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sweetflanfiction · 17 days ago

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Assymetrical Symphony - Part 5

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

Trigger Warning: Mentions of death.

A.N.: Next chapter will have Vik x Reader I promise. Thank you for your comments and reblogs and love and stuff!!! Gif for the headed from @arcanedaily. I have more parts ready, I just need to get them into the grammar checker and we are off! Also @th3stup1dcat and @22carolina08 good catch!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4

• ··········· • ············ •

The building Esther's, your mother's, trolley had pulled up to was not the home you had expected when she told you that was your destination. At some point you waited for it to turn towards the edge of Piltover, where the big manors were, but it took the opposite turn. Towards the high-end part of the city, where all of the affluent people lived.

As you rode the elevator up, the only thing that crossed your mind was that this was most definitely not the manor. It was the size of the manor, yes, but the penthouse was the polar opposite of your father’s mansion.

Your father loved his dark corners and soft glows; the tones of dark wood and gold were his favorites. The brightest room in the house was not even in the house. It was a greenhouse next to it that you had converted into an annex house for yourself, using the main glass part as a music room. His office? Long windows covered with thick, velvety curtains. Your child's bedroom? A purple pastel-colored nightmare that was a mix of musical instruments and more toys than you needed. As you grew, you begged your father for a brighter color scheme, but he vehemently denied it. The purple was chosen by your mother.

The penthouse was all light and soft colors. From the white wood panel of the walls with soft gold foil details to the gray wooden floor, everything was light and airy. Where the manor's corridors were a maze of claustrophobic sharp corners that you loved to run around in, the penthouse was spacious and open. From the hall to the living and dining room, even the bathroom that you had been almost dragged into was big. The big tub near a window had taken 5 full minutes to fill.

The weird thing was: it felt like home. As soon as you stepped into the penthouse, the weight you felt on your shoulders cleared. It was safe; nothing could get you here. The smell of lavender and caramel had been almost familiar.

Once dressed and dried, you walked out into the massive living room where your mother was sitting reading the newspaper, the turntable playing a soft tune. She looked up at you and smiled softly at you, placing the paper down.

“You look almost human, my dear.” She joked, and you chuckled. "Come, I must show you something before we both try to figure out what's happening."

She patted your arm affectionately and grabbed her coat, and the both of you made your way to her private trolley. In the elevator down, you had asked where your father was and how she knew you were not her child. But she smiled mysteriously, with a hint of sadness, and told you, 'You'll see.'

Looking at the black iron arch that stood high above your head, you began to fear what you'd actually see.

• ············ •

Piltover’s Rosebay Graveyard was a calm and quiet place. Some people found it ominous; others found it peaceful. To you, it was just a place you were obliged to go because your father made you. There were mausoleums on a higher part and some old gravesites with only a small slab to acknowledge who was there. Flowers and ribbons dotted the place, and you could hear the chimes in the distance. Seemed to be the same as on your side.

“You’ve been through this path before.” Your mother stated, and you nodded, noticing you had unconsciously started walking to what would be your mother's grave.

“I came to visit you often.” You said solemnly, having decided, as you had lain in the tub, to tell her everything.

“Funny… I came to do the same.” She stopped in front of two white headstones.

You didn't need to read the names; the two black-and-white photos were enough.

“Oh… Oh no, please.” You whispered, falling to your knees. “Father…”

You felt your mother's hand on your shoulder as you wept, her thumb rubbing comforting circles on it.

“I’ll forget him.” You touched his photo, tears flowing in your eyes. “I can’t…forget him.”

“You never forget those you love,” Esther said, her voice cracking, as she knelt next to you.

“I forgot you!” you admitted, voice filled with guilt. “I didn’t want to! But one day…one day I didn’t think about you anymore; you were just a memory!”

“It’s alright, dear.” She consoled, placing her other hand on your cheek and turning your face towards her. “You never forget those lost. They're with you in the small things. In the way you talk and stand. In the way you arrange books on a bookshelf. In the way you love others. You don’t forget; you become those you love.”

You sniffled, feeling the tears and snot run down your face, and turned to her. She had also lost a child and a husband. You let grief and sadness take over and hugged her, feeling her arms move around you and hold you tight.

You both sobbed for your losses but also because you found each other.

• ············ •

You watched from under a tree as your mother sat near the graves for a while. She had asked for a little time to herself, and you had nodded and walked another familiar path.

The old oak tree had been planted on a flat grassy section of the graveyard, with a few benches around its thick trunk. People had taken it upon themselves to decorate the tree with little wind chimes. They had done so on your side, and you were happy when a small breeze passed through the leaves and the chimes tinkled in a soothing melody on this side.

You looked at the tree canopy from the stone bench you had sat in, hypnotized by the colorful chimes dangling there, until a tingling on your hand distracted you. Looking down at it, you realized the rune and hand were again glowing a bright blue. You smiled at the strange sensation, warm like a cup of tea in the winter. With a swift movement, you made a horizontal line with your hand, and like the first time, it looked like you had brushed some paint in the air.

Looking around to check if there was anyone else, you started making runes in the air, trying to get yourself familiarized with them.

Move. Music. Nudge. The rune glowed and shot up towards the chimes, sending a gust of wind that shingled the chimes.

Elevator. Music. Nudge. The rune glowed and disappeared, phasing out into smoke.

You locked eyes with a particular chime that had a silver chain holding it together.

Unlock. Chime. Nudge. The rune shook, shined, and tore itself into 5 glowing dots.

That was unexpected. For a second, you looked, wide-eyed, at the dots, waiting for something to happen. In the blink of an eye, the five stars shot in different directions. Three had flown low to the ground towards the main graveyard area. One rocketed towards the sky, and another quickly zapped around the tree trunk. A little tinkle was heard from that location.

Doing another once-over, you got up and walked towards the sound. A glass wind chime was broken on the ground, the rope cord weathered and frayed, and most of the colored glass had been shattered when it fell. Bending down to grab it, the blue light appeared before you could touch it; the blue wisp appeared and started to dance around the object. It took a few rounds of this weird little dance for you to realize what it was.

A rune. The little wisp of light kept doing the same rune over and over again.

Clearing your throat and looking around to make sure nobody was around, you made the rune in the air. And nudged. And nothing.

“Stop overcomplicating things,” one of your teachers had once told you. “That's your problem. It’s all easy and breezy in the beginning when it’s instinctive. But when you figure something out, it’s like you lock yourself into a little box of rules…do what comes naturally.”

Taking a deep breath, you shook your hand and cracked your neck. You look at the broken glass musical decoration.

Rune. Fix. Nudge. The rune glowed, moved, and separated into little ribbons of satiny light, surrounding the chime.

It tightened around the frayed, and the damaged rope became whole again, with little tendrils of light blue keeping it together. The shattered and cracked glass still attached to the main iron structure was enclosed in the same healing ribbons, and when the ribbons tightened again, the cracks had been glued together with a blue shiny glue.

You noticed the broken glass pieces that had scattered around the chime hadn’t magically grown back. It wasn’t fixed, because there was nothing to fix.

Before you had any time to think more about it, Esther called out for you. The magical rune hand was still magically shining, so you shoved it into one of your jackets.

“Here!” You waved your nonmagical hand and saw her make her way to you.

Mentioning the bench you previously occupied, the both of you sat down. She placed a hand on your thigh.

“How are you feeling, my dear?”

“Calmer.” You looked at the grass and took a deep breath. “I think you must have gathered by now I’m not your child.”

“I know. I don’t understand how—"

“I can explain.” You interrupted her.

She crossed her ankles and placed her hands on her skirt, looking at you, ready to hear what you had to say.

You started with the rocket attack on your side and went from there to how hextech got corrupted and corrupted Viktor, turning him into the Herald, and how he wanted to make everyone like him, and how in the last second of you as yourself, you were bumped here.

Your mother drank in all of the information you gave her, asking questions, adding commentary, and being a very willing participant in the story. As you finished the story, you gave your mother a scared look, waiting for her reaction.

“It’s hard to believe I understand, but—”

“I’m a best-selling fantasy author, kid. That’s just a normal mid-week creative writing session." She winked at you, and relief washed over you. “So you went from a topsider, benefactor of science, to a soldier against a hive-minded group of robots, controlled by one of your former best friends.”

“Yes…”

“And then! Some sort of..." she made a motion with her hands to the sky “Higher power head-butted you through time and space and made land here.”

“Yup...” You nodded.

“Mmm." She looked deep in thought. "Change a few names, add a little love triangle, give it a few plot twists, and you just wrote my next novel.”

You stared at her dumbfounded, the feeling of betrayal starting to bubble in your stomach. And then you saw the corners of her mouth go up into a smile. Esther looked at you, a mischievous look on her face, her hand coming into view rubbing the thumb and index finger together, the universal sign for money. She was teasing you. You snorted and burst out laughing, her laughter cascading out following yours.

“I haven’t laughed like that in a while.” You confessed, once you both managed to reel it in. You leaned your elbows into your knees and wiped a few tears from your eyes.

“You’re welcome.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, and you moved your neck to look at her. “You may not be my daughter, but you were someone’s daughter. Other me, and if...” she made the sky motion again, and you snorted again. “Made us find each other, then I like to think it’s because we were meant to be together. A childless mother and a motherless child? Seems like a match made in whatever space-time-jumping heaven there is.”

• ············ •

You found, after returning from the graveyard, that your mother had in fact not one but two housekeepers and a cook. They lived in the apartments below the penthouse and only came in when needed when there were visitors. Usually, the cook would make several meals, and she only had to warm them up.

According to her, she was good at two things in the kitchen: making desserts and burning the ceiling.

To prove her point, she started making probably the biggest caramel and vanilla pudding you’ve ever seen. And you’ve been to some parties in your days. Once the oven pinged, you both had sat at the kitchen table, devouring it.

“What did you do on your side of the space-time continuum?” She grinned at her joke, placing a spoonful of caramel sauce into her mouth.

“Oh! Follow me." You wiggled your eyebrows, grabbed another piece of the pudding, and walked toward the grand piano you had spotted in the living room.

You grabbed the books and the little succulent plant that were placed on top of the piano cover and lifted it with ease, repeating the motion on the fall that was covering the keys. You played some notes and figured it wasn’t all that out of tune.

“Wylla likes to keep it tuned.” Your mother said, approaching. “Not that she plays, but…”

“Wylla?”

“You’ll meet her soon enough.”

Sitting down in front of the ivory keys felt exactly like you felt when looking at your mother. Strange and familiar. You never thought that after what happened to Viktor, you would be able to sit down and play again. The concept of surviving the battle was not even present in your mind. But now that you were here, looking at the instrument you had first mastered, it felt right.

Settling the pudding plate on top of the bench, you touched your fingers to the keys.

(Patrick Pietschamm - Can you hear the music)

Your fingers moved almost on their own. The muscle memory of playing the notes on the piano comes instantly. At some point you closed your eyes, knowing the exact motion you had to make to hit a key. Your feet and hands moved in tandem, making a full melody out of what seemed to be simple motions.

Your hands flew over the ivories like you hadn't stopped playing.

You felt tears prickle your eyes, your nose becoming stuffy as you kept playing, pouring your frustrations and worries into the song. A release that you didn't remember feeling so…cathartic.

When the last notes were played, you got startled by your mother applauding. Much like your father did, but while he had been demure and subtle, your mother was wide-eyed and laughing.

“You’re a musician!” She pointed at something on the shelf. “Ah…take that, Frederick!”

You looked at the shelf, recognizing your father’s name, and saw a picture of the couple and a child smiling.

“Well, he did encourage me more than anything to pursue it.”

“Good! Teach me!” She sat down next to you at the piano, looking at you earnestly. “I’ve had this thing for years now; I don’t even know how to play the scales. Go on, teach your old mother how to play the piano.”

You looked at her, blinking. You old mother. Your gaze softened looking at her face.

“I’m not that bad, I promise.” She joked fondly, placing a hand on top of the keys.

Smiling, you nodded.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @adithsaley @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @angelsukiipls @casey8522 @moons-lighttrail @buttermilktea11 @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty

#arcane x y/n #arcane viktor #arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane spoilers #arcane x you #arcane characters #arcane x reader #arcane smut #viktor x reader #viktor smut #viktor league of legends #viktor #the final glorious evolution #league of legends viktor #arcane act three

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elizadraws · 1 year ago

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Bulgarian Music in Studio Ghibli films

”Myth has it that Orpheus was born in what is now Bulgaria. It seemed to be fact, not myth, that his daughters are still singing there”

These words were written by the New York Times in the remote 1963 — the year in which the largest Bulgarian folk ensemble crossed the Iron Curtain to conquer an entire continent with its cosmic art.

The 1975 release of Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares, a compilation album of modern arrangements of Bulgarian folk songs, further popularized Bulgarian music, and in 1977, a vinyl record featuring the folk song “Izlel ye Delyo Haydutin” (Eng: Come out rebel Delyo) began its journey aboard the Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 spacecrafts.

From this point on popularity from the West spread to the East, and Bulgarian folk music made it to the entertainment industry, including legendary Japanese anime films, like the cult cyberpunk “Ghost in the Shell” or the heartwarming Studio Ghibli features.

In this short article I write about two occasions of Bulgarian music playing in Studio Ghibli’s films.

The record that inspired the creation of “Only Yesterday”

“Only Yesterday” is a 1991 Japanese animated drama film written and directed by Isao Takahata, based on the 1982 manga of the same title by Hotaru Okamoto and Yuko Tone. Set in rural Japan, the film draws parallels with the peasant lifestyle present in Eastern Europe.

The original work is a compilation of short stories about 11-year-old Taeko’s daily life in 1966. Director Takahata had a hard time making it into a movie since the manga, told in the form of a memoir, has no plot to hold a feature. Together with producer Toshio Suzuki, they came up with the solution of bringing the narrator of the story, adult Taeko, into the movie. But there is a curious anecdote about how this idea came to mind.

Taeko picks safflower as the Bulgarian song “Malka moma dvori mete” plays in the background. © Studio Ghibli

In a 2021 interview with students from Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski, producer Suzuki recounts how a record of Bulgarian songs performed by the children choir “Bodra Smyana”, introduced to him by director Takahata, inspired the creation of the movie. Moved by the cosmic voices of the children, they decided to make “Only Yesterday” a musical. He also recalls what a tiring process it was to acquire the rights to the music, but if you’ve seen the movie, I am sure you will agree that it was worth it; the haunting, beautiful songs with the pastoral images of farmers picking flowers contribute to one of the greatest scenes created in cinema.

Producer Suzuki showing the record that inspired the creation of ”Only Yesterday”. Source: Studio Ghibli’s Twitter

In “Only Yesterday”, we can hear two songs from the album Bulgarian Polyphony I by Philip Koutev Ensemble. The upbeat “Dilmano Dilbero” [Eng. beautiful Dilmana] sets a happy mood as the protagonist gets changed and ready to go on the field. As the scene shifts and Taeko starts narrating a sad story about the girls in the past picking safflower with their bare hands, the song and mood shift as well.

While the first song has a fast rhythm, with lyrics about pepper planting that can also be interpreted figuratively, the second one, “Malka Moma Dvori Mete” [Eng., a little girl sweeps the yard], is a ballad about a young girl who is forced into marriage but has never known true love.

Both compositions sing about life-cycle events like marriage and the regular coming of the harvests, with lyrics perfectly fitting the setting and plot of the movie, which makes me wonder if the filmmakers chose them by chance or if they had someone translate the words.

Bulgarian Cosmic Voices Enchanting Howl

“Howl’s Moving Castle” is a 2004 Japanese animated fantasy film written and directed by Hayao Miyazaki, loosely based on the 1986 novel of the same name by British author Diana Wynne Jones. Set in a fictional kingdom the movie draws inspiration from various places in Europe. One of them being Bulgaria.

The story focuses on a young girl, named Sophie, magically transformed into an old woman, and a self-confident but emotionally unstable young wizard, Howl, living in a magical moving castle.

A sketch of a Star Child. Source: The Art of Howl’s Moving Castle

If you’ve seen the movie, you surely remember the scene when Madame Suliman ambushes Howl and tries to strip him of his magic powers. Star Children encircle him and his companions; their shadows grow big, dark and intimidating. They start dancing and chanting unintelligible magic words and are almost successful in their devilish act.

This scene, together with the music played in the background, have been a favourite of many fans of the film. Some even recount it giving them nightmares when they were children.

Star Children encircle Howl in an attempt to strip him of his magic powers. © Studio Ghibli

It turns out, however, that these aren’t any incantations, but the lyrics of a folk song. In Bulgarian. And a love song! Contrary to popular belief, the lyrics have nothing to do with magic and are actually about a boy taking his sweetheart, Dona, to the market to buy her new clothes. The excerpt used in the movie is very short and a bit altered from the original, but the words used go like this: Trendafilcheto, kalafercheto, Done mamino, translated as “the rose, the costmary, my darling Dona”.

I am planing a follow up article where I will post the translated lyrics together with a brief explanation on how they are related to the movies.

If you want to comment on or add something, I would love to hear!

Source

#studio ghibli #only yesterday #howls moving castle #Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares #bulgarian folklore #bulgaria #toshio suzuki #hayao miyazaki #isao takahata #bulgarian music in ghibli films #the boy and the heron #スタジオジブリ #ブルガリア #おも��でぽろぽろ #ハウルの動く城 #宮崎駿 #高畑勲 #鈴木敏夫 #bulgarian music

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coffeeshades · 5 months ago

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credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART II

summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 9.1k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). explicit sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! here's the second part, finally. i had lots of fun writing this one, happy reading <3

part one

After staying at Cillian's for awhile, you decided to go to the place you had rented. The truth is, you didn't want to leave, but you had already extended your stay longer than planned, and you wanted to give him space with his kids. And you also wanted to give him time to process the event that took place four nights ago in his bathroom. Or you wanted to give yourself time to process it.

At this point, you weren't sure who needed the space more.

It was all very confusing because, yes, you've had feelings for him for God knows how long, but you've squashed them down like a stubborn bug for the sake of your friendship and, most importantly, his family. Those two things were always at the forefront of your mind, guiding every action and decision. But now that his family is no longer a factor and the two of you almost crossed a line, it's hard to ignore those feelings.

Those feelings that crawl up your spine every time he smiles at you or brushes against your hand accidentally. Those feelings also make you feel like the worst person in the world, as if you're betraying his ex-wife and their children by even entertaining the idea of something more with him.

It's all so delicate.

The cottage is nestled between rolling green hills and the glimmering blue of a distant sea. The place is like a warm embrace. The floors are laid with wide, honey-colored wooden planks, their surface worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Exposed wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, their rich, dark wood adding a sense of history and sturdiness to the space. The walls are painted in a soft, creamy white. The master bedroom is a haven of tranquility, with white linen curtains billowing softly in the breeze from the open window. The bed, with its wrought iron frame, is piled high with quilts and pillows in soft shades of blue and green. It's the best sleep you've had in months.

It rained earlier today. You've stayed inside all day, not wanting to venture out into the wet weather. The gentle pitter-patter of raindrops against the window was a soothing backdrop to your day, but it stopped around mid-afternoon, leaving behind a fresh, clean scent in the air.

Now you’re sitting at the rustic wooden table beneath the pergola, one leg tucked under you, grapevines overhead casting dappled shadows on the weathered wood. The garden around you is alive with color—wildflowers in every shade imaginable sway gently in the soft breeze, and the lavender and rosemary release their fragrant scent into the air.

Bon Iver’s voice drifts softly from your phone, which lies next to your notepad on the table. The music is haunting, its melancholy tones matching the weight in your chest. You’ve been here for hours, or maybe it’s only been minutes—time seems to blur together lately.

The notepad lies open beside you, filled with half-written lyrics, fragments of thoughts and emotions that you can’t quite bring yourself to finish. The pages are messy, scribbled lines crossed out, some words barely legible, as if your hand couldn’t keep up with the rush of thoughts.

You’ve been chasing this dream for so long—touring, recording, performing in front of thousands of people—but somewhere along the way, you’ve lost sight of why you started. The music that once brought you so much joy now feels like a burden; the words that once flowed effortlessly are now tangled up in doubt and frustration. The applause, the fame, the success—it’s all there, but it feels hollow. It feels lonely.

The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water, but you’re too tired to move. You prop one leg up the chair and rest your chin on your hand. You focus on the water, trying to find some solace in its steady flow. But all you can feel is a deep, gnawing sense of unfulfillment, a yearning for something you can’t even name.

How pathetic.

You’re tired, so tired, and the dream that once seemed so bright now feels like a chore.

The door creaks open behind you, and you catch the faint sound of footsteps on the stone path. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. Cillian moves with a certain quietness, a soft presence that you’ve come to recognize. The footsteps grow closer until they stop just to your left.

"You should lock your door," he says, his voice low, carrying a hint of amusement but also concern.

You let out a small, tired laugh, not bothering to look up. "Didn’t think anyone would come by," you reply, your gaze still fixed on the stream; its gentle flow is the only thing that seems to make sense right now.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there, his shadow blending with yours. Then he pulls out the chair next to you, the wood scraping softly against the stone, and sits down. You can feel his eyes on you, but he doesn’t press, just lets the silence settle around you both.

You hear him shift beside you, and from the corner of your eye, you see him glance down at the notepad on the table. His gaze lingers on the unfinished words, but he doesn’t say anything about them. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, looking out at the water with you.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice softer, almost reflective. "I know that look. The one that says you’re miles away, stuck in your own head."

You don't respond, knowing that he understands you more than most people. The music on your phone shifts to another Bon Iver song, this time Beach Baby.

He continues. "You know, sometimes I think about all of it—this life, the fame, the roles I play. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? I spend so much time being someone else, living in someone else’s skin, that it’s easy to forget who I am when the cameras stop rolling."

His words hang in the air, and you turn your head slightly to look at him. His expression is thoughtful, his blue eyes distant, like he’s lost in his own memories. "It’s like… sometimes, I feel more like myself when I’m acting, when I’m being someone else. That's what made me fall in love with it in the first place. I just loved being somebody else. It’s easier, somehow. But then there are those moments, when the lights go out, and I’m just… me. And that’s when the loneliness creeps in."

You nod, understanding more than you’d like to admit. "It’s the same with music, I guess," you say quietly. "There’s this rush, this high, when you’re on stage, when everyone’s looking at you and you’re giving them everything you’ve got. But then it’s over, and you’re left with the silence, the emptiness. It’s like… who am I when it stops?"

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you can see the shared understanding in his eyes. It’s a strange comfort knowing that someone else gets it, that you’re not alone in this feeling of being lost.

You take a deep breath, the weight of the words you’ve been holding back suddenly becomes too heavy to keep inside. "I guess that's why I'm here. To escape. To escape the pressure, the expectations and…just be," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Everything is a performance. Everything. When we're out in the world, we're expected to act a certain way, to fit into a mold. We have to edit ourselves. As honest as we try to be, there's always a part of us that remains hidden. And it's exhausting."

Cillian nods, his gaze never leaving yours. "And when you’re alone, you can let go of that and let your mind just be still," he says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s thought about this a lot. "It’s quite peaceful, isn’t it? But it’s also… terrifying. Being alone with your thoughts, with no distractions, no one to perform for. It’s like staring into a void sometimes."

You swallow hard, the truth of his words hitting you square in the chest. "Yeah, it is. But it’s also when I feel the most myself. When it’s just me, and I don’t have to be anything for anyone. Just… here, in the quiet, letting my mind rest."

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The garden around you is alive with the soft sounds of nature—the rustling of leaves, the gentle murmur of the stream, the distant call of a bird. Bon Iver’s music still plays from your phone—Holocene.

You break the silence. "Sometimes I think about it. I think about letting go of it." It's a terrifying thought but also strangely liberating. You don't know what it means completely yet, but just saying it out loud brings relief. Cillian just looks at you, his eyes reflecting understanding and empathy.

It was so easy, existing with him.

In this moment, you feel a little less lost, a little more understood. And as the sun dips lower in the sky, a mix of orange and pink hues, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you thought.

The next day dawns softer, brighter. You wake up with a sense of calm that had been missing for a while. There’s a lingering warmth from yesterday, the conversation with Cillian still playing in the back of your mind. As you sat at the same wooden table this morning, you found yourself scribbling lyrics that flowed easier, more naturally. They’re different—slower, more deliberate. There’s a depth to them that feels right, as if you’re finally tapping into something real, something honest.

Last night had ended quietly. After that heavy talk in the garden, Cillian stayed for dinner. The two of you kept the conversation light, avoiding the unspoken tension. It was there, hovering between you, but neither of you brought it up. Instead, you talked about mundane things and watched Punch-Drunk Love in the quaint living room. He pointed out every little detail he liked in it, and you listened, soaking in the emotion in his voice.

When the movie ended, he promised to see you the next day, and you reassured him it was fine, that you understood his absence. You meant it, even though a part of you always ached for more of his presence.

Today, with that newfound energy, you decided to venture out. An early morning walk turned into a drive to the nearby town. You pulled on a cap and sunglasses—a funny and somewhat ineffective disguise, but it was something. The town was charming, with narrow cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and a relaxed pace. Most people didn’t give you a second glance, and for that you were grateful. It was nice to blend in, to be just another person out enjoying the day.

You wandered through the market, admired the local crafts, and even picked up a few things—a handmade bracelet, a small painting of the Irish countryside. Lunch was at a cozy little café, tucked away from the main street. You ordered a hearty bowl of seafood chowder, rich and warming, with fresh bread on the side. As you sat there savoring the meal, your phone buzzed. It was Cillian, asking if you wanted to grab drinks tonight. You hesitated, your mind running through a dozen reasons to say no, but in the end, you agreed. You wanted to see him again, even if you couldn’t quite admit how much.

Back at the cottage, you took your time getting ready. You set the atmosphere, lighting a few candles, playing some soft music in the background. It felt good to take care of yourself and put a little effort into how you looked. You chose a pair of jeans that fit just right, a black top, and your favorite leather jacket. Casual but confident. A swipe of red lipstick added a touch of boldness.

You didn’t know where the night would take you, but you felt ready.

Cillian arrived right on time, his car rolling up the gravel drive just as you slipped on your jacket. When you stepped outside, he was already out of the car, leaning casually against the door. He smiled when he saw you—a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

“Ready?” he asked, his eyes flicking over your outfit with an appreciative glance.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, a hint of nerves bubbling up but quickly pushed aside.

The drive to the pub was easy, the conversation flowing effortlessly. You talked about your day, the town, the little things you’d picked up. He told you about his new movie coming out later this year, based on a novella set in the mid-1980s in a small Irish village. There was a comfort in the exchange, in the way your words mingled with the sound of the tires on the road.

When he pulled up outside the pub, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight. It was a small, unassuming place, the kind of spot that felt like a well-kept secret. The sign above the door was weathered, the windows glowing warmly from the inside. It looked cozy, inviting.

“Do I need to bring out my disguise?” you asked, amused, as you glanced at him.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, you’re safe here. No one’s going to bother us. I’ve been coming here for years. They don't give a shit about me.”

He was right. The pub was perfect—dimly lit, with a mix of old and new music playing in the background. The crowd was relaxed, more interested in their conversations than in who might be sitting at the next table. You found two empty stools at the bar and settled in.

Close to the drinks. Perfect.

You ordered beers—the kind that tasted awful but somehow fit the atmosphere. Cillian took a sip of his beer, and the reaction was immediate. He groaned, his head falling back as if in defeat, eyes closed as he savored—or perhaps endured—the taste. The dim light from the pub’s old-fashioned fixtures cast a warm glow on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline and the shadow of stubble that had begun to form. His lips, still wet from the beer, parted in a wry smile that spoke volumes of his disdain for the drink. His brow furrowed slightly as he kept his eyes closed, letting out a deep, exaggerated sigh as if the beer was the worst thing he’d ever tasted.

It was a dramatic performance, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how absurdly handsome he looked even in that moment. There was something endearing about it—the way he could make something so ordinary seem so intense. His dark hair, slightly tousled, fell over his forehead, and you found yourself staring longer than you meant to.

“Bloody hell, that’s awful,” he muttered, finally opening his eyes and giving you a side glance. His blue eyes sparkled with trouble, the corners crinkling as he caught the expression on your face. “You should’ve seen yourself, though. Looked like you were trying to swallow glass.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, please. You looked like you were about to keel over from one sip,” you shot back, sarcasm lacing your voice.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and the amusement in his eyes deepened. “Can’t argue with that,” he admitted, taking another sip with a grimace. “Piss beer, this is. I’d almost prefer water.”

“Almost,” you teased, lifting your glass to take another drink. The foam clung to the rim as you sipped, and you made a point to keep your expression neutral, though you could feel the bitterness spreading across your tongue.

Cillian leaned in a bit closer, his Irish accent growing thicker with each drink. “But then, what would we have to complain about, eh? I think the shite beer is half the charm of this place.” His voice was smoother, more relaxed, and you noticed the way his words seemed to roll off his tongue, rich with the lilting cadence of his heritage. It was endearing, undeniably so, and you found it increasingly hard to focus on anything else.

“Is that what they call charm here? I must’ve missed the memo,” you quipped, smirking as you met his gaze. The clever back-and-forth felt natural, easy, and it warmed you more than the alcohol ever could.

“You’re lucky I’m here to explain it to ya,” he said, leaning in just a bit more, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Otherwise, you might’ve gone your whole life without knowing the joys of terrible Irish beer.”

“Oh, I’m so grateful,” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words, but your smile gave you away. “I’ll add it to the list of things you’ve taught me.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying the banter, and you noticed how close he had gotten. His arm was now resting casually on the back of your seat, and every so often, your knees would brush, those accidental touches sending a small, electric thrill through you. The pub’s atmosphere, once filled with distant conversations and the clinking of glasses, now seemed to narrow down to just the two of you. The world outside the booth blurred away, and all that was left was Cillian’s presence, the sound of his voice, and the faint, intoxicating scent of him that mixed with the pub’s woody, earthy aroma.

The more you drank, the closer you both seemed to get, each sip loosening the barriers that had been in place. His laughter grew louder, more infectious, and his accent, more pronounced with every word, sent a shiver down your spine. It was more than just the alcohol—there was an ease between you that you hadn’t felt before, a sense of connection that went beyond the usual playful exchanges.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he leaned in even closer. “I think I’m starting to like this beer.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a smirk, feeling a little more brave. “Is that so? Or is it just the company?”

He chuckled, his breath warm against your ear as he replied, “Maybe a bit of both.”

A familiar flutter stirred in your chest—the undeniable pull that you’d been trying to ignore for days. But tonight, in this pub, with its terrible beer and terrible lighting, you decided you didn’t want to fight it anymore. Not here, not with him.

You moved on to something stronger, whiskey that burned going down but left a warmth spreading through your chest that felt as intoxicating as the alcohol itself. With each sip, the edges of your nerves smoothed out, and you felt looser, braver, and a little sexier. You sat on the bar stool with your body angled slightly toward Cillian. The leather of your jacket creaked as you shifted, the red of your lipstick standing out against the dim light. You felt his gaze on you, not just looking, but really seeing you, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck down to where your top dipped, lingering just a moment longer than usual.

His look was hungry, but it wasn’t just that—it was curious, intrigued. He rested his elbow on the bar, leaning closer, his knee brushing against yours as he picked up his glass, watching you over the rim as he took a sip. The whiskey seemed to bring out the blue in his eyes, making them sharp and piercing, but there was softness there too, an openness that had grown.

“You know,” you began, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “I was just thinking about the first time we met.”

His eyebrow arched in curiosity, and he leaned in a little closer, his interest piqued. “Oh yeah? That was… what, 7 years ago? At the Globes, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink, the liquid courage giving you the confidence to broach the subject. “Yeah, that’s right. And you… well, let’s just say you weren’t exactly my biggest fan.”

Cillian looked taken aback, a surprised smile curving his lips. “What? I don’t remember it like that.”

“Oh, come on, Cill,” you said, playfully nudging his shoulder. “You kind of hated me."

He laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t hate you. I just… I guess I had some preconceived notions about you."

“Preconceived notions?” you asked, a teasing glint in your eyes.

He hesitated, looking almost sheepish as he ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I thought you were this… I don’t know, shallow, self-absorbed person. Just someone who was there for the attention, you know?”

You let out a mock gasp, placing a hand over your heart in faux offense. “I’m wounded! I can’t believe you thought that about me, really.”

He chuckled, but there was a hint of regret in his voice as he added, “But I was wrong. I figured that out pretty quickly.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, leaning in a little closer, your voice dropping to a flirtatious whisper. “When exactly did you figure that out?”

“The first time we really talked,” he said, his voice equally soft, the words carrying a weight they hadn’t before. “After I saw you in the hall, crying. I don't know. You were so real, and I realized you weren’t what I thought. Not even close.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Wow, so I had to have a full-on breakdown just to convince you I wasn’t a shallow, self-absorbed diva? Good to know, Cill. I’ll make sure to cry more often around you.”

He laughed, bringing his fingertips to his lips, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Not quite what I meant, but I guess it did the trick, didn’t it?”

You remembered that night vividly, how everything had seemed to spiral downward so quickly. “I was having the worst night,” you said laughing, a slight bitterness creeping into your tone as the memories resurfaced. “I’d just been dumped by the world’s biggest asshole that morning, and then there you were, tearing down everything I said with some esoteric joke.”

Cillian winced slightly, the regret more pronounced now. “Yeah… I wasn’t exactly charming, was I?”

“You were a bit of a jerk,” you admitted, but there was no malice in your words. “But you made up for it with that burger offer.”

A grin spread across his face as he remembered. “I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“Well, I figured a burger with you was better than sulking alone,” you replied, smiling at the memory. “And it was. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was exactly what I needed.”

His expression softened. “I’m glad I asked, then.”

The bartender interrupted your conversation to ask if you wanted another round, and without a second thought, you both nodded in agreement. It seemed neither of you were ready to call it a night. The place was warmer now. As you waited for your drinks, your eyes drifted to the ceiling. Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" played softly in the background, the gentle melody weaving through the low murmur of conversation.

You glanced over your shoulder and noticed that a few couples had begun to dance, swaying gently to the music. There was something so natural, so easy about it, that you couldn’t resist the urge that bubbled up inside you. Turning back to Cillian, who was taking a sip of his drink, you couldn’t help but smile. “Come on,” you said, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Dance with me.”

Cillian raised an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of amusement and skepticism. He muttered something in reply but you couldn’t quite make it out. It only made you more determined.

“I didn’t catch that,” you teased, leaning in closer as if trying to decipher his words. “But I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, do you, piano woman?” he shot back, his tone light but with a challenging edge.

“Yes,” you said, grinning. “You’re going to say that you don’t dance.”

Cillian chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “You’re right about that. I don’t.”

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a low, persuasive tone. “I know, but you’ll indulge me anyway.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours as if weighing his options. Then, with a small, resigned sigh, he downed the rest of his drink in one go and set the glass back on the bar with a decisive thud. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand and stood up, pulling you along with him.

It caught you by surprise, the suddenness of it, especially considering he had just insisted he wasn’t the dancing type. As he led you toward the makeshift dance floor, he leaned in and said with a grin, “You’re lucky I like you.”

You laughed, a loud, genuine sound that felt as freeing as the night itself. “Oh, am I now?”

He smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, because otherwise, there’s no way I’d be making a fool of myself like this.”

You shot back with a playful, “Well, let’s see just how much of a fool you really are, then.”

As you reached the space where others were already swaying to the music, Cillian took your hand and pulled you in close. You could feel the warmth of his body, the solidity of his frame as he moved with you, the two of you finding a rhythm that was surprisingly in sync. It wasn’t anything fancy—just simple, slow movements to match the easy tempo of the song—but it felt intimate, like you were the only two people in the room.

Cillian leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Did you know I'm a failed musician?”

You couldn’t help but smirk, the alcohol loosening your tongue.

“Failed, huh? So, what happened? Couldn’t hack it with the rest of us rockstars?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. "Something like that. I was in a band, actually."

You leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “You? In a band? Color me shocked.”

It was kind of hot, imagining him on stage with a guitar in hand.

"We even had a record deal and everything."

"What happened?"

Cillian’s expression softened as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of nostalgia. “My brother was still in school at the time, and my parents basically told me I could fuck up my life if I wanted, but I couldn’t take him down with me. So, it fell through.”

As you continued to sway together, the story of his past unraveled between you, each word carrying a hint of regret mixed with fond memories. “Those were great times, though,” he continued, his eyes distant as if he were seeing it all again. “I’d be out late, drinking, playing music in small pubs, thinking we were going to make it big. It was a bit of a rush, you know?”

You could imagine him there, young and reckless, with that same intensity in his eyes that he carried now, but wilder, untamed by the years. “So music was your first love, then?” you asked, your voice soft, genuinely curious.

He nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, I suppose it was. I had been playing instruments since I was little. There’s something about it that just… gets into your blood. But then, acting came along."

“When exactly did you know that's what you wanted?” you asked, wanting to peel back more layers of him.

His smile turned almost bashful, as if recalling a secret he hadn’t shared in a while. “There was this guy who ran the Cork theater company—had a huge man crush on him. He was brilliant, and I ended up doing a workshop with him. After that, I just pestered him for an audition until he gave in.”

You chuckled softly at the thought of a young Cillian, determined and probably a bit of a nuisance, chasing after something he wanted so badly. “And that was it?”

“Well, there was a drama module in school when I was about 16, 17—during the transition year. That’s when I first got the bug. Ended up starring in A Clockwork Orange. It was sexy, dangerous, unlike anything I’d ever seen. I loved playing someone else, losing myself in the character.”

He paused, then flashed a self-deprecating grin. “There’s not much to look at, but if you give me a minute…"

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his modesty. “You’re selling yourself short,” you teased, leaning in closer, your bodies moving in sync to the music. "Cill, you literally have an Oscar."

“Ah, the Oscar... just a glorified doorstop, really,” he quipped, his tone light but with that familiar undercurrent of humility.

"It's the work that matters, blah blah blah," you joked, rolling your eyes playfully. His eyes were crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "Exactly," he agreed, before pulling you into a twirl.

"Do you miss it? you ask, hands circling his neck as you sway. "Music, I mean."

Cillian blew out a slow breath, his eyes growing thoughtful as he considered your question. “Sometimes,” he admitted. "But life has a way of taking you where you need to be, not where you want to be.”

His words settled over you like a blanket, warm and heavy, as you mulled them over. Is this where I need to be? The question echoed in your mind, reverberating through the deeper corners of your thoughts. You weren’t sure you had an answer. You were a successful artist, living the dream so many could only imagine, but there was always that lingering sense of something missing, a quiet ache that you couldn’t quite place.

Where do I need to be?

The thought spiraled, unfurling like an endless thread, pulling at the edges of your consciousness. You started questioning everything—your choices, your path, the very essence of who you were. Those words seemed to tap into something deep inside, a reservoir of doubts and desires that you hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, almost like you were talking to yourself more than to him.

You rested your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, swaying slowly. See, this is the thing about Cillian, he had a way of making you feel seen and understood, even when you didn't fully understand yourself, even without saying a single word.

The warmth of Cillian's arm around you, the subtle way he moved—it all felt so natural, like this was where you were supposed to be. But then, the memory of four nights ago crept in—the way his breath had hitched as you said you weren't going to stop him from going further, the tension that crackled between you both like a live wire.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Heat flushed through your body, a dizzying sensation that made it hard to focus on anything other than the way he was looking at you. A knot formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing pulse.

The memory was like a current running through you, making you hyper-aware of every point of contact with him. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Your mind was swirling with thoughts, the alcohol making you bolder, more aware of the things left unsaid.

"I can't stop thinking about what almost happened the other day."

“What almost happened?”

He let out a low, almost inaudible chuckle, his lips dangerously nuzzled in your hair. “Don’t play coy with me, love. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach, the way your body reacted to his nearness. “I’ve tried to stop thinking about it,” he continued, his voice a hushed murmur that only you could hear, “but I can’t.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken desire. You wanted to let go of the restraint you’d been holding onto all night, but you were still aware of where you were, of the people around you—even if they weren’t paying you any attention. The thought of crossing that line, right here in the middle of the pub, was both thrilling and terrifying.

But Cillian, sensing your hesitation, didn’t push.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression serious but laced with that familiar smirk. “Wanna head out of here?” he asked, his voice low but with a note of urgency.

You didn’t need to think twice. “Yes,” you breathed, the word escaping your lips before you could stop it.

The night air hit you like a shock to the system as you stepped outside, the cool breeze carrying with it the faint scent of rain. The streets were quieter now, the lively noise of the pub fading into the background. You were drunk, the world tilting slightly with each step, and neither of you could drive.

Cillian pulled out his phone, his fingers deftly dialing the number for a cab. You watched him as he made the call, the way his jaw tensed slightly as he spoke, his voice low and calm despite the alcohol humming through his veins. There was something undeniably attractive about the way he carried himself, even in this moment of mundane practicality.

“What about your car?” you asked, your words slightly slurred but still coherent.

He glanced over at you, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll pick it up in the morning,” he replied smoothly, his accent curling around the words in that familiar, endearing way. “Don’t worry, love.”

The cab arrived not long after, the headlights cutting through the night as it pulled up to the curb. Cillian opened the door for you, and the two of you slid into the backseat, sitting close together but not touching. Not yet. The space between you crackled with unspoken tension, the thrill of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

You found yourself playing with your ring-clad fingers, the cool metal a small distraction as the silence stretched out between you. The driver turned up the music a bit, and the opening chords of Inhaler’s "Dublin in Ecstasy" filled the car. The song was somehow fitting, its pulsing beat and haunting lyrics adding to the electric atmosphere.

It started to rain, the droplets tapping against the windows and turning them foggy, adding a sense of intimacy to the small, enclosed space. The outside world became a blur of lights and shadows, the city fading away as the cab sped through the streets. You could feel Cillian’s gaze on you, the weight of it almost tangible as you sat there, both of you lost in your own thoughts.

You turned to look at him, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The music became more intoxicating, the beat syncing with the rapid thudding of your heart. He noticed you bopping your head slightly to the rhythm, and a small, surprised smile crossed his face.

“You know this?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

You smirked, leaning back against the seat as you replied with playful confidence, “I know every song ever made, actually.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Is that so? A human jukebox, then?”

“Something like that,” you teased, the conversation light but charged with something more, something neither of you could ignore any longer.

The cab’s interior felt smaller, more suffocating as you neared your destination. When you finally arrived at his place, Cillian paid the driver, and the two of you got out, raising your jackets over your heads to shield from the rain, which had grown heavier. You both ran to the entrance, your footsteps echoing in the quiet night as you giggled like teenagers, the spontaneity of it all making you feel light, carefree.

He fumbled with his keys for a moment, the sound of metal clinking against metal filling the air before he managed to unlock the door. You stepped inside, the warmth of the house a stark contrast to the chill of the rain outside. The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the faint glow of the night sky through the large windows. The shadows played across the walls, casting everything in a soft, almost ethereal light.

You tossed off your jacket, letting it fall to the floor, your clothes clinging to your skin from the rain. You could feel the fabric sticking to your body, the dampness making you shiver slightly, but the heat in the room—and the heat between the two of you—kept you from feeling cold. Cillian wandered off somewhere for a moment, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited, the anticipation almost unbearable.

When he returned, his eyes locked onto yours, a predatory glint in his gaze that made your breath hitch. He took a step closer, the distance between you shrinking to almost nothing as he asked, his voice low and laced with a hint of something dangerous, “What should we do now?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with suggestion, and you felt a rush of heat flood through you, your pulse quickening. You moved toward him, your steps slow and deliberate, closing the gap until you were inches away. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly despite the bravado in your words.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing against your cheek before trailing down to remove a stray piece of hair stuck to your face. His touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent sparks of electricity through your skin, making you feel like you were on fire. His hand continued its path down your arm, and you followed it with your eyes, watching as his fingers traced the outline of your veins, the simple action making your breath catch in your throat.

He moved his hand up to your shoulder, his fingers ghosting over the strap of your top before slowly sliding it down, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your skin burned under his touch, a mix of desire and something else—something that felt like shame, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It felt too good, too right.

His hand slid up to your neck, his grip firm but not painful as he held you there, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. You clung to his black t-shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric as you tried to steady yourself, but the room seemed to spin around you, the intensity of the moment making you dizzy.

Cillian’s eyes bore into yours, his expression dark and filled with an unspoken promise as he whispered, his voice rough and filled with desire, “Tell me what you want.”

You wanted him—every part of him. You wanted to forget everything else, to lose yourself in this moment, to give in to the desire that had been simmering between you for days. And as his grip tightened slightly on your neck, pulling you closer until your lips were just a breath away from his, you knew there was no turning back.

"Kiss me," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

So he did. He kissed you, long and slow. His lips were soft yet urgent, and you melted into his touch. Your hands found their way to his damp hair, tangling in the strands as you deepened the kiss, savoring every moment. His breath mingled with yours, warm and laced with the faint taste of whiskey, his hands still cradling your face as if you were something fragile, something to be cherished.

But then the kiss deepened, the restraint unraveling as the need between you grew too powerful to contain. His hands slid from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss became more urgent, more demanding, as if he was trying to consume you, to lose himself in you. You responded in kind, your own hands gripping his t-shirt, pulling him closer, wanting more—needing more. The heat between you intensified, the tenderness giving way to something hotter, something that felt like it had been a long time coming.

The rain continued to patter softly against the windows, a distant sound that seemed to fade into the background as your focus narrowed to just him—to the way his hands gripped your waist, to the way his breath hitched when you bit down softly on his lower lip.

You started moving backward, the need to feel him against you overwhelming any thought of where this might be going. Your feet stumbled slightly as you both moved toward the couch, the dim light from the windows casting your entwined shadows across the floor. He guided you, his hands firm and sure, but there was a tenderness in the way he led you, as if he was still holding back, still trying to keep a grasp on the control that was slipping away.

You reached the edge of the couch, and he paused for a moment, his gaze intense as he looked at you, his chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath. “You're in control here,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of the question, with the possibility of what was about to happen. "We stop whenever you want to, okay?"

Ever so polite, you thought. You answered him by pulling him down with you, your lips finding his again with a renewed urgency. The cushions gave way beneath you, the soft fabric enveloping you both as you sank into it. His body pressed against yours, the weight of him grounding you.

As the kiss deepened, became more frantic, more desperate, you could feel the tension in him—the barely restrained control he was struggling to maintain. His hands roamed over your body, landing on your jeans and slowly playing with the button, a silent request for permission.

"Don't stop now," you teased, your voice barely audible against his lips. He responded by deepening the kiss even further, his hands moving with purpose as he unbuttoned your jeans. He stopped for a moment, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, his hands taking off your shoes before sliding your jeans down your legs. He positioned himself between your legs once again, kissing you rough this time.

The couch was vast and soft underneath you as one of his hands traveled up your thigh—still not as high as you wanted it. You let out a needy moan, encouraging him. When his fingers brushed against the edge of your already wet panties, you couldn't help but arch your back in anticipation. He pushed them aside, his eyes never leaving yours. When his fingertips made contact with the wetness of your folds, he groaned too, in a way you found very satisfying.

"I've thought about this…a lot," he murmured, slipping a finger inside you, making you gasp with pleasure. "What you might sound like. What you might taste like. What you might feel like."

He pulled away from you swiftly, and you moaned at the loss. He kneeled down in front of you, his gaze intense as he leaned in to kiss your inner thigh, sending shivers down your spine. He pulled down your panties. You went stiff, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. He opened your thighs a little more, as if he wanted to see more. "I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "Let me taste you."

"Yes," you breathed out.

You couldn't stop looking at him as he pleasured you, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. Each flick of his tongue and gentle bite made you arch your back in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment. His hands tightened around your thighs, pulling you closer to his face. He groaned in pleasure, and you opened your thighs wider. His tongue was thorough and deliberate, exploring every inch of you with precision. Your hands grabbed the couch cushions, trying to ground yourself as you felt yourself spiraling into pure bliss. And just when you started to roll your hips, he slid two fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made you gasp and moan uncontrollably.

It was too much. Pleasure consumed you as you arched your back violently against his touch and you moaned his name over and over again, letting go. You were drunk on him— his touch, his mouth, his scent—lost in the euphoria of the moment.

"Fuckin' incredible."

Well, yes, fucking incredible indeed. But not as incredible as it would feel to have him inside you completely, filling every inch of you. To reduce him to the whimpering mess he had just turned you into.

Before Cillian could do anything, you sat up and pushed him flat to the floor. You were both drunk and too eager to make it to the bedroom, so you might as well just do it right there on the living room rug.

He grunted in surprise, but his hands quickly found their way to your hips as you straddled him, pulling you closer. You removed your top, your breasts spilling out as you leaned down to capture his lips in a hungry kiss. His fingers gently tangle in your hair as you pull away from his mouth, pulling his black t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside.

He stopped breathing as you worked your way down his chest, leaving a trail of kisses and nibbles until you reached the waistband of his jeans. Your hands made quick work of the button and zipper, and you eagerly slid them down his legs, revealing his growing arousal.

When your fingers wrapped around it—fuck—his skin felt hot and smooth against your touch, his breath hitching. You positioned yourself to take him in your mouth, savoring the taste of his desire as you licked a slow, teasing path along his cock. Cillian let out a ragged moan, his hands tangling in your hair.

You lifted your eyes. He had propped himself up on his elbows, watching you with his lips parted, pupils blown.

You had him.

You took him deeper, relishing the way he arched into your mouth, his groans spurring you on. With each flick of your tongue, you could feel him losing control, surrendering to the pleasure you were giving him. "Fuck, stop," he gasped, his voice strained with need. "I need to be inside you."

“Condom?” you asked, the question hanging in the thick air between you.

“Upstairs,” he said, his voice rough, almost pleading.

You hesitated for just a second. “I don’t mind… if you don’t.”

For a moment, he froze, his blue eyes darkening as they searched yours, as if to make sure he’d heard you right. Then, with a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, he nodded.

You released him with a smirk and sat up, swung over him. You positioned yourself so that his hands were on your hips, guiding you down onto him. The anticipation was electric, every nerve in your body alive with the need to be closer to him, to feel him, completely and without anything between you.

As you sank onto him, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy, a low moan escaping from both of you. The feeling of being filled by him sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire between you that burned hotter with each thrust. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you matched his rhythm, lost in the intensity of the moment.

This was going to end you.

His movements became more urgent, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name. The room was filled with the sound of your mingled gasps and moans, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to echo off the walls. He felt so good, so right. His thrusts became more deep and harsh—you wanted even more. As if he read your mind, he sat up against the couch and kissed you deeply, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"Bloody hell," he murmured against your lips, both his hands grabbed your face as he looked deeply into your eyes, and you circled your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and circling your hips in rhythm with his. Your breasts pressed against his chest, the heat between you both rising as your bodies moved in perfect synchronization. He was close—you were close. His hands roamed your back, your ass, and your breasts, and you threw your head back when his mouth found its way to your nipples.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, "Yes, oh—" you screamed as white-hot pleasure shot through your body, causing you both to reach the peak of ecstasy together. You felt his cock swell, filling you completely as he released with a guttural groan.

The intensity of the moment left you both breathless, bodies entwined in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. He had leaned back to the floor, and you had gone with him. He was rubbing your back, and your face was pressed to his chest.

"You okay, love?" he asked softly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin. You hummed, feeling content and safe in his arms, basking in the afterglow of your shared pleasure.

You stayed like that for a moment, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you, the quiet rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. His fingers kept tracing those gentle patterns on your back, grounding you, reminding you that you were still here, still connected. The afterglow wrapped around you both, a warmth that made you feel safe, cherished. You could still feel him inside you.

“How bad would it be if we just stayed here?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the moment. There was a part of you that didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, and you could feel the rumble against your cheek. “Well, love,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “I’m not sure how comfortable the floor will be in about twenty minutes, but I’d say it’s worth a try if you are.”

You laughed, the sound light and free. “Fair point,” you conceded, shifting slightly to look up at him. His eyes were warm, a little teasing, but there was an underlying tenderness that made your heart skip a beat.

“Come on,” he said gently, his hands sliding down your sides as he carefully helped you up. “Let’s get cleaned up. I promise the bed is much more inviting.”

He rose to his feet, extending a hand to help you up. You accepted, your legs feeling a little shaky as you stood, still a bit lightheaded from everything that had just happened. His hands lingered on your hips, steadying you, and you couldn’t help but smile at the care in his touch.

Together, you made your way upstairs, his arm draped around your shoulders as he guided you toward his bedroom. The space was warm, cozy, with a lived-in feel that made it undeniably his. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, as if he’d just gotten out of it before coming to find you.

He led you to the bathroom, where the soft glow of a single light illuminated the space. He turned on the shower, testing the water temperature before gesturing for you to step inside. You did, letting the hot water cascade over you, washing away the remnants of the night, though the memory of it clung to your skin. He joined you a moment later, his hands gentle as he helped you rinse off, his touch tender, almost reverent. You stood under the water together, letting the steam envelope you both.

When you were both clean, he handed you a towel, wrapping another around his waist. He left the bathroom for a moment and returned with a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, offering them to you.

“Here,” he said with a soft smile. “This will do.”

You took the clothes, slipping them on. The fabric was soft, worn in, and it smelled like him—woodsy, with a hint of something earthy and warm. You found yourself breathing it in, the scent comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.

When you were both dressed, he led you to the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping in beside you. He held the blanket up for you, and you slid in next to him, the cool sheets a welcome contrast to the warmth of his body. He immediately pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your waist as you nestled into his side, your head resting on his chest once more.

The room was dark, but the faint light from outside filtered in through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls. You could hear the rain still pattering against the window, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy between you. His hand found yours under the covers, fingers intertwining as he held you close, his breath warm against your forehead. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm, steady and reassuring, and it lulled you into a state of deep relaxation.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he heard you. You don't know for what exactly you were thanking him, but it felt like the right thing to say in that moment.

He responded with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your hair.

You didn’t need to say anything more. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. You both knew that tonight had changed something between you, something profound and unnameable, but for now, it was enough to just be here, together.

a/n: there you have it, i hope you guys liked it!! please like, reblog and comment. i wanna hear your thoughts! and as always, thank you for the support <3

#cillian murphy fic #cillian murphy imagine #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy smut #cillian x reader #cillian x y/n #cillian fic #cillian murphy fluff #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy x reader #my writing

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cocoadropp · 1 year ago

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You only met him only a couple minutes ago, in a halloween club filled with men that had wives and kids at home. It was ironic that you said this because you—a wife. Were outside shaking your ass while your husband stayed in his office late once again because of his new secretary was dumb and needed help, for the third week of already being there.

You knew he was a lie, coming home with lipstick stains and the smell of perfume that was too cheap to be yours, you would smile at him and kiss his cheek ignoring it all because you rather have peace than anything other. “i’m going out.” You say, the speaker on your phone on while your husband rustled with paper on the other side. “Yea? With who?.” you rubbed perfumed body oil between your boobs, fixing the strap of your bloody red short body-con dress and grabbing your devil ears.

“hm, with akita.” You fix your body wave weave that sat atop your ass, moving the curtains bangs and slapping gloss on your plump lips. “well have fun, love you.” he whispered and you almost said “you too.” But you hung up soon after with mo response at all.

Your friend picks you up and now your at the club, shaking your ass on some guy because his friends said “he doesn’t get any bitches.” But soon you found out that was far from it. So now tattooed scarred hands are gripping on your waist while everyone yelled and hollered, you were tipsy— a-lot more then just tipsy .

You got up giggling, your ysl heels clicking as your turnt around and winked at that man in a weirdly ghost looking mask. The mouth half way on and a tight black pro long sleeve and black cargo pants, the man sat with his legs spreading, combat boots tapping on the floor to the beat of the music you were just shaking your ass too.

And thats what got you here. In this big ass SUV blacked out truck, your legs wide open and heels off somewhere you wouldn’t even know. The man with the ghost masked that now told you to fall him “simon.”

“Hnn fuck!” you cry as your manicured nails scarped against his tatted veined arm that was holding both of your wrist together and pulled your arms down against your stomach, using them as leverage to fuck up into you harder, “yea? that feel good dont it?” He gruffs out

His voice now strained and quiet, making sure he can hear your pussy squelching, he looks down at it, chubby lips marking his dick that was red, sensitive and covered with two thick veins that scraped your walls every time he pushed—more like forced, his way through them again. And every time his dick pushed forward more of your juices will pile up and make a frothy substance.

“y-yes s-si- imma cum again.” you groaned, your head falling back against the fine leather, the leather that was moist with your seat but smelled of Marc Jacob and victoria secret. He laughs slightly, moving his mask slightly up so his plump pink lips were exposed and he moves down to kiss on your neck, loudly slurping on it. “Sloppy pussy making a mess on this dick.” His hot breath against your ear, white teeth scraping against them. “Gonna cum on this shit baby? I feel it baby, fuck- feel you squeezing.”

Simon moans and suddenly shoves his hands away from your wrist and grips on your jaw to shove his thumb against your tongue, he had you gurgling and slopping over it. Your hips grind up against his dick so in can dig deeper and rub against your sweet spot. Your eyes roll back as you cream and cum on his dick. He groaned and leaned up.

He licks on the thumb that was just in your mouth and smashes it against your abused puffy sensitive clit. “Imma cum in this pussy, this married pussy.” You see his crooked smile as he grabs your hand and rubs on your ring that sat there. “He dont fuck you like this huh baby? Gotta get dick from someone else.” He shoves his mask back on and his hips move sloppier. Both of his hands on your neck and his hips slam down against you. One hot spurt of cum goes in your hot cunt and he moans “f-fuck- shit, ugh!” His fingers squeeze tighter against your neck having you gasp for air,

All while still tightening and milking his dick dry.

“D-dirty fucking pussy.” One of his hand moves against your neck to your pussy to slap yo clit and rub fast circles against it, and now your already squirting on him while he still nuts in your pussy. “Shit yes.”

Ya’ll breath in, you were calming down until you saw a flash on you phone, he took a picture.

“Lets send this to your husband.”

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kaylopolis · 7 months ago

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Alastor's Shadow (18+) Chapter Five

Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months sooner than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. Afterall, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plans brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down, but also challenge your grab for power…

Tag List: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

____________________________________________

Author note: Dear Hoteliers, This was my first attempt at smut (I giggled posting this, I am so excited!). I am new, but any advice is welcome! I tried something different with formatting (you'll see when you get there). I didn't want anything to be spoiled while ya'll rode the emotional rollercoaster that is this chapter. Let me know if it was weird and didn't work (or if it did that would be great!). I also added a link to the music found in a later part of this chapter in case you wanted to listen while you read.

<3 Stay smutty

Chapter Five - Night's Mistress

Content Warning: Blood, Blood Play, Murder, Choking, Graphic Sexual Scenes Involving Violence, Smut, MINORS DNI! (let me know if I missed anything else!)

The pull behind your navel felt foreign.

It didn’t come with the taste of honey or the scent of daffodils like Rosie’s summons normally did. It didn’t come with a hint of sass or flood your mouth with spice like Carmilla’s. Crimson’s tasted of red pepper flakes and copper - a disgusting combination - but he was no longer an issue.

This pull, however, was new and terribly, terribly… boring.

Has one of your cards fallen to a rogue with sticky fingers? Has one of your holders died and a new holder taken their place?

Whomever it was, the pull made you pause atop your perch overlooking V Tower. With Vox’s new Angelic Security soon to be released, you didn’t know how close you could get to the media demon’s headquarters. So you sat a few buildings away, scanning the horizon for any newfound technology that might impede your nighttime endeavors.

There was another tug.

Jesus, impatient much?

You stood, stretching the stiffness from your legs. It was late, you’ve been out here for hours watching absolutely nothing happen. All the Vees like to do is sit, drink, and talk shit. Seriously what did they get out of their friendship? Was it friendship? Or were they all fucking? Ugh, you did not want that picture in your head.

Okay, time to go.

You jumped, allowing the smoke to envelop your form. Feeling the pull, you headed toward the inner part of the city. Circling Heaven’s Clocktower, you broke off back toward the Magne District - the district that held the Hotel. Except you weren’t headed for your new home. The pull brought you left, almost to the border town but not quite, to an old tower.

In a plume of smoke, you landed on a balcony, the black swirls twirling about the landing before pooling over the sides. You were probably twenty stories up, the tallest building around. Not nearly as tall as V Tower - which the balcony gave you a great view of - but still, Pentagram City was striking.

The balcony was connected to an apartment, reachable to the world only by an elevator at its center. Behind you was a wall of glass, heavy curtains preventing you from peering inside. On the balcony sat a small table, framed by two iron chairs. The setup was empty, except for your card which sat atop the table, a single drop of blood at its center.

You took a step, your feet finding a puddle of red before you finally noticed the body. It was face down, scarlett flooding from a wound which wasn’t visible to you. It didn’t appear to be anyone you knew. Definitely a Human Sinner, but not one particularly interesting.

So who in Hell summoned you?

As if on cue, a zip of static runs across the back of your neck.

Of-fucking-course…

“Ah, there you are,” Alastor emerges from the darkened apartment, shutting the door behind him with a kick of his heel, a smooth jazz playing on his radio.

Your heart skips a beat as his eyes find yours. Half-lidded, he smirks, a bottle of wine in one hand and a pair of glasses in another.

Your eyes flit between the dead Sinner on the floor and the red demon before you. “You did not use your own blood?" This was a first. Cardholders always used their own blood. Although not directly stated, it was implied.

“Heavens, no!” The demon places the glasses on the table, next to the obsidian calling card, as he uncorks the bottle using the tip of his claw. “We barely know each other. That would be too…” His eyes slid to yours. You feel his gaze rake over your form eliciting a blush beneath your cloak. “Intimate.”

Jesus.

You stifle a sharp intake of breath.

Get your shit together. You’re a fucking Overlord for Christ’s sake.

You drop his gaze, eyeing the half-dead pile of blood beneath your feet.

“Ah, apologies for the mess,” Alastor snaps and the Sinner, along with the blood, disappears. “Wine?” The red demon holds a glass out to you, liquid sloshing in its basin.

You look at your boots before moving, noticing he even wiped the blood from their leather. How thoughtful.

Goblet in hand, you finally join the Radio Demon in the chair adjacent to his, and gaze out to the City.

It was quiet, the hustle of Pentagram City’s nightlife drowned out by his jazz. Funny, you thought it almost peaceful. Could Hell be peaceful? No. That would be an oxymoron. Hell was designed not to be peaceful by definition. Yet all the way up here, tucked far back from the rest of the chaos, you could pretend it was.

The demon sits back in his chair, crossing his legs at his knees. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his shoes have a print on the bottom - a deer’s hoof. How fitting.

The obsidian calling card sits between you, a drop of scarlet crusting on its surface. Letters in white slowly fade from the card’s edge, signifying the death of the card owner. Whoever the Hell Stanley Jenkins was, Alastor had killed him and used his blood instead. Smart actually, for the card comes with its own parameters…

And to the Sinners without a card? That was a bit trickier. Only a handful of obsidian calling cards were in circulation, and only cardholders could summon you at will. To the lower rung demons without the honor, they had to go through back channels. That’s what you used Rosie for. The Cannibal Queen knew all the best gossip in town, her network of information reached every edge of the Pentagram. She was your starting point for potential hits - you took care of the rest.

“A toast,” Alastor holds his glass out to you. “To power and chaos.”

You freeze.

The demon clinks his glass with yours.

You had not heard that phrase in a very long time.

You look to the Radio Demon and watch as he sips his wine, the red liquid kissing his lips as he drinks.

More importantly, where had he heard that phrase?

And then it clicks.

Lilith. You last heard that from Lilith.

“It isn’t poisoned. I assure you,” Alastor purrs, bringing your thoughts back to the wine. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.” The demon chuckles.

You shudder at the sudden static vibrating through your bones.

You put a pin in this conversation - a mental note. You had more homework to do.

You swirl the red around the glass, noting the alcohol crystals sticking to the sides. It was an older wine, a heavier red by the color. The liquid wooed you in scents of dark berry, cloves, and cedar. You could taste the tannins on your tongue before the liquid even hit your teeth. God, was it a thick red, so dry it left your mouth parched for more. Alastor couldn’t see your face beneath the hood, but if he could, he would see the moan you stifled behind closed lips.

God, it was almost Heavenly.

“One of my more everyday favorites,” Alastor smiled at the world below, his eyes sparkling with the reflection of City lights. “Although, I have far better in my cellar.”

In my cellar. Your ears perked up at that, although you tried to hide it, the twitch of Alastor’s lips told you he had noticed. The Radio Demon knew something about you now: you liked wine.

Was that what this meeting was all about? He wanted to gather more information on the Shadow? The way he made it seem at Carmilla’s was that there was a deal to be made. He thought you two could benefit from some sort of… partnership. Yet, you sit here and drink.

This wasn’t how your deals often went. Usually, you showed up, and Sinners demanded action straight away. They practically begged you for your help, all too eager to make a deal. Lesser demons were pathetic, demons thinking themselves anything more attempted to look strong or intimidating, but the second they saw your eyes, they cowered. You’d like to think it the same as Zestial’s situation but you didn’t dare compare yourself to someone as great as him.

Alastor, however, sat before you as an entertainer, a flatterer, a narcissist obsessed with his image. He didn’t just want to make a deal with you - if he did at all - he wanted to put on a show. Offering you a drink and a lovely view of the City communicated to you that he didn’t see you as a threat, but you already knew that. The question then was, did he respect you, and why did it bother you so much not to know?

You turned the bottle to read the label: Stag’s Leap. How fitting.

“Have you read the Allegory of the Cave*?” Alastor posits.

You nod. Of course, who hasn’t read Plato?

“When the man leaves the cave and makes it to the surface and is finally disenchanted with the shadows below, why do you suppose he returns?” Alastor takes another sip, waiting for you to answer, because he genuinely cares as to what you have to say.

“To free the two he left behind,” your voice growls.

“Hmm,” he ponders. “I supposed that as well, but never understood. To have the power of knowledge and to then share it… To not take advantage when it benefited him so. I see it as a tragedy.”

“Perhaps it is the Humanity in all of us.”

Alastor’s eyes flashed. “And if there is no Humanity left?”

“Return…” Your lips curled, “and kill the other two.”

Alastor tipped his head back and laughed, a deep chuckle from his chest. No laugh track followed. Was that genuine? A real laugh from Alastor and not the façade of the Radio Demon. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest at the thought.

Focus!

“Alastor, why have you summoned me?”

The Radio Demon’s lips faltered ever so slightly, his cheery attitude hardening. He thought a long moment before answering. “It seems we have found ourselves in quite the predicament.” He places the glass on the table and folds his fingers in his lap, his attention on the City below. Your eyes follow his, all the way to V Tower.

Ah, yes Velvette and Vox.

“Velvette can be quite the troublemaker.”

“And Vox can be quite the thorn.” You counter, taking another sip.

God, the wine was so good.

“I have… information worth your while.” His teeth shined.

“And in return?”

“A quid-pro-quo. I have been gone a long time, but my relationships with those I am… close with have held strong. That is the perk of being as old as I am. I am tried and true. You are new blood, officially worth a seat at the table. That seat will be tested.” There was an edge to his words now. “Do not take Velvette’s silence for inaction.”

You did not.

Yet, what could Alastor know that you have not yet uncovered yourself? After all, you have been watching them these past few days. Surely something would have come up by now.

You scoffed, finding the underlying meaning in his words. “Is that what happened with Vox?”

The Radio Demon stiffened. There it was, a hint of that barely contained anger. Oh, how you would love to see it unleashed.

You sniffed, searching for the scent of rage, of jasmine green tea - the main reason why you loved the drink. Yet there was nothing. Irritation prickled your skin. You have never been able to not read someone before. What made this Sinner so special?

“That is what you want from this… partnership, is it not?” You prod, hoping he will give away something, anything that might clue you in as to why you are here.

The demon returned to his wine, a muscle in his jaw flickering with agitation. He didn’t like appearing weak.

Narcissist.

“The plans I have in mind are far bigger than that poor excuse for an entertainment system.”

You snorted.

Alastor’s strained smile softened.

Hmm, a quid-pro-quo, huh? Still, he hasn’t said what he wants out of this deal.

You took another sip to think, noting your glass was already empty.

The Radio Demon cleared his throat, wine bottle in hand, gesturing for your cup. His fingers brushed yours as you handed him the glass, sending a wave of static through to your core. You pulled back too fast, bringing your arm to your chest. The demon’s eyes gleamed in amusement.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! You are not afraid of the Radio Demon, so why were you acting like an idiot? Never let your weaknesses show and you just gave him a clear indication that he intimidated you. You are a FUCKING OVERLORD.

Why was this not easier with a mask on??? At the Hotel, you didn’t back down, but still, you let him think less of you. Not here. Here you are the fucking Shadow, you didn’t have to pretend. You had no reason to be so nervous.

So why was the smile on his face and the look in his half-lidded eyes making your heart do backflips in your chest? Why was it when he handed the glass back you were conscious to not let your fingers touch his? Why were you so grateful for the space between you two yet also so, so irritated by it?

“You still have not told me what you seek to gain.” You prayed your voice didn't sound as unnerved as you felt.

His smile went cockeyed. “A mutual agreement. We stay out of each other’s way, yet seek out the other when we can benefit equally.”

That didn’t sound like a partnership. That sounded like an alliance. Is this the same type of deal he had with Rosie? Interestingly, they seemed more like friends than something so surface-level as an alliance. Perhaps it started out that way and blossomed into one?

The butterflies in your stomach kicked up in a flurry. The Radio Demon thought you were worth his time. Your cheeks heated. He thought you could help him - in some sort of capacity. God, why did that make you wanna squeal like a small child?

“I will not be signing a contract,” you warned.

Rosie informed you of Alastor’s contract crafting abilities. The demon was meticulous, bordering on obsessive when it came to exacting details. Line-by-line he would work and when it was finally done, the deal would appear flattering in what it would have to offer. Somehow, Alastor always made it seem like it was you who was the one to benefit. Yet, that was never the case. It was a trap, a beautifully disguised ploy which demoted you to a creature privy to his whim. Alastor was a master and the signee his pet - he would have it no other way.

You’d die before you signed anything he authored.

The demon laughed. Yet, underneath, there was a hint of irritation. “Oh, no. I did not expect that, I assure you. Ours will be one of a verbal agreement.”

You let that marinate. He won’t be getting your name, but an agreement will still be made, and in Hell, that was a very powerful thing indeed. You’ve made plenty of verbal agreements before. Fuck, every hit you contracted was a verbal agreement - silence and the contractee’s soul in exchange for murder. The terms you set were quite simple, actually, yet strong enough to have kept any hint, any suspicion of who you are and how to find you, out of the mouths of Pentagram City’s most powerful. Yes, the media did try to track you down, even attempted to hunt you at one point, but they haven’t gotten very far. And they never will if you had anything to do with it…

You took a sip, letting the flavors melt off your tongue one final time, before standing and offering a hand.

The demon’s eyes lit up with a crimson fire, his lips curling at the edges. He looked far too eager for this deal and that made you hesitate.

Dealing with Alastor was like dancing - a dance you both pretended not to be leading but also refused to be the follower in. It was a game of power, you see. Yes, dancing had its steps and rules - a waltz is a waltz after all - but the direction it was going, the added flare to the spins, the story the choreography told - that was where you battled. Thus, you needed to be a half-step ahead of Alastor at all times - without him knowing, of course - until either the dance ended or you found a way to end him.

The Radio Demon took your hand, and as you gazed into his eyes, you watched his pupils dilate. The glow of your yellow irises reflected in their dark center, an aura of red encircling your hooded form. A river of blue and green exploded from where your hands touched, twirling about you like the eye of a beautifully destructive hurricane.

The wind whipped Alastor’s hair about his face, his smile never faltering, his eyes never leaving yours as a connection snapped between the two of you. Like a thin string bridging your souls, you could, for a moment, feel Alastor on the other end, feel his static radiating from his core before the connection faded entirely.

It was done.

“A pleasure,” he purred.

You attempted to step back and break away from his grasp, but the demon responded by clamping down and pulling you to him. You stumbled, your other hand coming to his chest to prevent your fall. The hood atop your head shifted back ever so slightly, but not enough to reveal your face or to give away anything underneath.

The shadows engulfing your feet twirled and twirled about you, yet you remained frozen. Alastor was a solid wall of muscle beneath his suit; even with gloves on, you could feel the marble from which his chest was sculpted. You took a breath before you pulled your hand away before your brain finally caught up with the rest of you.

“Beautiful,” Alastor’s voice deepened.

You dared a glance from beneath your hood and found the demon’s eyes locked on the silver embroidery of your cloak. With his other hand, he ghosted over the trim, his fingers tracing the hard edges of the stitching. Yet, at no point did he actually touch the black fabric. If he did, his fingers would phase through it, just as Velvette’s had at the meeting.

Without saying anything, he dropped the grip on your fist, freeing you from his clutches. You stumbled backward, grasping your hood and pulling it forward to ensure it stayed in place. Alastor couldn’t remove it, but that little stunt he pulled almost ruined everything you had worked for.

Your body grew cold as you backtracked to the railing, your little meeting coming to an end. You watched as Alastor’s grin turned into a lopsided smirk as he shoved his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly watching you flee.

Your instincts were screaming again, but this time, they were telling you not to let the demon out of your sight.

Passing by the table, you noted the obsidian calling card. He would use it to summon you from here on out, but he would never be using his own blood. His real name would be made to you then, and he would never risk that.

Take advantage of the power given, was what he recollected from Plato, and use it to slaughter others.

“Velvette is using a third party to buy weapons from Carmilla Carmine,” the demon finally spoke, breaking the tension. He turned to the skyline, absentmindedly analyzing V Tower as he talked. “The female Vee, however, is not the fighter of the group, she leaves that to Vox and Valentino. Velvette destroys by reputation. She is not much to fear if armed, but if privy to certain information, she will use that to destroy her enemies.”

A.K.A do not let her find out who you are.

You paused as your back hit the railing. You let your shadows build beneath your feet before you jumped in order to conceal your form as you flew. “Vox’s Angelic Security is in place but not online. It expands two blocks from V Tower. If anyone were to make a move, he would see it coming.”

The Radio Demon nods. He pauses a moment before adding, “Carmilla killed the Angel.”

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. How the Hell did he know that?

“Carmilla is monitoring the Vees,” The words tumbled out of your mouth as you grabbed hold of the railing. “She doesn’t want them making a move against Heaven.” You needed to get away. This meeting was getting dangerous. Losing your cool and almost losing your hood in the span of minutes? You were never this sloppy. Alastor made you sloppy.

“Interesting,” his voice stopped you again.

You spun, raising an eyebrow in question. His lopsided smirk only grew. “You didn’t ask me how Carmilla killed the Angel.”

Fuck. He knew. He knew you already knew. He didn’t have to look at you to see the surprise in your eyes, he had figured it out by your response alone.

“Goodnight, Alastor,” you gave a shallow head bow before jumping off into the night, Alastor’s fucking grin following you into the sky.

____________________________________________

It was late when you returned. You took a few extra spins about Pentagram City before heading back, trying to collect your thoughts on everything that had just happened.

You had surmised two important things: One, Alastor’s absence wasn’t just about Lilith. The demon somehow knew Lilith. Perhaps it was because of her that he left in the first place. Which you already somewhat suspected, but this confirmed it. Two, Alastor wanted the Vees dealt with, but he knew he couldn’t do it alone.

A quid-pro-quo in taking out the Vees. Now, things were getting interesting. This didn’t derail your plans, however, little Ms. Morningstar was still heading in the direction you needed her to go for everything to work. You didn’t need the Vees for the endgame - you had other powers in your back pocket with far more influence than the three of them. Plus, the connections you were making at the Hotel were going swimmingly. Soon, not yet, but soon, you’d implement the next phase.

Oh, if only Father could see you now - wherever the Hell he was. Did he fall to Hell or was he somehow topside? No. You’d know if he was down here with you. You’d feel it in your bones. Wherever he ended up, you were going to find him and you were going to make him suffer for everything he put you through.

You weren’t just going to kill him - oh, no. He didn’t deserve a quick and clean death. It was going to be slow and torturous. You were going to make him feel every ounce of the pain he put you through and more. You’d take your time, after all; why rush? Hours, days, months, years; what use was putting a timeline to his punishment when it would never make up for what he did? No. You’d take your time pushing him to the edge, and when he was on the cusp of eternal darkness, you’d heal him and start all over again.

Perhaps you did have a flair for murder like the Radio Demon. Your creative outlets were just significantly more specific - lying in wait for the perfect muse.

Wrapping your fingers around the edge of the window pane, you quietly slipped inside. With a snap, your leather gear and cloak slipped into the Void, replaced with a silk pajama set: a tank top and shorts bordering on just too short. Scandalous, but you enjoyed burying yourself beneath layers of blankets while you slept. Any more clothing and you’d wake up sweating.

Going for the bathroom, you turned on the light and paused. In the reflection of your mirror, you saw it: a red box wrapped in black ribbon. Your heart skipped a beat.

Someone had been in your room.

Hesitantly, you made your way before the coffee table and found a card perched atop the neatly wrapped bow.

You leaned in and sniffed the package - Nifty. You were going to have to touch base with the Hotel cleaning lady after breakfast. From day one, you had made it quite clear - to her great disappointment - not to clean your room, let alone enter it. Perhaps you weren’t clear enough, for she felt it acceptable to leave this here as opposed to outside your door.

Doing a circle about the space, you inspected the sealing runes which kept certain individuals out, eyeing the shadows just in case. You had hidden the ancient magic in concealed places, even buying a rug to cover the one at the base of your door, and kept your most important things in your Void. It wasn’t the best place to store your leather and cloak - especially after the moth infestation a few years back - but it was a necessity at the moment.

Then you went for the present. Pulling the black ribbon atop, you jumped back as the box split into fours, revealing a small radio. It was of a classic design and cathedral in shape, carved from mahogany and detailed in yellow and red. The device was simple, with only two buttons: an on-and-off switch and a volume dial. No tuning dial to change the channel? No chord to plug it in?

Fuck. How did he know? You racked your brain trying to figure out when and to whom you talked to regarding your sleepless nights. Rosie knew, but you hadn’t specifically discussed it with her lately. Did you say something to Husk in passing? To Angel while you were bitching at breakfast?

Hesitantly, you turned on the device. A pleasant, smooth jazz echoed through the speaker: Paul Whiteman’s “Sleepy Time Down South.” Hilarious… The Radio Demon has a sense of humor. At least it wasn’t the screams of blood-curdling murder.

After inspecting the radio three times over, you deemed it not a threat - although you kept it far away from your bed as you crawled beneath the sheets. With a snap of your fingers, the bathroom light turned off, plunging you into a cocoon of darkness, enveloped by the lullaby of sweet jazz…

____________________________________________

At some point in the night, you awoke, your mouth parched and throat dry.

🎶 It’s not the pale moon that excites me 🎶

Alastor’s radio switches over to a new song, the music seeming to follow you as you make your way to the kitchen. The hallways were silent, the Hotel Natives snoozing away in the late hours of the night.

🎶 That thrills and delights me 🎶

You pass by the library as a zip of static runs its way down your spine, stopping you in your tracks. Alastor stood before the fireplace, flames roaring in its hearth, casting an eerie glow throughout the room. The demon faces the fire, his attention on the crackle of the logs as they whittled away into ash. He was still dressed in his three piece suit you saw him in only hours ago, his ears pressed flat against his head in irritation. Something was bothering him.

🎶 Oh, no. It’s just the nearness of you 🎶

He pretended not to notice you standing there staring at him from the hallway, but his shadow didn't. It zipped around your feet, twirling about your ankles in greeting, before practically dragging you inside the room. And when it had you well within the confines of the space, it flew to the doors.

🎶 It isn’t your sweet conversation 🎶

The shadow slammed them shut. CLICK! Then locked them.

You were trapped.

🎶 That brings this sensation 🎶

Alastor tilts his head over his shoulder, his half-lidded eyes landing on you. The demon looked royally pissed.

This was it, this was the moment.

Alastor had figured out who you are. Your hood had fallen farther than you thought and he had seen your face and put the pieces together. He knew you were the Shadow, the mysterious new Overlord, here to challenge his grab for Princess Morningstar’s power.

And he was going to kill you for it.

🎶 Oh, no. It’s just the nearness of you 🎶

You didn’t hesitate to summon your blue flames, preparing for a fight, yet he moved faster than your mind could comprehend. Between one blink and the next, Alastor appears before you, his hand wrapping around your throat so tight you choke on the lack of air. Grasping at his arm, you dig your claws into his skin, your demon form summoning, as you melt the red fabric with your flame. But he is unphased by the heat, pulling back and slamming you so hard into the wall that spiderwebs crack across the plaster.

🎶 When you’re in my arms 🎶

You try to summon more flame to burn him down to the very core of his soul like you had done to thousands of Sinners before, but the blue fire does nothing to his skin. It singes the red fabric, turning it black, but his skin beneath is unharmed.

Shit.

🎶 And I feel you so close to me 🎶

The demon leans in, a low growl emanating from his chest, his teeth glinting in the firelight as his eyes hone in on your neck. As the blood pumped through your jugular, you watched his pupils dilate and fixate on the vein. He was a Cannibal, a predator, a killer whittled down to pure instinct. Everything within him was screaming kill, kill, kill.

🎶 All my wildest dreams came true…🎶

Your lungs screamed as you choked out, “Alastor.” It was weak, barely a whisper, but it was enough to draw his gaze from your neck to your eyes. In his pupils, you saw yourself desperate and bordering on losing yourself to the darkness threatening to close in. Despite the fight you felt in your bones you looked terrified.

🎶 I need no soft lights to enchant me 🎶

His name slipping from your mouth, the quiver he saw in your lips, had cracked something within him.

🎶 If you would only grant me 🎶

His grip disappeared, allowing you a breath of air.

🎶 The right to hold you ever so tight 🎶

You bent over, coughing onto the floor, sucking down breaths in gasps that make your eyes water.

🎶And to feel in the night🎶

Standing, you held onto the broken wall, forcing yourself to stay on your feet, despite your knees threatening to collapse beneath you.

“Alastor, what the fuck…” And before you had a chance to finish your question, the demon wraps his claws around your chin and forcefully slams his lips into yours.

🎶The nearness of you🎶

The kiss was anything but soft, anything but patient. The demon was hungry and starving, and only you could satiate his appetite.

His other hand presses your hip back against the wall as he kicks your legs apart, drawing a gasp from your lips. Alastor takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your bottom lip before snaking it into your mouth. His tongue finds yours, prodding, testing, tasting.

He pushes you flush against the wall, his knee pressing higher and higher until it finds the pocket between your thighs, eliciting a gasp that turns into a moan as he pulls you onto him, forcing your clit in line with his leg.

The demon smiles against your lips, finally releasing your chin to grab your waist, his fingers bunching in the thin material of your pajama bottoms. You take the opportunity to find the lapels of his jacket to give you something to grab onto as you arch into him, pulling him closer as you press your breasts into his chest. The demon growls, a deep rumble emanating from within as he bites down on your bottom lip.

Copper floods your mouth, turning the kiss sweet, but for Alastor, it’s a frenzy. He was no longer satisfied with just tasting you. He had to devour you.

The silky material of your pajamas was oh-so thin. No underwear or bra beneath them, you were practically naked as the tips of his claws sank into the meat of your hips, beads of red pebbling on your skin.

God and the pain only added to the pleasure building between your legs, only made your head swim as his lips slid over yours, capturing every drop of scarlet flooding your mouth.

The demon helps guide your hips as you ground your clit into his thigh, wetness seeping into the silky material before pooling onto his pants. The room flooded with the scent of warm vanilla.

This man had you soaked, had your lips dripping as you ground into him faster and faster, your pleasure building with each roll. Alastor finally released your mouth, his teeth finding your neck, but he didn’t bite. Instead, he teased. He ran his tongue along the dip of your collarbone, tracing it to the spot where your shoulder met your neck, before finally running it up to your ear.

You moaned when he took your lobe into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth. Alastor instinctively rolled his hips, his cock tenting his pants, grinding on nothing but air.

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. The friction wasn’t enough. You needed more. Needed more of him to push yourself over the edge.

“Al…” You breathed into his ear between moans, your fingers trailing down to the twitch in his pants, but stopping when you hit his belt. “Please…” You tugged.

The demon laughed, capturing your groans with his mouth before answering, “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

The demon puts a hard stop to your hips, pausing your grinding and the build in your pleasure. He grabs your hand on his belt and captures two of your fingers in his mouth. Sucking with his lips, he circles your fingertips with his tongue, wetting them before guiding your hand back down to your clit.

“I want to watch,” he smiles against your cheek before he wraps a finger under your chin and brings your face up to his. “Fuck yourself,” he commands.

And you obeyed.

Your two fingers find the apex of your pleasure beneath your shorts, and you moan, wetting your clit with his spit as you circle the bud.

You barely have to touch yourself, you’re already so close.

Alastor does nothing to help, save for his gaze, save for his breath which matched yours. The demon’s eyes glittered with heat and desire as they bore into you. He could feel the pleasure radiating off of you, could feel it as real as you could feel his static on the other side of the bond you formed today.

“Good girl,” he growled, his cock twitching in his pants with each moan that escaped your lips.

“I’m close,” you whined, twirling your fingers faster and faster, feeling the pressure build between your legs.

Alastor dug his claws into your skin, his gaze soaking up every look of pleasure on your face, his ears absorbing every moan, his cock hardening with every swipe of your fingers against yourself.

“Cum for me, darling.” The demon’s lips curled as he swiped the hair from your eyes, sticky with sweat. He wanted to watch as you sent yourself over the edge. He wanted to miss nothing.

And just as you reached your climax...

(Keep scrolling)

...you wake up in bed, your screams of pleasure drawing you from sleep.

Your orgasm spasmed through your body, your legs twitching as you rode the wave, your pussy clenching on nothing but air…

Fuck, it was the best orgasm you had ever had, nevermind that it was your first.

And when it was over and your mind sobered, you realized it was all a dream.

You never woke up for a glass of water.

You never found Alastor in the library.

Grabbing a pillow, you launched it at the radio on the coffee table but missed by a mile. Burying your face in the sheets, you screamed. You screamed until your lungs burned because anything was better than acknowledging the truth.

Anything was better than acknowledging that you just had your very first wet dream, and it was of Alastor, the Radio Demon.

Muahahahaha! Remember it's a slow burn ;)

-> Chapter Six

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

*Plato's Allegory of the Cave

Tag List (Let me know if you want to be added):

@sirens-and-moonflowers @wonderlandangelsposts @saccharine-nectarine @goyablogsstuff

#alastor #alastor shadow #alastor smut #alastor x reader #alastor x reader smut #alastor x you #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin #radio demon #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel x you #reader insert #smut #Spotify

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months ago

Text

Welcome Back.

From the moment those tall iron gates— elegant and ebony—swing open and you pass through them, a dizzying nostalgia floods into you. Here is the line that divided the rest of the world from the campus guard behind its barrier. The air is thick with magic, tasting sweet as you sip it.

This feeling, you think, head buzzing from the thrill, can be matched by nothing else.

You’re in a crowd, allowing yourself to be swept up by it and carried along its current. Men in casual wear, men in formal suits, men in outlandish and odd attire. All of you, set on the same path down Main Street.

Seven statues stand erect, monuments to seven great historical figures.

The Queen of Hearts, her rounded proportions blossoming from a patch of roses. She holds up part of her skirt with one hand and a heart-topped wand in the other. Her peaceful expression betrays the sternness with which she commands.

The King of Beasts, perched upon a rock that slants up. The lion has persisted and finally scaled the peak. He now looks skyward, his cunning visage locked to and even grander future.

The Sea Witch, tentacles curling amid carved waves. She casually leans back, unfurling a contract in one hand. Sign, and she will bless you with her benevolence.

The Sorcerer of the Sands, appearing in a cloud of sand. He stands, thin and wiry, with his serpent scepter and a hand on his hip. His face is contemplative, mindfully considering visitors.

The Beautiful Queen, svelte and lovely as she steps forth from the smoke, A poisoned apple is suspended from her fingers. She is as tempting as she is tenacious.

The Lord of the Underworld, grinning amid broiling flames. His hands are both lifted, a ball of fire conjured on one fingertip. Playful as he is, the man is diligent in his work.

The Thorn Witch, her horns and tattered robes right at home in the briar. She is poised and elegant, fingers curled at her chest. Truly noble in every way.

You lower your head to them in deference as you pass.

The crowd funnels into a doorway, then into a dimly lit room. It’s circular in design, with several windows, the curtains drawn over them, and floating coffins ringing the outskirts. With the day banished, the only source of light were the apocalyptic green flames emitting from high sconces.

An elaborate crystal chandelier and many pearl lines hang over their heads. They shift in and out of the void, sometimes catching and shining in the glow of the flames.

In the center is a large mirror upon an elevated platform. The frame, an intricate braid. Its surface, dull and dark—as if coated in a layer of coal dust.

This, too, you remember vividly.

But not the small figure standing become the mirror.

They are fitted in a mourning gown of blacks and deep blues. Feathers adorn their chest, scattered iridescent fragments woven into their skirt. A long wispy veil obscures their face—but you swear you can hear an eerie, faint giggle come from behind the gathered fabric.

They lift their hands, beckoning you to draw nearer. You are compelled to obey, your feet drifting.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all,” they announce cheerily.

Your scalp tingles. And they sound so close too. Like a childhood lullaby, a musical box wound up.

“Welcome back to our Night Raven College. It is a pleasure to see you again. How nostalgic.”

Rose gold comes to mind, and you're unsure of why that is. It comes with a familiar feeling--of rediscovering a lost part of yourself, of rose-tinted glasses slipping on and clouding one's vision, of the wonderfulness of meeting an old friend. The color of dawn beckoning a new day.

Who is…?

They reach for their veil and carefully raise it.

Your heart leaps. Deja vu.

A demure smile. Honey-colored eyes staring straight into your soul. Wonder and curiosity radiating off of her.

You suddenly know who it is.

“We’ve missed you, dear alumni.”

#twst #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #10k milestone event :DD #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #Raven Crowley #blog event #Reader #self insert #after ever after

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seancekitsch · 4 months ago

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Can’t Stand Me Now; a modern Aegon x Stark! reader fic

CHAPTER ONE: The Party's Crashing Us

Y/N Stark and Aegon Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen and Y/N Stark. Inseparable since both eldest children met at Kings Landing University, until they weren’t. One night of drunken passion ruins it all.

Five years later, Aegon is coming off a broken engagement to Larissa Lannister and sends a risky Instagram DM to none other than Y/n Stark.

series masterlist here

warnings for the series: smut, smoking, drinking, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, fluff, vomit, more to come as needed

It’s not that one dance club you like that Sara brings you to, but this one just might be better. It’s a theme bar, a little too influencer friendly in its decor, but it’s endearing. The whole thing is themed like a house from your grandsires’s day and age. Floral couches with ugly plastic covering line the walls as people sit and chatter or flirt, the bathroom has sickeningly pink tile and floral wallpaper, the bar is legitimately a gutted vintage kitchen with bottles stored in cabinets and a vintage stove and formica drink counter. The DJ booth is a second gutted bathroom with the walls knocked out, with the DJ standing on a platform that looks like a huge teal toilet and partitioned away with a cheap shower curtain with a weird squiggly pattern on it. There’s even a little kneeler and altar to the Seven stashed in the corner that people like to take ironic photos at while they take shots. Sara brought you here because it’s synth pop night, her absolute favorite genre, and she does not miss a chance to dance to this over club beats. You don’t mind that this isn’t a wild club, mostly because of the cheap cover fee and eclectic vibe of the whole place. Sara also was considerate enough to tell you to dress the part before you got on the train, congratulating you on a night out sans stilettos with a guarantee of letting absolutely loose.

“Cregan would hate this place,” Sara snorts, bringing you a cup of something that absolutely doesn’t look like the whiskey sour you asked her to get you on this round. She hands it to you, and the smell of rum hits you. You don’t drink rum, you don’t get along with rum.

“As if we could drag him off Dragonstone with his little boytoy,” you shout over the music, and point at the drink, “Didn’t have Whiskey?”

She just shrugs.

“This is what the guy gave me!” she shouts back and you don’t argue further, instead interlocking your arm with hers and knocking the drink back with her in unison.

The moment the rim of the cup leaves your lips, youre dragging her to the tiny dance floor, ready to mingle into the crowd with the beat.

“Someone’s eager,” she teases, her face close to yours so youre not screaming. You dance close, a habit you’ve still not broken, made out of a big sister need to protect her when she became of age right as you were graduating from University. You tried to shield her if at all possible from scuzzy men when out drinking with her. Men like… well, not unlike yours and Aegon’s group of school friends. KLU doesn’t have fraternities, but tight knit groups of men still formed on their own; Aegon, Arryk, Erryk, Martyn, Leon, Eddard all fell within that category. You’d perfected the evasion of walking in on their countless hookups, and knowing exactly how to navigate a party with the men that even they didn’t trust. Even though Sara is grown in her own right, and towers over you, you always protect her as your baby sister.

“Hard day,” you respond, not at all wanting to explain yourself further, but as if on cue your phone illuminates in your claw-like grasp in the same hand as your cup to expose you. You switch hands to drink the remainder of your drink while you scroll, and Sara being Sara, of course snoops.

“Aegon?” she practically shouts, and yes, there’s at least three more messages from Aegon on your instagram. Fuck. You throw your head back dramatically after you fully read everything.

Message:

@ eggtarg: im soz

@ eggtarg: i do miss u

@ eggtarg: can i call ?

(1) missed voice call from @ eggtarg

You break away from Sara, not even telling her, but you’re going to buy the next round. In fact, you’re buying double right now. You shove a bunch of bills towards the bartender, a little guilty but too anxious to actually care that the gesture was rude. Four more of the cups of the strong rum drink, which you learn is a theme drink for the night with an annoying name, and you maneuver them in your hands back to the dance floor with minimal spillage. She doesnt thank you, but she doesn’t have to. You cover each other, or convince men to buy you drinks on these nights. There’s no one party paying more or less, no reason to get anyone back. The two of you dance, and drink, and dance, and drink. Two rounds becomes three. For a moment, Aegon is actually forgotten.

Sara, at any point in time, has your free hand in hers; the two of you twirl each other like you did when you were girls, like you did when Cregan refused his middle child duties to play pretend with you. You take her photo sitting backwards at the kneeler, knowing she’ll make a snarky caption about nothing honoring the Old Gods like this in the city, you fix each other’s lipstick in the bathroom.

It’s the fourth round that has you a little unwise.

Rum is something you avoid for a reason. In college, there was always a point where you felt almost trapped within yourself with rum. You acted on an accord completely disconnected from your mind, the whole time your thoughts shouting on you to do or say something different. For that reason, for the fact that it usually made you upset, Aegon banned rum at any gathering. No tiki drinks in the summer, all because of your comfort and preferences.

You push off from Sara, a brief check in that she’ll be okay (she will be, she’s decided to talk the bartender’s ear off), and go outside with the intent of a smoke break.

As you walk down steps, you feel your stomach turn. Nothing a cigarette cannot fix, a tried and true trick for you.

The bouncer helps open the heavy door, a big smile on your face as you thank him and step out into the brisk air. It feels lovely, compared to the stale and sticky air and vape clouds of the bar. You move to sit on a chair from the little coffee shop that operates there during the day, fishing your pack and your lighter out from the tiny trendy purse you had shoved your ID and money in before you left your flat tonight.

Sighing, you immediately give in to temptation, finding Aegon’s messages to read and read and read them over. He misses you, he’s said as much twice now. But does he?

You click on his profile, and scroll back down to that picture of you. It looks practically deep-fried, the way that Instagram as a platform has changed so much since you were in University. You light the cigarette and take a hefty drag of it before you start a dissection, zooming in and pulling and prodding at the image.

In the photo, you’re half hanging off of Aegon’s lap, sat on his dorm bed. His parents, Viserys and Alicent, insisted he always live on campus in dry dorms to attempt to curbs the habits they did not approve of, but also ensured he got an entire dorm to himself for space. Despite this, it never stopped his room from being where you all met up before you headed out, or being the spot where you crashed at the end of the night. Your mouth is wide open, clearly mid laugh as your hair cascades down across both of you, Aegon’s arms holding you tightly against him. And although the camera is on both of you, Aegon’s eyes are on you, his wide smile and gaze trained directly on the side of your face. In the picture, you’re even in his clothes, his favorite emerald green sweatshirt embroidered with his family crest in gold thread. Falling off his shoulders is the blanket your mother had made for you as a child, crocheted with your own family crest in it, your most prized possession.

From the picture alone, if you didn’t know the people in it, you’d assume they’d be married by now. The two people on the screen look so happy, so care free, so in love. You were still only friends at that point, had never even kissed.

Bile rises in your throat, and you pull harder on the cigarette.

Both drunk and sober, clear headed and uninhibited, you go back to the message and press the little call button next to his contact.

Aegon picks up immediately, as if he was waiting for it.

“Stark!” he breathes on the other end, like a sigh of relief, as if this is a raft in the open ocean.

“Targ,” you greet, very much less enthusiastic, but you cannot deny it that hearing his voice ignites something familiar and comfortable in your bones as if your being had been missing him.

“I- I- I’m so sorry, really, I have so much to-“

“S’been five years,” you slur, not hiding the indigence or disgust in your voice, “Y’too late.”

“Your accent is stronger, are you drinking?” He asks, and it burns you how he still remembers your tells.

“What’s it matter?” You ask, because it doesn’t. Although, you think for a moment, he doesn’t sound drunk.

“Where are you?”

Genuine concern laces his voice, and despite your better judgement, you tell him exactly where you are. The moment the words leave your mouth, you know you should not have said them.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” he says, and hangs up the phone.

By the time he arrives, you’ve grabbed another drink, this time with enough sense to order a pint of cider instead of rum and you’ve already lit and half smoked another cigarette. You slink down into the chair as the black car pulls up, one that you instantly recognize as one of the family cars. Aegon had a car when you knew him, but he only ever drove it on his birthday, taking the train or getting a driver any other time. You pull the lipstick stained cigarette from your lips to take a hefty gulp from the glass, your eyes immediately settling into a glare as the car door opens.

Aegon looks exactly the same as he did the day he left, his hair still the same length, the light dusting of a mustache. He’s got himself wrapped in both a hoodie and a cardigan, completely unable to cope with any cooler shift in the weather. You always joked that he’d die if he ever came home to Winterfell with you.

“There you are,” he says, his tone incredibly and unfairly soft as he grabs another one of the chairs and pulls it up next to you.

“If I grab something do you promise not to run?” he asks, and you nod if not begrudgingly. You called him here, you should at least let him get a drink out of the ordeal.

You swallow thickly, staring at the toe of your boots and the absent patterns of the concrete. If you focus hard enough, you could trick your brain into thinking there was some divine structure there.

He returns quickly, but your eyes don’t peel away from the absent patterns; They can’t.

“I know it’s shit how I reached out to you,” he starts, and from your peripherals you watch him take a big gulp from his own pint. You stick the cigarette into your mouth and fumble to pass him the pack, your body working on autopilot and muscle memory long since past. His fingers brush yours as the transfer or the carton occurs, a traitorous warmth blooming in its wake. You will not ask for the pack returned.

“You’re hard to find these days,” He mentions, as if that was not your goal.

“I don’t meddle where I’m not wanted, Aegon,” you mumble, cigarette bobbing between your lips and threatening to fall.

“That’s not…” Aegon almost growls in frustration, and slams the rest of his drink back, “It was never me not wanting you. I meant it.”

If you were to look up, you don’t know what you’d see. Would he have tears in his eyes? Would they be dark with anger? Is he mocking you?

Instead of a response, your body jerks forward, bile threatening. You pull the cigarette from your lips as he swears and pulls out his phone.

“Don’t say shit like that,” You laugh, but there’s no real humor in your voice.

“I still mean it,” he assures you, and then begins a conversation with the person on the other line.

You stand, taking another small sip of the cider before placing what’s left on the ledge, allowing yourself to take the loss for whatever money that half a cider cost.

“What a fucking joke,” you mumble, more to yourself than anything.

You try to hide the lurching jerk of your body as bile rises again in your throat. You will not puke, you will not hurl; Especially not in front of Aegon.

You have so many things you want to say: questions you’ve had for half a decade, insults that you’ve held onto like a poison in a wound, weeping confessions that would make you weak and pathetic.

“Cole, can you please send someone,” Aegon asks, a hushed tone while he presses the phone to his ear, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, I need to make sure a friend gets home safe.”

A friend. You bark out a laugh.

Only thats not the right move at the moment, and you spill your last two drinks on the curb, enough sense in you to miss your shoes. Immediately you feel better, both physically and mentally. Clearly, much like Aegon, rum is not your friend despite its sudden reappearance in your night.

“Oh, holy shit!” Aegon swears, immediately fussing over you and trying to pull a tissue out of his pocket, trying to press it to the corner of your lip as you shove him away. In the distance, you can see the train stop. This particular line goes directly back to your stop and if you can make a run for it, you can escape him. Only you don’t move, as if you’re rooted to the pavement, your boots stuck in the concrete as the person you’ve been trying to evade in this city closes in on you. You push away every attempt for him to fret over and help you, refusing to let him help push your hair back, refusing the cup of water he requests from the bouncer, your hands shooing away every attempt of his to help.

Eventually the car pulls up, and to your own surprise you let Aegon lead you into the car and close the door for you. He slides in the other side, and urges the driver to head home. His home. Aegon’s home. You don’t protest, you don’t scream, you don’t open the door and tuck and roll even though you think it would be an effective way to escape if not at least a little funny. Despite in your mind feeling incredibly sober, you freeze up, absolutely letting all of it happen. Despite your mind screaming at you, despite the urge to cry, you relax into the leather of the car seat. You instead text Sara that you’re heading home, and to text you when she decides to do the same.

“Why now?” you ask, cutting through the uncomfortable silence as the car turns the block.

“Now?” Aegon parrots, as if he doesn’t understand the question.

“Why now when I’m just this? Why come back after all this time?” You choke back a sob, wanting to refuse to let Aegon see weakness.

He sighs, and wipes his hand down his face. Now that you look at him closely, he looks exhausted, even in the dark. Aegon looks like a man who hasn’t slept in a week.

“It’s complicated,” he says, barely above a whisper. Like fuck it is.

Either way, you remain quiet, anger growing as you watch the traffic lights go by, as you traverse neighborhoods. The car is headed south, and eventually stops not far from your stop at Fleabottom. If you were to flee, you’re only four stops away from home. But just like before, maybe its morbid curiosity, you don’t bail as the car parks and Aegon hops out, half jogging to the other side of the car to open the door for you. He holds out a hand, a hand that you refuse as you push yourself up and out of the car seat. If the driver knows you, if the driver knows what’s going on, they don’t say. The driver doesn’t even look back before driving off.

When he lets you into his flat, he immediately heads to the fridge. Sunfyre runs up to you, greeting you as if no time had passed. The big orange fur ball is all purring as he rubs up against you, and you bend down to scratch behind his ears where he loves it most. This is, easily, the most heartbreaking part of all of this.

“Aww, Sunfyre, did you miss her?” he coos, and then looks at you, “Thats amazing, he remembered you. He always ran from Lar-"

He stops himself before he finishes that sentence, but the damage is done. You were wrong, that right there was the worst part.

He hands you a glass of water, and you don’t deny it this time, eagerly gulping it down and placing it on the kitchen counter the moment you’re done.

“Right, so what did you expect?” you ask, shrugging at him.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he responds, and reaches forward. He cringes as you flinch away from his touch.

“Bullshit,” you exclaim, and then start to walk towards his couch, bigger and more plush than the campus apartment you’d last know him having.

“Guess I’m sleeping here?” you ask, pointing at it.

Aegon agrees, although you can tell there’s words that die in his mouth. His mouth opens and shuts, lips purse contemplatively. Good, you don’t want to hear those thoughts right now, even though you’ve needed them for half a decade. He grabs a pillow and blankets from a hall closet, and sets them like a bed for you. You half expected him to just dump everything on the couch, but then again, sleepovers with Aegon used to mean sharing a bed and you’ve never seen how he would do this.

“Do you need clothes?” he asks, already half turned and surely ready to grab some sweats from a drawer.

You shake your head no, and then start to get yourself settled under the blankets. It feels like the more of you covered, the safer from all of the anxiety bubbling under your skin you are. The more a physical barrier from Aegon exists, the more you can pretend this is a drunken nightmare, and tomorrow you can just sweat it out at dance class.

He leaves the room, and you only shake off your boots and jacket onto the floor next to your discarded purse, opting to keep your phone under your pillow and your person bundled up despite the fact that his apartment is warm.

When he returns he’s in that green sweatshirt from the picture, and a pair of grey sweatpants. He turns his head towards you, but ultimately decides against trying again, instead going to the fridge to pull out two water bottles. Even in the dark of the apartment, you don’t miss the fact that he also pulls out a bottle and takes two shots before walking away from the area. Your eyes feel heavy, wet, as you try in vain to blink away the emotions rising to the surface. Here, there is no concrete to focus on, here, you’re surrounded by Aegon in the dark. You opt to shut your eyes all together.

He traverses the main room, around the island to the living room, his bare feet against the flooring; depositing one of the water bottles on the coffee table directly in front of the couch you’re on. You keep your eyes closed, not daring look at him. However, you don’t miss the warmth of his hand ghosting over the blankets, almost touching, almost that reassuring weight of his hand that had gotten you through so much.

“Why wasn’t I enough when we were friends?” you ask, not hiding the watery tone of someone failing to conceal crying, still not daring to look at him. Your voice sounds so small to your ears, so vulnerable.

“You were,” he tells you, his voice betraying similar emotion. Aegon is probably crying, you realize, or at least close to it.

But before you can open your eyes, you hear him walk away, and you feel like any moment of honesty is over now. The sliding door to his balcony opens, and the clinking of a bottle signifies he’s staying up.

He keeps the door open, a silent invitation that you feel like you can’t accept. Many a night you’d stayed up talking and drinking with Aegon; a bottle, two glasses, and a heart to heart were common. But that seems wrong now, tainted what has transpired. Now it's silence as you hear the bottle clink against a glass, and then again a few minutes later.

Sleep is slow to find you, the space between the two of you both cavernous and claustrophobic, and the blanket smells like him.

#aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #modern aegon targaryen #modern aegon x reader

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