#its been months since i decided to post any edits

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 LOST IN THE DARK (THEN I FOUND YOU)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: with a blizzard rocking yokohama, you find yourself seeking refuge in nakahara chuuya's apartment because, somehow, his building is the only one that has working generators... yet you find yourself becoming a bit suspicious (and concerned) when you realize the one person you expected to be there isn't. so you decide to go looking for him yourself, forcing chuuya to come along, and you end up maybe biting off more than you could chew.

wordcount: 8.2k; sfw; fem!reader, pm!reader, i don't think any other warnings necessary but lmk if i've missed any

AUTHOR'S NOTES: ughhhhhhh i was not going to post today BUT 1) i remembered that it was ghostienon's birthday yesterday (HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!) and 2) sophie said she was sad so i forced myself out of bed to edit and format. i hope you guys enjoy the background to how reader and dazai started living with each other ;) i love being able to write them as stupid teens HAHAH if u guys can't tell. we also get some hints as to mori's opinion on her and dazai's growing relatioship in this installment, though that will have its own dedicated fic <.<

“God, it’s fucking cold.” Chuuya shivers, tucked beneath a blanket in his apartment, scowling out the tall windows looking over the city. “When will this storm end? I swear it's never ending."

A blizzard has been tearing through the entire Kanagawa prefecture the past two days, and right now, Yokohama is taking the full force of it, has been since three am. The harsh winds knocked the power out hours ago, and none of the building’s generators are working. The easternmost building, the one where you live, was the first to go, so you dragged yourself all the way across to the westernmost building to force your way into Chuuya’s apartment, the only building that’s power was still holding strong by the time you made your decision.

Evidently, you were not the only one that had that idea. Ozaki Kouyou sits primly in a bundle of furs as she reads through mission reports from her subordinates, Hirotsu Ryuro flips through files on an upcoming mission for the Black Lizards, and the Colonel is berating one of his subordinates over a walkie-talkie in the corner of the room. You and Chuuya are huddled on the couch with each other, trying to keep each other warm as you wait for the worst of this to pass.

“Says you,” you say bitterly, burrowed in three of his blankets as you glare at him. “You’re like a furnace, I think I’m going to freeze to death.”

The power in his building had gone out an hour ago, and being on one of the upper floors, his apartment became chilly quickly. Chuuya scowls at you and his hand darts out to press against the back of your neck. You shriek and give him an accusing look at the feeling of his icy fingers against your bare skin, slapping his hand away hard. He snorts, looking thoroughly smug at his actions and you have half a mind to beat him to death with a pillow.

“Better than being out on the streets, hm, boy?” Kouyou says idly, glancing up from her papers, raising her eyebrows.

You watch as Chuuya’s gaze flickers down to the ground, a guilty expression crossing his face. You don’t know much about what happened last year that led to Chuuya joining the Port Mafia—you do know that evidently he’d been monikered ‘King of the Sheep,’ a small organization of teenagers that had stupidly taken to trying to siphon off territory from the Mafia, and he’d been exiled by his kingdom of orphans courtesy of Dazai. You think maybe he’s probably wondering if they’re still out there, trying to wait out this storm in whatever back alleys they can find.

You nudge your shoulder against his, trying to draw him out of his thoughts, and he gives you a tight smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

At least you guys don’t have to worry about any attacks until the storm passes. 

The Dragon’s Head Conflict has been raging for a month now, you came back to Yokohama at the start of it and it's only continued to escalate with each passing day. There are so many foreign organizations trying to get footholds in Yokohama for the money that started this conflict, the entire city has become a bloody battlefield. You’ve hardly slept the past few weeks trying to work with Mori to figure out a game plan for handling Strain, the biggest threat of this conflict by far, but it’s hard when the Mafia’s warehouses and ports are getting assaulted day after day. 

Chuuya’s been taking on the brunt of the attacks, single-handedly pushing them back, but you know he’s getting tired. You see the exhaustion on his face and the bags beneath his eyes—the storm, as awful as it is, is bringing him a break that he very much needs. And Dazai-

“Dazai.”

You sit up straight, blankets tumbling off of you as your eyes widen. Instantly, you can feel all of the eyes in this room on you.

“What about that bastard?” Chuuya asks irritably.

“Where is he?” you demand. You haven’t seen him since the storm started, don’t know where he is; you don’t even know what building he lives in. You figured that he would have wormed his way into Chuuya’s apartment too when he realized his building lasted the longest with power, but you didn’t even think anything of it until now just because of how cold you were. “Where does he even live, actually?”

A month you’ve been in Yokohama and you’ve never been to Dazai’s apartment. You spend a lot of time with Chuuya up in his, and Dazai usually pops in too whenever you’re there; they come up to yours once in a blue moon. But you’ve never been to his.

“Out in some shipping container in the yards in southern Naka-ku,” Hirotsu answers your question and you turn to look at him, appalled.

“What?” you ask bluntly. “A shipping container?”

“The Boss offered him a nice apartment in the central building,” Kouyou hums. “He refused many times.”

“I wouldn’t want to live in the same building as Mori either,” you say snippily. “He’s out there now? In this storm?”

Kouyou lifts her shoulders in an elegant shrug, raising her eyebrows as she finally looks up at you, there’s something chilly in her eyes that you don’t like as she studies you. Chuuya doesn’t meet your eyes when you give him a pressing look.

“Those containers aren’t insulated,” you continue. “He’ll freeze to death.”

Kouyou scoffs. “That boy won’t be killed by something as mundane as the cold,” she says dismissively. “He will be fine.”

You give her a dismayed look. You’re not too close with Dazai, you’ve only known him for a month, and in that time, you haven’t really had the opportunity to spend much time with him besides the occasional invasion of Chuuya’s apartment. The two of you always seem to have missions scheduled at opposite times of each other—whenever you’re free, he’s gone and whenever you’re gone, he’s free. Sometimes, you think Mori does it on purpose, but you don’t know why.

“It’s blizzarding out there,” you argue. “He’s stick and bones in an uninsulated piece of metal that’s probably buried in snow. We can’t just leave him out there.”

“Leave him be,” Kouyou says sharply, and you’re almost taken aback by her tone, giving her a cool look. “Don’t involve yourself with that boy.”

You draw back at the sternness—you and Kouyou have been on good terms, so you don’t really know where this is coming from, and it pisses you off a bit, but that might just be because you’re cold and already irritable.

“Excuse me?” you gape, looking between her and Chuuya, noticing how Chuuya immediately averts his gaze from you. “Chuuya?” 

“You heard me, girl,” Kouyou tells you firmly. “Keep away from him.”

“Why?” You’re half convinced you’re not hearing her correctly because what does that even mean. Your voice rises as you become more incensed. “What do you even mean? Chuuya hangs with him all the time-”

“Mori has forced the two of them into a partnership,” Kouyou interrupts. “Chuuya has no choice in the matter. You-”

You bristle, about to rise to your feet, but before you can say anything, Hirotsu speaks up: “Kouyou-san is right, hime. The Boss has that boy on a tight leash for a reason, he does not like anything trying to interfere with it. Even you. Especially you.”

Chuuya gives you a look from the corner of his eye. “The Boss is weird about him,” he agrees quietly, but he does seem distinctly uncomfortable, like a part of him wants to go out searching for Dazai. “You’ve had to have noticed.”

Of course, you have. It’s impossible to miss the way Mori hangs over him. He has Dazai shadow him everywhere he goes, never far out of sight. He’s harsher with Dazai than he was even with you back when he first took you in years ago, has impossibly high expectations and refuses to accept failure from him. You think maybe it’s part of the reason why he’s always so careful to ensure that you’re on missions at opposite times—Dazai has shown interest in you since your arrival in Yokohama, becoming giddy like a kid whenever he runs into you, and Mori already warned you not to distract him.

You rise to your feet, shaking your head. “I’m not leaving him out there to freeze.”

“Girl,” Kouyou says, voice tight, finally looking up from her reports again to give you a stern look. “I won’t say it again-”

“Or what?” you ask coolly. “What is he going to do to me? I’ve known Mori longer than any of you. I know what he’ll do if he doesn’t like what I’m doing, it’s not worth leaving Dazai out there alone, especially in this weather.”

You toss off the blankets and storm over to where you’d hung your jacket up, looking back at Chuuya over your shoulder. “Are you coming?” you ask, annoyed. 

Chuuya glances between you and Kouyou nervously before sighing and tossing his own blankets off. “Whatever. You’re bringing him to your apartment. I don’t want his shitty ass here.”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t know why the fuck I agreed to this,” Chuuya spits out complaints as the two of you trudge off the road through knee deep snow to the slope leading down to the shipping yards. “You’re insane. Dazai would not do this for you.”

“I wouldn’t be stupid enough to be in this situation,” you scowl, tossing Chuuya a dirty look before your eyes trail across the shipping yard. “Do you know which container is his? They all look the same.”

“That red one out there, I think,” Chuuya says, pointing out across the shipping yard to one of the few containers not falling apart. You grimace, it’s all the way out in the center of the yard in the deepest parts of the snow. Chuuya sees your displeasure and rolls his eyes. “Come here.”

You yelp when he grabs your arm and yanks you closer to him. The Tainted Sorrow is an ability you’ve become well acquainted with over the past few weeks, but it’s still jarring to feel it wash over you so suddenly. Chuuya gives you a sharp smile when he feels your grip on his arm tighten as he uses his ability to launch the two of you in the air; your stomach lurches at the sudden feeling of weightlessness that spreads through you.

It takes a total of maybe five seconds for him to get the two of you in front of Dazai’s supposed shipping container, and you shiver when the two of you land in the knee deep snow, casting him a dirty look when he keeps himself floating right above it.

“Asshole,” you mutter, ignoring his smug look as you trudge forward to the door of the shipping container. “Dazai! Dazai, are you in there?”

Your voice strains as you shout over the howling wind, grimacing and blinking rapidly at the snow pelting your face. You get no response from inside the container and you give Chuuya a scowl.

“Are you sure this is the right container?” you demand as your fingers enclose around the bitterly cold metal handle.

Chuuya shrugs. “I’m pretty sure.”

“I can’t stand you,” you snap as you try and fail to yank open the container, the deep snow preventing it from budging even an inch.

“Here, move,” Chuuya says, coming to stand next to you, finally dropping down into the snow as he nudges you out of the way to use his ability to pull open the heavy, jammed door.

You squint as you look into the dark container—it’s mostly empty and you’re about to turn on Chuuya for having the wrong one before you notice a chair and a desk in the far back corner. The snow spills into the container as soon as Chuuya gets the door open and you yelp as you slide in, nearly slipping to the floor. 

Chuuya snorts. 

You glare at him, but you have more pressing matters to attend to.

“Dazai,” you call again, frowning when you don’t see him in the container, wondering if you came all the way out here for nothing. Chuuya would kill you. “Do you see him?”

“I’m gonna kill you if we came all the way out here for nothing,” Chuuya says, voicing your thoughts. You wince as he jumps down to stand next to you. “Maybe he went over to those other friends of his? That low ranking guy?”

Maybe, you think, taking a few steps further into the container, eyes straining in the dark to try to make sure he’s not there before facing Chuuya’s wrath and leaving. Just as you’re about to give up, you spot a lump covered by a thin blanket in the corner of the container and you frown. You think at first it’s a pile of dirty clothes until you draw a bit closer and see that it’s moving, a slow and steady rise and fall that could only be Dazai huddled beneath it.

“Dazai?” you repeat again, making your way over to the corner of the container and kneeling next to the lump. Chuuya trails a few steps behind you slowly, pausing when you reach out to snatch the blanket off of the lump. “Jesus, Dazai…”

He’s sleeping beneath the blanket—sleeping or just straight up unconscious, you’re not sure. He looks small curled into a ball in the corner of the container, his skin and lips are paler than usual, breath concerningly slow. You reach out to press your hand against his cheek, feeling how cold and clammy his skin is.

“And you wanted to leave him out here,” you hiss at Chuuya, shooting him an accusing look. To his credit, he does look guilty as he looks down at Dazai, brows twisted and lips curled down, an unreadable look in his bicolored eyes. “Help me get him up.”

Dazai is lighter than you expected—he’s tall and gangly but there’s so little meat to his bones that you can almost lift him up on your own but it’s just awkward because of his height. Chuuya grabs his feet, you grab under his arms; his body is limp, like you’re carrying a corpse and not a living, breathing human being.

“Chuuya, hold on, I’m gonna put him down,” you say before the two of you get to the entrance of his shipping container.

Chuuya grunts as the two of you lower him to the ground, giving you a questioning look. You ignore it, pulling off your thick fur coat and wrapping it around Dazai, trying to warm him up even just a little because you fear that if you bring him out in his thin button-up and slacks, he’s just going to get even more sick. 

“You’re gonna freeze,” Chuuya says with a sigh, shaking his head. He pulls off his own jacket and tosses it at you. “I run hot anyway. Take it.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, shrugging it over your shoulders and then looking back down at Dazai. “Ready?” 

“Yup,” Chuuya agrees, leaning down to grab Dazai’s feet again.

You grimace as the harsh and bitter winds immediately sting your face, a shiver running down your body. You glance over at Chuuya, whose face is already becoming red with the cold, he looks distinctly uncomfortable although he’s trying to hide it, and you feel a bit guilty. You look to the side, all the way across the shipping container yard up the hill to the road the two of you had come from, all of it covered in several feet of snow.

You realize, a bit dreadfully, that Chuuya will not be able to use his ability while carrying Dazai and you give him an agonized look.

Chuuya looks just as harrowed.

“This is going to suck.”

“Give me your blankets,” Chuuya demands, shivering violently once the two of you get Dazai up to your apartment. 

Luckily, the backup generators had come back on while the two of you were out so you didn’t have to walk up literally nearly forty stories to get to your apartment. The heat is still off though, so it’s freezing and you really need to change into something warmer, but you’re more concerned with the boy curled up beneath your covers, still breathing but still also concerningly slow.

“He’s not looking too good,” you say quietly, reaching out to pull the blankets tighter around him. You brush your fingers across his cheekbone, trying to see if he’ll stir at all, but he remains frighteningly still. “Do you think maybe I should call Mori?”

You don’t want to call Mori and you’re pretty sure Dazai wouldn’t want you to call Mori, but you think that if he doesn’t move or show some kind of life in the next ten minutes, you’re going to have to. As much as you don’t want to get the man involved, you want Dazai to die in your bed even less. You sigh as you take a seat at his bedside, pulling out your phone to try to figure out what exactly you should do if he’s hypothermic.

“Yo, I asked for blankets,” Chuuya says irritably, rifling around your clothes closet for blankets. “Where are they?”

“Downstairs,” you say dismissively, “I thought you weren’t staying.”

Chuuya’s shoulders slump as he scowls at you. “Only long enough for you to figure out if he’s gonna live,” he mutters and then storms downstairs to find blankets as you finally find a website that will load so you can figure out what to do with Dazai.

Be gentle. When helping someone with hypothermia, handle them gently. Only move the person as much as is necessary. Don't massage or rub the person. Vigorous or jarring movements may trigger cardiac arrest.

Move the person out of the cold. Move the person to a warm, dry location if possible. If moving is not possible, shield the person from the cold and wind as much as possible. The person should be kept in a flat position if possible.

Remove wet clothing. If the person is wearing wet clothing, remove it. Cut away clothing if necessary to avoid too much movement.

Cover the person with blankets. Use layers of dry blankets or coats to warm the person. Cover the person's head, leaving only the face exposed.

Monitor breathing. A person with severe hypothermia may appear unconscious, with no clear signs of a pulse or breathing. If the person's breathing has stopped or appears dangerously low or shallow, begin CPR right away if you're trained.

Supply warm beverages. If the affected person is alert and able to swallow, give the person a warm, sweet, nonalcoholic, noncaffeinated drink. Warm drinks can help warm the body.

Well, you think, he’s not conscious for a warm drink and Chuuya changed him into a warm pair of your thick sweatshirts and sweatpants. He’s piled under the blankets in your room and he didn’t go into cardiac arrest from the two of you jostling him out of the shipping yard and into your apartment, so you think the only thing really left for you to do is make sure he keeps breathing.

You can do that.

You turn your attention back to Dazai, chewing the inside of your cheek as you look down at him. You shift into a cross-legged position, hesitantly reaching out to touch his cheek. His skin is cold under your touch but your breath hitches when he finally moves on his own; you almost draw your hand back like you’ve been burned when you see his lashes flutter, but you don’t. Your lips part when he unconsciously leans into your touch, a soft puff of air escaping his lips as he shifts into a more comfortable position, pressing his face into your hand. 

You’re only snapped back to reality when Chuuya walks back into your bedroom, your fluffy blanket from the couch downstairs pulled entirely around him. He gives you a judgmental look, eyes drawing from where you’d very inconspicuously yanked your hand back into your lap before looking back up to your face and your cheeks heats up.

“I was checking his temperature,” you hiss, lying through your teeth. “Don’t look at me like that when you look like an egg.”

“Yeah, okay.” Chuuya rolls his eyes as he waddles over to you, sitting on the bed next to you as the two of you look over Dazai. “How is he?”

“Alive,” you say with a shrug. “There’s nothing else to really do but make sure he keeps breathing. Give him warm water to drink when he wakes up. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine,” he replies awkwardly. “I’ll stay for a bit. Don’t want to go back so Ane-san can scold me anyway…”

You think it’s more that he feels guilty over wanting to leave Dazai out there while he was suffering but you don’t shatter the facade he’s putting up because if he feels bad, it’ll be easier for you to make him do the things you don’t want to do while he’s here.

“Yeah, she’ll probably be mad,” you agree, glancing down at Dazai again, some of your tension easing when you see that his chest is rising and falling a bit more steadily and much more deeply now. “I’m not happy with her.”

“Why?” Chuuya asks.

“What do you mean why?” you ask. “You know why.”

“She was just trying to look out for you,” Chuuya says with a frown. “She’s right, the Boss gets weird about Dazai. I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen it yourself but you haven’t been here the past year. I always thought it was weird that he never introduced Dazai to the Flags like he did for me but… I just don’t think he likes it when people get close to Dazai.”

It is weird, you won’t deny that, but it’s not worth leaving him out there to die. Plus… you remember the day you first met him, his excitement at having someone else his age around, his disappointment when he thought you didn’t like him… he’s just a boy, a lonely one at that, and Mori is cruel for trying to keep him isolated.

“I don’t care what Mori wants,” you say tightly. 

It’s a lie—the thought of doing something that pisses him off chills you to the bone. Your throat spasms as your mind is drawn back to the warzone he found you in; the way he’d give you small smiles and pats on the head all the while telling you that if you couldn’t get a hold of your ability, he’d send you back where you came from. The thought is cold and haunting, a constant reminder that if you can’t prove your worth to him he’ll discard you like a useless tool, but…

Your gaze drifts back over to Dazai, still shivering from where tucked underneath your blankets, but he looks much more comfortable. Much more at peace. You think again of the way he was so happy to meet you. The way he was so bothered by the thought of you not liking him. The way he constantly tries to seek you out even though Mori ensures that the two of you have opposite mission schedules. The way he so instinctively leaned into your touch. 

But maybe just this once you’ll do what you want regardless of Mori’s wishes.

Chuuya gives you a heavy side eye before shaking his head. “Wanna play cards?”

“... Yeah, sure.”

The first time Dazai wakes up, he’s not even coherent.

He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, doesn't know who you are, and is panicked over something. Chuuya had left hours ago once the two of you were mostly certain that Dazai wouldn’t suddenly die, going back to his apartment to face the wrath of Kouyou for disobeying her. You’re starting to doze off when you feel him jerk up next to you; he thrashes under the covers as he tries to free himself, nearly knocking you off of the bed.

“Dazai,” you gasp, startled. You shift around to try to get him to calm down and nearly end up with a fist to the face. “Jesus, Dazai, chill.”

You grab his hand and try to pin him down to the bed but it only ends with him thrashing harder, eyes wild, more panicked. You let go of his wrist and he scrambles away, tripping off the bed and onto the floor, yanking the blankets with him. You curse as you follow after him, kneeling on the floor next to him as he scuttles back into the corner like a frightened animal.

He looks… terrible, actually. His skin is pale and clammy, you think he must have developed a fever from the cold. He looks half delirious, his visible eye is glazed over and full of fear and your throat tightens as you lift your hands to try to show you mean no harm. Dazai doesn’t calm down, kicks his feet out when you try to get close and you sigh before stopping a few feet away from him.

“Dazai, calm down, it’s just me,” you say quietly. 

When he finally starts to calm down, you shift forward to place your hands on his ankles, stopping him from kicking out again if something sets him off. When he doesn’t immediately start thrashing under your touch, you take it as an okay to come closer. Scooting against the floor, you come to sit next to him, pressing your shoulder against his. Dazai instantly is leaning into you, body exhausted, head falling against your shoulder.

“We have to get you back up on the bed,” you tell him but you feel him weakly shake his head from where it’s resting on your shoulder. “We have to, Dazai. You can't stay on the floor.”

“Why are you here?” he croaks out. “... Why am I here? Is this your apartment?”

“You were going to freeze to death out there,” you tell him. “I-”

“But why? Why do you care? I don’t-no one cares so why…” Dazai doesn’t even finish the question, tongue loosened in his half-delirious state. He sounds distressed but more than that he sounds confused, like he can’t understand why you would go out of your way for him. Him.

“C’mon, Dazai, back in bed,” is all you say, voice quiet as you shift into a kneeling position, wrapping an arm around his waist to help him stumble back to his feet.

He’s light, but his limbs are awkwardly long so you stumble a bit when he leans his full body weight onto you, nearly tripping over one of his legs as you help him onto the bed. As soon as you get him situated, you reach back over onto the floor to grab the blankets he’d pulled off the bed and tuck him back under them.

His eye tracks you—big and black and empty as you leave his side to grab the chamomile tea you’d brewed when he finally started stirring thirty minutes ago. It’s not as hot now but it’s warm enough.

You sit at his side, shoulder pressed to his and back against the headboard as you lift the mug to his lips. He stares down at the mug for a moment, making no move to drink it, but then he lets his head fall on your shoulder again, pressing his lips to the rim of the mug.

You tilt the mug back, using your other hand to keep his head steady, watching as he takes a few sips before stubbornly turning his head away, pressing his face into your shoulder so that you can’t force him to drink anymore.

“You should take a few more sips,” you tell him quietly. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“No,” he says, voice muffled against your shirt. It’s only when he hears you put the mug back down does he finally lift his face. He still looks entirely out of it, but his gaze still somehow manages to take upon a more accusing look. “Why am I here?”

“I told you why,” you frown, side-eyeing him.

“Why am I really here? Did Mori tell you to come check on me? I don’t need-”

“I came because I wanted to,” you say as you become increasingly more irritated. “I’m not Mori’s lapdog. I do what I want.”

Dazai stares at you, more withdrawn now and an uncertain look in his eye. “But why?” he asks, a bit quieter this time like he can’t possibly fathom why someone would come for him because they wanted to. You almost want to reach down and grab his hand but you refrain. Instead, you knock the side of your head gently against his.

“I told you back when we met that I wanted to know you. Wanted to be your friend,” you say, honestly.

“You didn’t say that,” Dazai accuses, averting his gaze. “That you wanted to be my friend. You didn’t say that.”

“It was kind of implied,” you reply, rolling your eyes and that add a bit more quietly, “I do. I do want to be your friend. And friends look out for each other.”

Dazai’s entire expression shifts at your words, expression crumbling. Just as suddenly as his expression changes, he throws himself back into a laying position, turning away from you and lifting the covers up above his head to hide himself from you. You stare at him, unsure of how to take his reaction—a rejection? Or maybe he’s just flustered? He murmurs something that you can’t hear because it’s smothered by the layers of blankets on top of him.

“Huh?”

“I said that I’m allowing you to be my friend,” Dazai raises his voice, pitched and wobbly, like he’s trying to make it come across more snooty than it actually does. As if it’s a bother for you to want to be his friend. It’s almost funny but you can’t help the way you roll your eyes again. “Be grateful.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you say sarcastically, “for gracing me with this most honored title.”

You hear him sniffle and then sneeze beneath the lump of blankets. “It is an honored title. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes. Again. But you don’t respond this time, resigning to just leaning back against the headboard and grab the book you were starting before you’d started dozing off. You think maybe he might be right—it is an honored title. Dazai doesn’t have many friends, doesn’t let people get too close and certainly doesn’t let them think they mean anything to him. He’s very selective with the people he chooses to associate with.

“The next time you wake up, as your friend, I’m forcing you to eat some soup.”

You hear him grumble but you think he must be too tired to protest because he doesn’t even get any words out before you notice that his breath has evened out beneath the blankets. You sigh and pull them down a bit so that he doesn’t accidentally smother himself to death in his sleep, ignoring the small smile that twitches to your lips as you turn your attention back to your book.

The second time Dazai wakes up, he’s much more alert and entirely more difficult.

“You need to eat something,” you hiss, trying to wrangle Dazai up out of bed. “And you need to drink something, you’ve sweat so much that my sheets are soaked through. You’re going to be dehydrated and then you’re going to feel worse.”

“Go away,” Dazai shrieks, nearly smacking you in the face as he tries to push you away. “Go away, I don’t want your help, just let me go back to the shipping container to die. I don’t-”

“Oh, would you just shut up?” you hiss, taking the pillow he was laying on and whacking him over the head with it hard. Dazai flops back on the bed hard, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief. You raise the pillow again threateningly. “Get up and eat soup or I’ll hit you again.”

“You just whacked me with a pillow while I’m dying of fever,” Dazai says, voice riddled with shock. “I can’t believe you just-”

“Eat the soup,” you demand, winding back your arms again as you prepare to hit him again. 

Dazai gives the pillow a wary look before sitting up and scooching across the bed to the nightstand, staring at the now lukewarm soup with a contemplative expression. “Do you eat or drink soup? It’s liquid, isn’t it? Wouldn’t I be drinking the soup?” 

You stare at him flatly. “There’s carrots in it. You’re eating the carrots, so you’re eating the soup.”

Dazai’s face twists in disgust as soon as the c-word leaves your lips and you know you’ve made a mistake. Everything happens in a split second—you see him look at you from the corner of his eye, you see his gaze dart to the door, and you see his body tense as he prepares to make a break for it.

He doesn’t get more than an inch before you’re bringing the pillow back down on his head, sending him sprawling back down against the mattress with a loud ‘oof.’

“You can’t just beat me until I eat the soup,” Dazai protests loudly, disgruntled as he looks around trying to figure out if he can try to make another break for it, casting the pillow a wary look. Luckily, even if he is more coherent now, his brain and body are still sluggish from the fever. “You can’t.”

“Watch me,” you say, and just for good measure, you whack him with it again.

“Stop! I didn’t even move that time,” he cries out. “Now you’re hitting me just to hit me!” 

“You’re not eating it fast enough.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair!”

Dazai bristles like an irritated cat as he stares at you, but his shoulders slump as he drags himself back over to the nightstand. You’re almost insulted, honestly, considering you spent an hour trying to figure out how to cook it properly for him, but you simmer down when he lifts the spoon from the bowl.

He blinks suddenly, eyes wide and owlish. “This spoon is large.”

You stare at him. “It’s a soup spoon,” you say flatly. 

“Can I keep it?” he asks, twisting it around to look at it more carefully.

“No, Dazai, you can’t keep my spoon.”

Dazai pouts at you but then lets out a heavy, disappointed sigh as he gives the soup one last wary look before taking his first spoonful of soup. For a split second, you watch with bated breath to see his reaction to it, but then his face lights up as he spoons up another mouthful of the soup. You pretend that you’re not entirely pleased and smug that he likes the soup you made him, but you can’t help yourself from making a snide comment.

“So after all of that, you like it,” you say dryly. 

Dazai scowls. “I’m just hungry,” he disagrees, but his cheeks are flushed pink. “That’s all.”

“Sure,” you agree blandly.

“It’s true.”

You don’t say anything else after that, staring at the wall as Dazai scarfs down the entire bowl of soup because whenever you look at him, he stops mid-spoonful and waits for you to look away again. You think he’s ridiculous and want to roll your eyes, but you also can’t help the fondness that blooms in you as you pull your knees to your chest and wait for him to finish.

It’s not long before you hear the spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl. When you look over at him, you see the frown on his face as he looks down at the bowl—as if he hadn’t realized that he’d finished all of the soup already. You nudge his shoulder with yours, drawing his attention away from the empty bowl. 

“There’s more in the pot if you want it,” you offer, watching as a conflicted expression crosses his face as he looks back down at the bowl. “It’s gonna go to waste if you don’t. I ate earlier.”

Finally, Dazai mutters, “Only because you’re forcing me.”

You give him a flat look but don’t say anything else, taking the bowl from him and making your wait out of the bedroom to the kitchen. It’s been a little over a day since you first got him in your apartment. It’s dark again, the moon high in the sky and stars glittering prettily—you pause at the towering windows in your living room to look up at the sky and you find yourself thinking of Dazai. 

Or, of his eyes that is.

When you hear people talk about Dazai, they mostly talk about his mass of terrifying feats. They talk about how he’s sixteen and already in command of one of the Port Mafia’s most elite combat squads, they talk about how he’s sixteen and rivaling the Colonel’s success rate on operations, they talk about how he’s on track to be the next promoted executive whenever there’s another opening. They talk about how his blood is blacker than anyone else in the upper echelon, they talk about how he was born to be one of them. You can never tell if they’re scared of him or if they admire him—probably both, and you think they’re probably more scared than anything. 

They also talk about his eyes. Eye. Whatever. Too dark, too emotionless, too dull. Soulless, hollow, creepy. They’re uncomfortable meeting his gaze—they say he’s inhuman, that only a demon could have eyes so hauntingly empty. 

You think they’re wrong, they remind you more of the night sky than anything else.

You love the stars. 

You sigh as you walk over to the kitchen and pour the rest of the soup into the bowl. You heat it back up in the microwave for a few seconds before bringing it back over to the spare bedroom where Dazai is staying. You think you’ve probably not been gone for more than two minutes, but by the time you’re back, Dazai is curled up beneath the covers again, dozing off. 

He doesn’t notice you enter the room and you watch him for a moment, tilting your head to the side as take note of the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes flutter as his eyes droop shut. There’s still sweat beaded on his forehead, a faint flush over his cheeks that proves the fever is still running him down—you find your lips curving up, you think he’s much more pleasant when he doesn’t speak. 

He only jerks back awake when you take a few steps closer to him, eyes wild with panic as if he was surprised by your presence. He doesn’t seem to recognize you for a moment but when he does, he visibly relaxes, brows furrowing in confusion as if he didn’t realize he’d started falling asleep.

“You can sleep if you’re tired,” you say as you place the soup down on the nightstand and take a seat on the edge of the bed next to him. “I can heat up the soup later.”

Dazai stares at you with an unreadable expression, he looks like he wants to ask you something or say something but his lips remain sealed shut. After a few moments, he sits up silently and shifts into a sitting position. Your shoulders brush and his thigh is pressed against yours as he starts to eat the soup carefully again, slower this time.

Too slow, you realize almost a second too late when Dazai’s head lolls to the side and he nearly drops a whole spoonful of soup onto the bed. Luckily, you’re quick enough to grab the bowl and catch the spoon and soup before it hits the sheets. His head drops on your shoulder and that fondness in your chest starts to spread again. 

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Dazai so at peace before, and yes, it might be because he’s half dead with exhaustion, but you think it’s a welcome difference from the tight expressions you’ve seen from him when you happen to cross paths with him at headquarters. When he’s not Dazai Osamu, but the Demon Prodigy, the Black Wraith, cold and distant, intimidating and cruel, not a sixteen-year-old boy who dislikes carrots and has a fascination with soup spoons. You think back to his refusal to believe that you were helping him of your own free will and you can’t help but frown a bit.

You let him lay on your shoulder for a second longer than necessary before shifting him back into a lying position and tucking him beneath the comforter. You sigh as you take a seat next to him, back against the headboard as you pull out your phone to shoot a text to Chuuya so you can let him know that Dazai is doing better.

You yawn as you think to yourself that you’ll stay a bit longer—watch over Dazai to make sure he doesn’t get worse again before heading back up to your own room… but you find yourself sinking into the mattress, a bit too sleepy and a bit too comfortable…

Dazai feels better the next time he wakes up. 

He yawns as he shifts in bed to nuzzle into the thick blankets and soft pillows. He feels warm, comfortable, surrounded by a familiar and pleasant scent that leaves his defenses dangerously low. A bit alarmed by how at ease he feels, Dazai’s eyes fly open, trying to figure out where the fuck he is and why the fuck he feels so good.

He tries to sit up, but there’s a weight pressed against his side that makes him pause, so he turns his head to the side slowly, unsure of what he’s going to find. He freezes when he sees you propped up against the headboard next to him, fast asleep, neck turned at an uncomfortable angle.

“Friends look out for each other.”

At once, the past day or so comes back to him—most of it is a fog but he vividly remembers him waking up a few hours ago and you whacking him around with pillows until he got some soup in him. He finds his lips curling up into an amused smile as he looks down at you, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest that makes him feel almost… Dazai doesn’t dare to admit it. He’s never had someone take care of him like that before.

He sighs as he reaches out to shift you into a more comfortable position. Carefully, laying you down against the mattress and placing your head on the pillow where his had been resting. He pulls the covers over you and watches as you let out a sleepy hum of appreciation, rubbing your face against the pillow before settling back down into a deep sleep.

His hands drop back down to his lap and he stares at you for a moment, wondering if you meant what you said, wondering if you were telling the truth when you told him Mori hadn’t been the one to send you to check on him, wondering if maybe… 

Wondering if maybe you really did want to be his friend. 

Dazai doesn’t have many friends. He has Oda, but he pretty much forced himself into Oda’s life by almost dying on his doorstep—literally—so he doesn’t think that really counts. Chuuya… well, he pretty much coerces Chuuya into hanging out with him by antagonizing him into video game challenges, so he doesn’t think that really counts either. 

Dazai might not have any friends, actually. 

He decidedly doesn’t like the emotion spreading through him now. It's light and airy and it clings to his black heart dangerously. It blooms in a way that nothing should be able to bloom in the dark. It’s too… feels too close to hope and Dazai knows better than anyone that hope is a dangerous, dangerous emotion—one that he shouldn’t allow to take root in him unless he wants to be hurt in ways that he’s tried to carefully guard himself from.

He should leave.

He should leave now. 

He’s feeling better, there’s no reason for him to stay now that he can move around and think but…

But this bed is so much more comfortable than the floor of his shipping container… The sheets and comforter are warmer than the thin and ripped blanket he uses to cover himself at night… The pillows are so much softer than the clothes he props behind his head as a pillow. Dazai has never slept so well in his entire life—the nights that he is able to sleep are restless and plagued with faces he’d rather forget and voices that haunt him. This is the first time in… well, forever, that he’s been able to sleep peacefully, that he actually feels rested when he wakes up in the morning. The thought of going back to that metal box almost makes his body itch with discomfort. 

He’s just so warm and so comfortable and you smell so nice… and Dazai... for the first time in his life, he feels content.

As soon as Dazai is awake, he feels his eyes drooping back shut just as quickly, breath evening out again as he drifts back to sleep.

“So he’s just… living with you now?” Chuuya asks, baffled.

“I mean, I guess so,” you shrug helplessly. “He just… never left after we brought him there that day.”

Never left and brought his few belongings into the spare room he’d been staying in when he was sick, but you don’t add that part. Honestly, you don’t mind that Dazai has usurped your spare room—your apartment is too big for just you to be living in, you don’t mind the company after spending two years alone in Kyoto and Dazai is fun to be around despite the awful movie he picked on Friday and his terrible taste in food. 

Plus, you think it’s a bit of a much deserved, subtle rebellion from Mori, who has seemed to do everything in his power to make sure that the two of you never have time to interact with each other. You’re still not quite sure why he seems to be against the idea of you and Dazai becoming friends—probably something to do with a future plan of his, or maybe he really is just worried that you’ll distract Dazai from the carefully constructed path Mori has set him down—but you’ve decided that you like Dazai and you want to be his friend whether Mori likes it or not… which is saying a lot, considering you don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more than you want to impress Mori.

He’s not happy with you—you can tell by the disapproving stares and the disappointed comments that make you want to curl in on yourself, and you have a feeling that as soon as this conflict is over with, he’s going to send you right back to Kyoto, but that’s an issue for you to deal with in the future. 

For now, you’ll enjoy not being alone. Not having to watch your back and sleep with one eye open. Having people to rely on. 

Having friends. 

“And you didn’t tell him to get the fuck out?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you do that?” Chuuya demands. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“He lived in a shipping container, Chuuya,” you defend yourself, “and I have a spare bedroom, it’s not a big deal.”

Chuuya stares at you for a moment, gaze sharp and accusatory, and then his expression shifts into one of disgust. “No.”

“Excuse me?” you demand, baffled.

“No. No, no, no. No.” Chuuya shakes his head, taking a step away from you. “You need to see a goddamn shrink. There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“Something wrong with me? What are you even talking about?” 

Chuuya doesn’t even respond, looking severely disturbed as he storms off in the opposite direction, leaving you standing there, perplexed and slightly insulted. 

“What’s the pipsqueak crying about this time? Is it his height or his terrible taste in clothes?” A familiar voice mocks from behind you. 

You brighten a bit at Dazai’s voice, feeling him hanging over your shoulder as he looks over to where Chuuya had left. His cheek brushes yours from how close he is—he has no concept of personal space, you’ve realized in the past few days he’s decided to make himself at home in your apartment, but you don’t really mind.

“Couldn’t tell you,” you answer. “Just ran off mid-conversation.”

Dazai clicks his tongue. “Stupid slug is always getting emotional about something,” he says. “Whatever. More popcorn for me. I finished my assignment early. Movie?”

“You’re not picking this one.”

“What? My movie was great.”

“Hah! If you say so.”

“I do say so, and I have another that you’re gonna looooove.”

“You will literally have to tie me down and clamp my eyes open to make me watch another movie of yours, Dazai.”

“...”

“... Stop looking at me like that.”

“...”

“Dazai!”

[pastafossa]

"From A Squirt Gun, With Love" (Bucky Barnes x F!Reader, Fic)

Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 5's prompt: water gun fight. It's also been a while since I've written for my favorite super soldier, so today's prompt is for Bucky Barnes! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! Side note, once I've got more these will all be edited a bit more and placed on my AO3, so if you lose one, just keep an eye out over there!

Ship: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Wordcount: 1.5k

Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: some suggestive dialogue and innuendo

You couldn’t afford another mistake. 

He’d been hunting you for at least an hour now, stalking you determinedly through the corridors of the compound and the manicured gardens outside. He’d already nailed you half a dozen times. And much to your disbelief, one of those times was because he’d somehow managed to find his way up into the air vents where he could track you unseen. You’d done your best to at least make it a challenge for him, relying on a variety of traps you’d managed to set up ahead of time, but it hadn’t done you as much good as you’d hoped, your hit count a measly two against his six. And now? Now you were running low on ammunition, and just as low on workable options. What was worse, he’d cornered you in the garage. You’d been able to tuck yourself beneath an SUV before he could see you, but there was only one exit—one currently being monitored by your annoyingly precise marksman of a boyfriend. 

You held your breath at the quiet scrape of heavy combat boots scuffing against the concrete floor. If you had to guess, he was wandering around about two rows over and off to your left. He could have bent over and just scanned beneath the cars immediately, but he was enjoying this far too much to let it end that easily. He was toying with you, dragging things out now that he had you boxed in. 

“I know you’re in here, doll,” came his low chuckle. “Come on out, and I’ll go easy on you. Besides, you gotta be soaked by now, and not in the fun way. But I can change that for you if you want. All you gotta do is pop that pretty head up for me.”

Not a chance. 

You weren’t going down without a fight. 

You clutched your water gun tighter, checking the glowing tactical display—you hadn’t even known high-tech water guns existed until Bucky had dropped one into your hands with a grin. “If my girl wants a water gun fight, we’re gettin’ a water gun fight.” 

And what you saw wasn’t good. 

Shit. 

You were down to eighteen percent tank capacity. Anywhere else in the compound, you might have had a chance to reload with one of the buckets you’d both scattered around, but you’d forgotten to put one in the garage. If you didn’t get him with your next shot, you were done. 

“The fact that you’re not out here shootin’ at me like before tells me you’re low.” His voice sounded different now: higher up, and a bit more distant. Had he… climbed on top of the cars? “You need more practice. I’ll admit, I was proud of you when you got that ass shot in, but that ain’t happenin’ again. My turn to get your ass now, darlin’. You gonna give me what’s mine?”

You sucked your lower lip for a moment before carefully edging your way forward, water gun held in front of you just in case he decided to pull a horror movie move and drop into view. It wasn’t easy. The goddamn water gun was shaped more like a shotgun than a super soaker, clunky and a bitch to drag around. The upside was it had an automatic reload so you didn’t have to worry about making any noise while pumping the gun. Its range was good for a water gun, around twenty feet, but not good enough that you could shoot Bucky at distance. You’d need to get close.

One of the cars down the row creaked, tires groaning, presumably as your massive super soldier of a boyfriend strolled along the top of the cars like they were paving stones. That he wasn’t bothering to be silent was… unusual.

“Here, kitty kitty,” he purred, his voice growing fainter as he wandered down towards the other end of the garage. “Where’s my pretty girl gone?”

On the one hand, you enjoyed hearing that tone from him, playful and relaxed, warm and content. He’d grown pretty comfortable with you, open and affectionate, over the time you’d known him. That comfort, that openness with you had only blossomed further as your relationship had morphed into something romantic. But even so, it was still unusual for him to let go like this just so he could have fun. It was progress, and that knowledge filled your heart with a sparkling warmth. 

But you also couldn’t help but be the least bit suspicious, because it would be absolutely like him to use his voice and playful tone to distract you from something. 

You froze again when a pair of boots suddenly appeared on the concrete in front of you, landing without a sound—you’d been right; all the sound a minute ago had been to try to lure you out, make you think he was farther away than he really was. You didn’t dare move, not when the slightest sound might give you away. Slowly, the boots shifted on the concrete as he turned one way, and then the other. Waiting for you to make a run for it. 

But he’d taught you better than that. 

There was the softest, quietest little huff of amusement, or maybe pride, instead. But instead of heading off, he began to kneel. 

Shit, shit, shit—

He was going to duck down and look under the car. He knew you were here, he had to. He had to. Could you shift the angle of your water gun before he leaned down and saw you—

Fortunately for you, it became clear a second later that he was only lowering himself into a crouch. You stilled again in the shadows beneath the SUV, your gun still aimed cautiously at his legs.

Speaking of which, you had a really good view of his thighs at this angle. With him crouched the way he was, his thighs looked even thicker than usual, deliciously hard muscle covered in old denim. The round curve of his ass looked just as good where he filled out his jeans, though the dark splotch on the tight fabric made you grin. It was a testament to one of the only two shots you’d managed to hit him with. Sure, he’d shot you twice in the ass in retaliation, but it had been absolutely worth it. 

He settled onto the balls of his feet, rocking a little back and forth. You heard a soft whir, before his metal hand appeared in your view. Your heart skipped a beat, a droplet of maybe-water-maybe-sweat rolling down your temple. Only… his hand didn’t appear to be going for you like you’d expected. Instead, it slipped down to the concrete. One metal fingertip gleaming in the fluorescent lighting, it brushed lightly at the droplets of water drying on the concrete. 

Fresh droplets. 

From you. 

Crap. 

His head appeared beneath the SUV as he leaned over to meet your eye. Then he flashed you a feral grin. “Hi doll,” he said smugly. “Hi Bucky. I love you,” you said fondly, and shot him in the face. 

His head reared back as he spat out a curse, frantically swiping the water away from his face. It gave you just enough time for you to squirm out from under the SUV and take off down row between the cars, your sneakers slapping against the concrete, the wind blowing your hair back. If you could get to the door before he did, you could turn around and lock him in. It wouldn’t keep him here forever, but it might buy you a few minutes to reload. 

Based on the rapidly pounding footsteps behind you, though, you weren’t even going to get close. Not when it sounded like he was charging after you with every last bit of super-soldier-powered speed he had. You needed another plan, or else—

Something slammed hard against one of the cars behind you, startling you enough to make you stumble. In that brief moment of distraction, Bucky had vaulted himself up off the car and over your head. 

His broad form landed smoothly in front of you in one easy motion, dropping into a crouch. He rose slowly, powerful muscle gradually uncoiling inch by inch, until finally he loomed up over you, water gun held ominously in one hand. His pale eyes had gone dark with heat, pupils blown wide as he fixated on you: his prey. He took one prowling step forward, a flash of pink from his tongue as he lazily licked the droplets of water away from his mouth.

“You shot me,” he rumbled hungrily. “I should be mad. But damn, doll. That was hot.” “Hot enough to stop you from shooting me back?” you asked hopefully.

“Not a chance,” he said with a smirk, before firing a blast of cold water directly at your abdomen. You let out another shriek, turning to sprint away from him, a trail of damp footprints left behind. And if your shriek was half laughter, well, his playful growl was just as full of joy as he took off after you. 

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Gold Dust

Pairing: Modern Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Public use of an app based sex toy, smut. Word count: ~1.8k

Summary: Aemond's office Christmas party is the last thing either of them want to attend, however, he comes up with an idea to make it fun for both of them.

Author's note: Can be read as an addition of this series, but also works as a standalone. Day seven of the Smuffmas prompts - "sharing a drink and toys". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Aemond edit in first picture is by @kyloremus.

It’s been six blissful months since her and Aemond moved in together. Having decided his own lofty high rise flat no longer felt like home - in truth, it never had - he’d offered a swap with Mysaria, and she’d leapt at the offer.

Aemond’s flat was paid for outright, so there’d be no expenses incurred on her part, beyond standard bills and utilities. She suited the space, adding a touch of glamour to the modern matte black and chrome surroundings. Her jaw had dropped when he’d handed her the deeds, his grandfather’s law firm already having handled the necessary paperwork and transfer of ownership. Aemond didn’t want rent, he simply wanted to live with the woman he loved. The simple act of Mysaria giving them a space to be by themselves was payment enough in his mind.

The security of the smaller, more homely feeling flat which she now shared with him had been trickier to negotiate. The landlord had snubbed Aemond’s initial offer to buy it from him, insisting he’d make more in rental payments from it than he would if he sold it. Some moderate pressure applied by the legal team of Otto Hightower, and an offer well above its current market value had soon seen to that, so now they were homeowners of a place that was theirs.

Mysaria’s old room had been turned into a home office, a space where either her or Aemond could work from home if and when they wanted to, aside from that they had made no further changes. The cosy little space was where they had shared their fondest memories, and every aspect of their relationship was woven into it.

She shrugs off her coat, hanging it up by the front door, and sighs in relief as the warmth of the central heating prickles her skin. She stoops to ruffle Vhagar behind the ears, a reward for the elderly doberman having reluctantly left her bed to greet her, before walking through to the living room. The blankets on the sofa are exactly as she’d left them the previous evening, and she eagerly retreats back into her nest, snatching up the TV remote from the coffee table.

“Good day?” Aemond asks, propping himself against the door frame as he emerges from the home office, the faintest smirk of amusement playing upon his lips as he looks at her.

She regards him with a warm smile, her features softening instantly despite how tired and irritated she feels. “Horrid, thanks for asking. Do we have any wine left?”

“There’ll be wine at the party, I expect,” he says, moving to sit next to her and brushing a chaste kiss against her temple.

“What?”

He narrows his eye at her, drawing back to look at her carefully. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

She groans as realisation dawns upon her. “Shit, your office Christmas party. Do we really have to go?”

He sighs, nodding and interlocks his fingers with hers. “Ordinarily, I’d give it a miss, you know I loathe parties, but my grandfather has called in more than a few favours for me this year. I owe him this.”

An hour later, and she steps out of the bedroom, hair and make-up finished and a slinky silk dress hugging her curves.

“Beautful,” Aemond breathes quietly, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips.

She smiles bashfully, feeling her skin heat up beneath the weight of his compliment as he pulls away, and watches with curiosity as he moves past her to rummage around on the top shelf of their wardrobe.

“What are you doing?”

“Your outfit’s missing something,” he tells her, pulling down the Lovehoney box, a glint in his eye as he turns to her.

“Aemond, no!”

The app controlled egg vibrator had been a drunken purchase on her behalf, that she’d regretted the moment it had arrived. Upon discovering it, Aemond’s reaction had been much more enthusiastic, kneeling between her spread legs and watching in fascination as she’d whimpered and writhed as he’d played with the settings using the app on his phone.

It had been fun at the time, but she’d considered it impractical and tucked it away, hoping he’d forgotten about it. It’s clear now that he hasn’t.

“Oh come now, darling, it’ll make the evening much more fun for both of us. Consider it an early Christmas gift to me.”

It doesn’t take much persuading, and soon she is sitting in the back of a black cab next to him, her coat pulled tight around her against the chilly December air, made colder still by a distinct lack of knickers, which Aemond had insisted she leave behind.

She is acutely aware of the feeling of the egg enveloped snugly inside of her, its presence, though discreet, making her feel as though she brandishes a scarlet letter that their taxi driver must be aware of.

“No!” She mouths desperately at Aemond as he pulls his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the app.

He flashes her the briefest of grins, tapping once on the screen. A mild singular buzz reverberates through her, causing her to clasp a hand over her mouth to muffle her squeal. Aemond eyes her carefully, poking at the inside of his cheek with his tongue before pocketing his phone once more.

Tonight was going to be interesting.

They step into the office, already bustling with people, chatter and light classical music fill the opulent space which is decked out in rich, mahogany furnishings and forest green upholstery, ever the indication that the Hightowers come from old money.

“There they are!” Aegon greets them loudly with a grin, arms spread and half drunk flutes of champagne clutched by the stem between each of his fingers. His shoulder length blonde hair is tousled, and his white shirt is open by three buttons.

“How long have you been here?” She asks, taking in his bedraggled appearance.

“‘Bout twenty minutes,” he slurs around a mouthful of vol-au-vent.

Otto steps up behind him, placing a ring clad hand upon his shoulder. “I tell you where you might like it, Aegon, on the terrace; outside.”

She watches with amusement as the older man leads him away.

“I’d better give him a hand,” Aemond mutters quietly, the warmth of his palm leaving her lower back as he moves to follow. He nods towards his older sister. “Good to see you, Hel.”

She smiles warmly at Hel leaning in as the two peck each other’s cheeks. “How are you doing?” She asks fondly.

“Starving!” Helaena complains, pulling her sheer turquoise wrap tighter around herself and waving away a tray of canapés that’s being offered around by a member of serving staff. “Not a single vegan option here, everything’s either got salmon in it or is slathered in cream cheese.”

“You could always sneak off to grab something?” She offers sympathetically.

“Aeg said there’s a kebab shop over the road. I might see if he’ll grab me a falafel wrap later. Anyway,” she continues, snatching up two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and handing one to her. “How are you?!”

“Yeah, really good!” She grins. “Aemond mentioned we might fly to New York for New Year’s, go and see Daeron. I’ve not met him yet and I– oh!”

She bows her head, biting back the quiet moan that tries to escape her, as the egg inside her vibrates incessantly. Her head snaps up, making eye contact with Aemond, who stands in a corner with his phone out, a sly smile upon his face.

Bastard.

“You alright?” Helaena asks, eyebrows pinched together in concern.

“Mhm…just...champagne bubbles…they go right up my nose!” She feigns a laugh, embarrassment making her skin feel hot.

Ever the dutiful girlfriend, she does her rounds of the office, speaking to colleagues and family members alike, though every interaction is thwarted by sudden and persistent vibrations between her legs.

After an hour of polite chit chat with Alicent, Criston, Otto and several other party guests, she leans back against the wall next to Aemond’s office door, needing a breather from socialising, but also feeling lightheaded from the intermittent throbbing in her core.

The door swings slowly open and Aemond steps out, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in hand.

“Having fun?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Mmm,” she narrows her eyes, “you clearly are. What’s that you’ve got?”

“Laphroaig,” he tells her, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Thirty six year old The Wall Peat, to be precise. Grandfather would never offer this around to the guests. Lucky for me I know he keeps it stashed in his bottom desk drawer.”

“Lucky indeed,” she purrs up at him.

He grabs her hand, pulling her into his office and closes the door behind them, before backing her up against the desk, until she perches on the edge.

“Let me see,” he whispers, pushing her dress up above her hips.

His free hand applies gentle pressure to her knee, spreading her legs, and she watches the bob of his throat as he swallows thickly, taking in the sight of the arousal that coats her centre.

“Fuck,” he mutters darkly. “The idea of you walking around making innocent small talk while you’re soaked is driving me mad.”

She giggles, clenching around the egg that’s nestled within her as she sees his gaze darken. Aemond pulls out his phone again, changing the setting to a constant vibrate, before setting it down on the desk behind her.

Mewling helplessly, shockwaves of pleasure ripple through her as Aemond’s thumb swipes against her sodden folds, spreading her open to watch intently.

He takes a sip from his glass, and she gasps as he grabs her forcefully by the hair at the back of her head, crushing her lips against his and letting the whisky pass from his mouth to hers. She moans quietly, the intensity of the burn of the liquid that slips down her throat and the throbbing ache between her legs making her feel dizzy.

She is devastatingly close, can feel the pressure building to boiling point, and she whines, pressing her face into the crook of Aemond’s neck, fingertips rumpling the fabric of his black button down shirt as she grasps his biceps for purchase. “Fuck, Aemond, I–”

“It’s alright, I’ve got you, let go,” he coos.

She bites down on the juncture of his neck to muffle her pleasured cry, earning her a startled grunt from Aemond. Her body spasms around the toy, climaxing with a force that makes her toes curl inside of her high heels, before going limp against his chest.

He settles his glass down and strokes her hair before pulling back. His long, dexterous fingers wrap around the cord of egg, and despite how gentle he is as he tugs it free, she still hisses with overstimulation as it leaves her body. The sudden feeling of emptiness is alien to her after having spent most of the evening with it inside of her.

“Can…can we go home now?” She asks tiredly, as he wraps the toy in tissue and deposits it on the desk.

“Hmmm, not just yet,” Aemond tells her, taking her hand and guiding it to palm over the erection that strains against the confines of his suit trousers. “I’m not quite finished with you yet.”

Chapter five || Series masterlist

[bonelessghoul]

In the Shadows of Chains

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x femaleOC (probably feels more like a reader but I named her Julia bc typing out y/n was getting on my nerves lol)

Words: 5.5k

Warnings: def 18+ for unprotected seggs and a short and sweet smut scene, otherwise just mild descriptions of violence in the arena

Summary: Julia Valentis, the daughter of a newly appointed Senator, welcomes home her General in secret after almost a year apart. Things are different this time though and neither want their relationship to continue in secret. However, Julia suspects her father may have made other plans for her future when a certain emperor takes interest in her.

Authors note: can’t believe this is what took me out of my hiatus but here we are, in all fairness I didn’t really thoroughly edit this before deciding to post so pls be kind <3 or don’t, it’s okay. I hope you all enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the heart of Rome, celebration roared under the golden light that spilled from hanging lamps. An excess of good spirits filled the air as much as it filled the goblets of the elite. The warm light and abundance of laughter reverberated off of the marble floors and the mosaics above their heads. It was more dreamy than even common folk could imagine. With the twins in power, most nights were like this.

Julia Valentis stood near the edge of the atrium, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her goblet out of boredom.

She watched the crowd with a practiced and mastered detachment, offering polite nods to passing senators and their wives. Their gazes were not as subtle as they seemed and the same ones who watched her grow were now the same ones pressuring her father to marry her off. Since her father’s appointment, she’s been careful not to draw any attention to herself. She didn’t want her future under scrutiny as futile as that seemed.

Regardless, her focus was elsewhere as she leaned her shoulder against the cold stone of the column beside her.

Marcus Acacius, the General, stood at the center of the gathering, towering in his uniform of white and gold, surrounded by admirers eager to hear tales of his triumphs abroad. She too eagerly awaited his arrival, its anticipation creating a knot in her stomach all day. But even now, as she watched from afar, she knew she could not have him under the eyes of her father and his fellow Senators.

Instead, she watched as his eyes drifted around through conversation until they found hers.

It was only a glance, but it was enough.

Even after several months without his presence in the city, the soft eyes from across the room reeled her in as it did the day he left. The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile, a gesture meant only for her as though it may seem it was for whoever he was speaking to.

Julia felt her heart quicken, warmth blooming in her chest every time. She looked away quickly, playing oblivious.

They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, not since the night before his departure. She had wished him well in the shadows of her father’s garden, her fingers grazing his face as she whispered her fears for his safety. Now, he was back, and though he stood surrounded by Rome’s most powerful and most lustful, the weight of his gaze made her feel as though they were alone.

As the night wore on, Julia carefully wove her way through the crowd, her movements deliberate and unhurried.

Occasionally, she was pulled into polite conversation in regards to her future. But she was able to escape as fast as they caught her. Marcus did the same, stepping away from his admirers under the guise of needing a moment to breathe.

The gardens that stretched out from the villa signified the day they first met.

Even though she could not see him, Julia followed the musk of flowers and herbs under the moonlight and remnants of light from the party. She was met with a gentle breeze that made it intoxicating, between the chase and the richness of the gardens. Her robes of varying shades of blues were a thin veil between the air and the goosebumps that rose on her skin, but she nearly blended in with the night—it’s what made it so easy to sneak up on Marcus.

In the furthest corner of the garden away from prying eyes, only Julia was capable of sneaking upon the General and without a moments hesitation she pounced and wrapped her arms around his shoulder with a small leap.

“You have to be more careful, General. Someone could hurt you out here.”

Under his armor that she could barely wrap her arm around, she felt him tense but he turned, meeting her embrace and despite being startled, his eyes softened quickly at the sight of her.

“You’re here,” he murmured, his voice raw, a smile creeping upon his face.

One strong arm wrapped around her, pulling her close against his large frame and the other cupping her face. The moonlight caressed every inch of her skin, a white sparkle to her eyes that looked up at him adoringly as they began to prick with tears. Marcus himself looked to be in disbelief that she was even here, the mere thought of her leaving crumbling him in that moment.

“Of course I’m here,” she replied, her own voice trembling with emotion. “How could I not be?”

He kissed her then, a desperate, searching kiss that spoke of a year’s worth of longing and unspoken words. She melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as if to anchor him down to her. They melded together, shadows dancing across their features like they would slip away into the darkness itself.

When they finally broke apart, Marcus rested his forehead against hers, his breath uneven. “I thought of you every day,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her hand slid down his arm, her fingers brushing the cool metal of his bracer.

“And I thought of you,” she said softly. “Every day, I prayed for your safe return.”

For a moment, there was only silence, the kind that carried the weight of everything they couldn’t say. The tears that pricked her eyes had snuck through, and she thought of every night she cried when she missed him most. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw something else—a shadow, a burden he hadn’t carried before. Suddenly, her childish tears felt small.

“Marcus,” she said, her tone shifting, “what is it? What happened?”

He turned away, his jaw tightening. “I did what was required of me. What the Emperor demanded. Now I am home.”

Her hand found his, and she squeezed it gently. Since they first found each other in this very space, it was no secret that the honor he carried had a heavier weight behind it.

She cupped his face to keep his eyes on hers.

“The cost is feeling greater, is it not?”

His shoulders sagged, the proud soldier’s facade cracking as his own hands wrapped her wrists.

“Villages burned, families torn apart. It’s what they call victory, but it feels like—” He stopped, unable to finish the thought.

Julia stepped closer, if that was even possible.

“You carry the weight of the Empire on your shoulders, Marcus. But that weight doesn’t define who you are. You cannot let this guilt break you down.”

He looked at her, his expression a mixture of gratitude and anguish. “And what am I, Julia? A weapon in service of men who care only for power?”

“You are more than that,” she insisted, her voice firm. “You are kind. You are brave. And you are mine, if only in moments like these.”

Her words broke through the darkness in his eyes, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe them. He pulled her into his arms, holding her as though she might vanish.

“And you, my love are that and more.” Marcus said with a heavy exhale. “I’ve missed your voice, even your small hands trying to subdue me.”

Julia chuckled, her cheek rested on his chest. No matter how garnished with his valor, she felt his heart thumping beneath her ear and her soul was at peace, her own heart beating with his once again.

“These hands can do a lot more than attack you in a garden.”

But the sound of voices from the atrium reminded them of reality. Marcus pulled back reluctantly, his hand brushing a stray curl from her face.

“We can’t stay,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.

“No,” she agreed, though her heart ached to remain in his embrace. “But we’ll have this.”

He nodded, his lips brushing her forehead before he stepped away, disappearing into the shadows of the garden. Julia remained for a moment longer, her hands trembling as she steeled herself to return to the party.

When she finally reentered the atrium, her gaze found Marcus again. He stood among the crowd, his expression unreadable, but when their eyes met, she saw the truth; the way his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes as he endured the words of praise.

No matter what happened, they would always find each other and she had to take comfort in that if nothing else at all.

~

The early light of dawn crept into the house of the General, tapping upon Julia’s eyelids as the sky grew the slightest bit brighter and she awoke with a sharp inhale. Her head turned and even as she registered the soft silk sheets she lie in, she still had to make sure Marcus was beside her. To no surprise, he lay there on his back, head slack as it faced her and her heart thrummed at the softness in his expression as his chest slowly rose and fell.

She wondered when he had last slept like this; certainly before he departed in the first place. A soft and tired smile made its way upon her lips and she shuffled herself closer, careful not to wake him as her hand rested upon his chest.

Julia dreamt of moments like these while he was gone. Even while her father tried his hardest to make her into a suitable wife for others, she never stopped thinking of him. She wondered if her father new that, but since his new role as a senator, the hope for freedom in choice was dwindling. His newfound sense of influence had reached its claws into her own life now.

Deep in thought, her eyes had shut again but she felt her General stir beneath her hand and before she knew it, his body enveloped her and pulled her closer to the warmth he emanated.

“I must be dreaming.” Marcus said, voice still raspy from slumber.

A smile crept on her face as she looked up at him, lips pressing against the stubble on his jawline. She felt his muscles pull into a grin and then his face angled down towards hers to meet her lips. Their fullness pushed against hers as his hand slid from her back to her bottom. In the tangle of the cool sheets he lifted her leg over his hip and her entire core tensed.

“It’s not a dream, my love. Nor was the night before.” Julia said breathlessly between kisses.

Even as the cool morning air gusted through the room, the heat that rose in her chest was undeniably creeping up to her cheeks as they lazily kissed each other and pulled each other closer.

“Marcus,” Julia whispered, her breath itching as his fingers slid down to the lips between her legs.

He hummed against her neck where his lips caressed the most sensitive of spots where her pulse met the curve of her shoulder. Her nails dug into his shoulder blade, the other in his hair, and as his fingers slipped inside her entire body arched into him. A small gasp escaped her lips.

“Yes?” he asked slyly, lips finding her own again.

Marcus guided his body atop hers, her back flat across the sheets and fingers still gliding in and out of her. He deepened his motions, a soft moan reverberating through her chest as he retreated them momentarily. The pleasure came in small waves at first.

“Marcus.” Julia whined, her voice firmer now as she looked at the cunning glare to his eyes. But it was then that she realized how his hair sat in different directions from his sleep, and she couldn’t resist her giggle as she looked up at it.

“You mock me? When I have you at my finger tips?”

She gasped with a faux sense of betrayal, watching as him and his hair a mess from bed creeped down her abdomen.

“My love, I would never mock you.” Julia grinned. “Please forgive me— and put your fingers back where they were.”

He looked up at her through his brows, kisses trailing down her abdomen, sending trills of flutters through her spine with every touch. Her head dipped back as she inched her hips closer to him, but his lips did not quite find her core just yet. Instead, they trailed around her thighs, firmly pressing against the space between her thigh and the one spot that yearned for his touch.

“Please, Marcus.” Julia moaned, fingers clawing through his hair.

But his arms wrapped around her thighs, one hand creeping up to her breast and the other finger taunting the wetness that seeped from her, he didn’t budge. He resisted the gentle pull you made in his dark, graying locks of hair.

“Please, what carissima?” He asked, his breath hot against you as his lips neared closer to your throbbing core.

She grinned, chuckling menacingly and interrupting herself with a soft gasp as his fingers played with the folds, nearing dangerously closer to the inside and creating a painful throb to her muscles. The waves of pleasure grew larger, lulling against her soul.

“Must you make me beg? After so long away from you?” Julia groaned, her breasts tender from his movement and pulling her closer.

“I want to know if you still lust for me after my time away.”

“I did. Last night.” She answered in a huff, moaning as lips grew closer to her clit.

“I want to hear it again.” he said, tongue creeping out to where his fingers play.

She felt drenched at his command, her body inching closer and hands wrapped around his hair and his wrist, clutching it so hard it would leave a mark.

“You are such a brute, Marcus.” Julia cried. “Fuck me like I haven’t seen you in a year.” she said with annoyance.

If she could slap him she would, when she felt the grin of his lips against her thigh. But he didn’t fail to deliver to her begging and as his warm tongue met her folds his fingers slipped in as well, and Julia cried out. Her entire will bent at his mouth this very second, the heat rising in her chest as the muscles of her core tightened. In this moment, not a worry outside these walls existed as she grew closer to her climax, the smallest beads of sweat creeping at her temple.

Every stroke of his tongue, every movement of his fingers, was deliberate. He knew her body as well as he knew the battlefield, and he was determined to conquer her completely. Julia’s cries filled the room, her fingers gripping the sheets as her release washed over her like a tidal wave.

“Marcus,” Julia said breathlessly. “Don’t finish me just yet.”

He looked up at her, eyes adoringly lifting as he caught his breath. His fingers still glided through her folds, pushing deeper still, as he looked at her and it was as beautiful as the murals painted in their most prestigious buildings. He was carved from her and in this moment melded into her with every thrust into her.

“Oh, I have no intentions of finishing you here.” Marcus said, pushing himself up on his arms, the muscles gleaming in the early morning light that just barely pierced his windows.

There was a faint disappointment of the feeling at her core dissipating but she was eager for him to truly be inside of her.

He crept up so his face was above hers, her lips slightly parted in the awe at his beauty and the dominance that he bestowed upon her. She felt his cock slowly push up against her, the wetness guiding him in with ease. She moaned, looking into his eyes as dark as the night itself, watching his brows furrow as he pushed himself inside of her.

“You call for me, carrisima.” he said arrogantly, slowly pushing himself in.

“No, you call for me.” Julia said through breaths, pitch high as she wrapped her arms around his back.

He thrust into her, forearm up against the sideline of her head while the other hand became entangled in her hair. Their eyes never left each other and Julia felt alive with every thrust, knowing he was home and he was here once again no matter the secrecy. Nothing could undermine the love she felt for him as especially now as his body towered hers.

“I do call for you.” he grunted, hand pulling at her hair and arching her neck. “Every night I was gone; I counted the days until you were mine again.”

His pace quickened as did her heart beat, a whimper escaping her lips when he came down upon her, burying his face in her neck as he thrust into her. The sweat and the sweet kisses shared between them were not enough, and her legs wrapped around him to pull him in.

She pulled him in, pulling in the feeling of her core tightening with every cry she made upon his neck.

“Oh, Marcus…” Julia breathed. “I’m so close.”

“I know.” he rasped, withdrawing ever so slightly just to see her face. “I know.”

Her walls tightened around him and her legs began to quake, her climax nearing as his cock pushed against her boundaries. She called his name and his lips found hers, the moans passing through the General’s lips reverberating against her own as the climax poured out over him and his poured into her. Her legs relaxed and his body slumped over her, their breaths catching and the silence that filled the room now lingering over them.

“I love you, Julia.” Marcus exhaled, finally pulling his cock from her stiff muscles, leaving behind the warmth that still lingered in her amongst her own.

“And I love you, Marcus.” she smiled, looking at him as the earliest sunlight created a halo around his head.

Her heart ached with the knowledge that this moment, stolen from the chaos of their lives, could not last. Even as they remained tangled in the sheets of his chambers, faces flushed and hearts racing, Julia ran through a list of all the things she had to face once she left his room.

Marcus’s brown eyes softened, a sight not often seen from the hardened General.

“I know that look. What troubles you?” he asked, hand stroking her cheek as she lay her head on his chest.

“It pains me to leave you.”

Marcus kissed her forehead, a simple gesture that made her wish to be confined to this bed forever. But his silence at her confession only made her more wary now and she raised her body to look down on him. It was then that she could sense his own mind deep in thought by the way his eyes averted hers.

“And what troubles you?” Julia asked firmly, leaning her arms on his chest as he held her close.

“Too much for you to bear, my love.” Marcus sighed.

Her brows furrowed, and she scoffed. “I may not be a solider in your army but I am tougher than I look. You know that.”

The way his eyes seemed to find the ceiling and a weight settled on his shoulders, Julia could sense his wavering certainty and it created a sense of doubt within her own mind. Was he going to tell her they couldn’t do this anymore? Had he found someone else abroad? She remained as stoic as stone as her heart started to tear itself apart on mere hypotheticals.

“Have you considered…”Marcus began, “telling your father? His initial disapproval I feel may be changed now.”

Her head tilted, the words not registering at first.

“About us?”

Marcus’s eyes finally met hers and now, she was stumped as he was. It wasn’t a horrible idea upon his return, knowing the twins have offered him much praise in his honor even if it meant little to them. Things were more different than they were at the beginning of their fleeting romance and the prospect of making it real was unfathomable.

She never considered it a real possibility before. She had the luxury of avoiding the reality of her life; the reality of having to marry, the reality of her father as a senator, and more. Her life had been only recently been measured in these moments with Marcus and she never once considered any implications beyond it.

“You would truly want that? My life and yours, bound together even with your coming and going?”

Marcus looked at her like she had struck him. It took her by surprise and even she was surprised, the words not feeling real as they even passed from his lips.

“How could you think I wouldn’t want the rest of my life to be spent with yours?” he asked.

Tears pricked Julia’s eyes and she laughed. A misconceived emotion for the moment she tried to refrain but she laughed again as the tears blurred her vision. They were all stemmed from a joy that blossomed from her chest, one that became overwhelming as she rested her chin on his chest. Her entire body tensed at the thought of an average life with him and the dreams became a momentary reality.

“I will talk to him after the games today.” Julia said, exasperated by the mere thought.

Marcus stroked her hair off her face as she looked up at him. Their bliss was temporary now, but Julia could only dream of a time where it wasn’t—where it could be every day. The love she felt under his gaze was as warm as the sun, and she would risk everything to stay in bask in it longer. But the morning was creeping in and as was the time she was meant to be home. Her cover could only be hid by so many shadows

She dressed quietly, leaving him a dozen more stolen kisses before slipping into the still-silent villa.

~

The city was stirring by the time she arrived home. Her father was already preparing for the day’s events, servants bustling around him as they made ready for the games.

Julia moved through her morning routine with the ease of someone accustomed to suppressing her emotions, though her mind remained on Marcus—on his touch, his words, the way he had held her as though she were the only thing tethering him to the world. All she could think of was this evening when she could ask her father about the idea of marrying the General. In these times they had to tread carefully with matters such as this and even still, the question was hanging on the tip of her tongue the entire day.

By the time she and her father arrived at the arena, the seats were already filling with Rome’s finest and she was dressed the most beautifully among them. Since becoming Senator, her father has afforded not just staff by those who had become close friends to Julia. Today, he commanded they make her look fit for a princess; it made her wonder if he already knew what she planned to ask today.

The roar of the crowd, eager for blood and glory, echoed across the massive amphitheater. Julia took her place near her father among the other Senators, her seat positioned to reflect her family’s status without drawing undue attention. Across the way, Marcus stood among the other honored soldiers, his crimson cloak catching the sunlight. She could feel him enter the arena without so much as looking his way, but when she did, she found him.

Their eyes met briefly, a fleeting moment that sent warmth through her despite the cold marble beneath her. She offered him a subtle smile—small enough to avoid suspicion but enough for him to see. Marcus’ gaze lingered, his tension visible even from a distance. Flashbacks of their morning and the prior night flashed through her eyes, a ripple running through her at the thought.

It was then that Julia noticed another gaze lingering on her: the piercing, calculating eyes of Geta.

The Emperor’s reclined lazily in their seats, a goblet of wine in hand. His smile was sharp and humorless as he studied her, almost mocking, as though she were another prize to be won in the games below. Julia forced herself to look away, her stomach twisting with unease.

“Lady Julia,” Geta’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise of the crowd.

She was not so easily deflecting.

His tone was pleasant, almost disarming, but there was a cruelty in his eyes that made her blood run cold. A hungry look to them that made her feel exposed.

“Would you do us the honor of presenting the laurel to our champion today?”

The part of the arena of which she sat in fell quiet, every eye turning toward her. Even her father seemed caught off guard, his expression carefully neutral as he inclined his head toward her.

“I would be honored.” Julia choked out, her tone perfectly unfazed.

The pale boy smirked grossly. “Then perhaps you would not mind the view of the games from here instead.”

Julia felt herself pale to the sickly color of him and his brother.

“Go, my dear. It is a great honor.”

It wasn’t so much as an honor as much it was that she didn’t have a choice.

Julia rose slowly, her heart pounding.

The honor of this was true among her new social circle, but anyone who had the slightest ounce of the twins and their antics would not be so easily calmed as a random subject of their amusement.

She felt Marcus’ gaze on her, sharp and protective, but she dared not look his way. Instead, she focused on keeping her steps measured and her expression serene as she ascended the steps to where royalty sat.

His brother, Caracalla laughed maniacally at her arrival and the small monkey upon his shoulder cried to her at the same pitch that made her jump just a little. She bowed to the Emperor’s and she was startled to see Geta’s hand reach out. Politely, she took it as he guided her to a chair brought out for her besides Lucilla who only cast her a warm smile that disappeared as quickly as it flashed upon her face.

Julia’s stomach was spun into knots, so much so it kept her voice trapped deep within as she took a seat. Up above, Marcus sat and she briefly made eye contact with him before turning back to face the fight.

She bore witness to the cruel remarks of the brothers as the fights ensued down below. They offered her a goblet of wine which she gracefully took if it meant she could endure this better.

The crowd roared as the gladiators fought below, their cheers echoing against the massive stone walls of the Colosseum. Julia sat uncomfortably beside Emperor Geta, her back straight and her hands clenched tightly in her lap. The tension in the emperor’s private box was palpable, even as those around them laughed and clapped.

“Do you see that, Lady Julia?” Geta leaned closer, his voice carrying enough volume for others to hear. He gestured toward the arena, where a battered gladiator struggled to stand against his opponent. “He’s weak but refuses to give up. Admirable, isn’t it?”

Julia forced a tight smile, nodding. “Yes, Emperor.”

Geta smirked, clearly unsatisfied with her lackluster response. “Admirable indeed. But tell me, what would you do if you were in his position?” His tone was sharp, a challenge disguised as a casual question.

Julia’s cheeks flushed as the crowd’s attention turned toward her. She could feel Marcus’s eyes on her from where he stood nearby, tension radiating from him.

“Come now, girl,” Geta pressed, his smirk deepening. “You are not shy, are you? Speak up.”

Caracalla chuckled beside her, leaving her more uneasy than she wished.

Julia hesitated, searching for an answer that would satisfy him without betraying her growing discomfort.

“I suppose I would fight until I could no longer stand, as any Roman would.”

Geta laughed loudly, the sound grating. “A brave sentiment from someone who has never lifted a sword.”

And have you lifted a sword in such context, Emperor?

All she could think about was Marcus, a true warrior and honorable man. Perhaps her underlying disdain for the twins was that she witnessed the way they treated him so carelessly. They used him as a weapon of their own and she hated them for it.

The courtiers around them chuckled nervously, but Marcus’s jaw tightened. He watched the emperor’s gaze linger on Julia, the thinly veiled malice in his tone disguised as jest.

“Perhaps,” Geta continued, leaning back in his chair, “we should test that resolve. What do you think, Marcus?” He turned his piercing eyes toward the soldier.

Marcus stiffened but kept his expression neutral. “I think she has answered you wisely, Emperor.”

“Ah, ever the diplomat,” Geta mused, his smirk returning. “But I was hoping for more entertainment. Shall we?”

“Let the tigers out! Rip them limb from limb!” Caracalla cried out.

Julia’s stomach twisted as Geta gestured for one of his attendants, whispering something. Moments later, a young, unarmed slave was ushered into the arena. The crowd fell silent in confusion as a hulking gladiator approached the trembling boy.

“Watch carefully, Julia,” Geta said, his voice dripping with mockery. “This boy is in a position not unlike the one you imagined. Let’s see if he has your resolve.”

Marcus shifted closer to Julia, even as he sat a row behind her she could feel his presence looming in comfort. She flinched at the sight below but forced herself to keep her composure, even as her heart screamed in protest.

As the fight began, Julia clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms.

She didn’t look at Geta, but she could feel his gaze on her, drinking in her discomfort like fine wine. Marcus, meanwhile, was seething quietly, his thoughts a storm of anger and helplessness.

Julia didn’t need to look at him to know he hated this as much as she did. For what reason did she need to be singled out today! Her mind couldn’t wrap her head around it; how she became the source of entertainment for the brothers.

A gladiator, bloodied and triumphant, awaited her at the center. Her mind had gone numb to the bloodshed of the slain down below, not even realizing there was a victor now.

Julia took the laurel crown from an attendant, her hands steady despite the weight of the moment. The crowd cheered as she placed the crown on the gladiator’s head, her voice clear as she proclaimed him victorious.

But when she turned to leave, Geta spoke again, his hand raised to stop her in her steps.

“Stay a moment, Lady Julia,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery as his cold fingers lifted her chin. “Let the people see the face of Roman virtue.”

The crowd roared its approval, and Julia felt the heat of humiliation creep up her neck. She stood still, her posture perfect, her expression composed. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

From his place among the honored guests, Marcus gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. He was a soldier, trained to remain composed, but every instinct in him screamed to intervene. He knew Geta’s game—the prince was testing her, asserting his dominance in a way that only he could get away with.

Julia endured it, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours before Geta finally waved his hand dismissively. She returned to her seat with her head held high, though her heart raced with the effort of maintaining her composure.

When she finally sat down, she allowed herself a brief glance toward Marcus. His expression was stormy, his jaw tight, but when their eyes met, his gaze softened. In that moment, she knew he saw her strength, and it was enough to soothe the lingering ache of Geta’s scrutiny.

The arena emptied and she reluctantly slipped away under the guise of her father, walking among the Senators and their daughters who she blended in with ease. Her heart was racing, pumping blood to her ears so that she could not hear a word outside of the ringing it brought.

Perhaps her dream, the one her and Marcus shared merely this morning, would have to be delayed.

As Julia followed in the trail of the Emperor’s circle, a hand brushed by her own.

She nearly jolted away from the touch, suspicious of the twins and if one of them had lingered behind, but much to her relief, she briefly glanced over to see Marcus.

She didn’t have to fully turn her head to recognize his armor, the way he stood tall over her and the slightest grays to his dark head of hair. Even if unnoticed by others, the simple brush of his hard knuckles across her own was enough to keep her worst fears at bay and know that he was close.

Whatever the Emperor had planned, she was determined to tell her father tonight where her heart truly lied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please let me know if this sucks or not thank you <3

[thebluemallet]

Eros/Psyche Parallels in Bridgerton Season 3

The show was not subtle with the Eros/Psyche parallels this season. So I attempted to go through episode by episode and find the connections. If I miss any obvious ones, let me know and I'll edit the post.

3x01- Out of the Shadows

Starting off strong with the opening credits! You briefly see a butterfly. Not only do the Featheringtons use butterflies as often as the Bridgertons use bees, but the butterfly is a symbol of Psyche.

When Penelope opens her wardrobe to that sea of YELLOW, her butterfly dress from the first ball of season 1 is visible.

Penelope talks with Genevieve about needing to find a husband this season and then we cut directly to Gregory with a bow (sans arrow) and he's pointing it directly at Colin. The bow and arrow is a symbol of Eros/Cupid.

Penelope sheds her cloak at that ball like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

The original Eros/Psyche myth has some jealous sisters and Prudence and Philippa, while maybe not jealous per se, are not happy to see their baby sister shining so brightly when she arrives.

And for more connection to the sisters--Psyche is the youngest of three daughters and her two older sisters are married before she is.

This one is, admittedly, a bit of a stretch but in the original myth there's some ire from Aphrodite because of all the attention Psyche is getting. And Cressida rips Penelope's dress once she is getting all the attention at the ball, specifically from Lord Debling.

Eros is sent by Aphrodite in the original story to marry Psyche off to marry someone/thing horrible (or just making sure no man wants to marry her) but Eros ends up falling for Psyche himself. Colin offers to help Penelope find a husband as a way to make up for what he said about her last year and, well, we all know where this is going!

3x02- How Bright The Moon

Edited to add (credit to @bridgertonblue)- Colin cuts his hand on the glass in the study. They flashback to this scene a few episodes later when Colin finally decides to take action with Penelope and his feelings for her. This can be a parallel to Eros getting struck with his own arrows and falling for Psyche.

Eros only visits Psyche at night. Colin comes to see Penelope at night in the garden after their scheme is exposed.

Eros accidentally struck himself with his own arrows and that's how he came to fall in love with Psyche. Colin kissed Penelope because he thought he was doing it for a friend, and he ended up awakening feelings he didn't even realize he had for her.

3x03- Forces of Nature

In the Architectural Digest Bridgerton Set Tour video, you'll see butterflies on the staircase in the entrance hall of Featherington House. It's not exclusive to this episode, I just thought I'd highlight it here since it's when we have the Eloise apology scene.

THIS ONE IS A HUGE STRETCH BUT I'LL PUT IT IN HERE ANYWAY--remember how windy it was with the balloon and Colin's arms that Penelope couldn't stop drooling over? Psyche was carried by Zephyrus-the West Wind-to her fancy new home and the godly husband she never sees.

3x04- Old Friends

Eros is tasked with marrying Psyche off, falls in love with her, and marries her instead. Colin offers to help Penelope find a husband earlier in the season, realizes he's been in love with her this whole time, and we get the iconic line, "For God's sake, Penelope Featherington! Are you going to marry me or not?"

3x05- Tick Tock

This one is another stretch, but Psyche has some jealous sisters who are not permitted to visit her at her new home (until Psyche convinces her husband to let them visit many months later). Prudence and Phillipa are being mean to Penelope over her engagement and Portia doesn't allow them to attend the engagement party. A Bridgerton engagement party, so you know that stings.

And another stretch! Psyche gets pressured by her sisters to find out her husband's true identity. Penelope gets pressured by Eloise to reveal her secret identity to Colin.

3x06- Romancing Mr. Bridgerton

Eros tells Psyche that she can never know what she looks like, which is why he only visits at night. If Psyche knows who her husband is, then eventually Aphrodite will find out and she'll be pissed. But Psyche, filled with doubt thanks to her jealous sisters, lights a candle while Eros is asleep, revealing his identity and betraying Eros.

Penelope writes/delivers her Whistledown column at night. Colin follows after her, discovers her secret identity, and feels betrayed.

3x07- The Joining of Hands

Eros leaves Psyche, feeling betrayed even though he still loves her deeply. Colin is cold and distant to Penelope in the fresh sting of his betrayal. But he still loves her and goes through with the wedding.

3x08- "Into the Light"

Eros refuses to see Psyche because he's been so hurt by her betrayal. Colin sleeps ten feet away from his wife's bedroom door (they must have had other bedrooms!) and leaves soon after she wakes up in episode 8.

Psyche has to go through some trials put forth by Aphrodite to get a chance to see her husband again. Penelope is confronted and blackmailed by Cressida when the latter learns that she is Lady Whistledown.

Psyche approaches two different goddesses to help her find Eros. Sometimes they refuse to help. Sometimes one of them points her in the direction of Aphrodite's place. Those two goddesses are Hera and Demeter. Two members of the most unlikely dream team in this episode are Portia and Eloise.

Hera is the goddess of marriage, women, and family, and she doesn't have the reputation of being an upstanding mother in mythology. She parallels Portia, mother to three ladies who she wants to see in secure marriages.

Demeter is the goddess of the harvest and agriculture. This is more of a reach, but she can parallel Eloise. In her book, her love interest Sir Phillip is experimenting in his greenhouse with peas(?) (I should probably read that book again) to increase their yield. Eloise also initially refused to get in between Penelope and Colin in the previous episode.

When Psyche goes through these trials, she's pregnant with Eros's baby. The showrunners confirmed that Colin knocked up Penelope in that mirror scene so she's in the very early stages of pregnancy here.

Psyche is indirectly helped by Eros (Zeus's eagle helps her out when they remember they owe Eros a favor). This angers Aphrodite and makes things worse for Psyche. Colin tries to save his wife by appealing to Cressida and ends up making things worse for Penelope.

Psyche's final trial involves going to the underworld. She deems this an impossible task and intends to sacrifice herself before she finds another way. Penelope decides to reveal her identity to the Queen and the ton, effectively sacrificing her reputation and potentially her marriage.

Zeus listens to Eros's pleas and grants Psyche immortality. The Queen is merciful to Penelope and doesn't punish her for Whistledown, allowing her to keep writing.

Psyche is often depicted either with butterfly wings or with a butterfly near/around her in art. Mrs. Varley releases the bugs (butterflies) directly after the Whistledown reveal.

Eros and Psyche are reunited and live a rare Happily Ever After in mythology. Penelope and Colin reconcile and go on to their own Happily Ever After.

[sh4wty18]

heyyyyy i was wondering if you could make a johnnie angst fic where he forgets your bday🫶🏼

you forgot my birthday.

pairing: johnnie guilbert x reader

summary: same as request with some bestie!jake moments

cw: angst, hurt no comfort, language

word count: 1.2k + edited

---

12:00 am. A text from Jake immediately lights up your screen:

jakey: HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N!!!! i hope you have the best day ever! im so glad ur dating my bsf so WE could become bsfs!! ilysm go slay queen 💅

You smile and type out a response:

y/n: THANK U SO MUCH JAKE I <3 U!!!!! 

You put your phone on do not disturb for the night and roll over in bed, Johnnie hadn’t texted you for your birthday yet, but that was to be expected. He was a slow texter as it is, but he was usually busy streaming or playing music at this time anyway. There was still plenty of time for him to reach out.

10:36 am. You wake up and immediately check your texts. You’d received birthday messages from Carrington, Tara, your friends from home, been tagged in hundreds of posts on tiktok and instagram, even Matt texted you (and you’d only met him once!). But nothing from Johnnie. That’s okay. He was probably still asleep. Nothing to be worried about. 

1:48 pm. Nothing. What the fuck? All you wanted for your birthday was to spend a quiet day with your boyfriend. Unlike the other friends you’d made since moving to LA, you were less likely to choose partying over spending quality time with your loved ones. Not that there was anything wrong with partying, you just happened to be more reserved. Johnnie was more quiet and anxious as well, it was something that drew you to him in the first place. You always had someone to ditch social events with. You’d figured by this point he would have texted or called and wished you a happy birthday, then you’d hang out, watch a couple movies, order food in, birthday sex– the whole nine. But no. He'd said not a single word. You tried not to bring up your birthday often in the weeks leading up to it, so as to not annoy anyone, but you know for sure you’d mentioned your birth date at least twice since you’d been dating. He had zero excuse not to know. All the other important people in your life seemed to remember, so where was he?

5:24 pm. Nothing. 

7:58 pm. Nothing. You decide to call Jake and see if he has any insight into the situation. He picks up on the second ring.

“What’s up, birthday girl?” He asks sweetly. 

“Johnnie still hasn’t told me happy birthday. I think he forgot,” you say. Speaking the words out loud suddenly makes the situation feel way more real, and you feel a familiar lump forming in your throat.

“There’s no way. He couldn’t have. He’s been out all day, I haven’t really seen him. I think he’s doing a shoot for his next music video or something. So maybe he’ll text you when he’s done? I’m sorry, y/n, I wish I could help. If you need to be with someone, you know I’m always here.”

“Thanks, Jake, you’re a great friend. Love you.”

“Love you too, I’ll text you when he gets back.”

“Thanks. And Jake… don’t remind him when he gets back. It won’t be real unless he does it himself.” 

10:15 pm. Nothing. 

12:00 am. You type out a text to Johnnie:

y/n: you forgot my birthday

johnnie <3: It’s literally next month isn’t it?

johnnie <3: Y/n…plz tell me its next month 

y/n: i think i know my own birthday

johnnie <3: No no no no no

johnnie <3: Y/n im so sorry

johnnie <3: I know how u wanted to spend all day together on your birthday. I'm such an idiot. I promise it was an honest mistake. I really thought it was next month.

You don’t answer. At 12:43 am, you hear a knock at your door. He was the last person you wanted to see right now, but you knew he wouldn’t leave until you answered, so you reluctantly opened the door.

“Johnnie, I don’t want to see you–”

“Y/n, please. Please listen to me. I’m so so so sorry. I was busy with music video stuff and I spaced. I wasn’t on my phone all day so I swear, I didn’t see anyone’s birthday posts or anything until after you texted. You can ask Jake and Carrington, they were texting me all day and I never answered.”

“I believe you, Johnnie. And I get being busy, but… it’s just like… how do you forget your own girlfriend’s birthday? Do you know how embarrassing it is? To have all my friends, fans, and even acquaintances wish me a happy birthday, but the one person I really want to hear from doesn’t? It sucks. I felt like shit all day.” 

“I know. And being busy isn’t an excuse. There isn’t an excuse. I don’t know what else to say other than I’m so fucking sorry. If I could take it all back I would. I love you so much, y/n. I- I’m so fucking sorry,” Johnnie pleads, and his eyes start to well. 

You start to tear up as well, but you don’t want him to see you cry, don’t want to make him feel worse. You’re not angry with him, and you obviously still love him, you’re just sad. You can tell he means what he’s saying, it was definitely an honest mistake, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re hurt, and embarrassed, and had the worst birthday ever. 

“I know you are. And I love you, too. I just… I think I need some space for tonight. I’m sorry, Johnnie,” you say.

“Don’t apologize, baby. I’ll call you in the morning. I love you.” He gives you a quick kiss on the cheek and turns to leave. 

You close the door behind him and sink to the floor. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your face in them, finally letting out your soft sobs after holding back tears all day. You pull your phone out of your back pocket and tap the call button under Jake’s name. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks immediately, knowing you’d never call this late unless there was an emergency.

“I need you,” you say, choking on your words between tears. 

“I’m coming over.” He hangs up.

—

Fifteen minutes later, he’s at your apartment. You’re sitting on the couch together, with you leaning your head against his shoulder and crying softly as he rubs your back.

“I saw Johnnie on my way out… he didn’t look so hot. I’m assuming this is about him?”

You sniffle, “He forgot. I can’t believe he really forgot. Sorry I'm crying, this is so stupid, I’m just… really fucking sad about it. I know he didn’t mean to, and he’s super sorry and stuff but–”

“Y/n, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Your emotions are completely valid. He’s your boyfriend, of course you’re gonna be upset that he forgot your birthday! It doesn’t mean he’s a bad person, we still love Johnnie! But… he made a mistake and unfortunately it made you sad.” 

“I knew you’d understand,” you give him a weak smile, and he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you into a tight side hug, resting his head on top of yours. 

“Of course. I’m here for you, y/n. Always.”

---

first hurt/no comfort fic in the books! (i'm sad)

[floralhuqzz]

Sexual tension (Johnnie Guilbert x fem reader) smut

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Warning: smut, degradation, choking, petnames, virgin reader,, DONT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18🔞

🦇author: the edit thats in this post is not mine,, all credits to crystalcaskle on tiktok!!! :) I also apologize if theres any misspelled words english is not my first language!

♱

I woke up around 7 am when i decided to make myself some breakfast before i start streaming,, ive started youtube 1 year ago, around that time when i met Johnnie. Ive been living with him and Jake for the past 3 months and honestly its been going pretty good.

“whatcha’ making?”

“oh god dont scare me like that!” i slightly punch him in the shoulder

“sorry sorry.. it smells really good” he puts his arm around my shoulder and i blush.. i had a crush on him since when we first met

“you want some pancakes?” i look at him

“yeah, thanks” he pats my head, making my hair look like a mess

“i hate you” i roll my eyes

“you love me” he laughs as he sits down

‘i do..” i thought to myself

i make some coffee and more pancakes as i sit down next to Johnnie.

“are you doing something after?” he asks me while he keeps eating his pancakes

“yeah..i have to stream right now,, but im free afterwards” i smile

“wanna go out?” he finally looks at me,, he looked so beautiful,, his blue beautiful eyes.. his makeup he forgot to take off before bed that somehow still looked good on him.

“yeah..i would love to” i smile a little

i stand up

“i better go now, ill see you in 2 hours johnnie” i smile as i walk to my room

1 hour later*

i started streaming and i decided to react to some videos that my followers sent me,, they were usually sending edits of me or they will even sometimes send me memes. They all kinda supposed i had a crush on Johnnie, i just didn’t want to say anything just yet. They will sometimes send me edits of Johnnie and see my face turning red.

As one of my followers sent me this edit

When i watched that edit i said something that i will be definitely regretting later

“i volunteer..*cough* i mean what?..” i laugh

“WHAT DID SHE SAY” “DID WE HEAR THAT RIGHT?” “SHE JUST SAID I VOLUNTEER” “TELL ME THAT SOMEONE CLIPPED THAT”

“chat you are all crazy” i laughed

after another hour i decided to end the stream as i said my goodbyes

i walk to the living room as i see Johnnie sitting on the couch looking a bit serious

“you okay there?” i chuckle

“i need to talk to you”

oh no.

“yeah what is it?”

“mind explaining me this?” he shows me a clip of my reaction to that one edit on my stream

"oh um." i blush as i look away

"hm?" he stands up and walks towards me "cat got your tongue?"

i didnt say anything. i just stared at the floor

"i asked you something" he puts his hand on my chin

"it- it was just a joke, you know?" i chuckle awkwardly as i felt like i was about to pass out from embarassment

"it didnt seem like a joke to me" he stares at me

"yeah umm..." i start to walk back as he started to walk towards me, almost like trying to intimidate me

"whats wrong?" he smirks

"n-nothing" i finally bump into the wall behind me

"if you wanted to get fucked by me you couldve just said so"

"w-what?"

"dont play dumb"

"i-im no-" he grabs my neck

"lying to me wont get you anywhere" he stares at my shirt as he starts to put his hand inside my shirt

"j-johnnie what are y-" i could literally feel my heart beat racing by the second

"dont tell me you dont want this” he now started to kiss my neck

i felt like i was literally about to pass out from how hot i was in that moment. i couldn’t believe this was actually happening,,

“come here” he picks me up in bride style and sets up on walking to his bedroom,, he opens the door and throws me to his bed as he climbs on top of me

“fuck,, i wanted this for so long..” he starts to take off my shirt,, i felt hot between my legs

he started to kiss my stomach going down my hips. he slowly took off my pants and threw them on the floor

“johnnie wait!” he stops

“whats wrong? did i go too far??” he looks at me worried

“no no…its just that…its my first time..” i blush

“oh…” he smirks “ill make you feel good alright baby?,, you just have to trust me with this okay? can you do that for me?” he caresses my thigh. i nod as he then continued what he was doing earlier. he starts to kiss my chest going down my stomach, and finally reaching down to my panties.

“can i?” he started to kiss my inner thigh

“mhm” i nod

he slowly started to take off my panties as he then began to slowly eat me out. I’ve never in my life had been touched this way by anyone,, and knowing that the first person to take away my virginity was johnnie, it relieved me. i started to whimper as he suddenly started to go faster. his tongue was reaching all the right spots.

“fuck-“ i whimper as i felt him moan, sending vibrations to my core which gave me even more pleasure. i look down as i see him staring at me as he kept eating me out “johnnie fuck i-“ i moan

“come on baby, be a good girl and cum on my face” him calling me a ‘good girl’ sent me shivers down my spine.

“oh god oh god oh god-“ i throw my head back as i came

johnnie looks at me and caresses my thighs once again.

“you did so good baby..” he gets up and starts to kiss me. I see him unbuckling his pants.

“do you want this?” he asks

“yes…yes i do” i was so turned on by now that the only thing i wanted was him..and only him

“you will have to beg for it or ill leave you like this…needy…and you dont want that right princess?” he smirks

“n-no…” fuck he knew what he was doing. He waits for me to continue

“p-please johnnie..” i whimper as he lined himself to my entrance

“you can do better than that..” he looks at me dead in the eyes

“please johnnie i want your dick inside of me..” i beg,, i felt so embarrassed but turned on at the same time

“thats a good girl” he gets inside of my without a warning as i moaned from the sudden feeling

“for how long you’ve wanted this y/n? hm? tell me.” he began to move

“for a l-long time..” i moan, it felt like i was on cloud nine

He started to thrust harder and faster,, i felt like i was about to cum.

“j-johnnie i-im~” i whimpered and he put his hand on my leg and place it on his shoulder for better access which made the feeling 100 times better

“i know baby i know…fuck y-you feel amazing” he thrusted faster, “come on princess cum with me…” he moaned as we both cummed. We started to breath heavily,, with our hair sticking to our foreheads because of the sweat,, messy hair and red face but he still looked beautiful

“youre absolutely gorgeous..” i blush at his sudden comment

“i dont know if this is the right time but…i really like you..” he confesses

“i like you too johnnie…ive liked you for a very long time..” i smile at him as he kisses my forehead and we both fall asleep in each others arms.

[corkinavoid]

Fiance to a Star News

I have given up on trying to force myself to keep working on it. But, hold on, it doesn't mean I'm abandoning it.

I'm looking for a beta/editor/co-author, I'm really not sure what to call it. Let me explain this a bit.

[Update: help found! Thank you!]

I've written that fic in its entirety almost six months ago, in my native language. Then, when I decided to post it, I ran it all through Google Translate. Which is great at translating things word for word in their literal meaning, but not great for sentence structure, idioms, and some minor grammar mishaps. So, since I've posted the first chapter, I've been tideously going through every sentence and either correcting or rewriting it while keeping the meaning.

I am now in the middle of chapter four, and I'm officially so done with it that I'm starting to think about just deleting it all. Which would be a great waste since I do still love that fic.

So I'm looking for someone to help me out here.

More explanations and stuff under the cut.

Let me first show you what I mean by helping me out:

Example of what the text is now:

Tim is silent for a while. The prospects are clearly not rosy, and he, to be honest, doesn’t really understand what to do next. Until now, all he had thought about was how to get out of here, so now that that possibility was gone, he just...

While it is understandable enough, it is not exactly good sentence-structure and grammar wise. Also, it's as plain as white bread.

Example of what the text should (to my best abilities) look like:

Tim pauses, taken aback. The situation does not look very promising, and, if he is being honest, he has no idea of what to do now. Until this moment, all he had thought about was how to get out of the woods. But now that it was not happening and the last chances of escape have all slipped through his fingers, he just...

You see what I mean?

It's extra confusing for myself since when I see the unedited text, my brain automatically reads it in another language and making myself switch manually is draining as fuck, and I'm at my limit.

There's also the issue of some names that translated wrong/did not translate properly/translated as a wrong word. For example, the head of the Academy would be called Headmaster in English, but it translated to Director, or the fact Google Translate keeps translating Sam's pronouns to he/him for some unknown reason, and many more little details.

So I desperately need help.

Perks: co-authoring, access to all the chapters, naturally, as well as all the random notes, pieces of lore that I have, but that have not made it into the fic, any question regarding the fic answered, random thoughts, permission to rewrite literally anything how you see fit (while keeping the general line of plot). Is it co-authoring or adoption at this point? I have no idea, really, but whatever you prefer.

If you're interested, just message me for any other details <3

P.S. Please understand that there are 10 (maybe 9.5) chapters to be edited. And also that I will be giving you a sort of test piece of text to try it out. If, at any point later, you decide it's not your cup of tea anymore, that's totally fine, I'll understand. I just really, really want to post this fic, but I don't want to throw the plain unedited version there.

Thanks in advance!

[theladyofbloodshed]

It's been an age since I read the series, but I do think Rhys was intended to be one of the villains for the trilogy:

SJM scrapped her original plan for ACOMAF and wrote the current one. ACOMAF is touted as a hades x persephone retelling but it isn't really that at all. On her second (?) visit she decides to stay.

Rhys very much is the villain in book one but the end scene when they talk and the bond snaps was a different tone entirely - which makes me think it was a last minute edit to set up the new sequel

There are no mentions to Illyrians in ACOTAR - despite later finding out they did serve alongside Amarantha and were executed for it - the attor is the only one described as having leathery wings

There are also no mentions to Darkbringers who did also serve

Why would they serve Rhys if they hate him? It's explained as them being SO evil that they revel in Amarantha's punishment, but they would still need to follow his orders so it makes no sense that they would listen to him when they could bypass Rhys and bend the knee to her

It is retconned that with his single drop of leftover magic, he is able to shield Velaris and remove Amren, Mor, Cassian and Azriel from the memories of every single person in Prythian - which includes Mor's family, every Illyrian, the Vanserras, and Tamlin (in book 2, Tamlin and Lucien comfirm they know Cass & Az, Eris was engaged to Mor, Lucien calls Amren a scary story they tell children, the CoN apparently knows about Velaris) If Rhys wasn't the originally intended villain then...

Why does the king of Hybern who trained Amarantha - she uses his book of spells - do nothing for fifty years? The Suriel states that a hundred years earlier he sends spies to Prythian but Amarantha betrays him and traps the high lords and he then just chills

Why does he wait until the high lords are back to full strength to start a war to take over Prythian? He had fifty years to take over prythian when all of the high lords except one were trapped - but what? He was too scared of Amarantha? He needed an extra 8 months to launch his war?

Amarantha is his student so it stands to reason that he is stronger than her and could quite easily take over her coup with the army that was seemingly ready to go at any time. There's even a part in acotar where one creature questions the attor over whether amarantha thinks she's above the king. It's also stated that her revenge on jurian cost him the war because she didn't march with her section of the army, but he's benevolent enough to let her rule for 50 years

Hybern is made out to be this ghoulish country where they're all evil (just like Illyria and the Hewn City) with no variance amongst the people; they're all warriors too, clearly no children or farmers or smiths or matronly women. They're all nameless and faceless cannon fodder. There is no concern for the state of post-war Hybern or who rules in the king's stead, for the orphans and windows. It is underdeveloped as is the nameless king who is foolish enough to try and take over prythian only *after* its high lords have all had their power restored and are fortifying their courts

[its-actually-minicika]

The Harshest Winters (18+!)

Part 4;;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon Aemond;

Warnings: all of them lmao - dubious consent, canon typical violence, lack of Jacaerys, death, blood and gore, Aemond - who forces the reader into holy matrimony in this one (oh yes it's happening), and of course engages in petty masturbation (it's not THW without him going ham on his own hand ♡)

Word Count: 15k+ (wowza i know)

Author's Note: Low and behold, part 4 is here!! Originally, this was supposed to be a 4 parts series, but that obviously isn't the case anymore. THIS TOOK SO LONG AND I'M SO SORRY - I had major issues with the tag list, and at some point, tumblr wouldn’t let me post this; I unfortunately couldn't solve those problems, no matter how hard I tried, so most of you haven't been properly tagged :") This update is a hot mess, and I haven't actually had the time to read through all the paragraphs that I wrote. I SHALL BE BACK TO EDIT

A huge thank you to everyone who's still following the story, though, and I hope you enjoy!

A war is in its midst.

When everyone else is readying themselves for the following decisive battles, you and Aemond are busy playing house.

Things get heated in Harrenhal, and one must decide when and where to pick their side.

The contact of the hot water upon Aemond’s ivory skin made the man shudder in naught but blinding pain. Achingly slow movements, followed by slow grunts echoed throughout the room – and Lady Tully stilled upon the silken sheets, moving her eyes over the book’s page for the thousandth time since he returned; thus driving all her peace away.

The baths Aemond determinedly took in the raptures of the late-night hours never failed to make her uncomfortable, and keep her on edge. Even so, being forced to hear the pained man move with such little stability and lack of confidence almost teetered the girl to the brink of madness.

Harrenhal had been in shambles since its proud conqueror beckoned his return on dragon back that very eve. Two young maids shouted for maesters, and Alys Rivers nearly caused a scene. As he got off his leather saddle, the Prince all but collapsed from tiredness and blood loss.

'He commanded his features to turn brave and taciturn,' his paramour had told her, 'as to not let a single hint of his condition spread throughout the Keep. My poor Aemond.'

The fool had been reached by an arrow.

An impressive feat, one had to agree – and wonder further on the identity of the courageous shot.

‘Struck right between his shoulder blade and chest,’ she had heard some lost girl utter, ‘It is a miracle he’s still alive.’

… Or the Gods’ cruelest punishment, the Lady compelled within her thoughts.

“Mmhh…” Aemond’s rugged breath deterred the girl to raise her glassy orbs from the confinement of the wilting pages. She schooled her eyes to stay above any level of indiscretion, and gingerly followed the trail of blood mixed with dirt, that seeped into and dirtied the once clear water.

Now that her curiosity was quenched, she could freely look away again.

Half a heartbeat later, she relented and surrendered in the face of his quarrelsome state. The Prince bit the inside of his cheek again, and raised his hand up to allow droplets of liquid to trail past his wounded shoulder… but to no avail.

“You could call in a maid, you know.” Her raspy voice descended upon his struggling body. Sooner than she may have liked, the Bliss of Riverrun closed her eyes, and concentrated on the languid noises that the Prince was making.

Seconds felt like pending minutes, until Aemond One-Eye graced her with a reply.

“I don’t need a maid to help me.”

Then that was that, the young woman soon concluded, returning her attention to the opened book.

'The Philosophies of the Riverlands', however, provided little to no aid to the situation at hand – and her overall station.

For she knew, perhaps far too well, that she had to play a different game than the one they'd engaged in, months prior to her imprisonment in that cursed place.

Insufferable man… she vexed him cruelly inside her head, I hoped by now you would be dead.

She raised one leg from the mattress that embedded her, and shifted it, so as to allow her limbs to hang lowly by the edge of the bed. Her thoughts formed and went as they pleased, but the girl settled on one final reach.

He hadn't even allowed Alys to help him undress. Suggesting her now was a deliberate waste of her time.

Not only that, but she still had to win his trust. Somehow, she promised herself, no matter what it takes, she'd do it.

Forcibly she rose from the bed, and made her way slowly towards his wide basin, fixating her eyes on the stone floor ahead. Her throat closed in on itself, and the girl pursed her lips into a tight line, whilst exhaling through her nose. It took a while for her to calm herself.

"... What about me?" She asked in a leveled tone.

Her gaze met his piercing orb, and the Lady nearly took a small step back. His face long washed the wave of shock from his sharp, Targaryen features – Aemond awaited her next words with a quirked up brow and a slight bite o'r his inner cheek. He seemed more than interested in her meek suggestion.

His wordless approval had left her speechless and, for a while, only her heartbeat emerged in her ears.

The Prince Regent trailed his eye hungrily over her extended arm. He took in a sharp breath as she grasped the rough sponge from his hand, and drained it of the putrid smell. She confidently brought it up to him – and teasingly trailed it over his hard chest, down to his lower abdomen, up again to his slouching shoulder.

"This… will hurt you a little bit." She whispered to him, skillfully averting her face from the man in question.

He gritted his teeth harshly, and almost let out a groan from his parted lips – with his dexterous and long fingers, he gripped the edge of the wooden basin, but dared not to look away from the kneeling Lady – choosing, instead, to focus on singling out her every soft and hard feature.

On her end, (Y/N) dabbed the piece of cloth over his wound gently, chanting inside her head to remain small and taciturn.

He shan't get more of a reaction from me, she promised herself through the span of an agonized huff, as she focused in on the task at hand.

Aemond's white skin revealed itself from the washed patches of dirt, and the Prince sighed a deep breath of contentment, as he felt his body be unintentionally caressed by her. His eye fluttered close, and a slight furrow of his tantalizing brow indicated the uncommon pleasure he took from their sporadic intimacy.

The two remain in awkward silence - the only noise that reached the girl's ears being the rattle of water and the occasional hiss from Aemond.

"... I'm sorry." She strained herself to whisper, whilst her hair fell seemingly out of place. "This looks as if it's painful."

The Prince Protector mirrored her stance, and glanced at her through the thick curtain of long, silver hair – the lilac in his eye complimenting the heatwaves of fire that danced across his marred skin.

"It's not painful." His gruff voice echoed in reply.

"... You –" The Lady began, but stopped on her tracks to level her voice again, by the aid of coughing in the back of her hand.

"You don't have to pretend in my company, you know."

She graced him with a forced smile, one she hoped seemed light enough to fool him. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't make fun of you."

Her eyes trailed over to the harsh stone floor, wrinkling at their sharpened ends – "When I was three and ten," she began, "My youngest brother betted against one of the stable boys: that he could ride faster than anyone on his horse, Middle." Her eyes spasmed close at the memory, and the girl wistfully smiled to herself, "The fool scraped his knees in that dreadful race. Middle threw him right out of his expensive saddle."

As she spoke, she brought the rough cloth over Aemond's shoulder blade, right above his wound, and began scrubbing the dirt that adorned over his skin.

"He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened, so he made me clean it, in the stead of a maester." The Lady let out an airy laugh, as her nose scrunched up with a pang of fondness. "I have never seen a boy get so worked up over a simple scratch before."

Aemond hummed in admission – half relieved by the distraction she was offering, and half worried by the impending pain he would soon feel. He shifted from inside the basin, as if to reach for the sponge in her hand himself, but the girl simply laid her hand away.

Her musings came to an abrupt end. She retreated on her steps lightly, and offered the Crown Prince a quirked-up brow.

"You need to stay put, Prince Aemond. Otherwise, I risk causing you more harm than good." She swallowed thickly, and only shook her head, "Your wound needs thorough cleaning, Your Grace. And it is too far in the back for you to clean it by yourself."

She glanced at his face anew, and let out a tumbling sigh as he nodded his head again, trying his hardest to relax into her touch once more.

Part of him remained put up – the bulk of his chest and shoulders still gloriously hunched over, ready to bolt up at any given moment.

"... I hate to admit it. I thought he was exaggerating then – with the discomfort which he feigned was feeling."

Her lips pursed into a tight line, as she glanced quickly at the laying man, "But how can one make fun of another's state of pain?"

A sympathetic look was shared between them.

Her eyes softened in admission to his furrowed brows and descended features. In that exact light, she couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled her Jace.

"Pain makes us human. And it's a reminder for us: to really cherish our times of incandescent joy."

The break of a cold sweat kissed over Aemond's forehead; droplets of which gathered at the base of his left eye, where his leather eyepatch stayed secured.

The girl pushed down a disdainful puff, as her eyes trailed him over, from the rosy blotch of skin, back to his hawk-like eye.

"Leather retains heat." She murmured before she could catch herself.

The Targaryen Prince expelled a deep breath, and, as her hand came to rest over the buckle that secured his patch into place, he primed his lips into a downturned arch.

"It can't be good for you to always keep it on."

"The sight of it frightens others. I don't want it to frighten you."

"I've seen you without your eyepatch before."

"That was different. This time… is different."

The latter of his words sent a shiver down her bent spine. Nothing is different, she was aching to say. Her lips pressed anxiously together, and the girl offered Aemond a curt nod. Just as she was about to pull her hand away from the nape of his neck, the Prince's wet palm came up to stop her.

His fingers shakily entwined with hers. The deep callouses of his hand scratched the softness of her open palm.

For a while, Time herself froze before them.

(Y/N) came to avert her gaze, but Aemond's eye feverishly searched for the relieving clash of hers. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the Lady of Riverrun nearly choked onto the clogged-up air.

His silver locks curled slightly at their ends – the dampness of the room striking its claim over his perfectly straight strands of hair. In his own right, Aemond could be called beautiful. His striking Targaryen features might have ensured the favor of many young maidens, were it not for his rash and impetuous attitude, the bite that rested in his character – which no doubt spread like a disease over his life at Court.

"Look at me." Against his better judgment, and his innermost turmoil, Aemond allowed her small fingers to trail over the buckle of his blinder again. He drew out a comforting sigh, and, with her hand still in his, gently slid the leather off.

He sucked in a quiet breath, as the coldness of the air enveloped his throbbing eyelids.

The poise in his composure was cracking at the seams, with the passing of each second, during which she settled to remain silent.

Eventually, her hand came to rest over his face again. Her dexterous fingers began to leisurely wipe the sweat from his brow, his eye, by submerging them into the lukewarm water, and bringing them over and over to his clenched face.

"I'm sorry." She settled on to say instead, once the breaching of kind words failed to meet her. "No one deserves to be left without an eye. No one deserves such appalling cruelty."

"You appear to be sorry an awful lot this evening, My Lady." Aemond choked under his breath, taken aback by her gentle movements and sainty utter.

"I spend the better part of my days in the company of my own thoughts." She huskily reminded him, "... It's been increasingly easier for me to reflect on my past mistakes."

Wordless from her hoax admission, and desperate to feel her hands explore him further, the Targaryen Prince rose heavily from the dirtied water – his chest coming directly to her field of vision.

The girl let out a cutting gasp, as she turned swiftly on her heel, refusing to glance at his modesty, not any longer than she'd already had.

Her eyelids fluttered close, and she shifted from one foot to the other, but to no avail. For in spite of her desire to run away, the Lady found herself hammered in place.

The proximity between them laid out to be a problem – Aemond let out a frustrated sigh, and turned her head around with the clasping of his untouched arm. Two of his fingers came to rest at the base of her cheek and chin; the Prince let out a satisfied hum, as her body trembled in slight shock at their change of position.

"Gevie…" He muttered to no one but himself.

His cock stood proudly at attention, kissing over his prominent abdomen, trailing long past his belly button. Every now and then, white pearls pooled to the base of his length, weeping from his angry tip, trailing past his stones in the reach of the water below him.

"Look at me." He breathed again, and his sweet Lady obeyed.

She threw him a dejected look: half harsh and cold, half hardened and scorned. The tips of her ears matched the redness of her pale cheeks. Her eyes cast their curious glow throughout every corner of the room, yet stayed away from the scorn of indiscretion that called out to her, only centimeters below her swollen lips.

Aemond's thumb flicked once over her crimson labium, but the man sighed, seemingly discouraged, and settled upon gripping her dainty wrist instead.

"Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda."

The gentleness that oozed from his voice could have had anyone fooled. But not her. The translations of the words he muttered against the skin of her wrist were lost on her, but the Lady of Riverrun still singled out a most protruding word.

He had never failed to call her 'his tormenting love'.

The girl's breath rose and fell with each agonizing word that befell over her face.

"Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa." Aemond sighed against her wrist.

'I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin.'

Her words rang harsh and true inside her head – and, much like it was back then, her heart harbored no honorable intent towards the Trident's Terror.

He burnt your entire homeland, she chastised herself harshly, He killed thousands. Every day, even more find their end by the breath of his dragon. By the way of his wrath.

The ache in her heartbeat rang loudly inside her ears – her every pore aligned with her wish to run away, and her mind was screaming at her to retreat to a corner.

Comparing him to Jacaerys was a laughable feat.

"Let's… just finish getting you cleaned up, Your Grace" She struggled to finally suggest out loud, through the timid inflection of her outwardly calm voice.

She slithered her face away from his grasp, and began draining the sponge of the dark mud again.

Aemond sighed, and lowered himself back into the cold water – his lone eye never leaving the mould of her smaller frame.

"I heard that conversation… sometimes distracts the ill from the discomfort of the cleaning process, Your Grace."

Now turned to his exposed back, the girl's hand wavered over his punctured shoulder. She waited three, perhaps four seconds, before her arm finally breached contact with the wounded flesh.

Aemond took in a sharp breath, but remained otherwise silent, until she prompted him to speak again.

"How… how did such a thing even come to happen?"

Aemond's chest rose and fell with each labored pant. His eye remained tightly closed, his jaw awfully set. Her question registered into his mind, and a reply formed at the former base of his thoughts.

For a while, however, the One-Eyed Prince remained quiet – weighing the option of telling her the truth rather carefully.

"A Frey company was marching South." He hissed as her light hand came over his flesh, applying soft pressure in its wake. "The fog of the morning masked them from me – but Vhagar's shadow still went right above their heads."

The woman brought her free hand to rest over his lower back, and her fingers rubbed soothing circles into the dampness of his skin. "It was… very lucky that you didn't get more hurt."

She scorned herself inwardly, but kept her curiosity at bay. She wouldn’t ask him whether the company had risen victorious, or if he burnt all those men to the ground.

The latter option, in any case, seemed more than likely.

The Crown Prince tensed visibly, but didn’t scoot away from her soothing touch. A deep sigh parted from his cracked lips, and the man revelled at their sudden closeness.

He ached to talk to her, to plead with her to welcome him inside her heart – and into her bed. He could feel his own beat loudly, and his body trembled in unquenched lust and rage.

Still, he knew it was too soon for that.

Not once during their rash acquaintance, did the girl before he talk with so much interest about his day with him.

His thoughts trailed to Alys, and Aemond wondered if half her new admission was owed to her – if indeed the two women secured a friendship within the last two weeks, if his whore became her confidant, if she breathed in her trust in him.

He would have to talk to her later. Thank her, if he was feeling apt and generous.

(Y/N)'s breath caught in the shell of his ear, and the Targaryen Prince nibbled at his lower lip. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down; the coldness of the water gave him the strength to concentrate, by the sliding of small ripples down his exposed chest and abdomen. The ache of his wound was a small price to pay, if only to feel her knuckles working against his back.

"There we are. All done, Your Grace."

She rose up from her kneeling stance, wincing at the sudden change of perspective, and at the throb of her tired knees. She gingerly presented the clean set of clothes and bathing robes to him. Her head remained turned to the side, and her hand instantly let go of the heavy clothes, the moment his palm came into contact with them.

In the stead of returning to sit idly by their resting place, the woman graced him with a final look, and let out a faint mutter. "I'll leave you to it."

She wavered but a moment, and turned her stare to the ruined clothes; the ones that Aemond had so carelessly discarded on the floor, as he prepared for his undeserved nightly soak.

The shadow of a long-laid plan gleamed beneath her silent gaze.

"I can wash them for you tomorrow – after my bath. It might be wiser to keep the nature of your wounds hidden. The maids needn't worry over how much blood you lost."

Aemond's brows furrowed in slight shock, and the Prince remained wordless in the face of her sensible suggestion.

And yet her eyes spoke with so much sincerity, that he gleefully allowed the pang of hope to warm his unforgiving features.

"As you wish." He rumbled out, while forcing himself to move his stare to the folded clothes before him.

His eye trailed back to his hands' agile ministrations, and Aemond soon began to roll over his linen breeches, covering his half-hard cock with the help of the rough material.

A throaty groan etched from deep within his throat, however, as he reached for the pristine shirt.

The girl stopped in her tracks, and a deep scowl settled over her fair features.

The struggle he was undergoing would have been music to her ears – were it not for the solidarity of her position. For the millionth time that night, she reminded herself of her plan and her desperation to escape.

Thus, unbeknownst to her own better judgment, the Lady compelled herself to seek him further.

Although her words failed to assist her, the way she gingerly reached, with her hand wide and outstretched, made Aemond aware of her pending intent.

Their bodies were inches apart. The girl sucked in a hurried breath, and neglected to exhale it as the oxygen hit her lungs.

Aemond was burning up – and whether that was from the lack of fresh air within the confining room, or the first telltale sign of fever, or her – he was lost on saying anymore. His weakened arm slithered into the sleeve of his shirt, though the pain was long forgotten.

And instead of focusing on his poised movements, his glassy eye ran hungrily over her face and hypnotic features.

(Y/N)'s fingertips grazed over the light material. Her tired eyes softened at the familiar feeling. The threat of tears beckoned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them all away in a hasty movement. Melancholy ate away at her, far more often than she knew was wise to allow.

Still she remembered, if only for a moment, the raptures of Jacaerys' warm embrace. And how, in the heat of summer, that very same cloth felt against her heated cheek.

They must have had the same seamstress, the same tailor. Of course, she thought to herself in a bitter manner, after all, they are both Princes.

… Were.

But if she closed her eyes, she could pretend – No, she chastised herself fully, such a thing just cannot be. And you'd be a fool to attempt to it.

The magnetic pull between them trebly pried the two souls together. And it would be yet another minute, until (Y/N) finally took a step back, opening her mouth to announce the end of her intimate task.

Her eyes fell on the stone hard floor, and she carefully turned her back around him.

The long waves of her hair shifted over her modest nightgown, covering her mounds of flesh with a slight shift to the left.

"I'm going to sleep." She pathetically uttered, as the warmth that emanated from Aemond's form not moments prior, still fell heavily over her slight frame.

Mechanically she gripped the satin sheets and engulfed herself with them – a slight comfort came over her, as the coldness of the unused bedding fanned gently over her scorched limbs.

Aemond remained stuck in place, and a heaved breath rumbled from within his chest. The red in his cheeks would have put both their Houses' seals to shame – For once, he was glad she wasn't looking his way.

***

The rest of the night was spent in washed quietness.

And his Lady might have made it up: the dip at the edge of the bed, the smell of fresh pine and wildfire that caressed her in her sleepy state, and the slight "Thank you" that dabbled from her captor's lips.

“You plan to ride on dragon-back again? So soon?” The echo of Alys' voice carried her worry throughout the silent clearing.

The first rays of sunlight caught flame into her raven hair, lighting her features in such a way, that it accentuated her every perpetual scar and wrinkle. The fire inside her eyes could rival the one of a trueborn Targaryen, were it not for her strong outer appearance.

Aemond moved his body at a leisurely pace, not even bothering to throw the woman one of his usual vexing looks.

"Do you think dear nuncle will put a stop to the siege of the Twins, should the word spread about my condition?"

His cutting words rendered the woman speechless, and the Rivers witch simply clicked her tongue, whilst glancing at the green grass below her.

"War awaits no one, my dear." He asserted definitively, as he gripped onto Vhagar's long bridles.

The mighty beast let out a shaken roar, as Aemond winced once his wounded shoulder made light contact with her dark-green scales.

"Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar." He instinctively reached for her, and caressed her lower belly with one of his gloved hands.

At their calm exchange, Alys bit over her lower lip, harshly enough to draw her own blood. "You should stay." She managed to draw out, "At least a while – going in search of your uncle today, instead of tomorrow, won't make a difference to your brother's cause."

But her voice of reason reached deafened ears. For Aemond Targaryen was set on paying the debt he owed. The debt he agreed to take on, the moment his dragon clasped onto Lucaerys, swallowing the bastard whole.

"Everything matters at war, Alys." He hummed impatiently, while snapping his head in her general direction. "What do you think will happen to you, should Daemon reach Harrenhal? Your pretty head will rest near mine, impaled on a sharpened spike."

But if she told you to stay put, you would do just that, wouldn’t you? Her bitter thoughts chewed her conscious away.

Alys spat out a lowly curse, as she shifted uncomfortably in place. "Daemon Targaryen was here once, not long before you. He didn’t kill me then."

"Because you didn't matter back then." The Prince Protector of the Realm hissed through painfully gritted teeth, "You were no one to him. You were a wet nurse who merely spread her legs for him."

The man turned his back to her, as he wordlessly bound Vhagar's bridle over his wrist again and again.

"And last I checked, your cunt failed to inspire him."

Her mouth parted in a silent protest, and her green eyes widened in partial distress. "Still I should remain in luck," She choked out through a breathless laugh, "for it has never failed to inspire you."

"You are perfectly right," Aemond's laughter was humorless and brash, "And it is because of this loose cunt that Aegon nearly lost the support of Storm's End."

The Prince spun around on his heel's end, and trapped the woman in between his hard chest and restless dragon. "Sometimes I think you cost me more than you're worth." He whispered calmly into her ear, while trailing his index finger over the sharp edge of her jaw. "For speaking back to me, I could have you executed."

The finality of his words drew her body closer to the ancient beast, and Vhagar let out a displeased grunt. Amusement pulled at the corners of his downturned mouth.

"Still you should remain in luck," He mocked her with an airy laugh, "I find myself in an exceedingly good mood today."

The back of his hand came to play with a loose lock of her messy braid, and the Prince smiled at her stance and her bewildered look. "But you've been a most useful asset, haven't you, my dear?" He obliged her with a teasing smirk, "Lady Tully responded well to you, hasn't she? Tell me," He paused momentarily, as he trailed his hands to the narrow middle of her waist, and back up again. "Have you kept up your training with her?"

Alys' face fell into a frown, as she staggered a frustrated look. Aemond was toying with her.

"That dull book she pretends to read at night has the maps of three secret passages hidden amongst the latter pages. Two of them lead to that cell into the West Wing – but of course, she doesn't know that. The third one leads to the stables of Harrenhal."

Aemond hummed pleasedly, and the man soon took a wide step back, allowing his paramour enough space for proper breathing. "You did well." He smiled wistfully, "I should reward you well tonight. You may think of something you desire. I will see to it once I return."

"I would very much like you to stay and heal today." She urged him not a heartbeat later, surprising even herself with the intensity of her tone.

Aemond's composure broke with the licks of roaring laughter – one that was empty, and fell devoid of any feelings of fondness or grief.

"Think of something else." He urged her coolly, and dismissively pushed past her, to reach for his dragon's saddle.

"'Tis a good thing you shall never be a wife, Alys. The role of the worried wench doesn't suit you one bit."

"Keep feeding her half-truths and lies." He encouraged the woman with a final reach over her hand. He squeezed once over her balled-up fist – acting as both a promise, and a taciturn warning on what should happen, should she let him down again. "Regarding whatever else she may have to say… you'll report it back immediately."

With that, the Kinslayer of the Trident took off, leaving the promise of bone and ash behind his dragon's menacing ascend.

The Eyrie was, on all accounts, smaller even than Maegor's Holdfast. Inside the stronghold nestled the Arryns, hidden deep beneath the illusion of the smallest stronghold of the main seven Kingdoms. Despite its intermediate size, the Keep of the Giant's Lance deemed itself one of the safest places to be – Hardly a lie, especially now, Cain Waters ineptly hummed, once his wobbly feet carried him over the stoney threshold.

Despite its less-than-imposing size, and lack of sheer volume, (Y/N)'s sworn shield felt himself smaller than ever before.

How would he dare account for his whereabouts? Reason his shortcomings?

How could he hope to explain to his Lord that not only did he return empty-handed, without his beloved granddaughter on horseback – he returned without the notion of a hand at all?

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, it was Mira Florent who rested loyally by his side – her strength and stability allowing the Waters bastard to lean into her, if only for a fleeting moment, during the ascend of the narrow stairs.

"Take heart," She whispered, "Your Lord is a kind and understanding one. You won't be facing trial for this."

His mere reply was a solitary grunt, and a quick smile, dejectedly thrown her way.

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, Albar had remained behind. The mute man shrugged his head decidedly when Cain gestured towards the waiting castle, and Mira explained to him that the Vale scarcely left him feeling safe and wanted.

And he understood, perhaps far too well – the feeling of dejection a bastard boy felt, as he stepped foot into the land of his birth.

***

He'd been granted the comfort of a Maester and a hot soak, almost immediately after his appearance at the Arryns' Great Door.

The Lady of the Vale proved to be a kindred spirit, capable of great nurture, despite her lack of heirs to her family's ancestral throne. She gasped loudly at the sight of him. Her eyebrows furrowed in grave distraught, and her lower lip trembled as the healers informed her of the state of his right hand.

Her searching eyes reminded him of the ones of his own mother – neither particularly warm nor cold towards him, but fair and just in their own accord.

She almost decided against calling upon him to the Trouts' Black Council, but the young Oscar Tully had entirely different plans.

His eyes, as they were, were socketed by a deep, but elusive brown. They spoke and reminded him of a whole different tale than the one of his fair, poor Lady.

And it was Oscar's eyes, so similar in shape to hers, who bore ghastly holes into the back of Ser Cain's skull. His arm rose up, as if to cut off the man's retelling – his nostrils flared up in disgust, and his face twisted into a painful scowl.

"So what you're telling me… is that you failed to bring her back."

Cain's eyes hardened at her brother's words, and the knight nibbled on his lower lip, in an attempt to calm himself.

Although a brave and honest man, he dared not look in the eyes of Lord Grover Tully – he dared not see what lay beneath his wilted face. Thus, all his attention focused in on the chirping lass.

"Aye, my Lord." He mustered up to tell him, "I lost her to the One-Eyed Prince. We escaped Harrenhal, and managed to get as far as the Saltpans, but –"

The boy scoffed at his attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze.

"You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably."

His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze.

"Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"

Lady Jane Arryn clicked her tongue in disbelief, and beckoned her guard to guide the boy back into a sitting stance.

"That is quite enough, Oscar." She asserted calmly, "We have no evidence of such a feat."

"Of course we don't!" The young Lordling huffed annoyedly, jolting on the brink of madness, "The deranged cripple wouldn't reply to any of our ravens!"

His face contorted animalistically, the freckles on his face being taken by the deep shade of crimson that coloured in his plumper cheeks. "And with you here, Waters, we don't even have the certainty that (Y/N) is still alive!"

"Oscar." Grover's deep voice echoed a warning through the quietness of the tiny Keep.

As if struck in the face, the youngest of the Tully brothers shifted in his seat again. "My sister's fate is breached unknown," He cried out in a collapsing tune, "She's our family, grandfather, my only sister! Pray tell, why does it look as if I'm the only one who gives a damn?"

The graying Lord and the narrow Lady both leaned towards a perplexing look. But before any of them could reply to his laid-out challenge, (Y/N)'s brother urged them further, as he hissed through his gritted teeth. "It would have been better for you not to return at all, Ser Cain. It would have been better for all parties involved to have sent me in his stead, Grandfather!"

His shoulders slouched forward, and the brazen boy fought with Grover's intense stare. "Had I failed, I wouldn’t have even returned at all." Oscar roared over the silent council, proclaiming his intent with a defying raise. "I would sooner have died, than see her be taken by that monster again."

"What would you have had me do, boy?!" Grover Tully raised his voice in turn, "You fool. Would you have had me send you away for her? Do you think your death would have made you a martyr?!"

Cain's lips pursed into a tight line, as the Riverlords before him bickered further. Even Lady Jane Arryn seemed to be left speechless, unsure of when or how to stop their arguing.

Family feuds were neither one's strongest suit.

"Do you think," His Grandfather uttered, "that if you were to die, anyone would remember you fondly?!" The red in his cheeks matched the one on his grandson's face, and the elder Lord broke out into a coughing fit. "Your sacrifice would mean nothing. And when the dust settled over Westeros, and the war was done, you would just be another casualty. Another body to burn in a communal."

Almost immediately, his eyes softened, and their deep creases faltered on his face.

The Lord of Riverrun grunted in fatigue, but still rose himself securely on his two able feet. He marched towards the huffing boy, and placed a wrinkled hand over his sweaty forehead, urging him to quiet down.

"It's not about glory, Grandfather." He spat out lowly, as his ears began to match his fiery locks of curly hair. "It's about family. Our family. It's about ensuring its survival."

The older man gave the lass a curt nod. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and turned to the knight with a downturned smile.

"There wasn't a knight more fit for the task than Ser Cain." He confirmed his judgment with a tired gesture in his direction. "He was knighted at five and ten. You are over your seven and tenth birthday, boy, and haven’t been even mirthed a squire."

Oscar sucked in a protesting breath, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room fall before him. His brows furrowed in a dangerous quarrel, and his blood ran hot. "Yet even with all the skill in the world, he still failed."

Lord Grover was losing his patience, "Yes, grandson, that he did! He failed, despite all the signs that pointedly told us otherwise – do you think you'd do an equitable job? When you haven't even once crossed swords in a Joust or Tourney?"

Nearby the aching knight, Lady Arryn renowed her position.

She whispered to her waiting guard, and the man took a step ahead, hitting over the chantry with the hilt of his sword.

The noise that erupted grabbed the attention of both grandson and grandfather.

"The turn of events marked by Ser Cain's departure means we need to readjust our plans." She commanded their heed calmly, "It is… unfortunate; that Lady Tully's sworn shield failed to protect her. Yet here we all stand, warming our bottoms on a mine of gold."

Cain should have been grateful for the distraction she was offering. All the displeasure surged upon him evaporated within the click of her tongue, and less conventional language – still, even he had to remain weary on the subject he opened.

"On a mine of gold?" Oscar spat out sharply, feeling his self-control disperse by failing him again. "My Lady, do you think my sister's condition is a situation of great rejoice?"

The Lady's blue eyes cut through the boy deeply, and the young man closed his mouth in embarrassment, before sitting down again.

She reached for the goblet of wine, and wet her lips with it, "Our strategical situation couldn't be better. Not once have we had a spy of Harrenhal successfully return. In truth, we didn’t even think it possible." Her lithe hand pointed towards the bloodied knight, and her eyes glimmered in mischief, "Yet here stands our living proof."

She elegantly rose from her ivory throne, and signaled the man to take a seat at the bent table. As he gingerly followed her lead, the woman spared him with a kind glance, and met his glance with her deep azul gaze.

"From what I gather, you spent the better part of a month undetected in the Strongs' Keep. Is that true?"

Cain nodded stiffly, and rested his bulky hands over his tired knees. "Yes, my lady. That I have."

"And you were knighted at fifteen?" She alluded to what was early spoken.

"Yes, my lady."

"By Lord Hunter Redwyne." She urged him to clarify, through the edge of a quirked-up brow, and the callings of a small smile pulling at her dusted lips.

"Yes, my lady. The very one."

Lady Jane hummed, seemingly satisfied by his short answers. She turned her attention to Lord Grover and his tiresome grandson, and merely asked Ser Cain again.

"And you faced the Kinslayer in combat, cut by a Valyrian blade, and lived to tell the tale?"

"... Aye, my lady."

Oscar's eyes remained unyielding. But Grover Tully glanced at the man before him, and offered him a wordless bow.

"Tell me, Ser, how would you like to command your own battalion?"

"You have to be patient." Alys chastised her deeply, as her luring features turned from flaccid to sharp. "Hardly enough time has passed since your last attempted escape – Aemond is still very much on edge."

The Lady's eyes turned to her. With the bridge of her nose scrunched up, and her fair features molded into a desperate plea, the girl looked more like a lost child, than an able and resourceful Lady.

Alys regarded her as such, and sighed deeply as she grasped onto her shoulders carefully.

"If I wait any longer, it'll be too late. I've already wasted three moon turns in this cursed Keep. I have to return to my family." The Tully spoke decidedly, leaving behind no room for arguing. She took a seat before the tiny mirror, that breached her modest vanity – a recent gift from Aemond, deduced by him to make her feel more like a proper lady.

The image that reflected within it looked at her like a dire stranger. The green silks she was dressed into, the pristine, braided hair that framed her pale cheeks perfectly; She was the vision of a flawless royal, a soft and polite maiden, untouched yet by the spoils of death and war.

'Would this be enough?' She asked herself desperately, whilst gripping the edge of her chair painfully.

Was this what Aemond had always wanted? The proof of her lack of autonomy, finally presented to him on a silver platter, as he returned from war every night?

Was he, perhaps, congratulating himself, every time he glanced at her, thinking himself master of the universe for making her arch and kneel?

Alys shook her head once more, and rested a hand over her bouncing knee.

"Patience is a virtue, Lady Tully. You needn't put yourself through any more unnecessary risks."

The Lady of Riverrun shook her head vigorously, finally snapping herself back to reality; Her actions were defying, and devoid of any capacity. Alys felt herself more confounded by the second. "I'll help you plan this thoroughly." The wood witch adverted. Her head quirked to the side in an encouraging gesture, and the girl nodded feverishly in reply.

Her green eyes widened in fair delight, and Aemond's lover lowered her gaze over the girl's book. "You memorized the passages well enough. Very soon, you shall put your knowledge to practice."

(Y/N) let out a tired sigh, and graced the older woman with a pleasant smile. "I'm lucky to have you, Alys" She played with her rings as she spoke, "Thank you. For everything."

As the elder woman finally left her Quarters in favor of bringing out the order for dinner, (Y/N) let out an aggravated groan.

Her long pretense would surely make her nauseous. But she would be a simpleton indeed, to place all her trust in Alys.

The walls preleened with the doom of silence. A cold breeze dug its way deeply into her spine, and the silent taste of passing and demise left a sour taste in her parted mouth.

***

Aemond began dinner as he wontedly did every day – praying to the Warrior to grant him strength in battle, to the Smith, to mend all that was left broken, to the Father, "to shine his light", and lead their souls out of the brink of darkness.

Each and every time, without fail, the girl would bring the pristine napkin to her mouth, masking the obvious way her lips would quirk into a most unyielding smile. His pious speech, and the way his hands painfully clasped together, begging for the blessing of resolve, made her scoff in blinding wonder.

Was he even aware of the words he mostly muttered? Did he ever stop to assess himself throughout the day, and realize the sin in which he debaucherously bathed in?

As his speech came to an end, the Lady preleened forward, grabbing a hold of the boiled-up stork.

How lovely it was to sit between comfort and chaos.

"You've never been one to speak much during our time spent together." Aemond remarked through the rumble of a solitary hum. "Yet I had hoped this last week softened your resolve, My Lady."

Her eyebrows rose in slight discomfort, as her eyes focused on the leisure movements of his bigger hands.

So he was softening up.

She opened her mouth almost immediately, but her hesitant eyes danced around his blinding stare. Her plump lips pressed into a hard line, and she exhaled loudly through her nose, in an attempt to ground herself.

"Not at all, Your Grace, I assure you." The cluttering of her fork came to a hoisted end, as Lady Tully aligned her head to focus directly on the One-Eyed Prince. "I should love nothing more than to talk to you… Please, do advise me on what you would like most to hear."

She fidgeted nervously with her silver rings – a quirk she developed whilst imprisoned in the Strong's Keep – and gingerly awaited his reply.

Your Grace. Your Grace. Your Grace.

The stillness in her speech and eyes drove the man effectively wild.

"Aemond." He stilled her faction through the reign of a distorted sigh.

She regarded him with a petrified stance. Her hands fell heavy over her legs in the wake of anticipation.

"... I-I beg your pardon?"

"Aemond." He repeated his name again, "We already break bread and sleep in the same bed." His lilac eye rose from his plate, and singled out her reddened cheeks. The man paused a while, as if to weigh his words carefully, and his cold, glassy orb, hungrily ran over her form. "It seems inevitable that we'd call each other by our given names. Yet you never once said mine throughout."

The girl could feel her throat dry up. While still maintaining his awkward stare, she reached for the glass of wine that rested by her left side. She wrapped her hand around its stem, and brought it to her paling lips.

The liquid courage slid down her throat in a quick, though burning manner, and (Y/N) had to swallow down an erratic cough. Her brows furrowed amidst, as she picked her words out slowly.

"I have called your name before, Prince Aemond. Many times throughout the moons, in fact."

He smiled at her perturbed reply, and shook his head in coy distraught.

"Not without the honorifics." The man clarified in a pleading tone, his voice growing hotter now. "... Just say my name." He sighed defeatedly. His hand gripped the edge of the table, silently, as the Targaryen Prince could feel his mind running with a thousand thoughts per passing minute.

The silence ate at him alive. She drowned the wine in a swift swing, and slouched forward to pour herself another glass.

She was too sober for this.

Lucaerys, Jacaerys, Cain.

Part of her wanted to pluck his eye out. Part of her wished nothing more than to make fun of him. Laugh, perhaps, at his desperate indiscretion. Do something – anything – to gauge a reaction out of him.

Any sort of reaction, that would make her pestering feelings for him leave her heavy soul.

Surprising even herself, adamantly going against her own wishes, the woman caught herself breathing out.

"... Aemond."

Unexpectedly he moved, by jumping to his ready feet, fully disregarding the oak chair as it hit the floor in a most perused manner.

The pang of noise alerted her, and seemingly, the guards outside. A while they remained in silence, listening in to the clash of metal that announced their unsure shifting.

But they wouldn’t come inside. The girl was lest aware of that.

As time pressed on, Aemond remained hammered in place, heaving out his weighty breaths and clasping his hands in aching fists.

Her eyes momentarily left his shadow – to turn again towards the poach of wine, and empty another glass in rapid gulps.

The heavy atmosphere inside the room hung lowly over their tired heads. (Y/N) resumed her mellow eating, wincing at the shakiness within her hands. She grabbed another piece of the boiled meat, though Aemond's stare soon made her drop it, and the girl clicked her tongue in disbelief; grabbing it instead with a piece of cloth, and securing it into a tight knot.

This time, it was her actions that had failed her. And perhaps it'd be her ready words that would prevail.

"Aemond." She spoke again, this time more confidently than before. The bitter liquor was burning her throat, her chest, her heart. She felt her limbs heavy – with both anticipation and frustration - borne out of lack of relief. She wanted to slap him, to hit him, to crush him beneath her feet.

She wanted to run away, to stay confined, forever inside this room, forever astute to what was going on in the outside world.

She wanted to feel something.

She wanted…

"Yes." Aemond encouraged her softly, and her attention came back to the raptures of the present tense. "There we go." He worded out, keeping his tone barely above a whisper.

Neither could tell when or how it happened – but Aemond's body was inches away from touching hers. The heat emanating from his beating heart washed over the meek form of the tipsy Lady. His Lady.

She gulped painfully, and the Prince could feel how his hands started spasming with the need to feel her. His nails bit the inside of his calloused palm, leaving deep and angry marks inside them.

His prominent veins shifted with his every faction. His face morphed into hopeful disarray.

"There we go." He repeated gently, "I want to hear your laughter. You never once laughed with me."

Her stare was hard to decipher. And yet confliction danced across her face. Aemond turned serious, and the stammering of his hands came to an untimely end. His eye bared holes into her reddened face; and the Lady humorously thought, if only for a moment, that it was a lucky thing he didn’t still have both his eyes. For such a stare would be embedded in her subconscious, bringing forth her swift undoing.

The corners of her mouth felt painful to bend and break. Shakily she smiled at him, and opened her mouth in shocked reclusion.

A shy laughter erupted from her unquenched throat, and the woman shuddered, surrendering the reins of reason to the drunken thoughts that sieged her.

Her laughter wasn't her own. The languid movements of her hands, that trailed over Aemond's chest, were not her own.

His finger came to caress her cheek. Her nose. Her brow. Her lips. Her mouth. The Crown Prince sucked in a dangerous breath, and secured his left arm loosely around her waist.

"Good girl," He spoke tenderly, his voice going from gruff to rough, "Such a good girl for me." His fingers combed through her messy braids, marking their swift undoing – taking a step back, he could feel the heat leave his head, in the favor of traveling lower, to meet the almost flaccid cock confined in the tightness of his pants. "Say my name again. Laugh again." He commanded in a pleading meowl. His lips twitched in anticipation, and his eyes trailed lower, lower still, from up her face, down to her soaring bosom.

"Aemond."

"(Y/N)."

A solitary look of shame was shared between them. Perhaps pushed forward by the only remaining faction of rationale, the two placed a step in between each other, but even that proved to be too fickle of a barrier to keep them whole apart.

Aemond reached to cup her face with his own trembling hand – on her end, the girl's digits trailed over from his high cheekbones, down to his prominent cupid's bow, in an all but gentle caress.

"Avy jorrāelan." He hissed through painfully gritted teeth, allowing his head to rest in the crook made of her shoulder blade and neck. "Avy jorrāelan." He repeated, the vulnerability in his voice making him lose the hold he had over himself.

"Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao." His feathered breath came into contact with her dainty neck. (Y/N) gasped lightly, as she felt the first of his many kisses being tenderly placed over her jaw and neck.

Her head was pounding, and her eyes were screwed shut, as the coldness of the wall hit her in perused waves. The impropriety of the soft moans and sighs that filled her ears to the brim left her confused and wanting.

The worst of it was that she didn’t know whether they came from her or him.

She felt as though her head was being harshly held below the water, and the girl clawed at her dress to loosen her tight bodice, which seemed to constrict even her erratic breathing.

Aemond's attention moved from her earlobe back to her lips. He felt how her hands contorted sporadically, and he placed his own palm over hers, to put an end to her hasty movements, and give her a sense of calmness. His fingers suddenly entwined with hers, as his form hovered above her. His throat etched with a lousy moan, and his mouth finally crashed with hers.

(Y/N)'s eyes opened at the shocking scene, and her lips suddenly parted, either to beg or to protest against him, but Aemond's hot tongue found entrance into her warm cave – deciding instead to deepen the kiss, and press himself further against her smaller form.

The outline of his throbbing cock molded against the shape of the woman's thigh, and the Prince Protector of the Realm let out a pleasured hiss, once her insistent writhing ended up brushing up his weeping tip. "Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa." He mumbled against her swollen lips, "Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī."

She let out a fatigued whimper, and swiftly turned her head around, putting an abrupt end to their meek and vicious pecks.

"What's wrong, hmm? Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir."

Aemond's lips were soft and tender, leaving behind an almost vivacious bite over her exposed parts. His pace had been filled with an animalistic hunger; the longing inside his eye caught her unprepared, and her lips parted with the desire to feel something – anything – that his palpable mouth would keenly offer.

(Y/N) shuddered with her eyes closed, and grabbed a hold of his long, white hair, leading the man closer yet to her swelling heat.

The way in which he held her should have felt so very wrong. But at that moment, the only thing she could do was extend her arm back up to him, and guide him with an insistent pull over his silky locks: encouraging him to bring forth his descent upon her lips.

She disregarded the way a figment of her psyche screamed at her. To stop her ministrations, to slap his calloused hands away from her. For if she kept her eyes closed, and focused solely on the shape of him, then she could almost pretend that the man before her had nothing to do with her beloved Jace.

She could almost pretend that he was Jace.

Aemond's pupil was left blown wide – so much so, that the lilac of his iris could almost be left neglected. He wrapped his hands around the lady's thighs, and hoisted her up to meet him by his narrow hips. Both moaned into the other's mouth, and the Prince soon found his way into the raptures of the silken bed.

His heated cock kissed the outlines of her soaked cunny. Aemond sighed deeply over the arch of her neck, and pawed away at her untouched bodice.

(Y/N)'s hands rested still upon his eyepatch, and, with a swift and hasty movement, she yanked it off his sculpted face.

"We need to stop…" She moaned, defeated, and felt how Aemond's body stiffened up below her, as the harsh realization finally hit them both.

She had uttered the words aloud.

Half expecting him to blow out fuming, the woman tried to pry herself off his fevered body, but his hands reigned like iron shackles over the inside of her spreading thighs.

"Do we?" He whispered lowly, whilst leaning in to steal another kiss from her again.

"We shouldn’t." She strained herself to say once more, and Aemond nodded, still chasing her lips with his.

She melted into his reluctant touch, and hummed against his beating heart. His hands dug deeply into her resting sides; his fingertips scattered over her translucent spine, leaving their possessive mark. "This isn’t right."

"I know, I know," He gasped, "Seven Hells, I know…"

"Yn nyke istan zarvīzis," He pressed a finger over her swollen lips, "Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis."

With the last ounce of her strength, she bit over his lower lip, dragging a wanton moan from out of his rosy lips.

"Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa..." He chanted, while latched onto her burning sear, "Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī."

His High Valyrian had made her dizzy. And at first, she tried to pay his words her mind, she tried to grapple and understand what he was saying.

A starved meowl left her panting lips.

"You can tell me to stop," The words that poured out of his mouth washed upon her like a rippled tide, "You can tell me to stop… and I will..."

Her body quickly arched against him; her shaky hands came to rest over his hips. She laced her mouth again with his, expecting rough, dominant kisses – but Aemond's hands propped themselves loosely against her cheeks, his thumbs pliantly stroking her with untoward devotion. His single eye drank her in with reverence.

"Please…" He whimpered into her mouth, "Avy jorrāelan." He confessed to her, again and again, trying his hardest not to take her against the cold floor – and not fuck her straight into the messy mattress.

Her limbs felt heavy. Lacking their autonomy. The body she was nestled in still wasn't her own.

"... Why?" She asked him disdainfully, sporadically, as his index finger came to pry open her haughty entrance.

His eye widened in perplexed ruin, but the Prince soon stumbled over his words again.

That bastard Jace must have taught her the gist of that.

"... I wish I knew." Came his sole and sincere reply.

Just like that, her eyes welled with the threat of tears.

His hands, his hold, his voice, his mouth. It was all wrong. In truth none could ever hope to feel right.

Flashes of her old lover, of his baby brother – who was so small the last she'd seen him –, of her sworn shield came into view. All of them, gone as if they never were. All of them, with their memories trampled deep beneath her sprawled-out form.

She wasn't a woman of the Faith. Not after what had happened. Not after the spoils of war that she, herself, felt like angry whips upon her skin. But her eyes fluttered close, and she begged the Mother for forgiveness, whilst a tear rolled off her ticking cheek.

She brought a hand to her wobbly lips, and began to violently rub away any remaining trace of Aemond's presence.

She was disgusted. With him, with herself, with the world, with the image of her Jace – that surged in her mind the second she blinked, the moment that she jolted awake in her misery.

On his end, (Y/N)'s display of pure abhorrence failed to falter Aemond's lustful grief. Why, if she did not desire him, did she fall into his arms again and again?

Love was the death of duty. And longing was the doom of all.

"Fucking cock tease…" The Prince growled, grief-stricken, "How much longer are you going to give into me, just to push me away?"

His patience had been running thin. The ache in his breeches was long forgotten. In its stead, the urgent sting in his heart dragged the man into the pits of madness. "What is it this time?" He groveled over her closed legs again.

Her recuperation had been jovial and quick. Adrenaline replaced the pain and shame, and the woman tried to get off the bed, put as much distance as she knew how in between her and the ravished Prince.

For the first time since he came to be, Aemond would not let her escape his clutches. As she moved backwards, he persisted forward – following her wobbly feet throughout the room with the spare of his predatory eye.

"Y-You said –" She tried ceaselessly to accuse him. "You said you wouldn't –"

"And you're right. I meant every. Single. Thing. I told you." He growled into her frightened ear, as his hands came to cage her, trap her under the seclusion of the hard, stone wall.

"You're mine." He hissed desperately, as he clasped her jaw to face him. "You've always been mine, you fucking harlot. From the moment you stepped foot into Harrenhal, your life belonged to me."

Perhaps Aemond was right, and she was nothing but a harlot. A treacherous swine that hung onto whatever he could give her - so starved and devoid of love and warmth, that she'd dare to stoop so lowly with him.

Aemond descended his unquenched rage over her exposed neck, and began leaving tender love bites all over, in spite of her lackluster pleas.

(Y/N)'s head felt like it was about to explode. She felt sick to her stomach – the wine and the distraught both built up inside of her. All she wanted now was to be left alone. For Aemond's touch felt oddly comforting, and her tired eyes began to close. "You drive me insane." She heard him choke.

She wanted to open her mouth. To urge the Prince to stop; but her word hole was sewn shut, taken over by the grip of feared confusion. While his hand hoisted her up by the waist again, her hand went around him, to grab onto whatever she could find. Finally, she stopped at the dragon-glass dagger, that securely latched onto Aemond's waist. Effectively, she wrapped her fingers around its silver hilt, and sheathed it out of its confinements.

"I swear on whatever God you want me to, I'll slit your throat if you don't stop touching me –" She wailed into Aemond's form, as she felt him stiffen up in tumultation.

His nostrils flared up at her attempt to intimidate him, and yet… his face looked most serene, as the cutting edge of the dagger reached close to his ivory skin. She raised her brows at him in utter surprise; for she expected him to surrender. His arms snaked away from her, and Aemond watched her intensely with his piercing gaze.

She could kill him, consequences be damned. And if she faced trial for this, then at least she'd have taken out a Green and Vhagar.

Her hand was shaking. Her breathing became erratic. She'd held a blade on multiple occasions; she'd fantasized about cutting Aemond's throat more times than she could bring herself to count. And yet…

His lack of movement – of worry – rattled her endlessly. She wanted to scream at him, to push him, to cut him. But for some reason couldn't bring herself to do it.

The realization that she just couldn’t do it made her almost drop the knife from the tight hold she'd kept it under.

"Why aren't you the least bit worried?" She spat out lowly, with her body trembling and her jaw set tight.

Aemond remained quiet and taciturn. His eye fixed her face carefully, and his hand gently wrapped around her quivering wrist. "Come on now…" He whispered to her, and watched how her eyes filled with the endless tears of frustration, how the hot droplets rolled down her reddened cheeks.

It would take another moment for her to drop the blade.

A moment she would forever grow to resent.

"I fucking hate you." She hissed through a breathless sob.

Oh, how she wished to hate him. Hate him as she did when they first clashed swords. Hate him as she did when she heard Jace talk about Lucaerys' death.

"Liar." Aemond rasped in acknowledgment.

And, just like that, the damage had been done. The blade rested back into his hand within an instant, and Aemond hit the wall behind her with murderous intent. "Fucking liar." He whispered again, breathing less and less sporadically, trying to wash his nerves away.

"I have been so good to you. But no matter what I do, it'll never be enough for you. Hmm?" He shook his head adamantly, and dug his fingers into the cold tiles of the cursed stronghold. "I am a patient man. But I will not wait a minute longer."

Her face twisted into a painful scowl, and the girl pushed over his chest roughly, but Aemond was quick to deny her exit. "This is not ideal," He muttered lowly to himself, "Yet you need to be taught a lesson."

"What are you d–"

Her words died upon her lips. Aemond hummed in dissatisfaction, and immediately brought the blade into her view.

She let out a scream of pure horror, but his pliant mouth silenced her with a scorching kiss. Her whole body was shaking, and the Prince Regent let out a frustrated sigh.

"Cease your crying, you hateful woman." He chastised her cruelly, "The fucking Gods sent you to ruin me."

At that moment, she wasn't above pleading. Her knees wobbled in place, and her orbs frantically searched for a way out. For something to grip and swing at the man before her.

Aemond's eye softened at the sight of her. Despite the pang of guilt he felt, a teasing and self-assuring smirk formed at the corners of his upturned lips.

So Jacaerys hadn't told her. He never mentioned their Valyrian way to her.

His triumphant feat soon washed away, as her trembling hands came into contact with his. "Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon." He told her adherently, truthfully, despite the obvious language barrier.

He took a moment to regain his composure. Grab a hold of her balled-up fists and remember the ancient words he'd only ever read about in his history books.

"Hen lantoti ānogar. Va sỹndroti vāedroma."

He ripped the sleeve from his linen shirt, and placed it over their entwined fingers.

"Mēro perzot gīhoti. Elēdroma iārza sĩr. Izuli ampā perzī."

The blade finally pressed down, over the softness of his left palm. Aemond winced at the sudden pain, and made a mental note to only nick the frightened girl with it, when the time came for that.

"Prūmĩ lanti sēteksi. Hen jenỹ māzīlarion. Qēlossa ozündesi."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened to a comical amount. Somewhere along the way, it seemed, she grew aware of Aemond's intent. She refused to show her hand to him, placing them both behind her back, and holding on for her dear life.

He let out a disapproving grunt, and reached his bloodied hands to her, yanking her right hand from underneath her strong grasp.

"No! No –!" She kept on screaming, and the guards outside shifted in place, before they fell under their oath of silence once again.

The cold and slick edge of the dragon glass pressed lightly against her writhing palm. Aemond made a smaller cut, and carried on with his rapid mumbling.

"Sỹndroro öñö jēdo. Rỹ kīvia mazvestraksi."

His very fist came to cut over his lower lip. His gory hand then reached for her jaw, hammering her in her place, and a sharp sting reflected on her weary stance. Aemond profited off the moment, to ease the dagger into her waiting mouth.

The metallic taste flooded her senses – the girl saw red before her eyes, and failed to register how his fingers came upon his and her forehead, painting them over with a ghastly symbol.

The Targaryen Prince reached for her hand again, and pressed her wounded palm cohesively with his.

"Following the tradition of my House from before the Doom of Old Valyria, I, Aemond of House Targaryen, bind myself to (Y/N) of House Tully, by blood, by soul, by life –"

"NO!"

" – And I pledge to her: that we are now one flesh, one heart, one body. Now and forever."

As he finally pried his limbs away from her trapped body, Aemond allowed his lips to feathery trace over her twisted mouth. She glanced at him, with wide-set and teary eyes.

"Fuck your fucking pledge."

Some grand venue she received.

A single question hung loosely into the air.

"Are you going to rape me now?"

She scarcely registered her own words as they left her mouth.

Aemond's eye widened at her query, and the Targaryen bit over his lower lip, as a deep grimace morphed the fairness of his features. He looked almost dumbfounded by her made assumption.

As soon as it came, the look of utter betrayal left his face.

"You would slit my throat with the knife." Was his mere reply.

***

Sometime along the night, he left.

The mighty roars of Vhagar registered themselves in the far-away distance.

That night, and only that night, she allowed herself the sacrilege of prayer. And she did so, again and again, pleading to the Seven for a blind arrow to reach his neck.

On the back of Vhagar, Aemond shuddered away from the impossible waves of heat, that licked deliciously at his stiffened cock; whenever her breathing would reach his ears, he felt tortured, trapped beneath the swell of lust and wanton desire.

Despite his abhorrent decision, he knew what their marriage meant. He knew all too well what his cruel bind had done, and yet… he felt no plausible remorse for the situation at hand.

The support of Storm's End, Floris Baratheon, Alys – mere casualties compared to the brink of having her, to knowing that she was finally his, as he was wholly hers.

Eventually, she'd have to love him. Eventually, she'd learn to do so.

A marriage wasn't a marriage until it was consummated. But he would give her, as he had promised, the illusion of choice, if nothing else.

As the cold night's air whipped his face again and again, and as Vhagar's thundering resounded over the burnt trees of the Riverlands, Aemond sighed, and brought a shaky hand to the strings of his breeches.

Scared as she was, his Lady made for a beautiful bride. It was such a shame that he didn’t get to see her wear the traditional Targaryen gown.

The pad of his thumb trailed over the cut he'd made – the same cut that now rested over her extended palm.

The flesh would scar, he thought, well pleased; whenever he looked at her, he'd get to see how she was undeniably his.

A possessive growl etched from his parted lips. Images of her paling skin, of her laugh. Her smile. The way her eyes bore into him, as if she always knew something he didn’t.

Leisurely, he began to pump his cock. Below him, Vhagar let out an anguished roar.

"Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon."

Droplets of precum rolled over his clenching digits, coating his knuckles and the base of his shaft in a translucent, but thick ropes.

He groaned desperately, aching to relieve his frustration deep within her, but alas…

His gruff moans filled the air around him; and Aemond could feel his climax building up, as visions of her flooded his thoughts.

How she would feel underneath him. How she would writhe on the edge of bliss, begging, pleading for him to finally take her.

He could feel her legs wrapping around him, and feel himself sliding inside her with ease, praising her for being so good to him.

He wrapped Vhagar's bridle tight over his arm, and secured himself better in his leather saddle. His grip tightened around his dripping cock, but it was just not good enough.

The pace with which he fucked his hand picked up in a wilding speed. Aemond sighed in pleasure, and felt his hips move to their own accord. His breathing became rugged. His very mind was not his own.

He wondered what other scars her body bore. What the story behind them was, and how many of them came by his swift undoing.

Would she lie down and let him take care of everything? Or would she want to stay on top, jumping up and down on him, each time with a harsher thrust?

His hips rose and fell with his less than gentle pace, and the man pushed his length deeper into his steadfast grip.

He knew that if she let him touch her, he wouldn't be leaving her bed for weeks. He would pull countless orgasms from her, time and time again, until she begged for him to stop. He would have her so full of his seed, so the Gods' help him, that she would swell with his child – his trueborn child – before the rise of the first rays of sun.

Feeling his release beckon, the Prince set on a final rhythm, one that left his loins more in need than ever. With a loud hiss, he pushed himself inside his fist one final time, spilling his seed onto the saddle beneath him.

He panted wildly into the night, and suddenly opened his lustful eye, allowing a tear of ecstasy to roll off his scarred cheek.

"Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra."

He couldn't keep up the charade with her. He would tell her all about it, once things finally settled down.

Word in Harrenhal traveled fast.

First it was her brash arrival. Then her impromptu marriage.

No one dared to talk to her. Yet she was never without the indiscreet eyes that followed her about.

Her situation wasn't without its ups and falls: Aemond felt no need to guard her as stiffly anymore – For where would the former Tully go, now that she bared his Targaryen name?

She was allowed to breach into some castle corners, always in the company of hefty guards, of course, and basked herself in some new acquired perks of freedom.

On the same account, whilst Alys remained loyal to her role as her lady-in-waiting, the tension between them couldn't have been more pain-strikingly high.

"I never asked for this. You must believe me."

She gave the younger woman a domineering stare, and only shook her head, obliged.

"And yet here you stand, inside his bed."

Word in Harrenhal spread fast – like a fire left unattended, like the so-called "Targaryen madness".

But a new, particular rumor gobbled the attention of everyone present.

Daemon Targaryen was to return to the Riverlands. And with him and Caraxes, he'd bring forth the formerly wild dragon, Sheepstealer, mounted by none other than Nettles.

The Lady had been acquainted with the bastard girl before – when the Sowing of the Dragon Seeds reveled in their first borne crops.

Another troubling report came forth. King's Landing had been secured by Rhaenyra.

When (Y/N) heard the news be whispered, she almost collapsed on her knees in glee. This must have marked the end of it. Surely, the usurpers would be put through the sword, leaving all to be well, and right again.

The Greens would die. They would face trial.

The Greens.

Indeed, word in Harrenhal spread fast. And she'd just been made the wife of the cruelest of them all.

Dread filled her insides. Her eyes cast their darkened shadow over the walls of the cursed Keep. A single, fundamental truth raised strongly from her anxious wallowing.

If Daemon Targaryen should find out about her marriage to his nephew, and get to her first… naught of the loyalty of the Riverlords would have a single say in her decided fate. And she would meet her end by the way of his blade, Dark Sister.

Now, more so than ever, it was pivotal for her to escape.

The clock was ticking.

And she was running out of time.

***

Her last day in Harrenhal was spent making plans. She'd rubbed her temples a myriad times, and paced about the room in a dizzying trot.

It wasn’t enough for her to disappear – she had to ensure everyone else thought she was gone.

When Aemond returned, she beckoned his call by jumping to her ready feet. The girl took him in, in his devillished state, and merely raised her brows at him. Whenever she saw him, the nick on her palm and lip itched at her relentlessly.

Neither was willing to recognize aloud what had transpired two moons ago, but both knew the inevitable punishment that would come with Aemond's actions.

He took a seat by the edge of their bed, and took his dagger out to play with it.

In vain he had asked Alys to share with him what she could see. She laid in broken, cradling her forming bump – the one she so desperately tried to hide away from him. The one thing that once meant her protection and raise in rank, now could very well heed out her doom.

Her green eyes raised from the floor below them, and Alys merely shook her head.

"There is fire, my Prince. Fire, and blood, and death."

"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silent chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved."

And there it was. The silent admission of what he had done.

"We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."

Was he sorry for what he did?

"It was about time you got acquainted with the rest of the family."

Aegon's cause was lucky that Storm's End was already too involved. They couldn't turn in their banners to the other front. Not now.

"It's a wonderful idea." She uttered in a glacial tone, barely above a whisper. "When will we depart?"

Sharpened orbs came in contact with the loneness of a purple eye.

The man took in a sparring breath, and hummed at her obedient retreat. The Prince's fist clenched over his cutting wound, and he nodded his head firmly.

"Should we be graced with the Gods' favor, issa jorrāelagon, then on the morrow," He explained, "but no sooner than that."

The girl's brows furrowed in discontent, as Aemond faltered in pressing the matter further. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the aid of two long fingers, and heavily rose from his seat.

"Don't wait for me tonight. I shall return to you in the morning. I have unfinished business to attend to."

Lack of air. And crippling fear.

Her tiny world had been thrown into the arms of chaos. But everything fell so perfectly into place.

As soon as Aemond had mounted Vhagar, as soon as her father of wings died upon the night's first watch, the woman sprung to her feet, and began her soul's ascent into the pits of the Seven Hells.

She started off by breaking in her tiny mirror, placing a goose feather pillow below and over it, to somehow mask the clefty noise.

Her long hair was the first to go. She began cutting it swiftly, using big and brisk movements to chop off as many of her luscious locks as she possibly could.

She ripped the mattress of the bed open with one of the bigger shards, and revealed Aemond's dried-up shirt, that she had tucked well under after washing it, long preparing it for that occasion.

Her stomach churned as her hand went to her chamber pot. Risking her own deniability, she submerged her digits deep within it, letting out a victorious huff as she brushed across a piece of cold felt.

The insides of the sack revealed fermented meat – putrid, more like. She scattered the final remains of it over the stone floor like a mad-woman, and ripped the latter pages of the book Alys had gifted her.

She would take the passage to the stables, and simply hope for the best.

Her eyes searched feverishly about the cluttered room, but the hammering in her heart stilled only as she gaped upon the lower left corner of the wall full of banners.

There it was. Exactly where Alys told her it was going to be.

She tore into the mattress further, spreading the wool around, and grabbed a hold of a piece of wood from the crackling fire.

May she be forgiven for what she was about to do.

Her shaky hands grasped the lumber strongly, and she let it roll in the middle of the room, allowing it to fall with a loud bang.

***

The sound of wailing screams echoed inside her head, scratching at her ears, to the point of making them almost bleed. The heat of the fire she caused fell over her skimpily clothed back, and the disgust she felt with herself was palpable against her tongue.

With every turn she took, she made herself another promise. She would not rest until the war would see its end. She'd never sleep warmly again, and forever remind herself of the sacrifice she had to make – of all the lives that she undoubtedly ended, if only to meet her selfish ends.

For once, this was not just Aemond's doing. This was her fault all alone.

Blinded by rage, and seething with fury, her feet carried her down the crooked set of stairs. The woman brought a hand up to her face, and coughed wildly in the back of it. She'd have to make a bold turn soon. Then the outside world would heed, and she would be free again.

With just a twinge of luck, the guards should think that whatever was left of her room collapsed upon herself inside. Her burnt hair and clothes would create the wanted look – the meat would add the unmistakable smell of rot and death, and the lack of an actual body would take days to figure out.

And she prayed. She prayed, she prayed, she prayed: that no one else knew of the passages that she was threading through below.

Her eyes could barely see in front of her. Smoke rose to unforgiving levels, and the Lady swore it could be cut even by the dullest knife. As she reached the crossroads of the secret tunnel, her hands came to grapple at the breeches' pockets, turning them inside out – trying to find the torn pages of the book she'd just previously carried.

A sigh of relief rumbled from within her throat, as the pads of her shaking digits stroked across the withered, olden pages.

Her relief would be short lived.

Boney hands snaked around her, and the girl nearly screamed – until the familiar scent of mint and wild berries floored her senses.

"Alys?!" Her voice let out in an exasperated high. "Alys, we need to hurry!"

But her able hands still hesitantly clung to the soft material of her shirt, digging so deeply into it, that she could rip it in a downward pull.

"You –" She began to say, but cut herself short as she momentarily closed her eyes.

No matter what, she couldn’t tell the Lady before her that she'd have sent her upon her death.

"You took a wrong turn. This isn't the right way towards the South Gates."

The adrenaline flooded her veins. Her heart was pumping wildly against her ears. Lady Tully only nodded, failing to process that Alys had, in fact, never given her access to such an option on the crudely drawn map.

"This way, (Y/N) – came quickly!"

Two sets of legs descended further into the murky passages of Harrenhal. At one point, the smoke had gotten so very thick, that both women had to feel their way out, by touching the corners of every tunnel that they surpassed.

When all seemed lost, Alys finally spoke, "Over here!" She yelled out to her, and latched onto Aemond's dampened shirt.

They stumble into each other, as the small opening of the stifling cellar reaches the South Gates. The witch stops hastily on her heel, and the young Lady nearly busts their cover.

A raid of soldiers came flocking out, with what then looked like tens of thousands of squealing maids. So frightened by their own demise, they bumped into the oak doors and onto each other – choosing to, instead of unlocking the main Gates, reach and pull at the other's hairs, cursing loud and wildly.

Alys let out a bemused huff at their perused antics, but her reglament was short lived; as one of the smarter lassies reached for the illustrious piece of wood, and opened the doors with the loudest of creak.

"Now's our chance," The Lady of Riverrun whispered to her fellow escapee, grabbing onto her wrist harshly, and dragging her out and into the light. "Mingle in the crowd, Alys –"

"My Lady, do not stray far –"

The older woman let out a staggering breath, as she raised her skirts to follow suit on the trail left by the hot-headed girl.

She is Elmo's daughter alright, she disarmingly told herself, Just as hopeless and reckless as he once was.

Alys almost tackled her to the ground, as Lady Tully succumbed herself deeper into the burnt out forest. She gripped onto her hands with hers, so harshly, that she'd definitely leave her mark. "I thought I had told you not to stray far."

The breathless form of the lost child before her appeared to be enough to soften a tad of her resolve. "When I tell you something, I expect you to do it."

Whilst chastising her deeply for her foolhardy behavior, the woman searched her pockets, and pushed out two quarter silvers into her trembling hands.

"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn."

As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire. Make sure to cover the cut on your hand with this." As she spoke, Alys pushed a black glove into her resting hands.

The Bliss of Riverrun threw the witch a bewildered look. Her eyes searched adamantly for hers, and the woman panted out in pure wonder. "How did you know I intended on migrating North?

"I've already seen you do it." She shook her shoulders promptly, "I've already seen you succeed."

Her green eyes softened, if only for a blazing moment; but the crackling of the trees behind them snapped her out of her inward trance. "Don't waste anymore time. Your diversion was smart, but he will try to find you."

The girl reached down, to squeeze her hands, perhaps, in a wordless display of gratitude and affection. Her soft fingers interlaced over her boney knuckles, and Alys muttered a faint blessing over the twisted arch of her furrowed brow.

The Lady turned around, but not before pausing and shooting the witch one last fiery look. "Come with me." She offered determinedly, and shook her head strongly as Alys took a step back. "He'll try to punish someone for it. You're his next available girl." She begged her to see to reason.

"My place remains here. By his side."

(Y/N)'s eyes hardened at her thorough admission, but she strained herself to shoot the wet nurse back with a curt nod.

"I shan't forget what you did for me." She promised her elder with a minute smile.

"A heads-up when you next decide to set the whole stronghold on fire would be most appreciated…!" She lightheartedly told her, despite the obvious wabbling of her lower lip.

(Y/N) nodded, but remained hammered in place for another while. Alys' hand reached to cup over her face, but a brisk moment of clarity was quick to change her mind.

"Go, you foolish girl…!" She snapped, "Make good use of that promise you made."

Her feet began moving on their own accord. Her mind was blazing with all of the unfinished tasks at hand.

She would run towards the Rushing Halls. Buy a mule. Retreat towards Green Fork. Reach the Twins.

Her road shall lead to Winterfell. If Forrest Fray remained the same kind fool that he once was, she should have no trouble sending Cregan Stark a raven.

And if she could reason with Jacaerys' friend, take in his testimony of protection, perhaps her life wasn't lost just yet.

The gusts of wind ran through her shortened and unkempt hair. Aemond's clothes hung loosely over her, and the stench of fire and ash filled her nostrils with something else other than hopeless dread.

Never before in her life, did the girl run so fast.

Taglist:

Translations:

Gevie… = Beautiful;

Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda. = Do not worry, my sweet love. I promised you I would be patient;

Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa. = One day you will desire me;

Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao. = The Gods have cursed me to love you;

Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar. = Calm down, Vagar. Be still. Good girl;

Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa. = Gods, you were made for me;

Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī. = Just look how perfectly we fit together;

Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir = Sweet girl… don't pull away from me now;

Yn nyke istan zarvīzis. Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis. = But I've been patient. I've been so good and… so, so patient;

Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa... = You act like you don't want this…;

Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī. = But you want me just as much. You ache for me – just as badly.

Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon. = Don't cry, my beautiful Princess. I would sooner die than hurt you;

Valyrian Wedding Vows: Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows, two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass – the stars stand witness, of the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light;

Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon. = I know Vhagar, I know;

Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra. = The Gods don't listen to men like me. But I would go on my knees and beg them to let me keep you. You were once the bane of my existence… and now, you find yourself the center of it.

[0oolookitsme]

It's Buzzcut Season, Anyways!

Eeeeekk!!!! Hi Hi everyone!! I hope you are all doing well, here comes the first post of the year! <3

So.. It is my birthday today, and I'm very excited to tell you that I'm introducing to you, another one of my pairings! This a little excerpt from the fic (wip) I'm writing about this chaotic pairing, and I really do hope this gets you as excited about their story, as I am! This was supposed to be up in December but for some reason, I didn't post it?? Anyways, other than that, you shall see more, further on in 2024 :)

Also, shoutout to @cupid-styles and @elioslover for picking my ice hockey!Harry to be the one to get a buzzcut, hahah! My indecisive self (who lowkey wanted you guys to pick him), could've never 💗

All the love always, A.

Verse - NHL Player!Harry x Figure Skater!Y/n (uni era)

Word Count - It's just an excerpt so it's short!

Warnings - None that I can find but if there are any, do tell me and I'll edit them into this!

Y/n is reluctantly trimming Harry's hair when her nose feels funny, and she sneezes. Its good though, that Harry asks for her opinion regarding a change that he would rather appreciate.

Please rb to share! | Masterlist

Y/n sat on her unmade bed, hair unbrushed and messy since she woke up from a 3-hour nap. Her fingers typed away on her laptop, her face showing zero signs of any stress regarding the assignment she's going to have to turn in un-edited.

Probably because of the breakdown she'd had before taking nap. She'd been so stressed that she had drawn blood from her lips and broken two of her nails -- which was rather disappointing to her considering she'd got them done not so long ago in the honour of the upcoming season of winter.

The temperature was still as hot as summer, but half of the world was snowed in, and she wanted the peace of mind that winter brought her; so, she deluded herself into thinking that it was indeed her favourite time of the year.

A silent burp made its way up her throat, as she drank the day-old diet coke she'd been drinking before her meltdown-that-leads-to-an-amazing-nap.

Just as she slurped on the last sip that wasn't anything but melted ice, she heard the door to the flat open and her eyes rose up just in time to catch the sight of a sweaty and out of breath Harry, through the open door of her room.

"Y/n?" He called for her, walking towards her room when she only hummed in response. He passed her an apologetic smile on reaching her doorframe, and she knew he was going to ask something of her that the both of them know she wouldn't be willing to do quite easily.

"I need your help," he grinned at her. "...And Immediately."

She looked at him suspiciously, before deciding to shift her focus back on her assignment, knowing that he would lure her in if she were to continue looking at him.

But Harry was at once kneeling beside the side of bed she was sitting on. With his hands joined, he contorted his face in a way that looked like he was about to cry. "I beg of you, please! If you don't help me right now, my life will be ruined forever!"

Y/n's eyes had fallen into untrusting slits by now as she minimized the document that she had been writing in. "What is it, Harry?" She asked him in a monotonous tone, shutting her laptop as if procrastinating the essay any longer would be a great help.

"Cut my hair."

Instantly her jaw dropped open. Shaking her head, she began reopening her laptop and Harry took a hold of her wrists. "Harry, there's no way!" She yelped as he began making her get off the bed.

"I'm not asking you to give me haircut like Zayn!" He exclaimed, as if that'd ease her. "Just trim it a bit," he shrugged, walking out into the small living-room with Y/n thrashing behind him. She even threw a few hands at him, but he had a feeling that she wasn't as opposed by the idea as she was pretending to.

He pulled out a chair in front of the mirror that, though they had been living in this flat for nearly two months, had yet to be pinned to the wall. "C'mon, you work at a salon -- surely you know how to trim a guy's hair," he teased her, knowing that questioning her abilities would get to her and she'd cut his hair better than any hairdresser ever could.

Looking at her reflection glaring at him through the mirror, he winked at her before bending down to unzip his bag. He pulled out an electric trimmer from inside it and handed it to her, pulling the towel from the coffee table that he had left there earlier in the morning.

Once done draping it over his shoulders, he handed her the trimmer and added a touch of his puppy-dog eyes even though he knew they simply don't work on her.

"Okay. If you end up bald, don't complain then," she grumbled before running her hand through his hair. "Is this sweat or did you wash your hair after practice?" Her face was already contorted in disgust, like she knew he surely couldn't have done the latter.

"Don't you worry, I washed it after practice," he assured her, looking at her as if she should appreciate him.

She turned on the trimmer and held his hair in sections by one of her hands. "Why didn't you go to a salon?" She asked him, trimming the hair on his sides with her mouth parted.

Harry shrugged and immediately retorted when Y/n shrieked, mumbling an apology. "The salon's too far. I don't have the time to get there; got a handful of assignments to turn in before midnight." He told her. "And I mean, saving some money never hurt anyone."

"You do realize that I've put doing my assignment on pause to do this silly shenanigan with you?" Her eyebrows rose up as she fired another question at him. She suppressed a smile when he passed a dimpled-lopsided grin to her. "God, I hate you," she said, and a smile slipped on her lips as she moved to the other side to trim the rest of his hair.

She had no reason to be doing a parttime job at a salon, it wasn't going to help her in the future in any way, but it did help her in the present with its money. The money she got by being apprenticed to a dance company went straight into the flat-bills and some other necessary purchases that she couldn't avoid.

But she wasn't complaining about it. Living among frat people was a nightmare for her. She did have fun with people but being a clean-freak and a morning person didn't match well with the frats. They did love her dearly, but when Harry came in asking if someone would be willing to be his flat mate, everyone had chanted for Y/n. And, when he asked Y/n at the rink, she had quite literally jumped at the opportunity and in the joy of the moment, hugged Harry with a tight grip that still had his heartbeat rise whenever he thought about it.

With her touching his hair, Harry's heart was beating so hard in his chest that he was afraid it was going to break a rib. His eyes never once left her reflection in the mirror, not with the way she was being so careful and serious. Her lips had parted without her knowing, and she wasn't even blinking often enough.

That was when Harry saw a hair-strand fall in her face, and her face scrunch up in a way it does when she's about to sneeze. He saw as she turned to sneeze in her elbow -- a habit that she still hadn't gotten rid of. He shifted his gaze down on his hands in his lap, to prevent her catching him staring at her.

When Y/n caught her breath after the sneeze, her eyes grew wide. Her hand began shaking as she brought the other hand to cover her mouth, looking at his head in horror. She wasn't sure if she should laugh or begin spewing apologies and decided on the latter one.

But as she opened her mouth, Harry looked at her. "Should I just buzz it off?" He questioned her and thought that she had paled at the thought of him going bald. "I mean, the match season is finally over. I don't have anything to do but study, do my parttime and of course practice hockey." He shrugged explaining his point of view, looking at her to help him decided.

"S-sure! I mean, you'd look good with any-any type of haircut." She was shaking and stuttering, but Harry was too lost in his train of thoughts to question her. "A-and its buzzcut season, anyways!"

That seemed to be helpful for Harry. He smiled at her, "Shave it off, then. I'm basically on vacation from tomorrow... and I guess I'd really appreciate a change like this!" He was back to grinning and Y/n's sweat was beginning to cool off.

She imagined sitting with Harry on a sofa on some ordinary-night with her feet in his lap like he were her closest friend and telling him about today -- a movie playing on the lowest volume possible in the background. She stopped herself before she could get lost thinking about his reaction and mess up even his buzzcut.

[carpedzem]

hi

under the cut i want to talk a little bit, maybe overshare as well. ill try to keep it short (rereading nat here. i didnt). its a sad post, might make some of you angry but not for the reasons you think

i was staying away on purpose, but a few people asked about me so i wanted to let you know that hey, im lurking, im waiting to see what happens. maybe some things will change in the future but im putting it out here so its all in one place

i think i want to start with saying thank you again for sticking around, supporting my art and my thoughts and having discussions with me. i really opened up about myself and what I created here. im very anxious person and it influences my life on every level, so being heard, seeing people laughing at my jokes, loving my art has been so so important to me

about the situation, the gogcident if you will, i logged out as soon as i saw things going down and been getting updates though different source. and while situation is still on going and i dont know where it will go, as how it ends, theres two or three things im firm on that will always be true for me:

i really hate how believe all victims turns into believe everyone who speaks first, no matter what they say, no matter context, no matter proof. the first statement made in this case was untrue in a lot of important details and while i dont think caitis feeling are wrong or invalid i think her first statement made this situation into something it isnt. i think every victim should be heard but attacking everyone who was accused right away is not a solution

i do believe that everyone who was accused of anything has every right to defend themselves. the way its constantly taken away from dteam is not lost on me and its insane and upsetting

you can be traumatized by the events that werent in its core meant to be traumatizing. sometimes people act shitty and leave scars on you and sometimes you can do the same to other people

edited note bc i want this to be here as well: guilty until proven innocent is a crazy mindset and i cannot imagine situation that i would allow it. some idiots dont even realise how dangerous rhetoric that is. including accusers not being obligated to provide any proof of their claims

twt is the worst thing to deal with any discourse, misunderstanding or any delicate situation. i think no ones there cares for any victims period. i wish that place the worst

okay so what now. i havent decided yet. georges and dreams moves so far confirmed for me that no matter what happened it wasnt with malicious intentions. ill wait to see how this plays out and then ill decide about my next steps. one think i did for sure is i uninstalled twt from my phone (and that already bit my ass the moment dream started his space…) that part of fandom, both people who like (liked?) and hate dream is so damn self-destructive, toxic, manipulative and performative it wasnt worth it anymore. for here, i dont know yet. i dont hate dteam, i think this is very unfortunate and sad and complicated situation that left people very deeply hurt. and i wish it wasnt this way and im pretty sure dteam also wish that. but they cant change it and i cant change it even more

now this is something i dont really know how to tell you but let me try. i never mentioned this bc when i had those realizations, it was too late, everyone moved on and i felt stupid for dwelling on this. i feel stupid now, typing this. the thing is, drituation left me quite traumatized. fucking pathetic, i know. the sudden explosion of fandom left me really badly hurt. i lost a lot of people i genuinely believed to be friends with, and i miss them dearly. i felt, fuck it, still feel deeply betrayed by some of them. i dont want people guess who is who thats not the point, those people moved on long time ago. but that hurt has been really difficult to deal with, especially since realistically i know its quite stupid. crying over some people who were following me back for a few months? but i tried to let myself heal and grow love for this community again and i thought we will be okay. drituation felt like the end of the world but we got through it and I thought we are smarter. and well. im not trying to blame anyone or even a whole community, idk maybe i want to blame the universe for putting me here or society for working this way i dont know. but im hurting and i need to find a better way to deal with things going the wrong way. and it deeply upsets me but im afraid that i have to learn how to love you all less. and i honestly dont know yet what that means, how moving forward will look like. i dont have to make this decision now so i let myself stay away from social media for a while still and then go with presented situation the best i can. i dont try to make anyone responsible for my wellbeing i want to make this clear. im just trying to share my feelings and give you context for whatever happen in the nearest future. no matter what i need more healthy relationship not even with ccs but with community itself (and if you see me rebloging hazbin hotel fanarts. spare me...)

in this place i do want to state that no matter what i dont think dteam are bad people. im not closing myself at possibility of participating in the fandom, probably less though things i mentioned earlier. but if any of those things make you uncomfortable in any way, feel free to unfollow/softblock

im leaving my askbox open if anyone has anything to say, add, or idk, scream at me. not sure if i answer any tho. also if i delete this post in the next 10 minutes out of embarrassment then well, haha

on the final note i want once again thank you all for supporting me when i needed help for my cat. you all did something amazing, something i will never forget and i wish to hug everyone of you in person. thank you

see you around. one day. maybe tomorrow maybe in 10 days. idk

and if you are moving on in different direction, if we ever meet again, dont be a stranger

[5ummit]

New Mandatory #NSFW Mature Label

I rarely post NSFW content so I'm not sure how long this has been a thing, but just a heads up, if you use the #NSFW tag, tumblr will now automatically apply the mature content label to your post.

A few important notes:

(1) You can't remove this label. Well that's not 100% true, on original posts you can manually change the label back to "everyone." However, if you save or publish the post with #NSFW still included, the mature label will automatically be reapplied. Aka it's now impossible (with the new editor) to publish a post tagged as #NSFW that's not flagged as "mature."

(2) The mature label is also applied to reblogs tagged with #NSFW. This is where we get into a bit of a problem. Community labels on reblogs are not normally editable. The option is grayed out (as you can see above), which means that once you add the #NSFW tag to a reblog, even if you decide to later remove it, that post will forever be labelled "mature" and locked away from any of your followers who filter those posts out (remember mature filters are turned ON for everyone by default). As far as I can tell tagging a reblog as #NSFW does NOT apply the label to the post globally though, it's just on your own blog, but it's still not ideal.

(3) This only works when using "#NSFW" on its own. If any other text is included in the tag the auto-applied community label is not triggered.

(4) No other tag (that I've been able to find) has a mandatory community label. What's interesting is I did find an official @changes post from about 6 months ago stating that tumblr "will add the pertinent label to the post automatically" when the label is used as a tag, with #violence even being explicitly provided as an example, but I tried it (along with as many other "mature" tags as I could think of) and it didn't work. #NSFW appears to be the only one, at least right now.

Not being allowed to use the #NSFW tag without a mature label is annoying, particularly for those who are overly cautious about tagging it even when it may not be necessary and particularly since it's uneditable when applied to reblogs. However, I'm not going to outright say this new "feature" is 100% a bad thing and that everyone should get up in arms about it. This post is just meant to make you aware of it.

Most posts tagged as NSFW probably should be labelled "mature" and I bet most people just forget to do it or may not even know about community labels in the first place. As much as I want to return to the old "go nuts, show nuts" tumblr, I'm aware that's never going to happen and this new community label system is our only way forward. If there's any hope of tumblr ever broadening the mature content guidelines and getting us closer to where we were before (yes, I know it's a longshot), this system has to work and it only works if people use it.

[allysafantasy]

One of Lady Sneasler's kittens decided to say hi to the scared Zorua. Gem, the Sneasel, is happy to see a new friend. Out of the three Sneasels, Gem is gentle in how he interacts with Zorua. Although Zorua is still scared of Gem, it's a good thing that he didn't run away.

Ingo is happy that Zorua can at least interact with one of the poisonous kittens. Meanwhile, it seems like Emmet's Zorua is causing trouble.

Emmet has to deal with the shenanigans of his Zorua for a few months after taking it in seven years ago. Ingo has been missing for 8 years. This has made Emmet depressed, and he tries his best not to dwell on it. Since the first year of Ingo's disappearance, Emmet has been trying to keep their apartment clean to distract himself. He'd rather avoid facing the reality of Ingo's absence, although he knows it's just avoiding the truth. He values truth but in this case this truth, he thinks it's false. He doesn't want to be as idealistic as Ingo, but sometimes he wishes for a miracle to bring Ingo back or at least provide a reason for his disappearance. Then he met Zorua, which, although Emmet does not like the shenanigans that Zorua gets up to, it unintentionally made him feel a bit better which is what Zorua wanted. After meeting Emmet, Zorua just wants to make Emmet happy, even if making small mischief is enough to at least make him not think about bad stuff. Zorua has a simple, idealistic goal: to make everyone happy and distract them from negative thoughts.

Last Post

Anyway, I had fun making this art. Though, the Emmet art just makes me not wanna want to draw background characters but I remembered I made Pokemon Designs for my ocs so I made them into background characters. So, Lets just say they just wanna visit Unova or something. Also this is the first time of me trying to make a comic. I don't know how to comic so I don't mind any criticism. (especially with grammar pls help) Anyway, I've been working on this animation. If you have heard the song and poses uh. yeah I'm just showing the frames of it.

Edit: I finally have a name for this AU and its in the tag

[writtenonreceipts]

Fic Masterlist // AO3 Link

Finally posting here. I forgot I had this chapter written until a darling friend commented on a03 and I decided to edit her up and post.

Warnings: none, ~4.5k words

Summary to this point: Feyre has made a slow, if strange, friendship with the mayor of Velaris--Rhysand Avitas.  She isn’t sure what to make of it, or even if she can trust it considering her past.  But her daughter seems to like him and you can trust an almost two year-old right?  After her shop is broken into and a rather cryptic conversation with Rhysand’s father, Feyre’s walls return to full capacity and she’s ready to push everyone away.  It’s what she’s good at.  Now she has to try and clean up her shop and get back to business as usual.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Of Picking Up the Pieces

Two days later Feyre dropped Seren off with Vassa to watch for a few hours.  While Feyre had only lived with Vassa and Jurian for a few months in the early days of her pregnancy, she’d kept in touch with them over the years.  They were also close friends with Lucien which helped the anxiety Feyre had over leaving Seren with someone for the day.  But having a toddler running around a messy shop really wasn’t in anyone’s best interest.

So, with Vassa’s assurance that she and Seren would have a fun day together, Feyre returned to the shop for damage control.

The police had informed her that their own crime scene unit did what they could to clean things up, but Feyre wasn’t going to put much faith in what they had to offer.  All she could do was hope that repairs and repainting wouldn’t take too long.  The first few weeks of a new business were the most important and already having to be closed was not going to do good things for her reputation.  Whether or not it was vandalism.

When she finally made it downtown, she had to park a little ways away because the street was still blocked off with police barricades.  It was obvious something had happened and the pedestrians that were milling about kept rapt attention to anything that looked out of place.  Many of the shops still had boarded up windows and paint was still smeared on the sidewalk.

Her shop looked much the same as the previous night with its blown out windows and the beat up door.  Heart squeezing tighter, Feyre tried to control the panic that threatened to eat her alive.

She pushed open the door, the heavy wood groaning.  The paint had long since dried and someone had attempted to scrape it off, but it was to no avail.  Still, she avoided touching any of the red.

The inside of the shop was as good as it could be.  Aside from the splattered paint and broken glass, not much else had been terribly broken.  It would just take a long day of cleaning and reorganizing.  If she had help.  Elain and Lucien would come by when they could, but Lucien had his own job.  Elain was also in the middle of getting her master’s degree in botany and had already put many of her classes on hold to help Feyre with the shop.  Nesta would of course be around to help with legal purposes, but the women’s shelter would need her sooner rather than later.

As all these thoughts continued to plague Feyre, she almost dismissed a sharp whistle that permeated the morning.  Turning, Feyre found a group of high school boys in matching black t-shirts.   Velaris High Football was printed proudly in white across the chest.  A few of them had cut off the sleeves, one made his a crop top.

“Are you Miss Archeron?” the leader asked.  He had buzzed hair and was taller than most high school kids Feyre knew.

“That’s me,” Feyre said.  She eyed the boys in confusion. “What--”

She didn’t get to finish when Cassian appeared behind the boys.

“Archeron!” he said brightly, a grin stretching on his face and hazel eyes bright. “How’s it going?”

Feyre blinked. “Fine?”

“The boys and I are here to help,” Cassian said, absolutely enjoying Feyre’s confusion. “Where do you need us?”

Reigning in her shock as best she could, Feyre gestured to the brooms in one corner and the paint in another.  In a matter of minutes the high school boys were sweeping and cleaning up all the broken items still lying about.

Feyre turned back to Cassian with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?”

He offered her a to-go cup of coffee she hadn’t noticed him holding.  And not one to say no to free coffee, she accepted.  Her glare didn’t lessen though.

“I coach the football team when not kicking Rhys’ ass,” Cassian explained easily.  He was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, looking exactly like a football coach should with the muscles and domineering appearance.  His brown hair hung in thick waves to his shoulders and tattoos curled along his biceps and down his forearms.  “The school year doesn’t start til September so we’re teaching the boys about service.  They’ve had enough conditioning.”

“Right,” Feyre said.  She took a long sip of the coffee, not enough creamer, and took a moment to process all of that. “So you’re helping me--”

“And the rest of the street,” Cassian added, “we divided the boys up.  And the cheerleaders are coming by too.  I think they decided to host a carwash to earn money for a donation fund.”

It was ridiculous, Feyre decided, that all of this was going on.  

“I don’t need charity,” she said.

“Then the money will go to another shop.” Cassian shrugged. “We just want to help.”

Feyre stared at him.  There didn’t seem to be any ulterior motives for him being there, just a friendly face.  But she knew that he was here in part because of Rhys.  After the last time Cassian had been to the shop to put finishing touches on the light fixtures, Feyre was convinced that Cassian would do whatever Rhys asked.  Hell, he’d trailed Tamlin just because Rhys had asked.

Cassian reached out and gave her arm a squeeze.

“I just want to help, Feyre,” he said, as though he knew where Feyre’s hesitance was coming from.

The kids in the back of the shop laughed loudly at something and were already making progress on the mess of glass from a smashed case.  They didn’t seem to care or notice that they were spending a summer day helping a random person with a problem.

She felt a little bit of gratitude worm its way through her chest and she only nodded.  The floor was still smeared with red paint, despite how the crime scene unit had tried to clean they hadn’t been very effective.  

“Well, I guess we have work to do,” she said.

Cassian only smiled and went to collect a spare push broom to clear away the excess debris still on the ground.

…

The rest of the morning passed quickly.  Different sets of football players rotated through the shop as they took ruined items to a dumpster outside in the street.  If she’d wanted to, Feyre could have sat in the corner and not lifted a finger.  Cassian was well aware of what was needed and what to do and instructed the boys easily.

By the time it was nearing lunch, Cassian dismissed the players for the rest of the day, saying they could stay if they wanted but it wasn’t a requirement.  Even in the four hours of work the shop was already looking good.  Most of the trash had been cleaned up and the glass swept away.  Really all that remained were stubborn spots of paint, replacing the main door, and the front window.  And then the organization.  That sounded like absolute hell.  Maybe she’d wait for Elain’s help.

Mor showed up not much later with two boxes of pizza and water.

“It looks so good!” she exclaimed.  “Who knew teenagers were so helpful?”

Feyre laughed, accepting a water bottle. “It helps when they listen to their coach.”

Cassian only grinned. “They know I can make them run all week if I want to.  Besides, it helps when you split them up properly.  Divide and conquer.”

“Alright general,” Mor mused.  She’d brought plenty of paper towels and served up the pizza, handing Feyre a slice.

“Thanks,” Feyre said.  She was exhausted.  She hadn’t slept well the last several days and it was starting to take a toll on her.  It didn’t help that Seren could sense her mood and had been fussy herself.  

The pizza offered a bit of joy though that she couldn’t deny and if she ended up eating three slices, she would not apologize.

“Where’s Seren?” Mor asked, swatting at Cassian when he tried to steal his own third slice of pizza (Feyre hadn’t even seen him finish his first).

“With some friends,” Feyre said, she smiled wanly.  “We would have gotten nothing done otherwise.”

The only good thing about being so busy was that it distracted Feyre from being worried about her daughter.  Somewhat.  Not really.  Though, everything she did ended up feeling a bit of panic or found herself staring too long into the distance, Cassian was there to redirect her to the task at hand.  Or make an inappropriate joke.  Usually it was the latter.

“If you ever need help,” Mor offered.  She said the words lightly, easily, so they could be dismissed or passed over.

Feyre had never been used to other people offering help.  She’d grown accustomed to doing things her own way.  Alone.  

“Thanks Mor,” she said quietly, “that means a lot.”

Mor smiled before forcing another slice of pizza Feyre’s direction. “Of course.  Now.  What else do we need to get done?”

Really, there didn’t seem much to do beyond waiting until the new glass window arrived and getting the door replaced.  Feyre kicked at the floor where remnants of the red paint refused to come up.  She supposed it was better that the ground was concrete and not carpet, it was easier to hide the mess with rugs than replace the entire flooring.

She looked away before her mind could wander in unwanted directions.

“I think the walls just need another look around the door and over on that side,” Feyre said, gesturing.  The football boys had done a good job, but they were teenagers after all and some of them didn’t have as much attention to details in certain spots than others. “I’m going to buy some rugs for the floor though.”

“You should ask Alanna for help,” Cassian said.  He collected the leftover pizza into one box and set it off to the side before he wiped down the counter where Mor had set the boxes. “She loves that sort of thing.”

Feyre didn’t miss the look Mor shot her friend, but still couldn’t help but ask. “Who’s Alanna?”

“Rhys’ mom,” Cassiad said, cheerfully ignoring Mor’s glare.  

Feyre was aware that Mor was trying to take into account their conversation from the other day and not wanting to be pushed into anything.  Cassian hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Oh,” Feyre said dumbly. “Right.”

“She is wonderful with that sort of thing,” Mor said quickly, “but I know you’re capable of doing this yourself.”

The emphasis on the last part of her words was for Cassian alone.  It seemed his grin was a permanent feature on his face.  

“Of course you can, Feyre, you’re badass,” Cassian said happily.  He moved off to finish clearing the larger glass chunks left in the storefront window.

Mor rolled her eyes and Feyre was sure her friend was going to apologize but she waved her off.

“Badass,” Feyre repeated.

And she let that carry her through the rest of the day.

…

As Rhys walked through downtown, he found that most of the community had come down to help fix up the mess that the vandalizers had committed.  In two days things had been completely transformed from splinters of wood and glass, and graffiti into scrubbed down care.  Things were still out of sorts, but the progress was obvious.

He made sure to stop by as many of the shops as he could and talk to the various owners.  Cassian had told him that the football team would be visiting all the shops along main street and offering help to those who had been affected.  It looked, and sounded, as though a lot had been accomplished.  That was good.  And sure to help rally support in empathy.

Rhys had spoken with his father, unfortunately, to see if any progress had been made on finding the culprits.  There wasn’t much Benham could say, though Rhys doubted his father actually wanted to say them.  He always enjoyed keeping his cards to his chest.

But the one thing Rhys did learn was there were at least three vandals.  They’d moved quickly and were well organized.  Feyre’s shop had been hurt the worst.

That final note was an implication Benham didn’t comment on further, but Rhys knew he would have to face his reckoning on the topic.  He’d avoid it as long as possible.  At least long enough until he could talk to Feyre again.

And he planned to talk to Feyre today.

He’d rehearsed a few things, planned a few others out.  He’d tried to get Mor to tell him about what they’d talked about the other day, but Mor refused to respond stating that was something he could figure out for himself.

He supposed he deserved that.

Between meetings at the office and trying to help assort some sort of damage control, his day had been busy.  A mess.  He’d wanted to come downtown first thing in the morning, but his father wanted to meet, then there were statements to give to the local news outlets.  Azriel and Amren wouldn’t let him leave until they were all done. 

When he was finally released it was late afternoon.  The day remained bright and warm, typical for an August day.  As enjoyable as summer was, Rhys couldn’t wait for cooler days and foggy autumn mornings.  

Rhys made it to Feyre’s shop with a bit of trepidation.  She had finally responded to his messages with a simple thank-you and nothing else.  Rhys, deciding it best to let the situation breathe, had left it at that.  But he was nothing if not persistent.  And maybe a little pathetic according to Amren.

Rhys wouldn’t apologize for it though.

Feyre was worth knowing.  There’d been something about her--strong and resilient, selfless and kind--that struck him.  He knew that she’d lived a hard life, but still she was a good person, a good mother.  Her determination was admirable and Rhys…well Rhys could have spent every waking moment drowning in her.

He paused just outside of the shop, looking through the open doorway.  A part of him wondered if he should leave.  If he should give her more space, more time to reconcile with everything that had happened.

In the middle of the shop with music pouring around them--Mor and Feyre danced as if they didn’t have a care in the world.  It wasn’t the best dancing, Rhys had to admit, but it was carefree and full of laughs and giggles.  Behind them, Cassian was a few rungs up on a ladder, looking down with amusement at the scene.

Rhys knew he was staring.  Blatantly.  But when Feyre was grinning like that, her hair falling out of a bun around her face, and looking so happy.  He couldn’t help it.

“Rhys!” Mor shouted at him when the song changed.   “You missed all the heavy lifting!”

She rested her hands on her hips and glared at him.  Rhys shrugged and grinned.

“Sorry, I had some things to take care of,” he said. “I don’t remember giving you the day off.”

Mor cheerfully flipped him off. “Suck it.”

Rhys knew better than to try and argue anything so he ignored her.  Instead, he looked at Feyre, glad to see that she didn’t withdraw from him.  She may have sobered a bit from the joy of a few moments ago, but she didn’t walk away to busy herself with something else.

“Is there anything else that needs to get done?” he asked instead.

“We got most of it finished,” Feyre said as Mor went to the speaker she’d set up with her phone and turned the music down. “The new door won’t get here until tomorrow.”

He met her gaze, light lingering in her blue eyes.  Just the fact that she was willing to look at him at all was a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Good,” he said, “and the window glass?”

“Hopefully by the end of the week,” Feyre said, “the company I’m working with is also helping out the other store owners, so they’re a bit swamped.”

She cast a look to the window in question, gaping like an open mouthed fish.  The slab of plywood that had been used to cover it up at night was still leaning against the wall but Feyre looked absolutely disgusted at the mere sight of it.

It was a look similar to the one she’d given him all those weeks ago when they’d first met.  Well, officially met.  They’d had one other meeting prior that she’d obviously forgotten and Rhys wasn’t going to bring it up, not now.  Their first real meeting had been a few years ago, back when Feyre had still been pregnant.  Back when she’d avoided everything and everyone.

It was a stark contrast to now.  Even as she seemed to be contemplating murder or larceny or something else illegal.  And he was about to get that look directed straight at him.

“Feyre,” he began, catching Mor’s eye and giving her what he thought was a pretty meaningful look.  Mor of course ignored him.  In the background, Mor was sweeping a pile of dust and glass with painstaking deliberateness while Cassian simply leaned on the ladder obviously enjoying Rhys’ torment.  The only good thing was Feyre had her back to them.  Rhys was going to kill them.

“I need to go pick up Seren,” she blurted.  Her blue eyes were guarded as she edged toward her purse and keys sitting on the corner of the counter.  “I can’t do this right now.”

“Please,” Rhys said, “just five minutes.”

He didn’t like the hesitant way she held herself.  Hated it, really.  The idea of being the cause of her discomfort made him sick and he wished he could make it disappear.  

Feyre swallowed but she didn’t break his gaze or step away again. “You can come by after eight.  Five minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” Rhys agreed.  It was better than nothing.

“Okay,” Feyre said.  She grabbed her purse and keys before turning to Cassian and Mor. “Are you two still alright with locking up?”

“Don’t worry about it!” Mor assured her. “I’ll bring the keys by in the morning.”

Feyre gave her a grateful smile before she was gone.  Rhys would have gone after her if he thought it would have done anything other than get his invitation revoked.  When he turned back to his friends, their expressions were less than ideal.

“I suppose that could have gone better,” Rhys said.

“You better get it figured out,” Mor told him, “because either way, I am keeping her as my best friend.”

…

Two and a half years ago

The hospital was quiet for a Thursday afternoon.  In all the other times Rhys had come with his brother there were all sorts of emergencies, screaming children, and drunken mishaps.  Velaris hospital often found itself consumed by many interesting cases.  But for that day, there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary.  Nurses moved with their quick efficiency, patients were calm as they waited for treatment, even the intercom system was soothing.  Though, Rhys was in the clinic that day and not the ER, so that had something to do with it.

Azriel was in for a check up on his hands, making sure the bones and the scar tissue was healing nicely.  It had only been a few months after the surgery that would give Azriel back most, if not all, of his hand function.  There’d been an accident while he’d been working on a car and it all could have gone a lot worse.  But Rhys had made sure to find the best doctors in the country and helped in any way he could.  Despite Az’s protests, Rhys wanted to help.  

Even with the first leg of his mayorship not going quite according to plan, Rhys knew he had to do this.  He was all Az had left.  

Rhys worked on his laptop while Az was in for his check-ups.  They’d had to come to the clinic instead of the regular doctors office for the blood work and x-rays, much to Az’s disappointment.  If Rhys hadn’t taken the day to work from “home” he was certain Az would have skipped out on being here.

Sighing, Rhys looked over a new budget proposal.  Of course his father was requesting more money for the police.  Not even for raises in the community,  healthcare, or training--but for guns and cars.  Rhys could have sworn he’d just signed off on more money a few months ago.

He almost considered calling his father then and there to ask for a more detailed report instead of the one sentence demand.  That wouldn’t do him any favors.

A few people passed by and he listened to the quiet commentary of a few nurses talking about the end of their shift.  It amused him to no end that unlike many tv shows, all the nurses and doctors really wanted to do at the end of their shifts was to go home and sleep.  Not the drunken, raunchy antics media often depicted.  Oh, he’d overheard conversations about sordid love affairs gone awry and knew it happened, but rarely.

As he started a review of the list of events that Amren set out for him for the next few weeks, Rhys almost missed the person who took a seat in one of the chairs across from him.  He didn’t know it was--a tug, a pull, some cosmic whisper--but he glanced up to find a woman seated on the edge of the vinyl seat across from him.

She had long, golden-blonde hair and pale skin with splashes of freckles along her nose and cheeks.  She was striking, beautiful really, with blue eyes and sharp cheekbones.  Her soft mouth was turned down and she worried her lip between her teeth.  The jacket she wore hung off her frame and even in the heat of an early spring day she didn’t take it off.

It was then that Rhys noticed she was pregnant.  Pregnant and terrified.

Her gaze flashed between the few nurses and other patients waiting to be called.  When her eyes landed on him and noticed his watchful gaze she froze.  One hand went to her rounded stomach and the other to her purse.  If Rhys didn’t know any better he would have guessed she would bolt for the door.

He returned his attention to his computer.

After spending a few days a week helping Mor at the battered women’s shelter it wasn’t hard to imagine the woman’s hesitance.

What really bothered him was how familiar she felt to him.  He couldn’t place it but he knew he’d seen her before.

He gave a discrete glance up and found that the woman returned her attention to the doors.  One of her legs bounced too quickly to be natural.  She was watching for something, or someone, and not with rapt yearning.

Rhys dropped his attention before he was caught again.  He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, especially if she were seeking help.  The dark circles beneath her eyes and hollow points to her cheeks certainly spoke to exhaustion.  

As he reviewed a few more emails, Rhys started contemplating actually taking a day off.  Maybe Cassian and Azriel would go to a paintball course with him.  It would certainly be a good way to relieve stress.

“Nesta?”  Across the aisle the woman answered a phone call, speaking as quietly as she could.  Her leg hadn’t stopped bouncing. “Yeah, I’m at the hospital.  No.  It’s just just Braxton hicks, I know it is.”  She paused, dragging a hand through her hair. “I’m leaving.  I can’t…Nesta he could come here.”

The woman’s rising panic was palpable and Rhys found himself closing his computer.  He had no business listening in on the conversation just as he had no business already thinking of what he could do to help her.

“It’s Braxton hicks.  Stay in Prythian,” the woman growled into her phone.  “What do you mean Elain’s almost here?”

Rhys glanced at the nurses station.  He recognized one of them who often helped him and Azriel with discharge work and notes.  She was a kinder, older woman who had a soothing effect on her patients.  It took a few moments of intense staring but she finally looked up and caught Rhys’ gaze.  He nodded quickly to the woman across from him.

Wasting no time, the nurse was around the desk and walking over to the pregnant woman who was ending her call.

“Ms. Archeron,” the nurse said, smile in her voice. “Why don’t we get you settled in a room and check your vitals.”

“I’m fine,” Ms. Archeron said.  Her eyes scrunched. “I’m not due until September.  It’s Braxton hicks.”

“Alright, then let's get you more comfortable until they subside,” the nurse replied, her kind tone hedging to be a little more authoritative.  

The woman rose slowly in a mix of pain and hesitance, mostly from the insistence of the nurse.  The skittish look in her eyes didn’t leave as she kept one hand on her rounded stomach.  She tried to argue with the nurse the entire way but eventually managed to get swept down the hall to a waiting room.

Rhys watched them go.  Lingering in the back of his head was the unmistakable thought that he knew who the woman was.  Frowning, he turned on his laptop again and pulled up his old highschool group page.

Archeron.  Archeron.

He knew that name.  And knew she looked familiar. 

It didn’t take very long until he found a few different pictures but none were of her.  The two pictures he did find were of two other girls, Nesta and Elain.  Nesta was featured on the cross-country team for record runs and Elain for humanitarian work she did around Prythain.  But the third remained a mystery.  Until he finally landed on a single, grainy picture.

Prythian youth honored for art piece in local show.

And there, standing beside a photo was the young woman who’d just been seated before him.  Feyre Archeron.  Honored with a small scholarship for an oil painting rendered of the original founders of Prythian.  And that was it.

Rhys glanced down the hall that Madja had taken her.  Thoughts spun in his mind about what had happened in the last few years to lead her to where she was now.  Alone.  Terrified.  Worried about someone finding her.  It was enough to make his blood boil.  

Staring at that old high school photo, Rhys could vaguely remember her.  He knew her sisters as they’d been closer to his age, but she’d somehow vanished in the cacophony of youth and time.  A quiet girl who kept to herself, who worked hard, who punched a kid for spouting slurs at a classmate.  He also remembered the three sisters often skipping, leaving campus…the way they never brought lunches or rarely had needed class materials.

Rhys pursed his lips and opened another web browser, curiosity too strong to quiet.

[wildemaven]

The Beginning: The Proposal

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader

WC: 3528

Warnings: language, established relationship, 2nd POV, mentions of food and drinks, im going to refrain from any other things to not give anything away, but it’s all fluff

A/N: It’s here!! I’m excited and nervous!! Happy to give these to a little more love and a little bit more backstory to them. Normally I have a full blown moodboard (and I do) but it would give away too much so I’m opting to not have one but if you’re interested in seeing it, I can post it in like a separate “spoilers below” post. Also, reader’s nickname is revealed in this, so any future posts will have it when referring to her (so much easier to when trying to avoid a name). And last but not least, their song picked by y’all is Lover by T.Swift and there’s a playlist linked below.

Edited to add a big thank you to @noisynaia for letting scream at her my thoughts!!!

Okay. I hope you like it. And if you ever want to scream about these two with me, my ask box is always open.

Previous / Series Masterlist / The Proposal Playlist / Weekends Masterlist

Sometimes the beauty of life is allowing it happen organically.

Delicate bits of time woven together through fleeting moments— in varying degrees of inconsequential or life changing events.

Momentous is how you would describe your life in a single word at this very moment in time.

The last 6 months had been a whirlwind for you and Frankie. Since that night you’d both not only confessed your love to each other, but also deciding to spend the rest of time together.

You’d convinced your landlord to let you out if your lease early, due to you being a exemplary tenant for several years. With the help of Frankie and the guys, you were able to box up your things and move into Frankie’s house across town.

It had taken a few weeks to unpack your life into this new space, but you felt a sense of accomplishment once everything had a place and mixed in effortlessly with Frankie’s belongings.

You’d both decided early on to keep your engagement to yourselves— a secret for the two of you to savor and enjoy.

Not that you were worried about what others might think, but this felt like a special kind of thing you wanted to bask in before sharing with your loved ones.

And when the time was right, everyone would know.

*

Your schedules had been booked and busy, so you’d both decided to take a random Friday off to spend some extra time together. You were excited to have a 3 day weekend, alone with your fiancé. Which also meant sleeping in as late as you wanted and taking your leisure time to extricate yourself from your cozy lush surroundings.

The bed dips a bit as you turn and stretch out your slow waking form.

“Time to get up sleepy head.” His voice is still your favorite part of waking up. The soft cadence tickles every inch of your body, better than any cup of coffee ever could.

“You let me sleep in, thank you.”

“You looked comfy all wrapped up, figured you could use a few more hours.”

He kisses you, it’s sweet and laced with a hint of bitterness from his morning coffee.

“Mmm! Good morning handsome.”

“Mornin’ Beautiful. There’s a coffee and a danish on the nightstand for you.” You shoot him a questioning look, amusingly taken aback and confused. “Don’t look at me like that. They were all out of croissants this morning, so I went with your second favorite.”

You accept the offer, rolling on to your stomach to reach for your coffee. You get lost in the first sip and savor its creamy rich flavor as it hits every waiting taste bud.

“Alright sleeping beauty. Time to get your ass outta bed and get ready.” Giving your backside a few pats before heading for the bedroom door. “Our appointment is at 3 and then dinner reservations are at 6. Gonna go iron my shirt and clean up my shoes.”

“Hey!” Playfully yelling for his attention as he walks away.

He stops just outside the door, turning back towards you.

“I love you.” He serious expression relaxes and his face lighting up instantly.

“I love you too.” He shoots you a wink before turning to carry on.

It takes you a minute to get yourself up and moving. Bites of your delicious danish and sips of your warm latte aid in your efforts to get yourself ready.

Your mundane routine of showering and prepping for the day were taken at a deliberate pace. Enjoying the balmy spray of the water, soothing the slight aches and pains that had built up over the last week, the feeling of relief is almost instant.

Toweling yourself off and slipping on your cozy rob, you finish readying yourself with a simple makeup look— nothing too fancy or bold, just enough to accentuate your most favorite features.

The garment bag containing your dress for the day was tucked away in the back of your closet. You were so excited to finally get to wear it and eager to see the look on Frankie’s face when he sees you in it.

It was muted in coloring, an off shade of white, it wasn’t anything you’d ever considered for yourself but the moment you’d tried it on there was an instant reaction of sorts. It’s silky smooth fabric hugged your body in such a way that you couldn’t help but feel like it was made for you.

Jewelry and shoes finished off the look, taking yourself in fully as you stand in front of your full length mirror. You hands smoothing over the dress, admiring every detail of your reflection.

“You look stunning.”

Your eyes immediately drawn to Frankie in the mirror leaning against the door frame.

Your breath catches at the sight of him. His head cocked to the side as he admires you, hands tucked into his pant pockets, suit jacket hugging his broad shoulders over his freshly ironed shirt— the top buttons forgotten about in true Frankie fashion.

He pushes himself off the doorframe, taking a few long strides until he is crowding behind your spot in front of the mirror.

His eye contact is direct, holding an intensity that makes you dizzy. Your body tingles when his large hands slowly rest on your shoulders, his thumbs toying at the delicate straps of your dress.

“Frankie…” His name floats over your lips as you look at him with an ardent smile.

His eyes never stop watching you as he leans down pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, your eyelids flutter as the sensation of his lips ripples through your body.

Your hand comes up to caress the side of his face, his beard trimmed down, the stubble causing a bit of resistance to your touch.

You can’t help the tiny moan that escapes from your throat as Frankie begins to press kiss after kiss along your neck, tilting your head to completely give into to his wandering mouth.

“If you don’t stop, we’re never going to be on time.” Your breathless, knowing that it’s a slippery slop of carnal desire once things start to heat up.

He kisses you one last time before standing to his full height.

“You look so pretty.”

“Pretty?” His eyebrow raises at your comment, not he doesn’t think a man can be pretty, he’s just never saw himself as such.

You turn so you’re fully facing him, hands resting on his chest as you look at him with a sweet gaze. “Yes, pretty. And your hair looks good too.” Your fingers lightly combs through the sides just purely for the experience of touching him some more.

“You think so??” You nod softly and lean into kiss him gently.

“Let’s go handsome.”

*

It was a 45 minute drive, which gave you both plenty of time to enjoy each other’s company. Chats about work and plans for the next few months permeated the truck cabin. 70’s ballads filled the in between silence, but usually evoking laughter from you as Frankie would do his best to stay in tune with the music.

This was now a regular feature in both of your lives. These days spent together, relishing each and every moment, were your favorite. Weekends alone or with friends had you craving adventure as much as possible. But even the slow paced weekends, at home had become a cherished time for the both of you, wanting to absorb each and every moment before the work week was knocking at the door.

The large building towers over the street as Frankie pulls into the parking spot. Its florid design was beautiful for a giant cement building, the front covered in windows and ornate decorative details that are reminiscent of older times.

The weather is warm and sunny as you make your way to the building, Frankie’s grasp on your hand is grounding, giving it a few subtle squeezes as you walk through the glass doors.

The air inside feels cold and stale as you wait for the next available window, very on brand for such a building. A slight shiver has Frankie pulling you in to him, wrapping you in his warmth.

“Next!”

“Good afternoon ma’am. We have an appointment, should be under Morales.”

She doesn’t respond as she clicks away at her keyboard, squinting at her computer screen through her wide-rim glasses.

“Do you have all your proper documentation with you today?” Straight to the point and zero enthusiasm in her tone.

“Uh, yes ma’am.” Frankie hands her the small stack of papers she had asked for. You squeeze his hand now, 3 times as a silent ‘I love you’.

“It’s says here Mr. Morales you’re previously divorced. Do you have proof of dissolution? Otherwise you may not proceed with your application.” She asks as she continues to hold the papers that she hasn’t looked at yet, not even looking away from the screen.

“Yes. It’s in the with the other papers. It was an amicable dissolution, we both signed and agreed to end the marriage—“

“I don’t need your life story sir, just the proper paperwork.”

“Right. Sorry, ma’am.” 3 more squeezes to his sweaty hand, thankful that Frankie is handling her crankiness so calmly and with a smile. She clearly has been doing this for years and has zero intention of small talk.

Her fingers continue to click more buttons and she scans through the papers, inputting the information into the proper boxes. And after what feels like a long process, she’s printing out some new documents, stacking them with the ones you’d given her and hands them back to Frankie.

“Please wait for your name to be called.” Barely making eye contact as she adjusts herself in her chair.

“Thank you ma’am. Have a great weekend.”

“Mhmm. Next!”

“Clearly your charming good looks had no effect on her.” You snicker into Frankie’s shoulder as you both walk to the sitting area, trying to keep your comment contained between the two of you.

The minutes tick by, the space is eerily quiet, so you keep talking to a minimum while you wait.

The other chairs are filled with what look like other couples, all most likely there for the same reason.

You take in the sweet older couple who sits across from you. They must be in their 80’s and yet they have a young innocence that seems to envelop them. Their hands anchoring them to each other as they sit snuggled in sweetly. You can’t make out their conversation, but the way she is smiling and looking at him, it feels like she completely taken by him as has been for awhile. He pats her fragile little hands as he talks and every few minutes he looks at her like she’s the only one in the room— your heart nearly implodes at the gentle kiss he gives her forehead.

It’s like you’re looking at a glimpse of your future. A love so authentic and undying, strong enough to endure hardships, a vivid and passionate life together that never gets tiring.

The soft whisper of your name catches your attention.

“You okay?” 3 gentle squeezes to your hand, the reciprocated gesture tugging at your heart.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just happy to be here with you.” You smile emphasizing your words.

“Alight, we have Morales up next! Please make your way through these doors and the commissioner is waiting for you up at the front.”

*

Entering the room, you’re welcomed by a lady standing behind a wooden podium— she’s already more inviting than the older one at the front desk.

Frankie’s hand is anchored to your lower back as you both make your way closer to her. Frankie hands her the papers she’s needs and you both wait for her to begin.

“Welcome. I have a few more couples after you so let’s get started. Do you have any witnesses with you today?”

“No ma’am we do not.”

“Okay, that’s fine, not a requirement in the state of Florida. And will you be exchanging rings today?”

“No ma’am, we do not have rings.”

“Well, this might just be the easiest one today.” She laughs a bit as she shuffled her papers around a bit.

“I’m going to ask you both to face each other while I read the declaration of intent.”

You can feel the emotions already flowing through you, as you look at Frankie. This man has gifted you with so much in such a short amount of time and you can’t help but feel so grateful for this life you’re about to begin.

“Please join hands.”

Frankie takes yours in his, his is touch is the most powerful thing you have ever felt.

“Francisco, do you take—“ There’s an pang in your chest as she says your name, but it’s not a heavy feeling, it’s light and airy as she continues reading from her paper. “To be your lawful wedded partner?”

“I do.”

His thumb sweeps back and forth across the top of your hand, his smile is beaming with elation.

“… do you take Francisco to be your lawful wedding partner?”

“I do.” There’s a slight crack when you say it, emotion fully overtaking your voice.

“… you have come here today on your own free will and declared your love for one and other.”

Tears begin to fall from your eyes as you look back at Frankie, your whole body feels like it’s floating on a blissful cloud. He wipes each tear and gently rubs your cheekbone, you lean into his touch.

“You have joined yourselves in matrimony. May you aim all your lives to meet this commitment and celebrate

in each other's company. And now that you have given and pledged your love and have stated so by joining

hands, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the State of Florida as Deputy Marriage Commissioner, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

And you do. It’s unlike any kiss you have ever experienced before. It’s all-encompassing and heart-stopping, pouring out all the love you have for one another— his lips feel like forever.

Wedded bliss is intoxicating. An indescribable feeling of starting this new chapter together and looking forward to a future where it’s the two of you steadfast in your fidelity and aspirations.

*

Driving straight from the courthouse, you’d both felt slightly over dressed at your favorite restaurant, it’s casual setting a stark contrast from your wedding attire. In the short time together, you’d both become regulars, dining in or takeout had become a weekly occurrence.

Frankie had made the reservation and must have mentioned it was a special occasion because the table is nestled in a corner that was secluded from the rest of the restaurant. Lit candles and small arrangement of flowers placed in the center.

You couldn’t have imagined a more perfect post wedding celebration. Indulging in your favorite dishes as you reflect on the day, it all still feeling surreal and fresh. The staff also gifting a slice of cake, a little congratulations on your new marriage.

“How long should we keep it from them? Santi’s going to be pissed when he finds out. I can already see that assholes face.”

You laugh because you know he’s right, but you know he’ll be happy for you both, they all will.

“How about we wait a month. Then we can invite everyone over for dinner, the weather’s been nice too, so maybe we pull out the bbq even and we tell them then. I mean, we made it 6 months engaged and none of them had a single clue. I like the thought of this being between us for a little bit.”

“That sounds like a great plan.” He leans over and looks at you with an almost devilish smirk. “Now, let’s get home so I can get you out of that fucking dress.”

“Mr. Morales, you have quiet the mouth on you.” You tease amusingly.

“Well Mrs. Morales, this mouth also has plans for you this evening.” His tone hushed as he spoke, a wink to seal his response.

You close the space between you, feeling his plush lips against yours. “Then take me home soldier.” Your tongue peeking out, the softest lick to his lips before pulling away and settling back into your chair.

“Can we get the check?!”

*

It was dark by the time Frankie pull the truck into the drive way. The stars like little fireflies lighting the sky and the moon silently vigilant as it settles in for the night.

“Did we leave a light on before we left?” Unbuckling yourself and noticing a faint light illuminating the front room, a slight panic creeping in your eyes.

“Hmm, I thought we turned them all off. Go head on in and check it out, I’m gonna lock up the truck and grab the leftovers.”

Thankfully the door is secured and you don’t see any sign of a break-in or anything out of place, relief washing over you.

Stepping through the threshold into the house you’re met with an unexpected sight. Dozens of white roses on every surface surround the open room, the floor draped in a sea of white petals. Bouquets covering the kitchen island where small candles are lit, the glow you saw from the window, more bouquets as you look into the living room.

You’re completely speechless and in awe of the beauty of the room and you’re so confused trying to figure out where they all came from. Clearly someone did break in? But decorated with flowers and locked up after they left…

Footsteps through the doorway bring your attention back to your surroundings, their presence stopping behind you.

“Frankie? What are all these flowers doing here?”

He doesn’t respond, but you can sense that he’s there. Pulling your eyes away from the flowers you turn to face Frankie, except he’s not level with you when you do so.

There before you is Frankie, your husband, kneeling on one knee looking up at you holding a small box in his hands.

“Frankie?” A wave of shock and elation crash over you in a matter of seconds. “What are you doing?”

“Hermosa… I know you said you didn’t need some big extravagant proposal and seeing as how we just got married just a few hours ago 6 months after meeting, we definitely don’t follow traditions.” His voice is so soft, and his eyes have never looked brighter.

“This is me promising you a future, a life where you are not alone. From the moment I met you, I knew I wanted to be apart of your life in some capacity and I wanted to make you smile everyday because it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Everyday I wake and think of you and when I sleep I think of you, you consume me with your laughter and your words of encouragement and your ability to live without abandonment.” You gasp as he slowly opens the small box revealing a ring. The design is simple and elegant, a beautiful stone setting with a unique design on a wider gold band.

“Te amo Hermosa. Will you be mine forever?”

You can’t stop the tears that are pouring down your face, you can’t even properly form any words as you nod your head reaching out for him, standing to his full height, placing the ring on your finger.

“I just need to double check that was a yes?”

“Yes! A million times yes!” You laugh through the still streaming tears, swatting at his chest as you look down at your hand, the ring sitting perfectly on your finger.

“How did you manage to get this all set up? It’s beautiful by the way.”

“I enlisted Hannah to help.”

“Hannah knows?!”

“No. No she doesn’t know what it was for exactly. I just said I wanted to surprise you after a dinner with flowers, I didn’t realize she was going to go all out. Remind me to check my credit card later.”

You kiss him, soaking in the moment with him. “I love you Frankie.” You whisper against his lips before you begin kissing him again.

“Wait, there’s one more thing.” He states as he pulls out his phone. “I also had Hannah show me how to use my phone with the speaker, something about blue teeth?”

It takes him a minute to get it connected, but he manages to get it hooked up. Music begins to play, it’s a softer song and you realize it’s one of your favorites. You’ve played it numerous times over the last few months, claiming that the song remind you of yours and Frankie’s love for each other.

“Can I have this dance?” Tossing his phone to the couch and holding his hand out to you.

“Always.”

The song played on as you both held each other, the soft sway of your bodies around the room. The flicker of the candles still adding a touch of light, laughter and kisses exchanged as he spins you about.

This was only the beginning.