn. I'm amazed they didn't wake up sooner today.

"Put them back under." Satan accentuated each word like a threat.

"Working on it."

They tried to jerk away from his grip, finding it difficult. "No!"

"Oh don't be like that~" Asmodeus smiled a little too wide. "Since you're awake now, you should enjoy it as much as us."

Asmodeus leaned down over their face, biting their bottom lip between his teeth to draw blood. It was such a sweet taste against his lips that he had to lick it all up to make sure he savored every drop. Their panicked expression was so adorable that he couldn't help but smile down at them as blood rushed to his cheeks, turning his face red with desire. 

"Don't look away, Darling," he sang as his hand trailed over their stomach, rubbing small circles in the same spot pooling with heat before he drifted upward to grope at their breasts. "Don't you want to see how well your body's been trained? I doubt that human partner of yours could even satisfy you after the heaven you've experienced."

He said human like it was a dirty word; like they weren't also human. Like he wasn't enjoying every sickening squelch of their very human body being violated by his brother or the bouncing of their tits as he forced his firm cock into them over and over again and their comparably small body was forced to endure the constant slap of his hips against theirs.

A strained croak dryly snaked out of their throat as they tried to speak. Their tongue felt so very heavy as they opened their mouth to speak. "Sto-"

Before the word was fully out, someone clamped a hand over their mouth.

Satan's brilliant green eyes peered down at them with a smirk, lidded and pressed tight. "I wouldn't try that if I were you." He slipped two fingers past their lips to grasp onto their tongue. "After all, we want to hear you scream more for us, so removing this would be unfortunate."

Their teeth scraped against Satan's fingers as the taste of salt and copper flooded their mouth. His fingers reached further back into their throat, curling downward and making them feel like they were going to choke (or maybe puke). All they knew for certain was how all of their muscles tensed up in terror, making the cock inside of them feel so much bigger than it already was.

Between Satan working at their mouth, Asmo's hands squeezing their chest, Belphegor messing with their head, and Beelzebub dragging his cock along their tight walls in his mission to hit every sensitive spot he could, they couldn't hold out any longer. Their legs began to tremble and shake, spasming in Beelzebub's strong grip as their eyes rolled back in their head and they were forced to cum on the cock that wouldn't stop churning up their insides at a brutal pace.

Tears streamed down their face, burning against their cheeks as they silently pleaded for this to be over. Instead, it got worse. Beelzebub's hips bucked against them more quickly, disregarding the clear bruises he was starting to leave in their skin. 

"Pu-h." Please. They tried to beg one last time for mercy, for the brothers to stop before they betrayed their precious human's trust and love anymore than they already had, but their words were lost between their grotesque sobbing and around Satan's fingers.

It wasn't until they felt Beelzebub's strokes start to grow fast and shallow before stopping that the horror truly sunk in, though. When the sensation of him filling them up with hot liquid finally hit them, they couldn't help but weep. 

A hand gently reached up to brush away their tears. "Shhhh. None of that now," Asmodeus coo'd. "If you exhaust yourself by crying, how do you ever expect to make it through the night?"

Their eyes widened in horror at the implication; a horror that became all too real as Beelzebub withdrew his fat cock from their abused hole and they felt a new one align against their entrance.

"We promise," Belphegor said, "whoever the father of your baby is, we'll all love it as much as we do you. Isn't that better than whatever some random human could give you?"

Baby?

"They won't have a choice," Satan added. "After all, I doubt their partner will tolerate finding out they cheated."

This wasn't cheating.

"What a pathetic waste of existence," Asmodeus spoke as he messaged their chest with a firm grip. "But don't worry, Darling ~ We would never treat you like that. We'll always love you, just the same as your body will always love and need us."

This wasn't love.

Whoever was nestled between their legs now (they dared not look) finally pushed forward, parting their slick, messy folds as the head of his cock sank inside of them and pushed against all the cum already flooding their cunt.

They screamed and cried around Satan's fingers as a new person began to rhythmically buck his hips forward.

Even with all the fear running through them, they couldn't help but notice how heavy their eyelids were starting to feel. Belphegor rubbed his index and middle fingers on either side of their temples in much the way one would soothe a headache and it felt relaxing despite how much adrenaline was pumping through their veins.

"You need to relax or else you'll stress out the baby." His eyes closed and theirs soon followed. "You must be so tired after today, so let us take care of everything while you rest."

Sleep sounded so good right now.

"I promise that nothing but good dreams like this one await."

They couldn't even think a terrible thought about the brothers who had betrayed their trust one final time before sleep overtook them and they passed out. They certainly couldn't even feel how they had cum around the new cock violating them as Belphegor's magical sleep settled into their every nerve.

The sun poured through the slits in their blinds and they woke up to that blinding light feeling like they hadn't gotten a minute of rest. It had been like that the last month or so, but recently they'd also started developing an ache in their hips and a throbbing in their head to go with it.

[lavoszero]

KO-FI

Reposting this cause god they're at it again with stressing me the hell out. If I can get enough cash it could give me a buffer for preparing for moving away from my parents.

Context for the urgent need to move out, my parents are super homophobic/transphobic and the moment they suspected me of being that my mother pretty much threatened to throw me and all my stuff out of the house.

Literally had to lie through my teeth so could continue having a roof over my head. And with them planning to move out of state (expecting me to go with them) is a big NO way in hell. Being in the closet and having to hear them go on and on about how they wished people like me didn't exist makes every day feel like walking on eggshells and being an anxious mess.

I'm even terrified of them knowing I want to move out and stay in our current state cause they'd go for my throat with accusations on WHY I want to stay, when its simply I don't feel (obviously) comfortable with living them anymore when they just loved the idea of me as their child- when they would of abandoned me the instant if didn't fit their image of their perfect child anymore. Anything helps immensely, and I greatly appreciate any help sent my way. I'll draw ocs, selfships, furries, monsters, character refs, and

ns fw art (as spicy coms special on my Kofi) and I have every right to refuse anything that makes me uncomfortable.

PRICES (And Examples under the Readmore)

Rough Sketch Doodle (The College Snack Special) -> $5 (Minimum)

Line Art (Shoulder Up) -> $10

Line Art (Half Body) -> $30

Line Art (Full Body) -> $30

Flat Color (Shoulder Up) -> $30 Flat Color (Half Body) -> $40 Chibi - Flat Color -> $35

Flat Art (Full Body) -> $50 Shaded (Shoulder Up) -> $50

Shaded (Half Body) -> $60 Shaded (Full Body) -> $70

Spicy Special (aka NS FW) -> $70

Character Sheet -> $100

Other Examples:

[writing-whump]

i need to catch up still on the new stories, but i also need to send this before i fall asleep 🗣️🗣️ for your consideration: one of the trouple already having an uneasy stomach due to sickness/nerves/bad food, but then during movie night they put on a gory movie and they loose their weak hold 🙈

(I'm thinking Zaya, bc he's soooo put together, but I dont think gore affects that man at all. Although it would be funny if fictional gore got to him and real one not at all??)

anyway, off to bed now 💕

Gory movie

Deals with the fallout of the heart episode, so add some angst and confrontations before the movie starts :D. Great idea, though, thank you!

When Isaiah woke up the next morning, huddled under Matthew's arm, the first thing he registered was the lack of pain. His chest didn't feel like he was getting stabbed with a screwdriver with every heartbeat. He held his eyes closed as he breathed, enjoying the most pleasurable sensation in the world - just existing without pain.

Then the memories of the night came rushing in. The tiredness and nausea, the lost balance, the feeling like he was weighing down a ton and couldn't move, the panic, the vomiting, the tears...oh dear god, did he truly cry in front of Matthew like that? Complaining about the pain, whining like a little kid?

Isaiah felt absolutely mortified. He freed himself from the tangle of blankets, letting Matthew slide down on his pillow, sleeping deeply. The redhead had dark circles under his eyes and Isaiah remembered his warmth, like a hold the whole night to keep him up in a vertical position.

This was horrible.

Isaiah tiptoed around the room, feeling slightly dazed, his chest stiff and sensitive to the touch, but it was nothing against the night horror.

The first thing he got taken care of was the dry vomit next to the bed. Then he got the windows covered and closed the room, letting Matthew hopefully sleep some more while he took a long cold shower to wake himself up, getting rid of the offending sweaty smell.

He got himself a fresh set of clothes and a bathrobe on top, got a mint tea and huddled in blankets at the balcony. How was he supposed to look at Matthew again after this? After letting him see him in such a horrible state?

Isaiah was used to the episodes. They got bad sometimes, but he never had anyone witness them aside from the occasional insight or suspicion Sonny got. He went to a shadow check-up to a private clinic with a wolf leading the research being Sonny's close friend. A reliable wolf to keep it secret.

There they told him his shadow had stress damage serious enough that it rebounded and hurt his physical body as well.

Emotions were hard for shadow wolves. They either got out through the shadow or through human means, but since Isaiah allowed neither of these during his years working for his father, his shadow literally scared over. It had damage on it when he pushed it flat to the floor and that damage went back to his physical body. He could see it himself when he looked at the deepest layer.

The researcher told him to get checked at a human clinic, that they would know better how to diagnose damage outside the shadow, but Isaiah refused. He couldn't stand to go there, ask them to examine him like he was a normal human, for damage he was not supposed to have as a wolf. He couldn't stand getting results that would confirm he had serious issues with his heart now, something visible, tangible and real that could impair his life. Damage that could not be undone, would drag itself over with him for years to come.

He couldn't stand even the thought of getting something like that confirmed. It wasn't worth the pain medication or the help or any other thing they could give him.

He couldn't stand to hear he would be a burden to his pack, that they would have to deal with this lasting weakness. He just couldn't.

Yeah, the episodes happened from time to time, sometimes due to stress or bad food or overwork or bad weather...but they got a lot of better since he moved in with Seline and Matt - he didn't have a serious episode in three months - and only minor pain from changing weather or a cold here and there. Something he could ignore or pretend away well enough.

Until now.

He buried his face in his hands, elbows braced on his knees as he tried to think what to do next.

***

When Matthew finally woke up, it was almost lunchtime. Which was fine by Isaiah, since it gave him time to cook a proper meal, roasted beef and rice.

"'orning," Matthew said as he walked in, rubbing at his eyes. He still looked sleepy, but he sat down at the table.

Isaiah wasted no time putting the plate with the meal in front of him, steaming and fresh. "Here you go."

"Hmmm. What's this?" Matthew eyed him with scrunched eyes. "Is this your way of saying thanks? Cause I didn't help you out to get a lunch out of it. Though I won't complain."

Isaiah rolled his eyes. "That's an apology for yesterday."

Matthew dug into the food with excitement, munching on the meat. "You don't have to apologize. But I would like to know the plan. When are you getting that checked out?"

Isaiah frowned and turned away to put the dishes out of the dishwasher. "There is nothing to 'check out'. I'm fine. You just caught me at a bad moment. Nothing happened."

"Aha. Good try. You definitely need to schedule a checkup at the hospital or something. That wasn't normal. You said it yourself."

"I'm alright. There is nothing for anyone to find out."

"Uhm. You said it happens often. And you act like it's been going on for a while. Months? Years? How often did it happen since we moved in together?" When he saw Isaiah taking a breath, he continued. "How many times did you hide it until it became unbearable like yesterday?"

Isaiah turned to him abruptly, anger flashing in his eyes. "I said I was fine. It was just a rare episode. I'm sorry you had to see that, I truly am, but let's not make a big deal out of it."

Matthew stood up, the whole table shaking as he braced his hands on it. "Don't give me that crap. I don't want your apologies, I want you to get fucking better!"

Isaiah winced. There was no way this was ever getting better. He knew of his shadow, the scars printed deeply into it. He was not getting rid of that and he was not getting rid of the heart pain. The shadow was the wolf's soul. And his was crippled, he knew that. But that his body reflected those scars was his damage, his problem, his shame. Not something he wanted Matthew to dig into.

"Isaiah," Matthew said, struggling to control his voice instead of shouting. "you don't have to suffer through it. What if they can help you? What if there are ways to cure-"

Isaiah smiled bitterly. "Who would help? What hospital exactly would be equipped to deal with a sick wolf? How would they prevent this from getting out to other packs? Do you know how many enemies we have? Me, specifically? Besides, there is no cure." Not for shadow damage. Isaiah gulped down heavily. The whole conversation was making his chest tight, his stomach flipping inside him angrily. It was too soon after the episode, he was still too sensitive and out of it.

"What if there is? Why can't you just-"

"Stop that. This debate is pointless, anyway. I'm perfectly capable of defending myself and you and Seline. If no packs sniff this out, it would be better, but I could still take them. We can fight here and now and I could still take you."

Matthew's eyes narrowed, dark brown and serious, almost red in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen. "That is not the issue here. I don't care about how strong you are, I'm freaking worried about you!"

"Well, I'm too strong for you to worry about me, I assure you," Isaiah said coldly.

Matthew balled his hands into fists at his sides helplessly. "That's not what I-...damn it all. I don't know how to say what you need to hear, but Zaya, this can't go on like this. I'm sure Seline will be able to explain-"

"Don't you dare," Isaiah hissed through his teeth, "to mention this to Seline. I will never forgive you if you do. And I'll deny it."

It was Matthew's turn to wince, eyes widening. "She should know. Don't you trust her enough for this?"

Seline should know? For what, so she could leave him? What witch would want a damaged wolf with heart issues? He would not want himself if he knew.

Was it fair he was deceiving her about that? Then again, he was strong. He could power through the pain and never let it be seen, never let it prevent him from being powerful, when she needed him. He could do as much.

Matthew watched him with that intense glare. "Wait. No. It's not about trust. You are ember-"

"This conversation is over. And we are not talking about it again," Isaiah cut him off, turning away to continue with the dishes like nothing had happened, tensing his hands to stop them from shaking.

He could feel Matthew standing, glaring and fuming behind him for a while before he stormed off out of the apartment. Probably for a run. That was a good coping mechanism.

***

"This is ridiculous. What happened between you two?" Seline asked for the umpteenth time that evening.

Isaiah thought he handled the conversation well. Cut Matthew off at the right time. It was not his business, getting mixed up in his pain, his shadow, issues he had no place knowing about or suffering through. They were Isaiah's past life, past sins, suffering he deserved for abandoning his brothers, for not questioning orders, for not finding out sooner what he did. And he was not about to burden his closest people with it.

He had no expected for the atmosphere to be so tense though. Matthew respected his wish not to talk about it or tell Seline, but he was pissed and grumpy day. When he wasn't snapping at Seline or giving Isaiah death glares, he was finding the furthest corner of the room from him.

It was surprisingly hard to tolerate.

Seline for her part, didn't notice for the better part of the day. She came down talking about the essay she was preparing about apocalyptic movies, told him about the series of poems she wrote yesterday night, the story she wrote for a magazine and the new book she found...it amazed him how many thoughts could be in one person, how many worlds and realities Seline had in her head. It relaxed him to listen, to get lost so deep in something else.

Seline flowed through the day as if nothing happened and it was easier to pretend nothing was wrong. Gave a great opportunity to forget about it in fact, a move he would recommend to Matthew as well.

"Nothing happened. We just had a little squabble in the morning and Matthew is still hung upon it," Isaiah explained with an eye roll, throwing his arm around Seline on the couch. He needed her presence, her warmth against his side. His insides melted and relaxed at the touch and breathing in her scent was downright healing.

Seline gave him a skeptical look but leaned into him happily. "I don't know...it's so rare for you guys to argue..."

"Had to happen sometime." Isaiah shrugged. He was also very unused to it, especially with how physically comfortable they have become with each other. He missed Matthew's presence at his other side like they always sat during a movie night. It left him feeling cold.

Not to mention he was still shaky and weak from last night and the stress from the argument had his stomach tied up in knots. He drank nothing but mint tea to take it easy on his abused belly, but he still felt vaguely nauseous. His middle was all sloshy from the amounts of liquid he packed into it, slightly bulging under his loose cardigan. 

"Matt, come on. We can put on something yours today," Seline called after Matthew, who stood undecidedly leaning against the wall in the hallway. They stopped him on the way to his room, but he couldn't seem to make himself join them on the couch.

"Even a horror movie is fine," Seline said with a light grimace.

Matthew perked up at that, finally crossing the distance. He sat down on the other end of the couch though, not looking at Isaiah once. "Then I got just the thing for you."

"No animals getting hurt though," Seline added quickly, snuggling closer into Isaiah's side.

If Seline held on to him like that the whole movie, Isaiah wouldn't complain, though he had no particular taste for horror or goriness. He had seen his fair share of real-life blood, so he doubted anything could surprise him.

Matthew put the movie on, stretching out on his stomach, head to the TV, legs to them, which Isaiah guessed was another way to show his disapproval of him. Oh well. 

They watched in silence for a bit, interrupted only by Matthew’s sadistic laughs and Seline’s little squeals. Isaiah suspected a bit she was overreacting for his sake, pressing her face against his chest or wrapping her hands around his arm or neck, tagging at him. It was the sweetest thing. 

He was too distracted to really watch the movie, occasionally taking a look, but the plot was leaving things to be desired…and then the truly brutal scenes started. So much blood wouldn’t fit a person and the spraying of guts everywhere could rival the effects in Tarantino movies.

Isaiah found himself wincing at some of the shots, his stomach churning and flipping unhappily. It seemed the filmmakers were set on making it as repulsive and disgusting as possible. Especially the scenes with popping eyes had him flinching, fingers curling into his pants.

The lights and the sound effects were too much. His head was pounding, but even looking away didn’t help, the quickly changing light accompanied by the screams and scary moans reflected around the whole room. He leaned more over Seline, who was curled up in his lap, with eyes glued to the TV.  

Isaiah’s stomach twisted inside him and he felt the nausea rising steadily but quickly like high tide. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to tone out the lights, but the sounds were still there, and his stomach clenched again.

Saliva flooded his mouth and a dangerous burp worked its way up his throat. This couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t get sick from a movie, dear god.

His stomach roiled, giving a loud growl, pins and needles in his arms and ankles. Oh god, he needed out of here and fast. 

Untangling himself from Seline took a bit, he was clumsy from the nausea and his own horror at needing to leave at all.

Swallowing compulsively, he hurried to the kitchen. His stomach was cramping hard at this point and he needed out of that dark loud room…

He managed to get inside the bathroom, flipping the light on and closing the doors. It muffled the sounds and the ordinary normal kind of light made the scenes seem more like distant illusions. Which they were. This was stupid, he had seen and inflicted injuries, he had been hurt and bleeding, why the hell would he react to that overdone, overstrung, way too bloody-

The reminder had him heaving over the toilet before he even knelt down, green liquid rushing out. He drank nothing but the tea all day, which gave his belly perfect ammunition. 

Isaiah could not remember when was the last time he felt so nauseous. Yesterday it was the pain, bone-deep and electrifying, that took all his attention. This was just nausea, but so overwhelming it had his overly sloshy stomach purging itself violently. He braced against the toilet rim, wrapping his fingers around the cold porcelain as his stomach twisted painfully, more of the tea shooting up.

After a series of heaves that left him light-headed, he was left bracing against the toilet, head so heavy it could fall off his neck any moment. He was shaking, taking quick shuddering breaths.

His mouth tasted like rotten leaves. When the thought formulated, it had him gagging over the toilet again, but he felt so damn tired, he didn’t feel like he could lift himself up anymore.

It was the first time Isaiah felt like something was missing, when he was sick. He had gotten used to someone being present, although he used to resent the attention before. It was always Seline with her gentle concern and shy offers of belly rubs or Matthew’s callous hands and rough genuine worry…how pathetic and soft did he get, wishing any or both of them were here right now? 

He burped emptily, dragging himself over to lean against the bathtub, hugging his knees to his chest loosely, to not jostle his churning belly. It was still growling and bubbling angrily, as if not all the tea got out, even after that many rounds. He felt utterly pitiful to himself, weirdly lonely and out of it. 

Leaning his forehead against the top of his knees, he took deep measured breaths, hoping the churning and his speeding heartbeat wouldn’t trigger another episode, trying to ignore the muffled sounds from the living room. 

He must have spaced out, because he startled when the door opened. The relief he felt at Seline’s surprised and concerned expression, her blond eyebrows meeting together as she hurried to his side to kneel beside him was indescribable. Like an icy brick melting inside his chest. 

“Sweetie, what happened? Did you get sick? Was the movie too much? You should have said something, I thought you just went to the bathroom!” Seline slid down to sit beside him, one arm going around his shoulders, the other stroking his back.

Matthew appeared in the doorway as well, deep frown on his face, jaw pressed closed so tight a muscle in his cheek twitched. 

Isaiah didn’t know how he must have looked, pale, sweaty and emotional form a damn movie and the hard day of having his best friend angry at him. He really messed things up today, didn’t he? He was so used to being alone, when he was in pain, but now he realized he didn’t want to anymore. Not when he didn’t have to, not when they were both here, angry when they couldn’t be. 

“Sorry, I didn’t expect it to…didn’t want to ruin it for you,” he mumbled as Seline run her hand up his back and neck. He locked his gaze with Matthew’s. “I’m sorry.” He really hoped Matthew wouldn’t mention the fact it could be related to last night or that he didn’t realize his stomach was upset all day because of their morning fight. 

Matthew scoffed, rolling his eyes, but there was a slight lift to the corner of his lips. “Didn’t think you of all people would have such a weak stomach. You wanna sit there all night, or do you want some help?” He stepped closer, offering his hand.

Isaiah accepted, clasping it tightly. 

[mageofseven]

Our Child: My Turn

Barbatos Mpreg

Barb's turn! Also, I see this occurring right after his section in this post, but this story also isn't dependent on that info so no worries~

•▪︎▪︎◇°●♡●°◇▪︎▪︎•

Barbatos had summoned the doctor, just as he told his girlfriend he would.

The man stayed with MC for the entire appointment, holding her hand as the doctor checked over her and did various tests.

The butler was as composed as ever, wanting to be a calming presence for his love in this stressful situation.

It only got more stressful, however. After the tests were complete, it was all confirmed: MC was carrying his child.

Tears filled the human's eyes and she embracd her boyfriend in the tightest hug she could.

"I'm sorry..." She hid her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

The woman knew his stance on children, how he'd prefer to never be a father because of his job, and felt like she just made things so much more difficult for him.

"My dear, it's alright." He stroked her back with a gloved hand before pulling back and having her eyes meet his. "None of this is your fault."

"But I'm pregnant--"

"And I put the child there." He laid his hand on her still-flat belly and frowned slightly. "This...was my doing so please do not feel any guilt."

Because in his mind, the guilt fell on his shoulders. He was the one who didn't want children because of his job and his genetics. It was his responsibility to make sure this never happened and he failed.

"But...how is this happening? We were so careful...is this going to be okay? Will I even be able to handle this physically?"

Barb pursed his lips. He understood her concern; she was human after all, a fragile being who now was carrying the child of a demon.

"Would you like me to look into this for you, my dear? See what issues may arise?" The man didn't like using his future vision, but if it could bring comfort to his love's heart and help them during this difficult time, he'll do so.

The woman gave a tearful nod and Barb kissed her forehead.

"Alright, my pet. Please give me some time."

And with that, the man's eyes glowed and he was gone, mentally anyway. He searched the closest rivers of time, the most likely paths their lives will take...and saw them all end in MC's death. Neither her body or mind could handle carrying his child. He saw his child torture the woman with visions so painful that she begged for death

But outside of the visions, she was strong and refused to give up the child who was torturing her. She was exhausted, but extremely protective of their child...and nothing Barb said in any of these timelines could convince the woman to save herself.

He kept searching through other streams of time, trying desperately to find a method that could save his beloved

And found it. He saw the cover of a strange book followed by a ritual between the two, transferring the child from her body into his own

And that was the only method he found to save MC and their child from this horrible situation.

"Barb! Barb!!!"

The butler faded back into the present to find his girlfriend crying and shaking him. He felt tears on his own face as well.

The man's body must have started crying while he was gone and it scared the human.

Barb wiped the tears from MC's cheeks and leaned in to kiss her.

"All will be fine, my pet." He told her though he obviously had some preparation to do in order to make his words true.

From there, the two went to the castle's library, the one used for leisure by the Royal Family.

He described the cursive design he saw on the book and the two scanned the shelves.

Somehow, it didn't take long for MC to find it on one of the upper shelves and hand it to their boyfriend.

Barb found the section he needed and read through it; it seemed simple enough to the butler, though he would definitely need time to memorize the incantation.

Overall, it seemed doable to the man. This is when he informed his girlfriend how they'll get through it; they'll wait till she's eight weeks along and then they'll do the ritual so he can carry their child for her.

The woman was surprised; she had never thought such a thing was possible, but her boyfriend assured her that it was and that it was perfectly safe.

Despite the couple's fear, they both handled the next couple weeks well. Yes, morning sickness wasn't pleasant for the human, but the butler was always there when she needed him and took care of her the best he could.

The two did the ritual at night in his room.

Barb carefully drew the runes on her body, pausing on her stomach.

"Barb?"

The man leaned in and kissed the little pouch where her belly already grew...where his child grew.

Still at level with her belly, the man looked up and saw the cute blush on her face.

"You trust me, don't you, my dear?"

MC nodded before Barb rose and kissed her lips.

"I appreciate it, my pet."

And with that, he drew the last rune over her small belly before removing his shirt and repeating the same runes on his body.

Once finished, the two laid on his bed or rather, the man laid on the bed and MC laid on top of him.

He could tell his love was nervous so for the first minute or so, he just held her close and stroke her hair.

Once he could feel MC's heartbeat calm, he kissed her head and started the incantation.

The human's breath hitched and she squirmed against her boyfriend, but luckily kept her belly against him. The feeling that spread through her belly was warm and strange, a sensation so indescribable that it scared the woman.

Next was Barb. The normally composed man released a grown, but did his best to focus on the spell despite the new sensation and his girlfriend's worried eyes.

MC hid her face in in Barb's chest, doing her best to wait it out.

Finally, the feeling subsided and the couple relaxed against each other.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Barb asked as he stroked her back.

"Are you?" The human asked, still worried.

"Perfectly." He gave his girlfriend a kiss and brushed some hair back from her face. "You're safe now; how could I be anything but wonderful?"

His girlfriend's life was saved; now all that was left was to carry their child to term and bring them into the world.

Barbatos thought of this only in it's simplicity however and didn't truly stop to think about all of the changes to his body that would occur from this.

He knew his belly would grow as his child did, a tiny little girl from what his vision showed him.

He did not mind this one bit; after all, this growth was a physical sign that his daughter was developing well inside inside him.

He also had no issues with the new 'part' between his legs; the man was grateful that his daughter had a proper exit already prepared for her arrival.

What Barbatos didn't expect were the dizzy spells and the headaches. Oh devil, the headaches.

These issues made it so difficult for the man to do his job properly. Luckily, MC was there for her boyfriend, helping with his work load and taking care of the expecting man.

Things got worse for the pregnant man around the fifth month however.

This is when the attacks started, the same ones MC suffered through in the timeline where she carried their daughter to term.

They were different for Barb though. For MC, her mind was tortured by visions from obsolete timelines, potential outcomes that could have happened, but never came to pass. Most involved her own death or the deaths of those she loved. This happened because the baby was starting to get these visions and had no control of them so both mama and baby suffered together.

For Barbatos, he never got the whole visions. Unlike MC or their baby, this man was trained to deal with this power. When a horrible vision would start up, he'd force it away from both his daughter's and his own mind.

This took so much energy from the dad though, causing him to have none left for his work. MC took over an even bigger chunk of his workload, so much that Diavolo insisted on paying the woman. The prince was very understanding of his bulter's condition and encouraged the pregnant man to get as much rest as possible.

This exhaustion, this was what he hated the most about his pregnancy. Even once his child is born and he is asked what the worst part of the pregnancy was, he says this; he even tells people it was worse than the actual birth because he couldn't do much...in truth, the man felt like a burden.

It was his job to take care of others, especially his lord, but his pregnancy took that from him. He felt ashamed, like he was the worse type of person, the worst butler.

Not that he would admit these feelings; no, that would just make things worse for him.

Still...MC could tell her love's spirits were low. She'd always spend as much time as she could with him, cuddling with him in bed and telling him how amazing he is.

He's going through so much just to save her life and the life of their daughter. This woman never thought she could love her boyfriend anymore than she already did, but still found a new level of love for him.

The birth was difficult for the demon, but only because of the exhaustion he felt. He barely had the energy to push his daughter out of him and was honestly grateful his daughter was so tiny because otherwise, he might not have ended up much better than MC would have.

The human stayed by his side the entire time and gave her boyfriend every bit of encouragement he needed. Honestly, the demon attributed the rather smooth birth to her; if it wasn't for MC, the man very well might have given up.

Vaermina born just as tiny as her father knew she would be: a frail little 4.5lb baby. Physically speaking, their daughter was still healthy though.

Despite this, Barbatos knew his daughter was going to have a hard life since she inherited his...'gift', as others refered to it

And there was nothing he could do for her; not till she grew old enough for him to train her. Till then, he knew his daughter would suffer.

Still, he was grateful for this outcome, for a present where both his daughter and girlfriend survived.

With this in mind...the demon was one lucky man to have his two favorite girls still with him.

[featheredadora]

hello! hope you're having a nice day

i have been interested in keeping a pet canary for a bit, but i don't know about any good care guides for them, do you perhaps know one? (it's aight if you don't or if it's too much information to write)

Hi there!

I think canaries are wonderful and really sweet little birds, so it is nice to hear people appreciating them!

That said, I'm afraid I don't really have a specific guide to point you to, sorry! I remember before I got Sunshine for my nan I spent a few months reading just a ton of different guides about canaries (I found it quite overwhelming combing through so much info tbh) but that was more than three years ago now, so I don't really remember which resources I found particularly helpful.

In any case, if you are interested in some thoughts from me personally, I've put some stuff beneath the cut:

In terms of info I have from my personal experience (you might already know all of this, sorry), a lot of the care is not dissimilar to other kinds of birds. Sunshine eats a diet of canary seed mix, superfine pellets, and a range of veggies (he in particular likes to have a piece of tenderstem brocolli clipped up every day. But he also loves romaine lettuce, and chop made from kale, peppers, carrots etc).

Cage-wise, the bigger the better, with an emphasis on length over height - but super important to get very small bar spacing, because canaries are so small that there is a risk of them getting their heads stuck otherwise. Lots of natural perches of differing widths too, and I would personally include a flat perch as well, for variety.

But my experience with Sunshine has also been different from my other birds in lots of ways too! My other birds like to stay out of their cages basically all day, whereas Sunshine prefers to stay in his cage for the bulk of the day. He asks to be let out (usually just a couple of times a day) and will then fly and play around the room for a while, but he then returns to his cage and is happy to play about in there for a bit.

In terms of toys, I have heard that canaries 'don't really play with toys', but this hasn't been my experience with Sunshine. He needs lighter, easier toys though - his favourites are a string of sola wood discs, a paper pinata toy, and a willow ball stuffed with crinkle paper which he likes to pull out.

I've also found that his nails grow a LOT faster than my other birds, so we take him to the vet for a nail trim every few months (if you can do this yourself at home, that's probably better, but Sunshine gets super stressed out if ever we try to grab him). Oh and one last thing, he LOVES having baths. More than any other bird I've known. Annoyingly, Sunshine refuses to use a proper bird bath and will only use his water pot (so I have to clean and refresh it multiple times per day), but I would still say getting a nice little bath for your friend is important!

So yeah, sorry I couldn't be of more help! As with any bird, the best possible advice I can give is to get them registered with a good avian vet for their regular check ups, and also to make sure your house is bird proof (safe for them during out-of-cage time, but also safe from items which could give off fumes, like spray deodorant, candles, most non-stick cooking stuff, etc).

This ended up being both super long, and super basic, sorry! But in any case, thank you for giving me chance to talk a bit about Sunshine (who I love and adore), and I hope you and your future little friend will be really happy together!

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

(don't drop the gif - I might write it) au victoria/bella prompts please

... Do you really mean AU as in Alternate Universe? Or uh... anything else.

I'm not sure I'm the idea fairy you're looking for but I can give it a shot:

Canon Divergent

That Time Victoria Got Bella and... No One Cared

New Moon happens, Bella's been dumped, the Cullens flee town and Edward forbids Alice from looking in on Bella's life. Victoria manages to get to Bella before Bella knows about the wolves/when she's real deep in depression (Bella's Port Angeles adventure ends up being Hallucination Edward telling her not to wander up to Victoria clearly watching her across a street. "Hello Darkness, my old friend" is what Bella says to that)

Victoria, delighted, prepares to kill Bella but realizes... no one's here... Revenge doesn't mean much if the person you're getting revenge on (Edward) isn't around. At first Victoria assumes he must be watching his precious human, but time passes and... he doesn't show up. The humans have accepted Bella died, where are the Cullens?

Victoria goes on a quest to find them, and there's a slow redemption arc as Victoria and Bella spend a lot of time in each other's company.

That Time the Hunt Went on Longer

Bella doesn't go to Phoenix when hunted by James. As a result, her father's murdered as is her mother and Phil. Bella lives out of hotel rooms, Edward refusing to turn her when Alice has admitted that James would have immediately stopped and gotten bored if Edward had done that. Bella realizes the rest of her life will be lived out of hotel rooms. She starts falling out of love with Edward as the situation becomes increasingly stressful and awful.

On the other side, this is getting spicy even for Victoria, as James is obsessing over this human girl and destroying her personality making it clear that Victoria's just an accessory/useful gift to him. Victoria is forced to realize James doesn't love her and is destroyed by this.

Victoria turns Bella in revenge against both the Cullens (who enabled the destruction of her life) and James (who proved he wasn't her savior after all).

Edward now has vampire Bella despite his best efforts and for all Bella tries to make it work they fall apart. During this she forms a shocking friendship then something more with Victoria.

Victoria Joined the Cullens

James never came across Victoria and hunted her down and at some point Victoria made the acquaintance of the weird hippies called the Cullens.

Desperate, Victoria trades human blood for protection and finds herself (along with Jasper) the very black sheep of the family who is a little less gung ho about this diet than the rest of them. It's cool not killing people, she guesses?

Bella finds herself first drawn to Edward in Biology but then meets his hot older sister (red hair, it's the role Victoria gets) and finds herself drawn to the mysterious black sheep of the family.

("I ate so many people with my coven that we started the witch hunting epidemic" - Victoria)

Things get extra spicy when Edward dumps Bella.

Awful AUs No One Should Ever Write

Bella's a Barista and Victoria's a customer with an awful boyfriend

It's Little Shop of Horrors and James is a plant Victoria keeps in her flat and Bella her clumsy coworker dating a questionable dentist

Victoria's a bride of Dracula (James) and Bella is a sad sad virgin sacrifice given to James to be another bride.

They're all human in high school. Edward's in orchestra, Bella's the shy wallflower who thinks he's so intellectual, Victoria is a punk delinquent with a shitty boyfriend. Aro's the principal. He's constantly accused of tyranny.

They're all working in the same company as humans. Bella doesn't know how the Xerox machine works.

Bella's a vampire now and Victoria's the human!

It's a mafia movie now. No, there's no vampires, it's just a mafia movie.

Victoria's a rock star with a secret identity and Bella's her biggest fan! There's a subplot where Bella dates Edward who is the band's pianist and Victoria hates her life.

[undeadorion]

Oh my god. How out of touch can you be?

As before, if you know who this is, I do not condone sending hate anon or otherwise. Ignore them or block them. Do not engage.

Last night I happened across a call for an 18+ Ghost discord server. Neat! I clicked on it and said "hi" cause someone noticed me join. Opened the general chat and that incest person was active in there. So I immediately left.

Apparently they noticed and sent me a friend request. I hit panic mode immediately, but I realized I hadn't actually directly told them to stop talking to me. So I accepted the request specifically to thell them I would not be speaking to them. And the conversation was so fucking unhinged. I can't wrap my head around this.

I don'ty usually just post full, uncensored conversations. But context is necessary, and I desperately want people to just avoid this person at all costs.

I'm struggling to put into words how wrong this all is.

"You're the one who accepted the request." That's getting into territories of consent and saying people can't say "no" after they've said "yes." I opened the door to tell you to fuck off. That does not give you the right to invite yourself inside.

The fact that they think I couldn't possibly care about "fictional ships on the internet" while dealing with real life shit. As if this is the same as worrying about people shipping best friends Binky and Blorby.

Hell, the fact that they don't ship it makes it worse. Why are you wasting your oh-so precious interent time attacking a fucking TEENAGER about it? Why aren't you following your own advice and just ignoring it? Why doesn't even fucking matter to you if it's not even something you participate in?

Just flat out refusing to even try to understand why someone would be upset by FUCKING INCEST. That's what keeps pissing me off. That they see absolutely nothing wrong in what they did is so beyond me. How do you get so isloated in your own bullshit you can't see how it's a problem?

"Life is stressful. You have no idea." I'm a whole ass decade older than you. Shut the fuck up. Everyone's got their own shit to deal with. 99% of adults carry a mountain of shit with them everywhere they go. But no, only YOU understand what it's like. I couldn't possibly fathom stress. Every single person I know is suffering under stress so severe it's a wonder we're still functional. We turn to our little fictions for a little relief. So of fucking course we care about people dragging their nasty vile garbage into the middle of our stress relief.

That little "you have no idea" is just such a self-centered thing to say about something so universal as "life is stressful." That's like insisting only you understand how blue the sky is.

Just. Shut the fuck up.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Empty House pt 3

How many more people will Holmes shock half to death with his miraculous revival this time?

Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention to them, but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience and continued to stare into the street.

Watson, with limited information: Tries to be helpful.

Holmes: Stop interrupting my staring!

I remember enough of this story to know that Watson has spotted the policemen who are also on this stake out. At least, that's what I think is happening here. The fact that Holmes can't quietly fill him in on that is particularly opaque of him. How is Watson supposed to help if you don't tell him what he needs to know? You're always going on about how you cannot theorise without data, but you refuse to provide data to Watson and still expect him to be on the same page as you. Not fair, Holmes.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own. “Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour."

I get that this is a stressful time, Holmes. But there is no need to bite Watson's head off. Again, if you don't give him all the information about what you're looking for and what else is going on, of course he's going to point out things that he thinks are important but you know are not. Getting irritated with him will not help with this. Giving him the information he needed would have done. You couldn't have added the fact that it would move to your little explanation earlier?

This and The Dying Detective are the two stories in which Watson could most understandably strangle Holmes and no one would blame him.

Also, Mrs Hudson deserves a sainthood. 'Go here every 15 minutes and, being careful to stay away from the window, move this effigy of me into a slightly different position.' What if she has better things to do? What if she was going out with her friends? What if she's in the middle of a really good book? What if she had a date?

Although, honestly, Holmes, if you wanted it to appear natural, you would have told her to move it at random intervals. I'm sure, being you, standing motionless and staring at one spot for an hour, is not an uncommon occurrence. Every fifteen minutes is just a bit too regular.

Again in the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were quivering.

The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars and his features were working convulsively.

Clearly I'm not imagining this right, because the way I see it, this guy looks kind of like he wants to throw up. Or he's doing the ugly crying.

I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered along the sights.

This is now what Colonel Sebastian Moran looks like in my head. I will not be taking notes at this time.

At that instant Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back and hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat; but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver and he dropped again upon the floor.

Watson practising the renowned martial art of 'hit them really hard in the head to make them fall down'. A classic. Holmes clearly trying bar(t)itsu again and finding it more difficult to throw people off cliffs when there are no cliffs available.

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in London, sir.”

Oh hai, Lestrade!

Countdown to bulldog description, starting now.

“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that's to say, you handled it fairly well.”

...Wow

Holmes. I know you can be polite to people. I've seen you being polite to people. You are very kind and considerate to a lot of your clients. But Lestrade tells you it's nice to have you back from the dead and you immediately tell him what a failure he is. I guess you do try to be nice at the end there. But you couldn't have started with something a bit better than 'you're only happy to see me because you're rubbish without me?'

I guess, at least Lestrade already knew you were alive, so you didn't give him a heart attack. Small mercies.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's plainest danger-signals.

Even after ten years, ACD is still devoted to his physiognomy. Le sigh. You see, you should never be deceived by evil people because you can totally tell they're evil by looking at them. That's absolutely how it works.

Also, calm down, Watson 'virile', 'sensualist'? I know your wife's dead, but this guy did just try to kill your best friend. Tell me you're into bad boys without telling me you're into bad boys, y'know?

“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the best heavy game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I believe I am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains unrivalled?”

No, but why, guys? Why is it always colonels? This seems statistically significant to me. Is it just because it's a rank high enough to be impressive, but not so high as to be concerning that they were promoted so high? Did ACD once have a colonel cut him in line at the telegraph office? Why colonels? Why not a Lieutenant? Why not a Major? Why no Captains? Why not a Brigadier? Everyone loves a brigadier!

But no, always, always colonels.

Oh... research shows that Brigadier as its own rank did not exist in the Victorian British army, at which time Brigadier was actually a type of colonel.

Majors, Captains and Lieutenants were all in existence, though, so my point still stands.

Watson's very big on tigers in this story. Holmes springs like a tiger, Moran has a bag of tigers (not literally, although the literal bag of tigers would be far more amusing and also be an excellent one-use magic item in D&D. Throw bag to ground, saying the command word, and 1d6 tigers will emerge from the bag and immediately attack anyone nearby, they are not considered friendly towards you and cannot be commanded. They will not go back in the bag. Once used the bag is just an ordinary bag with some slight claw damage).

Also, Watson is continuing to have zero cool about how hot he thinks Colonel Moran is:

...with his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger himself.

Pull yourself together man!

Really, ACD had tigers on the brain, what with Holmes' explanation of his trap. 'Here's a tiger, there's a tiger, and another little tiger, fuzzy tiger, funny tiger, tiger, tiger, TRAP!' (That's pretty much what Holmes said, right?)

^ ACD's brain while writing this story (probably).

"I had imagined you as operating from the street, where my friend Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you. With that exception all has gone as I expected.”

I guess snipers are just a more well-known sort of thing these days, but the idea of him shooting at Holmes from the street rather than a higher vantage point seems utterly bizarre to me.

“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the 30th of last month."

Are we going to get a motive? Hadn't they been winning at gambling together? I'm assuming some sort of debt or knowledge about Moran's criminal dealings, but still.

It's sort of nice for Holmes to give Lestrade the win here, but coupled with his earlier comments, it's kind of condescending. Also the other police officers definitely know, so it's really only for public awareness.

Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn.

I did see a comment by one of the other LfW readers that pointed out that Baker Street was very definitely burnt during The Final Problem, and that Mycroft must have had it restored (meaning that ACD just forgot about that, much like I did). It is infinitely funnier to imagine Mycroft painstakingly reconstructing the acid stains. And the mention of 'would have been so glad to burn' here is very amusing coming at it from this angle.

“I hope you preserved all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes. “I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”

This woman deserves a medal. Seriously.

“Up to a certain point he did well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger."

Only tigers. Only ever colonels and tigers. This is the truth of the world.

And then a bit of eugenicist theory thrown in for good measure, because of course it is. The use of 'pedigree' when referring to humans will always turn my stomach a little bit.

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

Watson here, unconvinced by the eugenicist rhetoric. Good man. I mean, you still support physiognomy, but at least you draw the line at eugenics.

Holmes, on the other hand...

“Well, I don't insist upon it."

Good.

“You have not made it clear what was Colonel Moran's motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair.”

Thank you, Watson. You're really pulling your weight in this story asking the questions I need to be asked.

"Now, Moran undoubtedly played foul—of that I have long been aware. I believe that on the day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the club and promised not to play cards again."

OK, yeah, that makes sense. It's a bit extreme, and you'd think he'd have sorted out some other form of income, but I guess tigers aren't that easy to monetise in London.

"...the famous air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum..."

Scotland Yard actually does have a crime museum (now at New Scotland Yard, obvs), that I believe they use for educating police officers these days and which can only be accessed by the people outside of the police force with special permission and allowances. I didn't know it was that old, though. Wiki tells me it started in 1874, and has never been open to the public, which surprises me because, while I personally think it would be in bad taste, that's the kind of thing the Victorians seem to have loved.

And so it goes. Holmes is alive, Watson is in Baker Street, and we return to our regularly scheduled letters. (Also, ACD just fridged Mary off screen so he wouldn't have to keep remembering that she existed).